“You must stay away from him,” Dr. Peridue admonishes as I try to follow my brother. “He may be contagious.”
I wait until I hear them leave, muttering about whether it is safe to bring up Roderick’s belongings that were left downstairs. Then I slip into his room and sit beside the bed to watch over him. He has a tendency to kick off his blankets during the night, and I don’t want him to be chilled. Sleeping Roderick reminds me of childhood, of warmth and security.
When morning comes, I’m still beside his bed, ready to coax him to drink some tea. He holds my wrist as if he’s afraid that I will leave him, even though he is the one who always leaves.
“I’m missing my exams,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad about this.
“What are exams?” I ask, trying to imagine the great mystery that is school.
“Tests of your knowledge.” It is Dr. Winston who answers, not Roderick. He’s standing in the doorway with his doctor’s bag.
“Who are you?” Roderick asks. His voice is not friendly.
“I’m Dr. Winston. Dr. Peridue asked me to come see how you are feeling today. If you could remove your shirt . . .”
Roderick sits up, but he doesn’t take off his shirt. He studies the doctor as he approaches the bed.
“Have we met before?”
I wait for Dr. Winston to say no; this is the first time Roderick has been home since he arrived. But then, perhaps Roderick has seen him through my eyes, the way I’ve seen his school friend.
“Yes,” Dr. Winston says, toying with his stethoscope. “We have met before.”
33
MADELINE IS ELEVEN
Father sits at one end of the table, and Mother at the other. They are far from us, and from each other, but Roderick and I are near the center of the table, close enough to whisper together. Close enough to giggle, though nothing is really funny. The servants bring course after course to the table, but none of us eats more than a few spoonfuls.
Before us is a lovely centerpiece—Mother’s favorite poisonous flowers, holly, poinsettia, and something else with large red blossoms.
Mother smiles at Roderick. “Your new jacket looks very nice,” she says. He beams back, and when I look to the other end of the table, Father is also smiling.
Usher ancestors watch us with serious faces, hands placed menacingly inside dinner jackets that are not so unlike the new one Roderick is wearing.
“Go on,” Father tells the servants. “Go to the kitchens and have something to make you merry. We can serve our own soup.”
Mother frowns slightly at that. I almost don’t see it, but Roderick kicks me beneath the table. He’s about to truly start giggling, and his mirth is infectious. We rarely eat in the dining room, except on special occasions.
34
MADELINE IS FIFTEEN
The servants are in a tizzy. The doctors gather in corners, and even Roderick, though he can barely get out of bed, is oddly thrilled.
The body of a madman has been discovered in the attics. He was in the nursery, caught and strangled in the rope covered with fluttering paper flowers, decorations devised by some long-dead, long-forgotten Usher children. It wasn’t the house settling when I heard those footsteps in the attic. Running away from them was wise, but my face flushes when I remember rushing into Dr. Winston’s chamber.
The madman must have crept through one of the side doors and lived up there. Perhaps he had been there for years. My explorations may have disturbed him, and somehow he strangled himself, in that place where generations of Usher children were hidden away.
The servants are spooked, though this is obviously their fault for leaving doors unlocked. Miss Billingsly, the housekeeper, has given notice. She says her heart can’t handle this job for another day.
They brought the man’s body downstairs and put him in the parlor. No one knows what to do with him. I imagine that there are still stars and moons twined around his throat.
“I want to see him,” I tell Roderick. We are in the parlor, and despite being sick, he’s playing lord of the manor.
When I explored the attics, this lunatic must have been watching me. Following me. I want to look upon his face, but Roderick doesn’t think it’s a good idea.
He’s still recovering from his illness and is very frail. A heavy blanket rests across his lap to protect him from the slightest chill. I’m not sure how he’s managing to appear to be overbearing. I put my hands on my hips and narrow my eyes.
“Let the servants take care of it, Madeline. That’s what they’re here for.”
“But I want to see him. How often do you get to look at a dead man?”
He shakes his head. A boy from his school died of fever last month, which is why Roderick was sent home to recuperate from his own fever. For a moment I feel bad, as if my curiosity is morbid, unladylike.
“But this is extraordinary and strange,” I say, thinking of the books he’s always reading. “It’s something of an adventure.”
“It isn’t an adventure. It’s petrifying, and such happenings fuel your superstitions. I would fire all of the servants for allowing this to happen, if I thought I could find new ones.”
Roderick reaches up to touch my face.
“You could’ve been in danger.”
I wonder, suddenly, how they knew the man was mad, when he was dead before they found the body.
“Yes. But not from some madman.” My voice quivers. I lean down to whisper to Roderick. “I am in danger every day that I’m in this house.”
“The house.” His voice is flat, annoyed. “Madeline, stop. You’re becoming as obsessed as Mother was.”
“It’s more dangerous than some madman.” Whose lilting footsteps sounded so oddly familiar.
35
MADELINE IS ELEVEN
Though the ground is frozen and dusted lightly with snow, Roderick and I pull on ugly woolen coats that the servants have found somewhere, and go outside.
