Who'll read the book?
Who'll tell the tale?
I, said the rook,
I'll read a page from the book
Of poor Cock Robin.
—
Heather Chandler wondered what she could do, if she pushed hard enough. Since taking someone's life gave people power, she should do more of it.
Here were two ex-friends who'd betrayed her, Veronica and Heather Duke, right here in the car with her, two people Heather was used to commanding. She could say, Heather, shut your vomit-spewing mouth and slit your wrists. Or David, her boyfriend. She could walk up to him and say, David, I'm dead, let's be like Romeo and Juliet, you get to drink a glass of rat poison. Heather wished she'd tried ordering David around more when she had the chance. A Remington College man who could get you into college parties was high enough on the social food chain that Heather had been stupid enough to be thrown off-balance, to let David set the agenda. Never again.
"You won't know the address, so I'll tell you where to go," Heather said. "The house is on a block by itself. My grandma owns the land as well. Someday I'll inherit it." Grandma Chandler only had two kids, and Heather's dad was her favorite.
"Oh, the haunted mansion at the back of Sherwood, the one that's been there since the town was founded," Duke said. Heather didn't like that edged tone that had crept back into Duke's voice, lately. "I'm still waiting on a good explanation, Heather. Hey, Veronica, did you know Heather's great-grandmother was the town witch?"
Veronica adjusted the front mirror to give Duke an almost-friendly look back. "This I've got to hear," she said.
"Show some respect. Great-Grandmother Chandler was a murder victim," Heather said. She briskly retold the story to Veronica. Not everyone had a family legend as good as this one. "Two of her servants brutally killed her while she was sleeping. They said at their trial she was a witch who tortured them, forced them to work like slaves and never sleep and punish themselves by walking into freezing cold water, but there was no evidence. They fried in the electric chair, of course."
"That's always a fun one to tell over the wholesome family breakfast table," Duke said. "It's almost like a cautionary tale, except it's super hard to guess what it means, right, Heather? Heather read the story at her grandma's place, in news clippings saved up in some old scrapbook. I guess Great-Grandma wasn't so nice to Grandma, that she'd keep the murder records like that."
"Everyone's nice to my grandma, because she's an utter bitch," Heather Chandler said. Her mom and dad visited every Saturday, which she always skipped, ever since the first second she was old enough to be alone at home. "Grandma Chandler's the only person who's really been able to make me do stuff - like wear stupid bridesmaid's dresses. I think she's got power, like me. I don't know. I'm making this crap up as I go along." She sighed. Maybe she should interrogate J.D.'s father about this crap, except that she was pretty sure he'd murdered someone and gotten away with it. Like father, like son. Thanks to my quick thinking in making Veronica forge another suicide note. Oh, the irony.
Heather couldn't resist brushing down her hair and trying to dust off the rest of the flour as they walked up the drive. She felt horribly untidy. Her grandma had that effect on her as a kid, glaring at her like she expected sticky barley sugar marks to spontaneously appear on all her furniture. She wasn't a kid any more. Heather Chandler demanded respect, whether coated in flour and drying egg or not.
There was a long path up to the door, surrounded by thick black hawthorn bushes. At the end of it, they reached a heavy old knocker shaped like a gargoyle. I know it's supposed to be a real Civil War period knocker, but it's actually completely tacky. They let the noise ring through what sounded like an empty house, deep and dark and echoing. Then there was nothing but silence. They waited uncomfortably in the cold for stretched-out minutes.
The door creaked open. Heather jumped, then looked at her friends to see if they'd noticed her. She hadn't heard any noises before the door opened. You probably pulled that on purpose, you old bitch. They gazed up at a diminutive old lady with a bent back, leaning on a thick oak stick, her face full of wrinkles and long pale yellow hair tied up in a bun. She wore a red dressing-gown over a black nightdress so thick with layers of lace and embroidery that it could have stood up on its own.
She looked at them with an absolutely unsurprised expression.
"If it isn't my least favourite granddaughter, deciding that death does not become her after all. Come in, girls. We have a lot to talk about."
There was tea and cherry cake dug up from the deep freeze. Heather Duke meekly handed out the plates. None of them were very hungry.
"You only have two granddaughters, you bitch," Heather complained.
Grandma Chandler sat in her favorite chair at the head of the table, happily waited on by others. "Yes, and Samantha remembers my birthday and followed my advice on her wedding. The poor girl might never win any beauty contests or have a conversation more interesting than my last bowel movement, but she's a decent dutiful young lady who tries her best, unlike you."
"I should've fucked her groom when I had the chance," Heather said.
Grandma Chandler gave Heather a sharp glare from half-moon glasses on a gold-fringed cord. "If I remember correctly, you tried, but like most grown men he doesn't have a taste for ill-mannered children."
Score one point for Grandma, Heather thought. "Veronica, she wasn't there, was she?" Heather asked. "Thought so. You didn't even come to my funeral, you fucking cow."
