“But what about her? Will my mother recover?”
He had only shrugged wearily before leaving.
The moment he left, I felt a terrible worry and then the beginning of an aching loneliness.
I cursed quietly through my tears, unable to imagine life without her. I loved her and could not even begin to comprehend the possibility of her death. I had always wondered why she had fled London—why we never went back. She had told me essentially nothing about her previous life there; all I knew was that London was the place where her estranged mother lived. She rarely discussed Jacque Sharp, my father—at least, the man I had thought was my father.
The evening she fell ill, the storm winds and rains slammed loudly against the cottage’s shutters. Roddy had come that night; I still remember him standing on the doorstep, soaking wet, the strong lingering smells of metals and of smoke from the shop upon him.
“Roddy,” I said quickly. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dysentery. She’s contagious.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Yer know I never git sick anyway. How is she? How are ye?”
Unable to answer him, I had left him momentarily to check on her. When I reached her room, she lay amid the blankets, her face still flushed with fever, but she slept soundly. Quietly, I turned down the lamp and left the room, pulling the bedroom door almost closed.
Roddy and I talked late into the night. I still remembered how, when he took his cap off in the low light of our tiny, dim parlor, his blond curls were so bright against his dark tan; he was already burnt brown, although it was not even the middle point of summer.
In spite of our newfound awkwardness, I let my emotions go just before he left that night, embracing him and crying. I tried to keep the sound of my sobbing down, and I spoke in croaking whispers so that Mother would not hear me.
Now, I heard Ellen’s footsteps in the hallway outside my door, proceeding down the hall toward the servant stairs as she retired to bed for the night. All candles and lamplight were out in the house, and I was enshrouded in complete darkness. I rested my forehead upon my bent knees and put my hands against my now tear-swollen face.
That night, after Roddy left, I quietly pushed open the door to the bedroom and was surprised to see Mother out of bed, staring out the window toward Sir Edgeworth’s forest, which stretched beyond the back of our cottage. Her hand had been pressed hard and flat against the pane.
She didn’t hear me. It was as if she was in a trance. I began panicking, hoping that another of her seizures—psychic visions, I later discovered—wasn’t about to start. I led her back to bed and then, when I turned to shut the drapes, I froze, startled. Lightning cracked, illuminating the sky, and in that instant I thought I saw a figure at the edge of the woods, watching us. I blinked and the figure was gone.
I had always assumed that it must have been one of Sir Edgeworth’s servants, on some night errand. I had also wondered whether I might be mistaken—that there had been no one there at all. Now, I knew that it was most likely Max—he was waiting for Mother to die. Waiting for me. Watching me, even then …
Mother was no better the next morning.
I had been up throughout the night with her as her illness worsened. By dawn her lips were dry, cracked, and purple shadows stood out in deep half-moons under her eyes. Periods of sleep, and then violent illness, continued in cycles all day. I took brief naps and ate only a little. That night, as the night before, I didn’t sleep.
I must have fallen asleep at dawn sometime the next morning, because I awoke, startled, to find her sitting up in the bed beside me. Her face was still pale and hollow, but she seemed very conscious. Not at all delirious or trancelike.
“Mother!” I said, as I jolted myself from the bonds of my sleep.
“Shhh … ” She hushed me.
I sat up, facing her. “You’re feeling better.”
She said nothing, but looked at me sadly. There was something veiled, very thoughtful, behind her eyes, and now I would sell my soul to be able to know what she was thinking in that moment.
I couldn’t believe she would die. I knew she would recover. Soon. That our life would continue as it had. But then my hope sank when she spoke, her voice weak, hoarse.
“I am making arrangements. Do not worry.”
My panic returned. “What arrangements? What are you saying?”
“Shhhh … ” She hushed me again, this time putting her finger hard against my lips.
We said nothing more on the matter.
By noon, she finally fell asleep. She slept for most of the afternoon, and I felt a twinge of hope. The house stank, and for the first time I noticed how stuffy and oppressive it seemed. I opened every window, letting the breeze flow through.
