The Keeper of the Hearth

This is my entry for the Halloween 2026 competition. There are some historical religious references, and this is a Lesbian romance (and an extremely slow burn, although "burn" might not be the best word to use, as you will see!), so if these subjects are uncomfortable or unpleasant, please find another read. I won't be offended! Please leave a rating if you enjoy the story! Thank you.

A quick historical note: In late seventeenth-century England (1690s), the geopolitical atmosphere was extremely hostile to Catholicism. Parliament enacted harsh Penal Laws, and English Catholics (Recusants) faced severe restrictions: they were barred from public office, heavily taxed, forbidden from owning firearms, and required to pay steep fines for refusing to attend Church of England services. Recusant architecture enabled wealthy recusants to live secretly, harbouring Catholic priests (who, if caught, were executed for high treason) and non-conformists in their specially constructed "priest holes", double walls and secret passages, during this period of appalling religious persecution in post-Reformation England.

There is also a little Latin prayer, which roughly translates as: "Lord, into thy hands I commend my soul. Amen."

Neither character is intended to represent any person, living or dead, and as far as I know there is no Blackwood Hall in Southern England.

Many thanks to NellyMcBoatface and DawnDuckie for beta reading, for keeping me amused with stories of vampires and storm demons, and for reminding me that not everyone has access to my thought processes to understand what I've written!

~ ❦ ~ All Hallows Eve 1692 ~ ❦ ~

Rowena Blackwood woke suddenly, bemused and sleepy. The eiderdown was comfortably warm and heavy, and she wondered what had wakened her.

She could hear frenzied shouting in the courtyard by the east wing, and an unusual flickering orange light outside the heavily curtained window. Yawning, she sat up and groped around for her slippers, wincing as her warm feet inadvertently touched the cold floor.

She shuffled across the floor to the curtain, preparing to throw it aside when the clangour of a frantically rung handbell split the night outside. It was closely followed by several more in the house.

Her hand flew to her mouth in panic. "Holy Mother of God! Fire!" Her eyes fell upon the cunningly disguised crucifix carved into the design of the heavy oaken chair in the room's corner. She crossed herself and dropped a small curtsey, murmuring a quick prayer for deliverance.

She cast about for a warm throw to cover her shoulders to prepare for leaving the house. A thunderous knocking on the door of her chamber made her jump, and her father's voice bellowed, "Rowena, child, hurry and leave the house; the Protestants have fired the East Wing!"

A sense of dread settled over her as she remembered the books. Those books. The books that her grandfather wanted to destroy. The books that showed the truth, not the sanitised lies that the family needed to ensure that they survived the religious terror which gripped the land.

It was dangerous to be openly Catholic during the Protestant reign of William and Mary. It took only a whisper to incite a mob, and this was what must have happened. Rumours of Black Arts, of spell books hidden in secret hideaways, Catholic priest holes, to shelter treasonous Catholic priests.

As she flung open the door to her chamber, she hesitated. A servant ran past, oblivious to the young woman, seeking only his own self-preservation. Her eyes followed him, looking along her route to certain freedom, but her mind was made up. She had her duty; her duty to continue to let their voices be heard, the authentic voices of the people she loved, not the manufactured histories designed to bolster Blackwood fortunes.

Those pages did not hold the spells or Satanic rituals they were rumoured to conceal, but something possibly more dangerous. Those secrets preserved within the pages threatened to shatter every carefully constructed lie the Blackwood family had spent generations building to maintain their status among high society.

She glanced back at the camouflaged crucifix and crossed herself.

"Domine, anima meam tibi cedo. Amen." She crossed herself again, turned away from escape and towards the library in the burning East Wing.

There was access to the library on the ground floor from the upper floor where her chamber was, so she headed towards the double doors that separated the two wings on this floor. Some writings she could understand might not be acceptable; she thought of her aunt who had chosen a life of quiet freedom with a local woman over an arranged marriage. The family had covered it up by claiming she had died young of illness. Some of her letters were tucked away inside a folio. Rowena remembered the time she had discovered and first read them; the initial shock as she read the passionate correspondence, followed by the almost guilty pleasure of realising others felt as she did.

As she hurried through the corridors, she remembered that her own journals would be included in her grandfather's purge. There were sketches, poetry, and manifestos detailing her refusal to accept the path laid out for her. She had written candidly about her disdain for high society's hypocrisy, her desire to pursue an independent life, and her rejection of the arranged suitors brought to the manor. Like her aunt, she was drawn towards other women rather than to the young men who were paraded before her. The vapid, empty-headed younger sons who would never amount to much or inherit a great deal.

Reaching the small door which led to the spiral staircase down into the library, she opened the door and sniffed. There was a faint smell of smoke, but it wasn't as bad as she had feared. Perhaps the fire had not yet taken hold? Perhaps the men of the estate had brought the fire under control?

