Shadows on the Wall Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter 51: “What Little Girls Are Made Of”

by Luciaphil

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

--“Fire and Ice”

Robert Frost

* * *

Voiceover (Marie Wallace): In the small hours of the morning, the inhabitants

of Collinwood are engaged in separate trials: tests of will and strength

through private worlds of pain, deceit and loneliness. As expectations and

hopes shatter, one woman, who has traveled back through the folds of time so

that she may change the future, knows that she will soon need to stand on this

proving ground herself.

* * *

**Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. She had a complexion like

cream, hair like fire, the body of a goddess and eyes filled with passion. She

grew up happily enough in the company of people who she thought loved her,

unaware of who she really was. Then one day, the voices came.**

“Jenny,” Quentin said for a second time, perhaps hoping that this wasn’t real.

“Oh, dear God.”

**The voices told her that she didn’t belong with “her family”. She was a

princess, they said. A *real* princess like in the gadjo fairytale books. She

had a glorious future, the voices told her, but she had to do what they said.

What they told her do often only made sense to her, but she obeyed them without

question. There were times when the voices went away. But they always came

back**

Quentin’s eyes darted back between his wife and Beth. “Jenny, thank God. I’ve

missed you so much,” he lied hastily, trying to stomach his revulsion at the

sight of her.

**One day, long after the princess had run away from the Romani, she met her

the man of her dreams. He was everything a prince should be: tall, handsome and

rich. He lived in a castle, they said, or as close to a castle as could be.**

“Why did you go away?”

“It’s . . . complicated.” Quentin smiled at her. “I should never have left you,

Jenny. Can you ever forgive me?”

**The princess had been forced to go and work in a low, common place. She was

above the people who worked in and frequented the concert halls; they thought

so too, for they called her “duchess”. She was proud and cold, they said, but

when the prince cast his eye over the girls in the concert hall, it was her

aloofness that first caught his attention. He pursued her. The more she ran,

the more he chased, until one day, when he proposed to her like a proper prince

should, she stopped running. They were wed and lived happily ever after.**

Jenny swayed back and forth. Her lips moved upward in what was supposed to be a

coquettish smirk, but instead highlighted every trace of her insanity.

Quentin swallowed.

**But the princess discovered that “ever after” was over very soon. The prince

took her back to his castle. There were witches there. The prince told her they

were her sisters now. They would love her, he promised. But the princess knew

that this was not to be. They were cruel to her. The golden-haired crone, the

one who shimmered with fire whenever the princess looked at her, wanted what

the princess had. Her husband began to drift away. His brothers and his friends

mocked her. It was very lonely. The queen liked her well enough, particularly

when she sang, but when the queen fell ill, the princess had no one. That is,

until the voices came back.**

Beth moaned.

Jenny didn’t pay any attention. She waltzed slowly to the music, holding the

folds of her rusty black dress in her hands and moved closer.

Quentin tried to sound calm, but his voice was cracking, “Jenny, everything is

going to be all right. We’re going to be together, just like we were--”

“--In the beginning?”

“Yes, just like we were in the beginning,” he assured her. “But first we need

to get Beth some help. A doctor--”

Jenny stopped dancing. “All right.”

“Thank, God. Now I’m going to call for a doctor and then we--”

“Kiss me,” the princess commanded.

Quentin steeled himself. It was only for a minute, he told himself, long enough

to calm her and then he’d have her committed to the first asylum that would

take her. They must have been keeping her here, he realized. Another crime that

sister Judith was going to have to answer for. Trying very hard not to retch,

he closed his eyes and bent down slightly to plant a chaste kiss on his wife’s

lips.

**The princess wasn’t always sure of the distinction between reality and

illusion. They took her from her airy bower and moved her to a tower cell in

the castle. The hag with the black hair, the bitter one, first took away all of

her pretty dresses and then her children. The princess wept for her babies

every day. She had to keep her babies safe, the voices told her. The prince

would come back and he would hurt her children. The princess couldn’t let that

happen.**

Quentin’s attempt at a peck on the lips was foiled as his wife pulled him into

a torrid embrace. “That’s enough, Jenny,” he said as he tried to fight free.

“We can be together later.”

Jenny didn’t seem to hear him. Only after she’d plunged the knife into his

chest, did she answer. He was startled at first, staring with shock at the

blood rushing out onto his shirt. In the husky voice he’d once found so

appealing, she told him, “You must die.”

* * *

It was a scene of the utmost respectability. Dedicated Tim Shaw pouring over

his employer’s ledgers, his nimble fingers making an occasional notation or two

on a separate piece of foolscap.

Judith knew no ill of Mr. Shaw. He seemed to be remarkably competent at his

job. Beth had reported that aside from trying to befriend her when he’d first

come to Collinwood, he kept to himself. Efficient, well-behaved, impeccable

manners, an ideal secretary for her brother. Why then, did she have a feeling

that he wasn’t all he seemed?

As if aware of her thoughts, Tim Shaw glanced up. “Miss Collins.”

She was supposed to be meeting with Dirk. He would wonder where she was. He’d

been so difficult since Grandmama had died. Judith wasn’t anxious to see him.

Their liaison had become tedious and boring a long time ago.

Tim Shaw rose. “I hope I wasn’t keeping you awake.”

“No, no,” she assured him. “I couldn’t sleep.” Judith approached the desk.

