Darker Still

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  Denbury set his injuries aside and instead offered an unexpected but dazzling smile. “So the rumors are true indeed! Miss Stewart dreams of me.” He took a step toward me, his blue eyes warming. “I maintain that I’m flattered.”

  I blushed and stammered, “But…are you dreaming? Oh! Could we be sharing a dream?”

  Denbury shrugged his broad shoulders. “I wish I knew. I never know whether I’m dreaming or not. I seem to reside here in a perpetual state of consciousness.”

  “It’s not healthy not to sleep.”

  He set his jaw and spoke bitterly, “I daresay it isn’t healthy to be cursed, severed from your body, and trapped in canvas. Please add sleeplessness to my long list of maladies.”

  I bit my lip, looking at him helplessly. “Perhaps I can help you through,” I offered, going to the door. The ornate brass knob turned in my hand. It opened wide onto a long and darkened corridor. I heard a whisper. That Whisper.

  Something shifted in the dark corridor beyond. A flicker of something ephemeral and gauzy white. I felt Denbury behind me, peering over my shoulders.

  “That’s…not my home,” he said tentatively.

  “No…” I said with difficulty. “If I came from there, then what’s out there came from me.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause as we stared into the darkness. A figure was visible deep in the darkness, a tiny bit of glowing white. My blood was ice cold. I managed to choke out a question: “Did…did you hear a whisper?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “I always have,” I said, turning from the uninviting corridor. “You see, I lost a parent too, Denbury, when I was four years old. I don’t remember my mother, but I’ve always wondered if she’s whispered to me in the years hence. If it’s indeed her, I wish she’d speak more clearly.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “As am I for yours.”

  He nodded, turning away. His grief was fresher than mine but I knew he did not wish to show it.

  “I suppose that’s what accounts for my nightmares,” I added.

  “Your mother?”

  “I’ve always heard a Whisper and glimpsed a bit of white lace out of the corner of my eye. I don’t think the worst of the world, but…I feel as if shadows follow me. Perhaps I suffer from paranoia. But I swear there’s something in that hallway.”

  “It’s your mind. What do you think it could be?”

  Oh, God.

  If Denbury owned the grief of the moment, then I brought the horror.

  The doorway was empty one moment but not the next. I was greeted by a sight of unequaled terror. An ugly sound came from somewhere deep in my throat, and I clapped my hands to my mouth.

  A dark-haired corpse in a white dress stood at the threshold, her head bent, mussed hair shrouding her face from view. I knew it was a corpse from the pallor of her arms. That and the congealing blood that was dripping from her fingertips and tapping onto the threshold…

  Here my voice left me again. I wanted to scream but couldn’t. Instead, out of panic, I turned and buried my face in Denbury’s shoulder to avoid the ghastly sight.

  “Good God!” Denbury cried, seeing it too. He wrapped a protective arm around me and shifted me behind him so that he stood between the horror and me.

  Even in that moment of fear I recall breathing him in as I pressed close against his shoulder, catching a whiff of bergamot, as if he’d just drunk a cup of Earl Grey tea. He took a challenging step toward the door, keeping hold of me behind him.

  “Leave her in peace!” Denbury cried. As he did, a bit of light rippled up from him, pale and silvery, like a halo. Perhaps like the light he’d described around Mrs. Northe. A light like one might expect of an angel. A guardian angel.

  While I’d always wondered if the Whisper was my mother, I couldn’t bear staring at a corpse to see if there was any resemblance to the daguerreotype on our mantel at home. And indeed, I couldn’t think that if it were Mother she would wish to frighten me. But my own mind, my own nightmares, oh, they were most certainly cruel.

  After a long moment, Denbury gently urged me, “Look, Miss Stewart. Darkness only.”

  I turned as he bid. Darkness only. I looked up at his beautiful face, reluctant to move from his side, where I felt so comfortable and safe.

  I glanced at the frame. The markings had faded. All was as I’d found it. But still, it was a prison.

  “We are so haunted, you and I,” Denbury murmured, and bent to kiss my forehead in a wonderful gesture that seemed perfectly natural, even though it was bold.