Outside, the din was unmistakably that of men fighting. Rowena wondered how this had happened. Suddenly there was a bright flash outside accompanied by a sharp, loud crack, and her heart quailed. Firearms! Snaphaunces or flintlock horse pistols, probably. The Blackwoods were forbidden by law to own weapons, but that didn't mean there was an unfamiliarity with them. That type of weapon meant the militia, probably led by a magistrate, likely as not carrying out one of their aggressive search-and-seize raids to confiscate weapons. The family could not resist; by law they were entirely defenceless! They couldn't even own a horse worth over five pounds, so they had no means to flee.

She scurried down the narrow spiral staircase, its metal rail cold under her hand. She could understand that some of the private journals could contain material which could damage, but most did not contain scandal or crime, but the quiet, undeniable truths of who the family members actually were.

Reaching the floor of the library, she set about gathering up the books that were important. In an era where rigid decorum, wealth, and aristocratic purity governed social standing, the Blackwoods maintained an obsessive image of absolute perfection, cold stoicism, and unwavering lineage. The elders harboured an almost desperate need to conceal any form of non-conformity, be it forbidden romance, radical political stance, or silent act of charity or humanity. But why, she asked herself, had they continued to keep these volumes if they believed them dangerous?

This one here, she identified it by the colour of the binding and the water stain on the spine; details of various family members who had secretly funded local working-class shelters! Surely an act of Christianity or humanity, why consider the acts non-conforming or heretical? She tucked it under her arm to search for others.

It took her a few moments to find the books that she sought, detailing the practice of non-traditional medicine, or the sheltering of political dissidents fleeing the cities; other acts that the patriarchs of the family viewed as dangerous radicalism that could ruin their standing in the society of the day.

Satisfied that she had the most important, the most precious of the volumes, she clutched them to her chest and headed for the doors at the end of the library. To her horror, she saw the edges of the doors outlined by flickering yellow and orange, and tendrils of flame were licking around one side. She had hoped to get through the hall to the study where the safe place was, but that avenue was closed now.

Frozen in terror, she stared at the door; then her determination and sense of duty asserted themselves, and she turned and ran back towards the spiral staircase. As she ran up the stairs, her foot slipped in her slipper and off the step, gashing her shin on the metal edge of the step. Tears of pain sprung in her eyes, and without a free hand to wipe them, she resorted to hunching her shoulders to wipe each eye on them.

She hobbled up the remainder of the stairs and along the corridor. The choking stench of smoke was everywhere, and as the limited visibility dropped even further, she realised she must be directly over the fire; the smoke rising between the gaps in the floorboards. Her own room was filled with smoke, and her half-made plan to change her slippers for outdoor shoes was abandoned. There was no time.

Her eyes watering again, she coughed her way to the top of the grand staircase. Descending slowly, she guided herself and her precious burden with an elbow on the bannister rail.

As she crossed the entrance hall with its heavy oaken furniture, there was an angry shout from out in the courtyard, followed by an enormous coughing explosion and screams of injured men. Someone, probably a villager, had fired one of the wide-mouthed weapons known as fowling pieces, used for hunting ducks and other marsh birds. It had probably been loaded with duck-shot or crude lead slugs. A terrifying weapon at close quarters.

She shrank into the shadows along the wall and checked both ways. The fire was spreading along the corridor to the east, hungrily licking up the wall hangings and wooden panelling as she raced for the study.

Slamming the door behind her, she locked it, though God only knew what against! The fire had taken hold, and she suspected she was now the only living soul in the manor house. She could smell the smoke working its way around the door, smell it on her clothes and in her hair. She could feel the heat radiating from the wooden door, and knew that it would not hold long against the conflagration. The treasure had to be preserved; that was without question. Future generations have the right to read them; they must be saved.

Partially resting the books on the windowsill, she reached up for the latch only to find it wouldn't move. Frightened, she hummed a hymn to give herself a little courage as she rapped on the glass. It was difficult to see through the thick, distorted glass, but she could make out dim figures moving around in the burning building's light. She screamed for help as loudly as she could, knocking on the glass again. Nobody came towards her.

She was running out of options, and she sang the words of the hymn that she had been humming. She knew she had to save the records; her life was secondary, and she knew she was certainly going to die, but her duty would have been done.

Kneeling at the hearth, she pressed all her weight onto the slab concealing the cache. It pivoted smoothly, and she reverently laid the books inside the recess. They would survive the fire even if she did not; the slab was thick and fireproof. She closed the hidey-hole and brushed a little dust and ash into the cracks to hide it.

Standing up, she turned back to the window and hammered on the frame. She was past fear now, but there was still a tremor in her voice as she sang. Behind her she heard the door disintegrate, and she swung round as the flames roared across the intervening space. She screamed and flung her arms up...

~ ❦ ~ All Hallows Eve 1792 ~ ❦ ~

Clara quietly closed the shop door and locked it with the big brass key. She shrugged her shoulders to settle the long, thick woollen cloak and quickly checked that the heavy leather satchel was slung comfortably across her body and the bone-handled foraging knife was secured at her waist.

