Where the Briars Sleep

by Emma Beaven

  The wardrobe, she’d been told, was where Rose had found Sarah. Maggie understood why she’d been so upset at first, why she’d had to be sent away for a while. But now, more than a year later, Rose still had not returned to normal. Maggie had been away herself at the time, and when she’d returned, having missed a letter informing her of what had transpired, she’d nearly lost herself when she saw the house draped in mourning, no one speaking, Rose nowhere to be found.

  Maggie and Rose had never had much in common, but they’d always been together. Ever since their mother passed, they had one another, and the thought of losing Rose had been unbearable.

  And Maggie still carried heavy guilt.

  She remembered racing through the house, screaming for her sister, pulling at her hair.

  Why had she thought it was Rose? Maggie couldn’t remember.

  Violet stopped her, had to physically pin Maggie down and tell her it wasn’t Rose.

  And Maggie had felt so much relief, giddiness that had ensued after she realized it was Sarah. Not Rose. After all, Sarah wasn’t her blood. She wasn’t her sister. In fact, Maggie had never liked Sarah, though she’d never been as obvious about it as Rose. Secretly, she too wished Sarah would go away. And finally she had. And Maggie was still relieved.

  The problem was that Rose would not seem to get better. She improved a little, at least more than the state she’d been in when Violet had finally found her that day, crouching in the sitting room, pale and body trembling.

  When Violet tried to help Rose, she went wild and screeched like an animal, tearing at Violet in a violent fit. Maggie was pretty sure there was more—the servants were restrained when relaying the events, but Maggie heard Rachel and Violet talking once and swore she heard bite. Rose had tried to bite Violet.

  Violet told Maggie Sarah had taken ill soon after Maggie left, and that in a fever, Sarah must have crawled into the wardrobe, where Rose found her.

  Violet said Sarah had been half in and half out of the closet, arms reaching, fingers outstretched.

  Maggie shuddered at the vision, as if Sarah had been desperately reaching for Rose when the life finally went out of her.

  And the blood. Maggie thought Violet was confused, or perhaps had made up part of the story, had not really seen Sarah’s body.

  Maggie couldn’t imagine how she could have bled from an illness, but the servants had to clean it from the floor and clothes. Rose’s nightgown had been ruined. Soaked. And Maggie saw for herself the wardrobe had been repainted.

  After Rose was taken away, Maggie wondered if Rose had descended into lunacy since then. If maybe Rose had murdered Sarah.

  But no, Rose would not do something like that. Maggie was sure of it. She and Rose had always been together; if Rose was a murderer, Maggie would have suspected long before anyone else.

  Still, the story of the blood worked at Maggie. She knew there was more. Rose had been cruel to Sarah, yes, but Rose had no reason to despise her.

  Three months after leaving, Rose returned home. Maggie had gone racing out to greet the carriage, eager to see her sister back to her old self.

  What she’d gotten was only partially what she’d hoped for. Rose’s smile was so stiff that Maggie thought her face had frozen. Rose descended from the carriage in a brand-new, pale-lavender frock, her hair carefully curled under a wide bonnet. Accompanying her were several new bags, which Maggie discovered were filled with more new clothes and accessories.

  Rose had embraced Maggie dutifully enough, but she seemed different. Distant.

  She paused a few moments, staring silently at the house. Maggie stared as well, not sure what she was looking for. Finally, Rose let out a long sigh, and they went inside together.

  Maggie had watched her carefully, looking for signs of a recurrent madness. Rose had been quiet and hesitant at first, choosing to put her things in a guest room rather than her own bedroom, and barely speaking at all. Maggie had trailed her, asking if there was anything she could get Rose, anything she’d like to do.

  That evening, supper was worse than usual somehow. It was so silent that the clinking of silverware sounded like small explosions in Maggie’s ears, making her jump with nearly every clatter. Worse yet, their stepmother was staring at Rose. In fact, Maggie was quite sure she didn’t take a single bite of food. Instead, she sat stiffly perched on the edge of her chair, her eyes glued to Rose’s bowed head.

