6

Much later that night, Catherine sat at her vanity brushing out her hair. All of the sisters had needed a bath and a hair washing after their adventure, and it had taken ages for the four of them to get cleaned up. Particularly since they'd not let the maid, the housekeeper, or Mother assist them.

No one needed to see their war wounds. They'd raise too many questions.

Catherine ran the heavy brush through her damp hair, finding the motion soothing. She gazed at her little collection of scent bottles without really seeing them. Every light in her room was on. Never had she been so thankful for their electric lights! Lamplight would have been too moody and dim for a night like tonight.

When the four of them had come into the house tonight they'd run into their parents just on the way out to look for them. Relief had turned to shock and concern as soon as Mother and Father got a good look at them. Truthfully, they looked a lot worse in the bright lights of the entry. Clothes ripped, hair messy, dirt and mud everywhere. Mary looked about the same as she did after any of her outings, truth be told, but the rest of them…

Catherine caught her reflection in the mirror. There was a long, angry scratch down one side of her face, likely from a root or stick on her way down into the grave. It looked better now that it was clean, but earlier she'd been a mess of blood from her temple to her neck. Her hands weren't as bad to look at as they felt—they were covered in tiny scratches and her knuckles had been scraped raw. And that pretty dress had been ruined. Torn under the arms and down the back and up and down the skirt. It was destined for the rag bag or the burn pile.

Liddie and Anne had looked terrible. Even Catherine had gasped when she saw them in the full light. Lydia had lost just about every button on her shirt, and she'd had to keep a tight grip to keep it closed. The knees of her trousers were torn and filthy. Her bangs flopped into her eyes and the rest of her hair frizzed out crazily from her half-undone braid. She'd been breathing carefully and standing in a hunch. Anne was so pale she'd looked bloodless. The back of her dress was dark with graveyard dirt, and there were oily-looking smudges on the sleeves. The terrorized look in her eyes, though, that was the worst of all.

Mother had stood for a long time, hands over her open mouth, staring at them in horror. At last she'd managed to ask, "What's happened to you?"

Liddie and Catherine had shared a look, no idea what to say. But Mary, bless her, had taken all the blame. She'd spun a wonderful story about how she'd wanted to take photographs in a crypt like her hero Nadar, and had become stuck. Her sisters had had to help her get out again. Liddie, Catherine, and Anne had all stayed silent while Mary told her tale, trying to not look surprised.

Who knew if their parents believed it, though. Catherine had seen the way Father had eyed their torn clothes, looking a little sick. And how Mother had gasped at the dirt and scratches on them.

Finished with her hair, Catherine put down her brush. She should probably go to sleep. Slowly she rose and went over to her bedside lamp. Instead of switching it off, she just fingered the knob. Surely it wouldn't be so terrible to keep the lights on, just this once? And her hair was still damp, she really shouldn't try to sleep on damp, loose hair.

A soft knock at the slightly open door interrupted her dithering. Mother put her head in.

"I've brought you a hot water bottle," she said, with a brief smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Oh," said Catherine uncomfortably. "Thank you." She watched Mother place the bottle between the bedsheets, taking care to turn down the covers just so. She took a long time about it. Mother's mouth was set, and her eyes were troubled. Catherine bit her lip.

She'd never kept anything from Mother before. She was dying, absolutely bursting, to tell her mother the truth about tonight. To brag a little about her valor and strength in saving her sisters. To ask roughly a million questions about Barkis. About that night in the church with the dead. About Mother's first wedding. Mother never spoke of it, and she'd gently discouraged questions over the years until Catherine had reluctantly given up asking.

Surely now, though, Mother might talk to her? If Catherine told her the truth, that was.

"Mother?" she ventured, just as Mother finished with the bed and turned to leave.

For a moment they looked at one another. The moment stretched and stretched. Catherine didn't even know what to say. Oh, by the by, Mary told an enormous lie, Anne and Lydia were attacked by your dead first husband and then I attacked him back. Thought you'd like to know! No. She especially shouldn't say anything without talking to Anne and Liddie first. Mother was still gazing at her expectantly.