Bending to pick up the brass horn lantern, she set off into the darkness, accompanied by its warm yellow glow. The large cottage-cum-shop stood on the edge of the village and was regarded by many with suspicion, but they still sidled in looking for remedies to alleviate the aches and pains brought on by relentless, backbreaking work, or the chesty cough from breathing too much of the crop dust at harvest time.

As she walked along the wooded lane, the hedgerows screened her from the wind, and her sturdy leather boots crunched through the fallen leaves. A staccato, high-pitched 'kee-WICK! kee-WICK!' disturbed the quiet. She recognised the call of the Tawny Owl and lifted her lantern to see if the bird was in a tree nearby. As she half-expected, there was no sign. As she trudged along the lane, the call sounded several more times, each a little further behind her.

Reaching the start of the now little-used track, she paused and glanced back at the village down in the valley, the distant flickering of the rushlights and the hearths keeping the occupants from the terrors of the night; especially this night, when superstition and belief had it that the veil between worlds was thinnest. It was unusual to see so many lit windows this late at night, but perhaps not so much on All Hallows' Eve.

She had been working the copses and spinneys of the South Downs between Chichester and Midhurst with her father, before he became ill, for nigh on ten years, learning the healing skills, the potion making, the craft of the apothecary. He had taught her that healing required empathy and observation, traits that made her uniquely perceptive to the emotions of others. Raised among drying herbs, amber glass bottles, and handwritten leather-bound ledgers, she learned early on how to look past surface appearances to understand the true nature of things.

The dark chimneys of Blackwood Hall loomed above her, stark against the faint starlight, peering above the false summit of the hill upon which it was built. No tendrils of smoke curled up from their mouths; the Hall had been abandoned for a hundred years, give or take, after the calamitous fire in the East Wing which had claimed the life of the youngest daughter of the family, if the villagers' tales were to be believed.

The villagers often spoke of the old manor in hushed, fearful whispers; they told tales of the cursed house on the hill. The house to which few would venture without good reason, and then only in daylight.

Clara viewed the estate with a quiet, grounded curiosity rather than terror. Her work required a practical mind, a gentle touch, and an understanding that what the villagers dreaded like the dark, loneliness, the empty downs, the plants that bear no flower, often just required patience and proper care to be understood.

Into the silence of the night echoed a desperate, rasping shriek, sounding like a woman in agony! A chill spread out from between her shoulder blades, and she shivered, realising that the sound that gave rise to the villagers' belief that the screams were those of a woman being burned to death was a fox. Foxes established their territories and mated in late autumn, and this was a vixen, calling for a mate. As if to confirm that she had identified the sound correctly, a second scream echoed across the open fields away to the north.

"Just a fox," Clara muttered, annoyed with herself for allowing herself to be caught off-balance by sounds that she knew. Sounds that she had heard before and which should have caused no reaction apart from mild surprise. She stopped walking for a moment to steady herself and to catch her breath.

The tall, wrought-iron gates of Blackwood Hall groaned and creaked in the freshening autumn wind as she crested the final slope. Midnight was fast approaching; and the smell of damp earth and decaying oak leaves filled the air. Fresh leaf fall gathered at the bases of the gates, only to be sent flailing into the dark by the capricious wind. The gates themselves hadn't moved in decades, and it was likely that rust had eaten away at the supports and hinges, and Clara had no desire to have one fall upon her.

She let her light travel up the nearest gate to the top. It looked firm enough, but in the dark it was impossible to judge, so she carefully walked through without touching either. They were not open completely, but they were wide enough to allow a horse to pass through comfortably; but even so, it wouldn't do to be careless.

She angled left, towards the ruined East Wing, skirting the tangled bramble bushes that grew where there had once been flowerbeds and lawns. Somewhere here, there lived an owl, a Barn Owl. Clara reminded herself that it was likely to erupt from a dark cranny with the shrill, hoarse scream that had always been attributed to ghosts and banshees; its white colouration adding to the belief that it was ghostly; supernatural.

The owl must have been hunting because she heard its call long before it swooped into the ruins and hid itself away. Its flashing white wings caught Clara's eye in the darkness, taking her attention away from her footing, and she stumbled slightly, sending the lantern light flicking erratically across the ground. She took a deep breath and resumed her search for the rare nightshade; not the Beautiful Lady, Belladonna the Deadly Nightshade, which would have died back at this time of year.

No, Bittersweet was a climber which entangled itself around stone ruins, old trellises, and window frames. Its bright red, egg-shaped berries persisted late into the autumn and early winter, long after its leaves had fallen. She wanted its stems and late-season berries to prepare remedies for skin conditions, inflammations, and chest ailments, and here it grew almost undisturbed, except sometimes by the wildlife.

She combed through the undergrowth along the mossy wall until she found the woody nightshade's telltale tough, vine-like tendrils as they climbed through the glassless orangery windows and into the ruined east wing. Shining her lantern onto the window ledge, she carefully cleared away the few remnants of glass that remained and cautiously climbed through. The rubble from the collapsed roof made the footing treacherous, but she moved unhurriedly, making sure that her position was balanced and firm.