  In between the movements of silverware and soft swishes of clothing, Maggie could hear Mariotta breathing loudly, as if there wasn’t enough air in the room to support her rigid frame. Mariotta’s head was tilted slightly forward. She peered down, lips pressed tightly together and drawn back at the corners. Every so often, she’d squint as if trying to peer into Rose’s head.

  Maggie pondered saying something, but the look on Mariotta’s face frightened her. She opened her mouth but quickly shut it without anyone noticing. She knew how her stepmother must have been suffering, yet she had no idea why she was taking out her misplaced anger on Rose. Mariotta had seemed even more sullen and withdrawn than usual, sick even. She clung to the shadows when she wasn’t watching Rose, her head tilted as if listening for instructions.

  After the meal was finished, Rose got up, rubbing the index finger and thumb of her right hand against her forehead. Though she’d eaten little, she’d drunk two glasses of red wine. And Rose never drank red wine, claiming it brought on the terrible headaches she suffered.

  The chair dipped, almost tipping as the skirt of Rose’s dress caught it. Maggie quickly grabbed the chair and righted it. Her fingers moved to take her sister’s arm, to care for her while her head ached, but Rose pushed swiftly forward into the dark corridor beyond.

  “Rose,” their father said quietly.

  She had turned abruptly, a pained squeak erupting from her mouth as she clutched her head. Maggie once again tried to speak, to tell Rose not to worry, that she’d take care of her, when her father had beckoned to Rose.

  The soft light from a freshly lit lamp glanced upon Rose’s pained eyes, and she flinched as if physically repelled. Maggie waited as Rose recovered, one hand still glued to her head, and nodded ever so slightly. Rose had followed their father slowly, her body trembling as she occasionally reached out her other hand to steady herself against the wall.

  Maggie had been afraid then. She didn’t know exactly why, but the scene in front of her seemed wrong, out of place. And so she followed them. They entered Father’s sitting room, leaving the door open wide. Maggie crept around, her hands trailing against the cool wall. She pushed herself into a kneeling position and peered around the corner, praying she wouldn’t be seen.

  She watched Rose standing stiffly to one side of the sofa as their father poured himself a drink. Rose looked on, her eyes tilted downward ever so slightly. Finally, he poured her a drink as well, nudging her slightly as he handed her the glass. Rose took it and went to the window. And they drank in total and complete silence.

  Maggie waited for a while, expecting some conversation, but after crouching in her uncomfortable position for fifteen minutes or so, she finally gave up and retired, feeling even more disturbed and confused. Rose had never drunk liquor with their father before, never been invited to his sitting room. And that strange silence. It was wrong somehow, as if the air was heavy with so many unspoken words.

  Maggie had slept poorly that night and for some time after, while Rose holed up secretively in the spare room, moving silently through the lower half of the house and retreating to Father’s sitting room in the evening. The new clothing she’d purchased while she was away continued to adorn her body every day, accented with feathers and ribbons and necklaces. She kept her hands clasped and glued to her stomach, head tilted down, eyes on the floor. Whenever Maggie tried to approach her, Rose jumped, once knocking a flower vase off an end table. Rose had shrieked shrilly as it crashed and shattered, her eyes opened as wide as she could muster. Maggie thought she looked utterly terrified. But she wouldn’t s
peak, wouldn’t tell Maggie what was wrong.

  Rose refused to wear mourning clothes as well. Maggie had moved to half mourning, considering Sarah hadn’t really been her sister, but Rose had worn no mourning at all. Luckily, no one had called on them in their time of grief or it might have been the subject of gossip. Mariotta was heavily draped in deep mourning, and it provided quite a shocking contrast to Rose’s whites and yellows. Maggie didn’t dare say anything to her, fearing how she’d react.

