"For generations this house has stood, and stood strong. There has always been a mistress of Devereaux House. Someone to care for it . . . nurture it. . . protect it. Someone to give it. . . life." Miss Rose seemed to sink lower in her chair. "It breaks my heart," she whispered. "To see it like this. I don't understand. I just don't understand why it is happening now. Why suddenly— now —time seems to have finally caught up. Being mortal as I am, what choice do I have but to die? I don't want to leave . . ."
Olivia listened silently as Miss Rose rambled on and on, and she wondered to herself how much Miss Rose was really aware of saying, of thinking. It was as if she had slipped away, though her frail body still sagged in the chair by the fire. It was as if she had slipped far away and hovered now on some precarious boundary between reality and something else. Tears misted in Olivia's eyes, and deep within herself she felt a stab of pain and realized that it was Miss Rose's pain.
"But the gardens are still so beautiful," Olivia offered helpfully. "And you could hire someone to renovate the house—"
And it was a strange look that Miss Rose gave her, a strange look full of amusement and also pity. "Oh, my child, it's just not that simple." She let her breath out slowly, hands twisting together in her lap. "Repairs don't work here anymore. Rags and brushes and paint
and polish—none of it—none of it works here anymore."
"But there are people—professionals, I mean— who specialize in fixing up old places like this one—"
"Just look around you, my dear. Just look upon this last stronghold of a vanishing way of life. Life when it was beautiful and honorable and romantic. There's not a house in all the South so perfectly preserved as this one ... or a family name as old. This is our whole world here—our past as well as our future—our family and the house and the land and all their hopes—one perpetual bloodline."
Olivia's heart broke to hear Miss Rose talk. For an instant it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old woman and admitting who she really was, but Miss Rose's voice stopped her.
"Her fault," Miss Rose mumbled. "All of this . . . her . . . fault."
Olivia caught her breath. She paused a moment, then went on cautiously as if she hadn't heard. "But the rest of your family? Wasn't there ever a husband . . . children . . . relatives . . . surely someone who could help you?"
The silence went on and on. Miss Rose's face looked like fine white parchment. Her fingers flexed . . . froze . . . slowly went limp. She was still for so long that Olivia began to be frightened.
"Miss Rose?" she whispered. "Miss Rose ... are you all right?"
"One child," Miss Rose said hollowly. Her eyes filled with tears, the firelight making them sparkle like dim jewels. "I had a daughter. Long ago I had her. She was beautiful . . . and she was good . . . and she was so full of love."
Olivia was almost afraid to breathe. She watched as
the snowy head sank back into the cushions. She heard the voice begin to tremble ... to fade again .. . like a dream.
"I loved her very much. But she left, you see. She turned her back on her family, and I never saw her again."
"Did you . . . ever find out what happened to her?" Olivia asked timidly.
"She's been dead to me," Miss Rose murmured. "Dead to me all these years. How could she come back to this place? Even if I wanted her to? After the outside world had contaminated her? After she turned her back on family duty? Never once bothering to consider what the consequences might be . . ."
"I'm afraid I don't understand—"
"No . . ." Miss Rose shook her head, almost mechanically. "No ... of course you don't. How could you? Being a Devereaux woman involves certain . . . sacrifices. Certain obligations. Obligations she wasn't willing to fulfill."
Olivia stared toward one of the windows, out into the soft gray rain beyond. But what about me, Grandmother — what about me — I'm back, I'm willing to stay here with you —
"Did she . . . ever marry?" Olivia was frightened to ask it, frightened to death, yet she had to know, she had to, after all the years of pain and wondering, never knowing who she really was, never having a past of her own—
"She betrayed us," Miss Rose said softly. "I hated her for that. I shall always hate her for that."
And yes, Olivia thought, fighting angry tears, and her mind went back and back, through the bitterness, the loathing that had always been synonymous with Devereaux House or any mention of her grandmother.
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And yes, she wept deep inside herself where Miss Rose couldn't see, couldn't hear— the hate, the hate is what Mama took away with her from this place . . .
