Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  Then the ghost materializes near the window of my room, watching me with thinly-veiled contempt. Blood drips from a gash at the side of her head and stains her red and white checkered blouse. It reminds me of a picnic tablecloth. I see myself clearly through her eyes, as though I am she. Ghost-sight can be quite helpful with investigations, but it isn’t always flattering. Laughter bubbles up in my chest, gets stuck in my throat. What a shameful picture I present! Idiotic nightgown, slack mouth, glassy expression. No wonder this ghost is upset. I’d doubt myself if I were in her place.

  She begins to shriek, but I’m not over-bothered. I merely turn down my hearing and smile. With laudanum pumping through my system, I lose all sense of propriety and engagement. The ghost rants a bit more, and I notice again the charming sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Of course they would be a great deal more charming if she didn’t look as though she wanted to throttle me. Perhaps I’ll call her Freckles as a nickname. I smile even more at this idea. Freckles must sense my levity despite her efforts to terrify me because the ghost stomps her foot and disappears with an angry pop. Ghost-sight leaves with her, and I am blind again.

  Unaware of the spirit’s departure, Cordelia brushes a strand of hair away from where it sticks to my cheek. She walks to the other side of the room, and the wooden chair creaks as she sits down. Soon there’s a light clicking noise. Knitting.

  Blast it, Cordie. Not another wool scarf. Kindly do the necks of the world a favor and cease.

  She hums a lullaby, the Welsh tune melding softly with the air. I barely have a moment to think of the words to the song before my thoughts turn hazy, and I drift away.

  3

  Cura ut valeas.

  Take care.

  An opium-induced fog isn’t conducive to real sleep. Therefore, I wake up later than usual and move sluggishly through my morning routine. It is Cordelia’s day off, and a parlor maid has taken over her duties. The replacement’s name is Martha. She smells strongly of linseed oil, sweat, and anxiety. A virulent combination in close quarters.

  After stepping into the copper bathtub, I sink under the water and begin to wash, silently praising whoever invented perfumed soap, lord love him. I listen as Martha tidies my room like a dervish, shooting from bed to dresser to desk. A dusting, sweeping hurricane of cleanliness. “Well,” Martha says, once her tasks are complete. “Are you finished?”

  I shake my head and lie back in the fragrant water. My lethargy is not allowed to interfere with Martha’s busy schedule, and she braids my hair as I sit in the tub, twisting it into a coronet and pinning it into place.

  “Ring if you want me, Miss Hester, and I’ll come back at once.”

  I continue to dawdle, splashing my tender knee and soaking the abrasions on my palms. The water cools far too soon, however, even with the heat-retaining copper. I reach for a bath sheet and freeze. A sound disrupts my peaceful interlude, a murmured sentence fragment followed by the scuff of a shoe against the floor. Gasping in shock, I cover my body with the sheet and sink under the water again. What the hell? Who’s in my bedroom?

  It takes me a few terrified seconds to identify my visitor—the way he shuffles foot to foot, talking softly to himself, confused and anxious. I collapse against the side of the tub.

  Deo favente. It’s only Carver.

  Every Visionary deals with wayward spirits. They occupy a corner of one’s mind—like a constant, low-level hum—and leave little room for personal privacy. This one fades in and out of my thoughts like Alice’s Cheshire cat but with white, wispy hair and a three-button silk vest that must have been a lovely blue color once. Before he died last year, Carver spent his days at the Stonehenge saloons, gambling badly. Until he scored a perfect, unbeatable hand at the ripe age of sixty-five and had a massive heart attack before he could enjoy his winnings. Sir Death has no idea why this ghost is still here since haunting is typically done by homicide victims. He isn’t decomposing like most who linger, losing his features and shape to become a gray formless cloud.

  But then this is Carver we’re talking about. At best, he is incompetent, stubborn and a rule breaker. At worst, delusional. I’ve seen him in my psyche trying to hide a stuffed rooster in a banjo case. He’s no more lucid now than when he was alive.

  Go toward the light, Carver, I call telepathically from my cold bathtub. You don’t belong here. Embrace eternity.