  Eventually, Rose drifted outside and, shortly after, took novels with her. She smiled a little, engaging in short conversations even, and Maggie allowed herself to relax slightly. Still, though, Rose refused to come into their bedroom. Maggie coaxed her, and as Rose started to act slightly more normal, Maggie pressured her more. Despite her reactions, their father still hadn’t had the wardrobe Rose hated so much removed, which made it harder than ever to get Rose to come in. Finally, after Maggie’s relentless coaxing and begging and pleading, Rose allowed herself to be led near the bedroom. Maggie had her arm at the time, and she was taken aback by the violent trembling that overtook her sister as she peered into the doorway. Maggie had rubbed her arm, spoken softly to her, showed her the lovely paint job that had been applied to the horrible piece of furniture. Rose continued to shiver and tremble, her mouth coming open slightly, her jaw jerking.

  “Rose,” Maggie pleaded, “I miss you. I want you to come back and stay here with me.” Rose shook her head wildly as Maggie continued to rub her arm. “Everything will be all right, I promise.”

  “You don’t understand, Maggie.” Rose rolled her eyes, then pressed her lips up to Maggie’s ear and whispered, “I saw her there. She said she’s going to take me back into the wardrobe with her.”

  Maggie had been a little afraid after that. She wondered now if, in fact, she had seen anything drifting in the shadows, had heard the thin whisperings to which Mariotta appeared to have attuned herself.

  Steeling herself, she’d slipped into their bedroom and carefully pried open the doors to the wardrobe. Her own clothes had been hung back up there, and she’d gently poked the material, trying to peer past it. And of course, the wardrobe was empty.

  Rose was a lunatic after all.

  Fourteen

  Rose stared at the grandfather clock, the moon in its face peering evilly down at her. The couch’s stiff embroidery was making her back itch. She wished she hadn’t moved out of the guest room. She could rest in there, at least. It had been a mistake moving back in with Maggie, but her sister had coerced her, and now she was stuck. But at least they didn’t treat her the way they had before, looking at her as if she wasn’t right. If only they knew. But it was always best not to think about it so that hopefully she wouldn’t dream about it.

  Rose jerked up as the clock tolled its lonely notes. The sun barely filtered into the large parlor windows attached to the wide side porch; heavy drapes swathed the tops of the windows, and the magnolia trees near the house dampened the little light that managed to sneak close to the glass. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned, listening to the clock tick in the silence. She strained briefly, hoping to hear sounds from the front drive, but even if there’d been anything to hear, Rose thought it unlikely that the sound would drift to the heavily shrouded room.

  The sofa creaked in agony as she pulled herself up. Rose carefully adjusted her dress and smoothed her hair. The air felt thick and heavy around her, its dirty yellow glow looking ugly and diseased. She shuffled to the door leading into the hallway, which, like the parlor, was dark but slightly cooler. She wandered to the front door and peered out one of the small windows. The empty driveway curved through the trees, mocking her. Rose placed a hand on the knob, about to pull it open, when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She whirled around guiltily, expecting to see Maggie peering down at her. The stairs were empty.

  A chill passed between her shoulders. She opened her mouth slightly to call out, to bring some semblance of normalcy to the situation, but no sound would come. The footsteps had sounded from the middle of the stairs, and certainly no one could have slipped by Rose. She had assumed someone had been descending from the second floor. But if they’d come down, they’d disappeared just as quickly.

  Rose felt the weight of the heavy air as it invaded her mouth and nose, pushing down on her chest and shoulders. Her breath was extraordinarily loud in her ears. She wanted to call out or scream, but her body refused to obey her.

  As she stood, bewildered and terrified, the steps started again. And she’d been right—they were descending. She stared blankly at the empty stairs, willing the sound to go away. It was deliberate and distinct, slow, as a lady might walk to avoid tripping on her gown. Rose backed into the door hard, causing the knocker to clap loudly against its base. The steps stopped abruptly, and in that instant, Rose, finding her strength, tore the door open and threw herself out onto the porch and into the daylight.

  She backed up, eyes glued to the door. Unable to look away, she continued trying to distance herself. She could hear a sound, she was sure of it, like a soft sighing.

  “Leave me alone!” she screeched at the emptiness. A moment later, she realized she’d backed up too far as she fell backward off the porch and into the flowerbeds below.

