Part 7 (1/2)

15 September 1871 to 27 January 1883

Our Loss, Heaven's Gain

”Aunt's doing,” Sophia said. ”She's one of the few who believed I'd go to Heaven. Poor old thing-she was so easily duped.”

”Someone left flowers.” I pointed to a half-dozen roses as red as blood against the white snow.

”Aunt again.” Sophia picked up a rose and watched it turn black in her fingers. ”As Dawson remarked, today's my death-day. Twenty-seven January. Exactly one year ago.”

She glanced at me slyly. ”Odd, isn't it? You know when your birthday is, but not your death-day, even though you pa.s.s the date year after year, never suspecting that someday...” She smiled and left the thought unfinished.

I'd pondered the same thing myself many times. Indeed, I supposed most people wondered what date would mark their life's end.

”I don't suppose you like to think of the period at the end of the sentence,” Sophia said.

I shrugged and pulled the collar of my dress tightly around my neck. No matter what I did, I could not keep out the wind. Its busy fingers squeezed between my b.u.t.tons and pushed their way up my sleeves and funneled down my neck.

”Should we celebrate my death-day? With gifts and cake and song?”

I shook my head and said nothing. I wanted my coat, my scarf, my hat. I wanted to be home, safe and warm by the fire, reading my book.

”No, I suppose one does not celebrate one's death-day.” For a moment Sophia seemed to sink into sorrow, but then she brightened. ”Here's something I'm certain you do not know. The dead are strongest on their death-days, just as the living are weakest on their birthdays.”

”Nonsense. I'm no weaker on my birthday than any other day.”

Sophia looked at me sharply. ”Don't you feel strangely vulnerable on your birthday? As if the force that birthed you can take you back on the same day?”

”Sometimes,” I admitted, ”but I don't understand why it should be so.”

”There's much you don't understand,” Sophia said. ”This part I will tell you. I've watched and I've waited for this day, feeling myself strengthen as the months pa.s.sed. At first I could not crawl out of my coffin, just as a baby cannot crawl out of its cot. It took me a month to climb from my grave, but at first I could do no more than creep around the graveyard like a loathsome worm. By June, I was standing and soon walking. In July, exactly six months after my death-day, I made my way home and began to terrify James. Spratt set me back when he made that charm, but at least I'd made certain James was not enjoying the life he stole from me.”

She paused and smiled, revealing the rotten little stumps of her teeth. ”Then you arrived, dear cousin,” she said, ”and I knew if I waited until my death-day I'd be strong enough to make you do whatever I wished.”

”No.” I shook my head. ”No, no.” But I heard the weakness in my voice, and so did Sophia.

Turning back to her grave, Sophia said, ”Just imagine, if you will, that the inscription reads 'Here Lies James Ernest Crutchfield, Only Son of William and Susannah, 20 July 1873 to 27 January 1883-Our Loss, Heaven's Gain.'”

She paused a moment to allow me time to imagine. ”And then,” she said, ”imagine I stand here beside you, a living girl, telling you the sad story of my brother's untimely death.”

I wrapped my arms tightly across my chest, unwilling to picture James dead and Sophia alive. ”That's not the way it happened,” I whispered.

She glared at me. ”I tell you, it is the way it should have happened!”

”No-”

”Yes!” She held my wrist so tightly, I felt the sharpness of her bones dig into my flesh. ”Think of your body buried deep in the earth, lying there in the cold and the dark, day in and day out, for a whole year. Spring, summer, fall, and winter again. Stars wheeling overhead, the moon and the sun rising and setting, gra.s.s growing and dying, and the snow returning. Would you not want to be free of the grave? To live again? No matter who paid the cost?”

I gazed at the grave, knowing I would not want to lie where Sophia's body lay, knowing I wanted to live as long as I could. Pitying her, pitying me, pitying all of us, I hugged my living self as tightly as I could.

Sophia stared at me from her dull dark eyes. ”How can you blame me for wanting what everyone wants?”

I shook my head, unable to answer.

”Why should James live and I die? Is he better than I am? Is he more valuable than I am?” Sophia grabbed my arms and forced me to look at her. ”I tell you, he does not deserve to live! He took everything from me-he owes me his life.”

Fed by her own fury, Sophia began to run once more, towing me behind her again. Headstones spun away from us, the churchyard gate flew open, homes and shops blurred as we ran past them, away from the church, away from the village, up the road toward Crutchfield Hall.

Eleven.

THE SNOWY GROUND SLID AWAY beneath my feet as if I were ice skating, faster and faster until I was sure we'd left the ground altogether and were flying on the wind. When I inhaled, the cold air burned my lungs and drew tears from my eyes. My forehead ached as if it were packed in ice.

At last Crutchfield Hall came into view, its dark stone walls a welcome sight. Down one last hill, across the lawn and the terrace, and through the door we went, Sophia leading, me following.

When Sophia released her grip on me, my legs were as weak as a baby's and my knees shook. I slid to the floor and leaned against the wall, certain I'd never stand or walk again.

”I thought you'd enjoy a fast trip home,” Sophia said, ”but I see your body is simply not up to it.”

”Please, I want to go to my room now,” I whispered. ”I need to lie down and rest and recover my senses.”

”Not yet.” Seizing my hand again, Sophia pulled me to my feet and led me upstairs and down the hall to James's room.

”Why are we stopping here?” I asked.

”So you may enter the room and remove the charm over the door, the one Samuel Spratt put there. Be very quiet. My brother must not see you.”

”No, I won't do it.” My voice shook and my limbs trembled. I had to force myself to defy her. ”The charm is there to protect James from you.”

”You must not oppose me on my death-day.” With a smirk, Sophia added, ”I wish to see my brother-whether he wants to see me or not.”

Although I did not intend to obey her, I found myself turning the k.n.o.b slowly and quietly. I knew I shouldn't open the door, I knew I was endangering James, I knew I couldn't trust Sophia, but I could not resist her. It was her death-day. She stood behind me, a force I lacked the strength to resist.

The room was dim. James was curled on his side, his back to the door, apparently sleeping. I turned my eyes from him. I couldn't bear to see him lying there, trusting in a charm to keep him safe.

Slowly I reached above the door and fumbled in the dust and cobwebs for the charm. It was no more than a bundle of twigs, moss, and dried flowers tied together with a green ribbon, so little a thing to keep Sophia away. Holding it tightly, I stepped back into the hall and closed the door behind me.

When Sophia saw what I had, she took a step backwards. ”Get rid of it,” she hissed. ”It reeks of comfrey and hyssop and other vile things.”

”What should I do with it?”