Descent Into Dust (3 page)

I took note of a thorn tree as I passed it, a rather rangy mess of branches tangled around a slender trunk. Perhaps it was Alan’s snide comment about worshipping trees that made me notice it. That, and the way it stood all alone. Other trees clustered back in the hedgerows, a row of courtiers keeping respectful distance. Although the hawthorn wasn’t very large, the branches were dangerous arms laden with slender spikes, and that itself demanded respect.

As I drew closer, I noticed something on the trunk, words carved in the rough bark.
The Blood is the Life.

I recognized the phrase from the Old Testament. It had to do with laws of keeping food clean. Or was it a New Testament reference to Holy Eucharist?

I cannot remember now why I reached out my hand. I don’t suppose there was really any specific reason. I just wanted to touch those letters. I paused, my palm outstretched, not quite touching the bark, and suddenly I felt a tiny vibration where the lines creased my flesh.

Frozen, I stood and let the current wash over me, galvanizing me to the soles of my sensible boots. My headache flared like a torch set alight, and I cried out from the pain. Tiny points of light danced on the periphery of my vision as the world blurred, swayed.

Then I felt…something. Something inside me was tearing, like the parting of a veil. A flash, a dark memory illuminated for a moment in the manner of a match struck, flaring, then quickly snuffed. I heard the sound of someone crying. A woman. My heart seized in my chest as I thought:
It is my mother!

I dropped my hand and stumbled backward, fumbling for my footing. The feeling vanished, leaving me tingling and dazed. I struggled for composure. What had happened to me? What was that energy I had felt?

Suddenly I was eager to be back to the house. I turned away from the hawthorn, my eyes searching for the manor. As I did so, my foot struck an object on the ground and I looked down. I saw shards of pottery underfoot, about five largish pieces.

Curious, I stooped to pick them up, noting the clean break lines. They fit easily together, and I quickly assembled them all, laying them on the ground to make a plaque with a crude symbol painted on it. It took me a moment to recognize it. A fish, the simple sort used as a sign of the early Christian church.

I gathered up the pieces and held them in my still-tingling palm. Stepping back, I surveyed the tree. A movement caught
my attention in the meadow grass. Something red and black undulated in a strange, surging motion. My first thought was that it was a live thing in trouble, struggling, and I stepped toward it only to stop cold when it registered what it was I was seeing.

I recoiled. The half-eaten carcass of an animal lay before me. What sort of animal was impossible to tell, for its flesh was nearly stripped, and it lay eviscerated on the soft green of the plain. On it, above it, and all around it were night-black crows, surging over one another, fighting for dominance as they furiously feasted.

At first they paid me no mind, too intent were they to register an intruder. Their shining beaks snapped at the scarlet-stained flesh, at one another—viciously, frantic for each bite. Presiding over this scene, resting on a thorny branch, sat one very large crow. His cold, dead eyes glittered in the sunlight as he surveyed the grisly repast, appearing noble and comfortable in his position of power.

He swiveled his obsidian head to look at me. And then, as if he’d uttered an unheard order, all the birds ceased their tearing and turned likewise, fixing me with calculated calm. Almost defiance.

The macabre tableau froze us all for a moment, they staring at me and I at them. Everything around us went suddenly, icily still. In the silence, I heard some rhythmic sound. My own breathing. Steady, labored under the burden of my rising fear. It was silly to be frightened, but I couldn’t help it. They were just birds, I told myself. The scene I was witnessing, although gruesome, was ordinary enough.

And then the sky exploded as the birds took flight. They launched themselves into the air madly, their wings beating a
thunder into the sky, and I flinched, falling back in surprise. I felt more than saw the large avian body lift off the tree branch and dive into full flight over my head.

As it swooped down, I threw myself to the ground, cringing as it shaved a low flight over me. I remained low, cradled in a moist clump of grass, even after he’d passed, covering my hair, my face, as the other birds careened in a bizarre dance of fury over my head. The cacophony of their shrieking calls reached a crescendo before they flew off at last, their cries fading into silence.

