And I feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. That everything I thought I had finally gained in those brief seconds has been wrenched from my hands and heart. As if everything I had laid claim to when I used the name “Elliott” is gone, showing the lie of who I am, who I might be. I feel the tears threaten again, although a different kind, those that come on the verge of a howling storm. The noise you make as you crumple to the ground and cease to care who sees you, cease to care if you continue to exist or not. The type of thing that might now unmake me.
We clasp at each other’s forearms. His voice is gentle when he says, ‘I am your uncle, Miren. Edward Elliott. Liam is my brother. You are with family again. Do not despair.’
He pulls me to him again, kisses my forehead. ‘Come inside. Come inside and we shall make you at home. You must tell me everything, all of your adventures. I can tell your journey has been hard, but you are home now. Come inside, come inside. You need to rest, my dear girl, I can see that.’
My uncle – Edward – keeps his arms around my shoulders and helps me to the steps leading up to the entrance. I want nothing so much as to sleep. Even more than answers to my questions, I want the oblivion of slumber.
‘Never fear, Miren, you are home.’
* * *
I wake at some point in the dark hours, not knowing where I am. Moonlight pours in through the panes of glass. I sit up, shaking my head, trying to remember. A pretty sitting room, a pot of tea, some sweet biscuits, some chatter but not long before I felt irresistibly tired. I have a vague memory of my uncle half-carrying me up the stairs, but nothing more. I’m still in shirt and trousers but my shoes, socks and coat are gone.
As I look around I don’t take in much detail of the room, but I do recall that I’ve not fulfiled a promise. Rising, I stumble over to the bank of tall windows and peer out.
Down there, by the shore, the kelpie-horse waits, a deeper darkness against the lawn, but still not so black as the lake. Did no one stable him after my arrival? I feel... more than weary, I feel sluggish... drugged? Did they slip something into my tea to calm me? I desperately want to lie back down and sleep, but I gave the kelpie my word and it’s best if I do what must be done while no one is about to witness it.
I step into a very long corridor, find my way to a staircase, to that marble-floored foyer, that enormous front door that takes me forever to unlock – my hands clumsy, now too large, now too small – then out onto the portico, into the night. The moonlight is so very bright and I’m lost, blinded and blinking. And the mountain air is cold, so cold through my shirt.
I rub my eyes until I see stars behind my lids, and somehow it’s better when I open them. Then I hear the gentle whicker of the beastie. There he is, waiting so patiently. When I’m by his side, I put my clumsy fingers to work, undo the bridle and slip it away. He shifts with the fluidity of water back to his proper shape, shakes his head and snorts with irritation.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry I forgot you.’
He bows, head so low it almost touches the ground. ‘But I’m free, salt daughter, and you’ve kept your word as I shall keep mine.’
I think of his filthy old tether coiled in the bottom of my duffel, a means to call him back, and point to the lake. ‘Can you go this way?’
He nods. ‘A simple matter when all the waters in the world are joined.’
And he’s gone almost too fast for me to see; strange to hear Aoife’s words from his mouth. I don’t stare after him, but turn to the house, feeling sleep creep back through my limbs. I want to return to my chamber before it overtakes me.
* * *
The room is pretty and filled with daylight. The bed has no canopy, but is large and has a silver frame, shaped to look like vines and leaves. The quilt is a deep green and the wallpaper is green too, with fields of flowers sweeping across them. There is an enormous silk rug over the polished wooden floorboards and curtains of gold drape the tall windows. Awake now, I can make sense of the space: there are two doors, one closed, one ajar. The first leads, I assume to the corridor; the second to a small bathroom. There are only the slightest remains of a fire in the hearth, which was, I suspect, dying even before I woke last night.
I’m lying beneath the covers and I can feel the grit on my sheets from where I went outside barefoot. My hair is still in its tight bun and my scalp itches. In daylight I can see my coat is draped over a yellow armchair in one corner, my boots peeking out from beneath. A small octagonal table waits beside it, upon which sits an unlit lantern, an exquisite thing of engraved silver and iridescent glass. I rise and poke about.
