Bloodroots

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Wonderful feelings enveloped her . . . feelings she'd never known before . . . fiery hot and freezing cold

  . . . washing over her and through her in slow, full waves . . . rising up and caressing her . . . and in her dream, her body responded . . . melting and flowing . . . until she cried out and bolted upright in bed.

  The room was pitch-dark. As Olivia fumbled at the covers, she could feel them tumbled around her ankles, as if she'd kicked them off.

  Her nightgown was damp with sweat, and she was fiercely cold.

  Teeth chattering, she twisted and tried to pull her nightgown back into place, feeling along the nightstand for some matches. There was a curious throbbing in her thigh, and as she remembered her dream, she lit a new candle and looked down apprehensively. / thought I took the bandage off when I washed myself. . . I'm almost positive I took it off. . .

  The bandage was neatly in place just as it had been before.

  Olivia put her fingers to it and pressed gently, wincing just a little. Strange ... it didn't seem nearly so painful now.

  In fact, it felt rather nice.

  Puzzled, she leaned back again into the pillows and pulled the covers to her chin. Her whole body seemed weak and shaky, and hazy dream images teased at her brain, just out of memory's reach. What a bizarre nightmare . . .

  Groggily, she leaned toward the nightstand to blow out the candle, letting her eyes make one more quick sweep of the room. As her gaze went over the armoire, she stopped and looked again.

  The cupboard stood partway open.

  Olivia could see dense shadows gathered in front of it, pressed back against the heavy oaken doors . . .

  176

  Almost as if someone were standing there.

  A tall dark shape . . . veiled human eyes . . .

  But even in the split second that she stared, the shadows shifted and lengthened and filled out once more across the floor . . .

  And she knew they were empty.

  BLOOD RO O T S

  sure she recognized . . . something she had heard before, and not so long ago . . .

  Haltingly it began to come back to her, bits and pieces of the discussion she'd overheard between Skyler and Mathilde yesterday in the nursery. But what had they been talking about? And why was she thinking about it in her sleep?

  Olivia frowned again, frustrated that the answer seemed just beyond her grasp. In the few seconds before she'd woken up, it had seemed vitally important somehow, something necessary for her to think about...

  And then she knew.

  The cab driver.

  They had been arguing about the cab driver, and Skyler had sounded upset.

  And then, with a cold shock, Olivia sat straight up in bed.

  The cab driver!

  His was the voice she had heard last night by the bayou as Mathilde led him off through the darkness.

  No . . . surely not . . .

  Falling back against the pillows, Olivia tried to think. Now that she really tried to picture him clearly in her mind again, it seemed like it could have been him. And yet she'd been so preoccupied with finally seeing the house that first day and what she was going to do, she hadn't really been listening that closely to his voice. The man with Mathilde last night could have been anyone, anyone at all. It had been dark and foggy, with a bayou between—they had been talking quietly and quickly. It was easy for voices to be distorted under those conditions—why on earth had she ever thought about the stupid cab driver in the first place?

  But you recognized Mathilde . . .

  But anyone could have recognized Mathilde, Olivia argued with herself. She'd been around Mathilde enough by now to know that seductive voice when she heard it.

  Annoyed with herself, Olivia dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. The dining room was open, and Miss Rose sat alone at the table. For one awful second, Olivia thought she was dead.

  Miss Rose was in her customary spot at the head of the table, but her snowy-white head drooped onto her chest. Olivia froze in the doorway, then saw Yoly clearing dishes at the sideboard. The black woman put one finger to her lips and motioned Olivia inside. Olivia sneaked in as quietly as she could, but Miss Rose stirred in her chair and looked up.

  There was pain in the faded blue eyes. As Miss Rose managed a feeble smile, something caught in Olivia's heart, and she moved closer to her grandmother's chair.

  "Olivia . . ." Miss Rose mumbled. "There you are, child. Come in. Have you eaten?"

  "She ain't eat hardly nothin," Yoly spoke up, sounding more annoyed than sympathetic. "Not even a bite of supper last night—"

  "Someone brought a tray," Olivia said hastily. "I ate a little."

