“Why Hester told me, of course,” Sir Death shouts from the house. “She worships the ground you walk on.”
After waving at Kelly—who must think I’ve gone mad—I close the front door and lean against it, sweat beading across my forehead. I press my sore throat and ask Death a few questions of my own. “What are you doing here? How is it possible?”
A swish of cloth, a sliding sound—as though Death is taking off a coat. He ignores my questions and walks toward the stairs. “Let’s discuss this later, cousin. I’m absolutely exhausted. It’s been quite an evening.”
“No!” I whisper-yell. “You must leave!”
“Is that any way to speak to your long-lost relation? Don’t look so nervous. I’m off duty, remember? You have nothing to fear.”
“Do not go up those stairs. Not another step! This is a serious matter, Sir.”
My voice gives out once more, and I rub my throat helplessly as Death continues to the second floor. He pauses on the landing. “You know, Visionary, I have never actually felt tired before—the aching muscles, the stiff back. It’s terribly draining, but what can one expect after being clothed in flesh? How do humans accomplish anything with such weak constitutions?”
Without waiting for an answer—which I couldn’t give anyway since I can no longer speak telepathically or vocally with the Reaper—He turns and walks toward the empty room across from Gabriel’s chamber. I hear the door close with a soft snick.
In this mad situation, I suddenly find myself thinking like a landlady. Is there sufficient bedding for Death in the room He occupies? Pillows, a clean quilt? Probably not, unless Cordelia did the laundry for me. The idea that I am worried about accommodations for the Reaper makes me a little concerned for my mental health.
How did I get to this place?
Or perhaps the more important question might be, how do I get out of it?
You’ll never save them. They all die.
Desolation fills me as James Scarlett whispers in my mind, and a wild urge builds inside to do myself harm. Weeping uncontrollably, it is all I can manage not to dash my brains against the bedroom wall. Do it, Hester. Throw your life away.
I sense the black fog—impenetrable, boiling and writhing like a living thing. It forces its way into my lungs, and I cough like I am choking on treacle. The viscous air doesn’t move when I summon magic and push against it with my hands. How do I fight this?
You cannot win.
Scarlett’s voice is like crashing waves and pummels me from all sides. I scream, covering my bloody ears. The faces of my dearest friends fill my thoughts. I see Cordelia cold and still as a stone, Willard ripped to pieces. Then Tom, and Kelly last of all. Worst of all.
It’s your fault, all your fault.
Desperate to breathe, I throw myself upright and stumble out of bed. My lungs labor, and I bend forward, hands on my knees. Di gratias. I’m awake. It was a dream.
The threadbare cotton of my night rail is rough to the touch, but it brings me back to reality. Home. I’m safe. Scarlett is not here. Sinking down to the floor, I feel weak as a babe. I crawl to the right, toward the wall, and lean against its sturdy strength. Reaching up, I touch my ears, finding them dry. Not bloody or painful but blessedly intact.
Rain patters softly outside, and I focus upon the peaceful sound until my heartbeat returns to normal. Our animals are quiet—Jupiter and the two milk cows must be sheltering in the barn. The storm intensifies and staccato drops of water hit the powdery earth with a muffled plop. Turning my ears to the inside of the house, I find the other occupants asleep. They are resting well if their breathing patterns are anything to go by. Sir Death even seems tranquil.
A few minutes pass, and my shoulders lose some of their tension. That’s it, Hester. Calm down and think.
Why that particular memory? Why revisit the battle with Scarlett at the train station last spring? Is it because of the Furies questioning me, dredging everything up again? I have nightmares a few times a week, but the dreams are usually about Ironwood. The water therapy and drugs. Dr. Faust and his sick obsessions and experimentation. Whether this episode is the result of a traumatized mind or some of Scarlett’s psychic trickery, I cannot tell. My half-brother could be bored tonight in his hospital bed. Tormenting others with long-distance conjuring might be the way he passes time.
Leave me alone, liar’s spawn. Get out of my thoughts.