There is a dressing table in another corner, but there’s nothing on top of it, nothing but a silver-backed brush and a hand-mirror. No makeup or jewellery; this is guest bedroom, kept for any visitors who might pass by. There are signs of it being hastily (badly) dusted.
Against one wall is a wardrobe in rose mahogany. When I open it there’s not much there, but three long skirts, one black, one ochre, one blue, and three white blouses, simple unadorned damask things; two pairs of delicate silk slippers embroidered and embellished with beads also wait. I can only imagine the blonde woman put them here as I slept; they must be scrounged from my mother’s wardrobe. In the bottom of the robe is a drawer containing a range of underthings, about my size, in red silk. I’ve never seen anything like this; I’m astonished Aoife hadn’t thought to purchase such items for my wedding night.
The thought of my grandmother, of what I’ve left behind, sobers me. Then comes the idea that perhaps someone rummaged about in my duffel while I slept. Perhaps they found the bloody clothing. I stop breathing for a moment as I cast around for the bag. But there it is, lying on a blanket box at the foot of the bed.
I open it up: everything is as I left it, nothing out of place. I draw things out until I reach the shirt and trousers stained with the green-eyed man’s blood. Things I could have dealt with on the road, but for all my satisfaction at his death I haven’t been ready to look at these them until now. At the hearth, I crouch down, take the tinder box and charcloth and kindle a new fire. When the blaze is hearty and crackling, I feed it the collar of the shirt, bit by bit until it’s properly ablaze before I put it into the fireplace. The fabric smoulders a little but is gradually consumed. Next the trousers; they take longer, yet eventually they too are gone. I stare at the flames for a while longer, thinking that in them is an end. An end to everything I left behind. I can but hope.
In the bathroom, I run a bath. I add oils and salts, find shampoo. I stay in there a long time. And when I am at last clean, I brush out my hair and then dry it as best I can with a towel. Finally, I choose the blue skirt and one of the blouses, and make my way downstairs.
* * *
‘Miren!’
Locating the small lilac-painted breakfast parlour where my new uncle is just finishing his repast was easy. The path I took last night in darkness and half-sleep has embedded itself in my mind. This place has none of the twists and turns of Hob’s Hallow, where a stranger might wander for hours without a guide. But Blackwater is well-lit, carefully laid out; it makes sense.
‘How lovely you look! Nelly chose well from your mother’s wardrobe.’ Nelly. The blonde woman. ‘Miren, my dear. I would have had a tray taken up, but we weren’t sure when you would wake.’ Edward looks pleased to see me as he rises from his seat at the head of the table, then enfolds me in a hug. ‘Won’t you join me? I was about to start the business of the estate, but that can wait. Absolutely!’
‘Breakfast would be wonderful, thank you.’ I take the chair he pulls out for me, so I am at his right hand. The porcelain clock over the mantle says it’s almost ten – late for breakfast, I think. He pours me coffee then rings a bell, sits beside me. ‘Uncle, I do not wish to appear rude, but might I ask where my parents have gone?’
He smiles and laughs. ‘Not rude at all. A natural question. They have travelled to Calder.’
The very name makes my heart jump. Calder in th
e Dark Lands where the Leech Lords hold sway; Maura would tell me tales of such vampires when I was being particularly brattish. Edward continues. ‘Not an ideal destination, no, but we have been having problems with production – those Lords are experts on the extraction of silver. Calder has its own mines and your parents – after much deliberation – decided to make an entreaty to the ruler there, to see if they might have some solutions to our... barrenness.’
‘How long has this situation been going on?’ I ask. My mind goes back to Calder, to what a desperate move that is, to beseech the Leech Lords for aid. Few journey willingly or otherwise to the Dark Lands, and fewer still return. The borders and gateways are guarded, warded so the vampires cannot cross over.
‘It’s just over three months since they left. Your father, my brother, asked me to come and assist during their absence. Help keep the estate ticking over, and ensure that Ena is well looked after.’
