Where the Briars Sleep

by Emma Beaven

“Maggie, help!” She could barely make out anything through the downpour, but she distinctly saw her sister’s silhouette poised beside the door. “Maggie, please!”

  Disbelief replaced disgust and self-pity when she saw Maggie watching her, unmoving.

  “Well, go to hell, then!”

  Rose coughed, suddenly afraid she was drowning in the mud. With a determined yank, she tugged her shoe out of the muck and picked up her pile of mangled flowers.

  “Maggie?” Rose looked at the door. Maggie was gone.

  Rose struggled up the porch steps, trying desperately not to trip on her soggy, ripped skirt. Finally, drenched and dirty, her dress in ruins, she made it to the door, flung the heavy timber open, and staggered into the house.

  The hallway was dim when she entered, and water from her clothing soaked the wood floor, leaving dark, ominous-looking stains. Rose sneezed as she fumbled with her sopping skirts.

  A moment later, she became aware of a light in the passageway to the kitchen, its flame rising and flickering as the wind blew through the open door. For a minute, she stood hypnotized, fingers trailing on the doorframe.

  “Close it!”

  Rose dimly heard the door slam shut. Befuddled and cold, she turned to face her sister, while in the distance, thunder rolled as rain pounded the windows.

  The dark of the hallway was hardly penetrated by the tiny lamp, and Rose shivered again. Maggie approached, her face ghostly in the orange glow of the flame. “Rose, you need to change.” She gestured behind her to the maid, Rachel, who followed at a distance, still mostly cloaked in shadow.

  “You left me in the mud,” Rose said softly.

  “I just ran inside.” Maggie shrugged innocently. “It was wet. I got a lamp.”

  Rose’s confusion distorted her face in the dancing light. “I saw you standing there. On the porch.”

  “On the porch?” Maggie looked at her sister, brows scrunched. “Why would I stand out in the cold and wet, staring at you? Do you think I’m a lunatic? I came inside.”

  “Hey!” Rose snagged the back of her sister’s dress, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

  Maggie turned and glared. “What’s wrong with you? I almost dropped the lamp.”

  “You left me!” Rose’s voice echoed in the dark, empty hallway.

  “I never came back out,” Maggie said, exasperated. “Come upstairs. You could get sick if you don’t change soon.”

  Rose stared down at the brown-laced, tattered flowers, then dropped them to the floor, confusion flooding out of her. “All right.”

  Rose looked Maggie up and down. Her clothing appeared surprisingly dry, her skirt falling perfectly from her waist, the lace drooping only slightly from just above her elbows.

  As she followed, Rose watched her sister’s pinkish skirts swish. She shivered. Maggie hadn’t changed her dress. Rose could have sworn she had seen red-and-white stripes outside. Who wore red and white? She twitched involuntarily.

  “Are you freezing?” Maggie’s tone was softer, more sympathetic. “Rachel will draw you a hot bath. I’ll get you a blanket.”

  Rose gazed down at her ruined clothing as she slipped her hand onto the banister railing. She had tracked long swaths of mud on the black-and-white marble as she moved farther into the house, and a distinct rip marred the hem of her soiled skirt. “My clothes are ruined,” she said weakly. The stairs seemed endless as she pulled herself up.

  “It’s okay. You have other clothes.”

  Maggie helped pull her up the last couple of stairs and into their room.

  “I’ll lay out fresh clothes. Do you want a shawl?” Maggie offered.

  Rose shivered as they entered their bedroom. “Yes, let me have my blue shawl. I would like a bath, I think.”

  “Of course.” Maggie stopped picking through the wardrobe and stepped out into the hallway. “Rachel?” she called. “Rose will have a hot bath.” Her footsteps faded as she walked down the hallway, leaving Rose alone.

  Rose glared at the open wardrobe door, a faint trickle of annoyance spreading through her. Why did Maggie have to leave it open? She knew Rose hated it. She was always doing that—leaving all the doors open. Endless open spaces for anything to slip silently through in the night.

