What Moves the Dead (21)

I do not delude myself that I have seen every way the human mind can fail, though I have seen a hundred ways that soldiers and civilians can break in war. But I had never seen a smile like that.

I stumbled backward, dropping her arm. There was the faintest of ripping sensations against my fingers. It was so unexpected that I looked down and saw my hand covered in the fine white hair from her arms. Dear God, had I closed my hand and pulled it out by the roots?

No. When I looked in horror at her forearm, there was a handprint of bare flesh left behind. Each finger was visible, and the outline of my thumb against her wrist, but I had not left a bruise. Had it been so shallowly rooted in the skin that my merest touch had torn it free?

The new horror replaced the old. I looked up and she no longer wore that horrible grin. “Oh, Maddy…” I said miserably, trying to wipe the hair off on my trousers. It stuck to my sweating palms like cat hair.

She shook her head again. “No ’Addy.”

“What?”

“No Maddy.” She was clearly trying to enunciate, even though the “M” came out more like “Uh-addy.” She banged her wrist against her sternum and I winced, expecting even that light pressure to leave bruises.

“No?” What on earth was she dreaming about?

Another flailing nod. “One,” she said. “Maddy one. Meee one. Maddy … Meee … two.”

“Two,” I agreed.

She seemed to sag. “Vreath ’ooving hharrd,” she muttered. I did not know whether to try to steady her or to avoid touching her again.

“You must be tired,” I said sympathetically.

“Tiiirrd,” she agreed.

“Let’s go back to your room,” I suggested. I took her shoulders, where the cloth covered them, reluctant to touch her bare skin again for fear of tearing more hair loose. “This way.”

Maddy allowed me to steer her back to her room. She pointed to things as we passed and named each one, like a small child learning to speak. “Waall. Stair. Cannndle. Eaaastonn.”

No maid greeted us when I pushed open the door to her room. Damnation. I led her to the bed, wondering how to get her to lie down without panicking her or leaving even more bruises. “Down,” I said, as if she were a dog. “Let’s lie down.”

“Dowwwuhn,” she agreed. The bed was a mess. I saw more hair everywhere on the sheets, as if she’d been shedding. Christ’s blood. It’s never a good sign when people’s hair falls out. I would have to tell Denton.

Unfortunately, once I’d gotten Maddy into bed, I realized that I had no idea which room was his. There were a hundred doors in this great hulk. I could go about yelling, I supposed, but what was Denton going to do tonight that he wouldn’t do in daylight?

I was halfway back to my room before I realized what Maddy’s stilted walk had reminded me of.

It was the hare.





CHAPTER 7


I found Roderick at breakfast before Denton. “Have you seen Maddy today?” I asked. “She was sleepwalking again last night. And she seemed very confused. She didn’t know me, and she couldn’t talk very well.” I decided not to mention that terrible smile, or the way that her stiff walk had reminded me of the strange crawling hare.

“That happens sometimes,” said Roderick, staring at his plate.

“Can’t her maid keep her from walking?”

“Her maid died three months ago.”

This rocked me back. No maid. Of course they wouldn’t have money to hire a new one. I was an ass. I tried again. “Her hair is falling out. She’s … shedding. It’s terrible.”

“Her hair. Yes.” Roderick nodded. After a moment he added, “That’s been happening. The servants try to clean it up, but…”

“Roderick…” The defeat in his voice infuriated me. Couldn’t he see that his sister was dying? “You have to do something!”

“Do what?” He slammed his fist down on the sideboard with sudden rage. “Don’t you think I know? Don’t you think I’d fix it if I could? Take her to Paris—blow up this damned house—fill in that accursed lake—”

I blinked at him. Part of me said that blowing up the house was not actually a solution to Madeline’s problems, but another part was already calculating how much dynamite would be required.

He must have read my expression because he sagged in his chair, his rage gone as quickly as it had come. “Don’t tempt me, Easton. I already know where I’d put the match.”

“I believe the lieutenant actually meant that you should get another doctor,” said Denton from the doorway. He nodded to me. “Morning, Easton.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” I said, even though the thought of calling a specialist in from Paris had crossed my mind.

“I don’t know why not,” said Denton. “I can’t have impressed you with my depth of knowledge of her case.” He didn’t seem particularly offended.

“You know more about it than I do, certainly. Have you seen how her hair is falling out?”

“I have.” He glared at his cup of tea. “Not surprising in a severe illness. Now ask me how she still has any hair left to shed.”

I paused with my tea halfway to my lips.