‘Ena?’
‘Your little sister, Miren,’ he explains.
‘I – I have a sister?’ That hits me like cold water. They left me behind, replaced me with a new child. Isolde is… well, she was sixteen when she had me, now she’s what? Thirty-four, thirty-five? Not too old to have another baby. No others in between us – perhaps this one’s an accident too?
My uncle’s expression clouds with concern. ‘Have you not heard much from your parents over the years? Surely they—’
‘I have heard nothing,’ I say and my voice breaks a little. ‘My grandparents... my grandparents told me Isolde and Liam were dead. It is only in the last month that I learned otherwise.’
His lips move but no sound comes out. He’s horrified. Then he manages, ‘My poor girl.’
I cannot bear to tell him that I was left behind. Cannot bear for him to know that I was so easy to abandon. So unwanted. And for a moment, I like the pity. I crave the pity. I am a poor girl. But then Aoife’s training kicks in and I push away the desire for sympathy. It’s a weakening thing, it makes you blind to what’s happening around you; it makes you rely on others. ‘My sister. I have a sister. How old is she?’
He smiles fondly. ‘Not yet a year, almost six months.’ His face clouds. ‘You mustn’t think them terrible for leaving her behind, Miren.’
‘They left me behind,’ I say, and I cannot help but sound bitter. There is no reason for me to doubt my parents would do the same to my sibling. It makes me hate the child less. Oh, I must admit to that surge of loathing when I heard of her existence, but now… now, I understand Ena’s like me.
‘They had their reasons, my dear, and your mother especially will want to reveal them to you herself, so I shall say nothing more but to beg you to think kindly of them until they come back home. All will be explained.’ He touches my hand. ‘You must understand, Miren, this house, this estate, its running affects more than simply your parents and me. The mine, the smelter, the orchards – there is a village that depends on this place. On every aspect of it working properly. So far we have managed to keep going on the stores and stocks set aside from earlier harvests and minings, but those resources are running down. And the crops, the orchards have stopped producing – I cannot divine why. So, we must pray that your parents return with a solution.’
There is a brisk knock on the door, which is opened before Edward says anything. Nelly enters. She’s wearing a pink dress, again with embroidered flowers, this time in gold thread; again, it looks tight as if it’s not made for her, and the skirt’s a little too long. I look more closely and think there’s evidence of rough hemming. So: taken up once and badly. Her lips are pressed tightly together, and she bobs a curtsey to Edward but her heart’s clearly not in it.
‘Sir?’
‘Ah, Nelly. Would you be so kind as to bring my niece some porridge and toast?’ He looks to me for confirmation and I nod.
The woman’s lips tighten further and I think they might twist themselves into her mouth and down her throat like a corkscrew of irritation.
‘Thank you, Nelly,’ I say, but that seems to irritate her further; her eyes flare. She doesn’t answer, but flounces out, the door closing behind her with something that is barely not a slam.
‘You must forgive her shortness. Her nerves haven’t quite been the same since the fire.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘I forget you’ve only just arrived!’ He laughs. ‘Some months ago, there was a fire. It’s done terrible structural damage so that wing is kept locked. Nelly and your parents barely escaped with their lives. Your father is determined to have it repaired as soon as he can.’ He smiles sadly. ‘So, while I encourage you to explore the house to your heart’s content, I must insist you give the East Wing a wide berth for your own safety.’
Then Uncle Edward says, ‘And poor Nelly’s sleep has been broken while she’s been sitting up with Ena. She’ll come round the moment she has a good night’s slumber. So, you shall break your fast, then we’ll take a turn around the estate? I shall answer your questions and you shall tell me, if it is not too painful, of your life before this and how you came to find us. Perhaps later you will be happy to meet your sister?’
25
‘And you said the orchards had stopped producing?’ I ask as we ride past the naked trees. I’m on a roan mare, he on a bay stallion from the stables – we saddled them ourselves as there were no lads to do so. Uncle Edward apologised for not having stabled my “horse” which has disappeared; he’s sure it will be found wandering the estate at some point. I agree, which is better than explaining I’d entered into a deal with a kelpie – I cannot yet know how my uncle feels about such creatures so best to remain silent. The sun is out and I’m sweating a little beneath the damask blouse, glad of the broad-brimmed straw hat I took from the stand by the front door.
