Everything seemed in order as I stepped onto the first floor. Potted ferns flanked the archway to the kitchens. No one could go past them without causing their riot of leaves to sway back and forth. They were still. The Graces must have headed toward the front of the house.
As I made my way down the main hallway, checking in the dining room, peeking into the solarium, it occurred to me how dim the main floor was. I couldn’t see the telltale glow from the girls’ candles. Honor lived in terror of the dark; surely she wouldn’t have come down without a light.
I listened for a noise to indicate which way they had gone. It felt as if they also paused, holding their breath, on tiptoe, trying hard not to laugh.
Turning a corner, I smashed into a dark figure. My strangled cry echoed down the corridor.
“Miss Thaumas!” Roland exclaimed, reaching out to steady me.
I jerked from his touch, Edgar’s suspicions racing through my mind. “I’m all right,” I assured him. “You just surprised me.”
Despite the late hour, he still looked impeccably crisp, his uniform carefully pressed and buttoned. Even his cravat was tied with tight precision.
“You’re up awfully late,” he said, his eyes trained on my own, careful to avoid acknowledging my nightgown. “Is there anything you require? A glass of water? Warm milk? Cook has already gone to bed, but I’m certain I could manage some tea. Some chamomile tea to help you sleep?”
I waved aside his offers. “I was looking for the Graces. Have you seen them?”
“Are they also not asleep?” he asked, peering around my shoulder as if to catch them sneaking up on us.
The taper’s flame caught in a draft, causing shadows to dance back and forth across Roland’s thin, pointed features. One moment, he was a leering gargoyle; the next, a trusted family confidant.
“They’re playing at some game. I was hoping to put them to bed before Papa finds out.”
“Should I wake the staff to help?”
I shook my head. “No—no, of course not. I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.”
Roland’s pale eyes dragged back to mine. He was waiting for me to release him, I knew that, but for a moment, it seemed he sensed I had matters other than the Graces on my mind.
“Do you…do you remember the night that Eulalie…”
He knit his silver brows, guessing at the evening in question. “Very well, my lady.”
“Did you see her at all—or see anything unusual about the house?”
Roland’s face fell. “Unfortunately not. I…I had the evening off for my mother’s birthday. Her eightieth, you see. There was a small celebration in Astrea. I left early that afternoon to help with preparations. My brother, Stamish—you know he’s the valet for King Alderon—even he was able to attend. It was quite a fete.” His mouth twisted. “I blame myself for Eulalie’s death. If I hadn’t left, if I’d only been here, I might have stopped her.”
“Stopped her from what?”
His long fingers flexed at his sides. “I don’t believe she was just out for a walk in the moonlight, as your father does…. The maids gossip something terrible, you know, and they were convinced she was running away that night. Eloping,” he added in so low a whisper, I barely heard it. “I noticed when Eulalie’s room was cleaned that a small valise was missing, as were some of her clothes and personal effects.” His eyes grew dark. “She was running away, Miss Thaumas, I just know it.”
“So her companion…pushed her from the cliffs, then?” I asked, careful to avoid clouding his theory with my own knowledge.
Roland cleared his throat, a sudden loud bark down the empty corridor. “Certainly not! It was windy that night…too windy to be out on the cliffs with an unwieldy piece of luggage. She should never have been out there in the first place…. It’s uncharitable to speak ill of the dead, but that watchmaker from Astrea was up to no good. He would have brought shame to this family. Shame to Eulalie. Perhaps it’s better he chose to…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Forgive me, Miss Thaumas. I’m speaking out of turn. Do you think we ought to relight the sconces?”
“The sconces?” I repeated.
“To find the little girls more easily.”
Apparently, our conversation about Eulalie had ended.
“Oh…no. I’m sure they’ve tired of the game and made their way to bed. Perhaps you ought to do the same?” I offered.
“You’re sure there’s nothing more I can do for you?”