No one responds to my telepathic commands, and I sigh with relief. Further rest is impossible, though I am quite weary. What should I do to occupy myself until sunrise? I imagine sitting on the back porch in my favorite rocker. Listening to the rain fall, smelling the wet tomatoes and geraniums, would be the perfect antidote to the nightmare. I rise from the floor and go to the wardrobe. My cotton rail is sleeveless and lightweight, so I choose a thin shawl and toss it around my shoulders.
The bedroom door creaks as I open it, and I turn toward the kitchen. I’m almost there when I hear something fall to the floor, a light, soft object dropping and rolling over. What is it? The noise comes from the front rooms, in the area of the parlor. Am I imagining things? I wouldn’t be surprised if I am, with Death pretending He’s my cousin and sleeping just upstairs. Having a terrible nightmare and hearing things on top of it seems almost logical. I reach toward the umbrella stand by the kitchen door, grasp my cane, and slide it free. Holding the cane across my body, I creep down the hall. Random floorboards squeak, and I curse myself silently.
Reaching the parlor, I remain just beyond the threshold. I sense hazy floral notes—dreamy happiness—mixed with masculine flesh, green apples, and lemonade. Feeling all kinds a fool, I lower the cane and shake my head. It’s not the boogeyman in the parlor. It’s Isaac Baker! I know his innocent, man-boy essence by now. And didn’t I tell Cordelia he could come down from the attic and sleep here after everyone went to bed? It’s too warm for him to get any rest up there.
Another dropping/rolling sound as Isaac pushes something else off the settee where he sleeps—one of the bolsters perhaps, to make room for his long legs. Exhaling deeply, I go back to the kitchen and deposit my cane in the umbrella stand. I open the back door and walk outside. The rooster hasn’t crowed—it can’t be close to dawn yet. Rain pelts the roof, the rows of corn, and the fruit trees. Will the peaches suffer for the storm? Willard won’t like that.
I feel my way along the exterior wall of the house to the set of rocking chairs, and sit down in the nearest one. I stretch my back, until it feels less painful against the hard chair. A good stretch can do wonders. Now for a little peace to collect my thoughts.
But I’m not alone on the porch.
I knew you’d make your way out here sooner or later. Tom’s voice fills my mind, a little sardonic, a lot irritating. He sits in the other rocker and smells of something alcoholic. My insides tighten with conflicting emotions. Anger that he’s backsliding and drinking again. Fear that Scarlett has something to do with Tom’s weakness in this matter. Sorrow because I know from personal experience that addicts hate themselves after giving in to their cravings.
Having a drink, Tom? What is it?
He lifts the bottle and takes a swig. Sure as hell ain’t scotch, darlin’. Why don’t you stock your cupboards better?
Snorting in disgust, I pull my shawl tight. Plenty of taverns nearby. You could have frequented one of those instead of pilfering my cooking supplies. The brandy was intended for a fruitcake in December.
Tom lifts the brandy bottle again, and the liquid inside sloshes around. This is my first drink in months, I’ll have you know. I was on the wagon when I went to bed a few hours ago.
Then what in heaven brought this on?
A wave of emotion passes from him to me—Tom’s furious. I heard you scream, love.
Ignoring the old term of affection, I lean toward him. How could you? The others didn’t. They’re still sleeping.
Not out loud. In my head, I saw it all . . . the fight between you and Scarlett.
How
could he see it? I didn’t clasp his hand and transfer the dream over. Is my brother toying with Tom as well? No good can come from that happening again. I cross my arms, embarrassed that Tom experienced my terror as fresh as the day it happened.
The rocker slides against the wooden porch as he sits up. I remembered what it was like to have that bastard controlling my mind. Wanting to hurt you because Scarlett said I should.
I remember too. It was scary as hell to be thought of that way. I use olfaction and smell metaphysical blood. Hatred. Does Tom still want to hurt me?
The rain continues to beat against the roof, but the sound is no longer calming. A frisson of fear races over my skin like beads of water. The man sitting here knows much of my past. He’s seen it through our telepathic link, though I know nothing of his real motives. Does he wish to do as Scarlett intended? Am I in danger?
Tom twists the cap on the brandy and hands it to me. Don’t worry. I hate Scarlett as well. If anyone needs killing it’s him, not you.
