Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy) (6 page)

But it was
all completely normal
, she said to herself.
Normal. Normal.

Mrs. Bowe didn’t believe it for a minute. She went about the room, pinching out the candles. Of course Silas could feel her intrusion into his life. She had interfered in his infatuation with the girl from the millpond, and while Silas didn’t know the particulars of what she’d done, Mrs. Bowe guessed he could feel her involvement. His senses were sharpening every day and she even wondered if he might have a bit of the Sight, as her people called it. He was discerning, that much was certain. So she was fairly sure that Silas could sense, at some level, that she had played a role in banishing his paramour. He knew it, all right. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop trying to protect him. Every few days, she checked to see if the binding she’d put on the millpond was holding. Even now, as she looked into her crystal, Mrs. Bowe could see water on the surface of the pond. It might have been merely the weather, for wasn’t the day a little above freezing? But she was worried her spell was too dependent on the ice, and if the weather got even a bit warmer, so much the worse. The ice would melt and her binding would ebb away from the water and then the girl’s spirit would rise and it would all begin again.
I am only looking out for what’s best for him,
she told herself, and that much was true, no matter what Silas came to think of her.
Let him be angry with me, at least he’ll be safe. In time, he’ll see what I’ve done was best for all.
There was no choice. If the ghost girl rose again, she could lead him wherever she wanted. All the way to hell, like in the story of Orpheus she’d foolishly told Silas. All the way to hell. And then what wouldn’t he do to bring her back to the upper world? Just thinking it put a chill in her blood.

Mrs. Bowe sat back down, trying to breathe slowly and get control of herself. Her anxieties were beginning to roll up into a boil.

She had made her decision and would keep to it. She’d started as she’d meant to go on. She knew her spell couldn’t last, but she also had an idea for strengthening it. She would need Mother Peale. Now, that would pose no problem, for while it was still difficult stepping out the front door, she had found her footing in the world again and would not return to being prisoner in her own house. So she would walk to the Narrows the next day. But they’d still need another. And the closer the woman was to Silas, the better. Blood-kin: Yes, the mother would be essential. She needed Dolores Umber’s help, although that might be a little harder to obtain. She took out pen and paper and carefully wrote to inform Dolores that she would, on the following day, be receiving company. She sent the note via a neighbor’s child who agreed to run the letter over to the house on Temple Street for a quarter. When Dolores’s reply came back, Mrs. Bowe then sent word to Mother Peale that she’d come for her at three fifteen the next day and they would go visit Dolores together.

Silas’s side of the house was still quiet when Mrs. Bowe left her home.

She made her way quickly down into the Narrows, slowing frequently to look back over her shoulder for she knew not what. She drew her shawl up over her head and kept walking toward the market where she’d meet Mother Peale.

Mrs. Bowe approached the mercantile run by the Peale family, and saw Mother Peale waiting for her by the door. The two set off, walking purposefully toward Temple Street. It was a bright day and the two women walked, talking intensely, under the low winter shadows of the old, high trees on Prince Street.

“It is just as it was with Amos,” said Mrs. Bowe in a tone of plain fact.

Mother Peale nodded. “But I would have thought . . . I mean, wouldn’t Amos have made some provision, put some protection over his son? Or, now that Silas is the Undertaker, surely he might—”

“Sure as sin, her curse is on him! The boy is ensorcelled by her. Amos’s solution was taking his family from Lichport to Saltsbridge, and that is hardly an option now, is it?” said Mrs. Bowe.

Mrs. Bowe told Mother Peale about what she’d done, explained each particular part of the spell that had been binding the girl’s ghost to the waters of the millpond: She described how the bees had brought tiny droplets of the pond water to her, how she’d bound the ghost to the pond with strong words, brought the ice down over the pond to hold fast the curse. And she told Mother Peale that she didn’t think the curse would last for much longer. “I am only one person. The drowned girl is very old. Very strong. And Silas’s connection with her makes it harder to hold her down. I tried to see to that, so the binding has affected him, too. He remembers very little about her. When he tries to recall more, it falls away from him. That is just as well, for the more he tries to summon her name, the harder it is to keep her put down.”

Mother Peale shook her head. This was an awful business.

“Mrs. Bowe, even as she is, if the boy has feelings for this girl, he might . . .
change
her. He might
help
her. In any event, if he had no feelings for her at all, surely he would want to settle her business himself. We should leave it to him. Dealing with the dead, any of the dead, is his job, and I can tell you he takes it mighty serious now. He wouldn’t want anyone, not even so good a friend as you, meddling in his work.”

“You’re not suggesting I should have let this business between them continue?” Mrs. Bowe said. “You
know
what she is, and what he may become, and where this might lead!”

“Aye, I know. You have acted only out of care for the boy. I am just saying that holding something like her down, well, it’s not easy. And you’re right, as it stands, she won’t be kept much longer. When she rises she again, it will be worse, I suspect. I am torn, Elleree Bowe. I’ll say this: The boy has spent a lot of time dredging up his own secrets, things he’s borne a long time, and he’s done a fine job of making his life a good bit better. And now here you come, trying to hide something from him. Something he’s made his own business. Something private. I don’t like it. Still, now, something must be done. You’ve seen to that.”

