The cage jerked before making a rapid descent, too rapid, past the third story, then the second, then the first. Inside, Edith watched helplessly as the elevator brought her down to the basement.
Holding in a curse, she had no choice but to wait for the contraption to stop of its own accord. By then, she was already enveloped by an earthen cavern of dampness and decay. Faint light from the end of the tunnel traced the mass of six fearsome vats.
One for Pamela. One for Margaret. One for Enola.
Their corpses, submerged forever in darkness.
What was one more?
Edith could not understand where these thoughts were coming from, why she felt so tempted to push the wheelchair in her grasp. The closest vat was calling. By the time Lucille awoke, if she ever did, Edith would have already closed the lid. All that would be left was to distract Thomas at dinnertime and let nature run its course.
All her problems, resolved. No more shrieks from the attic. No more fear of a madwoman gutting her in her sleep.
Just one more.
Edith stared at the unoccupied vat, then the one adjacent, then the one adjacent to that.
No, it would not be one more. It would be three.
Edith gripped the edge of the wheelchair harder, her feet firmly in place.
One for Lucille. One for Thomas. One for Edith. That would be the true progression, if they let the devil inside them win. Her hand refound the lever, and the elevator obeyed this time.
Of the various chambers in Allerdale Hall, only a few contained a usable bed. Edith wheeled Lucille into the first that did. She opened the curtains, then pulled the decrepit sheets that enshrouded the furniture. Dust erupted. Exoskeletons of insects joined the dried leaves and husks on the floor.
Coughing, Edith limped back to Lucille, where she started unbuckling her ankles, then her wrists.
I'm sorry, Father. I would give anything to have you back. If you were to live, I would even give up Thomas. If it meant you by my side, I would never leave our home again.
Edith blinked back tears, which she attributed to the dust.
But I cannot go back in time, and nothing I do now will bring you back.
Lucille's body fell onto the mattress. If her sister-in-law had been feigning, she had had multiple chances to attack by now. But she remained lifeless, as grey and as desolate as the room that encased her.
An unattended fever could be fatal, and Lucille must have been burning for at least half a day. Edith thought of the beams from the skylight hitting all those blankets.
"Damn you," Edith hissed, climbing on top. The Lucille she knew was not some delicate thing. She was the fiend. She was the curse. No matter how many times you buried her, she rose back.
So where was that Sharpe tenacity? The level of self-possession that allowed her enjoy a cup of afternoon tea after cold-blooded murder?
Edith yanked open the collar of Lucille's nightgown, then pulled along the buttons and seams. She froze.
Her gaze followed the jagged outline of a scar.
What—
There were more. Most were ancient but deep, ripping through Lucille's skin like a torn canvas.
Edith knew Lucille had scars. She noticed them on their first promenade together in New York, how thin lines cut through Lucille's brow and lip, marring her otherwise stunning dark beauty. Courtesy dictated she keep silent on the manner, and Edith went on assuming they were the result of an accident with a cat or some other animal from Lucille's youth.
Edith never imagined there could have been more underneath her dress. Even when Lucille had stepped out bare from the bath, the ore had smoothed her skin with a coat of red, painted her clean except for the more recent stab wound.
The stab wound. Edith's gaze flickered over to the spider-web scar across Lucille's chest. It had cracked and expanded. Black veins swelled, staining the cotton.
An infection, Edith realized, feeling faint.
The strike of her pen might have been fatal after all. Only death had not claimed Lucille when Edith wished it. It had scheduled to make its visit months later, when Edith had already changed her mind.
.
"Edith? Edith, I'm home!" Thomas called, excitedly crossing the threshold of the front door into the foyer. Strapped around his shoulder was a sack of goods. His hands were busy with his scarf, which, instead of being secured around his neck, held together a precarious bundle of outside soil. Within the soil, a collection of delightful snowdrops were nestled, the first bloom of the season.
Thomas was careful to not leave a trail of dirt on his way to the kitchen, where he substituted his scarf for a brass container. After, he set his sack down on the table and removed its various contents.
Smiling, he set down a tin of hot chocolate by the teas, then proceeded to unload its corresponding pot and cups. He had not been able to justify their expense, until he learned the shop owner had been seeking a pair of gloves for his son. It was a happy exchange, with Thomas walking away with the charming metal set and the owner believing he received a charitable bargain.
Thomas knew the drinking water had an aftertaste that Edith found disagreeable. Tea was out of the question. She did have a fondness for sweet things, however, so hopefully the chocolate would prove to be a satisfying alternative.
"Edith?" Thomas called again. "Edith, come. Finlay is here! Oh, no, Finlay, let me get that for you." After relieving the old manservant of a sack of potatoes, Thomas rushed upstairs to search for their missing mistress.
He checked her bedchamber first and found her desk empty. He heard a drip from the direction of the bathroom.
"Edith?"
Was she trying to take a bath? If so, he would get boiler running immediately and fan the fire.
This room, too, was empty.
Thomas tightened the tap, and the dripping stopped. As he did, he noticed a change in the shadows.
