Haunted (16 page)

The stump was still there, separate, so large I could lie down on it should I wish.

They had cut it down and then flooded the site. This wasn't a naturally occurring pond. They had made it happen, by digging ditches to irrigate, by bringing water by the cartload. They had buried the tree with water.

As Madame Arnaud appeared in the gloom, I swam closer to the tree and its sense of protection. She followed me.
She's a fool for doing that,
I thought.
She should steer clear.

Madame Arnaud touched a branch and her hair somehow reached around to snag itself on it. I watched her try to swim up. It was time for her to take a breath, but the tree held her hair.

She tugged with both hands at her own long, wanton hair—but her sleeve got caught by a twig. She fought to get it back.

Despite everything, her face made me want to weep. She needed a breath desperately. I had not been aware of the need for breath when I drowned: I had fainted, been in a state of hazy gladness as the stars took over my mind, constellations pinning me with each strident spark. It was hard to see on her face what might have been on mine. I nearly reached out to help untangle her from the tree's trap.

Her skirts drifted again with water pushing up from underneath, fanning them out. I saw without surprise how they snagged on another branch. She was caught, stretched out from limb to limb. The tree was a web, and she was a fly.

A glow arose and I swam closer. There was a symbol on the tree's trunk, now shining.
What is that?

Another lit up. They were strange, but simple signs.

Runes
.

This was the pagan yew Eleanor had talked of. They had cut it down for fear of its power.

Madame Arnaud looked at me with despair.
Help me,
she mouthed. A rune lit up right above her head. Some word from an ancient peoples, something I'd never understand.

I can't,
I mouthed back.

Her face closed down in a black scowl, and I knew she couldn't make it a second longer. I rose to the surface, breaking free of the claustrophobia to arrive in a world with a real sky staggering with stars. It had turned night while we were underwater, and Eleanor was sitting on the edge of the dock crying, while Miles was standing on shore, his back to me, hands on his hips, looking in despair even if I couldn't see his face.

“Miss! You're alive!” Eleanor scrambled to her feet, while Miles raced to the dock.

“Oh my God,
no,
” I said, pulling myself up out of the water. It felt amazing to do it. I was not the one drowning this time. “Not alive. Not ever again. But
here
.”

She hugged me, and I wondered briefly if she would feel the wet and the cold or if her apron would be dry when we disengaged. But I forgot to check, because Miles was there putting his hand on either side of my jaw and snarling at me.

“Why the bloody hell were you down there so long?”

“We were having a tea party,” I said. “Rude to leave early.”

He didn't want to laugh. Oh, he was so mad. But he did. He let loose a reluctant, loud laugh.

“Miles, there's a
good
force here, too. I think the house is malevolent. But something brought us together, something kept sending you to your car and me to the pool. It wanted us to figure things out and fix things. There's something good. Eleanor,” I said, turning to her, “I think it's the pagan tree down there. Chopped down. It has glowing runes on its trunk.”

“And where's Madame Arnaud?” she said.

“She's snagged in the tree,” I said. “She's gone.”

“Are you sure? We didn't think she could swim, and she gave that a good go, didn't she?” said Miles.

“There's no way she could hold her breath that long,” I said.

We all three turned and surveyed the surface of the pond. Miles and Eleanor were expecting her head to break the water, but I knew the tree was holding her fast. “See?” I said. “Even if we started counting now, it's already been way too long. She couldn't survive.”

I walked off the dock and emerged out onto the grass. Cool night air blew through my wet hair. Stars still held a modicum of light while the moon was queen of the sky, clutching at the crown half slipped from her head.

I wheeled around in a large and slow circle. I was exhausted to my core, but elated. I had fought water and won this time.

More important, I had vanquished the woman no one else could.

I had done it.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Silversmith Joseph Harcutt is grieved by his wife, Mary, and
two children, Elizabeth and Joseph, Jr. A third child, Grace,
predeceased Mr. Harcutt by one week. Known throughout the
county for his beautiful handiwork, Mr. Harcutt's greatest
accomplishment was fashioning a silver service for Lord Hardy
of Sheffield. Years ago he completed a small commission for
Madame Arnaud, who had recently taken particular interest
in the unfortunate Grace. He chose to deliver himself into
the hands of our forgiving and compassionate Lord this 8th
day of December.

 

—Grenshire Argus
obituary, December 9, 1730

W
ind seemed to swirl up and around the massive walls of the manor, as if we were trapped in a snow globe. My hair flew around my face, and I held it back with one hand. The air smelled of autumn, of cold air thieving leaves from their branches, of acorns settling down for a long period of secrecy inside the intimate kitchens of the squirrel.

The manor knew. And it wasn't happy.

“Too bad,” I muttered.

With intention, I moved myself into the nursery, where I figured my family would be, wrapping up the evening, getting Tabby ready for bed. Miles and Eleanor followed; I felt the familiar tug from my chest and let them find me. We all of us, living and dead, gazed fondly at this sweet frowsy girl, currently being bundled into her ladybug pajamas.

