I stare at her, at my grandmother, for what seems like a very long time. Her expression is… satisfied, and I file that away to ponder later. If I start to think on it now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to do much else. At this very moment, Dr Archie O’Sullivan is bleeding in front of me and I should do something about that. I step forward, looking at him.
Archie gurgles as the flow slows – she did a good job – and I don’t try to stop the bleeding. Even from here I can see the cut’s too deep, he’s too far gone already, so quickly. I don’t help him and so I’m as guilty as Leonora for his death. Then I realise I’m crying. Tears are streaming down my face and it’s hard to see; sobs are forcing their way up, heaving through my chest and I’m weeping like a child who’s suffered her worst loss, worst grief. For everything I’ve ever done, I’ve not been responsible for anyone’s death. I remember the priest – Father – or not the death of someone I knew and cared for – and I did care for Archie, though I used him. He was not cruel, he was simply… soft and sad. He wanted his wife back but was happy enough to replace her for a while with someone who filled the absence in his bed.
‘Pull yourself together.’ Leonora’s voice is harsh. I blink away the tears so I can see her properly, her hand and the scalpel both dripping red. I shake my head. ‘Come along, Asher Todd. There’s a mess to clean up, girl.’
Archie is now “a mess”, something to be discarded.
I’m dizzy – the strangling didn’t help. Steadying myself against the table, I blink more, wipe my eyes, then watch as Archie gives one last gasp, a red mist coming from his mouth in time with a weak spurt from the hole in his throat, then he stops moving, eyes glazing, gaze aimed at the ceiling. They say the last thing you see is engraved on your ocular nerve – will Archie forever see the two women who killed him? One who looks a little like his wife.
I check the mourning ring on my finger, ensure it’s still safely there. It wouldn’t do for Leonora to see my true face. But she’s not looking at me, she’s peering around the room, seeking something; she slaps my shoulder. ‘Asher! Focus.’
Nodding, I straighten. In a cupboard are sheets and towels, and I retrieve one of each. We wrap his head and neck in a towel first, then roll the rest of him into the sheet until it looks like a shroud. A headache’s creeping up on me, but my mind is clearing. I grab his shoulders, and she his feet, after dropping the scalpel onto the tabletop.
‘The well out the back,’ says Leonora. ‘It hasn’t been used for years, not since they sunk a new one in the kitchen garden.’
It’s covered over, but three of the planks are easy enough to remove, splintered with age. It’s already winter dark out, the light having died since Archie’s arrival and demise. No one will see us from the house; this is a house that eats secrets, besides. We heave Archie up, angle him into the gap, then have to push to get his gut in through the slim opening. In death he’s both resisting and not, and the combination makes him difficult to manoeuvre. Finally, with one last shove, he’s gone. A small splash comes to us, and a thud – not enough water there to drown in, just enough to rot in. I’m sorry, Archie. You should have returned to Whitebarrow as I asked.
I run back inside while Leonora curses, looks at me curiously as I return with fistfuls of dried lavender. ‘To lay the ghost,’ I say, sprinkling it into the black mouth. Then I put the planks back into place with shaking hands. They fit together like a puzzle, dovetailing so no nails are required, and I’m thankful to whatever long-ago workman made this. Leonora grabs my upper arm with harsh fingers and leads me inside the surgery once more.
She sags into one of the chairs, suddenly older, and watches as I find another towel, wet it then begin wiping up the pool of crimson on the floor. It comes up easily, cleanly, soaks into the towel. I sit back on my heels when I’m done, staring around me.
‘Put it away. When it’s dry, burn it,’ says Leonora, and again I’m struck by her pragmatic train of thought, by the echoes I find in myself. Ruthlessness, I think, also travels in the blood.
I bundle the thing up, stuff it in the back of the cupboard. Tomorrow it will turn to ash. I wash the scalpel and put it on my desk; somehow I can’t bear to put it in its place, with its siblings who’ve never done anything so terrible. I turn to Leonora, waiting. She rises and comes to touch my face. She tsks, says, ‘Filthy child,’ and dampens a cloth from the sink, and washes my cheeks and neck; it comes away red. The front of my dress is soaked with slowly coagulating gore, but it can’t be seen on the black fabric. ‘Burn the dress, too. We can replace it.’
