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By Root 369 0

Whitened bones. A whited sepulchre. The phrase came to her. Was it aimed at her? Is that why she’d thought of it? Habitually, she tested every bit of scripture that came to her for immediate significance. The whited sepulchre was the Pharisee, according to Him, who appears beautiful, but inside is full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness . But isn’t that every human creature? And what if the uncleanness had been her husband’s, had been daubed on her, slapped on, smeared across her face? What use was always asking questions? As though thought was in any way helpful. Nothing could be argued into being. Whatever was, was. The only useful thing was to be unclouded by thoughts, to be in nothing. To be nothing. To be as empty as the cold. And to wait.

Again she was denied this. She heard the crunch of footsteps behind her and waited for them to diminish away, but they grew louder. She turned. Footprints ran everywhere across the buried lawn like blue stitches.The sky was grey, darker than the ground: dreamlight: a steady stormlight. At the head of new lines of footprints were Clara the witch and Simon the idiot who dawdled after her, kicking up spurts of ice.

Margaret stared at Clara, at the large lips that didn’t quite fit together, at the unpinned hair that draggled over her shoulders. Clara obviously thought of herself as sensual with a rolling walk, a flaunt in it, but she wasn’t. Her figure was ordinary, her face unexceptional, blander and healthier than her mind. ‘Good morning, Mary,’ she smiled. Calling Margaret Mary was a spiteful joke of hers. Margaret said nothing. ‘Not going to say anything, are you?’ Margaret stared.‘Devils eaten your words?’ Scratching his thighs through his pockets, the idiot asked, ‘What devils?’

‘I told you before.’

Margaret looked at them for a moment more, then turned back to the pond.

Their voices said more words, finally the hard separate ones of insult. But they were mistaken in thinking they could disturb Margaret’s concentration.

An hour or so later she heard more footsteps coming towards her. This time hands landed on her shoulders. She was pivoted around to find herself looking into the doctor’s face. He said, ‘Margaret, you’re freezing. How long have you been out here?’ He chafed her hands between his. ‘You’re shivering.’ She was - that flashing and shuddering was shivering. ‘Come inside.’ With an arm across the bones of her shoulders, he shepherded her into Fairmead House and a fire.

In its thick, disappointing heat she gradually stopped shaking. Hot tea was forced into her, causing pain to the chilled stones of her teeth. The liquid billowed inside her, swelled her. She closed her eyes, let the doctor’s words bump like moths against her, and drifted into sleep.

Eliza Allen opened the door to someone whose face was familiar but unplaceable. The face had evidently been out in the cold for some time, the skin grey and granular. The man blew a fog of warm breath around his hands. He smiled.

‘Do you not recognise me, Eliza?’

With the voice, the accent, she did. ‘Of course I do. It’s Oswald. Come in, come in. I had no idea you were in the area. Matthew hadn’t mentioned to me . . .’

‘Because he doesn’t know. I thought I’d surprise you.’

‘And you have. Come in. Do.’

Oswald stooped to pick up a bag. Presumably he was expecting to stay. When he was upright again a noise startled him. Eliza saw his body for a moment lose organisation. He half-crouched, knees bent, and raised a hand. His gaze locked with hers. ‘One of the patients?’ he whispered.

‘No, no,’ she reassured him.‘That was a dog barking, surely.’

‘Of course.’

Inside, she relieved him of his coat and hat. By the fire his face flushed, his eyes reddened and filmed. He looked tired.

‘Do sit down.’ She indicated the chair.

He did so, crossing his legs and tucking his clasped hands down the side of one thigh in his peculiar fashion, wearing his arms like a sash. By now he was very recognisable. ‘I shall fetch tea. You must need it after your journey.’

‘Most kind.’

She hurried out. Finding Dora in the second drawing