by Tanith Lee
“It is no trouble at all,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”
I thought I detected a slight smile beneath the veil.
“Damien died as he lived,” she told me. “Ever unexpected.”
“And you will be wanting – arrangements?”
She lowered her head and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief scented with violets.
“Quite so.”
“Then let us discuss the nature of the internment,” I murmured.
Madame Greco duly ordered a magnificent coffin and, pressing my hand with a pretty gratitude, left. I did not feel that this was the appropriate time to press talk of the Device upon her. I fully intended to leave a note for Sayers to remind him of this fact, but thinking about Madame Greco brought to mind a number of poetic notions, and I became distracted. In the end, no note was written.
It was shortly before Christmas that I set eyes on Madame Greco once more, as I was walking to our father’s house for a party. I disliked these family occasions, which usually involved a series of barbed jibes on my father’s part relating to my choice of profession. I thus took the long way through Highgate, past the cemetery, and it was already past twilight when I reached the gates. Upon glancing through the iron tracery, I was vaguely gratified to see in the dim light of the gas-lamps that a number of recent graves – in addition to handsome marble monuments – bore the small red flag and electric bell that signalled the presence of the Device. It was then that I caught sight of Madame Greco.
She was hurrying along the path that led to the edges of the cemetery, past the older mausoleums. She halted in front of an ornate tombstone in the form of a pyramid. These had been fashionable at one time, but had now fallen somewhat out of favour. I saw her run her hand over the marble facade, then move on down the hill to a much fresher patch of earth. She fell to her knees beside the grave and, moved by a pang of pity, I remained to watch her. She scrabbled at the soil.
“James?” I heard her say. “Have you woken? Do you hear me?”
I frowned. I distinctly remembered her remarking that her husband’s name was ‘Damien.’ She paused for a moment, listening, with her ear to the ground. She sighed, rose to her feet, moved on. I watched her as she visited three more graves in turn. Apparently none of them were clients of my brother, for these graves were undecorated by the Device. She scratched and clawed, until the black satin gloves were torn and her hands were bloody.
“Wake!” she whispered, “Why do you not wake?”
Then, with a start of surprise, I saw the earth at the base of the last grave begin to stir. My heart jumped.
“Damien?” I heard her fierce whisper across the silent graveyard. “Damien!”
Next moment, the soil rolled aside like a blanket and a man was standing there. I saw a white face and pale hands, before he was enveloped in a long dark coat that flapped down upon him like a shadow. Madame Greco was speaking to him in a language that I did not recognise. He turned, and I heard him begin to sniff and snuffle, like a hunting dog.
It suddenly occurred to me that I was not in the most suitable location to encounter someone newly risen from the dead. I am not ashamed to note that I turned and ran. That evening, my father’s jibes ran over me like water. I remained at his house that night, and I was not sorry to do so.
Next day, I did not wake until past three o’clock. Sitting over tea in the pale winter sunlight, I felt somewhat foolish. I had surely been mistaken, I thought. No doubt I had merely glimpsed a friend stepping out from behind the tomb, in order to comfort poor Madame Greco in her time of need. Perhaps she had become distracted in her grief, had been initially unable to find her husband’s burial place. I debated the matter for some time, before resolving to go back to the cemetery and make a few investigations.
When I reached Highgate, it was already close to twilight. I could hear the bell of St Paul’s toll out the time, a melancholy note sounding from across the river. My feet crackled on the last dead leaves; the high wall at the edge of the cemetery was half hidden in bramble and the smoky haze of wild clematis. A flock of crows spiralled up from the path as I approached, startling me.
I found the tall point of the pyramid tomb without difficulty. I was somehow unsurprised to note that it bore the name of one Aessia Greco. I took note of the date: she had died at the age of twenty-seven, more than two hundred years before.
I touched the tomb briefly, to reassure myself that it was real, then turned to take my leave. A great dark wing swept across my face. I leaped, stumbling back against the tomb.
“Why, it’s Mr Hugo,” said a voice behind me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
My vision cleared. It was Madame Greco, still swathed in mourning. Her face was invisible behind a heavier veil.
“No, the fault is mine. A dizzy spell.” I said. “Well, delightful to meet you once more, Madame Greco, and now I really must be on my way –”
“Please, let me help you. You’re quite faint.” She took hold of my arm. Through her thin gloves, her touch was icy cold, with a thread of subtle warmth running through it. I felt a guilty, delicious rush of desire, but I snatched my hand away. She stood like a shadow on the path. The sun had long since fallen below the horizon.
“I suggest some hot tea, Mr Hugo,” she said briskly.
“An excellent idea. I shall seek some at once. Now –”
“I think I should accompany you,” she said. The thought crept into my mind like a little serpent: what harm was there in that? We would have tea, and then we would climb the stairs to her small attic room and I would raise the veil and she would fall to her knees and – I blinked. Unruly thoughts, of a carnal nature, were flowing into my mind like water, and nothing was standing in their way. I felt myself growing flushed, heard myself stammering something.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting opposite Madame Greco. I had no idea where I might be. The room was shrouded behind curtains of ebony velvet, and lit by a single taper. In the chancy light, Madame Greco’s face gleamed like a flame. The room smelled of dust and mould, but the furnishings were rich.
