Maybe it was all of those things. Or the nagging feeling that, very soon, they’d seem like the *better* moments in her life.
She sat up, just listening to the sound of the house withstanding the frigid air outside. A creak here, a shifting there. Wind pushing at the stone to no effect, but not quite silent, either.
Béatrice was asleep on the bed next to hers, so far gone her mouth was hanging open and she was snoring happily. She’d warned Maggie, before they’d blown out the candle, that she’d be watching. All night. So stay put. Evidently not.
But watching her sleep so peacefully, Maggie was filled with a bigger kind of dread. Not even for Béatrice herself, but for what Émile’s death would do to her. They were in love, it was clear, and she knew all too well how much it hurt when that love was torn apart by ruthless men for unknowable reasons.
But if they came with her to Perth, the reason wouldn’t be unknowable at all. It would be her. She couldn’t bear the thought of it.
She slipped out of her bed, stepping lightly on her way to the door. It creaked the tiniest creak as it opened—
—but Béatrice kept snoring, smiling in her sleep.