I raised my head to watch them go. It took me a moment to realize they must have attacked because they thought I meant to vie for their ghastly prize. I waited until they were out of sight before standing. It was then I saw my hand was hurt. The shards of the pottery plaque I had been holding had scored a deep cut across my palm. Blood dripped from it, welling up quickly before falling onto the ground—a tiny splash of crimson against the verdant green grass of The Sanctuary.

I entered the house through the kitchens, as I did not wish to run into any of the family in my present condition—not only was my appearance disheveled, but my thoughts were running wildly. The long room was crammed with servants. I attempted to skirt around the women at the scrubbed oak table, who were working bread dough or cutting pastries with deft strokes of flashing knives. A skinny lad of about ten, a sack of oat flour precariously perched on his slight shoulder, almost ran me down.

“Can you point me in the way of the stillroom?” I asked in a quavering voice. My hand was hurting me badly.

He gestured to a corner and hurried off on his errand. I found
the carefully labeled apothecary cabinet, which was managed by a maid named Betty. I explained what had happened and she saw to the cut, cleaning it none too gently while muttering words such as “infection,” and “blood poisoning,” effectively keeping my complaints to a minimum.

Back in my room, I redressed my hair as best I could with my bandaged hand. I could not avoid wondering whether I’d imagined the strange circumstances this morning. It seemed the only explanation. The sensation in my hand as I reached toward the tree, the way the birds had flown at me as if in attack—none of it could be real, could it?

I tried to convince myself of this as I stripped off my dress and donned a fresh one. As I washed my face with my good hand, I paused to examine my reflection. The silvering behind the glass had turned cloudy with age, so that looking into it was like seeing one’s self in the heart of a storm cloud. In that misty glass, I almost didn’t recognize myself. I looked older, more serious. My skin was bloodless, my eyes dark and as round as an owl’s.

Was this the madness? Laura’s madness? Was this how it began?

I turned away from the mirror. I was being quite reactionary, I decided. My goodness, everyone has moments of confusion. It was all a matter of not getting carried away with it.

With this settled in my mind, I took the package I’d brought for Henrietta from my portmanteau and headed upstairs to the nurseries. The suite of sleeping chambers for the children of the house was attached to a small apartment for the nursemaid or governess. Those, along with a large schoolroom, took nearly the whole of the third floor. It was surprisingly shabby, a fact made apparent by the light flooding in from the row of tall, arched
windows along the outside wall, which was in want of paint. The furniture was sturdy but chipped and otherwise ill-used.

It was not inhospitable, however; Henrietta had made her mark. Toys and books were piled in the shelving. In the corner stood a dollhouse with tiny furniture and carved wooden miniatures scattered on a braided rug. On a nearby table, watercolors were laid out and several paintings were drying. Neither Henrietta nor her nurse was in sight.

I saw there was another Latin inscription above the center window.
Tempest Fugit.
I laughed softly, hoping Mary would be able to translate that one correctly.

I spied Victoria, Henrietta’s favorite china doll, perched on a chair as regally as her royal namesake. “Hello, Victoria,” I murmured to the doll’s staring face. The hair, a bit wild from putting on and removing the lace-edged cap she wore out-of-doors, stuck out. I smoothed it down and untwisted the tiny cross that hung around her neck. The simple ornament had been a present from some relative of Roger’s to Henrietta, but she had insisted the doll had demanded it for herself. Henrietta liked to pretend Victoria whispered imperious instructions to her, which she repeated to all of us who were not privileged to hear from the doll directly.

I smiled and reassured the china face, “Now you are as lovely as ever,” as I repositioned her in her chair.

My hand throbbed. I held it aloft to keep the blood from rushing to it.

“Henrietta, darling?” I called. “Are you here?”

“Cousin Emma!” Henrietta burst from the doorway behind me leading in from the hall. I spun about as she ran to me, her small arms held out and her plaits flying behind her. I caught
her in an embrace as she nearly knocked me over. “I knew you would come today. I told Victoria so.”

“Look at how tall you’ve gotten!” I exclaimed, holding her out for inspection.

Her eyes twinkled. “You said that last time, when we came to visit you after Cousin Simon died.” Her eyes clouded. “Oh. I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“It doesn’t make me sad. How can I be anything but happy to see you? Now, don’t you wish to see the present I’ve brought you?” I held out the package.

