by Emma Beaven
“Are you hungry?”
Rose snapped back to attention, her fingers tingling. “I don’t know.”
“I’ve locked her room from the outside. You don’t need to worry.”
“You locked her up?” she asked incredulously.
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“Why did she hurt me?”
“I….” Her father paused, his mouth opening and closing silently. “She… is not well.”
“And I am?”
“I’m sorry.”
Rose leaned back against the couch. “You couldn’t have known.” She paused to study her father’s face. “Could you?”
He shook his head, and she caught a strange glint in his eye, as if tears were welling at the brim. “I’m sorry.”
“Daddy?”
“Would you like salmon for supper? It’s been delivered.”
Rose rubbed her forehead. The pain in the back of her wound seemed to have slipped beneath her skull and had begun to bite and tear like her usual headaches. “I suppose.”
“Why don’t you go and change for dinner, then.” He tried to smile, but it failed to meet his eyes. “Do you need help?”
“No,” Rose said softly. “I just need to know what she said.”
Fifty-Five
“Rose?” Maggie was sniveling, tears brimming at the edges of her eyelids.
Rose turned, coldness spreading through her veins, sapping the warmth from her blood.
“Are… are—” Her voice hitched as she sucked up snot.
Rose stared hard at her, her eyes narrowed. “You’re a mess.”
“I know. I… I… I…,” Maggie said, tears now streaming down her cheeks.
“What do you want?”
“I didn’t mean it.”
Rose had turned, anger suddenly coursing through her, raging beneath her skin as her sister, who had been so distant since she’d come back, dared to seek her pity, but Maggie’s words made her snap her head back around. “Didn’t mean what?”
“I didn’t know she would hurt you. I don’t know what’s wrong with my head!” Maggie smashed her fists into the side of her head as she let out an agonized yelp.
“What?” Rose demanded, stamping her foot against the floor.
Maggie reached out as if to hug her sister. Rose stepped back quickly before she could make contact, her lips tight.
“Please, Rose. Please!”
“What was it?”
“We… she…,” Maggie stammered, her eyes turning toward the floor. “You don’t understand. Something’s wrong now.” She rubbed her temples. “I can feel it.”
As Rose watched Maggie rubbing her head, she reached back to the wound in her own head to trace her fingers along the tattered skin. The pulsing had subsided, but she could feel something wet and slimy oozing from the gash.
“I can feel something moving at night.”
“So you and Mariotta thought you would kill me?”
“No!” Maggie said. “We thought—”
“What?”
“I saw you that day.” Maggie paused. “I touched you.”
“And?”
“You were cold.”
Rose’s mouth opened slightly, a rush of words running through her head but nothing making it to her mouth. She poked at the back of her head distractedly, fixated on her sister.
“We thought you were dead.” Maggie looked into Rose’s eyes for a moment and then quickly put her head down. “I… I’m not feeling well.”
Rose shrugged. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I would never have hurt you, but—”
“You wanted to see the blood.”
“No!” Maggie said loudly, shaking her head from side to side. “I just… I can’t explain it.”
“You thought you would kill me for good this time.”
“She did. She said it wasn’t fair. She said you didn’t deserve it.”
“I don’t deserve to live?”
“Please, Rose! Forgive me! Forgive me!” Maggie broke down in fresh tears, her breath coming out in loud, wild spasms as she reached tearstained hands toward Rose yet again.
“I’ll consider it,” Rose said as a trickle of blood dripped from her head to the floor.
Fifty-Six
Rose stood in the dark hallway, caught between deciding on her resting place for this particular evening and trying to open the locked door to Mariotta’s room.
Her terrible traitor sister seemed to have collapsed upon her own guilt and hoped to somehow reengage in their previous relationship. So Rose thought maybe, just maybe, she would allow Maggie some hope by joining her back in her old bedroom. But the door before her, firmly shut and locked, held something she wanted more.
Mariotta, after all, had tried to murder her. Tried to murder her after she’d escaped death itself. As if she hadn’t been through enough.
And what exactly had she said to the doctor?
Rose stuck the tip of her index finger into the lock. Her father must have the key. Or one of the servants. If the servants had it, she might be able to get it.
A slight rustling, like the moving of bedclothes, sounded from the room. Rose stuck her hand out and touched the knob, trying to turn it ever so gently. It moved slightly to the right and then stopped. Rose turned it harder, but it refused to give.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Rose froze. The voice had come from beyond the door. Slowly, after looking twice over her shoulder, she bent down cautiously and pressed her head against the door.
After listening a moment, Rose threw herself back as if she’d been smacked. She’d heard a woman’s voice, and it wasn’t her stepmother’s. Mariotta was having a conversation with someone. Could one of the servants be in there with her?
Rose backed up another step, then shuffled to the end of the hallway, where her former bedroom’s door was cracked slightly, and her father’s door lay completely open. She stared at the door for a moment, wishing Maggie would emerge from it to reassure her.
