“You bet.”
I mustered up the most genuine smile I could under the circumstances, and picked up my books from his desk. I’d have to go to the bathroom first, to make sure my face didn’t look like I’d been crying, before heading in to trig. If there had been a quiz, by now it was over.
“I won’t read that story to the class,” he said. I turned back, surprised.
“It’s okay if you do,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”
I walked back across the classroom, feeling his eyes on my back. He thought it might be the last time he’d see me, before I went home and offed myself.
“Thanks, Mr. Pelkey,” I called when I opened the door, but I didn’t look back.
I opened my eyes.
I was sitting on the floor of the den. Sheets of paper surrounded me in a fan shape. It was a perfect, deliberate crescent. Cramped handwriting covered every page.
I gave a half scream and scrambled backward, as if the words were insects.
Had I written all this? I didn’t even remember managing to pick out a pen, let alone getting the paper.
I crawled back to look at what was surely the first sheet, the one on the far left.
You invite me to write … well, I shall, it started.
This wasn’t my handwriting. The letters were so tiny they were difficult to read. And … it looked like the old-fashioned kind of writing where s’s were f’s and grandiose flourishes marked each capital letter. While I was sitting here daydreaming, Madame Arnaud had manipulated my body, moving the pen to her own use.
Apparently legend has soaked the countryside about my unholy appetite, she wrote. Half-toothed quarter-wits kneel by their firesides and tell the tale of Madame Arnaud … or perhaps there are no firesides anymore. From the glass tower atop the manor, I rarely see evidence of smoke wending upward on a crisp autumn twilight.
It had actually happened. She had used my body. There was no way I could’ve written this myself. I swallowed hard. Had she used my right hand? That was the one I wrote with. I tried to control my shaking, then settled back on my heels and continued reading the entire fusillade of pages.
But regardless, they must be telling the tale … they must be, for no one comes. No children—their blood heart-stoppingly fragrant—tap upon the door to be let inside. No workmen come to repair the stones that have begun to list. My parade of servants, with their starched aprons and caps: somehow they dwindled while I failed to pay attention, until one day no one came when I rang the little golden bell. I yawned in my bed, with its tapestries wrought by the finest French artisans, and awaited the tea that never came.
I slept again, and then rose, my throat acid with anger, crusading down the hall to strangle whatever maid had neglected her service … but as I walked I realized I couldn’t remember the maid, couldn’t think of her eye color or the shade of the hair tufts that escaped her cap. Who was my last lady’s maid?
And no one was in the kitchens at all; a thick layering of dust covered the pots and kettles that had been in hourly use. The gigantic brick hearth contained a stubble of wood ash, which I bent to and found cold. Outside, I raced to the stables and there was nary a horse and nary a stable hand and nary a smithy. The wooden stalls didn’t even smell of horse any longer. All the smith’s tools were scattered by the forge, as if he had intended to work again and had simply stepped away.
I went outside again and stared at the gardens; nothing grew in order. There was a tangle worthy of some fairy-tale thicket a prince must work his way through. The topiary had grown outlandish and lost its borders; one could no longer detect that these had been deer, wolves, and rabbits playfully rendered in bush. I peered through the filthy window of the potting shed where previously seedlings had been moved from pot to pot by the diligent gardener, or his son as he grew, or the son’s son as he grew, but this time the crockery held nothing but air.
Back inside, I walked room to room. Furniture was missing! An entire estate’s worth of vases decorated with hand-painted goose girls; voluptuous ottomans; curved couches that could hold six or seven women, including their ample skirts; rugs that had been knotted by virgins who grew blind for it; the lamps that had cast a gentle glow over all the people who had attended my balls—the nobility who traveled great distances to see Madame Arnaud again—oh, it was all gone! And in their stead, a covering of dust as thick as my own hair spread across a pillow. Although the wing in which I kept my bedroom still retained its furnishings, the rest of the house was bare.
I combed the manor: I was the only living soul there. And I went back to my bed and gazed upon it—how long had I slept? I must have been in a fog, a delirium of that which I drank, because I never noticed the house emptying. How does an entire household vanish while one dozes?
And if they had sold or burned my furnishings, why did they leave my wing intact? Were they frightened to wake me from my strange sleep with the dragging of bureaus and armoires?
I spent an entire day in marvelment. What had happened, and why was I untouched? If they all left me, knowing what they knew of the doings in my household, why had they not murdered me while I slept?
Perhaps they had tried.
That night so very long ago, as I went to my bed fearful I might sleep another century or so, I found a great surprise as I peeled back the bedclothes. I hadn’t noticed when I arose that morning, but I had slept with a knife. It was a maid’s knife, the kind she tucks into her apron pocket for opening letters or cutting twine. Someone had tried to murder me: feathers poked up from holes in the mattress. As enraged as I was at the thought of a knife plunging between my ribs, I was equally furious that she had ruined the work of Louis Des Anges, the premier mattress maker of Versailles. Hundreds of swans’ feathers had been selected for this particular bed, deveined and washed with rose water until soft and fragrant as a cloud, then sewn into the golden ticking that some rat-brained maid had dared to spoil.