As we depart, I blow out the lanterns and close the surgery door. We walk back towards the lights of the house, and she links her arm in mine, perhaps to keep me upright. She seems to sense that my knees are weak, that I’m almost done in now the rush of adrenaline and fear have ebbed. She escorts me to the bathroom and runs a bath, helps me strip off the ruined gown, washes my hair as I sit shivering in water from which steam rises, turning my skin pink. She makes me stand, dries me off, wraps my head, then leads me to my room, puts me to bed tenderly as any grandmother.
I think I whisper Thank you as she leaves, but sleep claims me so quickly I cannot be certain. I do not dream.
* * *
It’s late when I wake; the sun is already well in the sky, heading towards midday. I ache all over and feel the fresh bruises on my throat. Gingerly I rub calendula cream on the skin; if one more person sees fit to strangle me I think I shall scream. I find a high-necked white blouse to go with my grey skirt, tidy my hair into a long plait, and go downstairs in search of food because I missed dinner and breakfast and in spite of everything – or because of – I’m ravenous.
In the kitchen, the children are sitting at the table eating bread and jam. Tib is leaning over a pot on the fire; the smell of meat and red wine is strong. A stew for dinner; my stomach revolts. Bread it is.
‘Miss Todd! Grandmother said you were ill.’ Albertine rises and comes over to grasp my hand. ‘How are you?’
‘I still feel a little unwell, Albertine. Thank you for your concern. I’m sorry to have missed your classes.’
‘Connell and I read three new chapters in Murcianus’ Mythical Creatures and Sarai drew the creatures.’
‘Perfect,’ I say, not having the energy to demand anything else of them (or myself) this day. ‘Shall we sit?’
Tib Postlethwaite gives me a look that’s unlikely to be described as sympathetic, but she does say, ‘I’ll make you some porridge.’
When she serves it, there’s a knob of butter on top to melt in; it’s plain, a little salty and tastes wonderful. I thank her and she grunts, goes back to what she was doing. She’s no Mrs Charlton, but her food is tasty, she’s unbothered by Luned’s moods and Burdon’s periodic bullying, and the Binions obey her without question. I miss our housekeeper, but Tib Postlethwaite, though she doesn’t like me, is a good and stable woman to have around.
The time passes so normally, eating and chatting. When Burdon appears and tells Albertine it’s time for her afternoon lesson with her grandmother, she goes eagerly enough. The girl’s being taught things she never thought to learn – things her father would have denied her, given to Connell. Let her enjoy it while she may – it will teach her to be more than is expected of her. I suspect she’s a far better student than Heloise ever was.
I ask Tib to tell anyone who comes that I will not be seeing patients today; she grunts again. I’d almost laugh if it didn’t hurt my throat. I make sure that Connell and Sarai are wrapped up warmly, and take them for a walk around the estate, through the woods, to the Lewises’ cottage. Best to be out of the house if I want to avoid people; besides I have some questions to ask.
I find only Eirlys at home – Thomas is out with their boy, working, making charcoal, and the daughter is in town collecting some groceries. The children play with the large shaggy red dog who seems to have more energy now the family is well again. I ask Mrs Lewis if they’ve had any relapses and she says no. I tell her about the surgery but of course she already knows – word travels fast when borne on Heledd’s tongue.
‘May I ask if you’ve seen Mr Morwood recently?’ I know her husband must have in the day-to-day running of the estate, at least until Leonora’s coup.
She shakes her head. ‘Mr Morwood never comes here. He and Thomas meet at the big house in the morning to discuss what needs doing. Sometimes at the quarry, other times wherever the estate needs attention. Sometimes Eli Bligh brings a message. Only the girl that once.’
I nod, but I don’t really know what I’ve learned, if anything. I had so many questions but they seem to have dried up. One more, in a low voice so the children can’t hear: ‘Did you ever meet my predecessor? The governess before me?’
She looks at me strangely and shakes her head. I must seem bizarre to her, all these unconnected queries. I smile, cut my losses and thank her. We head home soon after.
Being outside, answering the chatter from Connell and Sarai helps me to not think about Archie for a while, but when we are back in the house, I hand them over to a pale-looking Luned. I don’t ask how she’s feeling – the stinking gladwin in particular will make anyone ill. I go to the parlour and sit by the fire, stare into the flames. I can no longer ignore the memories of what happened last night.