Roderick stops at the wall that surrounds the herb garden and scrapes together enough snow to make a ball, and then he throws it directly at me.
I gasp as the cold hits my face, some of it sliding into the recesses of the shapeless coat.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I suppose that’s the sort of thing one does to a schoolmate, not a sister—” But I’ve scraped together my own snowball, and lob it at him. He throws up his hands in mock surrender, and I chase him, uncaring that the servants are watching through the kitchen window and that Mother would find fault with our lack of dignity. We run until we are both doubled over, laughing. Our breath fills the air with wisps of condensation, like ghosts, except outside.
The house casts a long shadow over everything, but the light through the windows is warm. I see Father limping past the parlor window. Pulling the curtains so Mother can rest, and I’m glad to be away from the house, even for a few moments.
“I thought you were going to cry, when I first hit you with that snowball,” Roderick admits.
“Iceball, you mean,” I put my hand to my cheek, which is most certainly bruised. “Don’t forget, I’m the oldest,” I say. And the bravest. I don’t say that part aloud, because I don’t have to. I’m the one who stayed home.
“I wish you could come to school with me,” Roderick says. “You’re more fun than any of the others. Even though you are a girl.”
“Come with me,” I say, and pull him along to a wide-open space where bits of grass peek up through the fine layer of snow.
“This is where I’m going to plant my garden,” I tell him. “It’s all mine.”
I lie down, solemnly moving my arms and legs in unison, to create a snow angel. Roderick throws himself down beside me.
“I could help you,” Roderick says. “When I am home for the summer.”
Part of me wants to say no, that the garden is mine, and mine alone, but instead I watch him climb to his feet and dust the snow from his jacket, and then I reach out my hand. He helps me to my feet, and we step away,
looking back to the snow angels. Side by side, identical.
36
MADELINE IS SIXTEEN
Today is March fifteenth. Our birthday. Roderick is still home, sad because his illness keeps his school friend from inviting him for a visit. He’s so disappointed that I am almost sorry for him, even though I’m thrilled that he’s been allowed to stay through our birthday. We celebrate quietly. The servants only remember when Roderick arrives with fanfare, announcing that it is our birthday.
This year there is no cake with candles. I’m glad. Growing older is ominous when you are an Usher. The house is more determined than ever to control us. Live through us. Is this what happened to our parents when they were coming of age?
We are sitting alone, in the chapel.
“Roderick, what happened to Father?” I ask, considering a crack in the stained-glass window. He waits so long to speak that I turn back to him.
He raises his eyebrows. They are so pale that you almost can’t see them. Mine are darker.
“I don’t remember him dying. He was here, and then he was gone. . . .” I falter.
“You don’t remember the funeral?”
I shake my head. Ashamed.
“There were red roses all throughout the lower floors, and it was unbearably hot here in the chapel. You were holding my hand. An organist came and played the old pipe organ. It was beautiful, but then one of the pipes fell. . . .”
“Roderick . . .” My voice fades, frozen by sudden fear. “That was Mother’s funeral.”
“No . . .” His brow furrows.
“When the pipe fell, it knocked over the roses. Hundreds of them, remember?”
Mother once said that the reason the Usher family donates so much money to charity is so that someone will send flowers when they die. We are silent for a long time, considering Mother’s funeral.
“At Mother’s funeral, there was a poem. . . .”
“Yes, one of the doctors read it. Dr. Paul, I think. He liked Mother.”
Dr. Paul stayed because of Mother. Since she died, he only smiles when he is taking blood.
“As I remember, there was the funeral with the poem, and all the flowers, and another one with the pipe organ, and flowers. . . .”
“They were the same, Roderick. A long ceremony. And we were by ourselves, remember?”
We sit in the chapel and watch the sun dissolve, red as blood, on the stones of our ancient home.
“One day maybe I will disappear,” I say softly, but Roderick doesn’t hear me.
37
MADELINE IS TEN
While most of the ghosts in the house are misty and ephemeral, sometimes you can see a waistcoat, or a petticoat, and sometimes you can make out facial expressions. In the red parlor, I often spot the ghost of a child wearing a dilapidated sailor suit.
I haven’t spoken to anyone, not Mother, or Father, or any of the servants, in days, so maybe it isn’t odd that the little spirit is so appealing. I’ve brought the chessboard with me, in some sort of optimistic hope that the boy might be able to do what his compatriots can’t, and move the pieces around.
“Hello,” I say, smiling. I reach out my hand slowly, and then, as he turns his face toward me, freeze. His attention chills me, but still I press on.
“I’m Madeline,” I say. “I suppose you are an Usher.” His hair is particularly pale. The same color as mine. I hold out the checkered board, an invitation. He shakes his head and then flashes out of existence. No evaporating fog, no wispy bits, just suddenly gone.
The wooden board falls from my hands, crashing to the floor, and at the same time chess pieces pour in through the doorways on opposite sides of the room, the cracks in the walls. Some are heavy marble in green and gold. Others are faded ivory, or perhaps bone. Shaped metal, gold and copper and age-darkened silver. They stream through the doors in a relentless tide, covering the ebony floor, the rug, the tip of my own slipper. A wealth of game pieces, and no one to play with.
