Where the Briars Sleep

by Emma Beaven

  Rose shifted back and forth, rousing the cat, which promptly climbed onto her chest and kneaded the blanket with its claws.

  She sighed and turned her head toward the door. If only the big house wasn’t so empty. If there was just a bigger staff, at least it would feel lived in. As it was, she felt as if she and the cat were the only living things in the entire place.

  Eventually, in the lull of the soft purring from the cat, Rose fell asleep and did not wake when the door finally opened.

  Seventy-Two

  The next morning dawned gray and breezy, the brisk air seeping in through the windowpanes and chilling the uncovered skin of the house’s occupants.

  Rose awoke alone, the blanket draping the other side of the bed completely untouched. She considered staying in the warmth of the covers for a while, but she was anxious to see if Henry and Mr. Hill had finally emerged from their conference. Just as she was pulling herself out of the cozy bed and into the frigid air, she caught the outline of a bizarre shape on the far side of the room.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth before the scream that had been building could fly out and shatter the quiet.

  Henry sat in a chair, a pale blue blanket draped over his body. His head fell against his left shoulder; his skin looked decidedly paler in the morning light and lined with the faint shadow of blue veins. Aside from his head, his entire body was covered in the blanket, which clung to him like a shroud.

  “Rose,” he croaked, and Rose watched a drop fall from beneath one of his closed lids.

  She rushed over and bent down, placing a hand on his forehead. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He pushed one pale, thin hand out from under the blanket and beckoned for her to lean closer. Rose pressed the back of her hand to his neck and cheeks, searching for signs of fever. He opened his eyes and blinked painfully, as if the dreary light that filtered into the room was burning him. He forced a strange, crooked smile and grasped her wrist.

  Rose recoiled as thin, bony fingers wrapped around her. His eyes, the pupils glimmering blackly, held her in a fever-bright gaze.

  “Should I fetch a doctor?” she whispered loudly, her voice pitched unnaturally high as she tried to pull away.

  “It’s hard to come back.”

  “What?” Rose squirmed, wondering if she should call for help.

  “I need to get closer.”

  “I think you’re ill,” she said, panic creeping into her voice.

  “Upstairs.”

  It had become increasingly difficult to catch her breath, even after she managed to break his gaze and partially face the door. It seemed, at that moment, to be a distant vision.

  “I’ll go get help,” she said, trying once more to break his grip on her arm. “You have to let me go.”

  The light died suddenly in his eyes, and he relaxed his fingers. “You’re right. I must be ill.”

  Rose stepped back, unsure of what to do. Henry squinted at the door as if he was expecting someone. “Sitting room.”

  “All right. But I need to dress.”

  “Hurry.”

  “Do you need—”

  Henry shook his head and pulled the blanket close, his eyes wandering back to the door.

  Rose dressed hurriedly, constantly peering self-consciously over her shoulder. He had closed his eyes again and pulled the blanket even closer. He shivered off and on as he waited, each time wrapping the blanket tighter and tighter to the point of near suffocation.

  When she finally finished dressing and went to assist her husband, his skin had begun to glisten with a fine sheen of sweat. She covered her mouth, for a moment wishing she had never come to this place.

  “Rose?”

  “I’m here.”

  “She’s coming.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t go.”

  And with that, his head dropped to his chest.

  “Henry, wake up!” Rose screamed and shook him.

  He tossed his head once more and mumbled something indiscernible. A heavy weight lifted from her as she realized he was at least conscious.

  “Henry, wait here. I’ll get help.”

  Rose flew out the door, her shawl, so precariously draped over her shoulders, falling to the floor as she raced to the main hallway. As usual, it was empty, the void threatening to envelop and absorb her into itself.

  “Mrs. McCann?”

  She whirled around, reaching automatically for her shawl but grasping nothing but empty air. Mr. Moffatt had somehow materialized behind her and was now staring at her expectantly. Distantly, she could hear the clink of crockery as the cook busied herself in the kitchen.

  Rose gaped for a moment, suddenly unsure why she’d come out here in the first place. Mr. Moffatt twisted his head to the side and smiled. The right side of his mouth turned up unnaturally, nearly forming a diagonal line with the left side.

  “Mr. McCann is sick,” she finally managed, coughing in an attempt to hide her discomposure.

  “You wish me to fetch a doctor?”

  “Yes, straight away,” Rose said, trying to ignore the itch that crept along her scalp as Mr. Moffatt’s smile continued to twist and curve around his face.

  “I was just about to run an errand in town.”

  “Well, don’t you think this is more pressing?” she asked, anger stirring within her. “He might have a fever.”

  “Of course, Mrs. McCann. I’m sure I can do both.”

  Full of aggravation, Rose watched Mr. Moffatt turn without a second glance and exit the house. She hurried to the front windows to see him stalk off into the cold gray air, his stride seeming somehow overly long.

  She shuddered, though that time it wasn’t from the cold.

  Henry had crawled into his bed and was writhing in agony. Rose pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, her eyes constantly darting toward the door in hopes of seeing the doctor. His head was burning hot, and Rose was afraid she’d also become sick if she stayed much longer, but there was no one else in the house to tend to him. She could only assume that Marge was still sick, as she’d neither heard nor seen the servant since the day she began raving.

