The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  Arthur sits beside her on the bed, still holding her hands. His nearness is confusing her, making her feel odd. ‘Letty,’ he says gently, ‘I shouldn’t care what happens to you. You’re so completely enmeshed in all this. But I do. I want to free you.’

  ‘I am free,’ she says fiercely. ‘Freer than you, with your gambling and girlfriends! I want to free you!’

  They stare at one another angrily, then he bursts out laughing.

  ‘I never in my life thought something so ridiculous could happen.’ Then he is grave again. ‘But that poor woman’s death is not ridiculous, and if he goes on like this, it will happen to others. Something must be done.’

  She feels that gnawing sense of doubt deep inside her again. She knows that Emily should not be dead, Arthur is right about that. Perhaps . . . perhaps the Beloved is not as in control as he promised. And if he is not, then what can be relied upon? ‘What can we do?’ she asks.

  Arthur tightens his hold around her hand, his grey eyes grave.

  How did I ever think he was a boy? Everything in her responds to him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says at last. ‘But I have an idea. All I want you to do is to be ready.’

  The Beloved summons them all to the church, where Maud plays sombre tunes. He speaks to them for long hours, so long that it is hard to remember exactly what he has said. All that Letty knows is that the Devil claimed Emily Payne as his own, and that the rest of them must be firmer and stronger as a result. The Beloved will soon reveal the truth to them all. The other thing she knows is that Arthur is not there, but she has no idea where he might have gone. She misses him far more than she’d ever imagined she could.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  One day I wake and some of the darkness has lifted. I am not better, whatever that means, but I don’t seem to be in the depths that have contained me for . . . I’m not sure how long. Some days, at least. Perhaps weeks. But I don’t feel like my old self either. I’m someone else.

  In the bedroom, I see that Heather’s things have been taken off my bed. They are propped on a chair nearby. There is no Sparkleknee, or Teddington. Those two beloved toys were burnt. There is only the stuffed puffin I found in the box Caz brought over. Heather’s little suitcase is closed. Grief thuds through me. It is like a steamroller, and there is no hope that it will ever leave me. But perhaps I might learn to exist with it.

  That is the thing that I never thought I could do. It was unendurable. Unsupportable. I couldn’t bear it. I decided that I wouldn’t bear it. The one thing I hoped – that I could have been in that bedroom with Heather when it was finally engulfed, instead of fighting the wall of furnace-hot smoke outside – was not possible. So I created another reality and I stepped inside that one instead. It was easier to live there.

  I sigh heavily. The pulling away of my created reality has left me raw and exposed to the truth about my life. I’m not strong enough to deal with it yet. Words are whispering through my mind – Home . . . you have to go home . . . remember? . . . But I can’t listen. Not yet. Maybe one day. Maybe soon.

  There is a knock on the door and a woman comes in. She is young, maybe early twenties, with brown hair pulled back and brown eyes behind a pair of glasses. ‘Oh, hi, you’re awake,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’m on breakfast duty today. Hungry?’ She lifts up the tray she’s carrying and shows it to me.

  ‘Not really.’ I sit up, shifting myself up against the pillows.

  ‘I suppose that’s not surprising. You’ve not eaten much lately. Your stomach has probably shrunk. Have some coffee at least.’ She places the tray on my knees and sits down herself on the bedside. ‘If you can, you could try and eat some toast. It’s got marmalade on it. Yum yum.’

  I smile back at her, though not through amusement. I’m touched by her solicitude, and I get the feeling she knows me better than I know her. She looks at me with interest as I sip the coffee.

  ‘You seem different,’ she remarks. ‘Something’s changed.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I guess I’m a bit more like my old self. I’m sorry. I can’t remember your name.’

  ‘Dora.’ She pats her own chest, smiling again. ‘It means “gift”. Archer’s funny. I always said he thought he was God’s gift, so he called me Dora. Theadora, actually. It’s shortened to Dora. Of course, it turns out he is actually God’s gift, so the joke’s on me.’

  I smile at her in bewilderment. I have no idea what she’s talking about. ‘How long have I been ill?’