  "And look at her," Yoly fussed. "Just a slip of a thing."

  Olivia wasn't interested in food. "Miss Rose, are you all right?"

  "She ain't all right," Yoly sniffed. "She's havin' one of her spells. She ain't all right, not at all."

  "Oh"—Miss Rose waved one hand impatiently—

  "if you'd spend as much time worrying about your work as you do me—"

  "Well, if I don't worry, who's gonna worry, I wants to know?" Yoly picked up the dishes and stomped out the doors, slamming them behind her.

  Miss Rose turned her head toward the windows. She fanned herself weakly, but there was no hint of warmth on her pale cheeks. Finally she turned back and looked at Olivia.

  "I'm trying not to die," she said simply. "It's my time . . . but I'm trying not to."

  Olivia didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Oh, Grandmother . . .

  "You can see it," Miss Rose murmured. One blue-veined hand made a vague gesture in the air, and the corners of her thin lips tightened. "I'm as bad as this old house—the walls ... the roof ... the floors . . . everything's going. How sad it all is. There's always been a mistress of Devereaux House. . . but now . . ."

  Her voice dwindled, faded. Her gaze fixed on the flickering patterns of light on the tablecloth, and she picked up a spoon as if her own distorted reflection fascinated her.

  "Miss Rose," Yoly said softly.

  Olivia hadn't heard her come back. She was framed in the doorway, her face hard and flat.

  "Come on now, Miss Rose, you should go rest yourself."

  "Oh." The pale eyes seemed to cloud for a moment, then they slowly refocused on Olivia's face. "Are you still here, child? You must eat something. You must keep up your strength."

  "Miss Rose," Yoly urged again, more firmly this time.

  "I have to take care of them, you see," the old woman mumbled, struggling up from the chair, leaning heavily on the table. "I must. Who else could? Who else is there to do it?"

  "Take care of who?" Olivia asked gently, but Yoly stepped between them, her huge arms around Miss Rose, holding her up, leading her tenderly from the room.

  Olivia looked down and realized she was shaking. She sampled some stew from the leftovers on the sideboard but the familiar overspiced flavor didn't sit well, and she went back upstairs. It had alarmed her, seeing what she'd just seen—Miss Rose hadn't looked nearly that bad yesterday, and she'd seemed perfectly composed and coherent. But now ... to hear her admit that she was dying . . .

  Olivia leaned on the gallery railing and parted the moss with her hands. How long had it been since Miss Rose had left this strange, secluded world of hers? How many people had come and gone—how much help had been hired and let go again? "I have to take care of them . . . who else is there to do it?" Miss Rose's words touched her deeply, but puzzled her as well. It must be that the current mistress of Devereaux House felt some awesome responsibility to her staff, some terrible guilt at leaving them unemployed when she died. And yet. . . this isn't the picture you painted of her, Mama . . . this can't be the witch, the devil you taught me to hate all those long, suffering years . . .

  Olivia let the branches settle back into place, then went on to her room.

  She paused by the bed and began to straighten the covers.

  And when she
glanced up, she saw the door of the armoire moving.

  BLOOD ROOTS

  Instantly she froze. Old hinges made a painful creaking sound as the door swung shut. Searching for a weapon of some kind, she picked up a candle holder from the table and moved toward the armoire.

  Very slowly she reached for the edge of the door.

  She raised the candle holder above her head. Her fingers gripped tightly, and her arm prepared for the impact.

  As Olivia jerked the door open and swung, she saw a pair of frightened eyes and heard a whimper that stopped her cold.

  "Helen! What are you doing in here!"

  The girl was huddled on the floor, trying to shield her head with her arms, but her eyes were fixed on Olivia in silent pleading. Olivia's heart dropped into her stomach, and she tossed the candle holder to the floor.

  "My God, Helen! Don't you realize I could have hurt you!"

  Shaking, Olivia reached down and pulled Helen to her feet, forcing her out into the room. The poor girl seemed absolutely petrified. As she cowered beside the armoire, Olivia stepped back and took a deep, steadying breath.