So the blood-smell of hatred is for Scarlett. But is Tom telling the truth? His turning up so unexpectedly in Stonehenge might be part of my half-brother’s plan. It makes sense that he’d ensconce an assassin in my home, waiting to kill me at his leisure.
I open the bottle of brandy and take a sip. It’s smooth and hot against my throat. I cap the bottle and place it on the porch floor. Tarnation! My mind is a pit of vipers. Or is it scorpions? Oh, blast, it has whatever Macbeth said to his wife in act three—I wasn’t really listening to Cordelia when she read that part of the play. I suppose it doesn’t matter whether it’s vipers or scorpions. Both are awful, and I wish the bloody things would go away.
Feeling Tom’s eyes on me, I nod in agreement, as though I believe him and we’re comrades. How did you get out of the house? I didn’t notice.
Tom gives a short laugh. I’ve always been quiet on my feet. Remember the time I carried you into your parent’s home? Middle of the night, you fast asleep in my arms. Didn’t make a sound as I took you to your room.
I woke up wondering how I got there.
Why is he speaking this way? That memory belongs to the old Tom.
Then it strikes me how dangerous this man is. How he might manipulate me with nostalgia if I don’t keep my guard up. The air sparks with energy as the storm rages beyond the little porch. Amid the elemental display, I make a vow to keep Tom at a distance until I know for certain which side he’s on. The old Arabian proverb could prove untrue.
The enemy of my enemy may not be my friend at all.
13
Agenda ante mortem.
Things to do before death.
Whether Tom and I are enemies or not, I’m still unsure, but at least he didn’t kill me last night. In fact, we sat together on the porch for another quarter hour or so without any violence. Then he went up to his room and back to sleep, snoring until daybreak. During our fifteen-minute discussion, Tom said he had felt the pull of Bloom’s snake charmer act as well. Not as strongly as I did, but the allure was there. Another trip to the big top is definitely in order, and he will be going later this morning. I, on the other hand, will visit the artist’s quarter of the city and have Cordelia question some of the shopkeepers.
Since Tom is low on funds, I’ll pay for his circus admission with the money I’ve stashed away in an old coffee tin. Cost aside, it is evident the lace factory bombing and the circus do indeed have a common nexus. James Scarlett is up to his French silk cravat and gold stickpin in both affairs.
I consider these things during my morning wash and happily inhale the scent of the lilac soap. I must purchase another block of the lovely stuff. It makes me feel feminine, apart from the ghosts and magic and Death.
Once I am dry, I fumble through the wardrobe and choose a dress from the back of the cedar cabinet: embroidered collar, simple bodice with puffed sleeves, and a narrow skirt. Thank goodness the fashion trends have changed and the days of cumbersome bustles and layered overskirts are behind me. I believe Cordelia once said this dress was lavender in color. Or was it that the embroidered flowers on the collar looked like lavender blossoms? At the time, I hardly paid attention.
Finally dressed and ready for the day, I enter the kitchen to find Cordelia slaving over the stove, cooking what smells like porridge with spiced apples. The room is as fragrant as a cider press house in autumn.
Male laughter erupts at the table, and it doesn’t come from the men I usually find there. Bloody blazes! It’s the Reaper and the professor in the art of death from the circus, Mr. Hammersmith. They’re hooting like two owls in a barn window at the punch line the doctor just delivered. Why is Hammersmith here? What must Cordelia think of our new tenant, Exitus Night?
Tom pounds down the stairs from the second floor, and I ask myself why I keep adding men who cause me distress to my boarding house. He enters the room and heads directly for the food. When Death and Hammersmith greet Tom, they notice me.
“Good morning, cousin!” the Reaper says. “Come and sit down. Cordelia has made the most divine concoction for breakfast.”
Hammersmith’s chair moves a little, as though he’s turning in it. “I’ve had oats and apples in more countries than I care to count, but these are some of the best.”
Sir Death introduces us formally and the doctor stands as I join them. He pulls out my chair and scoots it forward after I sit down. “Your cousin went in search of a paper this morning at Hollister’s and found me instead. Our connection was instant, don’t you think, Exitus?”