  The ghost seems to consider this for a moment and then responds with a rude belching noise. Carver leaves as unexpectedly as he arrived, and I rub my face with my hands, wishing I could rid my brain of his memory. Why did the old gambler select me for his contact? What did I do to deserve him?

  I step out of the tub and dry myself with another bath sheet. At the armoire, I choose a set of underclothes, feeling for the ribbons that decorate the front of these boxy garments, and pull them onto my body without any great difficulty.

  Now to locate the corset, stockings, and petticoats. Bless you, Cordelia! They are all in their respective compartments due to her obsession with order. I throw the lingerie onto my bed, and return to the armoire for a gown. Since I can’t see them, I choose clothes by the way the material feels. Should I pick the alpaca or the silk? Or would wool be better? Because my room feels drafty, I decide upon a heavier fabric for greater warmth. Cordelia has described the dress to me at length—bottle-green velvet with black piping at the hem, collar, and cuffs. Lovely-smelling, too. I hold the garment to my face and inhale the rose petal and cedar shavings scent.

  Minding my own business, innocently enjoying a bit of potpourri, I hear my mother’s voice, two floors above. She sounds angry and hurt. I do hate having magic ears sometimes. It’s always awkward to eavesdrop on private moments.

  “You can’t send her off,” Mama says. “I won’t let you.”

  Father strides across the bedroom, his shoes pounding the floor with each step. “It’s inevitable that she go.”

  “But this is her home. She’s comfortable here. Don’t you care about your own daughter?”

  Sounding very Welsh, he mutters a few words, the kind I’d expect to hear from Willard after hammering his thumb. Then Father laughs. “What would you have me say, Lenore? That I cherish my life’s trial? Feel affection for the thorn in my side? Be serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  “My dear wife, if you would only listen to reason— ”

  Mama throws something at the wall. “How can you be so cold? It’s unnatural.”

  “I am not the unnatural one in this house…”

  “We settled this long ago, John. While there’s a breath in my body, Hester remains. I’m holding you to your word.”

  I have listened to at least a thousand variations of this argument. John and Lenore go round and round about my future every week or so, when they’re alone and need something to fill the silence. I am all they share in common at this late marital date.

  The air in my bedroom suddenly feels oppressive so I walk to the window, tripping twice along the way. It’s absurd to let their comments upset me so.

  My stupid ears hear Father walk down the gravel drive to the carriage house near the road. He’s still obviously angry and seeking to vent his wrath on someone. Willard is the first person he encounters.

  “Why hasn’t the hog been butchered yet, Little Hawk?” Father yells. “You’re robbing me of your wages. I should have the constable arrest you.”

  Father climbs into our buggy, and the horse takes a few skittish steps. “See to the butchering and fill in that old well. Otherwise, pack your bags and get out.”

  Back within the house, I recognize the parlor maid’s heavy tread downstairs, moving in my direction. Martha enters the bedroom a short while later, smelling strongly of linseed. The oil has saturated her clothing to such a degree that I do not know how this woman has escaped spontaneous combustion. Someone needs to warn her to change into a clean uniform or avoid all sources of fire.

  “Got worried when you didn’t ring,” Martha
says. “Thought you’d fallen asleep in the bath.”

  I hold up the velvet gown, and point to the pile of under-things on the chair, beckoning for her assistance. It takes time to lace up my corset, tie on the petticoats and bustle, and affix the long row of buttons on the morning dress. Finally, Martha hooks me into a sturdy pair of ankle boots. She drops a shawl into my gloved hand and quickly clears the room of wet towels before taking her leave.

  I throw on a cloak, pick up my cane, and step into the hall. The more genteel section of the manor lies to the right. I proceed in that direction, hoping to use the central staircase without notice. And luck is with me! The way is clear. After reaching the main floor, I turn toward the drawing room and listen to my mother playing Moonlight Sonata on the piano. It is perfectly executed, with the precise blend of technique and expression. I have no idea why, but even as a girl, it made me wish to weep. Is it the steady movement forward, the subtle persistence? Or just the lyric purity that touches my soul? Beethoven is one of Mama’s passions—as well as Liszt and Brahms. She favors the German composers over their Italian and French contemporaries. It seems a waste of her talent not to love and play them all.

