5
Mary burst into the kitchen, clutching her camera to her chest. "Please, may I use the darkroom?" she asked urgently. "It's important. It's an emergency."
Mrs. Reed was at the worktable kneading some dough, up to her elbows in flour. She shared a look with Alice, who was emptying the sweeper into the dustbin.
"How is Miss Lydia faring?" Mrs. Reed asked pointedly. Mary felt her cheeks flush.
"Poorly," Mary replied. She lifted her camera. "That's why I need to develop this film."
Clearly the housekeeper did not see the connection. Of course Mary didn't expect her to. But it wasn't as if she could explain. Not without the film. Alice stowed the dustbin away and said, "Let her, Mother, it's been awful this morning."
"Oh, go on, you little camera fiend," Mrs. Reed said at last, waving her off with a puff of flour. "Light your lamp out here, I don't want you burning the place down trying to do it in the dark."
Camera fiend. Mary felt like she'd been slapped. She did as she was told and lit her special candle lamp by the sink, making a big show of being sure the match was out and that she was carrying the lamp with care. After that, she shut herself up in the old pantry with her camera.
Usually the darkroom was one of Mary's favorite places. It was very small, shelves on either side and a low counter where she kept her developing kit. Today she stood bathed in red light from her special lamp and felt as though she was doused in blood. For she might have killed her sister. Accidentally, but just as sure as if she'd pulled a trigger herself. All for the sake of a photograph.
She was Baumgartner. Obsessive and weird and murderous. With difficulty she swallowed. As she see-sawed her film back and forth in its developing bath, Mary thought, I'll put it right. I'll save her. Lydia can't be gone. I'll set it all right and nobody ever has to know. And it was an accident! I didn't do it on purpose, like Baumgartner did!
All the same.
Guilt and worry were making her swift and a bit careless, but she could do developing in her sleep. Usually time in her darkroom was meditative and calming. Alone in the reddish light with the sloshing and chemical scents, watching images she'd made appear as if by magic. But today she kept realizing that she was clenching her jaw and grinding her teeth as she worked.
This roll was mostly from school, but a few early ones were from when she'd been home in the spring. The images began to form, the lights and darks reversed in that way that was always a little dizzying. There was Millie in her turban in the dormitory. The view from the bell tower. A few butterflies for Dad and some flowers for Anne. Her sisters in a row out on the lawn in their Easter dresses and hats. Liddie in the middle, towering over Anne and Catherine. In the negative their eyes and smiles were bright white. Mary made a small noise in her throat. Then, at last, at the end of the row, her photo from last night.
Her heart sank. She could tell even without printing that the photo had not come out. Nothing but white. She could perhaps make out the outline of her bedroom window and some darkish dots. But mostly it was white. In her haste and excitement and impatience she'd made silly amateur mistakes.
And now look. No proof. And Lydia still had a ghost using her like a puppet. All for nothing.
Silently, fighting down the urge to hurl all her supplies around the tiny closet and then punch the wall, Mary hung her negatives on their string to dry and weighted down the bottom. She cleaned up her materials and hung up her apron on its peg. After one last look at that little light square at the end of her negatives, she blew out her candle lamp and stepped into the kitchen.
The brightness of the room made her blink. Alice was gone. Mary saw Mrs. Reed through the screen door, doing something with the laundry out on the small back porch. To her surprise Mother was standing at the stove. Dad was sitting at the now-clean table. They stopped speaking abruptly when Mary appeared. She could always tell that silence, that hush after a hastily ended conversation.
Mother turned and saw Mary. She tried to smile, but her mouth was tight and her eyes were worried. It was odd to find Mother in the kitchen, but not unheard of, especially when one of them was sick. Mother always cooked for anyone in the household who was sick. She knew how crisp all of them liked their toast and the exact consistency they preferred for their porridge. Not that Lydia was really that kind of sick. Or sick at all.
"That's where you got to," Mother remarked as she turned back to what she was doing. Mary came to stand at her elbow. Or would have, months ago. Now she loomed over Mother's shoulder from her new height. Mother was toasting a slice of bread in a pan. They had a fancy new electric toaster but everyone except Alice was skittish around it.
"Yes," Mary said, glancing back at her darkroom door. "Developing."
"Did your latest photographs turn out?" Mother asked, eyes on the bread so that it didn't burn.
"Most of them," Mary replied, her guts in a twist. Mother took the toast to a waiting plate on the work table and spread it with Bovril. Mary grimaced. That stuff was awful. Lydia loved it. "How is Liddie? Any better?"
Mother and Dad shared a significant look. Neither immediately answered her. Eventually Dad said, "About the same, I suppose. No worse."