“Those are the ledgers from the business. Why is Edward having you look at

those?”

He cleared his throat. “It was my own idea, Miss Collins. I thought I might be

of some greater use than doing Mr. Edward’s private correspondence. I have a

few ideas,” he hesitated. Diffidently, he started again, “If I’ve

overstepped--”

Her suspicions somewhat alleviated, Judith relaxed. “No . . . I’d . . . I would

like to hear those ideas of yours.”

He smiled at her, smoothly moving from behind the desk. He pulled a chair next

to his and invited her to sit down. As Mr. Shaw began to detail his thoughts,

his eyes now and then meeting hers, Judith thought less and less about her

difficult lover who was surely waiting for her.

* * *

Good little girls, Nora had always been told, sat quietly, played quietly,

spoke quietly--but only when addressed first. Good little girls did as they

were bid. It wasn’t as important as it was for Jamison for her to do well on

her lessons, Father said, because she was supposed to be pretty and sweet and

one day she would marry and her husband would do the thinking for her. Without

giving it much consideration--“Mummy was in Egypt;” Great Grandmama had been

dying and had never given her much thought anyway and Aunt Judith seldom had

time for her--Nora accepted that. Jamison always took charge; Nora looked up to

her big, bossy brother. He would take care of her. And then one day, so would

her husband. That was the way things were.

But she was alone now, in desperate need of help, and there wasn’t a male in

sight and in her panic, the heretical thought that none of the ones she knew

would be of much use anyway crossed her mind

“Mummy,” Nora whispered, tears welling in her enormous brown eyes.

Laura Collins stirred faintly and moaned.

Nora knelt down and stroked her mother’s golden hair and tried to think what to

do.

“So cold . . . so cold. Nora, you must help me. Help Mummy. You’re the only

one,” Laura begged.

A low voice called through the door, “Nora, are you all right? Did you have

another nightmare? Shall I come and sing for you?”

She had screamed, Nora realized, so Miss Trask had come to see what was wrong.

Miss Trask, who Nora liked, must not come inside. She wouldn’t know what to do.

Nora stood up and padded to the door. Carefully opening it a crack, she

pretended to yawn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” Nora peered up at

Miss Trask. Her governess looked strange, Nora thought. Not quite awake herself

and yet alert in some other odd new way. “I’ll be all right,” Nora told her.

“Good night, Miss Trask,” she said sweetly.

Charity Trask nodded and drifted away.

The good little girl bolted the door behind her. She was going to have to start

a fire.

* * *

The knife went in and out of his flesh like a needle into cloth. Quentin

realized he was going to die. Grandfather had said he would die at the hands of

a woman . . . who would have thought that the old boy was such a prophet?

Beth fell out of the chair Jenny had placed her in. She pulled herself into a

sitting position.

He was still conscious enough to realize this and to hope that Jenny didn’t

turn her attention to Beth as well. He had to do something.

Her voice sounding like a rasp, Beth addressed her charge, “They’re crying,

Jenny. They need you.”

“Where? Where are they?”

Beth kept her eyes focused on Jenny. “They need you. You have to go to them.”

The knife fell to the floor.

Seizing his chance, Quentin reached out and curled his fingers around the

handle. He didn’t know if he was going to leave this good earth, but if he was,

then his darling wife was going with him. “Whither I goest, thou goest,” he

murmured to himself. It took a tremendous amount of strength, but he got to his

feet.

The last thing Beth saw before she passed out was Quentin slitting Jenny’s

throat.

* * *

Laura warmed her hands by the fire that her daughter had lit. Nora, poor thing,

was sitting white-faced in the child’s rocking chair that the little girl had

almost outgrown. What Nora wanted most was to be hugged and held and reassured

that Mummy was never going to go away again. Laura ached to fulfill those needs

and she would, just as soon as she was a little stronger, but now she needed

the fire. “Did you hear me calling to you?”

Nora nodded. “I knew you were coming back. Jamison didn’t believe me, but I

*knew* it.”

“Jamison didn’t hear me?”

“No. I showed him the scarab and everything.” Nora looked down at her hands.

“He took it. We were going to show it to Uncle Quentin--”

“Quentin?” Laura asked quickly. So he had come back home. “Why?”

“Jamison wanted to,” Nora informed her mother. “But we couldn’t find him. I

don’t think Jamison believed me when I told him how I got it.”

Laura absorbed this. She had thought her link with her son stronger. There had

been moments when she’d felt something getting in the way between them. The way

back, she’d believed, would come through Jamison. Instead it had been little

Nora, who had not wavered once. She felt a pang that her son had pulled away

from her so, but she would get him and his love back soon. Meanwhile her little

girl needed her, “Come here, sweetheart. Come to Mummy.” She held out her arms.

* * *

Edith Collins had never thought much of men. One manipulated, used, and/or

dominated them. If they became too troublesome, one eliminated them. Before she

had known any better, she’d endured them. They tended to be simple creatures,

most of them. Even her former favorite, Quentin, who thought himself such a

miracle of complication, was when it came down to it, a greedy little boy.

Women were the ones to watch out for. Trained at dissimulation in the name of

femininity, they would stab one in the back, looking terribly demure all the

while. Daphne had been like that, Edith thought, her lip curling in distaste as

she remembered what a thorn in her side her sister-in-law had been.