  Hesitantly, Rose moved toward the door, peering into the opening. “Goddammit, Maggie.” She moved to the closest side of the wardrobe. Her dresses were lined up but slightly ruffled. Rose reached a finger toward the open door and pressed softly. The door moved a few inches and she edged closer. “What’s the problem, Rose?” she muttered to herself. “What’s going to be in the wardrobe?” Instantly she wished she hadn’t said it out loud.

  Nothing’s in the closet, Rose. Nothing’s in the wardrobe. No problem.

  With a trembling finger, she gave the door another push. It closed almost all the way. She hesitated before glancing back toward the hallway.

  Still no Maggie.

  The wardrobe door remained open just a crack, mocking her. Holding her breath, Rose reached out and slammed it shut and backed away, nearly tripping on her ripped skirt.

  “See? Nothing there.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  Rose whipped her head around and peered at Maggie. Annoyance trickled in again at her sister’s seemingly smug and confident stare mocking her as Rose crossed her arms around herself. “Everybody does that. Talks to themselves.”

  Maggie extended a hand to Rose. “Come on. You’re cold.”

  Rose recoiled. “I can make it on my own.” She was seething now. Her sister always acted as if she were the one to care for Rose despite Maggie being the younger one.

  Rose ripped her eyes away and lifted her sopping skirts, all the time feeling Maggie’s gaze on her. She trod across the room to the door, trying to hide her shivers as she made her way to the tub.

  “Do you need—”

  “I’m fine.” Rose’s voice was prickly, like her cold skin. She turned a little in the dark hallway to look at Maggie, and a tremble unrelated to the chill rocked her.

  Maggie stood still in the room, her lamp bouncing shadows across the white walls. Behind her, through the open bedroom door, Rose saw that the wardrobe door hung open wide. Not slightly, as if she had not secured it properly, but all the way open, gaping in a toothless scream.

  “Rose?”

  Rose whirled around. “Did you open it?” She kept her voice calm.

  “I didn’t open it, Rose.” Maggie sighed. “You know I didn’t.”

  Rose gestured helplessly toward the wardrobe. “But—”

  “Listen to me carefully.” Maggie secured her fingers around her sister’s arm. “The door is always like that.”

  Thunder shook the house as Rose stared hard at her sister. Slowly an image formed in her mind.

  “No….”

  Daylight. Someone missing. Someone—

  “Rose!”

  Rose shrieked. Maggie’s fingers were like a vise around her wrist. Water still dripped from the end of her sleeve.

  With as much effort as she could muster, Rose raised her head, met Maggie’s eyes, and slowly said, “I’ll have my bath now. And I guess I need help getting out of this dress.”

  Three

  Raindrops still pinged against the glass of the parlor windows. Maggie stood behind her, gently brushing her hair, and Rose leaned back, feeling much more relaxed. Now that she could think clearly again, she knew Maggie wouldn’t have just left her there in the rain. She had been confused, her vision blurry from the mud and rain.

  Rose pulled her blue shawl tighter about her shoulders as Maggie finished brushing and affixed a large red bow into her hair. Maggie cocked her head as she stepped in front of Rose. “Perfect!”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, a smile slowly starting to grow on her face.

  Pale gray light sifted through the window, barely exposing the perfect sea-green wallpaper decorated with thin bony trees and strange birds. The air had appeared to clear between them, despite what had happened ear
lier, and Rose was feeling almost buoyant.

  She twirled the curtain’s pull cord between her fingers and pressed her head against the glass, straining for the sounds of crunching gravel. It had to be soon.

  She drew her feet up onto the cushion of the window seat and pulled her knees in close. Father and Mariotta had left early, and it was getting late. Would Father bring her the dress? She’d loved it the minute she had seen it the last time they were in town, and with only a few alterations, it would be perfect for her. Blue had always been her favorite color, and she was excited at the thought of wearing it at the ball.

  Father’s travels for business had become more frequent since Mother died, though at least Mariotta had gone with him this time. Rose couldn’t decide which was worse, being left alone after Mother died or being left alone with a grieving stepmother lurking about the house like some gruesome specter with red, watery eyes. For God’s sake, it had been over a year since Sarah died. Still, Rose felt a pang of guilt at the thought.

  “Finally!” The faint sounds of an approaching carriage came from the drive.

