Edward Elliott or whoever he is spins like a dancer, trying to beat out the flames on his stolen finery for I’ve no doubt these things were taken from my father after his death. Edward spins and whirls, a rapidly flaring column of fire, beautiful and awful, and loud and foul-smelling as he begins to cook. He dances and dances, round and round until he comes to the tall window by the cindered cradle, the window with its cracked panes, and he dances right into it. The glass shatters, he is unbalanced, and he tips over the sill into the void of the night.
Abruptly, his screaming stops, and so does the sound of my sister.
I’m grateful for that at least.
My knees are shaking and I have to sit down for long minutes before they are solid enough to stand upon. My steps are still tentative as I make my way back towards the other part of the house. To find Nelly; to ask her questions, to get the answers Edward Elliott can no longer give me.
36
But Nelly will answer no questions ever again.
Nelly is too busy lying on the floor of the entry hall of Blackwater, bleeding crimson onto the black and white marble tiles. I run to her, kneel, reach out but realise that the blood has long since stopped flowing from the cut in her throat. Was this Edward Elliott’s act? Was this how he rewarded her for her loyalty? Or did she finally put her foot down? Was she sick of the glances he gave me even as he pretended to be my uncle? When I tormented her about how he would look favourably upon my requests, was that the last straw for poor Nelly? Turned into a drudge then set aside for younger meat? Nelly, with blue eyes staring and her expression one of surprise and terror: what was the last thing she saw?
‘Oh, Nelly. I’m sorry.’ I touch her face: her skin is still warm, her death quite fresh. Nelly gone and all her secrets with her. My lavender skirts are soaking up the rapidly congealing blood. I think… I think she would be colder if Edward had killed her before he came to me, the blood on the floor spread further. I stand, unsure what to do, what to do; tears, unreckoned for, trickle down my cheeks, onto my lips, tasting like salt. Salt daughter. Then I hear Ena – no, Meraud – crying.
Not from upstairs but from the library. The library Edward had made his own; and I cannot recall that he ever had her in there. She was his, I believe, but I did not see him hold her or tend to her; he spoke of her fondly to me, but that was only how he created his camouflage. Truly she was of no interest to him. I wonder how long she might have survived if she’d started to make too much noise or lost her sunny nature; if I’d not cured her teething pain when I did so she stopped her weeping and wailing. How long before he snapped and sent his own baby the way of Ena?
I move towards the library, anxious to get the child away from a house where both her parents lie dead. She’s not my sister but I too am a girl in a place where both of my parents have lain dead. I would spare her that though I know she’s too small to understand. Just outside the library door, I pause.
I pause because I hear a voice I’d hoped never to hear again.
‘Miren, join us please.’
I hesitate only a fraction, but it’s long enough for him to raise his volume and say, ‘Miren, if you do not get in here, I will wring this brat’s neck.’
I step through the doorway.
Aidan Fitzpatrick has lost a lot of weight, presumably from the vicissitudes of the road. He looks harder and his gaze is unfriendly, like I’m a recalcitrant child who’s caused him considerable inconvenience. His trousers and shirt and jacket are travel-stained, and his overcoat’s been discarded on another chair; I can see dust and mud patterning it. Ena is sitting in his lap, tears streaking her face.
‘Hello, Aidan.’
‘Throw me that wicked little pocketknife I know you carry, then take this’ – he jiggles Ena as though she’s some sort of rubbish to be removed – ‘and sit down.’
I do as told, watching sadly as the mother-of-pearl handled knife flies to Aidan’s hand. Then I take Ena – Meraud. No. She’s always been Ena to me and Ena she shall remain. She clings and I kiss the top of her head, shushing her gently. I sit in the chair Aidan indicated; it’s across from him in front of the unlit hearth. He steeples his fingers beneath his chin and contemplates me as if ordering his thoughts, marshalling his arguments to best make me understand all the ways I’ve disappointed him.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask, thinking to distract him.
‘Well, I imagine that you are quite aware I sent a man to look for you.’
‘The man you paid to murder Aoife,’ I state and he startles.
‘Who told you that?’
‘The man you sent to find me, Aidan.’
‘Is he here? What deal did you do with him to make him quit my employ?’ His colour is high and I can see him imagining all the womanly ways I might have drawn a man from his side.
‘Do you really think, Aidan, that I would have any sort of truck with the man who murdered Aoife?’ I suspect he misses the double meaning in that. He doesn’t need to know