“Yes, yes!” As she took the gift, her face puckered. “Oh! You’ve hurt your hand.”

“It is nothing serious. An accident during my morning walk. The stillroom maid assured me it will be as good as new very soon.”

Her eyes flickered to me, taking a moment to make certain this wasn’t one of those times adults told children things not wholly truthful. “Good.” She addressed herself to the package, lifting away the paper to reveal a box of paper dolls in the style of the queen, her prince consort, and several young princes and princesses. “Oh, thank you, Cousin Emma! They are lovely.”

She snuggled herself into my arms for a hug. Pulling back to peer at me, she inquired, “Do you really think I am getting tall? Do you think I shall be as tall as you?”

“I hope not. Better to be petite like Cousin Alyssa.” I fluffed her fringe playfully. “You’ll be as pretty as her.”

She studied me. “I’d rather be tall, like you.”

A warm feeling suffused me. I would be less than honest if I did not admit I had surrendered rather easily to her insistence to make me her idol.

“Hello, Miss Harris,” I said to the young, pretty nurse who was standing behind the child.

“Good day, Mrs. Andrews,” she replied, uncharacteristically coolly. Miss Harris was a cheerful companion to Henrietta, which I liked. Henrietta tended toward the serious at times.

“Why don’t you have some time to yourself,” I told her, “and as I have not yet had breakfast, Henrietta and I can share elevenses. Would you ask the cook to send something up?”

I thought she would be happy to have some freedom, but she seemed reluctant to go. She could not refuse, however. Henrietta and I set to work to clear the paintings so we could use the table for our meal. The child proved quite secretive about her artwork, whisking the paintings away onto a shelf under the open window. We put away the watercolors and sat down.

A servant brought up a tray supplied with tea, sandwiches, and biscuits. “Are you enjoying your new home?” I inquired when we were settled, Victoria presiding over us in a third chair.

“Mama likes it. Papa takes me out driving. Or he used to do so every day.” She smiled, her rosebud mouth curving sweetly. “But he’s been too busy getting ready for the house party and now he says I have to stay indoors.”

“Poor Hen. Miss Harris keeps you entertained, though, doesn’t she?”

She nodded, not very enthusiastically. “How long are you going to stay?”

“Well, for a few weeks, perhaps.” I was loath to commit to the child and lock myself into a protracted and unpleasant stay should Alyssa and Mary prove difficult.

She rolled her lips in, biting them from the inside, as was her
way when something was on her mind. “Where is your room? Can I come see it?”

“I am on the second floor.” The faintest of frowns creased her snowy brow. I leaned forward, touching her wrist. “Why?”

“This house is very big,” she stated, avoiding my eyes.

“Oh, darling, does it seem that I shall be very far away?”

She picked up her doll, holding it close as she fussed with her bonnet. “Victoria says the house is ugly.”

I could think of nothing to say, save
I heartily agree with her
, which I could not admit aloud. Finally, I compromised with “It is quite all right if you don’t like the house, even if it was where your papa grew up. You can tell him, you know. It will not hurt his feelings and you might feel better.”

I was disappointed she didn’t brighten. Eventually, and after a lengthy rearranging of Victoria’s ribbons, she said, “Victoria says there are ghosts here. She doesn’t like ghosts.”

I nearly sighed in disgust. Some servant gossip, idly spoken, and now poor Hen was frightened. I slipped off the chair and onto my knees before her, so that I could look directly into her face. “She shouldn’t worry, though. You should let her know there aren’t any such things as ghosts.”

Her large blue eyes lifted to mine. “But there are. I saw him.” Slowly, she slid her gaze to my left, looking out the window. “At night, he taps on the glass.”

I opened my mouth to reassure her, but the words froze in my throat. Gooseflesh pricked along my arms. “Hen, darling, it must just be a nightmare. Sometimes our dreams can seem very real. It’s a big step, coming to a new home, and your mother so busy with all the preparation for her party, and your papa not able to take you out for your rides.”

Lowering her eyes, she remained very still. “He wants to come inside.”

“Darling, no—no one can come in the window.”