"I'm a frail old woman. You're a perfectly healthy young girl, and yet not a single phone call, visit, or even some brief insincere thank-you note for my generous Christmas and birthday presents." The teacup shook in Grandma Chandler's hand, but she seemed perfectly content to sip her drink. "I know you were a late bloomer for reading and writing, but this is excessive, Heather."
"Make the checks bigger next time, you usurious bitch."
"That's not what that word means," Veronica said in unison with Heather's grandmother.
"I like her," Duke said unexpectedly. "She's where you get it from, only she's better at it."
"Shut up, Heather," Heather said. Duke drooped again, she noted with some satisfaction.
Grandma Chandler replaced her teacup with a shaky clink. "Enough badinage," she commanded. Her voice was much stronger than her movements. "I've known about you since you were a baby, of course, Heather. You grew up a horribly spoilt brat, but with your ability that was almost inevitable. Tell me about this Dean boy. Is he good looking?"
"No," Heather said, at about the same time as Veronica's 'Sort of'. "Does that matter?"
"Not at all. General human interest," Grandma Chandler said. "Does he also have a power?"
"Maybe," Heather said, Veronica concurring. "He babbled something about being able to feel a ghost possessing Heather, and ran off. Coward."
Grandma Chandler looked at Heather Duke.
"No, not Heather, Heather," Heather said.
Martha Dunnstock, back from the dead. Fuck her - I beat her once and I'll do it again. That explained Heather McNamara's alien look, glaring like her best friend was her murderer and enemy.
"And who was this ghost? You can speak all you like, dear. Don't let my granddaughter bully you," Grandma Chandler told Duke, who dared to look gratefully at her.
"Martha Dunnstock," Duke said. "It clearly wasn't my fault. Heather made me do it. She made Martha do it, too."
"That poor girl who killed herself. I remember," Grandma Chandler said. "Dunnstock. Granddaughter of Martin Dunnstock? A good old family, long established here. I used to play bridge with Martin. I take it you were responsible for the child's death, Heather. That was most vicious and unkind behaviour, dear."
"I didn't know that she'd actually off herself just because I said so," Heather said. "That's only ever worked once, even ... " She stopped talking. She might have been able to force Kurt to do it, but she'd never know now. It occurred to her she'd best not admit to trying to kill someone else. I'm going to have fun with this power, Grandma.
"So you and your grandmother have a mind-control power, fuck you again, Heather, Veronica's disgusting boyfriend has some sort of touchy-feely power, and Heather's not exactly herself at present," Duke said. "All that stuff I did with the cards was just the stupid ghost trying to warn us. If Martha were smarter she'd have killed you already. You don't warn people before you stab them in the back, that completely misses the point. I don't have a real power. Fuck it."
"Technically, that would be ex-boyfriend," Veronica said. "But he should be here, if only for other people's safety. Heather and I can look for him."
"No, girls. Go home and stay safe," Grandma Chandler said. Heather could tell she added an extra force to that advice, some depth of control and power. So she watched carefully, planning to use the same ability herself, only better, of course. "Heather, I'll put you in the third best guestroom, as you're family."
Heather stalked up to the stupid old room. The bed was already made up, topped with an ancient moldy green quilt sewn with pink rose petals. "You may borrow one of my nightgowns in the drawer," her grandmother said. "I hope you remember where the bathroom is, dear. You're a little too old for accidents."
"And you're old enough to start having them again," Heather retorted. "How are the Depends, Grandma?"
Her grandmother only looked sleek and much too satisfied. "Try again, dear; you almost came close to mixing cleverness with your vulgarity. By the way, where were your little friends born?"
"Veronica was born right here, I think. Heather was born overseas, she thinks she's so special to be born in eternal Rome and all that crap. Family trip to Europe, early baby, explains why she's so retarded," Heather said. "Why ... "
"You should keep an eye on your friend Veronica, then," her grandmother said. "Three things govern whether a person can gain power, although even the three together are no guarantee. First, the place of your birth must be on a nexus point. Most people avoid such places; a nexus point will be a strange small town where strange things have passed on this globe. Second, the proper bloodline must be present, a family line that gives such gifts through the generations. You can guess at the third - at the nature of the sacrifice we must make to activate our abilities."
"I was born with this." Heather raised her hands to look at them, which was rather stupid, since the backs of her hands, the familiar blue veins under lovely pink skin, looked no different to the way they'd done before she knew any of this. "Because I killed my mother?"
"Considering your tender age at the time, it's forgivable, dear," her grandmother said.
Heather bared her teeth cheerfully at her. "And what about you, Grandma - so who did you kill to get here?"
"Clearly, no one who was ever missed," Grandma Chandler said with a similar smile of her own. "It's a tedious subject that is best left alone. Sleep well, or if you can't, settle down with a nice Maria Edgeworth." Heather knew her grandmother had never owned a TV; she scowled at the indicated bookshelf, bowed with thick old grey books that smelt of mold and damp. "Don't despair. There may be a way to rescue your friend Heather's soul and lay your ghost, a way to bring back your young friend Mr. Dean safe and well. Goodnight, dear."