"Olivia," Miss Rose broke in gently, "is something the matter, child?"
"Yes." With an effort Olivia shifted her attention back to the chair.
"It's this weather," Miss Rose sighed. "This rain . . . this heat. . . this house. It casts a strange spell." It was obvious from her tone that she was finished discussing her daughter, yet Olivia took one more chance.
"What happened to your husband, Miss Rose?"
She steeled herself for an angry response . . . indignation at the very least, for having been asked one too many personal questions.
Yet the anger never came.
And as Olivia watched Miss Rose's face, she could swear that it was transformed for a brief instant. . . grew softer . . . younger . . . with an expression of such perfect happiness that Olivia was helpless to look away.
Miss Rose closed her eyes. She put one hand to her heart.
"Miss Rose?" Olivia whispered worriedly.
"I'm all right."
Her voice was so faint now that Olivia could scarcely hear. She leaned in close to Miss Rose's chair and tentatively returned the old woman's smile.
"It must be hard for you to even imagine, looking at me now"—Miss Rose began—"that someone could have made me feel so beautiful. And filled my heart with so much joy."
Olivia shook her head gently. "Did he love you that much?"
Richie Tankersley Cnsick
"I believe so. As much as he was able to."
"And did you love him?"
A long pause. Then . . . finally ... "I still do."
Olivia looked at her, at the one tear squeezing from the corner of Miss Rose's eye. "Did he . . . die?" she asked carefully.
"No."
"Did he leave?"
Miss Rose shook her head, her eyes closing. Her lashes were wet, and tears slid over her wrinkled cheeks. "No, my dear. I'm afraid / did."
Olivia gazed at her a long, long while. "He must have been wonderful."
"Why, he certainly was. But . . . times change. And we have to accept that."
Olivia didn't even realize that she'd reached for Miss Rose's hand . . . didn't realize it until she felt the thin fingers squeezing back.
"When I fall in love," Olivia said, thinking aloud, "it will only be once."
"Yes . . ." Miss Rose whispered. "Yes. That's just the way it was with me."
Her fingers relaxed, hung there a moment in Olivia's hand. As Olivia stared down at the tired, sweet face, Miss Rose took a deep breath, as if summoning all her strength.
"It could have been so different," she murmured. "My daughter . . . she could have been happy here. If only she could have realized . . . that some sacrifices are honorable and meant to be made . . . that some things are meant to be as they are . . . as they always have been . . ."
Olivia was afraid to move . . . afraid that if she looked into Miss Rose's eyes just now, her own resolve
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would crumble. I'm here, she wanted to shout again, Vm your granddaughter, I belong with you —
"So . . ." Miss Rose's hand plucked at Olivia's sleeve, but her skin was like thin paper, and her voice was fading. "I'm very tired, my dear. Perhaps we can talk—you and I—another time."
"Fd like that," Olivia said, and longing ached in her voice, and maybe I can make you happy again, Grandmother, even if you don't
know who I am — maybe I can make a difference somehow, maybe I can make it up to you —
"Unforgivable. . ." Miss Rose's eyes drooped closed, teary lashes dark against her pale, pale cheeks. "Cursed . . ."
"Fd like to stay," Olivia said, but her voice trembled and she was suddenly afraid.
"Of course," Miss Rose whispered. "Of course you'll stay, Olivia. You're part of our family now."
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found us—God, what a mess. What are we going to do?"
"Maybe you should tell Miss Rose—"
"No!" There was a lengthy silence, as if he was gathering himself under control again. "No," he said again, more quietly. "It'll only upset her. I don't want anything to upset her. She's sick enough as it is."
"Where is Jesse now?"
"His place maybe—I'm not sure."
"He must be somewhere! Where did he go after you left him?"
"I don't know!"
"Well, if you'd quit paying attention to that girl for a little while, maybe you would know—"
Mathilde gasped and made a choking sound, and Skyler's voice was low and dangerous.