Her lantern illuminated the scarlet of the berries she was searching for, and she smiled gently and methodically began to harvest. Absorbed in her work, ensuring that the stems were cut cleanly, that the berries were sound and unbruised, she caught a faint smell of smoke.

She looked around; the warm yellow of her lantern not quite reaching into the dark recesses of the ruin, but saw nothing. The only things that she could detect were the smell of rain and the faint putrid odour of damp, decaying vegetation.

Leaning over precariously, reaching for another bunch, she felt her blood pressure rise as she held her breath to keep her body stable. Feeling her heartbeat pounding in her ears and head, she decided to shift her position rather than risk injury with a fall into the rubble.

Clara shone her lantern down and carefully eased her footing on the shifting debris. As she settled, the uncomfortable throbbing in her ears lessened as she breathed properly again. As she cut the first bunch, her pulse still beat gently, and she realised it wasn't her. A quick trip-hammer drumming, which she could feel rather than hear.

She listened carefully, but could hear nothing untoward as the feeling died away. The wind was increasing, and she wondered whether something was being driven to strike a wall. No, it was too regular, more like a heartbeat than a branch whipping in the wind.

As she turned back towards her work, a sharp metallic tapping cut through the night. Three taps, a pause, then five. She lifted her lantern to try to illuminate the broken ruin a little more, but it was pointless. The gusting wind was now so strong that the candle in her lantern was wavering, even though the polished horn plates were supposed to keep off the worst of the wind. The flickering light only caused the shadows to writhe wildly, not diminish. She heard it again; three firm taps, then five. It sounded to come from the back of Blackwood Hall, from the south, over the howl of the wind.

The rain began to fall, driving at an angle through the empty spaces where glass had once held it out, pouring through the gaping holes in the roof. Clara knew that she would have to take shelter in the still intact part of the Hall. It was that or risk trudging home through the pouring rain, soaked to the skin, and the likelihood that her hard won Bittersweet would be ruined.

Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she scrambled back out of the orangery and made her way along the back wall of the East Wing. To her left was the courtyard where the horses would have been unhitched from their carriages after dropping their passengers at the grand front entrance. The wind was driving the rain in sheets across the open space.

A sudden, bright flash of orange yellow light from one window brought her up short, heedless of the rain. Someone was in there, and she froze as the light went out again. She stood stock still; for the moment her thick woollen cloak was keeping the worst of the rain off, but she knew the little runnel of water down the side of her neck would not be the last.

She waited to see whether the light would return, or whether there would be some other sign of occupation. Only the wind and the rain disturbed the silence, and she tucked her satchel firmly inside her cloak to protect her precious harvest.

As she turned away, Clara heard a series of light taps from the direction of the window. She gasped, her heart racing, and whirled back to look. There was a dim, flickering light, like a single candle, in whatever room was behind the thick, uneven glass. The raps had most definitely come from there, and she watched in trepidation, barely daring to breathe!

A shadowy figure moved across the light from the candle, apparently moving with some purpose, and Clara could hear a faint humming sound, which resolved itself into the tune from an old hymn. There was something odd about the way the voice wavered as it hummed, and Clara realised that whoever was humming was bordering on panic. Maybe the humming was an attempt to stay the fear? Whatever was causing it, the healer in her knew that someone needed help, and quickly.

Before she could do anything, the figure rushed to the window, arm raised. The humming had become singing; a woman's voice, clearly on the verge of hysteria! Clara heard the same pattern of knocks as before. This close, however, she realised the figure was banging hard on the window frame: three quick, panicky knocks, a pause, and then five!

Before Clara could turn away, the flickering light flashed brightly. Even through the warps and bubbles of the thick glass, Clara could see a fireball expand towards the window! Instinctively, she threw herself back as the figure inside threw up a hand, and a terrified scream rang out, sending shivers up her spine. The fireball winked out, leaving her eyes dazzled in the darkness.

Blinking her eyes furiously, she turned and ran towards the main entrance of the manor, her boots splashing through the puddles. She did not know what she had just witnessed, but if she could aid the young woman in the manor, she would. She reached the main doors and stopped abruptly. The doors were closed.

She pushed against the heavy ring, then tried to turn it. There was no movement at all; no give nor rattle of a loose latch. She leaned against the door with her shoulder and heaved. As she pushed harder against the door, a low vibration seemed to come from deep down in the wood.

Deciding that further effort would gain her nothing, she stopped pushing and stepped back half a pace to think. Her clothes felt damp under her cloak; she needed to get into shelter soon. She lifted her lantern to cast its steady golden glow over the doors; the wind was turning into a gale now, but the candle barely flickered. She had to get inside; she had to get to that girl. Surely there would be another way in?