  After what seemed like hours, Mr. Moffatt returned with a doctor and four Cornish game hens. Rose stood in the hallway, her arms crossed, fury contorting her features. Mr. Moffatt simply smiled his crooked smile and disappeared into the kitchen with the birds.

  The doctor eventually came out of the room, his arms crossed around him. He peered past Rose, glancing back and forth down the hallway as he shut the door. He seemed terribly uncomfortable, and she was immediately fearful that Henry’s diagnosis was poor.

  “Some hot wine,” the doctor mumbled, his face turned to the floor.

  “What?” Rose asked. “Did you want some wine?”

  “For him.” The doctor shoved his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “He’ll be fine.”

  “All right.” She nodded, too stunned to protest. “Did you want—”

  “I’d best go,” he said, his eyes glued to the front hallway.

  Rose watched as he scurried down the hall, throwing glances over his shoulder as he went. “Is there something else?” she called reluctantly, her throat tightening.

  The doctor made it to the door before turning. “No. Nothing more.”

  And with that, he was out, the echo of the door reverberating in Rose’s head.

  She stood there staring numbly at the closed door. The doctor’s behavior was perplexing and unnerving. Still, she couldn’t just stand there staring, as Henry needed tending to.

  Upon returning to the room, Rose noticed that someone had closed the drapes. The itching grew, becoming overwhelming as Rose inched her way to the window.

  “Did you close the drapes?”

  He said nothing, his body twitching slightly as if in the grip of a nightmare. His face was impossibly pale, the sweat on his brow glistening like ice.

  The doctor must have done it. Rose tied the loose bed curtains back open, then put a ha
nd to his Henry’s head. “Henry?” she said softly.

  He shivered again, and Rose shook him slightly. “Wake up now, Henry.”

  His eyes fluttered open, and he smiled sickeningly. “All will be well.” His voice strained and weak despite eyes that burned bright with vivacity.

  Rose withdrew slightly as he fumbled about in the bed, seemingly trying to rise. His movements were strange and stilted.

  “I’m going to go get you some wine now.”

  She fled the room, her breath catching in her throat. Once she made it into the front hallway. Her eyes were drawn to the stairs, and she had to fight an impulse to turn from her task to poke about. Thus far, all her activities had been confined to the first floor, and she had never seen anyone go up or come down the stairs.

  She tore her gaze from the stairs and forced her feet to move toward the kitchen. There stood the new cook, who appeared as though she’d never left, delicately tearing feathers off a hen. She turned her head and smiled slyly as Rose approached, bits of grayish-white fuzz clinging to her wet fingers.

  “Wine,” Rose managed. “Hot wine.”

  The girl nodded and dropped the partially plucked bird to the floor, wiping her fingers on her dirty apron.

  Rose wanted to reprimand the girl, but she couldn’t get the words out. She only watched as the girl went into the cellar, frequently turning to stare back at Rose as if in anticipation. Rose looked at the floor and then to the counters and ceiling, doing anything she could to avoid meeting the girl’s peculiar stare.

  When she returned from the cellar, she held a wine bottle in front of her like a shield, her teeth chattering slightly.

  “Cold?” Rose asked, finally finding her voice in the midst of her irrational fear.

  The girl smiled and shook her head. Rose waited for her to say something more, but the girl simply turned to the stove and began to heat the wine.

  “Do you know anything of Marge’s condition?” Rose asked, suddenly feeling a need to know.

  “She is as well as she will be.”

  Rose squinted at the girl. “What does that mean?”

  But Rose would get no answers here. “I can bring Mr. McCann his wine,” the girl said. “If you sit in the dining room, I will bring you breakfast momentarily.”

  Rose nodded, walking stiffly out of the kitchen. She let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding, reveling in the sense of relief she felt after departing the presence of Henry and the servant and escaping to the cool silence of the dining room. She wondered briefly what had become of Mr. and Mrs. Hill as she sat in the overwhelming quiet. She had expected to at least see Mrs. Hill that morning, but thus far, she’d neither seen nor heard her. Did they know Henry had taken ill?

  The cold of the day had begun its slow seep into the empty dining room, and Rose shivered as she peered longingly at the fireplace. The peculiar emptiness of the huge house was almost unbearable, and she longed for the annoying chatter of her sister or the faintly argumentative tone of her father. Anything to break up the strange and ominous quiet that overrode her every step.

  Eventually, the girl from the kitchen brought her breakfast, and Rose realized she was famished. Shortly after serving food, Rose watched through the window as the girl hung the wash, even as dark, puffy clouds clotted the sky.

  Seventy-Three

  Exploring may not have been in the cards that day, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Once Rose gathered her courage, she tiptoed to the stairwell and begun the ascent, her hands trembling upon the banister. Unfortunately, the door at the top of the stairwell was locked.

  Rose tugged on it for a little while, jiggling the handle this way and that in case it was stuck rather than locked.

