The child who lived.
Gideon suddenly gripped the edge of the bed.
His face went white.
I showed him the mitten.
He reached toward it.
Then stopped.
His fingers trembled in the air.
I knew he recognized it.
But before I could ask why, my attention fell on the handwritten statement.
It began:
I, Eleanor Ashford, make this account because the truth of Saint Agnes has been buried beneath lies, and I fear that those responsible will eventually silence me.
I swallowed.
The next line nearly stopped my heart.
The explosion was not an accident.
I read on.
My mother had worked as a clerk in the Saint Agnes office.
She recorded payroll payments, equipment orders, and survey measurements.
In the autumn of 1860, she discovered that Harlan Vane had secretly diverted water through an unauthorized drainage tunnel.
The work endangered the entire lower mine.
Daniel Rook had discovered the diversion and threatened to report it.
On the day of the explosion, several men were scheduled to inspect the lower galleries.
My mother believed someone had deliberately ignited powder near the drainage gate to destroy evidence of the illegal work.
She had preserved copies of the original survey.
She had also retained a record identifying the men who authorized the dangerous operation.
But the statement stopped before naming them.
One page was missing.
I searched the oilcloth again.
Nothing.
The remaining page contained an extraordinary instruction.
The complete account is kept where the mine bell cannot ring.
Beneath it, my mother had drawn a crude picture of a small stone building.
I recognized it immediately.
Saint Agnes had possessed a chapel beside the old shaft.
Its bell had been removed after the explosion.
The chapel still stood.
I turned toward Gideon.
He was holding the mitten against his chest.
Tears stood in his eyes.
I wrote:
Do you remember this?
He nodded.
Who wore it?
His pencil hovered over the paper.
Finally, he wrote:
I don’t know.
Then, beneath that:
I remember carrying someone.
He stared at the mitten.
I remember thinking I had to reach daylight before the fire did.
My chest tightened.
Gideon had been nine years old.
A terrified child carrying another child through a burning mine.
And somewhere inside that terrible memory lay the truth my mother had hidden.
Before we could discuss it further, Nell entered the room.
Her face was strained.
“Someone cut the telephone line at Vane’s office,” she said.
Chapter 1: The Creature Beneath His Skin 027