  I had to physically force myself not to melt against him. It would have been so easy to forget the madness of our reality and just let him hold me. But he was in even direr straits than I. I straightened and clasped his hands. I wanted to thank him for his bravery, to reassure him of my commitment to help him. Yet all thought fled when he leaned closer, his eyes darkening as he tilted his head for access to my lips. Bold indeed…Before I could think how to respond, my senses went to black. I had a hazy sense of my body in my bed, my head on my pillow, comfortable and safe.

  Though I would’ve liked to have felt that kiss…

  At least something good came out of the nightmare, for indeed, I slept more soundly than I had in recent memory. Even with the deep sleep that followed, I still awoke remembering the dream, when it would usually have faded entirely. But apparently with all things Denbury, the experiences will not be forgotten, be they dreamed or lived.

  Ah, it’s time to transfer the painting to the Metropolitan. I must go!

  Later…

  Father insisted that Mrs. Northe not ride with us, saying, “Such a fine woman as she is not to be seen in a cargo vehicle!” But I demanded that Father take me along to transfer the painting.

  Mrs. Northe greeted me warmly and said she’d meet us at the Metropolitan.

  It was good of Lord Denbury to have put everything back in order. Nothing was out of place, neither book nor note. As his portrait was being taken from the wall on Mrs. Northe’s landing and wrapped in fabric, he looked exactly as I’d first seen him.

  Once on our way, jostling along Fifth Avenue, I sat on an uncomfortable bench of the rig specifically built for cargo and gently kept hold of the sides of the frame.

  Father eyed me. “I do hope you’ll be as gentle and fastidious with a Rembrandt,” he stated. I nodded. My grip upon my charge tightened.

  Partway through the ride, the folds of burlap slipped at one corner and an exposed part of the frame came into view, golden in the dim light of the large cab.

  And that’s when I noticed the markings on the frame. Just like in my dream.

  Subtly carved into the wood on the back of the frame were small symbols, triangles, crosses, and hatch marks in strange arrangements. It was not an alphabet that I recognized. I’d seen a bit of Greek and Hebrew, and this looked nothing like either. It couldn’t be merely décor or detailing, for why would such care be taken with the part of the frame against the wall?

  I dearly hoped Mrs. Northe could tell me what the marks might be.

  As we arrived, Father took the painting in hand and we ascended the stairs to the grand redbrick, arched edifice.

  Mrs. Northe stood beneath one of the foyer’s great archways, Maggie at her side. Maggie waved at me once before turning to evaluate staff and patrons, whoever was best dressed or most attractive. Mrs. Northe seemed as glad to see me as I was to see her, and Father’s cheeks were heightened in color when he laid eyes on her. I’d say we’re all getting to be a regular little family.

  Upon catching my eye, Mrs. Northe cocked her head, seeming to understand that there was a new development. It was uncanny how, in such a short time, she could read me, my face, my eyes, my expression, and my body movements as language in and of themselves, her knowledge of sign language notwithstanding.

  “There are markings on the frame,” I signed to Mrs. Northe, keeping my face expressionless so the matter wo
uld stay between us rather than being public. She nodded and smiled, as if we’d just exchanged a small pleasantry instead of the clue to a mystery.

  Museum workers took the burlap-covered canvas. Maggie moved to my side so we could eye them with the fastidiousness of jealous girls, but they proved careful with the piece. Mrs. Northe suggested a downstairs exhibition room as Lord Denbury’s temporary home, a room not yet for public use, and the workers set to securing him. Father seemed in no hurry to rush Mrs. Northe off, so we lingered to watch.

  “You cannot put a man like this in the basement!” Maggie exclaimed, once she saw the workers preparing to mount the piece.

  “It’s only for the time being,” Mrs. Northe stated in that tone that went without question. “Just think how much more exciting the unveiling will be when I put together a proper reception. A few of my dearest friends are abroad, and I simply cannot host an event without them.”

  “The space is flexible, and we can move him at your leisure,” Father replied. “There is talk already, you know, of an expansion to the museum.”