I had never seen a more comforting sight.

Mom set her down on the floor while she went to get something.

I slathered Tabby in kisses. They weren't real, of course, just my face near her face.

But she reacted.

She turned away as if an overly eager dog had jumped on her. I looked over at Miles, who raised his eyebrows.

There was no reason now to get Tabby to tell Mom and Steven to leave the house, but I couldn't resist the chance to reach her. “It's Phoebe,” I said in her ear. “Your sister, Phoebe. Remember me?”

“Phee sister,” she said.

I whooped in excitement and turned to see if Mom had heard. She had. She came and sat on the floor next to us. She smiled sadly and, blinking with sudden tears, pulled Tabby into a hug. “I'm thinking of Phoebe, too,” she said.

I looked over Mom's shoulder, and seeing Tabby's face I wanted to weep. She was as grief stricken as Mom, her face screwed into a rictus of sorrow. I'd thought she was too young to understand that I was gone . . . but she did.

I understood that for the rest of their lives, any moment of happiness, any surprised laugh, would always be followed with the reminder of me, the other member of the family, wrenched away in an instant. They'd always be etched with anguish, bold lines drawn forever on their souls.

Tabby and Mom hugged each other in a moment so wrought with agony that I wanted to shoot myself. I should've tried harder to explain to Mom about my fainting. I'd been defiant, sort of “screw you” about it, sort of “serves you right if I die”—but then I'd really died.

I was sixteen: I could've gone to the doctor alone if I'd taken responsibility for myself. I could've Googled
fainting
. Whatever. I could've tried harder.

My first job had been to save Tabby's life. Now that that was done, I wanted to figure out a way to tell Mom I was okay, that I didn't blame her.

I walked out of the nursery and nearly screamed at what I saw. Three maids stood in the hallway. One handed the other a stack of linens and the third was carrying a tray of tea. When they noticed me, they bobbed quick curtseys.

If I'd killed Madame Arnaud, why weren't these servants released?

 

I drifted around the hallways of the west wing, looking at those obscenely happy murals, the flocks of sheep that filed across the meadow to lay their soft heads in ladies' laps, the gentlemen crowning the duchesses with garlands of flowers they'd languidly woven themselves, as evidenced by the discarded blooms near their reclining legs. I wanted to make sure Madame Arnaud was gone, because the ghosts were still here. I was constantly sidestepping them: servants and children, as if nothing had happened.

I found my way to the room I'd been in before, then penetrated into the inner chamber, her bedroom. I creaked open the door and saw an enormous carved wooden box that took up nearly the entire room—a cupboard bed, meant to conserve heat in the days when no furnaces brought warm air through the night. I walked over and placed my hand on the paneling that I knew could be pulled open.

I slid open the panel. Dark tapestries covered the interior walls: hunters with their arrows still in the quiver but their faces aware of the prey before them, the deer who bent their tawny necks to survey the men behind them filing through the trees. A single candle rested on a shelf against the far wall, sending guttering light through the dimness and glinting off a brooch with the inscription of three
x
's. Shadows marched the walls like toy soldiers.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw feathers scattered everywhere; there were holes in the mattress.

“Nice try, Eleanor,” I said, turning my head to address her. I'd felt from the tug in my chest that she had joined me.

“I spent many years here serving her,” she said. “I haven't been back since the night I did this.”

I held up a feather on my palm and blew it at her. “I think she's gone,” I said. “But why are all the ghosts here?”

I thought about the toddler in the gardens. I especially wanted to deliver some peace to that poor tortured child. The servants didn't need to feel guilt any longer; they had done their time. And the children? Hopefully there were loving arms somewhere for them to be folded into.

“I don't know,” said Eleanor. “I thought once Madame Arnaud was dead, everyone would be released.”

“I thought so, too,” I said.

I stared down at the snowy white feathers, mussed and erratic, as if a swan had gone through her death throes here. Whoever Madame Arnaud's lady's maid was, the one who replaced Eleanor, she hadn't bothered to repair or replace the mattress.

“Let's find Miles,” I said. “We've got to figure something out.”

 

We found him in the children's cemetery, staring moodily at a gravestone in front of him.

“There are still kids in the house,” he said hoarsely.

“I know,” I murmured. “What can we do?”

“I thought you did what we had to do,” he said. “And I didn't expect to see this.” He pointed to the gravestone.

“That's my last name,” he said.

I did the math, reluctantly. February to November— Lavinia hadn't even been nine months old. She was one of the children, then, who didn't realize she was dead. He would never have seen her here at the manor, which was, I suppose, a good thing.

“Did your family ever speak of her?” Eleanor asked.

It took Miles a while to answer, and I saw he was shaking. “Never.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

“Seventeen ninety-nine,” he said. “How can I be sad about someone who died over two hundred years ago?”

“Very easily,” I said. “Madame Arnaud is a monster. Of course you're upset about your ancestor.”

I felt a twinge of guilt. I had nothing to do with this. I had fought a valiant fight; I had done everything I could. But looking at Miles's grim face, I realized that I was allied with the family that had caused this pain. I might even
be
an Arnaud, if his theory was right.