I didn’t kill him but I didn’t save him either.
The more I think about it, the more I realise that Leonora didn’t need to end him. She could have hit him on the head, knocked him out. But then, she didn’t know who he was or why he was attacking me. Perhaps she panicked. The scalpel was the first thing she saw. Her care was for me – or, at least for the person whose skills have given her back her sight and her looks, or part of them any road.
Poor Archie.
Would he have killed me? Having surmised – quite correctly – that I’d lied to him, thinking that I was settling in here, all his hope turned to rage. All his trust in me seemed misplaced. Not because he didn’t believe I couldn’t do what I’d promised, but because he realised I wouldn’t.
Had he been more rational, had the world been other than it is, I might have explained that while I could, in a greater sense, do what I’d promised, I could not actually do it for him because his wife had died without me beside her. I’d not been able to bottle her last breath, the essence of her, a final spark that might be reignited later. And I’d not been able to take a piece of her flesh, an organ of import, for the soul to cling to. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d left a ghost behind – and she did not: I’d spent more than long enough in their home to know if she had, though Archie would not have seen her even if she stood in front of him – because ghost and soul are different things. Linked certainly, but not the same. A ghost might wander, follow as Heloise did me – drawn perhaps by the song of its own soul, or another such call, for most souls do not remain here. But I could never have done what he expected without those elements – and without another body to put it all into.
I lied and told him I could. I lied because doing so meant I did not have to live in a tiny room with my mother’s spectre, stealing everything I needed, working in the darkness fearful only of discovery but not of what I did. I lied because it made my life and my search so much easier.
I didn’t kill him, no, but he’d never have been here, at the end of a scalpel, if not for me and my lies. So grief-filled, so greedy, hoggish, at the inn’s dining table.
The inn. His things. His horse.
Where’s his horse? Surely he rode to the manor? I cannot imagine him suddenly deciding exercise was required in order to spy on me. The poor creature will be wandering. I must look for it. There will be a room at the inn, with Archie’s fine things in it (not too many, not more than would fit in his saddlebags). How long before someone realises he’s not paid his bill? Goes to his room, and decides to sell whatever they find? At a market stall, or to a seamstress to remake and pass on. He’d have had a key on him, but we’d tossed him in the well, hadn’t we? No going back for that.
What to do?
My hand shakes as I count off my points:
One. No one knew why he came here and I do not imagine he would have told. Two. No one would have known where he was going, that he was coming out here. Three. No one knew he’d returned here last night – he’d been sneaking around, so the whole point was not to be seen. Four. Burdon welcomed him to the house those days ago. Five. Leonora knew he was here, but she has more to lose than I.
So: the safest course is to hold on for dear life and do nothing. Deny all knowledge of him but what can be proven. Express surprise if the horse is found – I had believed Dr O’Sullivan had already returned to Whitebarrow. Soon, Luther will return. I will be free and I will disappear and no one will ever find me. I’ll make sure of it this time.
The door opens without a knock. Burdon again.
‘You’ve missed dinner, Miss Todd,’ he says, mildly reproving, a little concerned.
I smile. ‘I’ll have something later, Burdon. I’m not very hungry at the moment.’
‘Luned’s not well either – normally I’d think she’s malingering, but she’s almost green around the gills.’ He shakes his head. ‘Hope no ailment’s going around.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll go up and check on her later.’ As if I didn’t know.
‘Very good, miss. Tib’s seen to the children.’ She’ll not have read them a story; I’ll have to check on them too. ‘And Mrs Morwood would like to speak to you in the library.’
‘Thank you, Burdon.’ I rise and follow him out.
Leonora is standing, back to the room, staring at the black glass of the window. She’s looking at her reflection, I think, then mine as I enter. We wait for Burdon to go, having been assured that he’s no longer required this evening.