  Rose hopped off the window seat and carefully gathered the skirt of her fresh pale pink dress.

  Candles were still lit in the hallway, but they quickly extinguished as she flung open the heavy entrance door. The wind was light and not nearly as cool as she had expected as she stepped into the forecourt. Rachel stood at the ready on the pavement, watching gravely as the carriage approached.

  Along the drive, two sturdy horses drew a familiar black carriage to the front door. Rose stepped outside as the carriage rolled to a stop. Behind her, she heard a door slam on the porch.

  “Hello there!” Maggie whirled past Rose to meet the carriage, clattering down the stairs with a fan and walking stick in hand, clad in her gray silk dress she must have changed into.

  Rose frowned at her. “Really, Maggie?”

  Maggie stuck her tongue out in return. The carriage door opened, and she grasped her stepmother’s arm as she alighted. “Welcome home, Mariotta,” Maggie said, giving a quick kiss to both of her cheeks.

  Rose was glued to her spot.

  The footman appeared, and Maggie gave him a smile. “Hello, Christopher,” she said brightly.

  He barely gave her notice, which made Rose feel better, before he began instructing Rachel. “Be careful with those bags,” he said. “I shall tend to the boxes.”

  Maggie paid Christopher no more attention, much like her jilted callers. “Here’s your cane,” she said to Mariotta. “What can I carry?”

  Mariotta’s muddy green gaze rested on Rose, who attempted a smile, but it must have looked as half-hearted as it felt because Mariotta put a limp hand up, as if she were about to wave, then dropped it flatly by her side and went back to listening to Maggie.

  Mariotta’s light red hair was styled and still remained wound upon her head, her yellow striped silk taffeta rustling softly about her feet.

  Rose started closer, but then Maggie’s clear laugh rang out, so she remained standing in place until Mariotta reached her. Rose planted a perfunctory kiss on her stepmother’s cheek. She sensed eyes upon her but ignored the sensation as best she could.

  “I have presents from your father,” Mariotta said.

  “My dress?” Rose asked with a glimmer of hope.

  “Not at the moment,” Mariotta said as she reached into one of the bags she was carrying. “But I have—”

  “Where is Father?” Rose demanded.

  “But I have other things for you.” A hopeful smile crossed Mariotta’s face.

  “Daddy was going to bring that dress. Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry, my sweet,” Mariotta said, enraging Rose even further.

  Where was this coming from, this rising anger that threatened to consume her?

  Stop it, Rose.

  “We’re going to town tomorrow.”

  “Maggie.”

  When Maggie ignored her, Rose’s chest tightened as she stared at her sister, waiting to be acknowledged. Surely Maggie could see how important this was.

  “What will I wear to the party?” The temptation to stomp her foot angrily rode her hard. “I’m not going in my old clothes. I’m just not.” Thoughts of the party drifted through her head: Maggie in a beautiful new dress and she in an old partially faded gown, her sister whisking about, completely outshining her. That could not stand. Still, it did her no favors to act like a spoiled child in front of everyone.

  Father had loved that dress too. He told her so the last time they were in town together—how fitting the color was for her, how perfectly it would adorn her. It just needed a few alterations….

  “Hey.” Maggie’s hand closed on Rose’s shoulder.

  Rose froze, but it was Mariotta who spoke.

  “You and Maggie may go to town tomorrow. Your father is still away on business. Now if you don’t mind, I’m tired.” She carried herself up the stairs, Maggie assisting.

  The sound of their shoes clacking set off a series of sharp pains in Rose’s head. A giggle erupted, though from whom she couldn’t tell. She wondered what Mariotta might be saying to Maggie behind her back.

  A distant rumbling echoed in the night sky.

  Once Mariotta had been settled in her room, Maggie ducked into the sitting room and sat down near Rose. Her face pinched into a look of stern disapproval that belied her age, posture rigid, determined, as she sat in her chair and met Rose’s gaze.

  “Why do you have to behave that way?” Maggie asked, keeping her voice just barely below shrill.

  “What? She doesn’t like me.”

  Maggie frowned and swiped at her nose. “You know she’s still hurting.”