“Where am I?” I asked her.
“At my home,” I heard her say. Her voice sounded very distant, as though she spoke from the bottom of a well. She took my hand. I could feel her nails, small and sharp, through the ruined glove, and again that icy touch.
“What are you?” I asked, as if through a dream.
“You are a poet, are you not?”
“Yes, I do my poor best.”
“I direct you to Keats, therefore – the poem called The Lamia. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes. It is a poem about a woman who preys on young men.”
“Quite so. It is a little like that with my kind. Though I prefer the term ‘seduces’. ‘Preys’ sounds so unlovely.” Her grip tightened. “We do our poor best for those we – select. We take what we need, and often they rise to join us. They have life, after all, of a sort.”
Dream-like or not, there was a voice struggling at the back of my mind, and it told me that I was in grave danger.
“But I fear you have already seen too much.” She leaned closer. I could feel no breath upon my neck. Then, through a roaring in my head, an idea came to me.
“Wait,” I said. “Indeed, I have seen too much. I watched you there, searching the graves.” This time, it was I who reached for her hand. “Searching, clawing, ruining your hands as you try to wake them. It does not always work, does it? They do not always return.”
After a moment, she shook her head.
“Would it not be easier, if you had certain knowledge of when they awoke?”
Her head moved in the fraction of a nod.
“And thus I have a proposal for you,” I whispered. I held my breath.
In the dim light, her eyes glittered with a tiny crimson flame.
“I am listening,” she said.
Occasionally, when my gaze falls upon the rise of Highgate Hill above the city,
and I think of the scarlet flags that flutter within those walls, I wonder if I have behaved quite like a gentleman. I fear I have not. But a poet is, as I have said, beyond the common morality, and as my brother is so fond of reminding me, a business deal is a business deal, no matter with whom – or what – one transacts it.
The Cradle in the Corner
Marie O’Regan
Mary stared in horror at the monstrosity standing before her.
“Do you like it?” Alan asked. He stood there, all proud of himself – chest puffed out, huge grin on his face. How was she supposed to destroy that?
She released a breath that shook on its way out into the world, surprised not to see actual smoke. Calm, woman. He thinks he’s done a good thing. “It’s… different, I’ll say that for it.”
The smile froze, and she rushed to smooth things over, make it better, as usual. He was only trying to do something nice. “I haven’t seen one like that before. Where’d you get it?”
The smile returned and Adam knelt by the cot, eager for his wife to share his enthusiasm. “In a little antique store in town; I know how much you love old things.”
She laughed. “It’s definitely got that going for it.”
Alan sat back, his face serious now. “I know this needs work, love, but that’s what I want – a project. And once it’s been painted, got the right drapes and stuff – you’ll see; it’ll be beautiful.” He leaned across and passed her a leaflet he’d picked up from the carpet. “See? That’s what it should look like when it’s done.”
The cot in the picture was far from today’s image of a wooden cot with bars up the sides and a high mattress. This one looked more like a laundry basket on legs; wire frame on crossed iron legs that resembled the bottom of a laundry rack – a precursor to today’s Moses basket, sort of. A cradle, rather than a cot, and in lamentable condition. Mary smiled, feeling slightly better – a cradle was only for a little while. “It’s beautiful, love. Will it be safe, though?”
He nodded. “Yep; by the time the baby’s big enough to sit up, she’ll have moved on to a cot. The cradle can be stored away at that point.” He looked up, then, eyes sparkling as he asked, “Where do you want it?”
Looking round the bedroom, with its low eaves and quirky corners, Mary was at a loss for a moment. Then she saw the perfect spot. There was a recess by the window on the east side of the room that featured a cushioned window seat that she could sit on while she fed the baby, or sang her to sleep. The window itself was double glazed, secure from draughts, and caught the sunrise every morning. “Over there,” she said. “In the corner, by the window.”
Alan grinned, and hefted the cradle over to the indicated spot, angling it so that it wasn’t too close to the window itself, yet would catch the sun’s warmth during the day. “Perfect,” he said. “Looks like it’s always been there.”
Mary shivered as a shadow passed in front of her, obscuring the sun and letting a sudden chill into the room. The cradle looked wrong, now – cold and hard –bare as it was of any drapes or covers. The metal seemed to darken before her eyes, and there was an odour of mildew, and decay. “Put it away for now, love,” she said, and moved away. “Let’s go downstairs and have a cuppa.”
Alan looked up, then, and frowned when he saw his wife. “You okay? You look really pale.”
She crossed her hands over her bump, protective of her child even as it kicked playfully against her palm, and backed towards the door. “I’m fine, just a headache…” then she was gone, her footsteps thudding down the stairs as she headed for the kitchen.
“Feeling better?”
Alan’s voice broke Mary’s concentration, and she blinked as she registered his presence. She was sitting in the rocking chair by the fireplace, rocking blankly back and forth as she stared into the dormant hearth – her concentration had been absolute, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d been thinking about. She nodded, and took the cup of tea he offered gratefully, cupping it in her hands, eager for warmth.
“I am, thanks,” she said. “I can’t think what came over me.”