"Don't give me any trouble, Mathilde—you've caused enough for a while. And since you seem to have forgotten—the whole idea is not to call attention to anything around here. Life's much more enjoyable that way."
"I don't care when you hurt me, Skyler," Mathilde flung back just as angrily, yet there was a definite smugness in her tone. "Because you can't get rid of me—remember? No matter what you do, you'll never ever be rid of me."
"Don't you tell me about my hell!" he hissed at her. "I'm living right in it—I know what it's like, goddamn you!"
Mathilde's breath was sobbing out now, painfully, as if he were shaking her, hurting her.
"Well, if this is mine, then this is yours!" Skyler spat at her again. "Yes, I'll always have you—but I'll always be wanting someone else—"
"You bastard—Skyler—I hate you—"
Richie Tankersley Cnsick
There was a sharp cry, and a thud as if something had slammed against the wall. And then Mathilde moaning softly—"yes . . . yes . . . take more . . . take it all. . ."
And Olivia realized that they must be in the same room she'd been in earlier, the nursery that should have been locked but wasn't—and she closed her eyes, not wanting to listen, yet too frightened not to listen, because something was so horribly wrong—
And then Olivia heard something sliding—and Skyler's voice, thick and unsteady. Some instinct prompted her to press back into one of the recessed doorways, and no sooner had she done so than Skyler rushed past her, along the gallery and down the stairs. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for several moments, then slowly came out again and inched flat along the wall.
She saw the doorway off to her right. The door was standing open, and rain was blowing in.
It seemed forever that she stood there, a cold clutch of dread immobilizing her.
She lowered her eyes to the gallery floor and felt her stomach lurch.
Blood trickled from the doorway, splattered in big droplets across the floorboards, only now the rain had run it all together into thin red pools . . .
It dripped over the ledge beneath the railing and ran in little rivulets toward her feet. . .
"Oh, my God—"
A part of her wanted to scream, to race for help— while another part pulled her helplessly toward that room and forced her to follow the bloody trail through the open door.
"Mathilde?"
Olivia's whisper was little more than a breath, her
body freezing and trembling as she finally reached the threshold ... as she slowly leaned inside . . .
Fog still hung in the clammy air. Fine sprays of rain washed across the floor, making a stream of red puddles with footprints still smudged in the middle. Mathilde was sitting on the other side of the room, her legs splayed out, her back propped against the wall. Her blouse hung open, baring one breast, and there were smears of blood on her chest and neck and down her arms. Olivia's stomach churned at the powerful odor—blood and wet ashes and rotting dampness— and as Mathilde moved her head and looked up, Olivia could see the woman's eyes trying to focus.
Smothering a cry, Olivia ran to Mathilde's side and dropped beside her.
"Oh, God—oh, Mathilde—what happened—"
Mathilde struck out, such a powerful and unexpected blow that Olivia landed against a wooden chest, stunned.
"You think he cares," Mathilde hissed, and her eyes were fixed on Olivia now—burning eyes full of hate and venom. "But he only cares about one thing. Only bne."
Through a haze of confusion and pain, Olivia saw Mathilde stagger to her feet . . . saw her fumble with her blouse . . . saw the blood streaming down onto her skirt. . .
"You'll see," Mathilde hissed again. "You'll see I'm right!"
She yanked Olivia to her feet with surprising strength. Olivia felt herself spin out onto the gallery, then heard the door slam behind her. Somehow she managed to stumble back to her room and fall across her bed. Her arm ached where Mathilde had grabbed it—her head was throbbing where she'd hit the furni-
ture. Closing her eyes, Olivia tried to will the pain away, and wept until she sank into a deep, exhausted sleep.
The rain had stopped.
Olivia sat up slowly, looking around her room. Another tray of food had been left on the table, and the smell of old stew hung faintly in the air. Getting up, she sampled several spoonfuls, her stomach grinding, As she stared at her disheveled appearance in the mirror, the morning's events came back with a rush. She covered her face with her hands and sank down again at the foot of the bed.
