The voice burst out of nowhere, so unexpectedly that Olivia jumped back in alarm. In her haste, she knocked one of the cups off the table, and it hit the floor, breaking apart with a splintery crash.
"What was that?"
There were two voices—coming from outside on the gallery—and as Olivia heard the swift sound of approaching feet, she panicked and looked for a place to hide. There wasn't time to think. As a shadow fell across the doorway, she ran across the room and ducked down between the bed and the wall.
She scarcely made it in time. Flattening herself onto the floor, she held her breath and peered out beneath the bedspread. Bare brown feet padded in . . . slowed . . . stopped. Olivia saw a frayed red hemline swishing around slender ankles . . . saw the skirt flutter as the body made a sudden, graceful turn.
"It's only this. Probably a mouse knocked it over."
Delicate hands swept the broken cup aside. The fingers were long and slender, their pointed nails a bright blood red.
"See?" The voice spoke again—a woman's voice, with a thick, lilting French accent. "Jesse's been in here. Making crumbs for the rats to eat. Using the fire because he can't ever stay warm." The dainty feet
planted themselves firmly apart. "You must talk to him."
"No, I must talk to you. I want to know about that fucking cab driver."
Olivia recognized this second voice and instinctively stiffened. As she molded herself to the floorboards, she heard Skyler saunter across the room.
"I saw him leave her," he muttered. "Where'd he find this one?"
"At the bus station. And can you believe it—she asked to come out here."
"What do you mean, she asked?"
"It seems that someone on the bus told her to take a sight-seeing trip to our house. Do you think she'll enjoy ... the sights?" Mathilde gave a soft laugh, but Skyler broke in, incredulous.
"You mean someone on the bus knew she was coming here?"
"Oh, what does it matter," Mathilde said crossly. "Whoever they are, they're miles away by now, Why are you upset? We needed someone to work here, didn't we? Some nice young girl who's willing to work very, very hard?"
Skyler sounded annoyed. "I want you to take care of this. That cab driver's getting too careless—we'll have to find another source."
"And just what do you suggest I do?"
"Oh, I'm sure he'll be coming back here soon to be paid," Skyler said sarcastically.
"They always do."
"And what did you promise him this time?"
"What I always promise." Her voice was cold. "Who should know better than you?"
"You're a fool, Mathilde. Just do it. Before something happens."
"And what could happen?" she shot back. "I'd think you'd be grateful to me—for Jesse's sake— since Antoinette's unfortunate accident"
"We both know better than that."
"The point is," the woman went on angrily, "this new girl is here somewhere, and I can't find her. Now where do you think she's gone?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"You know. You always know. But / know what you're thinking —and you were in her room last night—I can always tell—"
"Only to comfort her," Skyler soothed, but there was a hint of laughter there, and the woman's voice rose sharply.
"Don't play these games with me. I'm the only one who—"
"Ssh ... the walls have ears . . ."
"I mean it, Skyler—"
"Look, Mathilde—you just do your job and let me do mine. I don't take orders from you."
The woman's bare feet moved toward him . . . stopped between his. "You'll do what I say . . ." she murmured, "if you want what I have ..."
"If I want what you have, I'll just take it."
A long moment of silence followed, broken only by one breathless moan. Olivia closed her eyes as something ached inside her, warm and deep and disturbing. When at last she opened them again, the room was empty, and she got unsteadily to her feet. Her leg was throbbing again from being pressed to the floor, and she was covered with dust and sweat. After listening to make sure it was safe, she hurried to her room but stopped abruptly in the doorway.
Someone had been here.
Last night's supper tray was on the floor—dishes
broken and scattered, the supper she'd left now in globs across the rug and sprayed upon the wall.
She saw a quick movement from the corner of her eye and was just in time to see a rat scurry behind the armoire.
Shuddering, Olivia started forward, then stopped again as she noticed her clothes. She'd left them hanging over the back of a chair, but now they were in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed.
Even from where she stood, Olivia could see blood on them.