But if she had been stabbing me and not simply the mattress, why were there not bloodstains? Had the Louis Des Anges feathers spread their wispy fringes to gather the blood, as swans may stretch their wings for rain, and somehow returned it to me?
Why had her treacherous murder attempt failed? My strength, her weakness?
It hardly mattered since I could no longer recollect her name or face. I did know that I had to do her work … a noblewoman without any servants.
So, now, I dress my own hair, pushing away spiders that nest there overnight and picking out their egg clusters. I myself choose my gowns from the smear of dry rot in the closets and cupboards. Some days I fetch my own tea, bringing it to myself on a lacquered tray foxed with age; other days I don’t bother.
I miss being waited on. I miss many things. Fine things. In France, we drank champagne like it was water.
The monk who perfected its aging said it tasted like stars. So we drank stars, the aristocracy: a bit of the sky was our due. I shan’t forget the sight of hundreds of glasses carefully filled by servants with the lightest of amber—so light it was almost clear—frothing from within like an excitable child.
I have always loved a beautiful vessel filled with a delicious drink. And sometimes what I choose to drink—dear Phoebe, you shall learn!—makes that champagne of centuries ago taste of nothing. Rather than stars, I swallow moons and galaxies and the vastness of space.
Back then, children meant nothing to me. I was so young myself. Then I left the elated pleasure of France to travel across the water to dark England with the grudging shuffle of my extended family … excepting of course my despised sister. If France is champagne, this country is common ale. I’ll never forget the brutish wind on that crossing and the heavy roll of the boat on the waves.
We found land that called to me, that I knew from stories told to me, in a forest deep enough to provide a warren for me to wander in my belled skirts. But I discovered I took no pleasure in it unless accompanied by a gaggle of other laughing women. Believe me, my brother and his wife, and the odd au
nts and uncles and their offspring that constituted our family, were not as high-spirited as me.
All of us were sobered, dampened, by this brooding country. The picnics and frolics of Versailles were a long way from these dim woods. Once the manor was built, I had a man paint my friends onto the wall in a long mural: Marie, Sabine, Pierre, Auguste, Gustav, Claire, and dozens of others I was lonesome for, lolling on a green lawn resplendent with flowers.
I eventually retreated to the house since walking the grounds only reminded me of what I had lost. But I found a sort of happiness. We began hosting balls in our glorious ballroom. Once again, champagne poured from the necks of elegant green bottles. I gazed at the gowns of women who had money enough to care about the fastening of the bodice, or whether a length of ribbon had been woven by cheap shopgirls or by devout Irish nuns handpicked for that purpose by God.
I simply stopped leaving. Outside, the cold sun knew my abnormal heart and cast cruel light into my clouded eyes, making me blink like a subterranean beast brought to the surface. The fine soles of my silk slippers fell prey to the ravages of pebbles digging into my arches, trying to insinuate a tear.
The manor was large enough to stretch my legs. Plus—it loved me. I felt this. It approved of my furnishings, my draperies. It adored me playing a trick on a woman who should have recognized it, for it was her own trick! And under my firm tutelage, the estate tempered the forces that had otherwise provided tumult. I will always preside over these stones, healthy and strong … years and worlds after Marie, Sabine, and the others laid their elderly necks upon a monstrous device and were beheaded. The manor and I are a perfect couple, in love endlessly.
I’ve so much more to tell you. I have plans, ideas. You
It just ended there. Mid-sentence.
My mouth was dry, and I felt incredible disquiet radiating through my body. I knew I should feel some sense of relief—I had proof now—but that was the furthest thing from what I felt. Madame Arnaud had plans for me.
She was thinking about me. Plotting about me.
I was somehow her target just as much as Tabby was. What could she possibly want with me? I tried to control my shaking hands, to reach down and pick up the pages. I was going to gather them up in reverse order, so that the first page would be on the top of the pile, ready to hand to Mom and Steven to read. My fingers nearly touched the spidery script …
… and all of a sudden Miles was there.
I shrieked and stumbled up to stand, nearly stepping on the pages.
“Sorry!” he said, spreading his hands wide like I was about to attack him. He came farther into the room and made a sheepish face. He was wearing black jeans and a close-fitting slate-colored henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up below his elbow.
“What are you—how did you get here?”
“There are lots of ways in,” he said. “I hadn’t seen you for a while, so I thought I’d come round.”
“Did my mom let you in? She knows you’re here?”
He shook his head, grinning. My jolting heart began a new rhythm, for a new reason.
“You scared the crap out of me!” I said.
“Sorry,” he said again.
I stared at him and realized he was a daredevil, an inch away from being an asshole if he wasn’t so handsome. He was here to check up on the Madame Arnaud gossip, slipping in through a window like the mansion belonged to him. Like a common burglar. He’d told me the legend and come to see how much it had scared me.
“Look at these,” I said, pointing to the array of papers on the floor.
“What are they?”
“Read them,” I said. “Read this one first.” I pointed to the one on the left, where the crescent of pages started.
He knelt to read while I studied his face. It was a nice chance to stare without him knowing. From this vantage point, his eyelashes were lush against the sturdy planes of his face. Confirmed: he was still ridiculously handsome.