Suddenly there was a sharp, dry cracking noise, like a dry branch breaking underfoot, which echoed in the hall behind. The heavy iron drop-latch on the inside fell clattering into its keeper on the inside of the door. The heavy oak doors shuddered inwards a hands-breadth, making a dry scraping, grinding noise as the lower edges dragged across the detritus of years on the flagstone threshold.

Clara's eyes widened and her chest tightened as she tentatively reached out and pushed at the right-hand door. After a moment's hesitation, it swung inward; the massive iron strap-hinges moaned as they swung on dry stone dust rather than well-oiled iron. She hesitated, trying to still her shaking hand so that her lantern would throw its light into the darkness beyond the door.

Inside the grand entrance hall, years of dust had settled over the crumbling Jacobean furniture. It was hot, too hot, out of the wind and rain, and Clara loosened the fastenings of her cloak and the gown beneath as beads of sweat prickled at her hairline. The heavy wool of her cloak began to cling and chafe. Her lantern seemed powerless to pierce the darkness in the furthest corners of the hall. The candle flame in the lantern flickered and writhed, seemingly blown by drafts which had no discernible origin. It would take a powerful gust to blow out the candle inside the lantern itself; a draft should not affect it.

She took a moment to get her bearings and was about to turn into the corridor that she knew would take her to that room when she saw movement above her, in her peripheral vision. Looking up at the balcony above, she saw a patch of faintly luminous orange-yellow mist drifting towards the staircase.

She took a few steps backward, then realised it was pointless trying to hide; she was carrying a lit lantern! As it reached the top of the staircase, the mist had solidified into the shape of a young woman edged in a flickering red. She appeared to be carrying something bulky and was guiding herself down the stairs with her elbow on the rail.

A soundless, dull thudding accompanied the figure's descent. What did the villagers' tales say? That the ghost of Rowena Blackwood haunted the staircases and passageways in the house? If that story had any basis in fact, that was what Clara was watching drift down the grand staircase. The temperature in the hall increased as the spectral figure moved down the stairs, and the beads of sweat on her forehead coalesced in fear; one trickled down her temple.

The figure paused at the foot of the staircase and looked all around. Clara could make out some of her features, and she looked to be in her very early twenties, but her face was twisted in fear. The eyes passed straight across Clara without seeing her. The low visceral thumping increased in intensity and speed as the figure suddenly swept across the hall and into the corridor that Clara had decided she would take, only a few seconds before.

Clara pursued the wraith through the darkness, the pounding beat increasing in speed and intensity. It jarred through her body, and it felt as if her teeth were almost rattling in her head. The extremely unpleasant sensation was causing her head to ache. She was heading towards the centre of the fire; that was clear because the charring of the wood panels was turning into carbonised destruction, the blackened stone of the walls clearly on display beneath. She panted in the heat, which had been increasing ever since the ghostly figure had first appeared.

The translucent figure turned into a side room, and the door closed behind her. With a sudden jolt, Clara realised that the door itself was little more than a few charred splinters hanging from the jamb, and the closed door was as diaphanous as the girl herself. Clara stopped, panting, as she peered through the phantom door. She was finding it a struggle to breathe as the heat became almost unbearable, and the air grew thicker and more stifling. It was like trying to breathe close to an open lime-kiln and the struggle to breathe was forcing her close to panic.

It was difficult to see the spectre through the shimmering ghost-door, but Clara could see the vague outline apparently moving with purpose; crouching by the hearth of the open fireplace, doing something with the stone, placing some object down on the hearth. Then she dashed towards the window. She was trying to open the window, but nothing happened. Again, Clara heard the humming, the humming that had brought her into the house searching for someone in trouble. Once more, she heard the knocking; three knocks, a pause, then five, but much louder than before...

The girl by the window half turned and threw up both hands in front of her face, screaming. The air in the corridor was oppressively hot, and the beams above Clara creaked and groaned as she glanced up in apprehension. A massive pressure bore down on her, and she sank to one knee as the shimmering door in front of her disappeared, and she could see the girl by the window clearly. She looked far more solid than a few minutes ago when she had come down the grand staircase, although Clara could still see the vague outline of the window frame through her.

Panic-stricken, the girl cried out, seemingly through the window. "Did you bar the outer door? The heat, it's coming through the walls! Where is my father? Did he reach the horses?"

Recognising incomprehension, shock, and panic, Clara knew that the spirit was suffering from deep despair and desperately needed her help. She took a shuddering breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, resting a trembling hand on the wall beside her.

She counted her breaths, forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply as she counted, ridding herself of the fear the way her father had shown her. When she reached fifty, she touched the hilt of her foraging knife, the gesture she had added to make the ritual her own. She was terrified; so much was almost beyond her comprehension, but she had to help. This poor lost soul needed her assistance.

Forcing herself to her feet against the crushing pressure, Clara shifted smoothly into her healer role, speaking slowly and calmly. She walked into the room holding her hands out towards the spirit and said, "Hush... breathe if you can. Look at the room. There is no fire here tonight. The air is cold, and the night is quiet."