  After realizing the door wouldn’t budge, she made her way back down to the first floor and looked in on Henry, who fortunately was sleeping soundly. His color seemed better, so Rose did not approach him but instead quietly retreated.

  She’d still seen nothing of Mrs. Hill, so Rose decided to search for a book. In the hallway near the kitchen were several rows of cabinets and shelves with glass doors, behind which lay a multitude of books. Rose pulled open the doors and caressed the spines of the book. Settling on a volume of Roman history, she retreated to the sitting room, where a small fire burned in the hearth, and the cat stretched out in front of it, basking in the heat.

  Rose pulled one of the several chairs scattered at odd angles about the room close to the fire and sat down. She stared for some time at the leaping flames, her thoughts on Henry and his strange sickness.

  There, she passed the rest of the day until the cook came to let her know dinner was prepared.

  To Rose’s great surprise, when she entered the dining room, Henry was already at the table.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked, taking her seat across from him.

  He just stared at her a moment. “I’m as well as can be, I suppose.”

  “Do you know how Marge is?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “What?” All the breath exited her lungs, and her skin went cold. Her glass, which she’d been clutching loosely, fell to the floor.

  “We shall have to get a new servant.”

  “When did she pass?” Rose asked incredulously, shock forming ice crystals in her blood.

  “This morning. We’ll get a new girl.”

  She jerked her head around to search the darkness behind her. “Is she—”

  “Gone.”

  “What? Why am I just learning of this now?”

  “It was none of your concern.”

  Rose struggled to contain herself, outrage rising in her as well as a desire to race out the door and through the yard until she made it to the road.

  “Are you quite all right?”

  “Fine,” she whispered, bending slowly toward the floor to stare at the mess she’d made.

  “Let me help,” Henry said finally, rising from his chair and walking swiftly toward Rose as if he’d never been weak and sick.

  A spasm of pain rocketed through her head as she watched him pick up the glass. “But why didn’t you tell me she was dead right away?”

  “I told you, it’s of no concern to you. Better that you not worry.”

  Rose clutched the front of her dress as a foaming wave of nausea crashed over her. “Dead,” she muttered as she tumbled from her chair and onto the floor next to the moist red wine stain that slowly oozed through the fibers of the rug.

  Seventy-Four

  Rose could endure Henry’s aloof behavior no longer. They were positioned on opposite sides of the sitting room—she draped upon the rigid sofa and he in a corner by the fire. He remained fixed on the papers he was poring over and took no notice as she slowly sat up to stare at her husband. She wanted answers but had no idea where to begin.

  “Henry, I can’t get into the second floor.”

  “Are you better now?” he asked without looking up.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as Rose studied her husband. It was some time before he tore his head away from his papers to meet her gaze.

  “Where is the cat?” she asked finally.

  “I don’t have a cat.”

  “Well, there is most certainly one in your house. It was just sitting here with me.”

  “It must have gotten in from outside. Or one of the servants brought it.”

  Rose sighed, rubbing her head. Her sewing basket sat beside the foot of the sofa, and she reached for it idly. As she watched the encroaching storm through the back windows, the thought of the inaccessible second floor began to prey on her. She wanted to ask Henry again but didn’t want more secrets. Imagining the empty floor above as she slept made Rose’s skin crawl, but it was impossible to rid herself of the intrusive thoughts. Should she just sit here and wonder and fret about what could be?

  “I think I’d better go to bed now,” Rose said, unable to sit in the uncomfortable silence any longer. “Is there another room prepared, or shall I sleep in your room
again?”

  Henry shrugged. “Did you ask anyone to prepare a room?”

  She fumed as she met his nonchalant gaze. It seemed he had very little interest in a wife, and she had the feeling she was simply taking up space in the endless dark passageways.

  “Fine, I will go prepare a room for myself right now!” Rose said, struggling to keep her voice from rising as she grew more and more livid. “Or maybe I’ll just sleep here in the sitting room.”

  “My dear, is something bothering you?” Henry asked quietly.

  “What do you think?” she asked, stomping the oriental carpet with her heel.

  “I didn’t mean to make you upset, Rose.” He stood up and extended a pale hand to her. “Come with me.”

  Confused, she grasped his hand timidly, watching as Henry’s hand closed over her own, bringing with it a strange chill, as if he’d been standing outside with his hands pressed against the cold wrought iron railing that spanned the steps leading to the backyard.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, and it seemed as if his voice came from deep within her head, its tones vibrating her eardrums unpleasantly as they passed into the cool air.

  Henry led her down the deep, dark hallway back to his room. There, the heavy drapes blotted out the light, but a lamp by the bedside flickered warmly, welcoming Rose to the soft confines of the bed.

  She smiled at him despite herself and let herself be enveloped by the fleeting normalcy of the scene.

  Seventy-Five

  It was dusty. That was the first thing Rose noticed in the morning as she pulled the drapes open, expelling vast puffs of grime into the atmosphere, the faint golden sun flickering brilliantly on them, making her think of fairy dust rather than the dinginess of the house. The girl had been doing a poor job of cleaning, or perhaps it was all just too much to do with such a limited staff.