10
Catherine woke to a silent house. Sunlight filtered through the curtains. Near daybreak she'd at last fallen into her customary deep sleep, and when she opened her eyes she found it was almost midday. At some point someone had delivered her a tray of tea and toast, setting it neatly atop her bureau. She ate standing in her nightgown, gazing at the watercolor of roses hanging on the wall. The toast was dry and got stuck in her throat.
After she'd drained her teacup and brushed the crumbs from her hands, Catherine opened her wardrobe and stared into it. She did not have her usual energy and enthusiasm for clothes today. At last she pulled out an old blouse and skirt set. A couple summers out of fashion, why did she still have them? But they were soft and comfortable so she put them on anyway. The effort of doing up her hair was too much as well, so she just tied it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon as she always used to do and had done with it.
On her way to the stairs she paused when she heard her parents talking in low voices, in tones they didn't often use. Mother's door at the head of the staircase was ajar. So she crept over to listen.
"...for certain, but I must do something," Mother was saying. Father said something that she didn't catch, but whatever it was, Mother responded with an exasperated noise. Catherine could practically hear her throwing her hands up in the air.
"Victoria," Father said in a tone he usually reserved for Mary. "No. I won't let you. No, I forbid it."
Catherine's eyes widened. Mother's probably did, too. There was an uncomfortable silence. A shuffling of feet, likely Father's.
"You...forbid it?" Mother asked slowly, clearly aghast at both the words and the tone.
"Well, not forbid, that was a strong word," Father said, backpedaling immediately and sounding much more like himself. His voice was softer when he added, "I just don't want you to put yourself in danger."
Catherine bit her lip as she listened, knowing she should move along to the parlor, but not able to pull herself away.
"I cannot let him get away with this," Mother said at last, slow and serious. And angry. As angry as Catherine had ever heard her.
"I don't think...I don't think he did," Father replied gently. "It sounds as though Catherine...er...took care of it. Thoroughly."
"It wasn't hers to take care of," Mother replied, her voice rising on every word. By the time she finished her sentence she was at as close to a shout as she ever came. Which wasn't very, honestly, but all the same Catherine cringed.
"She should never have had anything to do with him. None of them should have!" Mother continued. Oh, she was so quiet about it, but Catherine could tell she was positively raging. Her voice moved about the room, so it was obvious she was pacing as well. And she wonders where Lydia and Mary get their tempers, Catherine thought. "He died. Was punished. He was supposed to be gone forever. Not...not...waiting. Not able to rise. Intending to...to...bah!"
Mother actually said "bah!," and she said it in the exact same way that Grandfather Everglot did when he was angry and Catherine very nearly burst out laughing even though it was truly not funny. Maybe it was fear-laughter. Mother was on the warpath. Catherine stood outside the door, her fingers pressed against her face, knowing she should walk away.
"I know, but you don't have to-" Father tried, but it was useless. His words were lost in the sound of skirts and footsteps rapidly approaching the bedroom door.
"I am going, Victor, with or without you," Mother said as she flung open the door and barreled directly into Catherine, who didn't manage to get out of the way in time. Mother gasped in surprise, and Catherine scrambled to back up and somehow make it look as though she just got here.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Catherine lied, her eyes flicking all over her mother's face, trying to gauge just how angry and determined she was. Father appeared behind Mother in the doorway, looking tired and rumpled, still in his shirtsleeves. "Are you...are you really going to...what are you planning to do?"
She finished in a small voice, quailing under Mother's stormy gaze. After a moment, Mother closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them again, they were softer, more normal, and Catherine stood up a bit straighter, heartened. The rarity of Mother's displays of temper made them frightening.
"You may join me, if you like," was all she said. Chin in the air and shoulders back, she marched down the stairs and left Catherine and Father staring after her. They looked at one another. Father rubbed at his forehead and sighed deeply. He almost looked as though he wanted to cry. But instead he just sighed again.
"I'll get my coat," he said wearily.
0-0
Father insisted on carrying the cast iron strong box to the graveyard after he realized that Mother was serious. She'd emptied it and dragged it from the study to the front door in the time in took for Catherine and Father to put on their shoes. She'd also taken the dented oil lamp from the kitchen, and was stowing matches in her bag when they joined her at the front door. They didn't know what the plan was, and there was an unspoken agreement not to ask.
On the way down the drive and across the road to the churchyard, Catherine walked alongside her father and asked him about all the things she'd wondered aloud to Lydia the night before. Exactly how could the dead and the living move between worlds? Why weren't there more of the dead who came back? Why did some of the dead walk, and some stay where they were? Exactly how did it work?!
"I'm sorry," Father told her eventually, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "I really don't know. About any of it." He shifted the strong box in his arms with a grunt.
"I can help you carry it," Mother told him, not for the first time on the short walk. "It's heavy."
"I've got it," Father replied, though he looked as though the opposite were true.
Catherine frowned. "But it happened to you," she reminded him. "You went back and forth. Several times!"
