In fact, Pleasance had no idea where the fight had gone. After Morvath stabbed his mother and then barely escaped the skirmish himself as a dozen enraged ladies descended upon him, people scattered and the melee spread into smaller private battles. The clash of metal and flare of sudden, brief screams echoed through the abbey as henchmen pursued pirates and pirates pursued henchmen, depending on who happened to be in the lead at the time. Explosions rang out, causing the whole building to shudder. Pleasance could smell smoke, and she knew if fire was headed their way, they would have no escape from it.

She had always thought that, when she died, she would like to haunt a nice cobwebbed attic or perhaps a mysteriously locked cellar in a duke’s country house. She would be the moan that chilled an otherwise stoic man, the whisper that drew children into eerie games, the last thing a forlorn wife saw before sliding into death from heartbreak. The idea of dying in Northangerland Abbey distressed her. Here, she would need to get in a very long line of ghosts, wights, and strange-glimpses-of-something-white before being allowed any haunting opportunity.

“Pleasance,” Miss Darlington murmured through blue lips. “Leave me, dear girl. Save yourself.”

With a cry, Pleasance grasped the elderly lady more closely to her bosom. “I will never leave you, miss,” she vowed. “We will die togeth— Um, that is to say, we will survive together, and be rescued, and later this evening drink a cup of tea together in the comfort of your own home. At least, I shall serve the tea, and you shall drink it, and I shall wash the cup afterward.”

Miss Darlington reached up weakly to touch Pleasance’s humble, shining face. “I would drink tea with you any day,” she whispered.

Pleasance flushed with pride. She clutched the bed to haul herself up, then stood for a moment trying not to swoon as several ghosts came close to gibber at her. She blew them away with a determined exhalation. Miss Darlington would not die in this dismal chamber! Pleasance would rescue her even if the cost was her own paltry life.

In the back of her mind, several ghosts rubbed their spectral hands with gleeful anticipation. Pleasance ignored them. She needed a weapon if she was to secure freedom for Miss Darlington, and there was only one available in this room. So she clenched her teeth, her limbs, her very toes—and with a sudden, harsh movement she pulled the blade from her arm.

Pain almost threw her to the ground. But Pleasance was a heroine, and she remained standing. Brushing back her wild curls, ignoring the blood pouring from her arm, she took the rotting blanket from the bed, lifted Miss Darlington as gently as she could onto it, and began dragging the elderly lady toward the door.

She almost made it.

Suddenly the door crashed ajar and a rough-faced man with a heavily bandaged shoulder charged into the room. His pistol lifted, and before Pleasance could even think of the knife in her hand, he snatched it from her.