The Reaper laughs. “I knew you for a friend right away and had to invite you back for a meal. Miss Collins has been ever so patient with my spontaneity.”
I turn my face toward Cordelia. Was it frightening to find an unknown man in the house, without explanation? She must be indignant. I inhale, afraid to read her rage with olfaction, but she isn’t angry at all. Dropping her hand on my shoulder, Cordie gives it a cheerful squeeze.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a cousin from Lima, Hester? I knew of a few distant relations on the Grayson side, but I thought they were all decades older than you. Wasn’t your mother an only child?”
“Yes, the poor dear,” Sir Death says, much better at lying today. “Lenore had no siblings, but she did have an Aunt Agatha, who was my mother. I was born late in that redoubtable woman’s life, almost past her childbearing years. Hester and I have a distant bond, but we share many interests in common.”
The Reaper does have a way of telling a story. He’s also quite convincing as he rewrites history. Great Aunt Agatha died in childbirth with a stillborn son, leaving behind four daughters and a frantic, middle aged husband.
“As I recall, she kept Mr. Craddock a secret from me too, initially,” Cordelia says to Death.
“She did,” Tom agrees between bites of oats. “Hester likes us all to remain in the dark until it suits her.”
“That sounds downright Machiavellian, Mr. Craddock,” Cordelia protests while walking over to the stove.
I take a sip of tea and sit back, gratified. I am a lucky woman to have such a loyal friend.
She returns to the table and refills Tom’s cup. “To the best of my knowledge, Hester hasn’t plotted anything diabolical since the new year.”
Laugher fills the room. Oh, hah, hah. Very funny.
Tom chokes on his oats after Cordelia’s quip and then chuckles loudly. I recant my earlier praise of Cordelia—her loyalty ebbs like the tide when Tom is in the room. I think of making a rude hand gesture in his direction but decide against it. Death and Hammersmith are most likely watching.
Shut up, Craddock, I say to his mind.
Make me, he replies.
I need not have worried about looking ill-tempered before the other men. They are engaged in an animated discussion of poison frogs found only in South America.
Hammersmith overflows with passion on the subject. “Blues, greens, orangey-reds. They’re brightly colored little devils. So pretty you want to grab them up! But dead
ly poison is secreted in the brilliant skin.”
“What intrigues, can also kill,” Death replies. “One mustn’t assume too hastily that an object is safe because it captivates.”
“Right you are, my good man.”
Crockery rattles against wood as Cordelia puts something on the table in front of me. Breakfast? The apple/oat/honey combination smells better up close.
I’m self-conscious about using my voice around Hammersmith—even my friends cringe at it, with the exception of Kelly. I rediscovered audible speech only last spring, after solving the puzzle of my self-imposed silence. When it became clear that my father’s continuing cruelty caused this psychosomatic condition, I broke free of his control and have been speaking, off and on, from that day forth. I’m still bashful each time someone new hears it. Thus I lose my nerve and sign to Cordelia instead.
Thank you. Smells delicious.
“I can’t have you wasting away,” she replies. “And it’s really no bother.”
Hammersmith makes a delighted sound. “You talk with your hands, do you, Miss Grayson? How remarkable! One of my dearest friends in India also did this. Though his signs were different, I’m sure. The man begged and performed acrobatic tricks. Made quite a good living off the English, too. Charming fellow, old Ishranth.”
The Reaper asks Hammersmith if he’s ready to leave. “You promised to introduce me to your friends at the circus.”
“Of course, Exitus! A behind-the-scenes tour.”
They rise from the table. “I’d love to take you to tea at the Windsor Hotel afterwards.”
“Let us hope they have Darjeeling. We can toast Ishranth’s good health with it.”
“Farewell, all,” Exitus Night proclaims and follows Hammersmith out the front door.
I drop my spoon into my oatmeal. My life is more bizarre than ever, and that’s saying quite a lot. Regardless of being a doctor in the art of death, the room is a little less sunny without Hammersmith’s infectious warmth. He grows on one rather quickly.
Spectris: Veritas Book Two Page 15