‘Asher,’ she says as the door closes, then gestures to the long seat by the fire. We sit at opposite ends. She stares at me, and I wonder what might happen if I were to take off the ring, show her my face, her daughter’s face, her own face. If I were to tell her all I’ve done and all I’ve planned to do. Tell her about my mother and what happened to her in Whitebarrow. Tell her that Heloise is quite literally above us, even now, locked in her childhood room until I come and let her out. But I don’t and she says again, ‘Asher.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Morwood, for what you did last night.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A man from Whitebarrow. A doctor. He had been… a friend. He lost his wife, maddened by grief as you saw.’ I hate my deceiving tongue. Although it’s not entirely a lie, is it?
‘Where was he staying?’ she asks, strategic as ever, and I run through my earlier train of thought, or at least the bits of it I don’t mind her knowing. She nods approval.
‘And he believed you could bring his wife back? Into another’s body?’
Gods. How much did she hear? I doubt there’re many lies I can get away with now. I nod, slowly. ‘But I didn’t want to. That’s one of the reasons I left Whitebarrow. He was growing insistent, and I did not want to choose someone to… be a vessel.’
She shifts against the cushions behind her, considering. ‘But you can do it?’
And here’s my mistake: I should have denied it. Said Archie was mad. But I’ve already admitted it, haven’t I? Trapped like a rat in a maze of my own making. I nod, a small jerky movement.
Leonora looks at her hands, at their wrinkled skin and age spots, the knuckles enlarged by arthritis. She rises, goes to the mirror above the fireplace and examines her face. Since the treatment she looks a good deal younger, but still not young. Her expression is greedy, so avid, avaricious. Like she might eat someone else’s youth. ‘So. You could put my soul into, say, Albertine’s body?’
‘Albertine?’
‘My granddaughter will be my heir. It’s only logical.’
‘She’s your granddaughter.’ I clasp my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking.
‘But you could do it?’
‘You would both need to die first,’ I say in the hope it will be a deterrence. I swallow hard, the bruising hurting more than it should. ‘Mrs Morwood—’
‘Asher Todd, you owe me your life. What would the constable say if I were to tell him what transpired last night? How you threw a man down a well and covered him up?’
‘I wasn’t the one to kill him.’ My voice trembles and I hate it.
‘But who will that stupid man believe? The person to whom he owes his living? Or you?’ She grins and it’s an ugly thing. ‘What of the Church? What if I were to mention all you have done? If I were to go to the priest?’ She seems to remember he’s gone a’wandering – and she hates him – and corrects herself: ‘Or send word to Lodellan that we’d caught a witch who was dealing in souls and death?’
I look away, find the flames in the hearth, think of what they would feel like around my feet, climbing my body.
‘What if, Asher Todd?’
I look at her, the woman who banished her own daughter for getting pregnant, punished her for little more than causing disappointment and the upsetting of Leonora’s grand plans. I look at this woman so in love with beauty that she’d steal someone else’s life to keep it – her own grandchild’s, as if Albertine were nothing more than fodder. I look at my grandmother and say, ‘It will take time to prepare, Mrs Morwood.’
I rise. ‘If you will excuse me, I’m rather weary.’
At the door, her voice catches me like a hook. ‘Asher? I rely on you. You are my ally in all things.’
It’s not a question, but a statement. This is what I’d aimed for, what I’d wanted, to make my other plans easier. Yet here everything is, so much harder than I could have foreseen. Or so I’d like to believe. Nodding, I do not reply, and step into the corridor.
The front door beckons and I step into the icy black.
I walk across the lawn, ignoring how the wind plucks at me, bites through my thin indoor clothes. The cold is sobering; it seems to slow my thoughts, make them sharper, easier to grasp. Calm, Asher, calm. I need only put Leonora’s demands off until I have done what I came to do. Then, I will vanish, disappear into the night or the day or the mid-morning, whenever I can step from view. Hold fast, Asher, only a little longer.
In front of me something rises, it seems, from the very earth. Dark and solid and blocking my view. Then it snorts, steam pours from nostrils. A weak whicker.
Archie’s poor horse.
Speaking quietly to the beast, my own trembling matching his, thud for thud, I lead him to the stables. There’s a free stall at the far end, closest to the tack room; I remove the animal’s saddle and bridle, rub him down, throw a blanket across his back and make sure there’s feed within reach. I will speak to Eli in the morning, tell him I found it wandering. Going to him now is unappealing; I feel as if I couldn’t keep my lies from dancing on my face. But there’s one thing I must do before I sleep, no matter that I don’t want to.