Page 47

Though the last thing I want to do is drag myself away from the safe, romantic world of my book, there are too many questions burning the tip of my tongue since my visit from my ancestor. I can no longer pretend that what happened was a figment of my imagination or a bad dream. And if what the spirit said was true, then Mother has some secrets of her own.
Yet I must be careful with Mother; she has yet to emerge from the cocoon of despair she has woven for herself over the past weeks, and I’m starting to worry about her. Sometimes she looks so small and unassuming that I imagine her gradually fading into the woodblock wallpaper and heavy drapes, consumed by the grandness of Willow Hall. I won’t let that happen.
I glance over her shoulder at the fabric she’s unfolding from her basket. It’s an embroidered coverlet. I smile, heartened at the vibrant flowers and fanciful pattern of birds and blackberry vines. “That’s beautiful. I didn’t know that you’d started a new project.”
She doesn’t look up. “Blackberries were Emeline’s favorite. It’s for her bed in the nursery.”
My smile fades as I watch her sort through her thread box looking for the vermillion. We should be going through Emeline’s things, putting them away or giving them to some other child in need. It worries me that Mother has taken it upon herself to start a new project, one that Emeline will never use.
I turn back to my book, unable to give her any encouragement. The Hale ancestor glowers down on us as I read and Mother works. Today the portrait’s expression is one of grim commiseration, as if she understands and pities Mother and me our plight. Now that I have seen her in the flesh, so to speak, I wonder if that is indeed the case.
I choose my words carefully. “You know, I don’t think I even know the name of our old friend up there,” I say, nodding at the painting. I make my tone cheery and inviting, hoping to draw Mother away from her introspection.
Mother’s gaze flickers up to the portrait and she gives a faint frown. “That would be Mary Preston.”
When she doesn’t offer any more information I try again. “I thought she was a Hale. How is she related to us?”
This time Mother doesn’t look up from her embroidering when she answers. “Mehitable Hale was our ancestor. She fled from persecution in England. She married a Barnabas Preston. Mary was their daughter.”
“Ah,” I say, and we lull into silence again. A thousand questions whirl through my head:What do you really know of her? What is the book she spoke of? Has her spirit ever visited you as it has me?But they all sound ridiculous, and I can’t bring myself to come at it directly.The last thing I want to do is upset Mother further.
“Is it really true that she was hanged during the witch hunts in Salem? I always supposed it a fancy of Catherine’s.”
Mother’s needle stops, and there’s a flicker of something like uncertainty in her eye. When she draws the thread through again, it’s a long, deliberate motion. “It’s the truth,” she says at last.
“Goodness,” I say. If I hadn’t met her ghost, seen her snapped neck for myself, I might have been surprised. “What did she do to draw that kind of attention to herself?” I’ve heard stories of the people of Salem, envious of their neighbors’ lands, casting accusations at people whom it would benefit them to see removed. Or perhaps she had simply been a woman who lived outside of convention in some way, earning herself the suspicions and animosity of her fellow townspeople.
Mother looks at me, her weary features taking on an expression of mild surprise. “What did she do?”
“Well, yes...what did she do to be found guilty of witchcraft?”
Mother presses her lips together. If I had thought asking Mother outright would have been hard, coming at my questions in this roundabout way is proving just as difficult. I’m about to try again, when something stops me.
A sound, coming from somewhere above us.
“Lydia? Lydia, what is it?”
I don’t tear my eyes away from the ceiling, where the faint thuds are coming from upstairs. “Do you hear that?” I ask in a whisper.
Mother glances between me and my line of sight, shaking her head. “I don’t hear anything.”
It’s an unnatural sort of sound. A quick succession of pattering feet, a lurching halt and then...is that laughter? My skin pimples with gooseflesh and I have to force myself to swallow. I put down my book and stand up.
“Emeline,” I whisper.
Mother’s face goes white. “What did you say?”
I ignore her, transfixed by the sound as I slowly make my way to the hallway. I mount the stairs to the second floor, pause and then continue to the third. The evening sun casts broody shadows across the long ballroom floor, obscuring the pianoforte and the doorway to the nursery.
There are no more footsteps, no more laughter, yet I can’t help feeling as if I’m not alone. It’s the same sensation that I used to have when I would play hide-and-seek with Emeline, and could feel her watching me from her hiding place. The air goes cold.
“Emeline?” I wait for her to appear, just like she did that night beside my bed.
How I want to see her again, just one more time. Yet something prickles uneasily inside of me as I recall Mary Preston’s words:You have consigned your sister to a living death. If that were really true, wouldn’t I have seen Emeline again by now?
But my held breath is in vain. The light softens, and the air warms again. If it was Emeline, then she is gone.
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