Suddenly, the sound of loud whispering emanated from Mariotta’s room, and a surge of what felt like icy water trickled down Rose’s back and legs. The whispering was fast, punctuated by sharp exhalations. She willed herself to move.
“She’s still out there.”
That time Rose did move, her body propelling itself frantically to perceived safety, away from the horrible voice whispering to Mariotta in the locked room, the voice that sensed Rose even as she stood in silence outside the heavy door.
She stifled a scream as the door to her old bedroom flew open, and Maggie poked her head out, her eyes glittery with moisture. “Rose?”
“Shhh!” Rose hissed loudly, pushing her way past Maggie and into the familiar surroundings of her bedroom.
Maggie followed her timidly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “You heard it, didn’t you?”
Rose stared at Maggie for a moment, watching the dark fingers of terror clouding her pale blue eyes as her body, uncharacteristically hunched over, trembled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rose said.
Fifty-Seven
The next day, as the house shuddered in the rage of a fresh storm, Rose stood silently in the hallway, watching the door. She stayed close to her bedroom, waiting for one of the servants to go in and check on Mariotta, but the entire time, no one passed by the door. With her fear still raw, she couldn’t bring herself to press her ear to the door again. Eventually she tired of stalking the hallway and retreated downstairs.
Rose paused in the front hall downstairs, her eyes moving from the parlor door to the one leading out to the porch. Above the ticking of the clock, she distinctly heard the tapping of needles in the parlor, a sign that her sister had taken shelter there.
Rose opened the door and walked out onto the wet porch, inhaling the heavy scent of rain that suffused the air. She scooted close to the stairs, the sound of the rushing water filling her ears and blotting ou
t all other stimuli. The camellia bushes whipped violently in the gusts of wind that burst through the air, sending the rain fleeing sideways. She reached a hand out from under the shelter of the porch to try to catch the falling drops.
Things had changed. Mariotta was locked in her room like the horrible witch she was, Maggie was begging for Rose’s attention, and best of all, she continued to sleep through the nights without interruption from the wicked images inside her brain. Somehow, it seemed, her whole world had righted itself after her ordeal. The world seemed somehow clearer, like she could see every fine detail of each object. Today, when she’d awakened, she could see every fiber of her blanket and every small crack and scrape on her headboard. The smooth feel of the muslin dress had gently caressed her skin, sliding down her body like a waterfall of fresh cream.
Rose clenched her hand into a wet fist and smiled. Maybe her family members weren’t the only ones who thought she’d died. Somehow, she’d been set free, released from her oppression.
Her smile died slightly. Now something was upsetting Maggie. And her sister had nothing to do with it, really.
Lifting her hands to her head, she tried to stop the tumult of thoughts, to pretend the previous one had never entered her brain. After all, there was no need to think about it anymore. Especially now when life seemed to have taken such a huge turn for the better. There was nothing dwelling on it could do, nothing it could change.
She sighed and turned to stare at the house. Suddenly it seemed less of a cozy refuge from the pouring rain. She couldn’t even see the lights that should have been dancing in the windows in the dark rooms.
“I need to lie down,” Rose whispered to herself, hesitantly oscillating between the rainy yard and the melancholy of the dreary house. She scratched at her head, her fingers drifting once again toward the damaged skin. It itched so badly. Perhaps she could just scratch around the torn area without drawing blood.
She pushed her nails into the slightly swollen flesh around the area, slowly scraping at the inflamed skin. Calm settled over her as she suppressed the itch, her nails moving deeper and faster. She stepped out into the rain and breathed deeply as it danced through her hair and soaked her clothing. She whirled around and around, her right hand gripping the back of her head as she sighed.
“Miss Shedd? Rose?”
Rose stopped abruptly, the muffled voice breaking her trance. Her heart sank even before she turned to face the hedge of camellia bushes to see the rain-draped figure.
Henry.
She moved her hand away from her head and held it in front of her as if to wave. The coating of blood, skin, and scab that was caked under her fingernails immediately began to run in the rain.
Fifty-Eight
One week later, the house still stifled in the grip of the heat, Rose sat in front of the large mirror attached to her bureau, the long-awaited and previously postponed dinner at the McCanns’ now only an hour away. Maggie rustled over to her, her lips stretched far across her cheeks as she widened her smile. Maggie slipped behind and clasped the favored cross necklace onto Rose, where it glistened against her chest.
Rose shuddered from the sudden cold of both her sister’s fingers and the necklace. She examined Maggie’s reflection carefully, her old suspicions slowly taking root within her once again. It was a sign that she needed to get out. Now.
“What’s wrong?” Maggie asked.
“Nothing.” Rose shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the mirror.
“Why are you staring like that?”
“I don’t know if it looks right.”
Maggie’s features clenched briefly. “What doesn’t look right?”
“The whole thing,” Rose said, her hands flying up and framing the shape of her body before coming to rest back at her sides.
“You look fine,” Maggie said, grimacing slightly. “You’re lucky.”
“For once in my life, maybe.” Rose sighed.
“Please.” Maggie scoffed. “You’re just trying to rub it in.”