What will the servants think of this, when they come to dust this room tomorrow?
I sit for a long time, wondering at the house, at what I’ve done wrong. From now on, I’ll ignore the ghosts, as they ignore me.
38
MADELINE IS SIXTEEN
“Stay with me,” I beg Roderick. “Don’t go back to school.” But I don’t mean it as much as I did before. With Roderick here, I’ve barely caught a glimpse of the young doctor in days.
We are in the dining room. I am at one end of the table, and he is at the other. Just like Mother and Father used to sit.
“You know I can’t. I promised Mother that I would finish. It’s only two more years.”
We sit in cold silence. I didn’t think he would stay, but his refusal still hurts.
“When I’m away from here, I’m always telling my friend about you.”
His friend.
“He is fascinated by you. I tell him how beautiful you are, how imaginative. He’s jealous that I have such a wonderful sister.”
I have an odd sinking sensation, a combination of nausea and happiness.
“Mr. Usher?”
I feel Roderick’s start of surprise at this unexpected and unwelcome intrusion.
Dr. Winston is peering through the gloom of the hallway into the gloom of the dining room.
“What?”
“Dr. Peridue has suggested that while you’re home, I might do a quick examination. He wants me to look specifically for signs of the family illness.”
“No,” Roderick says.
“It should be helpful to you, to work with doctors who are aware of your family history. . . .” He trails off as Roderick’s face turns purplish red.
“I said no. Absolutely not. I do not have the family illness.”
“Of course not.”
Dr. Winston turns away but doesn’t leave.
“I remember you,” Roderick says. “From somewhere.”
Dr. Winston gives a little smile. “I’m the apprentice doctor.”
“Yes, but I know you from someplace else.”
“We have passed before, at a country house. But I don’t believe we had ever spoken. I would remember if we had. Can I get you some water, sir?” Dr. Winston steps into the hall and returns with a glass of water.
Roderick’s eyes are narrowed to slits. “You’ve been here for months. When will you finish your apprenticeship and become a real doctor?”
“Oh, I won’t leave when I finish my apprenticeship.”
My young doctor turns toward me and smiles.
“Unlike you, Mr. Usher, I want to be here.”
39
MADELINE IS TWELVE
“Miss Madeline?”
I look up from my planting to see Mother’s maid, Agatha. Her face is shiny with sweat, though the day is cool.
“Yes?”
“The physicians sent me to tell you that your mother is dead.”
I am kneeling with my hands in the earth while an emotionless servant tells me that my mother is dead. I will never have a chance to make her love me. She will never again braid my hair, or tell me stories of when she was a girl.
I touch the slimy petal of one of the flowers. If the stems weren’t covered with a creeping fungus, I would gather them for her. She loved flowers.
“Go upstairs and put on one of your black dresses,” the maid says.
I don’t remember walking to my room. On my bedside table, there is a sheaf of writing paper. I had begun to write a letter to my brother but had given up in frustration when the words kept dancing around the page. As of last night, there had been nothing interesting to say. And now I won’t have to finish it, because Roderick will be coming home. He must. Our mother is dead.
Pressure builds at my temples, growing until light explodes behind my eyelids. I scream. Before I’m done, my ears are ringing. I take a step forward. The sound of my footstep echoes, and the light, the light in the room has become unbearable. I roll myself in a blanket and hide underneath my bed, sure tha
t, like Mother, I am dying.
I cry from pain rather than sadness.
40
MADELINE IS SIXTEEN
Tonight is Roderick’s last night home. We sit together in an alcove of the library. His eyes are closed, as if he’s half asleep, while I flip through a book. A headache threatens, and with the headache, perhaps a fit. I fight it down and hand the book to Roderick.
Cassandra lies in front of the door. She has been lethargic for the last few days. I walk over and rub her head. She gazes up at me lovingly. I want to lie down and put my head on her back, like a child. But Lisbeth Usher claims the library holds the answers that I need, so when I can, I search.
“Look, Madeline.” Roderick is pointing at an illustration in the ancient tome. “This is our house,” he whispers. “But it isn’t.”
The House of Usher? Surely not, for the house in the drawing sits on a dark cliff, and waves pound the sand below. But what did Father say the night he took me to the widow’s walk, about being away from the sea?
Roderick drops the book to the floor. I kneel down to retrieve it, hoping, as I look up into his eyes, that there is something here, something that will make him believe, but he is already shaking his head, retreating to his precious logic.
“Roderick, it even says it is the House of Usher.” I point down at the words.
THE LEGENDARY HOUSE OF USHER. It shows the family crest. In spite of myself, I feel a brief bit of pride. This house is so astonishingly old, and our family line, so ancient.
The scions of Usher picked up the very stones of the ancient mansion and removed them from the sacred land, taking them to the new world, even the dungeon and all of the instruments therein. The only thing that was lost was the goblet, and without the goblet, they could not mitigate the curse.
The Fall Page 7