I shook my head. “You do so much already. Good night, Roland.”
“Pleasant dreams, Miss Thaumas.”
I turned down another hallway, as though heading for the stairs, but stopped where my candle’s light would not be seen.
Despite Edgar’s certainty, Roland hadn’t been at Highmoor the night of Eulalie’s murder. I felt like crying. I was no further along than I’d been the night of her wake, but now I was wholly on my own, with Edgar’s death to consider as well. Where was I to go from here?
Wiping my eyes, I pushed off the wall. I needed to go to bed. Everything would seem better after a good night’s sleep.
As I passed the gallery, a rustle caught my attention.
Clearly, the Graces hadn’t made their way upstairs after all.
I entered the long room. Portraits of distant family members stared down at me from elaborate, heavy frames. No amount of passing years could erase the sharp scent of oil paints and varnishes burning my nose. Small statues, busts of previous dukes on marble plinths, dotted the room.
Coming around a particularly large bust, I stopped in my tracks. “Verity?”
She didn’t respond, and I glanced around the room, wondering if Mercy and Honor had planted her there to surprise me.
She sat in the middle of a moonbeam, tracing pictures across the floor with her fingertips.
“Verity?” I repeated, struck cold and suddenly convinced this wasn’t my little sister at all. When I finally reached her side, I feared a stranger would be in her place.
A stranger with black tears running down her face.
But it was Verity, all curls and round cheeks.
“Look at my drawing, Annaleigh!” she exclaimed.
I glanced at the floor. There was no paper, no pastels.
“I think you were sleepwalking, dear heart,” I murmured gently.
She shook her head, her eyes lucid and bright. “Come here.” She patted the floor in front of her.
I knelt down, certain Mercy and Honor were poised to rush out from a dark corner to startle me. When they didn’t, I gestured to the checkered tiles between us. “Tell me about your picture.”
“It’s Edgar,” she said, pointing to a blank square as my heart thudded to a stop.
“What?”
“See, here’s where he fell…” Her finger mimed a pool of blood.
I shook my head. “You didn’t see that.”
“…and here are his glasses….”
“You didn’t see any of that.”
Verity glanced up, surprised. “I didn’t need to. Eulalie told me.” She placed her warm hand over mine, misjudging the look of horror on my face. “Don’t be sad for Edgar, Annaleigh. He’s with Eulalie now. They’re together.”
“Eulalie told you this?” I echoed, my stomach twisting into painful knots. This was not normal. This was not a phase. Something was terribly, terribly wrong with my little sister.
She nodded, unconcerned, and a memory sparked within me. Something Fisher had said.
She was never one for a short story, was she?
“Verity…when Eulalie comes to visit, how do you talk to her? If there was something we wanted to ask her…could we?”
“Of course.”
“How do you find her? Do you have to wait for her to show up?”
“Do you want to talk w
ith Eulalie?”
I paused. This was utter madness. I shouldn’t be encouraging it.
I nodded all the same.
Verity’s eyes flitted from mine, staring just past my shoulder. “You can ask her now if you like.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “What do you mean?”
“She’s right there. They both are.”
I followed her finger, spotting two dark silhouettes in the window before I snapped my neck back, facing Verity. It was a trick of the light, long shadows cast from the plinths around the room. That was not Eulalie.
And then I heard it.
It was a soft rustling, silk skirts raking across the marble tiles, accompanied by the click of a man’s dress shoes.
They were heading toward me.
The footsteps stopped behind me, and I suddenly felt them, felt their presence, like a fish trained to sense the movements of its school even before they were made. My chest constricted, pulled too tight to take in a proper breath. Verity smiled up at the visitors, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn and do the same. I didn’t want to see my sister. Not like that. I leaned forward, resolutely keeping my eyes on the floor.
“She wants to know why you won’t look at her,” Verity said, her voice soft and distant.