  “It’s been long enough.”

  Maggie stood in front of her sister, drained from disbelief. “How can you say that, Rose? How can you be so cruel?” She stalked out of the room. Was it the missing dress that set her sister off? Or perhaps Mariotta’s lack of proper dismay over it? Either could have set Rose off.

  Should I go back and sit with her? Maggie thought. She hated seeing Rose upset, hated the fear of losing her sister again. But she could not tolerate Rose’s cruel words toward Mariotta.

  There had to be a way to make Rose see it. See how her words affected everyone in the household.

  Maybe if she could somehow make Rose aware, perhaps they could slowly start to return to normal. And then Maggie would have her sister back.

  Four

  Maggie remained silent at the dinner table, and Rose followed suit. She sat across from her sister, who picked dully at her food and stared into her plate as if it were a looking glass. Lamb was not Rose’s favorite, but she usually ate at least a bit of her meals.

  Mariotta sat at the end of the table, her fingers curled around her spoon, her eyes dull and glassy. Maggie narrowed her eyes, watching for a moment, but Mariotta failed to move the spoon to her mouth. She glanced over at Rose, then saw Mariotta’s arm start to move out of the corner of her eye. Very slowly, as if by rote, Mariotta spooned a thin, dripping bit of stew into her mouth. Then Rose raised her arm slightly, the movement so slow it was as if she were underwater, and cut a small piece of her lamb. It seemed to take ages before it finally reached her mouth.

  Maggie coughed gently, and both Rose and Mariotta instantly fixed their eyes on her, watching.

  “I’m fine,” Maggie said quickly, shielding her face with a linen napkin.

  It was not long ago that Mariotta’s eyes were filled with fury and rage and grief. That, at least, Maggie understood. But certainly one could forgive a woman this after she had lost her only child.

  Mariotta was typically a bit friendlier to Maggie than Rose, probably because of Rose’s poor behavior since Mariotta joined the household. Rose had always been a bit wild, a bit outspoken, but her cruelness was a recent trend as far as Maggie could tell. She was constantly picking at Mariotta and sometimes even Maggie. Only in front of their father, who showered her with affection for being such a perfect da
ughter, was well behaved.

  A small snort forced Maggie’s attention back to the dinner table. Mariotta cackled lightly to herself, her gaze fixed on Rose, who ignored her completely, gazing into her dinner plate, seemingly oblivious to the stony stare of her stepmother. The nasty grin grew on Mariotta’s face, her head craning toward Rose.

  Should I say something? Maggie wondered. Apprehension gripped her.

  “Rose,” Mariotta called, still grinning, “where did you get those nasty scratches on your arm?” False pity adorned her face as she looked imploringly at her stepdaughter.

  Rose slowly raised her head. When she saw Mariotta’s expression, she quickly put her arms in her lap protectively. Maggie waited for the outburst, waited for Rose to defend herself. But her sister said nothing.

  “Rose,” Mariotta prodded, “sometimes it’s necessary to torment the body to purify the soul, don’t you think?”

  Rose’s gaze pierced her stepmother’s, her anger almost palpable. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  Mariotta shrugged. “Just that suffering, in the end, can bring out the best in us.”

  Scraping her chair viciously across the wooden boards, Rose got up. She walked toward Mariotta and met her eyes.

  “Drunk.”

  “I am not drunk!” she said stiffly, attempting to pull herself away from Rose. “Just leave me alone.” Mariotta, too, arose from her chair, giving Rose one last searching look before retreating into the shadowy hallway.

  Maggie tugged at Rose’s arm, but her sister would not budge. “You look sick.”

  “I’m just tired,” she said, waving her arm as if to shoo Maggie away. “We should still have dessert, yes?” Rose fidgeted as if she were suddenly returning to a lively state. “What’s for dessert? Is it lemon curd tarts?”

  Maggie shifted uncomfortably in the dining chair. It was as if someone had pulled the strings of a puppet. Rose now acted her usual self, eyes animated, her manner bold. Even the scratches on her arms looked less inflamed.

  Rose casually picked up the small silver bell and rang it sharply as she sat. Rachel appeared and placed dessert before them.