  As the final note is struck, I leave my mother to her music—glad that she feels deeply about something—and walk toward the library. It should be empty since my father prefers to do his correspondence and business in his personal study. As I enter the library, it smells of hot-house flowers, furniture polish, and freshly-baked gateau. Chocolate, I think. Our dining room and kitchen are just down the hall, and evidently Cook is baking something delicious today.

  The dessert makes my mouth water as I pass through the library, and I remind myself to have some when I return. Then I remember that Cordelia is not here and abandon the idea. She always sneaks treats to me from the kitchen, but I doubt Martha would do such a thing. Reaching the French doors, I open one and stroll out onto the patio. Weak November sun kisses the top of my head, and I smile at the sky. My parents are oblivious to these daily excursions for the most part. As long as I appear to follow their rules—keep to my set of rooms, don’t cause problems with the servants, disappear when company comes—they stay clear of me.

  Our arrangement works well, in my opinion.

  Mahogany cane in my right hand, I reach out with the left, palm forward, and count the steps that I walk. Slow and steady progress, that’s a girl.

  It is a hundred feet from the patio to the formal rose gardens, most likely dreary and dormant at this time of year. Next comes the pond, a man-made pool that is fairly easy to circumnavigate if I stay on the right path. As yet, I have not fallen in, though I did come close a time or two. The pond now behind me, I continue forward… beyond the marble statuary, the outdoor chess board, the Italianate courtyard.

  I pause and rest, stretching side to side at the waist. Sweet blazes! Corsets do not enhance oxygen intake one whit. Unlike the inventor of perfumed soap, I do not thank the person who created these blasted things. After a few more stretches, I continue on. It’s still another three hundred and five feet to reach the maze and the conservatory at its center. Father calls this section of the grounds Mother’s Folly because it was her idea to put in an evergreen maze. It occupies a dozen acres, has several dead ends, and features thousands of manicured shrubs. If one lined up all the twisting paths inside the maze, they would nearly run a mile. Many a servant has become lost inside the serpentine puzzle that is Mother’s Folly.

  The air grows cool when I arrive at the entrance to the maze. I pull the hood of my cloak up and give my ears free reign to sort through the layers of sound on the estate. It is reasonably quiet at the house. Except for Mama’s playing—she’s moved on to Schubert. The outbuildings and barn, on the other hand, are full of activity. Washerwomen snap wet sheets and peg them to the line. The slaughtered pig hangs from a hook, blood dripping—tap, tap, tap—into a pan. And a scullery maid is busy with the mid-day milking, berating the cow for kicking over her pail.

  Amid this domesticity, I turn inward and listen to my heartbeat. The sounds of the world disappear as I call out telepathically to the other half of my soul. His response is quick.

  Yes, Hettie. I hear you.

  I smile at the voice in my head. Sorry if I’m a bother—

  A pleasant distraction, maybe, but not a bother.

  Could we meet this afternoon?

  Reassurance and peace flow between us. I’m just outside town. Be there as soon as I can.

  He leaves me with that promise, and I turn my hearing outward, cheered by our psychic communion. I stroll into Mother’s Folly, feeling instantly at home, and run my left hand along the shrubbery. A haven of solitude and peace, away from spying servants and family troubles. Gravel crunches under my boots as I follow the narrow path. Move along, I tell myself. Left. Left. Right. That’s it—ignore the false turn and go straight. Around the next corner, now take another right. And left once more… Yes. Almost there.

  My tranquility is shattered when I hear someone speak. Not a ghost this time but a living woman. Voice brittle as dessicated leaves, she whispers from the forest that surrounds our estate. The sound cuts through the air like a razor blade, striking my ear.

  “Come, child,” the old woman says. “Tap your cane, that I might follow the sound and find you.”

  Tap my cane? I will do no such thing. I do not wish to meet this strange, bossy female. Yet my hand shakes when I resist, and fear ripples along my spine. I have no choice but to obey and strike the gravel. How can it be? Has she the power of Compulsion? That’s forbidden magic. Evil.