“You’re bound to get queasy or achy now and again, I suppose,” he answered. “You’ve still got what, six weeks to go?”
“About that,” she agreed. “Maybe I just need something to eat.”
He grinned as he put a plate of toast beside her. “Thought you might say that.”
“You know me too well,” she said, “thanks, love.” She took a piece of toast and grinned as she sat back. “This baby’s going to be the size of a whale, I’m sure. All I do is eat.”
“It’s nice to see,” he answered. “At least you’re not being sick all the time now.”
“True.”
Mary cocked her head as something creaked overhead. “You know, we really ought to get those floorboards checked.” The noise came again, louder this time, as something moved across the bedroom floor.
Alan sat quiet, listening. “Either something’s wrong with the floorboards or the cat’s so heavy she sounds like a person, now.”
Mary choked on her toast, laughing. The laughter died when she saw Rags lying on the rug in front of the fire, looking like nothing more than a huge, furry cushion. “Definitely not Rags.”
There came the sound of a door closing, and then the house was quiet. Both Mary and Alan sat watching the cat, listening to the usual sounds – the clock on the mantel ticking, the boiler clicking on as the temperature dropped, water rushing in the pipes – but no more creaking overhead. For a moment Mary wondered if it might be sounds from next door, but then she remembered this cottage was detached. It had been their dream home, and they’d only bought it when they started trying for a baby.
“This is an old house,” Alan offered. “Bound to make noises; it’ll be the floorboards settling, or something like that.”
Mary nodded. “Must be.” She smiled, and turned to the toast again, her voice a little too bright as she continued, “Must be boards relaxing in the heat or something.”
Mary lay in bed that night, twisting and turning as she tried unsuccessfully to sink into a deep and blissful sleep. Alan lay next to her, snoring gently, oblivious to her restlessness. The cherry blossom tree in the garden cast shadows that walked across the walls and ceiling, spindly branches reaching for the door on the far side of the room. The wind moaned as it sought entrance to the house, failing miserably thanks to the new windows they’d put in just before finding out Mary was pregnant. A door banged and Mary flinched, jerked into full consciousness. There was no further sound, and gradually she relaxed, happy to believe Rags was on the prowl, probably after some small creature that had braved the cat flap and gained entrance to the kitchen. She heard a faint yowl, and smiled. There was nothing Rags loved more than to present them with whatever she’d chased during the night as a gift over breakfast. Hopefully this time she’d offer it to Alan, before Mary got downstairs.
Something creaked, closer this time, and Mary froze. The creaking came again, and something moved fitfully in the darkness. Mary gazed around the room, and saw the cradle move. Shocked, she watched as it rocked, ever so slightly, in the shadows. A faint creak came again each time it moved, and Mary got out of bed, making for the window, normally draught-free; perhaps Alan hadn’t shut it properly?
She reached the window and rattled the handle; nothing. The lock was securely fastened, and there was no trace of movement in the net curtains that hung there. Looking down, Mary could see the cherry tree’s branches whipping back and forth in the wind, but she could feel nothing of the night’s fury standing by the glass.
She tested the cradle, then. It creaked once more as she rattled the frame, the noise instantly recognisable. Perhaps a screw was loose somewhere? She resolved to get Alan to check everything carefully whilst he was absorbed in his restoration project – it had to be safe before the baby came.
A wave of dizziness swept over her, making her sway. Her left hand moved automatically to protect the baby; he
r right finding its way to her back, which was starting to complain at this nocturnal wandering. She crept back into bed, chilled, and curled up against Alan’s back, resting her icy feet against the warmth of his legs. True to form, he just pulled the duvet further up, making sure she was covered even in his sleep, and she smiled as his arm came up and rested on her hip, patting it. The baby kicked again, this time connecting with his back, and he huffed half-heartedly before settling back down. Sleep hurtled towards her, and she realised as she fell helplessly into its grip that somewhere a baby was crying.
The next few days were filled with the sound of Alan’s off-key humming as he first sanded, then painted the cradle a beautiful shade of very pale pink, and – at her insistence – carefully checked all the screws and fastenings he could see. Humming was a habit of his when happy, and Mary liked to hear it. He insisted the cradle was safe, nothing was loose now (if anything ever had been), but she still heard creaking in the night and pictured the cradle rocking – even though she couldn’t actually see it doing so. And sometimes there was a whining noise (it must be the cradle, she reasoned, it couldn’t be anything else), making a sound eerily reminiscent of a fussing infant. “It must be the wind,” he said, and she could hear the patience leeching out of his voice a little more every time he had to say it. Finally she gave in, and didn’t mention the creaking any more – but night after night, there it was, taunting her. She couldn’t sleep, and when she did manage to doze, her dreams were filled with the sound of a baby crying, and someone – a woman – wailing in the night.
Tuesday morning, and Mary woke to find Alan already dressed, ready to put a third and final coat of paint on the cradle. Fabric swatches were laid out on the dressing table for her to look at, and the window was open, letting in a chill wind.
“Morning, sleepy,” he said, smiling at her. His smile faded as he looked at her, and she spoke more sharply than she’d intended.
“What?”