‘A blight of some description,’ he says. ‘No one can identify it. It’s not a mould or fungus, not a rot. Yet there’s been nothing for almost three months. The fields lie empty and there’s not been the birth of a lamb, goat or cow since.’ Edward shakes his head. ‘They look otherwise healthy, the trees, do they not? Frankly I’m at a loss as to what to do. Do we simply burn them all then replant?’
‘It seems a terrible waste,’ I say as I think of Hob’s Hallow, fruiting no matter the season; of how Maura showed me what to do when I was very small so I could help her with the ritual every year. I urge my horse off the road and over to one of the apple trees. I dismount, smoothing my skirts down – they’re voluminous enough that I can take the hem of the back and pull it up between my legs to tuck into the waistband: instant riding trousers.
I crouch, eyes searching the base of the trunk for… aha! There it is. The same tiny sigil Maura demonstrated how to fashion, like an ‘s’ with a diagonal line through it; marks of the craft. It didn’t need Malachi telling me my mother was a witch to figure that if Maura had taught me the correct forms, there was no reason she’d not have instructed Isolde before me.
The orchards have been bewitched. They should be blooming all year round. But without Isolde here to keep up the tiny red tithes required to pay for the benefits of the magic, the spell has diminished. They are in stasis, they sleep – it’s too much for the trees to bear fruit even at their proper time. It won’t take much to fix. But not now. Not in front of my new uncle, who clearly doesn’t realise what Isolde was doing. Like so many men, he takes good fortune for granted and only questions it when it is gone.
I don’t know this man at all. He seems kind and courteous, but so is Aidan Fitzpatrick when he chooses. I’ll not give Edward Elliott reason to mistrust me.
‘Miren? What is it?’
‘Oh, nothing, Uncle Edward.’ I rise, turn and smile at him from beneath the brim of my sunhat. One of my mother’s I assume. ‘I thought perhaps I might recognise it – something similar once happened at Hob’s Hallow’ – a lie, for Maura’s clever works kept such things at bay – ‘but I do not know this thing. How mysterious that they remain so healthy!’
‘Nature is a my
stery unto herself.’
‘And you also say the mine is no longer producing?’
‘There are some viable seams,’ he says in a way that’s both grand and dismissive, and rings false to my ear; I wonder how much or how little he knows about mining. ‘But a negligible amount is coming out. There are new places where we might dig deeper, but the rock is unfeasibly hard. We might only get through them by blasting, yet the chief engineer is fearful that it will bring down tunnels and perhaps even weaken the floor of the lake.’
‘The lake?’
‘It runs deep and wide underground – as large as it is above the surface, it is even larger beneath.’ He shrugs. ‘My brother told me there was such an accident some years ago and it took a terrible toll. There are still widows and orphans who mourn to this day. Tunnels had to be to sealed off, others pumped dry; twenty miners died and none of the bodies were found – perhaps they still float in the deeper hollows beneath.’
I think about how long this mine has been operating, how long it’s been fruitful, producing riches for my parents; riches that never made it back to Hob’s Hallow. My hands shake and I clench them so he doesn’t notice. With a deep breath I swing back into the saddle.
He sighs. ‘Come along, Miren. The village next.’
The temperature drops slightly as the path takes us into a wooded area. Beneath the canopy of trees the light is dim and its warmth filtered out. Just as on the road up the mountain to my new home, there are no sounds of birdsong or badger, fox or wolf. I wonder at it: is it related to the same dearth of magics to affect the orchards? Or is perhaps that the animals are simply hiding?
One day soon I will explore on my own. It’s not that I don’t trust my uncle, or no more than is wise, but it is much easier to examine a new place without the company of folk who are used to taking the everyday things of their home for granted.
All the Murmuring Bones Page 20