  "No . . . no . . . Helen," she said softly, taking Helen's arms, coaxing the girl to look at her. "I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to be upset. It's just that you scared me."

  The big brown eyes filled with tears. Helen rubbed one arm across her face and moved away.

  "I'm sorry," Olivia said again, and she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. "You don't have to be afraid. Not of me. I'm your friend."

  Helen's eyes cleared a little. They settled on Olivia's face, curious but still wide with fear.

  Richie Tankeisley Cusick

  "Helen." Olivia tried again, motioning toward a chair, nodding at the girl to sit down. "You must have had a reason for being here in my room. You must have wanted to see me about something. Is that it?"

  And she watched Helen's eyes—their quick nervous glance toward the gallery outside—the way they did a fast sweep of the room, as if fully expecting someone to be hiding there in the daytime shadows. Helen looked up, put a tentative hand to her lips, and shook her head.

  "Yes, I know you can't talk." Olivia leaned forward. "Just try and get it out, and I'll try to understand you."

  Helen looked back quizzically. Finally she gave a slow, uncertain nod.

  "Good. Now tell me. Why were you looking for me?"

  Again the quick inspection of the room. Helen huddled her shoulders, as if trying to draw into herself and hide. Olivia watched her closely, remembering Skyler's comments that night when he'd found Helen beneath the back stairs.

  "You're afraid?" Olivia guessed. "You're afraid— something makes you afraid?"

  Another nod, just as uncertain. Helen tried to pull even deeper into herself.

  "The nightmares you have—they make you afraid?"

  A nod.

  "But they're only dreams, you know. They're not real, and they can't hurt you."

  Helen shook her head. She stared at Olivia, unblinking.

  "When you wake up," Olivia tried again, "all the

  BLOOD ROOTS

  nightmares go away. You don't have to be afraid of them, especially when you're awake."

  But you're not convinced, are you, Olivia . . . you're not convinced at all . . . because when you wake up from the nightmares, there's something still here, and you feel it. . . something still hidden at Devereaux House . . .

  Stop this! Olivia frowned, giving herself a stern mental shake. It had surprised her, those thoughts creeping in unbidden, and now she pulled herself up and met Helen's eyes, undaunted.

  "You don't have to be afraid," she said once more determinedly.

  Again Helen shook her head. Olivia could see her own stare reflected in the round saucers of Helen's eyes. Slowly Olivia knelt down in front of the girl and peered hard into her face.

  "Something about the dreams, then, Helen?" she said solemnly. "Something about the dreams . . . that doesn't go away?"

  Helen held Olivia's gaze for a long, long time. And then—finally—she began to push up one of her dirty sleeves. Olivia saw the scratches on Helen's arms, the streaks of grime, the bruises, all signs of hard, heavy work. Helen finished with her sleeve and stared at Olivia again.

  "What?" Olivia asked, puzzled. "Are they . . . hurting you? Making you work too hard? What is it?"

  Helen nodded at her arm, her expression more insistent. Olivia bent closer, and Helen pointed to the soft skin on the inside of her elbow.

  And at first Olivia couldn't see anything at all— only the caked dirt from the creases of Helen's sleeve. But then, as she studied it closer, she noticed two

  marks, side by side, right over the pale blue smudge of Helen's vein. They were tiny marks—if Olivia hadn't been searching so closely, she was sure she would never have seen them at all—and the skin around them was slightly discolored, as if pressure had been applied on the sensitive area.

  Olivia straightened slowly and frowned. "These?" she murmured. "These marks—are what you wanted me to see?"

  Helen nodded solemnly, but then, as footsteps sounded outside on the gallery, she yanked her sleeve down once more and jumped from the chair. She looked flustered and confused, and as Olivia reached out for her, Skyler appeared in the doorway.

  "Why, ladies," he said in an exaggerated drawl. "Some special secrets being shared you don't think I should hear?"

  Helen went pale and tried to look anywhere but at Skyler.

  Olivia managed to collect herself and said quickly, "I was just trying to talk to Helen, that's all. I'd like to get to know her better."