That aside, inhabiting a man’s body was proving to have some unexpected

benefits. It wasn’t necessary to hide one’s abilities because men were

respected for strength and intelligence. As Tim Shaw, when she wished to she

could be as direct as necessary and it was considered forthrightness. As a man

she could go almost anywhere she wished without having to explain it or having

to have a proper escort. It was really, when one thought about it, rather

refreshing.

And of course, there were other advantages. Mr. Shaw was a handsome man, and

from the ease with which Edith controlled him as well as from her little

experience with him her first night as Beth, one evidently accustomed to using

his looks and his body to advancement. All of which was proving most useful in

her plans for dear Judith. She was almost grateful really, for her

granddaughter’s lusts. The animal appeal of that disgusting caretaker had

apparently palled and Judith was ready for something and someone new.

There was still some residual revulsion at the thought of lying with her own

granddaughter, but not much. She’d survived Quentin’s embrace, how was this

worse? She’d been with women before. There might be some awkwardness in a

mechanical sense of the word; she was still a little clumsy at times with this

new body, but that could be eliminated by practice--with that stupid idiot of a

governess perhaps. Or maybe Judith would enjoy “teaching” her lover. It really

didn’t matter and besides it wouldn’t be for long. Tim Shaw, if Edith had her

way about it, was going to become a widower soon after he married.

* * *

The darkness was so alive. Charity wondered why she had never noticed it

before. Everything had taken on an edge and a reality that she marveled at. Her

God had done that to her and she was grateful. She longed for his touch. He

said he would summon her. Charity couldn’t wait for that to happen again.

Never, not even with Tim, had she ever felt like this before. Every fiber of

her being vibrated with energy, a fire that she had never known she had, burned

within her. She was awake for the first time in her life.

Her little chamber was frigid. The Collinses did not waste coal for fires in

her room, but Charity hardly noticed.

Charity crawled back into her narrow bed and pulled the covers over her. She

hesitated and then ran her hands over her body. The nightdress was a prim,

plain affair, but it did nothing to impede the sensations she felt. It was a

far cry to being with Him, but it was better than nothing. She explored her own

flesh and wondered why she’d been so shy about her body before. This was surely

heaven.

Despite the warmth her fingers drew out of her body, Charity gradually became

aware that the temperature in the room was turning Arctic.

“Whore,” came a bodiless whisper.

Charity stilled her hands.

“Slut.”

“Who’s . . . Who’s there?” It wasn’t Him. It sounded nothing like Him. Charity

swallowed. “Please, who’s there?”

There was laughter, dry, humorless laughter.

And then the sheets were ripped off of her. Charity pulled her nightdress back

down below her knees and tried to cover herself.

“’Then the eyes of both were opened and they knew that they were naked.’”

Charity’s eyes widened. “Papa?” No, it wasn’t possible. He was dead. Oh, so

very dead.

“Have you no shame? First you conspire with that thief and murderer and then

you rut like a whore--”

“I didn’t conspire with anyone and I didn’t--” Charity licked her lips

nervously. “I’m not a whore!”

Whoever or whatever was in the room with her slapped her across the face. “God

will smite you down for your sins,” it whispered to her.

Charity leapt out of the bed and tried to back away. “Please, no. Please go

away and leave me alone,” she begged. For a moment there was silence, but then

she felt the cold that was surely a living thing advance on her. She watched in

horror as a seam of her nightgown seemingly tore apart. “No. No, please don’t!”

Not caring now what part of her body was exposed, Charity did the only thing

she could think of. She ran and she ran blindly.

Unfortunately what she found by the time she slowed for breath was more

disturbing than what she left behind her.

She was too tired to scream with her mouth. Her mind, however, had energy

enough.

* * *

Laura hugged her sleeping daughter to her and watched the flames shoot higher.

Nora’s needs were simple; Laura wished she could say the same for her own. It

had seemed so clear before she’d returned. Collect her children, introduce them

to their unique family heritage, and go home--their real home. It was difficult

only in that the timing was not yet right. She would be forced to spend some

time in Collinsport, but still it the plan had seemed straightforward.

Why then, did she feel so confused? Quentin? He was here. That had not been

part of her agenda. He should be punished for what he’d done to her; it could

be so very simple. But was it a betrayal when you were happy with the outcome?

Jamison’s apparent distance from her? Once they were together, though, she was

confident that he would come around. The fact that Edward was apparently trying

to replace her? Surely, not. Her children were never going to have “a new

mother,” however much he might like to think so. As for his acquiring “a new

wife,” well that was as much a fantasy as the other. Technically they were

still married; Laura thought that she might enjoy ruining Edward’s pathetic

little plans. It might be amusing to play at being mistress of Collinwood now

that the old bat had finally died.

There had been a time when Laura Murdoch had wanted that more than anything

else. Her relations had never understood such ambitions. They kept to

themselves, preferring to live in their decaying enclave on the outskirts of

town, marrying into the same sets of cousins, bound to their traditions and

customs and the madness that seemed to take most of them sooner or later. Laura

had decided quite early on that it wasn’t going to take her.

Nora stirred, but curled up readily enough again. The child was strong, more

powerful than Laura had thought. She would serve Ra well.

* * *

He had come just as Charity knew he would. She stared at the bodies lying

entwined on the floor. Quentin and Beth, she recognized. The other woman in the

filthy dress and the wild hair, she was a stranger. “Are they dead?”

