Weyward(87)

‘The Brothers Grimm,’ she said softly.

Graham nodded. ‘Then Father told me that you and Frederick were engaged. After reading about … after I read the note, I knew that you didn’t want to marry him. I was going to visit you in Windermere – in the sanatorium – to check if you were all right. But then I heard Father on the telephone in his study last night … he was talking to Doctor Radcliffe about you. Then … he gave him this address, so this afternoon I told Father I was going for a walk … and I came here instead.’

He looked around as he spoke, taking in the dim, low-ceilinged room. ‘God knows what this place is,’ he said.

Violet said nothing, but there was a twist of dread in her stomach. Father speaking to Doctor Radcliffe … giving him this address … she knew that wasn’t good, but she couldn’t think why it was so bad, exactly. Her brain felt thick, slug-like, the same way it had felt that afternoon in the woods with Frederick, after all that brandy. Before he—

‘What happened to the baby, Violet?’ Graham’s voice was low. ‘Did you take something? Something to make the baby go away?’

‘Bring on the menses,’ Violet said.

‘Violet, are you listening to me? You have to tell me if you took something. Doctor Radcliffe is coming here, today. He’s meeting Father here. They could arrive any minute. If you did take something … you need to tell me. We’ve got to get rid of the evidence. It’s a crime, Violet. They could put you away for life.’

The dread in her stomach again.

‘Tansy petals,’ she said. ‘Steep in water for five days before administration …’

‘Right,’ said Graham. He put the bundled bedsheets down on the floor and went back into the bedroom. The door burst open and the wind roared through it, unfurling the bundle to reveal a gleam of pale flesh. Violet was gripped by the awful fear that the spore would reanimate and slither up inside her again. She couldn’t bear it. She turned around to face the wall.

Graham returned, holding the tin that she’d prepared the tansy mixture in. She could smell it, dank and cloying. He took the tin and the bundle outside. Violet heard the first hiss of rain on the roof, and watched it trickle down from the hole in the ceiling. She wanted to get up, to stand in the garden and let the rain wash her clean, but she was too tired to move. Her head lolled forward onto her chest. Darkness lapped at her.

When Graham came back inside, his hair was wet and mud was splattered across his clothes.

‘I’ve buried it,’ he said. ‘The child.’ He brushed the dirt from his hands as he spoke, not looking at her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, though she wished he wouldn’t refer to it as a ‘child’. He nodded.

He brought her a pan of water and a rag, along with a fresh nightgown from the suitcase in the bedroom.

‘I’ll let you clean yourself up,’ he said, walking out of the room. ‘Call me when you’re decent.’

I’ve buried the child.

Violet wondered if she would ever be decent again.

She wobbled to her feet and took off her soiled nightgown. The blood had glued it to her legs so that removing it felt like peeling away a layer of skin. Her vision slid and she gripped the back of the chair. She dabbed at her thighs with the rag and watched the blood run in watery rivulets down her legs, staining the floor. Outside, under the sound of the wind shearing through the trees, she thought she heard a crow squawk. Then, the sputter of an engine. A car.

‘Violet,’ Graham called. ‘Quick. Get dressed. They’re here.’





47


KATE


Kate has been in the attic for hours.

There have been moments of silence, when she has allowed herself to wonder if Simon has given up waiting for her and left. But then: the menacingly slow progress of his footsteps down the corridor. Of course he hasn’t given up. He is never going to let her go. Never going to let them go.

These are the worst moments, when the fear recedes only to close its cold fist around her heart again. But as Kate turns the fragile pages of Altha’s manuscript, as she reads a story that is centuries old but echoes her own life so closely, rage unfurls inside her.

The rain still falls, drumming loud on the roof, like a battle call. She has finished reading the manuscript. She knows the truth. About Altha Weyward. About Aunt Violet, too. About herself; and her child.

The truth. She can feel it spreading molten through her body, hardening her bones.

This wildness inside gives us our name.

All those years of feeling different. Separate. Now she knows why.

The rain grows heavier. There is something not quite right about the sound – rather than the rhythmic patter of water, it is erratic and heavy. Plop. Plop. Plop. As though hundreds of solid objects are landing on the roof. There’s a scraping noise, too. At first, Kate thinks it is the wind, a tree branch scraping the tiles. She focuses. Not scraping, scrabbling. Claws. The flapping of wings. Kate can feel them there, a frenzied, swelling mass. Birds.

Of course. The crow has been there, ever since she arrived. In the fireplace. Watching from the hedgerow, the sycamore tree. The same crow led her through the woods after the accident. The crow that carries the sign.

She is no longer afraid. Not of the birds and not of Simon.

She thinks of all the times he has hurt her, has used her unwilling flesh as if it were there for his pleasure. Has made her feel small and worthless.