He released her, shrugging out of his coat, placing it on top of her, and following it with his jacket, before he drew her into his arms, so she was cocooned by wool on one side and his body on the other. The clinical side of his brain knew that she was too cold and the cold might be more of an immediate risk than whatever was happening inside her head. He looked at the ankle and grimaced. It looked more like a break than a sprain.

“Well, you’re not going to be dancing for a few weeks,” he said, running his hand over her hair. “Which is a bit of a problem, because as soon as you wake up I’m going to dance you all over this entire house. I guess I’ll have to hold you off the floor. We might have to stop for a cast first, but I swear there’s going to be dancing, whether your feet can touch the floor or not.”

He glanced back down the dark stairs, towards where he knew the door was. The haunting was at least partially contained by location, although the coachman’s condition indicated Rose’s influence stretched out of the house, maybe even to the property line, about a half mile down the drive. If he could carry Alva down the stairs and off the property, there was a chance Rose’s hold would be broken.

There was also a chance the sudden break would do something much worse to Alva’s mind. Even more immediately, he had no idea how badly the fall had hurt her, and until he could move her safely he couldn’t risk it. Henry had been right behind him, he reminded himself. He’d think to bring a wagon, and they could find a board or something to carry her out on.

Until then, all he could do was keep her warm, and talk to her, and hope she would come back to him.

“Come back to me,” he said fiercely. “Come back to me. What you’re seeing isn’t real; it’s only a nightmare. Come on, honey.”

The path wavered in front of her, and she stumbled in the snow, confused. This had happened before, she remembered, but it hadn’t been real. Alain had never done this.

Alain. The name was something concrete to hold on to in the middle of the confusion. She had a name, too, though it danced just outside her reach. And whatever her name was, it didn’t match with what was happening here.

She heard him—who was him?—behind her, closing in.

“That’s right,” he said, his hand landing on her shoulder and spinning her around. The moon glinted off his golden hair. “You can’t outrun me. Best get it over with.”

“Who are you?” she whispered, her voice rusty and hard to use.