by Amy Cross
For my heart is breaking so terribly slowly. As the minutes pass, I feel cracks slowly spreading through my chest, filling my soul with the most unimaginable sense of grief. It is as if dark, thorny vines are creeping around my heart and then moving off through the rest of my body, ripping as they go. There are brief moments of hope, pushing back against the sorrow, but the hope always loses.
Finally, after a few more seconds, I feel as if another part of my heart has fallen away; a huge chunk has turned gray and begun to fade. There is some small part left, kept alive by hope, but finally I reach out and touch the side of my darling girl's face. She is dead, and the last remaining part of my heart has died with her.
It has taken several minutes, but the process is now complete. My heart is broken beyond all hope.
“Well, this is most unfortunate,” Jonathan says finally. “Why did you have to struggle, Catherine? If you'd simply capitulated as I expected at the start of all of this, Millicent would have lived. I intended to have her cared for under a false name, at a home for unwanted children. After all, I'm not a monster.”
She's dead.
Still kneeling before my dear little girl, I stare at her broken neck. I want so desperately to believe that she's somehow going to spring back to life, but deep down I know that this is impossible. I protected her for so long, through so much, and all has come to nothing. She looked to me for safety, she trusted me, and I let her down. I am her mother, and I failed in the most dreadful manner.
And I failed because of him.
“You understand that there was no ghost, I trust?” Jonathan says behind me. “I hired that idiot to put on a few scares. It never occurred to me, Catherine, that you would have such strength. I was sure that, with a little prodding, you would lose your mind sufficiently, and that you would end your own life. After all, that's what happened to your weak mother, isn't it? You always seemed so much like her. But you hung on, and I began to wonder when I would ever be free of you.”
“There was no ghost?” I reply, shocked by the suggestion.
“Of course not. The whole thing was merely a trick, a way to crack your mind. Evidently Havenhand should have been a little more dramatic, a little more terrifying, in his tricks.”
“A book flew at my face!”
“Did it?” he replies. “Or was that just your mind playing tricks on you? You began to crack, Catherine, but it wasn't enough. I needed true madness.”
I hear him take a step closer.
I clench my right fist.
“Or perhaps I should have dirtied my hands sooner,” he continues. “That kind of thing isn't easy for a gentleman, but then neither is a marriage of this kind. I can't allowed the good Lannister name to be dragged through the mud, Catherine. Please, don't put up a struggle. By dying, you will help secure the family name, and I assure you that there is no need to worry about my future. I shall be quite alright.”
Slowly, with my fist still clenched, I get to my feet.
He steps closer.
He must be right behind me now.
I clench my left fist as well.
“You could have made this easier on us all,” Jonathan adds, and now I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. “Especially on poor little Millicent. I would like to tell you not to blame yourself but, well, I cannot say such a thing. For, in truth, her death was your fault. At least now, you might take some comfort from the suggestion that you go this day to join her.”
I open my mouth to reply to him.
Suddenly he drives a knife into my back, just above my right hip. I flinch and let out a gasp as I feel the blade drive into my body, and then I feel the warmth of blood soaking out into my dress. I wait for Jonathan to remove the knife, for him to strike me again so that I might go to Millicent, but for some perverse reason he keeps the blade embedded in my waist.
“I shall not think of you once you are gone,” he whispers into my ear.
Ah.
I understand now.
He means to gloat before he finishes me off.
“I shall do you that kindness,” he continues, “so long as you do me the kindness of dying without too much fuss. After all your failings as a wife, that is the least you can offer now.”
“Get it over with,” I reply through gritted teeth, as tears run down my face. “I want to go to Milly now.”
“Be sure to remind her why she had to die,” he sneers. “And remind her, too, that her deformity comes down from your side of the family.”
“Get it over with,” I say again.
“It's good to be honest with the child.”
“Get it over with!” I shout.
“She might even come to forgive you, over -”
“Get it over with!” I scream, suddenly pulling away from him.
I turn to face the wretch, and in that moment I am filled with such anger that I reach behind and pull the knife out myself, intending to give it to Jonathan so that he can finish me off. As I do so, however, my rage flips and turns, and I am suddenly consumed by the need to strike out at this lying, odious fool. And that is why, unable to control myself, I lunge at him and bring the knife slicing down against his chest, after which I pull it out and stab him again and again, pushing him back against the wall and then following him to the floor as I continue to stab him with all the force I can muster, all while screaming and sobbing and crying.
“Get it over with!” I whimper, as I drive the knife into his chest again. “Do it! Kill me! Send me to her!”
I stab him once more.
“Kill me!” I sneer.
I stab him again, this time in the center of his chest.
His body shudders under the force of the impact.
His eyes remain open.
“Kill me!” I yell.
I stab him in the neck.
“Kill me!”
I pull the knife out and stab him in the mouth, shattering several of his teeth.
“Kill me!” I sob.