Barnabas stood up. “This one isn’t; she’ll recover, I think,” he said pointing

to Beth’s unconscious body. “Who is she?”

“She’s Miss Collins’ maid,” Charity said blankly. “Her name is Beth. What about

Quentin and that woman?” She indicated the other corpse.

“You don’t know who she is?” He saw Charity shake her head. “They’re both

dead,” his voice cracking with anguish for Quentin. “Listen to me very

carefully. You are to return to your bedroom and stay there. You saw nothing.

Heard nothing. I will take care of this.”

Charity didn’t want to disobey him, but the thought of going back to what

awaited her in her room terrified her. “Please, I can’t.”

He took her in his arms. “You can and you will. You must do as I command. I

will come to you when I need you.”

Hadn’t Papa always said that the will of God must be obeyed? Charity took one

last reluctant look at her savior and disappeared.

Barnabas watched her leave and wondered not for the first time if he was going

to regret using Miss Trask like this. He had no idea what he should do now.

Quentin was dead. Had he and Vicki traveled to this time for nothing? This

couldn’t be. It would change the future inalterably. “If only there was a way

to bring him back,” he said to himself.

“There is.”

* * *

Judith calmly detached Dirk’s hands from her waist. “Not here.”

He didn’t like that answer. “Everyone’s asleep,” he whined. “No one will know.”

“Dirk, please. We have to be careful. I’ve told you that time and time again.”

“Not anymore,” he said complacently, reaching for her again.

A nasty portent of scenes to come crawled down her spine. “What do you mean?”

Dirk nibbled at her neck. “Well, you don’t have to answer to anyone now. We can

get married.”

She pushed him away so hard he nearly fell onto the sofa.

“What did you go and do that for?” He steadied himself and stared at her. “You

know, that’s what we’ve been planning all along. We’ll get married and we can

be together. Are you worried about your brothers? Because I can handle anything

Edward or Quentin wants to dish out. It’s going to be fine, Judith.”

For weeks now, she had dreaded having this discussion. Despite her wish to end

this sordid affair, Judith did not want to hurt him. He had been . . .

convenient, and the fact that she had used him made her uncomfortable. “Dirk, I

like you very much,” she lied gently. “But I think it’s time we both moved on.”

“Moved on to what?” Dirk demanded.

“Ended this,” she amplified. “You’ve been very kind to me.” What was she

saying? Kindness had nothing to do with their relationship. “But I think it’s

best if we stop seeing one another.”

“No.”

“It wouldn’t work. We’re not suited to one another.”

“We are *not* ending this!”

“I’m too old for you.” There, that was true enough. With another man, she might

have mentioned money, but she decided that was not the wisest course to pursue

with Dirk.

Dirk opened and closed his mouth half a dozen times, moving restlessly

throughout the room, running his fingers through his sandy hair.

She watched him, compassionately at first. When he actually stamped his foot,

she felt the corners of her mouth twitching.

“How can you just dismiss everything we have together?”

So much for hoping he would accept the situation gracefully. “We don’t have

anything together. That’s why we have to stop.”

Dirk paced for a few minutes more and then finally stopped and put his hands on

her shoulders. “Look, you’re just scared,” he informed her as if he was

speaking to a small child. “But it’s all right. I’ll take care of you, Judith.

You’ll see and you’re not too old for me.” He clasped her to him. “I love you,

don’t you know that?”

It was only thanks to years of trying to keep her emotions from showing that

Judith managed not to laugh. Had he always been this dramatic? She wrenched

herself out of his embrace. “No, you don’t. Dirk, please don’t make this more

difficult than it has to be. You’re a wonderful man with many fine qualities,”

she said a little desperately. “But what we *had* wasn’t love. I don’t love

you. I’m sorry if you misunderstood my feelings for you, but it’s over.”

“Like hell it is!”

“Dirk, please try to be reasonable. Can’t you see that it wouldn’t be suitable

for us to be together?”

“Because I’m just a servant and you’re one of the mighty Collinses?”

Judith’s pity and amusement dried up. “Because I don’t love you,” she repeated

bluntly and sounding very much like her grandmother. ”This is not a matter for

debate,” she said imperiously. “You can accept this or you can leave. You’ve

been a good caretaker, but if you can’t handle the reality of the situation,

then perhaps you should find another position elsewhere.”

Dirk’s face turned bright red. He advanced toward her and for a moment Judith

was afraid he was going to strike her. He stopped and then stormed out of the

drawing room and out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Hidden in the shadows at the top of the stairs, Tim Shaw watched the caretaker

exit.

* * *

Barnabas spun around. “You!” His face clouded with fury and then confusion. Was

he surprised?

Angelique moved forward from the shadows. “Is that any way to greet your wife?”

She was, in truth, a little disappointed. He’d been so responsive to her in his

dreams.

“What are you doing here, Angelique?”

“Miranda,” she corrected.

Barnabas blinked.

Angelique sighed. “That is how you must refer to me,” she said simply. “You are

to call me ‘Miranda.’ Barnabas, my darling, it’s how it has to be. You must

trust me.”

“Trust you?” he cried incredulously. “How can you even think of asking me that?

After everything you’ve done to me and to my family! After all of the things

you’ve done?”

Her blue eyes hardened. Why did he always make it so difficult? “Do we have to

go through all of that again? If you had not fought me, none of that would have

been necessary. We belong together. I don’t understand why you can’t--”

Slowly enlightenment came to him. “It’s you. You have been trying to control me

through my dreams!”

