Filaria - Brent Hayward [35]
Miranda’s shoulders moved again, silent sobs returned to rack her thin frame. Deidre wanted to go over to her, to hold her, to be held, but Miranda did not like physical contact of any sort. Not from anyone. Not even from their mother. Small, frail, fragile as a moth, Miranda was by far Deidre’s favourite sister. Yet her weak nerves seemed to grow worse with each passing month. Soon, Deidre was sure, she would be committed. (That was another word Sam had taught Deidre, after she had described her sister’s sad troubles to him.) Trussed, and locked in a tower. Especially after this day played out.
A similar fate had befallen Aunt Whetstone, Deidre’s mother’s sister, at about the same age as Miranda was now. Once, Deidre had visited Aunt Whetstone — just once — and had run from the dingy chamber, sounds of horrible accusations and shrieked profanities echoing the hall behind her.
Being left alone like this, in the anteroom, with a nervous Lady standing guard at the door, grinning and offering strange answers to questions, no sign at all of their father, certainly had not benefited poor Miranda’s condition. Her sobs ebbed and flowed while Deidre, watching helplessly, tried to be brave, though she herself had, several times since coming here, been on the verge of tears.
Two redbirds flew, humming, past the window, stopping for a second to peer in before rushing on.
“Mir, everything will be okay,” Deidre said, knowing that her words sounded lame. “Listen to what Lady says.”
“You don’t know anything,” Estelle snapped. “Little freak.” She stood up from the bench, making it squeal. “This is bullshit. You’re as crazy as her.” Meaning Miranda, who had half-turned to listen, lower lip quivering.
Deidre tensed; Miranda’s temper was wicked, and sometimes went off like a powderkeg: skinny arms pinwheeling, face set in an ugly, twisted rictus. She had once broken the arm of a boy who had called her names.
“Now listen here, Lady.” Estelle pointed one finger at the servant. “You can’t keep us cooped up like this. We’re not children any more. That’s the thing.”
Lady set her jaw firm and planted her feet, resolute. Blocking the exit. Obviously under strict orders. Beneath her shift, defined muscles of her arms and shoulders moved, bunching like rocks under a tarp.
“Why don’t you hush up,” Deidre suggested to her older sister.
As Voluminia also rose from the harpsichord bench to stand shoulder to shoulder with her cohort, there came a loud and startling thump at the heavy door, which Lady, wheeling, easily pulled open with just the tip of one big finger:
The Orchard Keeper, standing on the dais, appeared almost ill with concern. Older. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he still wore the rumpled navy blue uniform he had been wearing when Deidre had first seen him today, in the plantations below. Then, almost frantic to find her, he had stumbled through the wheatgrass, yelling her name, and had grabbed her by the arm, hard, when she ran breathlessly up to him.
Recalling his face, and the fear she had seen there, she rubbed now at her bicep; it was still sore. They’d each had frights, a bad morning, about to get worse.
Behind the Orchard Keeper waited Ludmilla, a young servant girl who worked in the laundry room. Deidre had previously seen her only a few times. Folded clothes piled high on the girl’s thick forearms, and her ugly face, very much like Lady’s, peeked over the top. Her great hairy ears trembled as she looked wide-eyed around the anteroom.
There was no conceivable reason why her father should appear at the door with a laundry maid. Deidre glanced back at Miranda, who had a hand to her mouth.
Father came in, extending both arms, palms out, to placate. “Your mother is waiting in the courtyard. I want you girls to get changed into these outfits and follow me.