  “Rose?”

  She crawled backward out of the dirt, trying to escape whatever new horror called for her as she sensed someone kneel down beside her.

  “Please no,” she whispered.

  “Rose, let me help you.”

  She finally turned her head, unable to look away anymore. Immediately her terror flooded out only to be replaced with embarrassment. Her neighbor, the one she’d so desperately tried to impress, hovered over her, staring at her oddly.

  “I…,” she began, but her words quickly failed her.

  “What happened?” Henry asked, offering her his arm and gently helping her to her feet. “You were acting as if you were being chased.”

  Embarrassed, Rose began dusting herself off. Clods of damp dirt clung to her light-colored dress along with bits of mashed vegetation. “No, I… well, I was dizzy,” she answered lamely, turning her head. “I thought I was going to faint on the stairs and fall. I rushed out here to, um… to fall in a soft place?” Rose cursed the inflection in her voice. Her thoughts spun out of focus, terror, humiliation, and excitement blending into a mass deep inside her, threatening to overwhelm her. “Oh, what are you doing here? I mean, we weren’t… I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Forgive me, Miss Shedd. This was terribly improper of me. You see, I was out in the yard smoking and thought I heard someone yelling.”

  “How could you possibly hear that?” Rose was suddenly nervous, her eyes darting between the house and her would-be suitor, unsure of what to do. “I’d better try to find my sister.”

  “Of course. Would you like me to summon a servant? I’m surprised no one heard you.”

  Rose looked warily into the house. “All right, I think that would be fine.” She could feel her feet trying desperately to carry her away. Away from the house, away from this whole place. She would never be lucky enough to secure a man like Henry McCann. That would be too much to expect, to find a handsome man to take her away from this dreadful, dark house. God would never smile on her like that. Never.

  The wind gusted around Rose, bringing the smell of dirt and rot to swirl around her as her dress billowed. Were she not so terrified of the house right then, she would have been tempted to run to her room, rip her filthy dress off, and burn it. She could hear more steps inside the house, clattering toward her. Her breath seemed to stop. It was only someone coming to help her, of course, and yet….

  Rose watched warily as Henry rushed back outside, Violet trailing behind him. Violet was peering at her worriedly, almost too much so. “Miss Rose, what happened?” Her steps slowed as she approached Rose. Timidly she lifted a hand, cocking her head.

  “She said she was dizzy. I saw her fall off the porch.” Henry gestured t
oward the steps from which they’d just descended.

  “Miss Rose, you… you all right?”

  “I’m fine!” Rose snapped, angry at the attention she was receiving, which was only exacerbating her humiliation. “I think I’ll go sit in the yard a bit.” Sniffing, she tried brushing at more of the dirt.

  “Maybe you should come inside and change.”

  Rose froze and looked toward the house. Both Violet and Henry stared at her, almost seeming to dare her to move. They know I’m afraid. “Fine, I’ll go. Fine. Excuse me, Mr. McCann. I apologize for troubling you.”

  Rose stumbled on the hem of her dress and quickly righted herself. She could feel their eyes burning through her clothing and into her skin, curiously probing, waiting to see what she would do. The air seemed on fire as she inhaled it deep into her lungs and willed herself to move. Keep moving. Just keep moving.

  “Miss Rose?”

  “I’m going!” Somehow her feet slipped lightly onto the steps, her heels clacking loudly as she approached the door. The latch was cold despite the heat; she let her hand linger on it, her fingers caressing the brass. She could hear nothing inside, but the door was thick and heavy and most likely dulled any sound echoing in the house’s hallways.

  The air inside was cool and dark, the curtains pulled across the windows to keep out the heat. The small noises of servants clattering about in the back of the house comforted Rose slightly. She tried to remember if she’d been able to hear them before, but her mind was blank. The stairs, of course, were devoid of sound now. There were no footprints, no soft swishing of cloth, no icy breath close to her ear. She knew Violet was staring at her, watching. There was nothing she could do but go upstairs.