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But what’s the point? Hurting Mr. Barrett won’t change anything. Screaming until I’m mute won’t change anything. I stop pounding at his chest, my fists aching. The darkness recedes. The scream that is not my own dies in my throat, the churning water of the pond calming once more.Emmy is dead. I repeat the words to myself, but they aren’t real. “Emmy is dead.” My voice comes out in a broken sob. “My little sister is dead.”
13
I CAN’T BREATHE.Thorny roses, twisting and winding, giant white lilies smothering me with their heady scent, pulling me deep within a blanket of rotting petals. I claw at the tightening vines, fighting for air as the thorns draw blood. Somewhere far away just beyond my senses, a child laughs.
“Emeline!”
I awaken with a gasp. It’s just the floral canopy over my bed, fluttering in the afternoon breeze coming through the open window. Exhaling, I lie back down. A dark haze clouds my mind, and I know that as soon as it clears I’m going to remember that something has happened. Something awful. I close my eyes and will myself to fall back asleep. But it’s too late, and in patches and fits it all comes back. The pond, the scream, the darkness roiling inside of me. All because Emeline is dead. Emeline is dead and it’s my fault. We argued about her curfew, and my last words to her were harsh. How can I ever forgive myself?
My chest aches and my limbs are heavy, too heavy to get up. When I test my voice it’s hoarse and barely comes out in a squeak. Ada moves around the room on tiptoe, clearing away dishes and gathering up crumpled linens. She jumps when I speak again, louder this time.
“What time is it?”
Darting a glance at the window, she shifts her weight uncomfortably and hesitates before answering. “It’s ten in the morning, miss.”
I slept all night and right through the morning. I vaguely remember bringing Emeline home, Mr. Barrett laying her on the yellow-and-pink settee, her countenance pale and ghastly by comparison. Mother hovering in the doorway, her face a white smudge like an apparition, her eyes and mouth three black holes. The shocked murmurs and greedy eyes of the guests craning their heads to get a better look from the hall. Mr. Barrett’s hand heavy on my shoulder until I violently shook it off. Curling myself around Emeline, cold and damp, tracing the soft contours of her face with my finger. After that, there’s only darkness and nightmares.
“What? What is it, Ada?”
She won’t meet my eye. “It’s ten in the morning on Saturday, miss. You’ve been abed for nearly three days.”
This jolts me out of my stupor. “Why didn’t anyone wake me!” My stomach clenches in dread. “The burial...when are they burying her?”
Ada wrings her hands and looks like she wishes she could dissolve into thin air. “They’re dressing now... No, miss, please! You mustn’t try to get up, you’ve had a terrible fever and—”
Her warning comes too late. I’m pushing the blankets off and swinging my legs out of bed. All the blood rushes from my head and I see spots behind my eyes. When my feet touch the ground I pitch forward.
Ada drops her pile of linens and dashes over, catching me under the arms. “You’ve had a fever,” she says again. “Dr. Jameson said to call for him when you woke up.”
“I’m fine, Ada. I’m fine.” I attempt a smile, but she blanches, recoiling. I must look like walking death after not eating or bathing for days. It’s probably not so different than if I were awake anyway; I can’t fathom finding the will to wash and eat and do all the little actions that fill a meaningless life. I want to be with Emeline. Wherever she is, I want to be with her.
Despite her protests, Ada helps me dress. I should be in full mourning—we all should be—but the last time there was a death in the family and we buried my grandmother, I was only twelve, and that dress won’t fit me anymore. I go through the motions of dressing, raising my arms above my head so Ada can relieve me of my old shift, and step into the darkest dress I own, a deep dove gray.
“Miss Catherine is already dressed,” Ada says. “I made sure to tie some black crepe about her bonnet, and a little more around her sleeve.”
I squeeze Ada’s hand in thanks, knowing that Catherine wouldn’t think of these things on her own.
“And...and Emeline?” My eyes water up and I catch myself, taking a deep breath before I completely let the tears take over. “How is Emeline dressed?” I force myself to ask.
She’ll still be lying in her coffin downstairs in the parlor. I should have sat with her these past days. She’s always been afraid of the dark. I can only hope that Mother or Father thought of this, and left a lamp lit for her. What a sorry excuse for an older sister I am, all this time in my bed while I could have done this one last little thing for her.
Ada sniffs back her own tears. “Like a little doll. Her blue silk dress. I brushed out her hair myself ’til it shone.”
Pale, delicate silk. Her favorite dress. She looked like a child of the moon in that dress, a little water sprite. Oh God. I grit my teeth. Knowing that I won’t be able to thank her in words, I give Ada a nod and another squeeze.
Her brushed hair makes me think of something, and once it’s in my mind I can’t shake the idea. I force my throat to clear. “Is the coffin already sealed up?”
Ada stops fiddling with my hem. “I don’t know. I would think so.”
“Quick, can you go downstairs?” I retrieve a little pair of sewing scissors from the basket on my table. “Take these, and if you can...” I can’t finish my question, but Ada takes the scissors and nods her understanding.
When she leaves, I stand very still and listen to the sounds of the house. It holds its breath, trying to outlast me. No creak of a little foot playing hide-and-seek, no Snip giving chase to his young master. Outside Joe is hitching up the carriage, the horses jingling their bridles as he leads them out. I think of Emeline’s little body being borne away, the horses trotting briskly along as if it was any other day.
Ada comes back a few moments later with a thick lock of auburn hair. I reach out my hand and take it from her, gripping it like a lifeline.
“It wasn’t...that is, they’re almost ready and it wasn’t closed yet.” She bites her lip, unable to meet my eye. “Would you like to go down, to see her before they do?”
I should, but my feet stay planted where they are, Emeline’s hair twisted around my white knuckles. The last image I have of her is on the settee, wet and muddy and surrounded by chaos. Ada puts a tentative hand on my arm. “Go on,” she says quietly.