  ‘It’s been just over a week. You’ve been in a bad place. I don’t know what’s happened to you but the Beloved says it’s not good.’

  ‘The Beloved?’ I ask, remembering I’ve heard that before somewhere.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I mean Archer. We also call him the Beloved. I know it sounds weird, but it all makes sense really. You’ll understand if you stay here. He’s been healing you, hasn’t he?’

  I suddenly remember the channelling of a bright warmth from the hands of a man, how it entered my skin and soaked downwards into my core. ‘Yes . . . I suppose so. He must have.’

  Dora nods. ‘He’s amazing at that. It still gets me every time. I am just in so much awe.’ She reaches out and puts a hand on my leg, smiling broadly. ‘We’re lucky, aren’t we, Rachel? To be born at a time like this?’

  Rachel? My name is . . . it’s . . . Kate. That’s right.

  Fragments of recollection are falling into my mind. Wait . . . I’ve been Rachel Capshaw for the last month or so. I left Kate behind.

  For a moment I’m filled with pleasure at the idea of escaping the pain of my previous life. And then I remember, with a dull sensation of fatalism, that it isn’t possible.

  I tried. I tried my best. I did everything I could. I failed.

  ‘Drink up, Rachel, and I’ll take the tray away. But you have to promise me you’ll have some soup at lunchtime. You’ve lost so much weight. You need to start rebuilding your strength.’ Dora smiles at me. ‘Do you have any diagnosis for your recent ill health?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. Nothing. Just depression, I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah. I saw your pills in the bathroom. Heavy-duty. You’ve been suffering.’ She looks sympathetic. ‘Archer told me you lost your daughter. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I don’t want to talk about it with her. ‘Where are the pills now?’

  ‘Archer took them and flushed them away. He doesn’t believe in that shit. He knew he could heal you without them.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘You’re in the best place now, Rachel. Honestly. You’ll be your old self, and more. You’ve been brought here for a reason.’ She smiles again and gets up to go, taking the tray and its cold toast with her, leaving me the cup of coffee. As she goes out, I hear the whisper of a powerful voice in my mind: You can be with us now, Rachel. You’ve been brought to the right place. It’s the will of the Lamb that you should be protected at the end of days. It’s not long now. I promise you that bliss is at hand.

  I feel a rush of that golden warmth in my stomach, and an echo of some lovely feeling I once knew, before everything beautiful in the world died. And for a second, I get the sensation of something like hope.

  During the morning, I practise getting out of bed and walking around the room. I feel weak and shaky at first, and climb gratefully back into bed. I sleep again, and wake to find Sophia at my bedside, with a bowl of steaming soup on a tray.

  ‘Hi,’ she says in her well-educated drawl. ‘So lovely to see you awake again. You had us all quite worried for a bit there. I’ve got some munchies for you, and you’re under strict instructions to have it all. No arguments.’

  I don’t want to argue with her. I can hardly take my eyes off her, she’s so beautiful. Her long gold hair spills over her shoulders and she has perfectly smooth tanned skin like something from a make-up advert. I knew she was good-looking before, but now she seems almost supernaturally lovely. I must have been shut in a darkened room for far too
long.

  Sophia leaves me the soup and I manage to eat it, nearly all of it. With it comes a new burst of energy and I get out of bed and walk around the room, now with more strength. Emboldened, I head out of the bedroom for the bathroom next door, glad that I won’t have to rely on helpers to get me there anymore. I have shadowy recollections of being brought here with someone supporting me under each arm, lowering me gently down onto the lavatory and taking me off again.

  How humiliating. At the very least I’ve got to be able to take care of that again on my own.

  It all goes well until I’m out in the corridor once more on my way back to my room, when the energy that’s sustained me there vanishes, and I’m left leaning against the wall, breathing hard and trying to fight the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm me.

  ‘Hey, hey!’ It’s Agnes, hurrying down the corridor towards me. ‘Are you okay?’ The next moment her arms are around me and she’s lifting me up. She’s surprisingly strong and as she helps me stagger towards my bedroom, she talks to me, her Australian accent sounding friendly for the first time since I met her. ‘You don’t want to push yourself. Archer says you’re just recovering, you’re still really weak. I’m going to tell him he needs to do another session with you.’

