Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [50]
“What is it?” she says, still chewing. I tell her the news, and as I do the color slowly drains from her face. When I tell her the baby has been taken, she reaches out a hand to grab my arm, just as she did at the funeral, just as she did the day Dora first came to us all those years ago. After a moment, she turns and looks within the cottage.
“The boy should not be told,” she says decisively. “He is better today, but the news could set him back again.”
“It is for you to decide,” I say.
“Where is the body?” she asks.
“At the alehouse.”
“Will she be given a proper burial?”
“I do not know,” I say. My mother nods and slowly walks back to the cottage.
“Are you all right?” I ask. But she does not hear me, and in a second she has disappeared behind the door.
Chapter Twelve
Dusk has fallen when I finally return to the Great House. I go at once to check upon my mistress, hoping I will not have been missed, but I need not have worried. I find her dozing in her chamber, her thin gray hair matted against her skull, her parched lips slightly parted in sleep. Her breath comes in short whistles, and when I lean over her to rearrange the bedclothes, I can smell the bile in her blood. The noisome odor shocks me, for it strikes me as the very essence of decay. Despite the smell I lean in more closely, and with alarm I see that the tip of her tongue is blackened by the disease that seems to have lodged itself within her. For the first time I am frightened on her behalf, for her condition seems less the result of Lucius than some other, greater evil. Her favorite volume of Scripture lies open on the bedside table, and its presence seems almost to mock her. I cannot help but wonder what good are holy words in the face of such devastation, a thought she herself would find heretical in the extreme. I stay and watch her sleep until I can no longer bear the sight nor smell, then I steal out of the room like a thief, taking my youth with me.
I hurry quickly to the tower in search of the painter. Dora’s corpse may be buried again tomorrow—if he has any hope of seeing her it must be tonight. When I reach his room the door is closed and I listen for a moment before knocking. But before I have a chance to do so, the door opens and he is standing there, as if he has been waiting my arrival. I jump back, startled, and he smiles at me.
“Were you spying on me?” he says with obvious amusement.
“I was just about to knock,” I stammer, for he flusters me with his half-smile.
“By all means, come in,” he says, and stands aside for me to enter. I see now that he is wearing his cloak and hat, and his gloves are in his hand.
“You were on your way out,” I say apologetically. He shrugs.
“It can wait,” he says. I step into his room a little hesitantly, see his drawings stacked in piles upon the table, his leather satchel upon the floor. “I’m afraid I have no refreshment to offer you,” he says. I flush, embarrassed at the suggestion that I have come to call.
“She’s been found,” I say. “Her body.”
“Where?” he asks.
“In some caves, not far from where she died.”
“Will it be possible to see her?”
I nod. “Tonight. Tomorrow they will decide what to do with her.”
He indicates the door. “Now?” he says.
I shake my head no. “Later. Meet me at the alehouse. She is under lock and key there, and I must contrive a way.” He removes his hat, runs a hand through his hair, then fixes me with his knowing half-smile.
“You take your duties seriously,” he says, the ring of challenge in his voice. I look around the room before responding.
“I do not wish to fail,” I say.
“I never thought you would,” he replies, and for a moment our eyes are locked together. It is he who eventually breaks the hold. He gestures to the library below us.
“Does your master know of this?” he asks. I consider this; it is only a matter of time before my master hears the news.
“No,” I say. “But I shall tell him.”
* * *
As usual I find him buried in his books. When I enter, he rises swiftly to his feet and smiles. “Come in,” he says more politely