A wave of relief washed over Papa’s face. “Thank you, Annaleigh. Can you get it for us?”
Feeling like a marionette being jerked and tugged by strings against my will, I crossed to the bookcase the statue had fallen from. I pulled the thick volume off the shelf and ran my hand over its worn cover.
On my way back to Papa, I skirted around the mess of porcelain and marble, then froze. Written in the dust, by an unseen fingertip, was a message.
I EXIST.
Mercy and Honor were the only two who’d been near the mess, but they’d run away as soon as the bust fell. They wouldn’t have had time to write this. A faint flicker of hope warmed my heart. Had Cassius somehow written it? My head swam as I realized Kosamaras could have just as easily written it, wanting to drive me mad with uncertainty.
“Annaleigh?” Papa prompted.
I glanced back down at the floor before giving him the book, certain the words would be gone, that they were only in my mind, just as everything else had been. But they remained in place.
“Papa, there’s something you should see—”
A fresh scream cut through the air.
“Not now,” he said, rushing from the room with Camille.
A hot flash of lightning shot across the sky, followed seconds later by a rumble of thunder. It echoed in my chest, knocking my breath away. Even it could not drown out the sounds coming from the fourth floor.
“Someone ought to send for the midwife.” Honor crossed to the window, watching another bolt of lightning. “Do you think they’d make it in such a storm?”
“I’ll go,” I volunteered. It was a fool’s errand, but I was desperate to show my sisters I wasn’t the monster they now believed me to be. “I can take the skip, or the dinghy if the winds are too strong.”
Before anyone could talk me out of it, the gold clock sailed off the mantel, smashing to the floor in a pile of cogs and gears. Across the room, the piano came to life, clanging and clunking out an ugly series of notes as the keys pressed down on their own accord. It looked as though someone was walking down the length of ivory, stomping their feet. Our poltergeist had returned.
Mercy howled, bolting from the room, with Honor fast on her heels. Lenore silently looked to me, clearly uneasy.
“You should go after them. They’re likely to run right up to Morella’s room, and they don’t need to see anything that’s going on there.”
She bit her lip, then nodded.
“Lenore?” I asked as she got to the doorway. “You really don’t remember Cassius?” She shook her head. “What about the balls? The dancing? Did I make that up too? You were with me at nearly all of them.”
She opened her mouth, looking as if she was about to deny the memories, but paused. She shook her head once, twice, as though clearing it from a fog. For the first time since the funeral, she spoke. “I do remember dancing, but—”
Another crash of thunder interrupted her train of thought, then a pair of shrill screeches.
“Go. I’ll stay here, I promise.”
She turned and raced down the hall after the girls.
Lightning danced dangerously close to the window, and the responding boom was so loud, I ducked, covering my ears. The glass panes rattled in their casings. Had that bolt struck the house?
An unearthly howl came from upstairs. Memories of Mama’s labors sprang to mind, but it was far too early for Morella, wasn’t it? Even if the twins were conceived before she’d married Papa, as Camille was so very certain, she was only six months along. Maybe. It was too soon. Far too soon.
I paced the room, feeling like a caged animal.
Morella’s cries of anguish grew louder and louder, spilling into my mind as pervasively as Kosamaras’s laughter. Were the twins part of the bargain? Was Morella? How many people were fated to die today?
One loud, long scream rang through the house before it fell into an eerie stillness. The storm raged on, with flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder, but there was only silence from the fourth floor. I dared to cross into the hallway, straining my ears for the sound of a baby’s cry.
Only silence.
Then Camille. “Annaleigh? Annaleigh, we need you now!”
Rushing into the bedchamber, I was struck by a wall of iron-tainted air. The sheets were a tangled horror of blood and viscera. The babies had come.
Morella sprawled back into a pile of pillows, dozing or unconscious, I couldn’t say for certain. For a moment, I worried she was dead, but even from across the room, I could see her chest heaving. Papa knelt at the side of the bed, his hands enveloping hers as he whispered a silent prayer.