  Snap! A branch breaks at the forest’s edge. The woman is now crossing our estate, walking toward the maze. She moves far too fast for an old person, faster than any human should.

  Get inside the conservatory, my mind whispers. Flee.

  I run along the curving path, cane swinging wildly, counting the turns in my head. But my feet grow heavy and slow, like they are caught in a vat of molasses. More dark power. I stick my cane into the earth and pull myself forward, only to slide back an inch or two. Forward, back. Forward, back. I must look as if I’m playing tug-o-war with my own body.

  “Stop!” the stranger calls, reaching the entrance of the maze. “I mean you no harm.”

  Her cold magic disappears, and I sag against my cane, free of Compulsion at last.

  The conservatory is directly ahead. Thirteen steps away. Heart sputtering, I run the distance to the copper and glass structure. The air inside is warm and smells of lilies. I shut the door, lock it, and shrink back against the wall.

  My unwanted guest turns from the maze entrance. I hear her backtrack, walking along the outside of the hedge wall. Until she is directly across from the conservatory as the crow flies.

  “I could reach you now if I wanted,” the old voice whispers. “But I’ll be patient and wait. Perhaps you’re not ready to meet me.”

  Groping my way to the center of the hot house, I knock a plant off its pedestal, and the pot shatters on the floor. Sound waves tear through my ears, causing me to double over in pain.

  “I’m Mary Arden,” the woman says, as though she’s calming a frightened child. “Just old Mary.”

  I lift my hand, perplexed. How odd. It seems I’ve taken the lucky pebbles out of my pocket without realizing it. I jingle them together and think of Mary Arden. Anyone who lives in Stonehenge knows of her. Some say she’s a witch, a thief, a fortune-teller. A recluse who consumes absinthe in alarming quantities and hides deep in the wilderness—talking to bears, dancing under the stars.

  Or so the fables go.

  “It’s an awful burden, being what we are,” she murmurs. “The Sight can bring such pain.”

  Wait a moment. This person is a Visionary? Mad Mary of the forest?

  Her voice turns hypnotic, intimate. “Life’s never been fair for us, has it? Our gift is really no gift at all.”

  I’m being played like a violin at the music hall, but I cannot help listening. Is the woman friend or foe
? Could she actually be what she claims? It is possible, I suppose.

  Among the descendants of the goddess Veritas, the Sight jumps between members of our vast family tree, leaving the unchosen completely unaware of their lineage. The Lady gives her name to a select number of females in every era. They become the new Veritas, serving the people of their jurisdiction until death. Is Mary one of us?

  Her crackling voice no longer floats in the air but lodges deep within my psyche, until I am unsure where her thoughts end and mine begin. Come, sweet child. We must help each other. We have a common enemy.

  I squeeze the pebbles until my palm hurts. I do not wish to channel thoughts with Mary Arden, but I interrupt the fey woman’s tidings, stifling her words with my own. I have done nothing wrong. Who is this enemy?

  Archimendax…

  The Great Liar? Impossible. He disappeared after the fall of Rome.

  Mary paces outside the maze, skirts snapping in the wind. Not Archimendax himself, Hester. His scion. He’s threatened by you and covets your talent.

  What is there to covet? My power is small, limited.

  She scoffs at this. Are you so ignorant, girl? Your abilities are not limited. Who told you that?

  I just presumed.

  You presumed wrong then. They evolve as you do.

  I cannot help doubting her. Along with the unwashed skin and filthy clothes, Mary Arden stinks of ulterior motives. How will my gifts change?

  Only time will tell. Maturity enhances them. And suffering. It shows the universe that we endure, that we’re capable of bearing more.

  In that case, I prefer to stay as I am.

  Oh, child, you are naïve. Destiny is often thrust upon us. Mary Arden sighs and moves closer to the hedge. You must listen now, Hester. Our enemy uses others to accomplish his evil work. Weak, impressionable souls who lack the will to resist. You’ll hear it in their voices if you listen hard enough.