"He was taken back and forth," Mother put in darkly. Father glanced at her.
"It's true," he admitted, beginning to breathe a little heavily. Mother put out a hand to take one of the handles of the strongbox, but he shook his head and pulled it a bit out of her reach. "I...er..wasn't sure what happened the first time. Then it was...well...magic, I suppose. And then, the last time, I..."
He trailed off, brow furrowed as he remembered. Mother, her face set, was keeping her gaze dead ahead as they approached the church and then passed by the steps. Father, though, slowed a bit and gazed at the facade, looking up at the towers. When he looked back at Catherine, she thought he looked a little wistful, under the red-faced strain.
"I was simply here," he said. "One moment I was...there, and then I was here. In there, I mean," inclining his head at the church.
And that was apparently the end of it. Catherine was incredibly disappointed. Perhaps he'd talk more if he weren't carrying fifty pounds of cast iron. She'd have to ask again tomorrow. More pointed questions, maybe. Catherine did not care for mysteries or unanswered questions.
They'd reached the cemetery. Mother turned to her, the brim of her hat throwing a shadow across her face.
"You lead us, Catherine," she said. Catherine, suddenly shaky, nodded. With the early afternoon sun warm on her shoulders and her parents beside her, it didn't seem quite so bad. She took a deep breath, and retraced her steps of the night before among the headstones.
"Right here," she said, looking down at the ground in front of a crooked cross so old that any writing that might have been there was long worn away. "This is where Anne was...where he..."
She found she couldn't speak around a sudden lump in her throat. Mother took her hand. The cool stone of the church loomed close on one side, the rest of the expanse of graves on the other, the dark woods beyond. It seemed...more desolate somehow, than it had ever appeared before. Somewhere a crow cawed, swiftly answered by several others.
While there was no trace of any hole, the dirt was visibly disturbed. Roots poked up here and there. There was a pressed trail through the scrubby weeds where Anne had been dragged. She swallowed. It had really happened. A shiver went up her spine.
Father's eyebrows and mouth were set in grim lines as he surveyed the grave. Mother held Catherine's hand more tightly, and asked, "Where is the crypt?"
Catherine led them around to the back of the church, away from the rest of the graves. A thorny tangle of weeds and vines, very recently crashed and torn through by four young women, covered the back of the building up to the high-set windows. Underneath the growth there was the doorway they'd come through. The rotted wooden door hung crazily, the handle still on the ground where Liddie had dropped it. A set of stairs led down into darkness.
Father set the strong box down, then wiped at his forehead and shook out his arms. He was still a little out of breath. Mother lit the lantern and turned up the flame. Catherine hung back, uncertain.
"Are you going down there?" she asked.
"Yes," Mother said curtly. When she moved toward the door, though, Father stepped in front of her, blocking the way.
"Why?" he asked quietly, making Catherine feel awkward. She didn't like watching her parents quarrel, infrequent as it was. She stood there miserably. The smell was beginning to waft from the crypt. The dank cold air rising toward her. Oh, the sense of valor and excitement had truly worn off. Catherine never wanted to go anywhere near the cemetery or the church again.
At last Mother slumped as if someone had removed the steel from her spine. When she spoke, it was low and more to Father's shoulder than to him directly. Catherine could just barely hear her.
"I need to see it," she said. "Him. He was here for me. I will not let my children stand in my place. As brave as they were."
This last she added to Catherine over her shoulder, offering a small smile. Catherine tried to smile back. But she wanted to grab her mother, to tackle her about the waist and drag her away, to tell her it was horrible down there, that man was horrible and evil and was mostly dust anyway and couldn't they leave it alone?
"What are you going to do?" Father asked, and color rose in Mother's cheeks.
"I wanted to set him on fire," she admitted, looking into the lantern flame. "But that's silly and dangerous, isn't it?"
"Most definitely," Father agreed, sharing a slightly worried look with Catherine.
"So then I thought to lock his pieces in a box," And she gestured to the strong box at Father's feet. "I do not want him putting himself together again. Ever."
There was a silence. The crows chattered among themselves in the branches above. Two of them swooped down to sit on a stone near where the river curled into the forest. One blinked at Catherine and ruffled its wings.
She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and stepped forward to put her arm around her mother. Mother touched her head to Catherine's, closing her eyes briefly. Together they looked up at Father, still blocking the doorway. He looked back and forth between them and rubbed at the back of his neck.
"I'll go first," he said with finality, taking the lantern gently from Mother's hand. He dropped a swift kiss on her cheek before stepping into the dimness. Mother followed close at his heels, and Catherine brought up the rear.
What would they find down there in the darkness? She took a look over her shoulder at the blue sky and leafy branches, and the crows watching from their perches.
0-0
Author's Note:
Sorry for the delay in updating, we had the plague visited on our house! PlayerPiano Jr. brought it home from school, poor kid, and gave it to us. Luckily we had mild cases (yay vaccinations!), and are fully recovered. Get your shots and wear your masks and engage in all the civil disobedience that you can, my friends! -PP