“How am I rubbing it in?” Rose asked, her voice rising.
“I don’t want to fight again. Not now.”
“We were never fighting,” Rose said quietly, her shoulders sagging.
Maggie inhaled deeply. “I’m surprised I lost. Really I am. This is truly your first streak of luck ever, I think.”
“I need to leave this place.” Rose clapped a hand to her mouth as soon as she’d said it. It only made her sound odd, and she didn’t want anyone to think she’d gone mad again.
“Is it because of what happened to Sarah?”
Rose stiffened, shock written all over her face. “Now why in the world would you say something like that?” she said softly, her voice laced with menace.
Maggie’s faint smile collapsed as she stared at her sister’s reflection. “I know you’ve never been the same since. And it couldn’t be for grief, because you never liked her.”
“How dare you!” Rose said tightly, standing up and shoving the stool against Maggie’s shins. “How dare you say something like that to me? What exactly are you trying to imply?”
“I’m just trying to understand,” Maggie said, her sudden bravado fading into the tense atmosphere.
“There’s nothing to understand.” Rose sank back into her seat, her look silencing Maggie completely. Her excitement had faded, having been replaced by a horrible, draining fatigue that spread through every limb, making it difficult to move. Suddenly she wanted to go to sleep, to simply fade away.
“Do you still want my help?”
Rose turned her head sharply, her eyes glittering with malice.
“I meant with your hair,” Maggie said. “I just don’t know how you want it. Really I don’t.”
Rose snorted and glared at her sister. “Are you trying to change the subject?”
“Well, I won’t be able to if you’re going to be so blunt.”
“Maggie, can’t we just forget all this?” Rose pleaded. “All this… mess.”
“I don’t know how easily we’ll be able to cover your wound,” Maggie said, shame hanging heavy in her voice. “It’s still so raw-looking. Have you been picking at it?”
“Picking at it?” Rose said sharply as she clenched her fists closed, her nails digging into her palms. “I’m not a child.”
“Fine.” Maggie sighed. “Does it hurt when I pull?”
She pulled Rose’s hair back and twirled it around her fist. Rose stared unblinking, her image suddenly taking on a grayish aspect, as if she were about to faint again.
“I don’t know. No, I guess not.”
“You don’t know whether it hurts?”
“Do you know how long it bled?”
Maggie shook her head, a pinkish color suddenly spreading across her cheeks. “No, Rose. I couldn’t watch.”
“My head doesn’t hurt anymore. Ever.”
Maggie smiled faintly. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”
“I would expect it to hurt more, wouldn’t you?” Rose gripped her sister’s hand and pushed it away from her head. “I would imagine that when one bleeds, one is suffering, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t like this, Rose.”
“I thought you wanted to know.”
Maggie paused and inhaled sharply. “I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just get ready, all right?” Rose collected her shawl from the bed. “I think things will be better soon. And when they’re better, maybe then I’ll tell you.”
Fifty-Nine
Rose suppressed a giggle. She was stunned that she was actually here, actually sitting down at the table to eat. Once again, she felt completely free of the heavy oppression of her house. And she was here, at the McCanns’ house, the object of her affections sitting at the far end of the table.
Henry looked pale in the diffused light of the dining room, his eyes shining brightly out of purple-rimmed sockets. There was barely a sound at the dining table aside from the various clashes of silverware on china
. In fact, it reminded Rose quite a bit of her dinners at home. But rather than staring at subtle signs from her sister or her stepmother, she was surreptitiously attempting to keep her eyes on Henry.
Unfortunately, he had barely glanced at her tonight, which Rose found rather perplexing. He and her father had exchanged looks and a few words, but other than that, he seemed to be staring at nothing but the flickering candlelight. He looked strange, almost sick, and a tinge of worry flickered through her as she peered again at the lackluster sheen of his skin.
Rose and Maggie had both dressed formally, she having felt the need to shed her normal attire, and Maggie following suit in what Rose suspected was an effort to please her. They were both ensconced in fine white silk, lace shawls clinging to their arms. It irritated Rose somewhat that Maggie was dressed so similarly to her, imitating her as if perhaps that would impress Henry.
Rose plucked at the feather attached to the back of her head in a vague attempt to hide her wound. It looked terrible, and she was afraid it was simply drawing more attention to both her and the horrible gash. Maggie wore a simple band to hold back her curls, it being much more appropriate for dinner.
Henry turned toward her, his gaze not quite falling on her, as she continued to pull at the poorly attached white feather. Rose noticed how terrible his pallor was against his navy jacket. He smiled slightly, as if he could see her watching him from the corner of his eye. She recoiled inadvertently, the feeling that frequently oppressed her in her own home seemingly having leaked into the neighboring house to cast its terrible wings about her.
Rose had hoped that somehow this would be the night that would change her life, that at least she and Henry would enter into a courtship, and before she knew it, she’d be married and away from here. But for now, she was stuck at the table in uncomfortable silence, wishing she could somehow dive into the mural painted on the western wall of the dining room.