The girl suddenly swung round and appeared to notice her, almost as if Clara had been invisible until she spoke. There was a sharp cracking, grinding sound in the corridor outside; Clara could feel a desert-hot draft blowing around her ankles, increasing the oppressive heat.

"No, you don't understand!" the ghostly girl wailed; her voice had an empty, echoing quality. "They brought torches to the courtyard. I had to lock the study..." Visibly collecting herself, she looked around, her voice trailing off as her eyes adjusted. "Why is it so dark? Where is the fire? Where did the smoke go?"

Clara said gently and quietly, "There are no torches. Only my lantern."

"Your lantern..." She reached a hand toward Clara's lantern, her eyes opening wide as she watched her fingers sink slightly into the brass without touching it. "... I am not cold. Why can I not feel the chill in this metal?"

Clara said, "Because the flames aren't touching you anymore. The fire ended long ago."

The girl took a long, soft, shuddering breath. "I didn't escape, did I? I stayed behind... and I never left." The floorboards twisted and squealed; Clara could feel the movement below her feet.

She paused, gazing at Clara with increasing wonder. A flash of recognition passed between them. Recognition not of acquaintance, but acknowledgement of kindred spirits, perhaps. Clara noticed that the roasting draft around her feet had stopped and the floorboards ceased their grumbling.

"If the fire is gone... what year is this?"

Clara said simply, "It is the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two. All Hallows Eve."

The girl paused and whispered in horror, "A hundred years... to the day. How can this be?" Her voice deadened even more.

A long, stunned silence fell as the weight of the century settled in her mind. The air grew noticeably cooler and more comfortable; the creaks and cracks from the tortured timbers lessened. Somewhere in the close vicinity, a door slammed. "... Then everyone I knew is in the churchyard. My family, the estate... all buried in time," she muttered, almost to herself.

Speaking calmly, Clara said, "They may be gone, but you are no longer trapped in that night. You don't have to suffer the fire anymore. You are safe now, and I am here."

"But what brought you here on this night? I am Rowena Blackwood. Who are you?"

"I am Clara. Clara Malwright, the apothecary in the village. I came here to harvest herbs and berries that I cannot find elsewhere."

"But Thomas Mallowwright is the apothecary." She paused and looked carefully at Clara. "Oh... I see a resemblance! You have the same eyes, the same colour of hair. And he is also in the churchyard?"

Clara nodded. "Yes, my grandfather's grandfather was Thomas Mallowwright. I live in the same house in the village."

Rowena swallowed hard as she considered the evidence of the passage of time. After a long pause, she sighed, "I loved to go past that house. My father would never let me go in; he said it was beneath my station, but I always loved the smells that came from it! I pictured it with jars and bottles on shelves, with bunches of herbs and berries hanging from the beams."

She smiled, and the pounding beat that Clara could feel through the soles of her feet quietened, and much of the almost tangible tension in the air disappeared slowly, and the room cooled still further.

"It is much as you picture it, Rowena, even now. I take great care to look after my herbs and potions. I dry my herbs by hanging them from special racks in one of the outbuildings."

Rowena gazed at Clara for a long time, and Clara returned her look. Something passed between them, as it did before. They knew that much in their lives was different, but they were alike in so many other ways. Clara saw the dark green linen gown, the simple linen mob cap from which a tendril of rich brown hair escaped to tumble down beside her ear. The quality and the simple heart-shaped locket told her that Rowena was of good gentry stock, valuing modesty and discretion.

Rowena looked at Clara's lantern and the plants in her satchel and said, "You walk the woods alone... at this hour?"

"The night is quiet. People in the village prefer their doors bolted when the wind turns." Clara replied.

Rowena smiled; a faint, knowing smile. "Yes. They always did."

The smile made the air bearable for a moment, almost dimming the lantern. Then it faded. Clara wished she would smile again and lift the strange ache in her breast.

Rowena frowned and said, "They came with iron in their hands. They thought the walls were hollowed out for Satanic work..." A sharp, groaning snap echoed from the chimney breast, like stone under sudden stress. Hot air blew against Clara's face, smelling faintly of old wood-ash. Somewhere in the house, the echoes disturbed the silence as another door slammed viciously.

"They came with icons to exorcise; they came with silver and holy water, but there is nothing evil here. Only the evil in their black souls, and of that they brought an abundance."

Clara watched the shift to anger in Rowena's face, noticing how the air near the hearth grew hotter, almost unbearably so, as if an unseen furnace door had been thrown wide.

"Men who come with devout words and cold iron often fear what they cannot control," Clara said softly, her voice an unhurried, steady anchor. "Who were they, Rowena? The villagers speak only of the haunted manor on the hill."

"Men from the towns," Rowena spat, her dark eyes flashing with a century of remembered indignity. "Treasure-seekers!"

Her voice caught, and she gave a half-sob. "Law-givers. Pious fools who thought to chant Latin over my home to drive away what they called a devil. Me! A devil!"