I stab him in the face, over and over, until his features are obscured by the mass of blood that erupts from all the wounds. Still I continue to stab him, until my strength drains away and I roll over onto the floor.
Landing on my back, I let go of the knife – which remains embedded in Jonathan's left eye – and I stare up at the high ceiling. And that is how I remain, waiting for death between my dear late daughter and my foul late husband. Waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for this nightmare to be over.
II
What is the opposite of a miracle?
Slowly, I start to sit up. The pain in my side is strong and throbbing, yet evidently by some absurd chance Jonathan did not cause me a fatal injury. I have bled, that is certain, yet the bleeding has stopped. I examine the torn section of fabric on the side of my dress, and I find that some has become stuck in the blood that is caked around the wound. There is a great deal of pain, of course, but perhaps not as much as one might imagine.
I pinch myself, just to check, and I feel a pang of sorrow as I realize the truth.
I am still alive.
Jonathan, however, is dead. Just the briefest of looks is enough to confirm that. Yes, Jonathan is dead, and I cannot tell whether I stabbed him one hundred times or one thousand. The latter seems closer to the truth, for his body is covered in bloodied wounds. Even his face has been obliterated, and his only remaining features are his ears. The rest – the proud nose, the intelligent eyes, the winning smile...
All gone, thanks to my fit of fury.
I turn to look at Milly. Even now, there remains the faintest glimmer of hope, the thought that she might yet begin to stir. I can tell myself over and over again that she is dead, of course, but that desperate glimmer remains. Even now, as I reach over to check whether she might suddenly have a pulse again, I feel torn by two conflicting possibilities. Why can I not simply exchange my life for her life? For I would do that in a heartbeat.
“Milly,” I say finally, wincing as I sit up properly and lean over her. “My d
arling...”
She is gone. She has been taken from me. And as I stare down at her dead face, I feel myself being consumed by the most immense sense of rage.
***
With an unladylike grunt, I bring the ax swinging down once again, and I cut Jonathan's severed head clean in half down the middle.
Slightly breathless now, I take a step back and lean against the ax for a moment. I need to steady my nerves, although in truth I know that I have so much more work still to do. The light is getting low, however, and soon I shall no longer be able to work. I shall have to break for the night and carry on in the morning, but at least for now I have achieved a great deal.
The bodies of Jonathan and Mr. Havenhand are nicely cut up into small pieces, which will make it much easier for me to dispose of them in the morning. I have not really thought that part of the plan through, and in truth there is no plan, yet I know that I must buy myself some time. We do not receive many visitors here at Lannister Hall, but sooner or later somebody will arrive and I do not know that I can lie properly.
Eventually, Jonathan will be missed.
Eventually people will come looking for him.
Eventually my actions will surely be uncovered.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I have time yet to think and to come up with a plan.
Realizing that it is too dark to get much more done, I carefully rest the ax against the wall, and then I look down at my hands. They are bloodied, thanks to the splatter of the body parts as I hacked them to pieces, and I notice too that my dress is covered in blood around the hem. I suppose I should have thought to avoid that, although perhaps such things do not matter much now. After all, it is hardly likely that I shall be hosting dinner parties again. This dress, which was once one of my best, is unlikely to be needed.
Suddenly overcome by a wave of exhaustion, I look down at the various chunks of Jonathan's head. They all seem to be looking at me.
***
“Here, my darling, you'll be a little warmer in here.”
My arms are aching as I finally drag Millicent's body into one of the upstairs rooms, where I have set a fire roaring in the hearth. Why did I bring her all the way up here, instead of settling her into one of the downstairs rooms? I confess that I do not know. Perhaps I am not thinking straight. Oh, wait... I recall now. I brought her here, in particular, because I felt that there is a little more dignity in the upper rooms, and because I wanted to be absolutely certain that she'd be out of the way of prying eyes, lest anyone might come to one of the windows.
“There.”
I place her close to the fire. Not so close that she will burn, but close enough that she should feel comfortable. I place the back of my hand against her cheek, and then – finding that she is perhaps a little too warm – I move her away from the fire. I have to adjust her positioning several times, until finally I feel that she would be comfortable.
Wincing at the pain in my waist, I take a step back and look down at Milly, and I watch as light from the flames dances across one side of her face. It is almost as if she's alive again, although I quickly force myself to put such thoughts out of my mind.
A moment later, I hear a faint creaking sound over my shoulder.
I turn, thinking that there is somebody behind me, but I see no-one. I wait, convinced that I cannot be alone, and after a few seconds I hear another creaking sound, this time coming from out in the corridor.
“Milly?” I whisper, before hurrying to the doorway and looking out. “Milly, is that you?”
I know it can't be her, of course.
After all, her body remains on the floor near the fire, but...
Is it possible that she has returned as a ghost?
I want to go to her, to end my own life so that I might join her wherever she is now, but suddenly I am filled with joy at the thought that she might have come back to me. Our bond was always so very strong, strong enough I am sure to reach beyond the end of life itself, and now I wonder whether my darling girl has come back to find me.