As I stood in the parlor eating a piece of bread with jam, Roddy knocked on the door.
“Ab. Papa let me leave early to see yer. How is Mrs. Sharp?”
I shrugged.
“The same?”
I nodded. “She’s sleeping now.”
“Let’s go on a walk, Ab. Yer need ter git oyt of ’ere for a few minutes. We’ll just walk in the forest … ”
“No. I can’t leave her.”
“Abbie. I want you to go.” Mother’s voice startled both of us. She stood in the bedroom doorway, holding onto the doorframe for support.
“No, you’re still very ill.”
“You have been in here too long,” she said. “You must take a break. You need some fresh air.”
There was an intensity in her voice that made me think she wanted me to leave, wanted me to leave her alone in the house. After a few more minutes of persuasion, both from her and from Roddy, I finally agreed to take a short walk with him.
After we left the house, we walked into the forest. The day was bright, very warm. Birds shrieked from the surrounding trees, and a firm breeze rattled through dewed leaves—still wet from a light rain. In spite of the lovely weather, I felt my worry about Mother, my desire to be with her, like a lingering weight pressing upon me. This didn’t escape Roddy’s notice; cautiously he reached for my hand, and as we walked, I let him hold it.
We went a long distance in silence, taking a rough trail that we had never taken. The trail curved sharply in several places, and I could not see where it ended. We walked for over an hour; I knew that we were on a far part of the property that I had never visited.
The woods stopped abruptly, opening into a clearing. Amid the long grasses and wild rose bushes I saw a small graveyard of only ten markers. The stones had been bleached nearly white by the sun. Almost directly beside the graves was a large pond. A deer, which had been drinking from the water, saw us and fled into the brush of the surrounding forest.
Roddy crouched down and cleared brambles off of a tiny grave.
I knelt beside him and tried to focus on the letters, but they had all worn away. The sun beat upon us and the day felt warmer than when we had set out. I was very aware of his body next to mine, and I felt dizzy. I stood, the weakness almost overpowering me. I felt nauseated and regretted taking such a long walk after eating and drinking almost nothing for two days. We had been gone over an hour, and I was becoming anxious to get back to Mother.
“Are ye all right?” Roddy asked, standing and steadying me.
“Yes. I think … I think I just walked too far. I need to get back to her.”
Suddenly a branch cracked loudly.
We realized that we were not alone. Three young men, the oldest of them about twenty, stood at the edge of the clearing.
I knew immediately who they were and what they wanted. They were young vagabonds, robbers out to prey on Dubliners in the country. Sir Edgeworth had warned me once of these gangs roaming through the woods, threatening people for money or jewelry.
Without a word, all three of the young men began walking toward us, breaking apart as if they
meant to surround us. One pulled out a knife, and I felt certain that the others were armed, too.
Roddy almost imperceptibly waved his hand at me, a signal that I should stay near him.
“We don’t ’ave anythin’,” he said to the group.
“Nathin’?” the leader replied. “I don’t believe yer.”
“We’ll leave if yer wish, but we ’ave nothing to give yer.”
At that point they surrounded us, and I knew that they had no intention of letting us go. “I tink we’ll fend oyt for ourselves,” one of them said. He nodded at the other two.
They searched Roddy first. He held his arms out, letting them search him without confrontation.
My fear and outrage mounted as one of the group put his hands on my waist. He pulled my hair away from the back of my neck.
“Let ’er go,” Roddy said.
“Naw.”
Tensing, I tried to remember the technique Roddy had taught me for disengaging a grip—sharp elbow to the upper chest, twist right, and run. I felt weak, sluggish, but nonetheless, after summoning some strength, I caught Roddy’s eye so that he knew what I was going to do, twisted, and then bludgeoned the young man hard in the chest with my elbow so that he fell back.
