Chime

The Hand squeezed. Love is object of desire. Those chiming words, hold on to them, hold on.

The Hand squeezed. Pretty girl love pretty boy. Hold on to those words, hold on.

But the Hand squeezed. It squeezed out my thoughts. It squeezed out my brain-light. I was disappearing. I saw my brain-light go drip-drip-dripping out my mind.

Out it went, drip-drip-drip, until I was snuffed out.

20 Happily Ever After

Dark and light, dark and light. That was the world. The world was like lace. Lace is dark and light. Stepmother wore lace. Leanne wore lace.

Leanne and Eldric, dark and light.

When we think of lace, we think of white, but without the dark, the in-between bits, there’d be nothing to look at.

Dark and light, dark and light.

Bones are hollow. Bones are webbed with lace.

Anesthesia, Dr. Rannigan!

Bones can hurt—how they can hurt!

Take a hand, crush it slo-o-o-o-w-ly, splinter the bones, crumble the lace, squish away the negative space.

Anesthesia!

“Drink it down.” Eldric’s voice pressed a spoon to my lips. “There you go, every last drop!” Liquid trickled down my throat.

All those airy hollows, gone.

I swallowed. Swallowing tore my hand.

Anesthesia!

* * * 

Dark and light, the world was dark and light.

Dark and light, mint and apple.

Go away!

But my voice was lost, and anyway, the Brownie never listened.

Mint and apple. Dark and light.

The smallest eye-twitch tore my hand-lace.

“Every last drop!” Eldric’s voice was honey.

The honey voice sang.

I know where I’m going,

And I know who’s going with me.

I know whom I love,

But the dear knows whom I’ll marry.

Once I had been in the roar-time of my life. Now I was in the hush-time. The people who sat with me were in the hush-time. They made hush-time sounds: a mouse-squeak as they sit in the chair, a crumble of rockers on wood. Father singing, lullaby-soft.

O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son!

O I fear ye are poisoned, my bonny young man!

O yes! I am poisoned; Mother, make my bed soon . . .

Stop: That’s not a hush-time song!

I got eels boiled in eel broth; Mother make my bed soon,

For I’m weary wi’ hunting and fain would lie doon.

That’s a roar-time song. Stop!

Father didn’t stop.

Eldric sat on the end of my bed. His end went down; my end went up. O I fear ye are poisoned. I had to erase that song.

“ ‘I Know Where I’m Going,’ ” I said.

“Briony?” Eldric’s end of the bed went up. He stood at the pillow end. My eyelids felt his gaze.

“Did you say something?” His voice was thick as porridge.

“ ‘I Know Where I’m Going.’ ”

“Shall I sing it?” he said.

I flapped my good hand. Yes!

My end of the bed went up.

Eldric cleared his throat. He sat so long, now silent, now clearing his throat, that I slipped back into darkness.

“I have here a ladies’ hatpin,” said Eldric. “I know you are wondering what this superb specimen of masculinity would want with a hatpin. But what you don’t know is that Tiddy Rex and I are building a castle, and of course, every castle needs a catapult, and what every catapult must have is something to pult. Even as I speak, this hatpin is being transformed into an enormous medieval stone.”

Eldric’s voice was hush-time, but a catapult is not a hush-time pursuit, and neither was the smell. It was a roar-time smell: wood smoke, mixed with a warm, brownish spice, mixed with a whiff of the fruited soaps sold at the Christmas fair.

“It takes a dozen men to heave this stone into the catapult—or women, of course, if they are boxing champions, like you.”

When a person is ill, a whiff of roar-time is better than any tonic. I opened my eyes. Sun slanted in the window. It lay curled in the palm of my left hand, my wicked hand.

Where was my virtuous hand? My virtuous arm was heavy, too heavy to raise itself. I couldn’t see the end of it.

I lay in the sewing room. I didn’t like that. This is where Stepmother had lain. The smell of sickness had infected the room. I memory-smelled it, a bloated oozy smell, toad-scum, stagnant water. It crimpled the underside of my tongue.

I memory-smelled eels. Eels in eel broth. That was a sickmaking smell. Where was my mint-and-apple Brownie?

It was good to open my eyes. It let light into my brain. I was in the sewing room, but the toad-scum smell was gone. It was now just wood smoke and brown spice and fruited soap.

Eldric had brought new smells with him. He’d brought new sounds with him. The sound of his hollow whistle: If a body meet a body, comin’ thro’ the rye.

Stepmother had never cared to light a fire, but there was a fire in the grate.

I heard him look at me: The chair went crumble–crumble—stop!

My heart ticked off the seconds until Eldric bent over me; then his face filled my mind.

“There you are!” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He’d become gaunt, hollow as his own whistle, save for the under-eye bits, which were scribbly and pale.

“You look tired.” I’d grown a stranger to my own voice. It made the faintest of chimes, like the ticking of a fingernail on glass.

“That’s what I’m supposed to say to you.” His smile pouched out the under-eye bits.