“No,” she corrected, “Not controlling. You want to be with me. I simply found a

way for you to for you to do that. Can’t you see how easy it could be if you

would just let it happen?”

“Get out of here,” he hissed. “Before I destroy you.”

She laughed, a sound that he’d heard in his nightmares, as well as his

fantasies, for generations. “You tried that once before,” she told him without

humor. “I’m back and you need me, just as you will always need me.” Angelique

pointed to Quentin’s corpse. “Didn’t you say you wanted to bring him back? I

can do that, Barnabas.”

“Then do it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Barnabas looked at her suspiciously.

“You must promise me something first.”

He looked at what had been Quentin and then at his wife. “I should have known

that you would try to profit from this. It’s not enough that you destroyed

everything I ever cared about--”

It was with difficulty that Angelique retained her composure. She was often

annoyed and enraged by others, but no one ever frustrated her the way Barnabas

did. After what they shared, she simply could not comprehend how why he

continually fought her and their destiny at every turn. “You’re asking me to do

a very complicated spell, Barnabas. I need you to give me something in return,”

she told him angrily.

“Angelique,” he began menacingly.

“Miranda,” she said again. “You will call me ‘Miranda’,” she said enunciating

every syllable like the thrust of a knife. “You will keep quiet about me and

who I am. And,” Angelique cried, her voice rising with excitement, “You will

not interfere with my plans.”

“Which are?”

Angelique’s smile was nearly as angelic as her name. “You will do this,” she

repeated, “or Quentin Collins dies. I’m not sure why you’re here or how you

escaped your coffin, but you want this man to live; I know that.” She paused.

“Well, Barnabas, what is it to be?”

“Do it.”

“You agree to my terms?”

Barnabas nodded, hating himself. He was not ordinarily given to introspection,

but even he could see that he was caught with her in a vicious cycle, from

which neither of them seemed to be able to escape.

* * *

It was nearly dawn when Edith heard the knocking at her door. She was

exhausted. A night’s skulking and some forays into spell casting had taken its

toll on her hold of her host’s body. It was growing easier for her to keep

possession, but she was far from her full strength. Glancing at the clock, she

rolled over. Whoever it was would go away and she could get her the rest she

required.

“Mr. Shaw,” Judith hissed through the door.

Edith had expected Judith to fall prey to Tim Shaw’s charms, especially after

Dirk’s dismissal, but never had she dreamed it would happen so quickly. Tired

as Edith was, she couldn’t afford to ignore an opportunity like this. Rising

and hastily tying a dressing gown on, she opened the door. “Miss Collins?”

“Oh, thank God, you’re awake!”

Before Edith had time to paste a charming smile on her face, let alone to

inwardly and sourly reflect that God had nothing to do with it, Judith was

dragging her down the hall toward the west wing.

“I went to speak with my brother,” Judith explained when they reached Quentin’s

room. “I’m sorry to involve, you but I didn’t know who else to ask. I couldn’t

find Edward and this isn’t something--I know I can rely on your discretion.”

“You’re shaking,” Edith observed surprised. “What happened?” Judith looked

slightly nauseous and seemed intent on staying pressed up against the far side

of the corridor wall. Her granddaughter, for all of her considerable

shortcomings, was not a coward and Edith didn’t like what Judith’s atypical

behavior implied. “In there?” After Judith nodded, Edith went inside and

surveyed the carnage in silence.

“Mr. Shaw?”

She returned to the threshold of the door. “I don’t want you to worry, Miss

Collins. I’ll take care of everything.” Well, she’d wished for a crisis to

manage. This wasn’t quite what Edith had in mind, but it would do quite nicely.

* * *

Oblivious to the fact that his beloved fiancée was wondering if it would be

physically possible for her to lift the silver epergne and bring it crashing

down on his skull in order to shut him up, Edward continued to read aloud from

the morning paper.

On the whole, he was very pleased with Victoria. Their marriage would make up

for every highly unsatisfactory moment he’d ever had with Laura Murdoch. If

only he had possessed the sense to marry someone like Victoria to begin with--a

proper young lady, who knew her place, with the docility and fragility becoming

to her sex. He set the paper down. “I’m afraid that’s all this morning,

darling. There’s nothing else suitable for a lady to hear.”

“Thank you, Edward,” she said tonelessly.

Yes, he thought, Victoria was exactly what he needed. Besides she was going to

make such a wonderful mother to his children. “Would you care for some more

tea?”

Victoria smiled weakly.

He rang the bell and waited. After ringing it a second time, he began to grow

impatient. “Where the blazes is everybody? And where is Beth?”

Vicki didn’t know and didn’t care. “It’s all right. I really don’t want any

more tea,” she told him.

“No, it’s not all right. Ever since Judith inherited Collinwood, this house has

fallen to pieces. Discipline,” Edward told Victoria heartily, “is what is

needed here. We pay a small fortune to these--”

“*I* pay a small fortune,” Judith corrected as she stood in the doorway. “And

don’t you forget that.”

Victoria glanced up from her buttered toast. Judith and Edward’s secretary

walked in and joined them. Neither of them looked like they had slept well. Her

polite “good morning” was lost as Edward began his harangue about how the staff

needed to be spoken to.

