A-Splendid-Ruin(51)

Behind a haze of cigarette smoke, Dante LaRosa did not look at my drawing, or at me, but only stared at Ellis, slowly, thoughtfully.

Ellis took my hand, wrapping it in his, and whispered, “I’ve had enough, have you?”

I nodded. Ellis pulled me to my feet. He was unsteady—too much wine, I thought, and I wondered how long we’d been here, how long I’d been drawing. He took me over to my picture and reached out to trace a line with his finger, and murmured, “Beautiful. Everything you do is beautiful,” and there was a tone in his voice I could not decipher—wistfulness perhaps, or no, something sharper, harder. He didn’t see the truth of the picture. I didn’t know how he couldn’t see what was so obvious to me. He drew back again, lost his balance, and before I could steady him, he fell against the wall. The chalk smeared, streaking his suitcoat, colors blending in a swath across the middle of the drawing.

“Look what I’ve done,” Ellis said in horror.

“It’s all right. It meant nothing.” That was not true, but I was glad he’d smeared it. I wanted the horrible thing gone.

I don’t think the others noticed as we left the restaurant and stepped out into the night—night, how odd was that? It had seemed to be minutes since we’d gone inside. I had no idea what time it was. I’d lost my bearings.

My carriage was just over there, Petey slumped in the seat, asleep. Ellis put his hand to his eyes and let out his breath. I felt him stiffen as if in preparation for something, and I turned to him, waiting for him to say or do whatever it was I felt him ready to do.

He dropped his hand. He wanted something from me, I knew, but I didn’t know what, and I waited, taut and expectant, and was disappointed when all he did was touch my jaw, gently stroking with his thumb. “It’s late. You should go home.”

“Yes.” But the way he looked at me. The way he glanced about, and then back, as if he wished to leave and couldn’t, or as if he disliked himself, or me—yes, it was me he disliked—and his mood gripped me, puzzling, bewildering.

I didn’t understand anything, not where I was or what I’d done. There was only that soft caress that spoke of—what? Regret? Desire? Shame?

He stepped away, releasing me from its spell. “Go home.” He hit the edge of the carriage hard, startling the horse, startling Petey awake, and I had the sense that it had been a deliberate act, though why I didn’t know.

“Miss Kimble?” asked Petey, scrambling from the seat.

Ellis helped me inside. “I’ll see you soon.” His expression was bemused, or perhaps it was only a smile. In the near darkness, I could not tell, and I did not realize how important it would have been to know.

The misty, sea-tinged air hid the moon but for a bit of brightness. It was chill and wet; a clock on a building we passed read nearly eleven. As we reached the drive, I told Petey to go directly to the stable; I did not want to alert anyone that I was coming in so late. I sneaked from the stable to the back door, the stone steps that led to the kitchen. As I reached for the handle, a shiver passed through me. “A goose stepped on your grave,” Mama would have said. I was suddenly cold.

I opened the door and stepped inside to the residual warmth of the stove, which had been banked for the night, and darkness, stumbling against a coal hod near the door, which scraped on the floor. I caught my breath, heard a surprised exclamation, a shuffle, and then suddenly there was Shin emerging from the pantry with a lamp. She’d been waiting for me. She reached into her pocket and took out a piece of folded paper, and then raised her finger to her lips, a warning.

Almost in answer came the scream.





It came from the foyer.

“What was that?” I rushed to the kitchen door.

Shin grabbed my arm as I passed her. “Miss, wait—”

I brushed her off and kept going.

When I got to the stairs, the scream seemed still to echo into the domed ceiling. The moonlight cast a dim glow upon my aunt, crumpled lifelessly at the bottom.

I dropped to my knees beside her. Her head was positioned oddly, her hip at a sickening turn. Her cheek was still warm. “Aunt Florence.”

Something fell from her hand onto the floor, rolling to a stop at my foot. I grabbed it without thinking, and shook her. “Aunt. Wake up, please.”

Her head rolled drunkenly to the side, too loose, grotesque.

“She’s dead,” I said dully to Shin, but she hadn’t followed me. I was alone.

Someone turned on the light. My aunt stared into nothing. Her mouth gaped open.

Goldie, in her nightgown, stopped halfway down the stairs. Her hand went to her mouth. My uncle, still dressed, the gold buttons on his vest glinting, misbuttoned, raced past Goldie and knelt on the other side of his wife.

My uncle looked to Mr. Au and the cook, who were blinking blearily in the hall. Then he looked at me. “May, what have you done?”

“She must have been sleepwalking again—”

Uncle Jonny rose and backed away with a horrified expression. Again, he asked, “What have you done?”

Still, I was too shocked to understand. “She was like this when I came in.”

My uncle said grimly, “Mr. Au, it’s time to make the call.”

The butler went to the telephone. The cook shrieked quietly into her hands.

“I didn’t want to believe it. Even all those times when you upset her. Oh, I didn’t want to believe it. And now you’ve killed her!” Goldie’s voice held the edge of hysteria.