We had not rested more than a few minutes when the water began to climb. It did not crash. It did not surge. It simply rose, slow and certain, slipping over the stones like a hand opening beneath the sea. The line of foam moved closer, then closer still, swallowing the smaller rocks one by one. I knelt on the shingle and pulled back the torn edge of my trousers. Four deep lines ran down the side of my calf, black in the grey light. The blood had begun to dry, but the salt air kept it open, and every shift of my weight made the wound sing. Ellora stood at the water's edge, bare feet in the wet stones, her borrowed coat hanging past her knees. She was staring out at the sea, not at the caves, not at the broken door behind us. "The water doesn't stop," she said. "I know." "There's no path up." I looked at the cliff. Black rock, wet with mist, rising out of the beach like a wall made by something that didn't want to be climbed. No steps. No rope. No ledge wide enough for a child, let alone a man with a torn leg. "We move higher," I said. She turned and looked at me. Her lips were pale, almost blue. "I'm cold," she said. I pulled off my coat. It was heavy with water, but the wool still held some warmth. I wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled the collar closed at her throat. She didn't thank me. She only stood still, looking up at me with those large, dark eyes. "Father Greaves will find a way down," I said. "He's still up there somewhere." "Do you think he's coming?" she asked. I didn't have to ask who. "He's coming," I said. "He just doesn't know where we are yet." She nodded, but I could see she didn't believe me. The door in the cliff face began to shake. It was the same door we had broken through, still hanging from one hinge. Through the gap, the darkness inside had turned wet. Black water, thicker than the sea, spilled out over the stones and ran down toward the shore. It did not spread. It moved like a spill, heavy and slow, and behind it came the voice. "Mine..." The word came from more than one mouth. It echoed, not off the rock, but from inside it. Then it changed. For a moment it sounded like Edmund. Then like a woman. Then like Lord Rydell. Ellora took a step toward it. I caught her arm. "Don't." She looked at me, and her eyes were glassy. "It's calling." "I know. Don't answer." The sea had risen while we watched. The high stone where we had first stopped was already gone, black water sliding over its crown. I looked around and saw a narrow shelf cut into the cliff face, maybe ten feet up. Wet, dark, but above the tide line. "There," I said. Climbing was worse than I expected. The rock was slick with spray, and my boots found no purchase. I went up first, dragging myself by the fingers, then reached down for Ellora. She was light, so light, and the coat nearly swallowed her whole. I pulled her up, and she clung to the stone with both hands. Halfway to the shelf, my leg gave. The wounded calf hit the cliff, and for a second the world went white. I held on, teeth against the rock, and forced the pain down. "You're bleeding," Ellora said. "I'll live." "Are you going to die here?" Her voice was too calm. I looked up. The shelf was still far enough to break us if we fell. Below, the water had already swallowed the place where we had been standing. "No," I said. She stared at me. "I'm not going to die here. Not today." "Why not?" The question was simple. Too simple. "Because I made a promise to someone." "Was it to a girl?" I didn't answer. The cold had reached my chest, and my breath came in short white clouds. I pushed upward, and Ellora climbed with me, her small feet finding holds I could not see. Below us, the broken door gave way. It tore from its hinge with a sound like a body being pulled through wood. For a moment nothing moved in the dark. Then a small shape came out, low to the ground. A child, I thought. Another child. But it moved wrong. Its arms were too long, its back too bent. It crawled on all fours, head jerking, and its skin was the color of wet ash. It stopped at the edge of the water and looked up at us. "Mine..." I grabbed a loose stone and threw it. The stone hit the thing in the shoulder. It didn't fall. It only tilted its head, and its mouth opened, too wide, the lower jaw clicking like a hinge. From the cave behind it, the whole choir screamed. "MINE!" The sound pushed against us, and I nearly lost my grip. Ellora screamed, or maybe I did. Then I pulled her up onto the shelf, and we lay there, chest to stone, the world shaking beneath the tide. The child-thing had gone. The water had risen to the base of the cliff, and the mouth of the cave was a black line above the foam. From the top of the cliff, something clattered down. Stones. Then a rope. It uncoiled through the mist, heavy and wet, and the end struck the rock a few feet above us. I looked up. A figure stood at the edge, dark against the grey sky. Ellora reached out and touched the rope. "It's real," she said. I didn't move. The figure above did not speak. It only held the rope, steady, waiting. I took the end and looped it around Ellora. My hands were shaking. I tied the knot twice, then pulled it tight. "Hold on," I said. She nodded. I pulled the rope once. The figure above pulled back, and the line went taut. We climbed. The rock was wet and the rope burned my hands, but we climbed. Ellora above me, kicking against the cliff, my shoulder under her feet when she slipped. The air thinned. The sea fell away. The choir's voice faded to a whisper, then to nothing. At the top, a hand reached down. I saw it first: black sleeve, pale skin, the knuckles scarred. Then the face. Edmund. He pulled Ellora over the edge, then reached for me. I grabbed his arm, and he hauled me up with a strength that made his jaw tight. We lay on the wet grass at the top of the cliff, breathing. For a long time, nobody spoke. Then Edmund said, "You found her." His voice was dry, flat, like he had merely expected it. I turned my head. He was sitting now, looking down at the beach below. The mist had swallowed the door. The water was still rising, slow and black. "The old rope track," he said. "The undertaker told me. It used to run from the crypt to the shore. They closed it years ago, but the posts are still there." He looked at me, then at my leg. "You climbed with that." "I had to." He didn't answer. He only looked at Ellora, who was still wrapped in my coat, sitting with her knees pulled up, her face turned toward the sea. "We need to get her warm," Edmund said. I nodded. He stood, pulling me up with him. I winced, and he caught my arm. "Not today, Caleb." I looked at him. "What now?" Edmund didn't answer. He stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down. The tide had swallowed the broken door. The beach we'd climbed from was already black water, and the choir's voice had thinned into something that could have been wind, or waves, or many mouths still singing under the dark. He watched for a long moment, then turned his head toward the village. Toward the road. Toward St. Aldric's, its tower just visible through the mist. Ellora sat in the wet grass, wrapped in my coat, too small for the world above. I could see she was waiting, too. Edmund's hands opened and closed at his sides. He was not thinking about the next hour. He was thinking about the next move, and I could see him weighing each one: the village, the church, the road out, the crypt still open, the water still rising, the girl still alive. The fog moved over the cliff. He didn't speak. So I waited with him.

Chapter 29: The Tide's Edge