  “I do know.” She smiled. “My friends and I shall be most interested in helping with the funding.”

  At this, Father beamed.

  “More parties!” Maggie clapped, and we shared a girlish grin.

  Once a drape was mounted and hung, the workers left it open. I couldn’t keep from staring at Denbury. I had to make fists in my skirts to keep from reaching out, to keep from touching him and inadvertently falling against him. What a potent lure he was. I wanted to tell him of the dream. But what if he hadn’t shared it? To me, it had felt so real. But to confess I’d continued dreaming of (and nearly kissing) Denbury wasn’t necessarily something I wanted to share directly with the subject. The potential for mortification was too high. Perhaps I could tell Maggie.

  I turned to her, but she too seemed far away. Without my having the faculty of speech, we were still strangers. I thought of how easy talking to Denbury had been, how my speech had flowed aloud the way it always did in my mind, full of long, rich sentences that never quite translated into the efficiency of sign. But that had been another world.

  “Natalie, as you are our new acquisitions apprentice, we’ll have to discuss and schedule your hours here,” my father said with a smile.

  I plucked my small notebook from my drawstring purse and scribbled immediately: “As many hours as you’ll let me.”

  I turned to Maggie and scribbled for her to see: “As often as I can steal into this room.”

  She giggled and we shared a smile that made my heart warm, the distance between us bridged just a little. Amazing what just a few common words, and the sight of an attractive man, could do. A terrified anxiety may have kept me from speaking, but it did not mean that I did not want friends. And if I spoke in Denbury’s world, perhaps this was my turning point, with my new friends here in this room. I could feel Mrs. Northe watching me.

  Could Denbury sense that his circumstances had changed from what little he could discern beyond the murky water that separated his reality from ours? Likely he wondered if I was ever going to step in to him again. I wondered if I even could. I feared for my access to him.

  Eventually it seemed odd that we had been standing so long in one room with one painting (though I could’ve spent a lifetime under those blue eyes), so Mrs. Northe invited us back for dinner and Father graciously accepted. I found it a great blessing that Mrs. Northe’s company was one thing that he and I so immediately and thoroughly agreed upon.

  “I wish I could come,” Maggie pouted. “But Mama’s insisted I dine with Gran. Ugh. I’d much rather be with you, Auntie. I can’t bear dining with old people.”

  “Take care with your remarks, Margaret. One day you’ll no longer be young,” Mrs. Northe retorted.

  “Yes, but Gran’s constant commentary about how New York is going to hell in a handbasket and the misery of the weather grows terribly tedious. Every day she exclaims that she’s sure she’ll get killed by some Lower East Side gang and we have to remind her she’s never been to the Lower East Side, not to mention she’s not a particularly interesting target.”

  Mrs. Northe and Father chuckled despite themselves. Maggie turned to me. “I’ve invited Fanny and Elise over for high tea at my house tomorrow. You must come, Natalie. Can she, Mr. Stewart?”

  I turned to my father hopefully. He nodded, and I hugged him, which made him smile wider than I’d seen in some time.

  “Mr. Stewart, could you drop Maggie at home in your carriage? I’d like to speak to the foundation about an estate grant. Go on to my home, and have Marie bring some tea or coffee to you in the parlor. I’ll be after you in a moment.”

  Father nodded, collecting Maggie and me and ushering us up the stairs. As we ascended, I glanced back to see Mrs. Northe shut the door to Denbury’s room. I kept a smile to myself. She wasn’t going to be talking money; she would be investigating those markings.

  • • •

  Maggie kissed my cheek as she hopped out of our carriage at the grand mansion before us. “Tomorrow, then. Wear your best dress, Natalie. That’s important. Do you hear me?”

  I nodded, annoyed that she should think otherwise. Of course I’d want to look my best. I was terrified they’d make fun of me, but I wasn’t about to turn down Maggie’s invitation.

  Once we were finally settled at Mrs. Northe’s home, she invited me to help with some light pastries. We left Father in the former Mr. Northe’s den with a fine cigar, a snifter of brandy, and innumerable books. We could have left him there indefinitely. Mrs. Northe was immediately all business.

