by Emma Beaven
“I know,” Mariotta replied, and Maggie was sure she understood her intended meaning but was being deliberately obtuse.
“I’d prefer to be alone.”
Mariotta turned and hooked her head to the side like a carrion bird. “I can’t stay and watch for my stepdaughter?”
Maggie glared at her. “You didn’t like her.”
Mariotta opened her mouth and then quickly shut it. Gathering her skirts, she stalked out the door, leaving Maggie alone with Rose’s pale, still body.
A wave of loss flooded her, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t believe Rose could possibly be gone. She had just eaten with her, spoken to her, and Rose had been as alive as ever. Just angry. Their last conversation had been full of anger. She’d left Rose alone, and now her sister was dead. Because she’d been stupid and selfish. Hateful.
Maggie shook as grief and guilt overtook her. Her sobs were loud and wet, the tears streaming out of her eyes as she gulped and choked, her body heaving.
The door opened and Violet peered in. She stood motionless, watching Maggie sob. Eventually she shuffled inside. “Miss Maggie? Can I get you anything?”
Maggie shook her head violently, the sobs continuing to rack her body like waves in a storm. She reached out a trembling, wet hand, and Violet scurried over and took it. “I’m so sorry, Miss Maggie.”
“Does… does my father want to come in here?”
“I don’t know, miss.”
“Bastard!”
“Shhh,” Violet said softly. “He’s grieving something fierce too.”
“I don’t care,” Maggie said, her words punctuated by more heaving and choking. “I don’t care!”
“Maybe you should try to sleep a little. Let your father watch for a while.”
Maggie started to protest, but some small, slowly dying piece of compassion overtook her as she realized it would be the last chance anyone would have to see her sister ever again. “Fine, I’ll go up for a while.”
“Try to sleep,” Violet said softly.
“Right,” Maggie said, shaking her head as she walked heavily out of the parlor and dragged herself to the stairs, her feet barely leaving the floor.
The image of Rose’s pale form was burned into her brain, and when she tried to lie down, fully clothed, images of Rachel feeding her the laudanum danced before her eyes.
Near midmorning, she fell asleep, alone, in the room she and her sister had shared. And she dreamed.
She saw herself reaching out and stopping Rachel’s hand just before she administered the tincture. She pulled her sister out of bed, dragging her to the spare room, where they locked themselves in. Maggie and Rose lay down on the bed, and Maggie, exuberant that she had taken her sister away, said to Rose, “See? It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”
Maggie watched morning dawn and hugged Rose, who smiled warmly, her own arms encircling Maggie and squeezing happily. An intense sense of relief flooded her as she hugged Rose harder, feeling her sister’s warmth and seeing the flush of color that slightly darkened her face.
As Maggie reveled in the moment, the one where she saved her sister and everything was as it should have been, Rose bent close to her ear and whispered, “Help me.”
Maggie’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment, her relief floated around her, and she smiled, her hand reaching out reflexively to grasp her sister’s. Her hand fell onto the empty side of the bed as her eyes took in the fact that she was in her own room and not the spare room. She sank deeper into the bed in despair as reality set in. Rose was still dead. Maggie hadn’t done what she needed to do, and now her sister was gone.
Rose’s words in the dream floated idly in her head for a moment before she pushed them aside and rose on shaky legs.
Maggie put a hand to her messy hair as she descended the stairs, nearly falling after the first step. Movement and voices echoed through the hallway, and she refocused her attention, her body responding to the sounds of guests in the house. Or mourners, rather.
Her father stepped suddenly into the hallway, their neighbor Mrs. McCann beside him. They peered up at Maggie, her father wiping his arm quickly across his eyes while Mrs. McCann’s eyes grew wide with concern as she watched Maggie descend, her clothing disheveled, wisps of hair flying about her. Maggie scurried down to the first floor, wrapping her arms tightly around Mrs. McCann.
“Maggie,” her father said gently, “are you ready?”