"What—"
Her head jerked up as she heard a soft thud. It seemed to be very close by, and yet the room was deserted. As she looked wildly around for its source, the strange sound came again, and there was a deep, grating groan as one door of the armoire began to open.
Olivia stood frozen, her eyes rooted in fear upon the massive cabinet.
Slowly she went toward it, her hand outstretched and trembling.
The door stopped.
Olivia waited.
And it seemed like forever before she could move again, before she could make herself touch that slightly open door, before it swung out at her without warning, revealing the awful thing that lay just inside—
And as Olivia screamed and jumped away, the body tumbled out onto the floor like a pile of wet, bloody rags.
it, and for a brief instant, Olivia thought she looked angry. She slid her arms beneath it and lifted it effortlessly against her broad chest. A girl's head lolled down behind a wave of matted hair, but Olivia couldn't really see what she looked like.
"Is ... is she dead?" Olivia managed to whisper at last.
Yoly seemed to hesitate. "Sometimes dead's better off," she muttered. "She'll come around in a while, don't you worry about it. It happens like this—she won't remember a thing. Now hurry and come on down. I'll be back for that tray later on. Miss Rose wants to see you."
"Wait—" Olivia stepped back as Yoly marched to the door. "Wait a minute—what happened to her? Who is she?"
Yoly didn't answer. Olivia heard her heavy footsteps along the gallery, and then they faded down the stairs.
It took her a few minutes to collect herself. She fastened the door on the armoire and reluctantly picked up her clothes, wishing she had something else she could wear. She had no choice but to put the same things on again, and as she stole a glimpse at herself in the mirror, she ran her fingers slowly over the stains. Someone else's blood . . . someone else's life flowing away.
It made her think of things she didn't want to think about.
She hurried outside and went down to the first-floor veranda.
There was still no sign of the sun. Mist drizzled down from the trees overhead and formed a gray cocoon around the house. Olivia could see old paint
and plaster flaking off the columns, showing powdery bricks beneath. Dying shades of pink hung from the walls like big scabs. There were splintered frames around the dirty windows, and lopsided shutters on rusty hinges, and gaping holes in the veranda where weeds choked through. And she could smell mold and fog and stagnant water . . . dampness and mud and the cloying scent of flowers, rain-swollen skies and greasy meat and strange herbs and coffee so strong it made her choke.
She wasn't quite sure where she was supposed to go. She let herself into the long, wide hallway and recognized the doors where she'd eavesdropped the night before. They were closed now as they had been then, but when she heard voices beyond them, she reached down quietly and turned the knobs. The doors swung open with a loud groan, and as Olivia peeked in cautiously, she caught a glimpse of a huge table and dancing light and eyes looking back at her.
The dining room, like the world outside its windows, was bathed in gray, but a candelabra on the long, oval table cast a shimmering glow o
ver the occupants of the chairs.
"Don't be afraid, child. Come closer."
After a moment's hesitation, Olivia took a step forward, her heart catching at the sound of the frail, elderly voice.
"I am Rosalee Devereaux." The voice spoke quietly. "And who might you be?"
And somehow Olivia managed to answer—but with a mind only aware of her, her voice, her face, her whole presence, scarcely even seeing anything else but the old woman sitting at that table.
And suddenly Olivia realized that she would have
known that face anywhere—without even a photograph or a description—for she had imagined Rosalee Devereaux her whole life, and somehow her fantasies had been true.
Grandmother . . .
She was beautiful. Beautiful and grand and regal like a queen—a calm, gracious matriarch holding court around the huge mahogany table—seated at the very head as she should have been, in a great oaken chair like a throne, with carved armrests and finials along the high rounded back. Her face was composed beneath wrinkled yet still flawless skin, her mouth a perfect rosebud, her eyes faded but kind. She had a delicate nose, and her snowy hair was swept up into a smooth, neat bun. Her neck was long, encircled with pearls, and her lavender dress was soft and girlish. As one frail hand gripped a cane by the side of her chair, the other motioned Olivia to come closer.