Miles was just one of hundreds who had cried throughout the generations, cried bitterly for the lost children and the empty cradles. They had tried to comfort each other around the firesides and tramped outside in the chill air to spit toward the manor hidden by its duplicitous greenery. So much hatred, so much helplessness.

“I'm sorry,” I said again, but this time it was less about solace and more about feeling responsible to some degree.

He looked at me with an expression I can describe only as cold. His gaze swung back down again to his ancestor's stone. He seemed lost in some private reverie. Eleanor gave me a significant look and walked away slowly, reading the names off other stones.

Below us, infant Lavinia tossed in her miniature pine box or whatever Madame Arnaud had deigned to pay for. Maybe nothing but dirt and leaves covered her. Maybe her burial had been nothing more than a hasty dig in the dirt by an aggrieved servant, who muttered the best prayers he could before Madame Arnaud summoned him back to more useful duties. Her parents had not had the chance to kneel here and say their good-byes . . . for all they knew, Madame Arnaud had tossed the small soul into the woods for the wolves to devour.

Lavinia's tiny fingers had never grown, never held anything of substance. Her skull remained a diminutive braincase. Odds are she'd never come to standing, merely lay helpless or crawled for the entirety of her short life. Although her mouth had issued cries and sounds, by nine months she'd never said a word, never been able to express to her family any semblance of the love she surely felt. She'd been deprived in the most profound way possible.

I stared at her stone and tried to broadcast my love down to her through the sod and worms, past the white, fibrous weed roots that dangled above her like stalactites.

I sent my love down through the beetles plodding past her bones or perching on them like they were skyscraper girders.

“Grow up, Lavinia,” I said in my mind. “Come into your own.”

Miles reached out a hand to touch her tombstone—and the instant his fingers touched the surface, the world changed.

That undercurrent of hushed voices, of sadness, that Miles had taught me to listen to became a long, anticipatory inrush of breath . . .

. . . then the deafening roar of a thousand voices shouting. I clapped my hands to my ears, and fell to my knees. The volume was so intense it felt like someone was hitting every one of my teeth with a hammer. The din washed through me and I could do nothing but open my own mouth in a silent howl to relieve the pressure in my ears.

The sound went on and on, scorching my brain, letting no other stimuli enter my consciousness. It was like an old locomotive train, oversized and made of iron, scraping along the rails, carving them into slices as it went.

Then, as if each of those shouting people realized how fiendish they sounded, a respectful quiet fell. I let my hands drop from my ears.

A bundle of light rose from Lavinia's grave and hung in the air, golden and fragile as a prince's fairy-tale egg.

As I watched, awestruck, the light gently morphed and stretched. It looked like a cocoon elongating as if a butterfly inside pushed. I squinted my eyes . . . what was blurry and light-dazzling became more clear. Hanging in midair was a baby slumbering under a blanket.

The blanket rolled back as if by a mother's loving fingers, and the infant's limbs stretched and fattened.

The fingers lengthened . . . the spine stretched.

I looked deep into the throb of light and found the child's eyes. She was staring at Miles with a gentle admiration. But the babyish expression soon altered; she grew some understanding. Her eyes sharpened.

She was twice the size now, growing and translucent. I could see her name on the tombstone through her shining body. She slid through toddlerhood and into girlhood. She lost her pudgy cheeks. I grabbed Miles's hand.

She continued growing older. Her face changed significantly, and lean legs surged down out of her body. Her clothing changed—no longer the short pinafore of a child, but the long skirts of a young woman. Her arms and legs became muscular.

The scant curls that the eight-month-old had first shown us had grown from her head continuously the whole time, like a mechanical loom spitting out weave. The now thick, luxuriant hair pulled itself back tightly into a proper bun. Her feet nearly touched the ground, but she still hovered an inch or so above. She was our height, slightly older than Miles and me. She glimmered there, solid and sure of herself.

A cap appeared on her head, and her dress instantly went black. She spread her arms and a bibbed apron tucked itself through them. “She would have been a maid if she lived,” whispered Miles.

“We've been waiting so long,” said Lavinia in a voice like an old record, slightly warped. “We despaired that our families would ever come for us.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw golden light emerge from another grave. And another. Now, lights were everywhere, like a klatch of fireflies. Each grave was offering up its inhabitant. The shine of these children fought away the darkness.

They all started at different ages—whenever they'd been killed, I guessed. It was like those time-lapse movies they showed us in grade school, where a seedling pokes from the soil, wavers toward the sky, thickens and produces a bud, then a bloom, all in ten seconds.

The children cycled quickly through their would-be lives, from infant to toddler to child to teen with breathtaking speed, to land on what looked like their early twenties. Why? Why were they all roughly the same age?

I surveyed the shining adults suspended over their graves, regarding us with serious faces. I kept watching until it dawned on me. They were all at their most vital stage, men with muscled forearms, women ready to step onto the ground with quick step. A few were quite old, which made me realize strength didn't always have to do with age.