  "Would you?" Skyler came slowly into the room. Helen looked around frantically, still trying to avoid eye contact with him. He caught her chin between his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze, and her white cheeks flamed deep red. "You'd like her if you knew her. We all like Helen. She's very . . . special ... to us."

  Olivia felt a stab go through her heart—half anger, half pain. It was so obvious that Helen feared Skyler, yet also adored him ... so obvious that Skyler found Helen merely amusing.

  "Let her go," Olivia said, and Skyler's eyes flicked on her in an instant. "None of us are going to get any

  work done," she went on casually, "if we just stand around here talking."

  At that Skyler released the girl. After a swift backward glance of gratitude at Olivia, Helen hurried from the room. Olivia stood there a moment, still feeling Skyler's eyes on her. He was blocking her path to the door, so again she busied herself making up the bed.

  "She can't talk to you," Skyler said, watching Olivia smooth the sheets, plump the pillows. "And even if she could talk, it wouldn't make any sense at all."

  "It's just that she seems . . . upset about something," Olivia said carefully. "I feel sad for her."

  "Her dreams. I told you." Skyler leaned on the mantel, one eyebrow lifting slowly. "And if you had .. . things haunting you . . . then wouldn't you be afraid?"

  Olivia glanced at him quickly. He was smiling. He ran his fingers thoughtfully over his chin. He straightened up again.

  "Shall we go?" he said with mock politeness. "Before things start haunting you, too?"

  He stepped aside to let Olivia pass. She could swear she heard him laugh as he followed her downstairs.

  They made their way to the cemetery, working in silence most of the day. To Olivia's surprise, Skyler didn't go off and leave her this time. Instead he seemed almost to be keeping a careful eye on her, working areas in close proximity. Bone tired, she was relieved when the workday was over. She and Skyler parted company at the back of the house, and Olivia chose to forfeit supper in favor of bed. To her delight, she found that someone had left a tray of food again in her room, and she guessed this time that it had been Helen.

  Helen . . .

  All day long she hadn't been able to get Helen out of her mind. She kept seeing the girl's wide, scared eyes—kept hearing that pitiful whimper—as if Helen had been begging her to understand. And she kept see
ing those bruises, those strange marks on Helen's arm, and she wondered if someone had deliberately mistreated the girl, punished her for some minor infraction or another. Olivia wouldn't have put it past Skyler or Mathilde, but it seemed so totally out of character for Miss Rose.

  "I'm dying. . . I'm trying not to . . . but I am ..."

  And there were other thoughts that had troubled Olivia all day. Was Miss Rose really that ill—and really so determined to live? Yoly had looked so serious, and Miss Rose had seemed so terribly frail. . . Olivia longed to tell her who she really was, but now, more than ever, she was afraid to. What if Miss Rose thought Olivia was just some imposter— someone who'd heard about her failing health and wanted to move in and take advantage? Or maybe she'd be furious with Olivia for the charade—furious and vengeful—even more furious than she'd be with Olivia for being Mama's daughter. Even worse ... if Olivia confessed now and the shock was too much for Miss Rose . . .

  No. No. I can't. It's still too soon to know what to do.

  Olivia closed her eyes, trying to clear all the tormenting thoughts away, but she kept seeing Miss Rose's blue-veined hand, and then the blue vein on Helen's soft little arm . . .

  Marks there . . . almost microscopic. Had something bitten the girl? A spider? Mathilde's snake? Was Helen trying to warn her? The thought unsettled Olivia, and she thrust it firmly away. Maybe Skyler

  was right—if Helen really did suffer from delusions, it was possible that she might have made the marks on her arms herself.

  Olivia was too tired to think anymore. She shed her clothes and stood for a moment in the stifling room, trying to find some tiny pocket of air to cool herself off. Someone had filled the pitcher with fresh water, and she took her time washing off, savoring the brief respite from the heat. Finally she put her nightgown on, but as she climbed into bed, a slow, weak rush went over her, and she slid her hand down to her thigh.