Time was draining away like the sand in an hourglass and here she sat stuck

listening to Edward and Judith’s pointless bickering. Her mother had told her

she had to go back, but hadn’t told her how to change anything. Vicki sensed

that whatever it was, it was coming soon, but that wasn’t going to be enough to

help her figure out what she was supposed to do.

She wished quite desperately that she could go back to being ordinary, plain,

stupid, little Miss Winters. Magda called the Sight a gift. “You can see what

is gonna happen,” she said. “The old woman, she would have killed for that. You

should be grateful.”

How could anyone want this? With the Sight, came dreams--incomprehensible

visions--like bits of broken glass that cut deep when Victoria tried to make

sense of them. What was she? She could barely remember some of the things she’d

done; that didn’t make it easier, not having that recall, not when the events

teased at the edges of her mind.

Something was going to happen soon, but she and Barnabas were no more nearer to

finding out what they needed to do than they had been before they’d come here.

Soon, Victoria thought, and still they were crawling blindly near the brink of

a precipice.

“Beth is my maid,” Judith said sharply, unknowingly breaking off Victoria’s

reverie. “She isn’t feeling well, so I gave her the day off. If you’re not

happy with how I run *my* house, you can always go elsewhere.”

Edward harrumphed, but continued to snipe away about the servant classes and

the liberties they were taking.

Could you kill someone with a grapefruit spoon? Vicki wondered. She realized

that Tim Shaw was staring at her shrewdly and she dropped her gaze. The

secretary made her uncomfortable although she was hard pressed to say why.

Judith stood up and said something about needing to borrow Mr. Shaw.

Watching them leave, Victoria recognized her opportunity to escape. Before

however, she could paste a dimwitted look of love on her face and plead having

to write letters (which as an excuse seemed painfully thin to her, although

everyone else always accepted it without a thought), Nora skipped in.

“Good morning, Father! I have a surprise!”

Edward peered at his offspring. “Nora, where are your manners? And haven’t you

been told not to run. Proper young ladies do not run.”

Edward, Vicki thought, should be stuffed and used as an exhibit as to how not

to raise a child.

The little girl squirmed slightly. “I’m sorry, Father. I won’t do it again.”

She turned to Vicki. “Good morning, Victoria.”

“Now Nora, haven’t I told you before. Victoria is your new mother. You must

call her so.”

“And how should Nora address me, Edward? Seeing as how I’m her *only* mother? “

* * *

Judith looked at her maid with distaste. All of this, she felt, irrationally,

was somehow attributable to Beth. Beth had been given charge of Jenny. Jenny

had got out. Beth had been told to be discreet with Quentin. She had not. It

was quite clear to Judith what had happened. Jenny saw Beth and Quentin

together and the bloodshed was the result. “Where is Quentin?” she demanded

again.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Beth wailed. “How many times do I have to tell

you that? “

“Don’t lie to me.”

Tim Shaw cleared his throat. “Miss Collins, I don’t think Beth is lying. Her

story makes sense. It explains how your sister-in-law could have escaped in the

first place.”

“It doesn’t explain how Jenny could have dragged Beth all the way to Quentin’s

room.”

“Just look at the bruises, Miss Collins,” Beth said wearily. “Jenny was very

strong. I have no reason to lie to you about this.”

Judith crossed her arms. “No? Not even to protect my brother?”

“She did tell us he killed his wife,” Tim reminded Judith. “Forgive me, but we

have other concerns right now. Who else knew about Jenny Collins’ whereabouts?”

“Edward,” Judith said after a moment. “Possibly Dirk. I can handle Edward. Dirk

. . .”

Tim interrupted, “I’ll take care of Dirk.”

Judith hesitated. “All right.”

Beth rubbed her throbbing temples. “What if he’s dead?”

They both looked at her.

“There was so much blood,” Beth told them weakly. “She stabbed him so many

times. What if he wandered off somewhere and he’s lying there . . .” she

started to sob.

Judith was brisk. It was something she and Mr. Shaw had already discussed.

“We’ll worry about that. I’ve told the others that you aren’t feeling well and

that I gave you a day off. I wouldn’t waste my tears on Quentin. He wouldn’t

have shed a drop for you.”

* * *

It would be cliché, Vicki thought, to say that Edward’s face was beet red with

rage, but then everything about Edward was cliché. He lived for the banal. The

fact that she could recognize that made her long for the days as a sweet young

thing, and bright-eyed, fresh from school eager and anxious to find out about

her family, too stupid to know that some things needed to stay buried.

“Victoria, please take Nora upstairs.”

Laura turned her attention to her replacement, looked her up and down and then

dismissed her as worthy of notice. “So this is the famous Miss Winters,” she

purred. “Really, Edward, shouldn’t she stay?”

Vicki, who had absolutely no intention of leaving, watched Laura curiously.

“After all, she does have a right to know what is going on. Tell me, Edward,

does she know we’re still legally--”

“--Nora, go upstairs at once!”

The child gazed with equanimity at her father, but didn’t move.

“Nora,” he threatened again.

“It’s all right, darling,” Laura told her. “I’ll come upstairs to see you

later.”

“Yes, Mummy,” Nora said obediently.

Edward’s fury increased, but he waited until his daughter had left the room,

before exploding, “How dare you come back here? After everything you did--”

Laura walked over to the fire. “I am still your wife, Edward. Saying that I’m

dead isn’t going to make it so. You never bothered to divorce me. Nora and

Jamison are still my children and you aren’t going to change that. Not ever.