"An appetite, at least," Mother said, spreading the Bovril on thick. Then she spooned yet more into a mug and poured hot water from the kettle over it. "That must be a good sign, surely?"
Mary wasn't sure about that. Of course a ghost would be hungry, it probably hadn't eaten in about a hundred years. She watched as Mother set the mug and plate on a tray. Only Lydia would both drink and eat Bovril at the same time. She even ate it when she wasn't ill. Mary could hardly stand to look at it, all brown and grainy. It didn't look like something to eat.
But Dad said, "Yes, I'd think so," in a comforting kind of way. As if to reassure himself. "The doctor seemed to think rest is all she needs."
"Yes," Mother said in a low tone, arranging the tray just so. "Give it a week, he said."
Her parents shared that look again and Mary felt left out. A week. Who knew when Lydia would get better? Would she ever get better? If it really was fits or an injury to her brain, Lydia was likely never getting better. Lily Van Dreisen would probably never be the same again. Rumor was she was headed for a special posh hospital out in the countryside. Liddie'd probably end up somewhere like that. If fits or injury were the problem.
But Mary was quite sure her sister was possessed. And how could she get better from that if nobody but Mary knew what was actually wrong? Mary's insides curled and twisted. She had to say something, with or without the photograph. But would they believe her? And would they even know how to help?
Her parents looked so disturbed and worried and sad that Mary almost confessed right then. But no, they'd think she was losing her mind, too. That maybe there was something in the air making their daughters crazy and then Mary would end up tucked up in bed and fussed over and unable to help. Or she'd just be in a terrible amount of trouble. An unthinkable amount of trouble. And she'd deserve it.
She had to save Lydia first. She'd figure something out and not have to involve her parents. And then the problem would be fixed and she could apologize and perhaps her cameras would not be taken away forever.
Mother headed for the back staircase with the tray. Dad rose to follow. "I'll come along," he said, taking the tray from her helpfully. "I'd like to tell her what Father said, pass along his get well soon…"
He trailed off with a sigh and Mother touched his arm gently. They started up the stairs and Mary followed along behind, curious to see how Lydia was doing. Was she still speaking strangely and crying over toast and pawing her own hair and not sure of who any of them were? Mary got the creeps again just thinking about it.
When they got to the doorway of the sickroom they found it empty.
They all stood there for a moment, staring. The ghost had taken off with Lydia's body! But then Mary's heart leapt briefly with the hope that the ghost had gotten bored and left and now Lydia was getting dressed for the day unaware that anything had happened. Maybe! It was possible!
Dad set the tray on the bureau and looked all around, taking in the empty bed and open curtains. The plate from earlier was on the night table and held only crumbs and the teacup had only dregs in the bottom.
"Lydia?" Mother called, heading back into the hallway. "Lydia?"
Mary was about to suggest they check the bathroom when footsteps came from the stairs to the third floor.
"I'm here!" trilled a voice that was Liddie's and not Liddie's, somehow at the same time.
Mary and her parents stood together just outside the sickroom doorway and watched as Lydia came down the corridor toward them. Alice was behind her, holding Lydia's dressing gown, a troubled look on her face.
Mary took a step backward and bumped into Dad. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but Liddie was...moving all wrong.
Usually Lydia went through the world with her head high and her shoulders back, all quick stride and elbows and hustle. She tended to stomp. Full of vigor and assurance and the sense that she'd knock over anybody in her way. But now, coming down the last few steps and walking toward them, she was gliding. There was something languid and light in the way she was carrying herself. As though her walk was a dance.
And her clothes! She was dressed now, thank goodness, but in a gown Grandmamma had bought for her last summer. She'd bought all four of them matching ones. It was linen and lace with little daisies on it. Catherine still wore hers all the time. Mary had only ever seen Lydia wear it at the garden party it had been purchased for and had assumed it was gathering dust in the wardrobe in the attic right alongside Mary's.
Lydia stopped before them, beaming, her eyes bright as she locked eyes with each of them in turn. Oh, this was weird. So deeply weird. Instinctively Mary tried to back even further away when Lydia's gaze met hers, but only pressed deeper into Dad. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Van Dort, she insisted she was feeling well enough," Alice said to Mother in a distressed tone. "I was with her every moment, she hasn't fainted again, nor been ill…"
"That's all right, Alice, thank you," Mother told her kindly. But she didn't sound like everything was all right. Mother looked ready to faint herself. Her eyes were huge as she took in the sight of Liddie in her summer dress, looking so entirely not herself.
"I thought you hated that dress," Mary said, looking Lydia up and down. "You said it makes you look like a giant doily."
Lydia looked at her in surprise, and then down at herself. "Did I?" she asked, a weird little titter in her voice. "Oh. It seemed so perfect for a day like today, I couldn't resist it. It's so pretty, it took my breath away!"
