7

It wasn't any use. Catherine couldn't sleep.

Usually Catherine could sleep after and through just about anything. As a rule she slept easily, heavily, and well. But now she lay tucked up in her soft bed, surrounded by her many pillows, with her bedside lamp on, unable to close her eyes.

Every time she did, visions of Barkis' skeletal face filled her mind. Or she saw Anne and Liddie's faces. The darkness. The claustrophobia. Scattered bones. And her eyes would pop open again.

With a sigh she rolled out of bed and slid on her slippers, not bothering with her robe. The hall was dark, no lights on under Mary's door. Mother was still up—her door was ajar and a soft light shone through at the far end of the hall. Carefully and quietly, Catherine headed past Anne's empty room and down the back stairs, headed for the kitchen.

When she got there, she found a light already on. Lydia was standing at the broad pine work table, also in her nightgown and slippers. There was a glass of milk and the battered old biscuit tin before her.

Lydia glanced up briefly when Catherine came in. It was obvious that she'd been crying. Poor old Liddie. She always cried alone. And then was an absolute bear if you tried to comfort her. Catherine just didn't understand it.

"There's some milk left in the jug, if you want," Lydia said, a telltale stuffiness to her voice. She cleared her throat and sniffed, trying for nonchalance and failing. Catherine decided not to mention it. Obviously the evening had upset everyone more than they were saying. She poured herself some milk and stood at the table with her sister.

They leaned against the table, sipping at their milk. The kitchen was very warm, holding onto the stuffiness of the day. Also the smell of dinner. Catherine's stomach growled. She eyed the biscuit tin in the middle of the table, then pulled it toward her and opened the lid.

"Oh, ginger biscuits," she said. She took a handful. "I love Mrs. Reed's ginger biscuits." She pushed the tin toward her sister. Lydia took one, and just stared at it, as if she'd forgotten what she was supposed to do with it.

The biscuits were tiny, so Catherine pushed three into her mouth at once. Oh, they were lovely. The sweetness and the bite of the spice were deliciously comforting. She washed it down with some milk. Over the rim of the glass she studied Lydia, who was still just holding her biscuit and staring at nothing. Her eyes had huge purple bags beneath them, and were red-rimmed from tears. Her nose was a little red as well. Liddie had her hair down, which she hardly ever did anymore. It made her look younger.

Finally, Catherine couldn't bear the silence any longer.

"How did he do it?" she asked. She set down her empty glass and leaned toward her sister. "That's what I don't understand. How did Barkis pull you down there?"

Lydia swallowed, but otherwise acted as though she hadn't heard the question. Catherine truly didn't understand this. How had Barkis reached into the living world? How had the dead bride done it, years ago?

"I mean, it's the same thing that happened to Father," she went on, thinking aloud. "The dead bride. She could hear him, and she could grab him. But how?"

Without a word or acknowledgment Liddie picked up their empty glasses and took them to the washbasin in the sink. She stood there for a long time with her back to Catherine. Oh, she didn't like this subject, Catherine knew, but honestly. Why Liddie couldn't just get over it she'd never understand. Besides, the subject was personal now.

"Maybe...maybe it's strong emotions?" Catherine ventured. She made a little pile of her biscuits, as she'd done when she was a child. "Rage, you know. Or love. Or obsession. Obsession that ties them to the living world, and they're not really dead? Not of the dead, I mean."

Expectantly she looked at her sister's back. Eventually, Lydia turned around and slowly made her way back to the table and the circle of lamplight. Emerging from the shadows looking like the risen dead herself, with her thin pale face and linen nightgown. She leaned heavily against the table, crossed her arms, and fixed Catherine with a frown.

"And what was his plan?" Catherine went on, ignoring the warning expression. She leaned toward her sister, desperate to unload all of the wonderings that had been filling her mind. "Why now, after so long? How would Mother and Father being dead help him? Or us being dead, for that matter? It doesn't make any sense."

Catherine transferred a few biscuits from her pile into her mouth. "Really? What was Barkis thinking? I mean, he was going to drag Mother down there and murder her for revenge? And then...she'd just be dead. With him. How would that help his situation? It wouldn't make him any less dead."