Roddy and I ran fast toward the woods before the other two could grab us. But then I felt a vise-grip on my arm as one of the boys grabbed me and pulled me back toward the direction of the pond.
The boy holding me pressed a knife blade sharply against my back as I struggled against him. Coming to my aid, Roddy pummeled another one of the boys to the ground and delivered hard blows to his face. The other gang member pulled out a knife and advanced toward Roddy.
“Roddy, run! He has a knife!”
I struggled against my captor, but he pressed the knife only harder into my back.
Roddy and the other boy fell to the ground, rolling toward the pond.
“Let me go!” I screamed, kicking my captor hard in the knees. But he pressed the knife so hard into my back that I felt it break through the fabric of my dress and draw blood. As I screamed in pain and tried to break away, I knew that Roddy wouldn’t have a chance against two of them.
The boy Roddy had beaten stood up, furious, his nose bleeding. I watched in horror, unbelieving, as the other boy pinned Roddy down just long enough for the bleeding thug to stab him several times in the abdomen.
“Noooooo!!!”
Everything in my vision spun, and I only vaguely wondered if my captor would stab me. All I could think about was getting to Roddy.
I screamed again as I watched the two boys hoist Roddy up and throw him out into the pond.
“No! No! Let me go!!!” I screamed.
Inexplicably, the gang leader did let me go, pushing me to the ground. After stumbling over my skirts, I ran wildly toward the pond.
“What aboyt ’er?” I heard one of them ask the others.
“Leave ’er!” was the reply as the three vagabonds ran toward the woods. “I’m certain ye killed ’im. We ’av to git out of ’ere! Now!”
“Roddy! Roddy!” I screamed as I jumped into the pond. I was soon waist-deep, desperately pushing away the tangles of lily pads and weeds. Roddy’s body floated facedown, not far from me. But then the water was over my head, and, although I knew how to swim, I was still wearing my boots, and all of my skirts weighed me down. Even so, I could almost reach Roddy’s body. Then my fingertips touched his shoulder, and I shuddered at how limp he was.
Just before I could pull him toward me and get his face above the water, my foot became entangled in something—twine from a fishing net, or perhaps a weed. I tried to jerk myself free, but could not. After taking a deep gulp of air, I dived underneath the surface. My ankle was caught by a thick, heavy piece of vine that would not break, and I could not free myself. I struggled with the vine until my lungs felt as if they were on fire. But when I attempted to surface, I saw Roddy floating almost directly above me, his lifeless eyes gazing down. The sunlight broke down through the pond’s surface above Roddy’s body, and I saw clearly the scarlet-tinged water surrounding me.
All of the air in my lungs escaped in my underwater scream. Frenzied, I sucked in a tremendous amount of water. I reached upward toward Roddy’s body, choking, not able to believe that he was dead, that I was about to die. Light flickered at the periphery of my vision, and then all became blackness.
I never understood exactly how I came to be saved, but I had sometimes wondered if one of the vagabonds, feeling a wave of guilt, had returned to pull me out. All I knew was that after feeling a sharp and sudden tug on the vine ensnaring my ankle, an arm locked around my waist and pulled me to the surface. I reeled in and out of consciousness, seeing and sensing nothing clearly. My body limp, I was dragged to the hot ground on the bank of the pond. My lungs were so clogged with water that I could not breathe, even though the burning sensation had stopped. I felt no pain then, simply heaviness.
Suddenly there was an awful tingling, and then pain erupted in my chest. As a great spasm overtook my body, I rolled to my side and vomited. Fits of coughing and wheezing overwhelmed me for several minutes.
When the coughing ceased, I was too exhausted to move. I opened my eyes to see who had saved me only to find myself alone. Bullfrogs croaked around the pond, fireflies flickered in the forest brush. I tried to sit up, still thinking of Roddy, but my dress was like a great weight sucking upon me. I turned toward the pond, only to see his body still floating. Then I fainted.
