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I crouch in front of her, and give her a hesitant touch on her cold cheek. “I’m here now. What would you like to do? Shall we play a game?”
She doesn’t respond, and I’m about to ask again when she says, “I’m tired. Too tired to play.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I wish I knew what to do to make things right.”
Wordlessly, she taps at the locket around my neck.
I hesitate, my fingers curling protectively around the locket. “If I give it to you, will you be able leave, to rest?” I don’t want to give up my last link to her; even as wretched as she is, I don’t want to think that I’ll never set eyes on her again.
To my relief, she only gives a little shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know. But I want to go home.” I know that she’s not talking about Willow Hall.
She’s begun pacing the perimeter of the garden, and I fall into step beside her. I watch her out of the side of my eye. “I thought you didn’t want me to leave you. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Panic flashes across her face and her step falters. “I... I don’t want to. But I’m tired.”
She looks as if she’s on the verge of tears, though whether a spirit can cry I have no idea. I have to remind myself that she’s just a child, that she’s scared and just as confused as I am about what’s happening to her.
I stop beside her and stoop to drop a kiss on the top of her wet head. “I’ll figure something out,” I tell her. “I promise.”
24
Sunday
I’M STANDING INmy little garden, trying to save what I can before the inevitable frost that will come creeping along any night now. Mother still doesn’t approve of my herb garden, but this morning she had said that if I was going to insist on cultivating one, then I had better at least have the decency to keep the beds neat and weeded. Now that I’m surrounded by the mingling scents of plants and damp earth, I’m glad for the distraction. I need something to do to keep me busy while I wait until Friday, or Catherine and I kill each other, whichever comes first.
I look for some trace of Emeline’s nocturnal visit, but she has come and gone without leaving so much as a footprint or a disturbed branch. I wince. How could I have made such a weighty promise to her when I haven’t the slightest idea how I brought about her return in the first place?
As I saw away at some of the woody stems of the rosemary—Ada makes a delectable stuffing with rosemary—I can’t help but think back to that summer day when I was weeding and Emeline stormed out, demanding that I let her come to the pond with us. It’s no more than the usual sort of regret that lurks around the corner of every memory every day since then, but that’s not what makes me suck in a sharp breath.
The herb garden is every bit as lush and full as it was that day, over four months ago at the peak of summer.
The growing season in Boston would already be winding down by now, but in New Oldbury it’s even shorter, given how close we are to the mountains. All but the hardiest of the plants should be shriveled and dead, burned by frost. Unease pricks at me, the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Everything else, from the grass to the trees at the edge of the woods are gray, brown. Dead. Everything except the verdant patch of herbs at my feet. I try to remember last night, if it had been this way when I saw Emeline, but it was dark and I hadn’t been paying attention to the plants.
Well, there are a thousand reasons why my herbs have done so well. Aren’t there? But I grew lax about the weeding over the last couple of months, and despite an autumn of heavy rains, there hasn’t been much in the way of sun. It’s uncanny how well they’ve survived despite the unfavorable conditions. I don’t know what it means and I don’t want to know, so I push the thoughts from my mind.
I’m about to stand when my gaze lands on the silvery-blue petals of my rue plants. I stop, rocking back on my heels. Rue. It’s one of my favorites with its rounded leaves that fan out into feathery, dipping branches. The last time I tried to introduce rue at the dinner table Father spat it out on his plate and asked if I was trying to kill him. I don’t mind the bitterness, but it’s not to everyone’s taste. Sometimes I like to press it between the pages of a heavy book, and then paste it onto white paper with flowers to create a botanical piece of art.
An unbidden, terrible thought flits through my head: it also, when used correctly and taken at the right time, can be used to rid the womb of its unwanted fruit.
The leaves flicker in the breeze. The idea wraps around my mind like a snake, squeezing and making its presence known. It would be so easy to snip off a few slender stalks and take them back to the kitchen. There wouldn’t be time for drying them.But you could cut them into fine slivers, steep them with a tea. As if far away from myself and not in control, I watch, helpless, as I poise my shears just under the flat plane of leaves and draw back to cut.That’s right, Lydia. See how easy it is?
But I would never hurt Catherine’s baby, even knowing its origins and what it might do to my family...would I?
I feel dizzy, my thoughts not my own, just like the day at the pond with Mr. Barrett. These words are not the gentle, persistent whispers of Mary Preston that come to me on the breeze or in my mirror, but the chiding of something older, something more sinister, the voice that led me to the water. And just like that night, I am helpless to disobey.It is the only way, Lydia. How easy it is, how simple a solution to all your problems.My hand falters. But then in one swift movement I cut them, the feathery branches falling to the ground. I hastily gather up my basket of rosemary and mint, thrusting the rue stems underneath as if someone might see them and make the connection. I run back to the house, my head pounding, my mouth dry. From far beyond my mind I see myself, as if I were watching another person. But I am like a dog with a command from its master, my vision narrowed only to completing my task.
In the kitchen I glance around for Ada, but it’s empty. With shaking hands, I remove the mint and rosemary, placing them on the counter for Ada later. Then, with one more quick glance over my shoulder, I pull out the rue. I put some water on to boil, and then go about chopping the leaves up into tiny slivers, so thin that they are almost transparent. I don’t know how much I need, but my hands work automatically, as if they know, and I follow them. To mask the bitter flavor, I add in a good amount of honey as well as regular tea leaves.
When the tea is made, I pour it into one of the dainty teacups with gilding around the edges and a delicate pattern of pink roses. My hands shake so hard that it spills down the side and I have to clean it up with the edge of my cloak. Then I carry it to Catherine’s room and knock on the door.
She calls to come in, so I balance the cup in one hand and push the door open with my other. I don’t think. I just follow the dark path my mind is telling me to take. She glances up from her writing desk. “Yes?”
“I brought you some tea.”
Putting her pen down, she pushes her chair back and looks at me with a suspicious frown. “Why?”
I swallow, trying to look casual and pleasant. “Why not? I was just having a cup and figured you might want one as well. It’s so chilly out and it’s seeping inside today.”
I’m sure that I’m sweating under her gaze despite just telling her how cold it was. But she just gives a shrug and goes back to her writing. “I suppose it might be nice. You can leave it on the table there.”