  “Firstly, runes. Secondly, it is most certainly you, my dear,” Mrs. Northe said quietly once we were alone. I stared at her, not understanding. “The markings are runes, and good of you to notice them. And only you can go through that portal into Denbury’s realm. I tried several tricks after you left us and before I packed him up for transit. The canvas is a door only to you.”

  My chin tilted higher. (Upon recollection as I write, I think my reaction was, in fact, stirrings of jealousy. I’ve been jealous before, of course, of Edgar’s damnable bride and the stable boy’s preference for Mary O’Donnell at school, but I digress…) I do believe I was jealous at the thought of anyone else going into that painting with my Denbury. I was the girl destined to save him. The glass slipper fit only one girl, remember…

  Mrs. Northe brushed a fond finger over my cheek. “Is that a twinkle of pride I see in your eyes? Does Denbury have his princess in you indeed?”

  I shrugged and blushed. I wasn’t sure. Did he? Mrs. Northe chuckled.

  “It would take a very wise young woman to know that she shouldn’t always trust a fairy tale.” She grinned. “Especially not where blue eyes like his are concerned.”

  I shook my head. “The other ghost’s eyes are the problem,” I signed. “At the Art Association. That wasn’t the same man I met inside the painting. The man inside is wonderful, a gentleman.” I shuddered. “But which one is truly him?”

  Was it possible to separate the essence of a self from a body, to trap it elsewhere, and then leave the empty body behind? Perhaps to be filled with something terrible instead? I grappled with how to sign this concept, but Mrs. Northe understood.

  Her brow furrowed. “We speak of such concepts in spiritualism—the body and soul as separate entities. And so on a theoretical level, I do believe such separation is possible. But I’d never dream it could be so horribly used. Death cleaves energy from its mortal shell. And I can say for certain that energies can live on past that original composition. The difference here is that something unwelcome ripped him apart and then took residence inside his body. And the question remains: If the poor man’s soul is in the painting, where is that body keeping itself?”

  She rummaged in the beaded reticule that hung from her wrist and pulled out two keys on a tassel fob.

  “I told your father I wanted access to Denbury. So I made duplicate keys for you—a museum key and then a
skeleton key for the downstairs rooms. After all, he’s still mine.” Her eyes sparkled. “The portrait, at least. If you free him from his prison, you may be lucky enough to get the man himself.”

  At this, my heart skipped a beat and I busied myself with my teacup.

  “You’ll need time away from watchful eyes,” Mrs. Northe continued. “This will give you the freedom to seize your opportunities when they come. The dear lad may not have much time.” She pressed the keys into my hands. I tucked them immediately into my bodice, the cool metal a thrill against my warm flesh. “Now, about what’s on his frame. Runes.”

  I looked at her eagerly, awaiting explanation.

  “An early form of alphabet often used in creating talismans. They’ve regained popularity within the past few decades. Some Scandinavian scholars think runes are full of magic. While that may be, they’re also simply a method of writing. But whoever put Denbury into his situation clearly has lent them importance, imbuing them with a particular power.”

  She jumped up and went to a library shelf, one locked behind glass. She shook loose something hidden high on her wrist under the buttoned lace cuffs of her silk dress. A delicate silver chain decked with small silver keys glimmered into view against her palm, one key for each of her locked bookcases. She knew without looking which was the proper fit and opened the lock with deft grace. Just as expertly, she plucked out a spine, closed and locked the case, opened the book to a ribbon-marked page, and then handed it to me.

  The page showed many styles of a similar alphabet, including characters I recognized. But the explanatory text was incomprehensible. I gave Mrs. Northe a questioning look.

  “It will take a little time to translate the text from Swedish, but I jotted down some of the markings on the frame to study further, and I’m hoping we can get some answers here.”

  Lest Father think we were conspiring, we soon rejoined him for some pleasant conversation, me scribbling things down on paper so that I could include him. Eventually we made our good-byes, and here I sit writing after mending a few pulled stitches on my very best dress in hopes for a pleasant tomorrow. Good night!