She panted and seemed to fold in on herself, her arms clutched around her chest. "But every time they struck at the timber or hurled their holy water against the stone, the air turned to fire around them. The house would not suffer them to stay. It drove them out, weeping and wailing, into the dark."

She took a shuddering breath, and the sudden wave of stifling heat ebbed slightly, settling back into the ancient masonry.

"The house remembers, doesn't it, Rowena? Every time you speak of them, the hearth radiates heat or the beams protest in anguish. The house protects itself... no, it is defending something, is it not?"

Rowena paused, looking toward the hearth as the draft subsided. "It was built to keep them out. It has been keeping them out for a hundred years."

"But why does it not fight me?"

"You are different, Clara." Rowena looked at Clara, and something stirred within her as she said it. "They only brought hate and greed; with destruction in their hearts. There is a world of difference between them and you. You come with empty hands; you bring peace and healing, with love in your heart."

The two continued to observe each other; each slight change of expression noted and remembered.

"But who is that love for?" Rowena murmured, almost to herself. "What does it mean?"

"Rowena, only you can answer that," said Clara. "Look within yourself and you will surely know. I believe I know what lies within my heart, but I will not speak of it now. Perhaps never."

She smiled at Rowena, but the smile was tinged with regret, with sadness. It made Rowena's heart lurch, and she smiled back at Clara with hope and wonder.

Clara glanced away, her face hot in a way that had nothing to do with the stifling heat in the room; more to do with the confusion and strange longing that she felt in her breast. A longing for that which could never be. She looked back at Rowena, her eyes full of a yearning that she did not fully understand, and saw only compassion and courage in the other woman's dark eyes.

Rowena hesitated near the hearth. "You have told me to look within myself, Clara, and I believe that I understand a little of what is there. I believe that the love you bear extends to all things, both living and beyond the veil, and I know that I can trust you. If I show you what the house guards... you cannot speak of it down in the village, I beg you."

There was a long silence as the two girls looked at each other. Rowena was intrigued by the way Clara smiled wryly, slightly lopsided, and with tiny dimples at each corner of her mouth. "I harvest things that cure, and things that poison, Rowena. Knowing when to hold my tongue is half my trade. The other half is knowing my family's remedies for what they are... our treasures, never to be given away lightly."

There was another long silence. It wasn't the awkward silence that needs to be broken by a voice that abhors silences, rather the silence that is comfortable, that is filled with companionship and affection.

Rowena looked at Clara for a long time. Clara occasionally had difficulty maintaining eye contact with people, especially those whom she perceived as superior, whether through class or through knowledge, but she had no trouble gazing back at Rowena. It felt comfortable and natural. Eventually, Rowena smiled, and in her eyes the long shadow of grief gave way to a flash of pure, human joy as her dark eyes caught the lantern's amber glow.

"There is a flagstone at the side of the hearth, cunningly hidden. You must step on the far-left edge, and it will lift. It will be heavy, and it will be awkward to reach. It is not meant to be discovered easily."

She drifted towards the hearth and paused. She looked up at Clara, searching her face for any sign of deception or falsehood. Clara did not shrink away, but met her eyes with a quiet, steady calm that asked for nothing but offered everything.

Rowena whispered, her voice almost inaudible. "It is that stone, there. One towards the centre of the hearth and two towards the front." She gazed, wide-eyed, at Clara; in her face was the self-doubt, the wondering whether she had done the right thing.

Clara stepped onto the flagstone that Rowena had pointed out. Nothing happened.

"No, Clara, more to the back and to the left," Rowena whispered. Clara shifted her position, grabbing hold of the stonework as she felt the stone shift beneath her feet. Gaining her balance again, she put more of her weight onto her forward foot and felt the big flagstone ponderously tilt back with a heavy grinding noise, pivoting like a seesaw, revealing the leather-bound journals tucked within the dry masonry. Her fingers trembling, Rowena instinctively reached forward toward the books she had died trying to save.

Clara unthinkingly reached out to steady Rowena's arm. She expected the suffocating, radiant heat that had pressed against her skin since she crossed the threshold; the dry, baked air that smelled of old embers and scorched oak.

Instead, when Clara's palm met Rowena's wrist, the scorching heat of the past suddenly vanished. What Clara felt beneath her fingers was not the searing heat of a furnace, but the steady, temperate warmth of living flesh and blood. Rowena recoiled an inch, a sharp gasp catching in her throat, not of terror, but of profound, disorienting shock.

"Holy Mother of God..." she breathed, her voice no longer thin and echoing, but sounding clear, resonant, and entirely real in the small space between them. Her hand remained beneath Clara's. Through the linen of Rowena's sleeve, Clara could feel the distinct, rapid flutter of a pulse; a living rhythm breaking down a hundred years of silence.

Clara did not pull back. She held her ground, her fingers closing gently around Rowena's hand, feeling the solid bone and soft skin anchor them both. "You are here, Rowena," Clara whispered, hardly daring to hope, her own voice steady and grounded "The fire is no more."