“Eulalie?” I whispered faintly, feeling as though I’d gone mad. I tried to imagine I was in the crypt, sitting before her statue. What would I say then? “I…I miss you so much.”
“She misses you too.”
“Can you tell me about that night, out on the cliff walk? Edgar said he was supposed to meet you—but someone else was there instead?”
From the corner of my vision, I saw Verity slowly nod, her own eyes unspeakably large.
“Who was it? Who murdered you?”
My skin tingled, sensing Eulalie step even closer to me. A foul odor flooded my nostrils, like the funk of a fish market at the end of a hot day, the meat turned and spoiled.
A pair of cold hands grabbed my shoulder, and I sank my teeth into my lower lip, jerked backward. Her fingernails had been painted a cheerful coral, but the ends were scratched ragged, and two nails were missing from the waterlogged flesh. My eyes squeezed shut as a keening whimper escaped me.
“You!” Eulalie screeched, then shoved me forward with such force, I struck my head on the marble tiles.
I blinked away stars, ready to grab Verity and run, but the room was empty.
“Verity!” I called out, then lowered my voice. “Eulalie?”
From the far end of the room came the rustle of skirts again, near the windows. She must have snatched Verity and spirited her behind the drapes. Eulalie had always loved playing hide-and-seek.
I swallowed deep and approached the heavy velvet curtains. My imagination was flooded with a barrage of gruesome images as I anticipated what I was about to find.
Moonlight poured into the room, silvery and so thick I could almost touch it. With shaking hands, I yanked one panel back, then the other, but my sisters were not there.
Movement caught my attention. A butterfly, nearly as large as my hand, clung to a windowpane. It fluttered its wings, rustling up against the glass.
A second butterfly crept out from the folds of the curtains, crawling along the toothy surface. Strange markings like tiny, leering skulls dotted the wings. A third came down. Then a fourth. I backed away from the window, and one landed on my shoulder with surprising heft. It caught in my hair, tangled and twisting. I ran my fingers through the spot, hoping to rescue it, and my hand brushed against something furry.
In disgust, I shook my hair out. The insect landed on the floor with a thud much greater than a bug should make. Leaning in to examine it, I was disgusted to find the biggest moth I’d ever seen. Its wings were tattered and powdery, and it flopped against the tiles, struggling to right itself. Six legs, muscular and writhing, squirmed with rage. Huge antennae crowned the moth’s head, just above its bulging black eyes.
“Verity?” I cried again, but there was no response. My little sister was not here, and I was beginning to think she never had been. My head felt loose and disjointed as I struggled to put together what was happening to me.
Another moth sailed in from above, landing next to the first. Backing away, I stepped on one. Feeling the wings crunch beneath my toes, I panicked and bolted from the room before any could come after me.
Daring to look back, I saw a swarm of moths, many hundreds strong, settled on the statues, the paintings, the fireplace mantel—anywhere they wanted. I charged up the stairs to the fourth floor.
“Papa! You have to wake up!” I cried, bursting into his bedroom.
From the noises coming out of the bed—its drapes blessedly closed—it was suddenly painfully obvious that Papa was not sleeping. Morella’s cries of ecstasy turned into a strangled howl of frustration.
“Go away, Annaleigh,” she commanded through gritted teeth.
“But there’s…” I trailed off. My chest felt a painful jumble of warring emotions. The terror I’d felt downstairs was momentarily drowned out by the boiling-hot acid of sheer mortification.
Bedsheets untangled with another loud sigh. Papa’s head poked out from the curtains, flushed red by exertions I never cared to think about. “What is it, child?”
“I can’t find Verity, and there are moths. Hundreds of them. All over the gallery.”
There was a long moment of silence. I tried not to imagine what had been going on before I stormed in, but I couldn’t erase the sounds from my head. A hand pushed aside the curtains, and Papa pulled a robe off the bedpost, muttering something I couldn’t hear. I saw a quick flash of Morella’s white body before he drew the curtains shut around her.