“The babies?” I asked stupidly, struck by how silent the room was.
Camille turned, holding out a blanket-covered bundle. I feared she’d cringe from me, as Honor and Mercy had. Tears streamed down her face, and I knew my math was right. It was too soon.
Wordlessly, she offered me the baby. Peeking inside the stained swaddling clothes, I spotted a beautiful tiny face, eyes closed. They would never open. He was a boy. Papa’s only son. Stillborn.
“What happened?” I kept my voice low. There was no other bundle in the room. This boy had been the first. Morella needed all the rest she could get if she was to deliver another child on this hellish day.
Camille glanced uneasily at the bed, then beckoned me into the hallway. I couldn’t bear to leave my brother, however small, however dead, by himself, so I took him with us. I rubbed his back, wishing that could return him to us.
“She was already in labor when we got here. She said the contractions came on fast and horribly strong. She’d been fine at breakfast, but then…She was bleeding so much. I didn’t know if that was normal. I can’t imagine that it was.” She nudged back a lock of hair with her wrist. I’d never seen her look so exhausted. “She started pushing, and he just came out in a rush of fluids and more blood. Papa caught him and…he never made a sound. He tried hitting him on the back, but he never woke up. I can’t do that again, not by myself. I know you’re not wholly well right now, Annaleigh, but I need you to be. I need my sister.” She held back a sob.
“Oh, Camille.” I threw my arms around her, not caring about her blood-soaked clothing, not caring about her accusations or the bargain. Relief raced through my body as she hugged me back.
“What is happening to our family?” I could barely hear the question with her face buried in my neck. “What were you talking about downstairs? A bargain?”
“Cassius…” She jerked away and I trailed off, seeing the nervous glint in her eyes. “I think someone in this house made a bargain with one of the Tricksters, Viscardi. I thought it was Papa, maybe. So he could have the twins. Then Sterland. But now I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Did Cassius tell you this?” Her voice was skeptical but not unkind.
My laugh was short and tasted like bitter coffee, brewed too strong. “He told me all kinds of things, but what is real and what isn’t? Are we actually here, having this conversation? What about him?” I raised the baby higher up on my shoulder. “Is he really dead, or is it just an illusion?”
“An illusion?” she repeated. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Of course he’s dead. Feel his chest. There’s no heartbeat. Listen to his lungs. They never drew breath.”
“But that could be what she wants us to see.”
Camille stamped her foot, her patience drawn too thin. “What she? Who are you talking about?”
“Kosamaras.” I rubbed circles across my brother’s tiny back. “She can make us see whatever she wants us to. Even a captain’s son no one else remembers.”
“Oh, Annaleigh.” She put her hand on my shoulder, her voice flush with understanding. “But why would she be here? What did we ever do to anger her?” I could see her wanting to listen, wanting to believe, but I didn�
�t know if she truly trusted what I was saying or if it was simply easier to think that than to know your sister was a murderer.
“She’s working for Viscardi. Tormenting us was part of his bargain.”
She glanced up, meeting my eyes with exhausted resignation. “Verity is dead, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know.” Tears came, swift and sudden. My throat felt clogged and thick. Kosamaras had gotten to her somehow, and I hadn’t been there to stop it. I’d never see her lopsided grin or her happy green eyes looking up at me again. “I think so.”
Camille let out a sob and bit into the back of her hand to stifle it. I hugged her again, holding our half brother between us.
Groans from Morella’s room interrupted us.
“She must be waking up. Do you think the other twin will come today?”
There was too much death already. I could not lose either of them as well. “We should go in and see.”
* * *
“Oh, Annaleigh, you’re here!” Morella held out her hands, beckoning me to join her.
Papa glanced at Camille. “Are you certain this is a good idea?” After a considered beat, she nodded, and he grudgingly allowed me access.