"So. Olivia."
Perhaps her name had even been spoken several times, for Olivia felt that she'd slipped beneath some sort of spell. She saw the old woman's eyes sweeping her thoroughly from head to foot, and she tried to concentrate.
"Look at me, child, don't be afraid. I understand you want to work for me."
Startled, Olivia forced herself to look into the wrinkled face. She heard herself say yes, and she saw her grandmother's lips move in a faint smile.
"So what can you do, Olivia? Turn around. Slowly."
"Around." The old woman made a graceful movement with her hand. "That's right. . . take your time."
Richie Tankersley Cnsick
Olivia took a deep breath and began to move. She could still feel the faded eyes going over her, and she tried to think of something to say.
"I can do everything. I can cook—"
"I have a cook/' said Miss Rose pleasantly. "Keep going."
As Olivia turned toward the table, she noticed Yoly standing against the wall, watching her curiously. It was then that she realized someone else was sitting in a chair just in front of Yoly, tilted back beyond reach of the light, staring at her.
At that moment Skyler leaned out of the shadows with a slow, sly grin, and Olivia dropped her eyes in confusion.
"Stop," Miss Rose said.
Olivia froze, her eyes held carefully on the floorboards. Now she could feel all their stares upon her, and her face began to grow conspicuously hot. The seconds dragged into painful minutes. Sweat dampened her forehead. A fly buzzed against the window, hopelessly trapped.
"I'm hungry," Skyler said cheerfully. "When do we eat?"
"What else can you do?" Miss Rose spoke at last, and Olivia looked up gratefully. Skyler raised one eyebrow in amusement. Yoly's stare lingered on her a moment more, then flicked away.
"I can clean," Olivia kept her voice steady. "I can do housework. I can work outside. I'm strong. I'm used to odd jobs. I'll do anything—"
"Anything?" Skyler's lips slid into a smile, and his green eyes sparkled. In the daylight he was wickedly handsome, and Olivia tried not to look at him.
"Keep turning." Miss Rose smiled, and Olivia pivoted back to face her.
BLOOD ROOTS
/ have to be here — don't you understand? — I'm your granddaughter — only I don't know how you feel about me, and I couldn 't bear it if you threw me out and I'd have nowhere else to go, and that's why I can't tell you —
"Please let me stay," Olivia said calmly. She met the old woman's puzzled stare and tried not to falter beneath its intensity.
"Oh, let her stay." Skyler's smile widened, and he lounged back casually in his chair. "I'm sure we can find some use for her. Especially since she does . . . anything."
Miss Rose cast him an annoyed look. "Oh, do hush up, Skyler. I'm perfectly capable of making up my own mind."
"I won't be any trouble," Olivia added, and she bit her lip, trying to hold back her desperation. You've got to let me stay . . . I belong here — it's my right —
"Sit down, child, and get some food into you before you faint on us again." Miss Rose indicated a chair with another wave of her hand. "Yoly, since Helen seems to be . . . indisposed . . . this morning, would you please bring an extra plate?"
"Yes'm." Yoly gave a curt nod and stepped out, but not before one last backward glance at Olivia. Skyler stretched one long leg beneath the table and gave the rung of Olivia's chair a shove. She saw him grin but tried to ignore it.
"We respect privacy in this house." Miss Rose reached for a small pitcher, her thin fingers fumbling over the handle before getting a firm grip. The pitcher shook a little in her hand as she poured gravy over a sausage on her plate. "I'll ask you this now—strictly as a matter of propriety, you understand—and then, as far as I'm concerned, your business is entirely your
own. As ours is . . . and of no concern to anyone else outside this household." She held Olivia's eyes for a long moment to make sure her point was well taken, looking pleased when the girl nodded. "Where are you from? How old are you? Do you mind solitude? And Yoly tells me you have no family."
Olivia stared down at her hands, trying to organize her answers. "I'm from the Midwest." Lie. "Fm eighteen." Truth.
"Perfect," Skyler murmured. Miss Rose seemed not to hear him.