Dad's hand tightened painfully on Mary's shoulder, his fingers digging in, and she yelped. He let go quickly and muttered an apology. When Mary looked up at him she thought he might be about to throw up.
"And why isn't your hair up?" Mary demanded, rubbing her shoulder. Lydia was never fancy about her hair, but she also never let it go loose. She liked to be neat and professional-looking. Right now her thick straight hair hung down almost to her waist. It was freshly brushed and shiny, held back at the nape of her neck with a yellow ribbon. "And whose ribbon is that? You never use ribbons, ever."
"It was in the drawer in Miss Lydia's dressing table," Alice mumbled, clearly upset. "From the party last year, I think, it matches the dress…" Lydia reached up to touch the ribbon, as if to make sure it was still there, and stroked at the lace tiers on her skirt.
"That's all right, Alice, you may go back downstairs," Mother said, and Alice looked relieved. She walked very quickly toward the back stairs and disappeared. Then Mother turned to Mary, her face a warning. "Mary, if your sister is comfortable she may dress as she likes."
"But she doesn't like it!" Mary insisted. "It's the gho—I mean, she's not...she's not herself enough to be picking out clothes. Is what I meant."
Everyone was staring at her. Mary knew she sounded stupid so she shut her mouth. Her cheeks felt hot. Mostly from anger, though, rather than embarrassment. How dare that ghost use Lydia like a doll? That wasn't its body to be using. Mother reached out and took Mary's hand, pulling her a bit closer in a gesture that felt both comforting and protective. Mary wished she was still short enough to bury her head in Mother's shoulder. Just for a minute to collect herself.
"It's all right, Mary," Mother told her in a low tone.
"Yes," Dad echoed, eyes darting from Lydia to Mother and back again. His eyes settled briefly on Mary's and, to Mary, he looked terrified. "It will be all right."
Like fun it would. Mary watched as Lydia stepped closer to Dad and did something Mary had never, ever seen her sister do. She threaded her arm through Dad's and leaned against him, going so far as to give him a little pull closer to her. She tilted up her chin and looked down at Mother and Mary, a little smile on her face. Was it...smug? Mary frowned. Why did that ghost look so pleased? Did it think it had won? That it had Liddie's body for good? Like fun it had.
Dad absolutely looked horrified now, though he tried to cover it. Mother gave a tiny gasp. Mary looked at her questioningly, but she was staring hard at Lydia.
"Are...are you feeling weak?" Dad asked Lydia. He had to look up at her. She must be wearing her fancy higher-heeled shoes. "You're leaning on me. Quite heavily."
"Oh!" Lydia said. And she laughed an airy little laugh. "Yes, I suppose I am. Still getting used to feeling my legs!"
"Ouch," said Mary. Mother was squeezing her hand very hard. There was a crunching sound. "Mother!"
It took Mother a moment to hear her. When she did she apologized and rubbed at Mary's fingers.
"Might we go downstairs?" the Lydia-thing asked. "I feel much better than before. And I'm positively bored to death up here."
There was a loaded pause filled with so many glances and tensions that Mary felt a little dizzy. At last Mother said, very calmly, "If you are strong enough, yes. Luncheon should be laid soon, if you are hungry."
"Perfect!" said the Lydia-thing. She was beaming again as she steered Dad toward the staircase, leaning heavily on his arm. Mother stared after them, her mouth set and her hand to her throat. Dad glanced over his shoulder.
"Victoria?" he said, his voice level but his eyes wide. "You're coming?"
Mother shook herself. "Of course," she said thinly, and picked up her skirts to head down the stairs behind them. "Come along, Mary."
Mary didn't want to go anywhere with the Lydia-thing, but she also didn't want to leave her parents alone with it. They looked so scared! Mary hated to see them so scared. She hadn't seen them look like that since she had influenza a few winters ago. Eyes full of worry and love and pain and fear and hope all mixed up. It was an awful way to see your parents. And Mary knew it was her fault. Her fault that they were having to look at Lydia that way and worry so about her. Her fault that Lydia was not herself.
She trudged down the staircase. Think, think. She had to think. She was on her own and she needed a plan, her parents were worried enough already. She didn't want to burden them with questions about dealing with the dead. Did exorcisms only work on demons? Or did it work on ghosts, too? Could she do one herself, the way she'd done the séance? There was no way Pastor Galswells would perform one. Could pastors even do them? Where could she get a priest at this hour on a Saturday in a non-Catholic country?
Then it came to her. Millie! Millie Clarke-Bolton. Mary snapped her fingers. Millie would know. If ever there was a time to use the telephone, it was now. It was an emergency, after all.
But first, lunch.