The Solemn Bell(5)

More creaking. This time, however, he knew the panel had shifted. He watched it move.

Brody slung the vomit-filled vase at that portion of the room. It shattered on impact, coating the wall with his sick. There was a squeak—a wounded rat, no doubt—but then, silence.

“Get out of here, damn you!” he shouted at the offending rodent. “Stay away from me!”

When the rat answered back, Brody knew the morphine sickness had finally taken hold.

“I’m sorry. I’ve only come to bring you water. And…and some fruit.”

A girl rat. The voice was scratchy and unsteady, but, then again, he doubted very much that rats spoke human English regularly. It would be as foreign to them as it now sounded to his ears.

“Vile rodent! You’ll not chew my fingertips!” He reached for something else to throw, but there was only the bundle of dead flowers, which had already begun to crumble.

The shadows stirred just over his shoulder. “I’m not here to chew your fingertips.”

“Then what the devil do you want from me?”

A pale hand reached out from the darkness, clutching a red apple. “Here, take this.”

Brody took it. The thing was poisoned, no doubt. He’d heard the tales as a child. Creatures from the shadows did not typically offer apples to strangers that were not deadly. But, he reckoned, at least he’d be dead by morning.

He bit into it, letting the juices quench his sandpaper throat. It was good and ripe. Death would be sweet, indeed.

The pale hand put forward a glass of water. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

Brody snatched the cup from her hand, gulping down the water. It burned his lips and throat, which were raw from heaving up the contents of his stomach. He hadn’t expected the water to be so cold. It didn’t sit well, and he lurched forward as it threatened to come back up.

While he spewed the water on the carpet, the shadow-girl placed her pale hand on his shoulder. It was a comforting gesture. Comfort was completely foreign to him, though. If he’d had the strength, he would have knocked her hand away. But, as he retched until he tasted blood, Brody was thankful to know he wasn’t quite so alone.

She patted him soothingly. “You’re very sick.”

“Obviously.” He heaved one last time, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Who are you?”

The hand retreated to the shadows. “I am nobody.”

“Are you a ghost?”

There was a pause. “I don’t think so.”

He licked his lips, which were cracked and bloody. “What are you called, then?”

“Angelica Grey,” she said. “And you?”

“Captain Neill.”

Another pause. “Are you in the war?”

“The war?” he wheezed out a laugh. “The war has been over for years.”

Miss Grey went absolutely quiet. Brody thought, for an instant, that this was news to her. But, of course, everyone knew the war had ended. It was impossible to live for one minute without it haunting society…unless one were a shadowy recluse cut off from the world outside.

“Do you live here all alone?”

“Does it matter?” she said. “You’re welcome to stay here until the storm breaks. No one will give you any trouble.”

He waved her off. “I don’t care about that. I asked if you lived here alone. Do you?”

“…Yes.”

Brody wondered if Miss Grey let strange men into her house often, but he’d asked enough pointed questions. He could tell by the tremor of her voice that she was frightened of him. He didn’t want to cause her any grief. She’d been kind to him when most people would’ve left him to suffer alone. “Thank you for the apple. And the water, though I’m sorry I wasted it onto the floor.”

“It’s all right. I can bring you more water whenever you like, but I’m afraid I’m sorely lacking in apples.”

He shrugged. “I’m not that hungry anyway. But the water is appreciated.”

For the first time, Brody remembered that he was bruised, bloodied, and covered in his own vomit. He’d slung a vase full of it at her just a moment ago. Whoever this shadow-girl was, she was a saint to even stand there.

“I really must apologize…” He attempted to wick some of the vomit from his coat front, but then—to his horror—realized he was just making a worse mess all over her things. “Oh, God. Do forgive me, Miss Grey. You can send me the bill for…for everything. I’ll gladly pay for what I’ve ruined.”

She laughed from somewhere in the darkness. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t mind living like this?”

“I haven’t much of a choice. Most of the servants left for the war, and the Spanish flu took the rest. There isn’t anyone to do the cooking or cleaning.”

He stared at her shadowy form. “But, surely, you could pick up a broom or mop. There’s dust nearly a quarter inch thick, and cobwebs fat enough to snatch a man’s hat off his head.”

“Believe me, I would do more harm than good,” she said, tersely.

Damn, he’d opened his stupid mouth and offended her. He had no right to criticize her housekeeping—not when she’d been so kind to him. He really was an ass. It had been so long since he’d spoken with a lady, that he’d forgot how salty they were about such things. The prostitutes and fellow addicts he usually kept company with didn’t give a damn what he thought about their lodgings, or anything else.