8

Father just sat there after Catherine finished speaking, his brows pulled together and his bottom lip in his teeth. Catherine studied him. Talking about it had been much harder than she'd thought it would be. Describing tunneling into the grave, the dark closeness of the crypt, the horrible vision of the skeleton's greasy bones and yellow eyes. Anne's terror, Liddie's injury. Even telling the tale of how she'd dashed the dead man to pieces didn't feel exciting. She was still proud, and she could tell Father was, too, but...it was still quite upsetting, all the same.

Suddenly she was oh, so tired. The clock had gone midnight while she'd been talking.

"And...and that's it," Catherine added at last, unsure whether he realized she was done. It still took him a second to gather himself to say anything.

"I...I'm-" At last Father met her eye. He cupped the back of her head with one hand, stroked her hair. "Oh, Catherine."

Tears started to prick the corners of her eyes again at his tone. "And you know, what was one of the worst things?" Catherine said, only realizing it now as she remembered the dead man's face, "it was his eyes. The look in them. Looking at me, at all of us, with murder in his eyes. Having someone look at you and know they want to kill you, and kill people you love. You know?"

Father nodded. Of course he did, as Catherine well knew. He'd been on the receiving end of that same look, from those same eyes. So had Mother. Before he could reply, though, a blood-curdling shriek ripped through the kitchen.

Catherine was positive her heart stopped. She actually felt it start beating again, with a kick that made her gasp. Father stood up so fast he knocked his chair over, and then he stumbled over it on the way to the old pantry door. For indeed, the scream had come from Mary's darkroom. Muttered curses and small cries of frustration followed the shriek.

Father rattled at the doorknob. "Mary!" he cried. "Mary! What's wrong?" He yanked at the door.

"Don't open it!" Mary shouted. "Not done!"

"For goodness sake, Mary! Are you all right?" Father shook the knob again.

"Mary!" Catherine said, joining her father at the door and giving it a good pound with her fist. "You've been in there this entire time?!"

"I couldn't open the door, I was developing!" Mary snapped back, over faint sloshing and the sound of liquid gurgling.

Footsteps came thundering down the back stairs, and Mother and Lydia appeared. Mother was in her housecoat and her long braid was thrown over one shoulder. She also looked pale and drawn, as though she'd aged about ten years since she'd bid Catherine good night.

"What on earth was that, what's wrong?" Mother asked, hovering behind Father and Catherine. "Who screamed?"

"Mary," Father told her. "She's in her darkroom."

"Mary!" Mother said, in an entirely different tone. She stepped up to the door, Father moving to let her by. "I told you this could wait until tomorrow!"

"It couldn't, Mother!" Mary insisted. There were shuffles and a bit of stomping from in the darkroom.

"Who's hurt, what's going on?" came Anne's voice, making everyone turn. She stood in the doorway to the back hall, her hair all tangled and her shawl falling off. She was clutching the tongs from the study fireplace.

"What happened to your head?" Lydia asked in return. Catherine looked, and saw that Anne had a small cut over one eyebrow that was swiftly turning into a goose egg.

"I hit my head on the mantel when I grabbed these," Anne replied sheepishly, holding up the tongs.

At last the pantry door swung open, and Mary, red-faced and furious, stomped out in the swirl of chemical smells. An old apron covered her nightgown. She righted the fallen chair with a bang and sat down in a huff.

"All my pictures of Barkis are black!" she cried. "All the ones I took of Catherine smashing him up, and I know I had a great one of when he still had Anne against the wall. And one of Liddie hitting him with his own arm! All ruined!"

There was a deep silence. Mary realized what she'd said, and she gasped. Eyes widening, she bit her lip. The sisters looked at their parents. Their old-looking, troubled parents.

"Uhh," Mary began, "That wasn't what I meant. You see-"

Mother wearily held up a hand to stop her.

"I told Mother," Lydia told them. Gingerly, a hand to her middle, she lowered herself into a chair. Anne took a seat beside her, placing the tongs on the table.

"I told Father," Catherine added, taking the stool by the stove. Anne had stolen her chair.

There was an uncomfortable silence. It was like a wake, almost, though no one had died. The air had that same heavy, unsure, oppressive feeling. Mother closed the darkroom door gently, and then leaned back against it as though for support. Father, though, went to Anne and Lydia. There was just space for him to stand between their chairs and put an arm around each of their shoulders.

"I just can't believe it!" Mary groused, propping her chin in her hands. "Not a one came out. They're all underexposed. Well, not the ones from earlier. But the good ones. I was positive there was enough light. I had pictures of the land of the dead, and they're spoiled!"

"Oh, you did not," Lydia said irritably. "You had pictures of a crypt."

"I had pictures of Catherine beating the stuffing out of a walking corpse in a crypt!" Mary snapped. Mother rubbed her forehead before coming over to lay a soothing hand on Mary's back. "Even better than Nadar had!"

"Now those would have been nice for me to show off to suitors at the next ball," Catherine said, tickled at the idea. "And Nadar had special lighting equipment in the crypts that he worked for ages and ages on, remember?" At Mary's surprised expression, she added, "I was listening to you, for heaven's sake!"

Another silence fell. The kitchen was cooling off, a pre-dawn chill filling the room. The water heater on the stove clanked quietly to itself. Somewhere outside the back door a lone cricket chirped. Catherine was wrung out. She rubbed at her eyes and sighed. About a day of sleep sounded good to her. A dreamless, skeletonless sleep.

"My poor girls," Mother said at last, softly. She was using the tone she had when they were little and had skinned their knees or had a fever. "My poor, brave girls."

Catherine was the first one to get up, but Anne was hot on her heels. They got to Mother at the same time, one on either side, and hugged her desperately. Catherine was pretty sure she could hear Anne crying a little, her face buried in Mother's shoulder. Mary kneeled on her chair and hugged Mother's waist from behind. There wasn't room for Liddie, but she still reached over and clutched one of Mother's hands. After a moment Father joined them, trying and failing to wrap his arms around all of them. Funny. Catherine remembered a time when he was able to do just that. It had been a long time ago.

"There was more room last time we all hugged like this," Mary remarked, reading her mind. Her voice was muffled as she was sandwiched between Father and Mother.

"You were all smaller then," Mother replied.

For a long while they stood that way, Catherine and her sisters and their parents. None of them seemed to want to let go.