“For what?” she asked hoarsely, her eyes pinned to the open door.
“To go to the churchyard.”
Maggie squinted up at her father and ran her fingers through her hair again. “It’s been but a night.”
“The summer… the heat… it’s better this way.” He turned his eyes to the floor. “It has to be done.
“Because you don’t want to see her rot?” Maggie asked loudly, her sorrowful expression flashing briefly to anger. “Why isn’t she being buried beside Mother?”
Mrs. McCann exhaled loudly and pressed her fan to her face, her eyes even larger than before. Maggie giggled inadvertently as she imagined her neighbor collapsing in shock, her fat arms sweeping the vase off the side table in the hallway. The giggling, of course, gave Mrs. McCann even more reason to gasp and furiously fan herself.
“Maggie, maybe you should sit down,” her father said tightly. “There is too much overgrowth to be cleared in the family plot. It would take much too long, and we do not have that kind of time.”
Maggie laughed again, vaguely realizing that she sounded like a lunatic. She doubled over, her arm against her stomach. “Sit down? Don’t I have to start the funeral procession? The one for my dead, rotting sister so we can get out of the house before she starts stinking?” She cackled loudly. “Well?”
“I’m so sorry,” her father said softly to Mrs. McCann. “She’s stricken with grief.”
“Stricken? I’ll show you stricken.” Maggie leapt up and raced into the parlor, startling more neighbors as they backed away from the closed coffin to let her pass. She paused to stare at it. Her neighbors turned their faces toward the ground or looked at one another. Maggie felt suddenly weak. She looked around, searching the faces of the clutter of people. A moment later, it dawned on her that she didn’t see Henry McCann.
Maggie took a last long glance at the coffin before leaving the room, the eyes of the mourners burning into her back. Mrs. McCann still stood frozen in the hallway, Father beside her. They both stared at Maggie as she walked back out, waiting for whatever horrid torrent might explode from her mouth this time. The clock chimed loudly, sending a tremor through her and invading the silence of the funeral ritual.
“Mrs. McCann,” she said. “I see your son, Mr. McCann, is not here.”
Mrs. McCann coughed uncomfortably, waving her black lace fan even more swiftly. “He’s away. I’m sorry. I’ve sent word….”
Maggie deflated at her words. It was better that he wasn’t here. Rose, in life, had been madly in love with him, had finally won the bet and gotten her wish. To see him again as Rose lay dead in her coffin would make the funeral that much worse for Maggie. She had been jealous, certainly, but now it all seemed so stupid, to fight so foolishly, to let their last moments become pained and cruel. And there was no taking it back.
Her neighbors were assembled, ready to escort the coffin to the churchyard.
Maggie pressed her hair against her head, suddenly realizing she’d forgotten her hat. She raced as fast as she could up the stairs, snatched her hat from the lonely bedroom, and headed back again.
Outside, the bright sunlight, seeming so unspeakably horrid on this of all days, started to fade, traces of scattered gray clouds beginning to martial themselves on the horizon, awaiting the next storm. As the mourners crossed to the road, fat drops fell from the sky. The wind picked up, scattering leaves and dried flower petals in the yard and drive. The procession continued as a slew of white draped itself upon the mourning black.
Maggie stopped a moment, re
aching her fingers out to the storm. The wind whistled loudly, and a great gust whisked her hat and veil from her head and spun them back into the yard, where they rolled over several times. Suddenly the hat flew straight into the air and fell back toward the house. Maggie took a step toward the yard, reaching for the hat. As she did, the wind screamed, the sound shrill and prolonged. A chill ran from her spine down to her toes, and she reversed direction, the hat abandoned to the wild storm.
Forty-Three
When the mourners left, it poured. James Graham hadn’t had time to finish digging the grave, and now the ground was slick with mud. James sloshed through the soggy soil and sighed, throwing down the shovel. There was no way he could complete the hole tonight with the mud slopping back in every time he threw it out.