“Show me,” he ordered, tying a knot in place.
His face was terrifyingly stern as we reached the main floor. I stopped outside the doors of the gallery, too frightened to go in. I couldn’t bear to see their furry bodies crawling over everything.
“Annaleigh, explain yourself.”
I dared to peek in. The gallery was empty. Papa turned on several of the gas lamps, looking for evidence of the swarm, but there was nothing.
“I don’t understand.” I shook out the drapes. Perhaps some had hidden away in the folds. “They were here. Everywhere. I stepped on one right there.”
I crossed to the fireplace. Had they all flown up the flue and clung to the darkened bricks like bats in a cave? I looked up, certain I would be attacked by large, moldering wings.
It was clean.
Papa stared out the window, limned by moonlight. Waves of tangible fury radiated from him. “This wasn’t funny, Annaleigh.”
“But, Papa, they really were—”
“I know you older girls are not keen on my relationship with Morella, but she is my wife, and I will not have you interrupting our nights like this again.”
My mouth dropped open. Did he really believe this was a mean-spirited prank? “That wasn’t what— I didn’t even know you were…” I stopped, my cheeks burning. No amount of remorse could make me finish that sentence.
“Go to bed, Annaleigh.”
“But Verity—”
“Verity is asleep in her room. We’ll deal with this when I return from Vasa.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he immediately cut me off. “Not another word.”
I trudged out of the room when it became clear he wasn’t going to listen to me any longer. He crossed to the foyer, taking the long way up to avoid me. My stomach twisted as I watched him go.
What had just happened? First Verity and Eulalie, then the moths. I paused at the foot of the stairs, then turned and went back to the gallery, certain I’d find it crawling with the flying monsters.
It was empty.
I left, rubbing my temple and feeling not altogether there. I’d never been prone to sle
epwalking before, but perhaps I’d dreamt the nightmare up.
But it had felt so real.
Elizabeth had spoken of seeing ghastly things before she took her fateful bath. Shadows that weren’t there. Omens in tea leaves. She once spent a whole afternoon trapped in her room, too frightened to leave because she’d seen an owl fly by in broad daylight and claimed it was a sign foreshadowing death. Servants whispered she’d gone mad.
When I reached the third floor, I immediately went to Verity’s room, convinced it would be empty. But I found her, just as Papa had predicted I would, in bed and fast asleep.
I watched her chest rise and fall with slow regularity. She’d been sleeping for quite some time, not downstairs speaking to our dead sister. I rubbed my eyes, pushing back a horde of unhelpful thoughts.
I was tired. That’s all it was. An exhausted mind was apt to play tricks—there were certainly enough stories of sleepy sailors spotting ghost ships or mermaids on the midnight watch.
That’s all it was.
I turned away, heading for my room. After a good night’s rest, everything would look better.
I heard the screams before I woke up. But this time it wasn’t my nightmare.
It was Morella.
On the fourth floor, Roland paced outside the bedroom, barred from coming in by some ridiculous notion about where men ought to be during moments of womanly crisis. My sisters surrounded her canopied bed, their faces helpless against the wailing figure in the middle of it.
“Make it stop! Oh, please, Annaleigh, make it stop!”
Morella’s nightgown rode up over her bump, twisting around her body like an eel as she thrashed back and forth in pain. She dripped with sweat and was burning to the touch. I joined her on the bed, trying to calm her writhing.
“Where does it hurt?”
She rubbed her burgeoning belly. “It feels as though I will rip apart!”
“Shhh,” I soothed, stroking her forehead. “You need to calm down. This panic isn’t good for the babies. Rosalie, get a bowl of water and some fresh towels,” I ordered, taking control since no one else had. “Lenore, bring some lotion and lavender oil. Verity and Mercy, see if Cook has some chamomile tea. Honor, find a fresh nightgown, will you?”
House of Salt and Sorrows Page 16