“Is it okay if I ask you questions? Can you just not remember the moments before you were sick?”
“I remember the smell of hay and hearing songs. And smoke. I have dreams of—I don’t know how to explain them, but they’re connected somehow. I feel it. I don’t remember anything else, not clear pictures, and it’s not normal, I don’t think. I can’t place where or when. Or who I was with. I don’t remember my mother or anyone. I think I sometimes remember Father, but I can’t tell if I’m just recalling dreams.”
“That must be frustrating, sorry.” Quite odd, especially the hay thing. Father had hay for André to practice with the Widow, but she couldn’t imagine someone who lived in a fancy manor needing hay. “Do you have any horses you feed hay?”
Jehanne’s knuckles whitened. “Not that I know of, but you’re right, it is strange. My mind’ll fix itself, won’t it? I wish I could know, but I can’t crack open my own skull to see.”
“That’d do no good for your head.”
Jehanne laughed, and Marcy liked the sound of it. Jehanne looked wild and pretty when she smiled, and Marcy found her worries over André dampening. For a breezy point in time, Marcy was not only content, but she had forgotten about the war and the missing children.
Marcy asked, “Do you have a doctor to do tests?”
“Father doesn’t trust doctors.”
Empathy swelled and swarmed in Marcy. “I know what that’s like. Maman’s peculiar about medicine.” Maman would administer half, always half, of the instructed dosage. Marcy remembered the pharmacy when she was younger, the way Maman kept her close. The man with the ashen face at the drugstore counter was nice and made Maman pay less, but Maman wouldn’t look him in the eye.
(“Ten drops, Maman. The man at the counter said ten, not five.”
“Pardon my language, darling, but I don’t care what the damn fool at the counter said.” Maman’s eyes unfocused as she squeezed her daughter’s knee in clumsy reassurance that the ire wasn’t for her, and Marcy remained silent as Maman handed her the dose.)
In earnest, Marcy said, “I’m glad you didn’t die though. It’s so strange, but wonderful to meet a girl close to my age. If there’s anything I can do to help you—”
Jehanne asked abruptly, “Do you want to hear about the strange dreams? They’re in my head now.”
“Sure.” Marcy knew that, at least for her, it was easier to talk to someone she hardly knew, to spill out what she couldn’t tell those at home. Maman carried her for nine months, and yet Marcy felt like they were two separate species. Papa would rub Marcy’s back, but she almost felt like revealing anything bad, putting words to it, would somehow disappoint him because they took joy from each other’s happiness. She couldn’t ruin that. But even though she didn’t know Jehanne that well, it was like they were connected by the spine.
“Angels, there are angels with eyes, so many eyes and wings and teeth and fire.”
Eyes and wings? Seemed normal, not that Marcy was an angel expert. Teeth and fire? That sounded more hellish than any engravings of angels with their flowing curls and long, white robes. But it interested Marcy more than it frightened her. New stories were the best sorts of stories. “How do you know they’re angels? The wings?”
Jehanne sucked in her bottom lip. “That’s a good question. I just know.”
“I’m sorry to change the subject—”
“No, go ahead.”
“My maman always keeps me in the house, and it’s making me balmy.” Marcy didn’t like bad-mouthing Maman because Maman, like everyone, had her reasons for being strange.
“I know how that is.” The wind made the trees breathe.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters to keep you company?”
“I . . . not that I recall.” Jehanne knitted her brow, as if confused. “Not that I know of.”
Marcy’s face scrunched in concern. “What is it?”
“I just had one of these half-thoughts like I remembered something, but I can’t tell if it happened or if it was a dream.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know the story about the sheep in the Book of Luke? Or the story about the lost son?”
“Yes.” It’d been years since Marcy touched the Bible. She was only Catholic because she didn’t really know what else to be. She was baptized, and she had gone to church three times in the last decade. That was as good a confirmation as any.
“If a man has one hundred sheep and one strays, he looks for that lost one instead of tending to the others who don’t wander. If a man has a son who leaves and sins and a son who always stays, the father gives the errant one more attention than the one who obeys and never leaves.”
Maybe Marcy would’ve understood if she were a better Catholic. “I don’t follow.”
“I feel like I’m that lost sheep or that lost son, lost and found, but I can’t remember anything after returning home.”
“If you have faith, then it should all make sense in time, right?” To Marcy, faith was like a cluster of fireflies, like the sparrows that’d perch by her window but fly off if she dared to reach for them.
Jehanne opened her mouth—
“Jehanne!”
Startled, Marcy scrambled to keep from falling out of the tree, and it took her time before she looked down. Below them was a woman with pinned-up hair so like Maman’s with its curls and dark color. It’d be easy from a distance to mistake this woman for Maman, except she looked young, even with the sad bruises under her eyes and the scowl set on her mouth.
The woman said, “Get down here.”
Marcy gave a start and looked helplessly at Jehanne, whose expression was one of dread. “I thought your maman was . . .”
Jehanne sighed. “Servant, a bossy one.” Conspiratorially, she leaned close. “Should be careful. If I fall on her, I don’t think she’d forgive me.” She had an odd look.
“What is it?” Marcy asked.