“How are you feeling? Have there been more contractions?”
“Not as intense. Not like before.” Her lips were pale—nearly the same shade the sheets had been—raw, chapped, and cracked from her screaming.
I spotted Hanna lingering in the corner. She looked as if she’d aged a decade since I last saw her, and I wondered again if everyone but me remembered Fisher’s death. Were those tired circles under her eyes etched from grief or another illusion from Kosamaras?
“Hanna, can you bring water, please? And fresh linens. Several sets.” I turned back to Papa. “Find a new nightgown for her?” I climbed into the bed, skirting the bloody mess as best I could. “We’ll get you cleaned up, Morella, all right?”
She sank backward, her eyes rolling shut. “You don’t need to bother. I think I’m dying.”
“You’re not,” I said with more confidence than I truly felt. “Tell me what happened.”
“You’ve seen your brother?” She broke into fresh tears. “I was resting after breakfast when there was a sudden sharp pain. Right here,” she said, pointing to her side. “It was like being ripped apart from the inside. Then a great gush of water. Maybe it was blood. Just when I thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, it did. Down…down there. I don’t remember much after that. But Ortun…” Sobs racked her body.
“Sometimes these things happen. Papa knows that.”
Thunder rumbled over Highmoor, shaking the breath from our chests. There was no way a midwife would make it to Salten in time.
Hanna returned with new sheets, and Papa tenderly scooped Morella up from the bed, heading to their bathroom. Camille offered to help clean and dress her while Hanna and I struggled with the bedding.
“Burn them,” I instructed, looking at the bloodied sheets. Stringy black streaks of discharge stuck to them like pitch tar. There was no way they’d ever be cleaned. “And have someone bring up warm broth for her. She’ll need to keep up her strength.”
Hanna glanced at the chaise, where I’d carefully rested my baby brother between soft throw pillows. “What should we do with…” She couldn’t finish.
In truth, I did not know. He’d eventually need a proper funeral, down in the crypt. When his little body finally returned to the Salt, would he know to look for his other sisters? Surely they’d be kind to him and show him love.
“Let me take care of him,” Papa volunteered, reentering the room. He tucked Morella beneath the clean sheets. “I will take care of my son.”
Morella burst into a fresh set of tears once he and Hanna left the room. “He’s going to hate me.” Her lips trembled, and I took her hand. It was shaking.
“He loves you,” I repeated. “You need to calm down. You’ve got the other baby to think about.”
She shook her head with such violence, she managed to undo the careful braid Camille had just plaited. “No. No. I’m not going through that again. I can’t deliver another dead child.”
My hand settled on her belly, searching for any sign of movement from the other twin. My heart sank as I shifted positions, praying to Pontus for a sign of life. Just as I pulled away, her stomach jumped, the baby inside lashing out as if to say, “I’m still here. Don’t forget me.”
She grimaced.
“See? The other baby is alive and well. And feels very strong!” I tried to laugh, hoping she’d smile back, but she rolled to her side, away from me.
“I can’t do it,” she whimpered.
At the edge of the bed, Camille shifted, clearly uncomfortable waiting. She raised one eyebrow at me, silently asking what we should do. Remembering the tray of lotion and oil, I crossed to the bureau.
“Why don’t Camille and I rub your feet?” I suggested, picking up the little vial of lavender oil. It would relax her and hopefully mask some of the foul odors lingering in the room. Breathing through my mouth helped only so much. I could taste the blood in the air, like copper coins weighing heavily on my tongue.
We knelt on either side of Morella’s legs. Spilling out several drops of the silvery fluid into my palm, I showed Camille how to rub the arches of her feet with ever-increasing pressure.
Morella groaned as a mild contraction clenched her abdomen. When it passed, she continued to weep. Her hysteria built, growing ripe and foul like a great blister, ready to burst and soak us all with its poison. She’d drive herself crazy, lingering on the agony and pain of the first delivery. She needed a distraction.