"Thank you for the hot water bottle," Catherine said at last, rather lamely. Mother was visibly disappointed.

"You're welcome," Mother replied. Then, to Catherine's surprise, her mother wrapped her in a hug. Mother was not one for embraces. She was affectionate with her daughters, especially Catherine, but a hug was out of the ordinary. Especially one like this. Long and tight and somehow desperate. Catherine returned the gesture, happy to be held. At last Mother pulled away.

"Sleep well," Mother said. And she left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

0–0

Anne had cleaned herself thoroughly with the strongest-scented soap they had, but she could swear she was still getting whiffs of the grave off her skin. And her hair still felt disgusting, despite the thorough, almost manic washing and combing she'd given it. She'd been given the first, warmest bath—her sisters probably knew she needed it. Washing up, she'd finally had a good look at herself, and she immediately wished she hadn't.

Anne was very pale and she'd always bruised very easily. Unfortunate, as she was a bit clumsy when it came to the edges of hall tables, doorknobs, and short flights of stairs. So her arms were already horrific looking and they'd be worse tomorrow. From her elbows to her shoulders she was almost a solid mass of dark purple. And she thought she could make out bony fingermarks.

Sitting there in the cooling and filthy water Anne had put the washcloth over her mouth and sobbed. After that, she'd pulled herself out of the bath and dried as best as she could without looking at herself too closely. Then she put on her softest old nightgown and wrapped her biggest shawl around herself, and she'd retired to her safest spot—the sagging old loveseat in Father's study.

She was curled up at one end of the loveseat with The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The hall clock had just gone eleven. Father was in his armchair with a book, but Anne could tell he wasn't really reading. She could feel when he glanced at her. He hadn't asked her any questions and she didn't want him to. There was no way she could talk about what had happened. Not tonight. Maybe never. The thought of the dead man pressing his face to hers, dragging her along the ground, those mad yellow eyes...her heart seized up and her throat went dry.

Eventually, Father set his book aside and sat down beside her on the loveseat. Anne kept her attention on her reading. If she kept her mind full of Holmes and Watson, the skeleton could not get in.

"It's getting late," Father said in his sickbed tone, soft and comforting. Anne knew it well from when she was little. "I think I'll head upstairs. You should, too."

Anne nodded, with no intention of leaving this spot. She didn't want to be alone in her dark bedroom, the smallest one closest to the back staircase. It was so ridiculous, but all Anne wanted just then was to curl up in Father's lap as she used to do as a little girl. Curl up and fall asleep listening to his heartbeat. The same heart that had almost stopped beating many years before, before she'd ever been thought of. The way her own heart might have been stopped for good tonight. Anne didn't realize she'd begun to cry until she noticed tears splashing on the page.

"Oh," said Father, noticing. "What's wrong?"

That was all it took for her to crumble again. Anne flung herself at her father, arms about his waist, burying her face in his coat. At first she was crying too hard to answer. She couldn't seem to stop. She felt her father's arms go around her, his hands steady on her back.

"I don't want to die," she managed to croak at last. It was all that she could think to tell him that was both the truth and not the entire truth. "I'm terrified to die, I don't want to be dead, please don't let me die..." Saying it out loud was awful, somehow, and her hard sobs resumed.

Father let out a long, slow breath. "Oh," he said. "I...It's...Was it being...you know. In the crypt?"

Anne nodded against his chest, aware that she was soaking his coat with her tears. "I see," he told her. Then he paused while he patted at her hair. "You needn't worry about it for a very long time, though."

That was entirely the wrong thing to say. But Anne didn't know what the right thing would be. So she just nodded again. After a minute or so she was able to take a few deep breaths and stem her tears. Finally she lifted her head, wiped at her nose, and blinked up at her father. He was looking at her with a very sad frown, one that pulled at both his mouth and eyes. He managed a little smile, though, when he met her eyes.

"It will be all right," he said comfortingly. "Stay here as long as you like. But you should get some sleep, you'll feel better. We can talk in the morning."

Anne sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her shawl. After one more hug Father got up, bid her goodnight, and left the room with a troubled backward glance.