The mirror had gained a second face. Human-like fingers walked up his spine. Against his ear came a deep breath. Whispers of all kinds, the whispers of children, many at once, fast like the buzzing of bees. Even closer, a long, wretched groan.
They willed him to hear.
He willed himself deaf.
And as long as his will was stronger, they would not claim him. They would not pull him into their madness.
Snapping his eyes shut, he escaped back into the hallways. His earlier mirth had dried in his mouth, his strides longer and faster.
Heart pounding, he ran up the spiralling stairs, up to the attic. His dread turned to terror.
The wheelchair was gone.
No.
Oh God, please no—
"Edith?! Edith!"
"Thomas? Thomas, I'm here!"
Thomas nearly slammed the door off its hinges. An overjoyed laugh escaped him at the sight of his wife at the edge of the bed, turning around and revealing her beautiful face. Natural and wholesome, alive and real.
He rushed to her side, fighting the urge to lift her into his arms right there and then. His eyes refused to look away for even a second, as if each second of her was too precious to lose.
"You were right here," he breathed, laughing again.
Edith shared his relief and grabbed his arm, though for different reasons. "You're back. Thank God you're back. Lucille is—I don't—I can't—"
Thomas stiffened at the mention of his sister.
Slowly, his joy fell to guilt, then panic, then pain, as he remembered his sister and found her lying fallen between them. Her pallor made him instantly ashamed of his earlier mirth. It made him afraid all over again. He called out to her timidly.
No response.
He brushed back her wet hair and repeated her name, as if he could coax her into awakening for him. He noticed her exposed chest and instinctively reached for her garments to protect her modesty. The sight of the stab wound stopped him.
Instead of retreating, the wound had grown, pulsing and alive, invading the nearby flesh like vines. It was not a sight Edith could have prepared him for. Protected him from.
She could practically hear every thought that raced through his head then. How this happened. How he missed this. The shivers he noticed in the late night, how wrongly he misinterpreted them, thought his sister cold instead of hot, too fatigued to notice the signs.
How his carelessness may have ruined her. How his mistake may have killed her.
Always his mistake.
Edith felt her heart break alongside his. She tried. She cleaned the wound the best she could. She had been changing towels for hours. But…
"She needs a doctor, Thomas," she whispered.
Thomas slowly nodded between controlled breaths, hiding his true feelings behind a strained smile. Feelings that would have been too inappropriate for a man to reveal, too disrespectful for a bride to receive.
"I met with Finlay in town," he said calmly. "He's here. We can ask him to help us retrieve a doctor."
There was that reassuring tone again. That everything was fine. Everything would be fine, as if he found his sister troubled with a cold and not lying on her deathbed.
Edith did not miss the slight tremble in the edges of his smile.
Downstairs, Finlay rose at the sight of Edith entering the kitchen. He greeted her deferentially with a pleasant nod, seemingly oblivious to her limp.
"Milady."
"Hello, Finlay," Edith said, her American accent in sharp contrast to his Scottish one. "My husband and I would like to ask you a favor. Lucille is sick and we need a doctor. Could you please bring us one from town? It's urgent."
Finlay continued to stare at her pleasantly, as if he had not heard. Then, after a slow blink, he said, "Absolutely, milady," and gave another wrinkled smile. With that, he took hold of his hat on the table and made a steady rise.
The years had shrunk his posture, but Edith noted the dignified air in his walk. For his age, Finlay kept admirable health, with the strength of a man decades younger.
As she watched his leave, it struck her that there was no reason to assume his mind was any less vital. She recalled the smile he gave upon their first introduction, the discomfort in Thomas's expression as Finlay looked to him.
"I know, I know, milord. You've been married a while."
What she had assumed for the words of a confused mind… had they been a warning? Or perhaps the admonishment of a servant to his master, one that could only be given after decades of service, after having seen them through from infancy to adulthood? And Thomas had had the grace to look abashed.
Finlay was supposedly their oldest and most faithful servant, having served the Sharpes for three generations. One simply did not reside so long in Allerdale Hall and fail to be acquainted with its nightmarish history. Edith had seen more than enough within her first month alone.
He knows, Edith realized, falling back onto a chair. He has to know… about everything.
Too many questions swirled in her mind. What was he thinking when he had seen her come down, alive through the winter, and in gentlemen's clothes no less? Was he surprised? Skeptical? Dismayed? Proud? How loyal was he to Thomas? He must be very. But what about Lucille? He had been responsible in fetching the family's food supply; had he been buying Lucille her poison too?
Edith buried her face into both palms, fighting the need to vocalize all of her turmoil. She wished to hit herself, for both her previous naïveté and current paranoia.
No, you must stay strong. Falling apart now will do no one any good. In fact, it may just get everyone killed.
Edith tightened her grip on her walking stick, pressing her forehead against both hands. She needed to prepare her presentation as Lady Sharpe and her explanation to the doctor of why her sister-in-law had a pen-deep hole in her chest.