3. Inventory of Wasted Lives

Edith stood with her glasses perched on her nose, a large ledger on her left arm and her father's pen in her right hand. She'd had to replace the tip because apparently it wasn't meant to be stuck into people. She contemplated the closet, took note of every small item inside it. She had no quarrel with any of them, so they were listed on the left side of the ledger. To her relief, it was the longer list. Good. She wasn't going crazy.

She turned and saw the dust gathering speed and drifting out of the room. This was no ghost. Those were remarkably silent right now. They weren't gone. Just … inactive. Maybe even ghosts needed a bit of time to adjust to changes.

The dust's floating out meant that someone had opened the door downstairs. Occasionally, Finlay came up to check on her, but he would have called out by now.

That was when she heard her name, but the voice wasn't Finlay's. Edith stood frozen for a few seconds. Then she took a deep breath. She knew this would happen. What she would say was beyond her, however.

When Edith made it out of the room to look down, she saw Thomas standing right below the hole in the roof, turning slowly. Something made her stick to the shadows. He put down his travelling bag. 'Lucille?' he called, and her lips tightened. 'Lucille!' There was an urgent note in his voice. 'I wish you could hear me.' Then he said something so softly it was lost to her two floors above him, before he slumped to his knees and raised his voice to a yell. 'I want to kill you with my own hands and bring you back again only to kill you over and over!'

Before she knew what she was doing, Edith was halfway down the stairs. As she touched Thomas's shoulder, he went rigid. 'Thomas, it's me. She's not coming back.'

Without looking at her, Thomas placed a hand on hers. 'Edith.' He turned his head slowly. 'Am I mad?'

'I haven't decided that yet.'

'Fair enough.' He let his hand fall. 'Are you going to leave me?'

'I haven't decided that, either.'

He nodded slowly. 'What are you doing?'

'Taking inventory. There are a lot of things that are so very broken that fixing them seems pointless. And things I plainly don't want to keep if I should stay. But I wouldn't sell them yet, if I were you. I cannot promise anything.'

'What would you want gone?'

'The piano. Her bed.'

Thomas huffed. 'Burn them, if you wish. I have no love for either.'

'I need you to do something for me. I cannot say if that will convince me to remain with you, but if you want that to be an option at all, you need to do it.' When he didn't prompt her, she continued anyway. 'The bodies of your mother and your wives. They need to be interred. You need to get them from wherever you dumped them and have them buried.'

Thomas sat heavily on his heels. 'I can't do that.'

'Because you don't know where they are?'

'Because …' He swallowed and truly looked at her for the first time, his eyes wide and frightened. 'It's not that simple. We could leave. That would be easier.'

'I'm not sure you deserve easy, Thomas.'

'No. But if I do this, I may end up as mad as Lucille.'

'Then I will leave you. As I will if you don't try.' He sighed deeply. 'Do you need a bit of time to decide?'

Thomas stared at her. 'No. What a question.' He took a deep breath. 'My choice can be only one. For only one comes with the chance, however slim it may be, that you'll stay. I'll do anything you ask of me.'

'You're not going to be alone in this. I'll remain here for the time being. I just don't know if it will be for good.' She lowered her voice. 'If I can forgive you.'

A ghost of a smile touched Thomas's face. 'I will forever love and adore you for wanting to try.' He tilted his head. 'How badly were you injured, Edith? Are you reasonably well now?'

She sighed. 'Let's not discuss that on the floor, all right?'

Ϡ

Thomas followed Edith to the kitchen. He noticed that several things had changed, but only details. There wasn't Lucille's rigid order, more life in how what was placed. 'Can I see your inventory?' he ventured. Edith passed him the ledger. He read the part on the right, containing what she wanted to get rid of. 'You know, not all the tea is poisoned. In fact, the poison isn't in the tea. We added that separately.'

'Regardless. I don't think I'll ever want tea again in my life.'

'We can get you coffee from town.'

'Yes. Better.'

'Can I … ah. Forget it.'

'Thomas, not talking hasn't worked that well before.'

He blushed. 'It's no trouble. I just like tea sometimes.'

Edith clicked her tongue and scratched it off the list. 'Just throw out the poison, if you don't mind.' He put his head in his hands and suddenly she was carding her fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look back at her. She cupped his cheek, her thumb narrowly avoiding the souvenir from Lucille that would forever mar his face.

He leaned into her hand. 'Will you ever be able to eat or drink anything I bring you without wondering …?'

'Well. If I can ever answer that with yes, your chances that I'll stay will be better.'

'Edith … this is going to sound so terrible.' He swallowed and forced himself to look at her. He would face her every step of the way. He couldn't keep hiding. He covered her hand with his, pressing it more firmly to his skin. 'Until you know … as long as you're not sure about me … or us … could you please not touch me? Not like this.' His words were incongruous with his continued response. He simply couldn't help it, couldn't stop himself from basking in her touch.

At least she looked bewildered rather than hurt. 'I think I understand,' she said, and with a last, gentle brush of her thumb she released him. 'So. My injuries are … I've ditched the crutches a couple of days ago. Sometimes my ankle swells if I'm careless. Other than that … I'm doing well, really. I'll keep a scar on my cheek. That makes that two of us, I suppose.'

'The poison … it didn't do any lasting damage to you?'

'Doctor Pilgrim said it wouldn't.'

'He didn't tell me you're still here.'

'That's because he doesn't know that. When I was still in the hospital, he told me that once it was out of my body, I had nothing to fear.' She frowned slightly, a look he knew from when they talked about her manuscript, when she had an idea she wasn't yet sure she wanted to reveal to him.

'Not talking hasn't worked that well before,' he said and earned a chuckle.

'True. Thomas, I'm not being arbitrary about the bodies. The house, it's haunted. It has been since the first time I got here.'

He let that sink in and blew out his cheeks. 'Edith … the poison we gave you may have had an effect on your mind. Temporarily, but still …'

'I did not imagine this. I've seen ghosts before that. I thought, stupidly, that you'd believe me.'

The crazy part was that he did. 'Well. If you saw them immediately after your arrival it couldn't have been the poison anyway. Incidentally … what ghosts? Why do I not see them?'

'Most people can't. Lucille saw your ghost, though.'

'I'm not dead.'

'No. But something … much like a ghost helped me by distracting Lucille. Much like your ghost, to be precise. But … different enough to make me check if you … well.'

Thomas had to fight the impulse to reach for her hand. He managed. 'So I suppose they're the ghosts of … ah.'

'Your mother and your wives.' He looked away, couldn't look at her while she talked about them. So much for his resolve to face it all head-on. 'And I believe they'll find peace if we have them buried. Properly.'

'Good.'

'And then, when that's done, we'll take care of the last one.'

Thomas's heart went into a wild tattoo that had nothing to do with excitement and everything to do with fear. He knew the answer, but he had to ask. 'Whose?'

Edith's expression was hard and determined. 'Lucille's.'