Lydia uncrossed her arms long enough to rub her eyes and groan, but Catherine couldn't seem to stop herself. "Perhaps he just went mad down there. Though it sounds like he wasn't entirely sane and rational when he was alive, so perhaps he got even worse after he died. All that time to stew. It probably all seemed entirely sane to him. Just to make Mother suffer."

That line of thought brought her up short with a catch in her throat. Mother suffering. This wasn't just imagining, this wasn't a game or a story or a play. Mother had suffered a lot all those years ago, and from what Catherine had been able to glean, she might have suffered even more. Father could have been killed. At least one young woman had been killed. In real life. Dead and gone and going crazy in the grave. The same as could have happened to her and her sisters tonight.

The sugar in her mouth was suddenly cloying, the ginger burning her tongue. She pushed the tin away with tears pricking at her eyes. Once she'd blinked them away, she looked up at Liddie, whose expression had softened a little.

"It's really terrible," Catherine said lamely. "It is. What an awful thing. All of it."

Barkis. The dead bride. Mother's first wedding. What had happened tonight. It was finally really and truly hitting her, after the adrenaline rush of saving the day. Catherine felt a little sick from all the biscuits. Oh, she hoped she didn't vomit. She leaned her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands, letting her breath out in a huge sigh.

Lydia broke the silence. "Good night," she said. And she turned and made for the back staircase, which went all the way up to her tiny room on the third floor.

"That's it?" Catherine asked incredulously. Liddie stopped with her foot on the bottom stair and turned briefly.

"I'm exhausted," she said. And Catherine snapped. It was incredible, how easily and quickly she and Lydia could drive each other to the edge.

"I hate it when you cope by clamming up and being a grouch!" she cried, slapping her hands against the table in frustration. Catherine needed to talk. She needed hugs and to have her hand held and to just talk. And Lydia just...didn't.

"It's how I cope," Liddie replied mildly, continuing up the stairs. "Thank you, by the way. For saving us. You were great. Really."

Despite herself, Catherine warmed at the praise. With a smirk tugging her mouth, she called quietly after her, "Still not vomiting blood?"

"And not passing any, either," came Lydia's voice from farther up the stairs. "Good night."

"Good night."

Alone now, Catherine sighed. She put the lid back on the near-empty biscuit tin and wiped the last crumbs from the corners of her mouth. For a moment she stood there, listening to the faint tick of the hall clock, the drips from the basin in the sink, the night noises outside. Warm and safe in here. It would be all right.

She was just reaching out to switch off the lamp when the kitchen door next to the back staircase, the one that led to the back hall, swung open. Catherine gasped and jumped. Then she felt a very childlike flush of being caught with her hand in the biscuit tin, as it were.

Father was standing in the doorway, staring at her with the same exact frown Lydia had given her a few minutes ago. Silently he joined her at the table, taking a seat in Mrs. Reed's straight-backed chair. Still silent, still frowning, he pulled out a stool for her and gestured for her to sit. Warm with guilt and that childish fear of somehow being in trouble, Catherine obeyed.

She was finding it hard to look anywhere but at her hands in her lap. Why wasn't he saying anything? What was that frown about? At last she raised her eyes to his face. It was immediately obvious that he wasn't frowning in anger. Or at least, not anger directed her way. No, Father was hurt and sad and worried. That realization relaxed her.

After all, she'd done nothing wrong! She and her sisters were the victims here. Except for the blatant lying, of course. She pushed her hair back over her shoulders and met Father's eye.

"How much did you hear?" she asked him. Father looked at her grimly.

"Everything after 'How did Barkis pull you down there,'" he told her. "That caught my attention. As you can imagine."

Father stood then, and pulled his chair over so that he could sit next to her. He leaned his elbows on the table, angling toward her. Catherine couldn't remember the last time she and her father had sat together and talked. Usually Anne and Mary got all his attention. Had he ever just sat and talked to her?

How she wished this was a normal conversation, a nice father and daughter moment! Not a confession.

"Catherine," Father said softly. "What happened tonight? Please. Tell me."

After taking a deep breath, and then taking hold of Father's hand, she did.