The other girl’s nose twitched. “She’s never said my name before.”
Marcy hurried out her response. “We can see each other again, right?” From below, the woman’s eyes burned into her.
What sort of world is this girl from?
Despite the question, Marcy wanted to see it. She had visited the ocean with her family when she was a child, and Jehanne was her new ocean.
With a cheeky smile, Jehanne told Marcy the four digits of her telephone number, and the second her feet hit the ground, the hawkish servant latched on to her wrist. As the two grew smaller with distance, pity and residual guilt welled up; Marcy had let her loneliness convince her it was better for Jehanne to stay with her instead of hurrying home.
But she had made a friend, and surely that’d lead to great things, so she allowed herself to relish that like one of Papa’s raspberry tarts, even as the day grew shadowed and a blackbird shuffled on the ground, croaking with unease.
6
Jehanne
Clair was stronger than she had any right to be.
“What were you thinking?” The servant all but barked out as she dragged Jehanne past the front gate. “Do you know what your father would’ve done if you were hurt? What he would’ve done to himself? To us?”
Jehanne’s teeth clacked together. “You can’t talk to me like this.”
“You could’ve died. Do you understand that much?”
“I’m not stupid. I just went to the park. It isn’t as if I tried to go to the front lines—”
“That’s not funny.” Clair opened the front door and propped it open with one hand. “Your father was hysterical, and he would’ve—”
“But I’m all right, aren’t I?” Jehanne yanked away as the door thudded shut behind them. “If you please, I’d like to keep my shoulder in place.” Hysterical. Yes, Father, from what Jehanne had seen of him, was frail, like the slightest wind would make him go from brittle to broken. Her servant hadn’t been jesting—well, she never jested—when she said the war terrorized him.
Clair
raked her hands through her hair, which stuck out in odd places and came loose from her pins. Her eyes were as wide as an owl’s and as frantic as a starving fox’s.
Jehanne’s heart thudded so hard it hurt as she followed her servant to the study. It looked the same as it had early that morning, even down to Father and M. Moreau whispering together, except, this time, they were on their feet.
As the two men stood beside one another, Jehanne noticed Moreau was taller than Father, by at least a nose, and leaner. He was clean and neat, except for four red lines on his wrist. When Moreau caught Jehanne staring at the scratches, he pulled his cuff down.
Father went over to Jehanne, and his touch on her arms was gentle. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He looked behind Jehanne. “What was she doing?”
Clair replied, “She was at the park with another girl.”
Jehanne added, “She was harmless.”
Father snapped his fingers. “Leave, the both of you.”
Both the servants departed; once their footsteps faded and Father was satisfied with their distance, his eyes met Jehanne’s. Her throat felt as if God had stuffed it with lead.
“Why did you leave without telling me?” Father’s voice was deep, insistent. He hadn’t released her.
“I just needed the air.”
“And you had to go that far?”
“It wasn’t that far, not really.”
“You are my world—”
“And you’re mine.”
“And to lose you again—”
“I’m not lost.”
“Let me finish. If I lost you again to another fit of delirium, I wouldn’t survive.”
“Is that why I passed out by the river?”
“Yes, but that’s not the topic at hand.” He paced. “You mustn’t leave without telling me again.”
“All right, I won’t.” Something burdened him, something that lent a quickness to his movements. “Father?”
He snapped his head up. “Yes?” Even though his voice was rougher than usual, it calmed her, as if Father possessed some sort of mystical charm, some power to sway others to his side. Even now, Jehanne wanted to curl up beside him and sleep by the hearth under his steady hand.
Jehanne swallowed, her back losing its weight. “Is there something else wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Father graced her with a morose half-smile. “Only your presence is needed.” With caustic humor, he added, “And your consideration.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Pup, you’re flushed. You should go rest, and Clair will bring you food when it’s time for supper.”
“I don’t need to rest.”
“Yes, well, I do.”
H
Jehanne couldn’t let the matter rest there, so it was late at night, when Mlle Clair retired to the attic, that she slipped through the hallways and tried to find Father’s room.
She didn’t know where to go till she heard deep sobbing.
She encountered Moreau. He was in a robe, and in the shadows, she couldn’t tell if his legs were clad. What an odd thing that he was already undressed. Father must’ve called for his assistance while Moreau was in bed.
She thought she’d be in trouble, but Moreau only looked at her with a sharp curiosity. Jehanne asked, “Does he do this often?”
Moreau rolled a shoulder. “Yes.” He said it like she’d asked him whether it’d rain.
“What should I do?”
The lines of his mouth were black. “Your guess is as good as mine.” Before Jehanne could ask anything else, he tore away.
What a strange man.
Swallowing, Jehanne rested her hand on the cool, dark wood of the bedroom door. It was just Father. Hesitance and fear were nonsensical because Father had shown only love in the little time she knew him in this strange second life of hers. That completeness in her blood when he embraced her hadn’t dwindled. Even his frustration after her disobedience sprung from his devotion toward her.
She inched open the door and stepped in Father’s bedroom. The room looked like Jehanne’s, only bluer, which calmed her. Same wardrobe, bookshelves, bed, and boudoir. He knelt not by his bed, but on the floor in front of his wardrobe. On the left door hung an imperious gold crucifix Father kept a fair distance from.