“Milly,” I call out, “if you are here, you must give me a sign. Any sign will do, but you must let me know.”
I wait.
Silence.
And then, in the distance, another creaking sound.
“Milly, I'm coming!”
I hurry along the corridor, desperately trying to find her, but when I reach the top of the stairs there's still no sign of anyone. A strong wind has picked up outside, rustling the trees in the darkness, but that cannot have been the cause of the creaking sound. I mean, certainly it could have been, but I refuse to believe that Milly is not here somehow. She has indeed returned to me, and I must simply find a way to help her with the final part of her journey.
“I'm here, Milly!” I call out, as I hurry down the stairs and then make my way through the house, as the storm gathers strength outside. “Milly, it's me! Milly, my darling, where are you?”
III
“I do not see her,” I write carefully in my diary, “but she must be close. Sometimes at night I think I hear her coming to me, but when I look for her she falls quiet. I do not know why my darling girl would not rush into my arms. She must hear me calling to her, night after night. Yet I cannot profess to understand the nature of this shift she has undergone, and I tell myself over and over that I must be patient. Always patient. Always waiting, with my heart bleeding for her return.”
I pause for a moment. Seven days have passed since Milly died, and I still have not seen her spirit. I know she is here in the house, I sense her most days, yet for some reason she does not materialize before my eyes. Why is this? Perhaps she lacks the strength, or maybe the guidance. Or, perhaps, I have not yet demonstrated sufficient need for her to return. What if this is all some kind of test?
I turn to the diary's next page.
“I must be stronger,” I write, even as my hand begins to tremble with sorrow, and as tears fall from my eyes and splatter against the page. “She must be so very scared, yet I do not know how to call her for the last part of her journey home. Would that I might gain advice from somebody, but this is simply impossible. I must simply trust in the Lord and pray that somehow Milly will find her way to me. And I shall be waiting for her, no matter how long it takes.”
I wipe more tears away, although in the process I accidentally smudge the ink. I attempt to undo this calamity, and of course in doing so I merely make matters worse.
Then again, perhaps that is no matter.
I can just about make out my own handwriting, and it is not as if anyone else is ever going to read these thoughts that I set down on paper.
I begin to write again, but at that moment I hear the unwelcome sound of a loud, heavy knock on the front door. Having ignored such knocks twice now over the past days, I know full well that this time I must answer, lest I arouse suspicion.
***
“Father Parker,” I say as soon as I see the man's face, “how unexpected. I had no idea that you were to be calling on us today.”
“My visit is rather unplanned,” he replies. “Might I speak with your husband for a moment?”
“I'm afraid that's out of the question,” I tell him, “for my husband is away on business.”
“He is?”
“Absolutely. I am not sure when he will be back, but I do not expect him before the weekend.”
“Indeed.” Father Parker stares at me for a moment, as if he's not entirely sure whether or not to believe me. After a few seconds, he begins to peer past me. “And, Mrs. Lannister, if I might ask... Is everything quite alright?”
“It is,” I tell him. “There is no need to be concerned.”
He turns to me again.
“And you are well?” he asks.
“Of course. Do I not look well?”
I immediately see from the expression on his face that perhaps my appearance betrays me. Ever since I put all the mirrors into one of the smaller rooms, I have not seen my own reflection, although I am sure
I cannot seem too bad. I am, after all, very much still myself.
“Might I ask where your husband has gone?” Father Parker says after a moment.
“Nottingham.”
“Nottingham? For business?”
“Yes. No. I do not recall.”
“I see.” He hesitates. “You are alone here with the child?”
I nod.
Why must this wretched man pester me?
“Well...” He hesitates again. “I hope you will pass my regards on to your husband,” he continues finally, “and tell him that I shall drop by again next week. There is nothing wrong, I simply wish to receive his advice on a number of matters.”
“Perhaps he will not be back next week,” I reply, and at that moment I realize that I am starting to sweat rather profusely. At the same time, the wound in my side seems to be throbbing slightly. “The week after, I think. Yes, that is when he will be back. Assuming he is not detained further in Northampton, of course.”
“Northampton?”
“Yes.” I pause, waiting for him to leave, and it takes a few seconds for me to realize my mistake. “Nottingham,” I add, correcting myself. “I meant Nottingham, of course.”
“I see.”
I wait, but it is evident that I have aroused Father Parker's suspicions. What will he do? I cannot imagine him forcing his way into the house and demanding proof of Jonathan's trip, yet I am not sure that he will simply walk away. He seems to be thinking, trying to work out how to react, and as the seconds tick past I begin to worry that my own silence might seem particularly incriminating.
I shall have to do something.
“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” I ask finally.
“Tea?” He hesitates. “Oh, no, Mrs. Lannister, that is quite alright. Thank you, but I must be getting home. Please, tell your husband that I shall come by again next week. Nothing is the matter, I merely wish to speak to him about a few matters.”
“Very well,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I shall tell him.”