"And no, solitude doesn't bother me at all. As a matter of fact, I like being alone. Fm used to it." Another truth. So far so good. "And no, I don't have any family. I never knew my father, and my mother's dead."
"How sad for you, child," Miss Rose said gently. "And friends?"
"No friends."
"No one to wonder where you are?"
"No. No one at all."
There was a long silence. Skyler reached for a silver coffeepot and filled his cup. His eyes never left Olivia's face, yet he righted the pot again perfectly, just as the coffee reached the rim.
"Well." Miss Rose seemed to be thinking. She took a silver knife and cut her sausage into small, even bites. "As you can see, we're quite isolated out here, and that's the way I like it. I never go out, and people seldom come in—that's also the way I like it. Whoever told you I needed help out here was no doubt having a joke—at both our expenses. But I fear my hospitality was sadly lacking last night as far as you were concerned, and I do apologize for that."
"That's not true," Olivia said firmly. "I'm the one who intruded and—"
"And —" Miss Rose cut her off with a smile, "it would be a dishonor to the Devereaux name if I didn't try to rectify the situation somehow."
Olivia said nothing. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest.
"You fainted in my hallway," Miss Rose went on unhappily. "And injured yourself in one of my bedrooms."
"Nasty cut." Skyler shook his head solemnly. "How is it this morning, anyway?" The corners of his mouth curled in that infuriating half smile. "It was on your . . . left thigh. Wasn't it?"
Olivia felt her cheeks grow hot. For one split second she could actually recall the feel of his hand upon her leg, and she tried not to sound flustered.
"It's fine, thank you," she said stiffly. "And thank you for calling Yoly to help me."
"My pleasure."
"And now I hear you discovered a most unfortunate surprise in your armoire this morning." Miss Rose picked up the conversation as if the brief exchange between Skyler and Olivia had never happened.
"It's just that she was hurt," Olivia said, turning her attention back to the head of the table. "I thought she was dead. Who is—"
"Yes," Miss Rose sighed. "Poor Helen. She has these . . . spells, you see. More often than is convenient. She's a
little . . . different from the rest of us." She glanced at Skyler with a frown, which he didn't seem to notice. "She requires delicacy. And great amounts of patience."
"I just hope she's all right," Olivia said sincerely. "If there's anything I can do—"
"Perhaps I'll accept your offer," Miss Rose broke in once more, her brow ftirrowed in thought. "An extra pair of hands would do us good. As you can see . . . our world is falling in here all around our heads."
Olivia leaned back as Yoly set a plate of food down in front of her. The china was chipped around the edges, the pattern faded, finely veined blue and white. Greasy sausages swam in puddles of thin brown gravy, giving off the same pungent smell as her stew last night. She tried not to make a face at the unpleasant odor and shifted her gaze back to Miss Rose.
"I love your house, Miss Devereaux. What I've seen of it."
"Oh, yes . . . and you'll grow to love it more, I'm sure," Miss Rose said without hesitation. "There is a certain spirit about the old place even yet and—"
"You do believe in spirits, don't you, Miss Crawford?" Skyler had lifted his cup to his lips, yet Olivia could still feel his smile lurking behind it.
"I'm forgetting my manners again," Miss Rose said matter-of-factly, glancing from one face to the other. "Olivia, this is Skyler. Though I take it you two have already met?"
In answer, Skyler raised his cup in a silent toast and downed the last of his coffee. Again, Olivia tried not to look at him, but when she caught his furtive wink, she knew she was blushing and hurried to change the subject.
"And what about your family?" Olivia said quickly. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She saw the startled look on her grandmother's face and would have given anything to take the question back again. As it was, she had no choice
BLOOD ROOTS
but to go on, feigning innocence. "What I mean is, I was just wondering how many people live here."
And it was strange, Olivia thought as she watched Miss Rose's expression, how a blank mask descended over the old woman's features . . . how the eyes sparked angry, then sad . . . how the voice grew faraway . . .
"I live here. And the ones who take care of me. I have no other family."
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