Rowena looked down at their joined hands, her dark eyes wide, watching the way Clara's warm, calloused fingers wrapped around her own. The oppressive heat that had filled the room cooled, giving way to the simple, damp chill of the autumn night filtering through the open doorway, and the quiet reality of two women standing side by side in the dim light of a single lantern.

For a long, breathless moment, neither moved, the journals under the hearth temporarily forgotten. The atmosphere in the room felt lighter now, free of the suffocating heat that had gripped it for a century. Rowena felt the quiet, heavy press of her own leather shoes against the flagstones, a sensation so foreign after a century of drifting that it made her knees tremble. Her breathing was soft and quick, rustling the linen at her collar, while Clara simply watched her face, tracing the delicate line of her jaw and the way the amber glow of the horn lantern caught the soft, living brown of her eyes.

It was not the face of an apparition, but a woman who had borne a crushing burden for a century, alone in the darkness. Clara's hand closed gently over the back of Rowena's knuckles, feeling the faint, dry dust of the hearth give way to the unmistakable softness of warm skin, silently offering the assurance that the hellish night was finally over.

Her thumb shifted slightly, resting over the delicate bone of Rowena's wrist to feel the steady, rapid beat beneath the skin. Clara smelled of damp earth, tallow, and crushed green stems, a scent so fiercely alive that it overwhelmed the lingering ghost of dust and ash.

Rowena looked questioningly and apprehensively at Clara as she untangled their fingers. She felt an enormous sense of loss as her first contact with a living soul in a hundred years came to an abrupt end.

"Why?" she breathed, the ache in her voice causing it to crack slightly, her eyes filling with tears.

"Because I want more, Rowena; do you not?"

Clara looked at her, nibbling her lower lip in apprehension, thinking, hoping, desiring. Rowena looked at her, a question in her eyes. Clara stood still for a long moment, hesitating. Tentatively, as if expecting rejection, she extended her hands towards Rowena a short way. A slight gesture, offering acceptance and reassurance, but leaving the choice very much to her.

Rowena stood stock still, eyes wide as she looked at Clara's open hands. To Clara's horror, Rowena slowly became outlined in a dark, flickering red, her body becoming transparent as she stood, gazing piteously at Clara.

Clara rammed the back of her hand against her mouth, gnawing at the knuckles. "Oh dear God, no! NO! Rowena, do not leave me, please, I beg you, do not go!"

Rowena slowly lifted her hand, stretching it out towards Clara in supplication, the fingers flickering red and orange like flames. When she spoke, her voice sounded faint and dry, as it had before. "Clara, I want to stay, but I know not how... keep my secret, I entreat you! I must trust you; I do trust you to do right by me!"

She stepped towards Clara, her hand outstretched to touch Clara's face. Clara could feel the heat against her skin; she could feel the ends of her hair sizzle and burn, but she did not flinch. She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against the excruciating pain that she knew would come, and waited, the stench of burned hair thick in her nostrils.

A cool, human hand touched her cheek, and her eyes flew open! Rowena stood before her, no longer limned in fire. A tear rolled out of the corner of her eye and trailed down her cheek. "Yes! Yes, Clara, I do want more!"

For a second, Clara stood in shock, her eyes wide. She lifted her hand and placed it over Rowena's where it touched her cheek and smiled, a sunny, wide smile that filled Rowena with hope. She held her free arm out to Rowena. A light danced in Rowena's eyes, a sudden living warmth that broke through a century of shadows. She crept into the circle of Clara's arms and laid her head on her shoulder, her arms sliding around Clara's waist.

"This is what I want, this is what I did not dare to hope for when first I saw you, and realised that you and I share so much!"

She slumped against Clara with a long, trembling sigh, burying her face in the folds of Clara's heavy woollen cloak. It was the deep, restorative breath of someone finally allowed to lay down a near impossible burden. Pressed close, Clara could smell the faint, lingering scent of ancient dried lavender and old paper clinging to Rowena's linen, now mingling with the wool of her own cloak, damp with the October mist, the astringent tang of harvested bittersweet vines, and the clean autumn air brought in from the downs.

For Rowena, the solid weight of Clara's heavy woollen mantle, cool and rough against her cheek and the steady beat of her heart beneath it were like an anchor dropped into a stormy sea, quenching the lingering terror of the flames until only the quiet safety of Clara's embrace remained.

Clara wrapped her arms tighter, burying her cheek against the soft crown of Rowena's cap, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Rowena's chest against her own, smoothing a hand over the small of her back as if soothing a frightened child; or anchoring something precious that had come within a hairs-breadth of being lost to the dark. Rowena felt her shoulders shudder again as a hundred years of rigid, terrified vigilance finally gave way, her breath coming in soft, ragged sighs against Clara's neck.

After a moment, Rowena turned her face up to the taller girl, who slowly kissed her tenderly and lovingly.

"I want to leave this place... if I can... if I am not still bound to it. Will you help me?"

"Yes, my love," said Clara, taking her by the hand and leading her out into the crisp, clear dawn of All Saints' Day.