Thunder rumbled once again, shaking the trees surrounding the churchyard. The sky had darkened significantly from the storm, but James knew, wasn’t far off. James still could not get used to being there alone as evening came on, though he’d been working in the churchyard for two years now. Outside, vulnerable, surrounded by the dead while shadows lengthened behind hulking graves, James nurtured a dark, primitive fear within him.
Tonight, however, seemed worse. Since the mourners left, the wind picked up significantly, whistling through the stones and tearing at his clothes like thin, icy fingers. James slid in the mud again, nearly falling into the half-dug grave. As he righted himself, he heard the distinct sound of something large falling in the wet ground.
James whirled around, his arms crossed protectively over his sopping clothing. The coffin, covered in mud and water, lay still, its lid firmly closed. He looked around the churchyard, searching for some straggler who had been attached to the mourners. All he could see were the stones, dark and silent. He glanced at the church, then at the fence separating the church from the road. Still nothing.
James hesitantly picked up the shovel and began trying to slough through the mud. The wet splatter of dirt hit the coffin with an obscene plopping sound. He flinched, glancing once more around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something small and dark dash between the graves.
He swallowed hard, the process almost painful in his throat. “Just an animal,” he muttered to himself. The sound of his own voice in the hallowed place made him feel even more unnerved. The wind whistled again, its shrill tone dampened as it rushed over the bleak landscape.
The next gust howled, and in between the violent sounds, James heard it.
“I’m here.”
The voice was slow, drawn out, but he heard it all the same as it raged around him in the wind. He dropped the shovel and fled, his feet moving so fast that his boots didn’t even sink into the mud.
Forty-Four
Night had fallen hard and fast in the depths of the weeping sky, and when Henry McCann approached the churchyard, the sky was completely black. He crunched the message in his black-gloved hand as he treaded slowly over the wet ground. Lightning flashed in the distance, barely illuminating the pale stones strewn throughout the ground.
He paused when he reached the gate. The veil of rain pulled back for a moment, but it was just long enough to reveal the open grave near the side of the yard beside a large willow.
Henry slowly stumbled toward the cemetery proper, his movements impeded by the weather, his body stiff. The coffin lay beside the grave along with a shovel, seemingly left to rust in the mud.
“I’m coming,” he said.
Forty-Five
Darkness filled the atmosphere. The air was hot and wet and thick, and as Rose reached out for a lamp, her hand smacked into something rigid. She blinked hard, trying to see through the stifling blackness. Her mouth was dry, her tongue swollen and thick.
I’m sick, she thought. She put both arms out this time, trying to stretch. They slammed into the walls yet again. Delicately, she ran her fingers along the walls as panic slowly began to swell in her brain. I’m just sick.
Rolling her tongue around her mouth, she tried to find her voice. Her throat felt painful and choked, and as Rose continued to try to find her bearings, she noticed there was a steady drip of water falling on her from somewhere in the dark.
“Maggie?” she croaked, her voice barely audible. “Maggie?” she called again, somewhat louder.
The only sound that entered her ears was a steady, dim tap from somewhere above her. Rose started to raise her hand but suddenly thought better of it. The slow, sneaking suspicion that the unthinkable had occurred was worming its way down her spine and spreading its tentacles through her veins.
“Maggie? Please?” she called throatily, the words spilling like stones from her mouth. “Please?”
Rose’s breathing was quickening, her body becoming rigid. Ever so slowly, she moved her hands up, praying they would hit open air. Her fingers encountered a barrier several inches from her face. She tried to sit up, slamming her head hard into the boards above her.
“No, no, no!” She slammed a fist against them. “No!”
Scrabbling at the wood, she pushed frantically, digging her nails into the boards. “Let me out!”
Her thumbnail bent back as she tried to find purchase, but she ignored the shock of pain. “Let me out!” she wailed.
