Blast it, Cordie. Not another wool scarf. Kindly do the necksof the world a favor and cease.
She hums a lullaby, the Welsh tune melding softly with the air.I barely have a moment to think of the words to the song before my thoughtsturn hazy, and I drift away.
3
Cura ut valeas.
Take care.
Anopium-induced fog isn’t conducive to real sleep. Therefore, I wake up laterthan usual and move sluggishly through my morning routine. It is Cordelia’s dayoff, and a parlor maid has taken over her duties. The replacement’s name isMartha. She smells strongly of linseed oil, sweat, and anxiety. A virulentcombination in close quarters.
After stepping into the copper bathtub, I sink under the waterand begin to wash, silently praising whoever invented perfumed soap, lord lovehim. I listen as Martha tidies my room like a dervish, shooting from bed todresser to desk. A dusting, sweeping hurricane of cleanliness. “Well,” Marthasays, once her tasks are complete. “Are you finished?”
I shake my head and lie back in the fragrant water. My lethargyis not allowed to interfere with Martha’s busy schedule, and she braids my hairas I sit in the tub, twisting it into a coronet and pinning it into place.
“Ring if you want me, Miss Hester, and I’ll come back at once.”
I continue to dawdle, splashing my tender knee and soaking theabrasions on my palms. The water cools far too soon, however, even with theheat-retaining copper. I reach for a bath sheet and freeze. A sound disrupts mypeaceful interlude, a murmured sentence fragment followed by the scuff of ashoe against the floor. Gasping in shock, I cover my body with the sheet andsink under the water again. What the hell? Who’s in my bedroom?
It takes me a few terrified seconds to identify my visitor—theway he shuffles foot to foot, talking softly to himself, confused and anxious.I collapse against the side of the tub.
Deo favente. It’s only Carver.
Every Visionary deals with wayward spirits. They occupy acorner of one’s mind—like a constant, low-level hum—and leave little room forpersonal privacy. This one fades in and out of my thoughts like Alice’s Cheshirecat but with white, wispy hair and a three-button silk vest that must have beena lovely blue color once. Before he died last year, Carver spent his days atthe Stonehenge saloons, gambling badly. Until he scored a perfect, unbeatablehand at the ripe age of sixty-five and had a massive heart attack before hecould enjoy his winnings. Sir Death has no idea why this ghost is still heresince haunting is typically done by homicide victims. He isn’t decomposing likemost who linger, losing his features and shape to become a gray formless cloud.
But then this is Carver we’re talking about. At best, he is incompetent,stubborn and a rule breaker. At worst, delusional. I’ve seen him in my psyche tryingto hide a stuffed rooster in a banjo case. He’s no more lucid now than when hewas alive.
Go toward the light, Carver, I call telepathically frommy cold bathtub. You don’t belong here. Embrace eternity.
The ghost seems to consider this for a moment and then respondswith a rude belching noise. Carver leaves as unexpectedly as he arrived, and Irub my face with my hands, wishing I could rid my brain of his memory. Why didthe old gambler select me for his contact? What did I do to deserve him?
I step out of the tub and dry myself with another bath sheet.At the armoire, I choose a set of underclothes, feeling for the ribbons thatdecorate the front of these boxy garments, and pull them onto my body withoutany great difficulty.
Now to locate the corset, stockings, and petticoats. Bless you,Cordelia! They are all in their respective compartments due to her obsessionwith order. I throw the lingerie onto my bed, and return to the armoire for a gown.Since I can’t see them, I choose clothes by the way the material feels. ShouldI pick the alpaca or the silk? Or would wool be better? Because my room feelsdrafty, I decide upon a heavier fabric for greater warmth. Cordelia has describedthe dress to me at length—bottle-green velvet with black piping at the hem,collar, and cuffs. Lovely-smelling, too. I hold the garment to my face andinhale the rose petal and cedar shavings scent.
Minding my own business, innocently enjoying a bit ofpotpourri, I hear my mother’s voice, two floors above. She sounds angry andhurt. I do hate having magic ears sometimes. It’s always awkward to eavesdropon private moments.
“You can’t send her off,” Mama says. “I won’t let you.”
Father strides across the bedroom, his shoes pounding the floorwith each step. “It’s inevitable that she go.”
“But this is her home. She’s comfortable here. Don’t you careabout your own daughter?”
Sounding very Welsh, he mutters a few words, the kind I’dexpect to hear from Willard after hammering his thumb. Then Father laughs.“What would you have me say, Lenore? That I cherish my life’s trial? Feelaffection for the thorn in my side? Be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“My dear wife, if you would only listen to reason— ”
Mama throws something at the wall. “How can you be so cold?It’s unnatural.”
“I am not the unnatural one in this house…”
“We settled this long ago, John. While there’s a breath in mybody, Hester remains. I’m holding you to your word.”
I have listened to at least a thousand variations of thisargument. John and Lenore go round and round about my future every week or so,when they’re alone and need something to fill the silence. I am all they sharein common at this late marital date.
The air in my bedroom suddenly feels oppressive so I walk tothe window, tripping twice along the way. It’s absurd to let their commentsupset me so.
My stupid ears hear Father walk down the gravel drive to thecarriage house near the road. He’s still obviously angry and seeking to venthis wrath on someone. Willard is the first person he encounters.
“Why hasn’t the hog been butchered yet, Little Hawk?” Fatheryells. “You’re