Mrs. Bowe heard but pushed past Mother Peale’s words.

“So we are in agreement, then?”

Mother Peale wore a pained expression on her face. She didn’t like any of the options. “All right, Mrs. Bowe. I will do what I can and stand with you. Come what may. And I agree, three is always best. It must be three. But the boy’s mother . . . that will take some pretty talk.”

As they arrived at the corner of Temple Street and Charles Umber’s old house came into view, Mrs. Bowe felt her knees buckle. Mother Peale held her up with strong arms and Mrs. Bowe breathed deeply, striving to regain control as they approached the stairs of the front porch. Though many of Uncle’s things still lay inside, the north wing had been locked and the entire house had been Peace Bound. Its terrible, long midnight had passed, and now it was merely the home of Dolores Umber. Mrs. Bowe told herself that, over and over:
Only a house. Only a house. It is only a
house . . .

D
OLORES HAD RE
CEIVED A HASTILY WRI
TTEN NOTE
on poor quality paper saying that Mrs. Bowe and Mother Peale would like to pay her a visit, and she had replied by return messenger, “Please do come tomorrow at four,” although she was uneasy about them coming by. At least if they arrived late in the afternoon, they could be given tea and sent on their way. No one would expect to stay for supper. She wondered why they wanted to see her. Were they worried about her house? Had some business been left unfinished? Was there something more to clean up in the north wing? Or, had they all become unspoken friends since the . . . unpleasantness? Now she’d have to think about her words before she spoke them, and sound polite and formal, and she was already tired today. Make no mistake, she liked playing Lady of the House, it was just that some days it was easier than others.

Dolores picked up her yarn basket and put it in a cupboard by the fireplace. She had taken up knitting again. The last time she had so much as looked at a ball of wool was just before Silas was born. Now it brought her comfort. She found it soothing. Maybe it was the regularity, the predictability of it. One stitch after another . . . on and on. You could almost see the future in the stitches. Stick to the pattern and you always knew what you were going to get: a sock, a sweater, a scarf. There was certainty in needlework, and she needed more of that in her life. Still, Dolores felt that having the knitting basket by her chair would make her look too domestic in front of company. She had been making a scarf for Silas. She liked the idea of him wearing something she’d made for him. Like a mother’s blessing around his neck wherever he went. The days were still cold enough to need one.

She walked slowly through the reception rooms at the front of her house. Everything was in place and the small table in the parlor was set for tea. After “the incident,” many of the peculiar objects in the house had been moved to the attic. Less to dust, and most of those carved things and old fossils and statuary unsettled her. She kept out most of the Roman and Egyptian pieces, finding them stately, and the odd stuffed hippo-lion was simply too heavy to move. So the “Ammit,” as Silas had called it, was still at the foot of the staircase, standing guard. Now, the silver—that stayed too. Every stick of it. She had hired some girls from the market to come by and do the polishing. Then, she had thought it best to keep them on, a few days a week, to do a little light cleaning and sometimes a bit of cooking. One girl would have been sufficient, but no one in town wanted to work in Charles Umber’s house by herself, so it was two or nothing. Having the extra help felt good. She liked hearing the sounds of people working around her. It made the house feel more alive somehow. She could pay for it now, so why not? Why begrudge herself a little pleasure in life? And the way all that silver shone from the table and the hutch and the top of the buffet! It made the whole house feel clean and grand. For Dolores, the silver bowls, candlesticks, and cutlery changed the very quality of the air.

She heard the knock at the front door and waited for one of the girls to come from the kitchen to answer it. Mother Peale and Mrs. Bowe were shown into the parlor and they were invited to sit down on recently reupholstered chairs.

“Well, ladies,” said Dolores, “to what do I owe this honor?” She managed a small smile, but there was something about the three of them together in the same room that made Dolores feel distinctly tense.

“We’ve come about Silas. Not to worry you, but—”

Perhaps mindful of the bad blood between Dolores and Mrs. Bowe, Mother Peale interrupted.

“Begging your pardon, but why mince words? Dolores, we’ve come to you, in the ancient manner, for the benefit of kin. Silas needs your help and we come on his behalf. We ask that you go with us to the millpond, and there speak some certain words that will ensure his safety.”

Dolores’s already small smile pulled very tight and nearly vanished for an instant before she said sarcastically, “‘Ancient manner’? ‘Certain words’? Ladies, if I didn’t know better, I would think you are speaking of witchcraft. Really . . . it’s so unfashionable.” She tried to make herself laugh a little at saying it out loud, but she could only manage to clear her throat.

Mother Peale straightened her back and struck her cane hard on the floorboards in disgust. “Witchcraft, some may call it,” she chided. “I call it simply a woman’s work. The work that may set the tilted world to rights again. Our daily bread, I call it.”