Her breath was coming fast. Too fast. Breathe, Rose, breathe! You’ve got to breathe!
The small finger of her left hand became wedged in a knot in the wood. She screeched, trying to yank her finger out. Splinters cut into her flesh, but to her surprise, a small chunk of water-logged wood plopped onto her chest. The knot had fallen out! She gasped as water and mud spilled through. She could feel the air now, she was sure. The air, the rain, the wind.
“Help!” she croaked. She stuck another finger into the hole. Splinters cut into her flesh as she tried to widen it. She pushed the index finger of her right hand into the weak area, and a sliver of wood slide beneath her nail. Forcing the pain down, Rose jammed her finger into the wood as hard as she could, tearing at it, frenzy taking hold of her as more drops of rain fell upon her bloody, tattered flesh.
“I’m alive!” she shrieked hysterically. “I’m alive!”
Water trickled down her fingers as she plucked fruitlessly at the hole, trying to force her entire hand through. She clawed at the lid, trying to find some defect in the wood that would allow her release from this prison.
“I’m alive!” Rose let out a wild cackle and thrust her fingers through once more. At first, she thought the heavy, constricted feeling on her digits was simply the wood, so she continued trying to push them through. The grip tightened, and suddenly Rose realized what had happened. Someone had grasped her fingers.
“Help!” she screamed, her voice hoarse and raw. “Help!”
Something banged into the coffin lid. Rose froze, her body stiff as she cocked her head, hope rising in her. Another thump. What sounded like a muffled voice drifted through the wood before another slam opened up a pocket of gray-tinged light beside her.
Rain immediately flooded the opening, and she gasped, pulling the fresh air deeply into her lungs. She pressed a hand through the opening, feeling the cold, wet drops.
“Rose, press your body down. I’m going to try to break through the rest of this. The lid is stuck.”
Is that Henry’s voice? No, it can’t be. How could he possibly know I’m here?
Reluctantly, Rose withdrew her hand into the suffocating coffin and waited as the shovel came back down. It wriggled to and fro in the hole, shearing away the pieces of wood that held her captive. A curse sounded above as the shovel wriggled more wood out of place.
“I think I’ve got it.”
Another magnificent thud, and the lid popped loose. Rain immediately soaked through her white sheath, running in rivulets down her face and arms. The air suffused Rose in a rush, filling her lungs as she gulped it greedily.
She tilted her head weakly and looked up. The sky was strangled by thick gray clouds. Henry stared down at her, the shovel grasped limply in both hands, wate
r pouring from his hat like a miniature waterfall. Rose reached a trembling hand up, small squeaks emanating from her throat. He shook his head briefly, as if clearing it, and bent down.
As soon as she tried to rise, Rose’s legs buckled under her, and she tumbled, screaming, back into the coffin.
Henry grasped her hand and tugged.
“Come on,” he said softly. Rose noticed he seemed wholly unaffected by the horrifying scene playing out like some surreal dream.
“Henry,” she rasped as she tumbled out onto the filthy ground. “I’m not dead.”
Henry stared at her as water poured over his face. His clothes were soaked through, as if he’d been standing in the storm for some time. Mud coated his boots and pants. He raised an arm and pointed toward a horse tethered just outside the churchyard.
Rose trembled, the reality of her situation still not having settled upon her. “Are we going home?”
“Yes,” Henry said, his face rigid. “Yes, we’re going home. Soon.”
Rose looked around at the thin, decrepit stones near her. The dead were here. All of them, watching and waiting. And Sarah. Sarah was waiting as well.
She leaned heavily on him as they trudged through the thick mud toward the horse. The sky opened up and spit out a wild streak of lightning as they reached the horse and then raced out of the churchyard.
Forty-Six
Maggie stared out the dark window, watching the lightning flash. The lamp was almost out of oil, and the flame flickered wildly in the blue glass, trying to escape. The bed, its covers turned down, looked horribly uninviting to her.