“This smells nice, doesn’t it?”
Her fingers clenched, balling up the sheet into a tight fist before smoothing it out, stretching the linen till threads snapped and unraveled.
“Does it remind you of the lavender fields near your home?”
She’d mentioned the fields of flowers before. Perhaps if I could get her talking about her childhood, she’d relax and stop putting so much stress on the remaining child.
Another contraction passed, and she frowned. “My home? No, we didn’t have lavender in the mountains.”
It was my turn to frown, though she didn’t see. Her eyes were shut, anticipating the pain of the next wave. “I thought you lived in the flatlands.”
She shook her head. “No. I grew up near one of the sharpest peaks in the range. But there were the most beautiful flowers just outside my village. Scarlet red, like shining rubies. They have a peculiarly sweet scent. It’s hard to describe but impossible to forget. I miss them so.” Her face scrunched as she tensed again. When the tightness passed, she opened her eyes. “There’s one on my vanity, that little glass flower.” Her bottom lip pushed out wistfully. “You can’t smell it, though.”
Camille slid off the bed to retrieve it for her. “It’s beautiful,” she said, handing it to Morella to focus on. “Like an exotic geranium.”
A memory stirred inside me. I’d heard something about little red flowers before. Something Cassius had said…
The Cardanian Mountains. The Nyxmist flower and the People of the Bones…
Viscardi’s people.
Another contraction, harder and longer than those before. Morella dropped the little bauble into the bedding as she doubled around the pain.
When her breathing returned to normal, I picked up the glass sphere, considering. “I’m sure once this is all over, Papa will get you a bouquet of these, the biggest you’ve ever seen. He’ll probably fill the whole house with them!”
Her smile was weak, her energy drained. “They only grow outside that village. It’s so far from Salten, they’d never make the journey.”
All of this sounded exactly like the People of the Bones. Surely a follower of Viscardi would have no qualm brokering an agreement with hi
m. I dug my fingers into her arch, rubbing her foot with a sharp focus. I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion with Sterland before. I didn’t want to make that mistake again. “That’s too bad. They’re Nyxmist, aren’t they?”
At the sound of the flower’s name, she froze. “You’ve heard of Nyxmist?”
I dared to meet her eyes, going for the jugular. “I never realized you were from the Cardanian Mountains. You never talk about it.”
Camille frowned, unaware of what Morella was about to give away. “You told me you grew up near Foresia, on the plains.”
Eyes widened, she felt herself caught in the lie. “I moved there…later. Once I became a midwife.”
“A governess,” I reminded her. Her ruse was showing, unraveling like a spool of thread. “Papa said you were a governess.”
She pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. It was damp with sweat. Her nightgown was already drenched as she curled around another contraction. My instincts screamed to help her, to ease her pain, but I ignored them and slid out of the bed. When the contraction passed, she lay back into the pillows, feigning sleep.
“How could you?”
She kept her eyes closed.
Camille’s mouth dropped open. “It was you? You made the bargain?” She’d put everything together.
Morella’s eyes slowly fluttered open. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”
Her voice was so weak and dry, rustling like leaves. She didn’t look long for this world.
“I knew the little ones wouldn’t, but I worried about you two.”
“Remember you?” Camille asked, appraising her with fresh eyes. “Remember you from what?”
“I served as one of the midwives for your mother’s confinement with Verity.”
I frowned, scanning hazy memories of the women in white who had descended upon Highmoor during Mama’s last pregnancy. Papa had spared no expense, saying he wanted the very best possible care for her. There’d been so many midwives and healers, I couldn’t recall them all.
“I was much younger,” she whispered. “Obviously. I never did live in the flatlands or work as a governess. Your father and I made all that up. I was born in the Cardanian Mountains and sent to the capital to study midwifery, like my mother and her mother before.” She took a deep breath. “Could I have some water, please?”
House of Salt and Sorrows Page 31