They’re mine, Edward.”

* * *

His head pounding from too much cheap gin and heartbreak, Dirk Wilkins stalked

his way back through the Collinwood property fully intent on regaining what he

considered to be his, even if it meant he had to throw Judith over his shoulder

and drag her somewhere so he could make her see sense. Actually, Dirk decided,

it wasn’t a half bad idea. Away from her family, Judith might realize he was

right and that they belonged together. It wouldn’t be hard to do. He would just

have to find a moment when she was alone. She’d be angry, sure, but eventually

Judith would thank him for it. There were half a dozen places on the estate he

could bring her.

Changing his course, Dirk tramped through the woods until he came to one of the

empty cottages that had once housed some old faithful retainer who had passed

on years ago. Last time he had checked, it was clean enough. He would give it

the once over and if it was still all right . . . well, Judith would be his in

no time.

To his surprise the door wasn’t locked, which didn’t make sense. Dirk made sure

as a matter of course that everything on the estate was secure. The last thing

the family wanted or needed was some no-account wandering onto the property and

taking up residence. Cautiously he walked inside to find Quentin’s bleeding

body stretched out on a kitchen table. “What the?!”

Dirk ran his hands through his hair. Jesus, God, what had happened? Knowing it

was pointless, but giving it a shot anyway, he felt for a pulse.

“He’s quite dead.”

Dirk spun around to see a blonde woman in an old-fashioned brown dress smiling

at him in amusement. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important. Who are you?”

“I’m Dirk Wilkins--the caretaker, and you’re trespassing.”

The woman trilled with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Dirk demanded suspiciously. “Look, I’m going to ask you a

second time. What’s your name and what did you have to do with Quentin’s

death?”

“My name is Miranda, and I didn’t have anything to do with Quentin’s ‘death’.”

She set down the candles she’d been carrying and moved closer to him. “Look at

me,” she commanded.

“I am looking at you.”

“No, no, into my eyes,” Miranda clarified, still sounding amused. “You cannot

look away,” she told him. “That’s right. Deeper.”

Dirk couldn’t have explained why, but he felt compelled to do as she bid him.

In a short time he was drowning in a sea of blue.

* * *

Edward having sent a message that he would be detained for the rest of the

morning, Edith had taken advantage of the situation to try and get some needed

rest. She would have preferred to do so in Tim’s room, but the office would

have to do.

She had to be careful not to overtax herself until she had a stronger hold on

Timothy Shaw’s body. The events of last night had taken their toll on her. Not

that she hadn’t made the most of the opportunity, but she was still exhausted

and somewhat disturbed. That dreary maid hadn’t lied about what had happened;

Edith could read her well enough. Quentin could not have left, not without

leaving a blood trail and conversely, no one could have moved his body without

doing the same. So where was the dear boy?

She had drifted off when she felt someone shaking her awake. Irritably, she

focused Tim’s eyes on the fool who was disturbing her. “Miss Trask?”

Charity pulled her hands back to her sides. “Tim, please, I need to talk to

you.”

The girl was really becoming quite bothersome. “I don’t think that’s a good

idea.”

“Please, it’s important,” Charity begged. “It’s about . . . it’s about,” she

lowered her voice, “Papa.” She pulled up a chair next to the desk. “He was in

my room last night.”

Edith tried to reach into her host’s memories. She’d gathered that Tim had been

engaged to this nit, but obviously there was more. “In your room?”

“I know, I know. It’s impossible. He’s dead, but I swear to you, he was there,

Tim.”

Edith suddenly recalled her own nocturnal visitor: the spirit who had promised

vengeance for his murder. “Calm down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

She listened while Charity described the events of the previous night. “Go on,”

she encouraged when Charity finished. “He tore your nightgown and then what?”

“I ran out of the room.”

“Where did you go?” Edith asked sharply. Had this creature been running around

while Quentin was solving his marital problems?

Charity turned away. “Nowhere.”

“Have you been back to your room?”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t want to return, but he told me I had--” she stopped

abruptly.

“Who told you to go back? The ghost?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

Charity refused to say more.

What was the stupid twit hiding? Edith concentrated and gazed inward trying to

at least draw on her host’s memories: Money. Blood. A stern man, a clergyman?

Well, that made sense, the apparition had quoted scripture. Money. Not much

else that seemed comprehensible. If she could only get some rest, this sort of

thing would be child’s play.

Charity misunderstood the silence. “Tim, please, I know it’s over between us,

but I don’t know what else to do. This morning when I was dressing, I . . . I

felt him in the room again. I can’t tell anyone else about what . . . we . . .

what happened.” She started to cry and flung herself into Tim’s arms.

Edith rolled her eyes, even as she comforted the girl. She mechanically reached

around to pat the Charity on the shoulder, her hand brushing the governess’

neck.

Charity winced and pulled away.

What was wrong now? Edith didn’t know Miss Trask well, didn’t particularly care

to, but it was clear something was amiss. The creature was deadly pale,

shaking, and icy cold to the touch.

**“He must never be let out.”**

Edith didn’t waste time. She reached out and pulled the fabric of Charity’s

dark blue dress away from her neck. There, just like the accounts she’d read

described, were two puncture marks. The effect that this measure had on Charity

was electrifying; the girl jumped several feet back. “Where are you going, Miss

Trask?” Edith inquired pleasantly.