  ‘What does he do?’ I ask, still breathless, as she guides me to the bed and sits me down. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘I don’t know if it has a name. I guess it’s a combination of disciplines. There’s some reiki in there. Here, down we go . . . now, is that better? It’s something Archer’s created on his own. He’s like that. He does everything in his own way. He’s a leader, not a follower. A pioneer. That’s kind of how he describes himself to us – a captain of a ship going out into the unknown. Except that he seems to know quite a lot.’ She grins at me. I’ve never seen Agnes looking so cheerful. ‘Now, how are you?’

  ‘Better, thanks.’

  ‘That’s good. Those old sisters have been round wanting to see you. Archer said no. He doesn’t like outsiders coming in. Especially not now we’re filling up.’

  ‘Filling up?’

  Agnes nods. ‘Yeah. We’ve been busy while you’ve been recovering from . . . getting better.’ She flushes lightly and rushes on. ‘People have been coming from our other houses to start preparing this one. I think Archer wants it to be his headquarters. There are a lot more faces here now, so don’t be surprised if you hear a bit of a racket from time to time. There’s work going on all over the place.’

  ‘Really? Are you all guardians?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘Kind of.’ Agnes smiles.

  ‘And the company doesn’t mind if you do work to the house?’

  ‘Not a bit.’ She laughs now, quite merrily. Her mood has vastly improved since I first saw her. ‘They approve. Guaranteed. Now, shall I take that soup bowl away?’

  In the afternoon, I sleep again. I don’t know why I’m so tired but I feel as if I’ve been hit by a truck. Or as though I’ve been running some kind of enormous marathon, pushing myself on and on to finish until, suddenly, I’ve collapsed, with no more energy in me, no reserves to draw on.

  The dull thumping of grief still marches in time with my heartbeat. I feel a terrible sense of guilt, that I’ve let Heather down twice. First, by not being able to reach her that night. And then by bringing her here and losing her again.

  It was so real. She was so real. She was alive again. I know she was.

  But now her presence has completely disappeared. She’s gone. The things I brought with me, that I watched her play with, are just detritus of a life that’s vanished.

  I’m sorry, my darling. I thought I could make it work.

  And yet, I feel a vague sense of triumph too. For those precious days, she was with me. She did live again. I had the chance to read to her, play with her, do all the things I loved so much. She was able to restore something in me, and give me the strength to face the truth – that she was gone.

  But there’s something else.

  A dark knowledge throbs away in the depths of my mind. Something I don’t want to see or know about. It’s best if I keep looking forward, and not downwards into the abyss. I will think about Heather and saying farewell to her. I won’t go to where something terrible still seethes and moves.

  Healing is what I need.

  Agnes is as good as her word, and as the sun is turning white-gold with the approaching evening, Archer comes to my room. He puts Heather’s toys carefully on the floor and pulls the chair over so he can sit close to my bed and look me straight in the eye.

  I’m surrounded by ravishing young people, I think. The girls are all gorgeous and now here is Archer, a young Adonis, as casually, ripplingly attractive as a lion. His thick brown hair falls in waves to his shoulders and the beard does nothing to distract from his well-formed mouth and those magnetic ice-blue eyes. He’s wearing a sort of grey tracksuit, with white trainers. It ought to look awful but of course he looks effortlessly stylish. He’s brought me a cup of steaming liquid: clear and pale green.

  ‘So, Rachel, how are you?’ He’s got the same patrician tones as Sophia, and the core-deep self-confidence of someone who knows that they matter in the world.

  ‘I’m . . . okay. I’m a bit better.’

  ‘Great, that’s good news. I’ve got some herbal tea for you.’ He hands me the cup. It smells fragrant and grassy. ‘It will soothe you. Drink it.’ He watches while I take a sip. ‘That’s right. It’ll start to work soon. You’ve had quite a trauma, haven’t you?’

  I nod. His voice is so kind and understanding, I feel a sudden rush of tears, but I gulp them back, and say thickly, ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘You have helped me.’

  ‘The healing?’

  I nod again, and take another drink of the tea. He’s right. It is soothing.

