Irritated by the continuous wail, Arabella pulled on her oilskin coat and buttoned it with practiced grace, her fingers sure even as the rain pounded the roof above like fists. She stepped into her tall riding boots, scuffed, mud-crusted, and lit the storm lantern with a slow strike of flint.
Lisette stood at the end of the hall watching her mistress, half in shadow.
"Don't," the maid said.
Arabella didn't answer. She lifted the lantern and stepped out into the night.
The porch groaned under her weight. The garden was a half-drowned ruin, roses bowing like penitents in the rain. The path beyond led to the cypress grove that bordered the swamp. Lightning bared the twisted trees and the glinting black water, and for a moment, she saw something pale thrashing in the reeds.
It was smaller than she'd imagined.
She descended the steps, the hem of her gown darkening with every step, lantern swinging like a blade of light through the mist. The air smelled of wet rot and iron. Her boots sank with each step as she left the path entirely, wading into the swamp grass , eyes fixed on the still figure half-submerged in the reeds.
Closer now, she could see a clear outline of a boy. He looks no older than twenty, thin, shirtless, and soaked to the bone. His wrists were bruised. His ankles shackled with chains crusted in rust and muck.
His skin was alabaster-pale. His dark hair stuck to his face. His lips were blue, but his eyes… were open, and clear.
As she approached him, he watched her with neither fear nor pleading. No questions. Just a quiet, unbearable stillness, like something that had accepted drowning long ago and now regarded the living with tired disdain.
Arabella crouched, her lantern held low. The light touched the chain that snaked into the water.
"How," she murmured, "did you get here, little ghost?" She asked in astonishment.
Still no answer.
She reached out, took hold of his arm, and felt the shock of cold flesh.
"You're not dying tonight." not on my watch, she said determined.