Somehow, in the fringes of my consciousness, I became aware of someone carrying me. I felt branches, leaves, thistles, scratching my face, twisting about my hair. I had, at that time, no idea who carried me. Perhaps it was one of the Edgeworths’ servants. I tried to open my eyes, to bring myself to my senses—but then I would remember that my best friend was dead.
Roddy was dead.
I vaguely wondered if someone had also retrieved Roddy’s body from the pond. But it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would bring him back as my flesh-and-blood friend again.
Then I smelled the odors of illness, and I knew I had been taken back in our cottage. I felt myself laid down in the bed, next to Mother, and I heard her scream. Once again, I struggled, fought to become fully conscious, to hear and see what was going on around me. But my body stayed locked, and I knew I was on the brink of losing consciousness again.
Mother was arguing violently with someone, a man, and I felt her grip my body as I lay beside her. I had always wondered why she’d argued with Sir Edgeworth’s servant, someone who it seemed had saved me and brought me back to her. Her anger had never made sense to me.
I heard someone else’s voice in the room, but I was fading fast and soon succumbed to the sweet sleep of unconsciousness.
When I awoke, it was sometime during the night. All was dark except for a couple of candles lit on the stand beside our bed. I felt Mother’s cool hand stroking my face. When I looked up at her, her face was grayish, frightfully grayish.
“Mother … ” I said, crying, feeling a childish need to be comforted in spite of her illness. “Roddy … ”
“It was a terrible accident, Arabella. Let’s not speak of it now.”
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that she was lying beside me.
“Who brought me back?” I had asked. “Why were you arguing with him?”
She turned even paler than she already was.
“A servant found you. Brought you home. But I argued with no one.”
I felt certain that I had heard her arguing.
“Go to sleep, Abbie.”
She stayed beside me that night, and died in her sleep.
As I pried myself away from those memories, to where I still lay curled on the floor of my bedroom, I stuffed my fist in my mouth to prevent anyone from hearing me cry.
Roddy. Revisiting the tragedy of losing him was lik
e reopening a wound. But now that I knew how intensely the Conclave had pursued Mother and me, the pieces of those last Dublin days made more sense. It seemed that Max had not only killed my mother, but had probably also saved me—that it had been him who had pulled me from the pond and brought me to her. This explained why she had been fearfully angry, seeing him carrying me.
I wondered what Mother’s relationship with Max had been like. And why had she wanted me to leave the cottage so badly, when she encouraged me to walk with Roddy? I had always assumed that she was finishing arrangements, sending information to Sir Edgeworth about my grandmother, about her whereabouts. Now I wondered if she’d met with Max; perhaps she had begged him—futilely—to let me alone.
A coldness crept over my flesh and I rose, crawling into bed while still in my clothes. I would probably never know the details of that day. But I acknowledged, with near certainty now, that it had been Max who saved me from drowning.
I would still kill him.
I couldn’t remember ever feeling so hopeless before. So alone. William was not who I had thought he was … I had lost Roddy, Mother, and now him.
I tried, fruitlessly, to sleep.
Four
Her porcelain soap dish shattered onto the marble floor as her monstrous form burst into being.
Once again, she had hoped that a hot bath would relax her—take her thoughts away from those young men swimming, away from all her desperate and bloody memories, from her increasing hunger for human flesh. But it did not. The transformation always began like a stirring, a heat deep inside her, coursing through her bones, muscles, skin until she could no longer contain it.
In the candlelight, she pondered her monster body in the mirror. She still resembled a woman—her long hazelnut hair unchanged, her breasts still free upon her chest. But her skin had taken on a pale greenish color, and light green scales covered her arms. They became denser and coarser toward her hands and claws and from her waist downward, completely covering her legs and the tops of her feet. Her lower legs and feet did not resemble human shape at all—they were the legs of a dragon, muscular, with talons for tearing. Her tail, thick and heavy, hung over the tub, dripping large water puddles on the floor around the pieces of the soap dish.
Renegade Page 4