Father balled his hands to his slick forehead. “Forgive us our dead—our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not—”
“Father?”
His head snapped to Jehanne, and his voice was a timid croak. He was a striking image, like the Virgin Mary, eyes brighter and more piercing from his unshed tears. “You shouldn’t be here, pup. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Jehanne lowered herself beside him. “Why are you crying?” Even though she wasn’t touching him, his warmth settled on her arm. “Is it because I went too far without supervision? I’m sorry.”
“No, it isn’t that, pup.”
“Can’t you go see your doves, the ones you talked to Moreau about? They’re still there, aren’t they? Will they calm you?”
“Some of them are there, yes, in the dove room, kept locked up and safe. They’re sensitive birds.” Father worried the hands he’d clasped in prayer. Jehanne took them both in her own.
“I can take you to them, if that’d calm you, give you peace.”
“You don’t know where their room is.”
“I don’t know where most of the rooms are, or what they are. But I found you, didn’t I?”
His eyes bore a hole in the floor close to her. “That you did.”
“Have you eaten today?” He hadn’t eaten breakfast with her, and when she inquired, he shrugged it off and said he had no appetite.
He froze at her question, eyes wide and bright.
“Oh, Father, you can’t stop eating. What happened? I want to help. Please, let me make you feel better.”
“How? What makes you think anything but your presence is needed?”
“I still see tears, so that’s not working.”
He chuckled, even as the tears still ran. “What do you propose?”
“Something, I don’t know. I can’t do anything if I don’t know what’s troubling you.”
“I don’t mean to worry you.” Jehanne’s attention strayed to the open, half-gone bottle of wine on his nightstand. “I just doubt you’d believe me.”
“Father, I’ve heard and seen things you wouldn’t believe.”
“And what would that be?”
“I heard a noise like a howl one night.”
“Did you?” Father only seemed curious, not worried.
“Yes, and I couldn’t tell if I dreamed it.”
Father kept quiet for a long thread of time. “You might’ve been remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
Father cast his eyes to the floor. “Do you promise not to be alarmed?”
“I’ll try.”
He inhaled. “I’m not sure that’s enough.”
Jehanne wouldn’t accept that. If he needed another to shoulder half of his burdens, his memories of the war, those secrets he sweetened or numbed with wine, she’d be that person. “I don’t want you to have this burden alone, whatever it is. Being quiet might only hurt.”
Father’s attention rose to the crucifix and its soft glare. His breathing steadied, and Jehanne’s matched it. A pinching in her head insisted she force the issue, but before she could decide, Father spoke.
“There were demons under the house, and M. Moreau and I fought against them and won.”
Not finding words, Jehanne went empty. Demons. She might’ve heard wrong. It could be a euphemism, though what could be terrible enough for “demon” to be the softened word?
After considerable silence, she replied, “Wha—what? I don’t—that’s—”
“Unbelievable? You believe in God and angels, but not demons?”
So, he meant actual demons. “Of course I do—I think you’re telling the t
ruth. But here? Right now?”
“No, not anymore, I don’t think.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m many things, but I’m not mad.”
“I’ve heard things about ghosts or vampires haunting places, but not demons.”
Father broke his gaze away from Christ. “Vampires are a pagan superstition, pup. Surely you know better than that. Where did you hear about such a thing?”
Jehanne swallowed and fidgeted with her nightgown skirt. If he disapproved strongly of that kind of talk, he might not allow Marcy to visit. At least, she didn’t want to risk it. Father’s skepticism seemed arbitrary, considering the crux of the discussion, but that wasn’t the issue. “Did you actually see these demons?”
“Pup, I fought them.”
“What did they look like?”
Father sought comfort from the crucifix again. “I wish I could explain. Maybe one day, but it’s too painful now.”
Despite Jehanne’s frustration, she didn’t want to provoke more terrible memories than had already been dredged up. “Is there any way the demons would come back?” She decided to go with it, Father’s truth. He wouldn’t lead her astray.
“I believe we’re safe, so long as we stay faithful and unquestioning. I’m still haunted by them, however. It may never stop.”
“Are you sure—about them being gone, I mean?”
Father’s tone was amused as he patted her cheek. “And now we’ve broken one of those rule, haven’t we?”
She burned from that and couldn’t stave off her petulance. “I’m trying to help. I can’t help if I don’t know as much as I can, can I?”
Father’s tone was like honey. “Of course, I know you mean well, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
If he had truly fought off demons, Father was more of a hero than she thought when it came to fighting wars, and Jehanne loved him more for it, but she wouldn’t stop asking questions until she was dead.
“What is it, pup?”
“I don’t remember when I was a baby.”
“Most don’t.”
“Don’t be smart with me!” When he leaned back, as if she’d struck him, she relented. If she was too indelicate, the shell shock might crawl back. Hell, she could give him shell shock if she acted like more of a pistol. “But after? Surely, I’d remember more. Childhood, adolescence. What happened to make me so sick? Was I attacked by a demon? Is it inside me?”
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