He frowned. “You wrote this?”
“No. She did.”
“Madame Arnaud?” He looked up at me like I was a leper about to wipe my ooze onto him.
I was going to insist “Yes,” but I thought about the research I’d done with Bethany all those months ago, the sheet we’d written up with notes about schizophrenia. I paused. What was true?
“I didn’t write it,” I said. But Mr. Pelkey would have loved it if you had, I thought.
“Where did you find them?”
I swallowed, worrying I wouldn’t be able to say anything coherent. It took everything I had not to walk out of the room and huddle in my lime green retreat. He could be a friend, I told myself. You need friends. I took a few calming breaths and explained automatic writing to him.
His eyes narrowed. “You let her take over your body? Weren’t you terrified?”
“I didn’t even feel it,” I said. “But you’re not supposed to. You’re in a trance.”
I felt like an idiot talking about this in Steven’s office. We were like two awkward actors in a badly blocked scene: no chairs available to us except the single one in front of Steven’s desk. I knelt down so I was at least on the same level with him. His eyes flicked to mine, too close. “I’m not sure,” I said.
“About what?”
“About what happened. If it did.”
He looked again at the pages. “You couldn’t have written this.”
“But how can it be real?”
“How can it be real,” he repeated. Some dawn of understanding showed in his eyes, and he looked sympathetic.
I was on the verge of telling him I’d screamed in front of my mom while she was putting a Band-Aid on Tabby, and she hadn’t reacted. I wanted to tell him about seeing Madame Arnaud in the old part of the house, that she’d turned the doorknob and stalked me step by step. That I thought she had bent over my sister in her crib and maybe even … done what he’d said. Drank her blood.
“I get the feeling you’re reluctant to trust your senses,” he said.
“That—that is true,” I said. “That is the most true thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
He smiled at me. “I believe you. And I believe this,” he said, gesturing to the pages.
“If she’s real,” I said, “my sister is in real trouble. She’s only two.”
“Jesus,” breathed Miles, his face growing serious instantly. “You didn’t tell me you had a little sister.”
“Well, and there’s something even worse,” I said. I took a deep inhale and plunged in. I had to tell someone—someone who would actually listen. “This morning Tabby had some kind of injury on her arm.”
“From what?”
“I think from Madame Arnaud. I was there. I kind of saw it. I saw something. She came into my sister’s room and she …”
“She what?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t watch.”
“You mean … you think she was … ?”
I nodded.
“Did you show it to your parents?”
“My mom’s convinced it’s from an exposed nail on the crib.”
“But you told her what happened?”
I hesitated. “Miles.” I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to admit that either my mom had purposefully ignored me, or I had experienced a full-blown hallucination. Both options were devastating.
“Yes?”
“My family doesn’t seem to listen to me anymore.”
A big silence fell.
“They’re punishing me for something that happened back in California, before we moved,” I said.
“Punishing you by ignoring you?”
It sounded barbaric, and completely unlike Mom and Steven. So, possibly the other thing was true. I swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
“My parents do it, too,” he said.
I looked bleakly into his beautiful sapphire eyes, the same color as a ring I’d begged Mom for (unsuccessfully) when I turned sixteen.
“What the hell?” I protested weakly. “How could yo
u do that to your own kid?”
“I thought at first they were just preoccupied. Then I figured out it must be some new parenting technique. They always read books and magazines to figure out how to handle me. I guess I was a little bit of a firecracker when I was younger.” He grinned, and the change was like a gift from the gods.
I seized on this explanation, seized on his mood. “Yeah, maybe it is some kind of fad,” I said. “I remember Mom and Steven going to a lot of group meetings with other parents right before we moved.”
“They’re ganging up on us,” he said. “Maybe we should ignore them back.”
I laughed.
“But they probably wouldn’t notice,” he added. His eyes were so beautiful, crinkling at the edges as he laughed, his upper lip slightly crooked over his fantastic smile. I realized that not only was he very handsome, but that I liked him. In that way.
My breathing became shaky. I wondered if the way I was looking at him had changed, that he could tell what I was feeling. My stomach contracted, and I felt a lurch in my chest. He looked away.
“I have an idea,” he said abruptly. “Don’t laugh, but we could go to the library. Maybe someone who works there could help us.”
I nodded, disappointed at the loss of intensity, but also relieved. “I’ll try anything,” I said, touching his hand for an instant.
He glanced down at his hand. I’ve always been a touchy-feely person, but maybe here in England people didn’t do that.
“Sorry,” I said.
“For what?
“Nothing.” I could feel myself reddening, so I quickly said, “Actually, there’s a library here in the mansion.” I bit down on my lower lip, which was suddenly deep in my mouth. It hurt.
“All right,” he said.
“But I don’t know if I can go back there.”
“Why not?”
Feeling a sheen of sweat descending from my hairline, I told him everything. The organ, the maid’s etched window, Madame Arnaud pursuing me with solemn steps while portions of her skull shone through her ragged, decaying flesh.
“You’re not kidding, are you.” He said it as a statement, although behind it was a question.
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