Chorus of the Dead

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

Margaret perched herself on the edge of the wash basin, careful not to drag her skirts in the pool of blood accumulated on the stone floor. Her hands ached from pounding on the scullery door, and her voice was croaking by the time she silenced her cries.

That conniving wench! It was her all that time. And Margaret had felt sorry for the leech. But now it made sense. She was ill for far longer than her father or Josephine was. She was faking her illness, perhaps giving herself castor oil or some other elixir to induce vomiting. She released herself from suspicion by posing as a victim. Peter needed to know.

Margaret had already tried the latch, the hinges and everything else she could think of to break free. The one window to the room was a small sliver at the very top of the wall, and there was scarcely enough furniture within the room to stack. She became resigned. She was stuck.

Then she heard a faint sound, the lock unlatching with the unmistakable sound of iron on iron. For a moment, Margaret thought she was hearing things. When the door began to creak open she braced herself. At best it was Ainsley who had come to rescue her, at worst it was Lillian returned to do far worse than lock her in the scullery.

Margaret grasped for the closest item she could use to defend herself and grabbed a laundry plunger and held it at her side while she stood up. She kept her eyes on the door, watching it slowly pry open. Unsure who to expect to see on the other side of it, Margaret carefully craned her neck to look. No one was there.

Slowly she inched toward the door, plunger at her side, and widened the opening. There was no one in the kitchen at all. There were no footsteps of retreat or any sign at all that anyone had been in the room. She dropped the plunger on the kitchen floor and slowly made her way up the kitchen stairs to the main floor. The manor was completely silent with very little illumination to light her way. She paused at the bottom of the stairwell and glanced around the foyer.

There was a line of water, melting snow it looked like, leading from the front door and up the stairs. Her gaze tracked the glistening footsteps up the wood of the stairs and then she saw her. A small girl, standing in a loose fitting night gown, at the very top of the stairs. Her blonde curls fell over her shoulders and she stared at Margaret without blinking.

"Josephine?" Margaret whispered.

The girl said nothing. She waited and finally Margaret began her ascent. Half way up, the girl began to walk away toward the west wing. Margaret followed but soon lost sight of her. A strong gust of artic wind engulfed Margaret and she looked to an open chamber door.

She could hear Ainsley's voice faintly and followed it inside the room, which was clearly a bedroom, perhaps Mrs. Lloyd's judging by the oversized four poster bed. From her spot just inside the door, she could clearly hear Ainsley talking. He was calm enough to anyone else, but to Margaret she realized his words were interrupted with his hastening breath.

Peering around the edge of the door, she could see her brother on the balcony, huddled, almost protecting Mrs. Lloyd who clung to him with abject terror. Lillian was at the door to the balcony, an iron fire poker in her grasp behind her as she blocked the way into the house.

"Peter," she said into the wind, "You should have let her jump."

Margaret watched helplessly from the shadows as Ainsley raised his hand in a protective stance. He positioned himself between Lillian and Mrs. Lloyd, who hid her body behind the obvious strength of her protector.

"No one else dies today," he said calmly.

Margaret could not see Lillian's face but she imagined the girl was smiling before she spoke. "Everyone dies today."