  He smiles, his mouth curving up like a pirate’s. ‘Good. That’s good to hear. Would you like me to heal you some more?’

  ‘Yes. Yes please.’

  ‘Okay.’ He stands up. ‘Lie back and relax. Actually this will work better if you take off your top.’

  I flinch slightly.

  ‘Do you mind about that? Sorry, I didn’t think. We’re very relaxed about nudity here. You’ll see a lot of it about. It’s our natural state, and we don’t judge each other. I mean, clothes are cool too. But so is our skin. We need light just like plants do. You know that, don’t you, Rachel? So if you’re bothered, you could just lie on your front and I can work on your back.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, a little muffled. I have no idea what I’ll look like after a week in bed, but I know it won’t be tanned and smooth and delectable like the girls upstairs. But I don’t want to seem like a prude. I put down my tea, take a deep breath and pull off my T-shirt, revealing my pale chest and stomach beneath, then turn quickly over so that he can only see my back.

  ‘Well done. That was brave. All right. Close your eyes and relax.’

  He comes very close to me. I can feel the warmth of his body close to mine, and then the heat of his hands just centimetres above the bare skin of my back. He leaves them there for a long time and I can feel the heat radiating out, spreading over my skin, until it is almost as though his palms are burning me without touching my flesh.

  He begins to speak, his voice low and hypnotic. ‘That’s so good, Rachel. You’re responding beautifully. You’re sucking up my healing, I can feel you drawing it out of me. My life force is entering you, going deep inside you and making you better. Can you feel that, Rachel?’

  I make a sound of assent, but I can hardly speak, I’m so focused on what I can feel. The heat is spreading through me, oozing over me like honey, running down the backs of my legs and warming my heels and the soles of my feet, up and over my scalp, releasing the taut muscles around my neck and shoulders, relaxing the knots in my belly, easing everything out. It’s a beautiful feeling. Now he’s moving his hands, still not making contact with me, but taking
that glorious warmth all over me. It’s burning its way into my core and bringing my body back to life in prickling, uncomfortable and yet pleasant ways.

  He starts to speak again, his tone still mellifluous. ‘I’m blessing you, Rachel. I’m filling you with the bliss of my presence and giving you the sure and certain knowledge that you’re on the path to paradise. Come with us, Rachel. Join us. You can have our love, you can share in our love.’ There’s a pause and he says softly, ‘Turn over, Rachel.’

  I have no sense of embarrassment now. I turn over, my eyes still shut, exposing myself to him, not caring, just wanting more of that healing warmth. Now his hands hover over my belly, heating it up. I feel myself opening out like a flower in the sunshine, turning towards the light like a sunflower following the path of the sun with its face.

  ‘You are coming towards us now, aren’t you? You’re ready to accept us. We can offer you what you need. We can offer you peace and contentment and healing.’

  His words are like a soft, soothing balm on sunburnt skin. I want so much to have the things he says he can give me.

  ‘I will tell you,’ he says in that murmuringly mesmeric voice of his, ‘how you can reach it.’

  The next day I leave my room. Someone has been in while I’ve been asleep and laid out some clothes for me: baggy white linen trousers and a white T-shirt, and a pair of slip-on white leather sandals. I put them on and then, because it’s still cold outside, I pull on a jumper over the top, rather spoiling the all-white palette with its red and pink stripes. Then I head back out into the house, feeling as though I’ve been away a very long time.

  Agnes is right, there is more noise. I think back to the silence here when I first arrived. The atmosphere is completely different. There’s a buzz of energy about the place, and a kind of irrepressible good mood. I can hear music coming down the stairs, from a radio or a sound system, and every now and then a cheery voice calls and is answered by another. There are men here now – I can hear the deeper tones of male voices, even loud singing in a booming bass voice. Everywhere there seems to be activity. I catch glimpses of people busy in rooms, carrying things, fixing things, the banging of hammers and the whirr of drills. In the hall, I see a scaffold tower set up inside, against the windows. They’re high and many-paned. A young man at the top of the scaffold is drilling what look like shutters into place, while another works at the bottom. They are not beautiful wooden shutters but heavy steel. They look thick.