To escape the dangers of wartime London, Millie has been sent away to Wickford Hall, but what lurks there is far more sinister than anything war might bring.
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THERE'S SOMETHING WICKED STALKING WICKFORD HALL...
As war rages on, Mildred Cunningham...
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Millie shuddered against the bitter wind and pulled her wool peacoat tighter. She wished she had thought to bring a scarf like Petra had, but it was too late for that. Petra was impatient and wouldn't let her turn back now.
"What a lovely day!" Petra grumbled, dipping her chin into the safe folds of the red scarf that was wrapped close around her neck.
"Are you sure you still want a tour?" Millie asked. She hoped Petra would say no, and they could head back inside, where it may be boring, but at least it was warm.
Instead, Petra nodded. "Of course. What else are we supposed to do?"
Millie fought a sigh. "If you say so."
The grounds before them were half-hidden by fog, and Millie wasn't sure why Petra was so insistent on continuing. There was much to see out here, either. In this season, the grounds were just depressing. The garden beds were barren, their contents tucked under burlap sheets, waiting to awaken at the first sign of spring that was still months away. The long man-made pond that ran the length of the garden was murky and iced over. The gravel path that wove through the landscape was lined with towering, leafless trees. It would be a long while before things were pretty again.
"These are the gardens," Millie announced, though Petra was already far ahead of her.
"I can see that," Petra said, teasing as she glanced across the grim scene of grey and brown. She scampered over the gravel, her feet sliding around in her hurry.
"Where are you going at such a pace?" Millie asked, panting as she half-jogged to keep up. "It's like you have somewhere to be."
"I just want to get this over with," Petra said. Her teeth chattered at the last word, and she burrowed further into her scarf. "God, it's cold out here."
"Then let's go inside."
"Not yet," Petra said, rounding the corner of the house.
Millie, breathless, followed after. As she rounded the corner, she nearly ran into Petra, who had stopped just beyond. Petra's eyes were fixed on the distance. A spire rose out of the mist, sharp and dark like a warning.
"That's the..." Millie began.
"The chapel, I know."
"You do?" Millie wondered how Petra had learned of the chapel. The chapel was tucked into a remote corner of the grounds, far from the drive.
"Lots of old country houses have private chapels. Ours does," Petra continued with a disinterested tilt of her head. "I figured a place full of nuns would have one, too."
Millie bit her lip, not knowing what to say. Petra may be friendly, but Millie couldn't let herself forget that their social classes were worlds apart. She wondered if, once the war was over, Petra would keep in touch or happily forget her and return to her gilded world of country estates and private chapels.
