The wind howled, blizzarding whiteness threatening to entomb Allerdale Hall and all its occupants. At the heart of the mansion, the foyer still raged, a place of whirlwind and madness that put the rest of the house in shivers. Doors rattled, slamming open and shut, centuries of decadent architecture and heirlooms hopelessly exposed to encroaching nature.
Edith had barricaded herself in the smallest of all living spaces, as distant as possible from the earlier battlefield. There was nothing for her to create a fire, the meager warmth in her escaping with each shudder. She relied on the dim light filtering through the windows and thick ice to see her stitchwork.
Her hands were unresponsive. Alan's blood had frozen over her fingers. It seemed like the grandfather clock ticked away an eternity between each pull of the thread.
"Alan," she croaked.
Alan had not said anything for a while.
No response still.
Before terror could grip her fully, his head moved. He watched her languidly from the pillows, his skin ill with sweat.
"You're doing great."
He gave her the same clumsy smile she remembered from their childhood. The same words of encouragement he had always supplied whenever she tried something new, something bold. Her one compatriot throughout her adventures in the men's world. Her guiding compass.
A sob threatened to escape her throat. Without Alan, Edith would truly be lost. She couldn't lose him the way she lost her father. She wouldn't.
"Tell me where I'm not," she said.
Alan must take back his kindness. She was not Eunice. She had never studied the feminine crafts. Her inexperience, together with her poor eyesight, made the needle bite viscously, pricking them both.
What she needed now was not her pride. What she needed was her friend, alive.
So tell her where she erred. Tell her how to correct this. Tell her everything she must do to ensure the survival of Dr. Alan McMichael.
He strained for breath. "Deeper then."
She nodded.
The wound was a nauseating sight, not meant for a lady's eye, but Edith studied every detail, carefully working the needle deeper. Any carelessness on her part now could mean the end for her dear friend. If not now, then later. She recalled all the horror stories from Cook, her old maid. The grotesque imagery of an uncontrolled infection. The smell of gangrene. She refused to let Alan meet the same fate as the victims in Cook's tales.
Death would not steal him away. She thought of his healthy, ruddy cheeks, when he pulled her up the orchard trees. How they spied from the branches, two pretend pirates atop a ship mast. His sharp suit and leather bag on the day he departed, off to London for his medical studies. The pinch of his lips as he waved farewell, the bittersweet smile that spoke of how the separation was hurting him as much as it was her, how much she would be missed, even more than his family.
Those memories felt so distant now, like they belonged to another life. Like the characters of a novel her mother read to her at bedtime, a novel whose ending had been faded and forgotten. Or simply outgrown.
Those memories felt nothing more than a dream, and now there was the cold to wake her.
Another howl shook the house. From within the walls came broken noises and elongated wails, the imprints of a history soaked in violence. Shadows moved in the wallpaper. They were all waiting, for when the doctor joined them and the bride soon after. Neither had yet realized that their souls were already half-trapped, that there was no escaping the nightmare that was Crimson Peak.
Edith flinched.
Sensing her unease, Alan clutched her nightgown, the abundance of fabric spilling onto the bed. It was an invisible tug, as if to hold her. So many times he had wanted to hold her. During her mother's funeral. Her father's. He wanted to hold her now most of all, to give her the comfort he couldn't with his graceless words.
Her gaze snapped to his, almost as if, for the first time in his life, this intense desire of his had managed to reach her.
Her eyes were watery. It looked like words were ready to pour out, and she was ready to confess everything.
A knock stole her attention away.
Edith jolted. She stared at the door and the furniture acting as blockade. A silence, before the knock resumed. Polite, hesitant.
"Edith?"
Hearing her name sent Edith's stomach in tumbles. Slowly, she removed herself from the bed, her bare foot finding the floorboards. She proceeded with caution, staring at the door as if expecting a ghoul to burst through or for the furniture to fling itself across the room.
Nothing happened.
It was a risk she took, when she pushed aside the dresser and turned the knob.
A part of her expected to be greeted by an empty hallway, to have hallucinated his voice. Another part braced herself for some cruel semblance of her husband, something incomplete and only half there. Something that was already gone.
To her overwhelming relief, what awaited her was very much solid.
Thomas stood on the other side in visible fatigue, only conscious by sheer willpower. His curly hair was disheveled and powdered by snow, as were the rest of his clothes. He must have braved his way through the foyer to collect everything, which was stacked, tied, and bundled in heaps on his person and near his feet. His hands strained to carry a heavy metal basin of hot water.
Alongside Edith, he replaced the old towels with fresh ones, drew from the new basin and wrung into the old. He had matches, to reheat her needle, and candlewax, to help her eyesight and add to the warmth.
His presence changed everything.
For hours, they worked in silence. Shame kept Thomas from meeting the doctor's gaze. But nothing, not even himself, could keep his eyes from flickering over to Edith. He noticed her chill and wrapped his own blanket around her.
After all that could be done was done, Thomas gave Edith a box. It was small and wooden, with the Sharpe signature engraved on the cover.
As she opened it, he explained it contained the remainder of his family's fortune. Coins, jewels, and whatever left of value. It was humiliatingly paltry, only meant to last him and his sister another season at most, but it should be enough for a train and carriage. Medical care and personnel. Warm places to stay and meals to eat.
He told Edith it was hers. Take it and bring her friend to safety, some place neither he nor his sister would have the means to find or reach.
Turbulent emotions ripped through Edith then. Thomas did not give her the chance to realize them. He gathered the edges of her blanket, wrapping them around her hands.
"You're frozen," he said. His words signalled the end of their discussion. Done. Decided.
He firmly held the blanket, her hands still cold even inside the fabric. They were not getting warmer. Before he could stop himself, he brought them up to his lips for a kiss.
Thomas could feel the doctor's vehemence. He deserved it. Their marriage had been a sham. He had no right to her, had never had any right to her, their every moment and touch a stolen one.
He was but a thief, a parasite who leeched life from the very women who loved him. The very woman he loved.
Once so strong, she was so weak now. She had been pulled down, dragged, one foot sunken into her own grave. Her formerly luscious hair, pinned into a fashionable chignon, had fallen brittle and loose. Her jousting wit had been silenced, sealed by cracked lips and blood-filled lungs.
The sight broke him. He had done this.
And yet, he held her tighter when he should be letting go. He held onto the moment with all his strength, one last stolen moment that consumed the doctor in unbearable envy and despair.
Thomas would know.
He felt the same.