“I can’t--He’ll be--”

**“He must never be let out.”**

“I’m not done with you yet.” She forgot her weariness. This was more important.

If she could get enough rest tonight, there wouldn’t be any danger of losing

Timothy Shaw’s body. Edith had enough strength to hypnotize the girl. Her

agenda was clear: find out what Charity knew, where the vampire slept, who else

was under his power, then wipe Charity’s memory of the little tête à tête they

were about to enjoy. Tomorrow Edith would have to see that the threat was

destroyed once and for all. She had enough power to do that.

Charity shook her head wildly. “I have to leave.”

“How can you when you can’t even move?” Edith got up and walked over to

Charity, who stood immobilized. “We haven’t finished our talk yet.” She turned

Charity’s chin so that the girl was looking at her. “We can do this the easy

way or we can do this the hard way. Which would you prefer?”

Charity stared. “You’re not Tim,” she realized in a moment of horrified

insight.

“No, I’m not,” Edith agreed pleasantly. “Very well, I rather prefer the hard

way in any case,” she remarked as she gathered up her will.

* * *

**Nothingness. No hellfire. No brimstone. No angels. No harps. No Old Testament

biblical God. No horned devil wielding a pitchfork. No pagan god of the hunt.

No queen of the fairies. Nothing. Vast expanses of nothing that swallowed him

up unthinkingly as an elephant might a fly. He was insignificant. Nothing he’d

ever said, done, thought, felt, none of it mattered. Nothing.**

Quentin sat bolt upright, shaking and sweating. It took him several minutes

merely to focus. That something smelled foul was his first sensation. Then he

realized it was him. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and recoiled at

the stickiness of the half-dried blood. The wounds that Jenny had made were

gone. “Beth?” He glanced around the room. Where the hell was he? This wasn’t

Collinwood. Then he saw Dirk, or rather what he knew in an instant was Dirk’s

corpse.

“A life for a life,” came a voice from behind. “No, stay where you are. You’re

still weak.” She walked to face him. “You are Quentin Collins and I am Miranda

and I have brought you back from the dead,” she said simply as if that

explained everything.

Quentin cast an eye on Dirk. “And I thought he never cared,” he quipped

uneasily, keeping his gaze fixed on the woman in front of him. She was

beautiful, not in the classical tradition, but lovely nonetheless.

Miranda wasn’t interested in the former caretaker. “A sacrifice was needed.”

“And Dirk made it,” Quentin finished. “Who are you?”

She smiled. “I told you. I am Miranda.”

“Out of ‘The Tempest’ by way of Salem?” he suggested. “Miranda what? Why did

you choose to be my particular savior? How did you get me out of Collinwood?”

“So many questions,” she laughed. “You must trust me.”

Quentin nodded affably. He had a wide acquaintance with women and while he was

certain he had never met one anything like the mysterious Miranda, he was

equally certain that she wasn’t someone to trust.

“You will see,” Miranda promised.

* * *

Victoria sighed and repeated everything she’d said to Barnabas.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

But that’s my line, she almost said. “Nora and Jamison’s mother, Laura, is the

same woman as David’s mother. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but I know it.

Please don’t ask me how. I just do.”

Barnabas hesitated. “Do you think this is what we were supposed to change?”

Before Vicki could reply, the object of discussion walked into the room. “I do

hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Only Victoria heard Barnabas gasp. “Not at all, Mrs. Collins.”

“Well, it’s refreshing to see that someone grasps the reality of the situation.

But please, call me Laura. After all, you were almost married to my husband.”

She turned to Barnabas. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Introductions performed, Barnabas quickly made his apologies and left. Vicki

made to follow.

“Victoria.”

“Yes?”

Laura was pleasant, but brisk. “I think it would be best if you left

Collinwood. I don’t mean this instant, of course, but as soon as you can

arrange it. There’s no place for you here.”

“I have never tried to replace you as the children’s mother,” Vicki said

evenly. “And I never knew you were alive.”

“Oh, I know that and please don’t think there’s anything personal in this, but

you don’t belong here.”

If only that were true, Vicki thought. She nodded briefly.

“I’m so glad you understand,” Laura said with a smile.

Vicki was evasive, “If you’ll excuse me. I have a great deal to do.”

* * *

Victoria found Barnabas in the folly in the garden. “You recognized her.”

“Yes.”

She waited. It was obviously something that was causing him a great deal of

pain.

Barnabas paced up and down the few feet the folly afforded. “She was my

father’s mistress. I only saw her once. I was just a boy, but I’ve never

forgotten her face.”

“What happened to her?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “It was entirely an accident that I even learned

who she was. It wasn’t until I was much older that I understood what her

relationship must have been with my father. My father and I were never close

and he never discussed the matter with me.” His voice was distant, “He and my

mother were not . . . it was not the happiest of unions.”

So much pain, Victoria thought. Why did there always have to be such misery?

“If she’s a witch, the only way to kill her is to burn her to death, preferably

at a crossroads.”

“There is a connection with fire,” Vicki said suddenly. “I don’t know what it

is exactly, but it’s there. We need to find out more about her. Did you know

her name? Was she married?”

Barnabas considered. “Laura Stockbridge, I think. I don’t know if she was

married. There were Stockbridges who lived at the edge of town. I remember

that. There was,” he paused, “there was a fire.” 

TO BE CONTINUED ...