Mathilde . . . Skyler . . . that room . . . None of it— none of it—made any sense, only the icy knowing inside her that something terrible was going on.
"She almost came in and found us . . ."
Me? Olivia thought. Was Skyler talking about me? Then that must mean Skyler had been hiding in the nursery when Olivia had gone in there that morning, when she'd seen the mess of blood and skin on the floor. But he hadn't been alone—she was sure she'd heard another voice whispering from the corner. And she was equally certain that it hadn't been Skyler's voice begging her to leave.
Jesse?
"Where is Jesse now?" Mathilde had asked him. "Where did he go after you left him?" And Skyler had said he didn't know . , .
Could all this really have something to do with Jesse?
Olivia got up again and walked to the doorway, staring out at the dripping moss. The fog looked almost thicker now, and the air felt even heavier with
still-unshed rain. She shivered and went back to the nursery, stopping at the door in surprise.
It was locked.
Through the smudged glass, she could see the fireplace, cold now, empty of coals and ashes as if it had never been used. The floor was clean and looked freshly swept. The floorboards of the gallery were clean, as Well.
What is going on around here? I've got to find out what's going on —
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, images and sounds flashing relentlessly through her brain. Blood and pain and someone choking, Skyler's rage, Mathilde's triumphant sneer even as she'd lain there, bleeding over the floor.
"Jesse," Olivia murmured, and she opened her eyes, half expecting to see him materialize out of the fog around her.
Jesse would know. Jesse would be able to tell her something.
But how do I find him?
She had no desire to see Skyler or Mathilde again, and she was afraid if she searched for Yoly she might run into them somewhere downstairs. Thinking back, she tried to recall Jesse's answer when she'd asked him where he lived. On the other side of the bayou, he'd said—back behind the house.
And then she remembered the pier she and Skyler had gone to that morning, far beyond the outbuildings and the fields, when he'd tried to coax her into the boat that was tied up there—and "there's someone I want you to meet," he'd said
, only she'd been afraid to go with him . . .
Had he been talking about Jesse?
After satisfying herself that no one was watching, Olivia took off through the backyard and past the outbuildings. She wasn't sure she could remember the way, but it was more open out here than in the gardens, and she easily found the path worn into the well-traveled earth. She recalled skirting the few patches of woods and having to cross the straggling field, and then suddenly there she was again, with the bayou straight ahead.
She glanced nervously up at the sky ... the swirling tatters of fog . . . the black bunching clouds. Surely it wasn't going to start raining again and get darker— foolishly, she'd gone off without protection of any kind, not even the small comfort of a candle.
She found the pier just beyond a thinning clump of weeds. A small wooden boat was tied there, practically invisible in its natural camouflage of water and mud and mist. As Olivia squinted off across the bayou, she felt a quick surge of apprehension. The fog was so thick she couldn't even see the opposite shore. What if there's nothing on the other side at all and I just keep floating and floating forever . . .
There wasn't a sound. Nothing moved. The bloated sky seemed to be holding its breath . . . waiting.
Olivia slipped the rope from its mooring and stepped down into the bow. There was a paddle in the bottom, and she aimed it downward over the sides, hearing a soft wet gulp as the water swallowed the blade.
She fought off a fresh wave of panic as she eased the boat straight into the fog. She felt like a part of some strange dream, gliding through a silent gray cloud. Surprisingly, it didn't take long to get to the other side. Without warning the boat hit, then shuddered,
and Olivia teetered precariously as she stood and searched the embankment. There didn't seem to be another dock where she'd landed, but there was a tree, and by stretching a little, she was able to grab a low branch and tie on.
To her surprise she stepped out onto a path—not a very good one, but good enough, narrow and muddy up the side of a steep slope. The fog was thinner here, and she could see ahead quite a distance, to where the footpath disappeared again into a thicket of trees. She threw one last glance behind her, gave the rope an extra tug for good measure, then followed the path to see where it led.
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