Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy) (8 page)

“Silas, please! I am delighted to learn of your concern for me, but let me get inside. I’m cold.”

Quietly, Silas moved to one side, then followed Mrs. Bowe in and closed the door. But annoyance was rising in him again. Why was she being so coy? And why was she with his mother? What could the two of them possibly have to talk about? He suddenly and very keenly felt that awkward place inside him that was filled with question marks: a name he couldn’t quite remember, a night when he could smell Mrs. Bowe’s perfume on the wind just before . . . when . . . when something awful had happened. Without waiting for her to take off her coat, or for any explanation, Silas started in on her once more.

“I know you’ve done something again. Why were you out all night with my mother? What’s happened to—” He stumbled in his mind, trying to dredge up a name. It was just below the surface. He could nearly grasp it, but then it slipped away again into the murky water and his face twisted in frustration. “What’s happened to
her
? Why can’t I remember what’s happened? What have you done?”

She looked down, away from his stare, to pull at the tips of her gloves. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Silas, and please, lower your voice, I am
right
here.”

“You’ve done something. I can feel it in my mind, like you’re pushing me away from something I want. What did you do? Why were you with Mother Peale and
my mom
? Tell me now!”

“Silas, I am your friend, I’ve only been—”

“Just tell me what you’ve done; then we can talk about our friendship,” he said low in his throat, almost a growl. He hadn’t planned on getting this upset with her, but now his face was flushed. She was treating him like a child and he couldn’t hold his anger down any more.

Mrs. Bowe took her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. She turned away from him, saying, “I can’t believe you would take such a tone with me. Please just—”

But Silas spat his words at her before he could stop himself.

“Mrs. Bowe,” he intoned, lowering his head, keeping his eyes locked on hers like an animal about to fall upon its prey, “speak!”

Below his words pulsed the tone of command, the same tone an Undertaker might use to banish or summon. That power in his voice grabbed hold of her. Before she could recover, she turned so quickly that the neat bun on the top of her head unwound, spilled about her shoulders, and hung down in front of her face. She paused and slowly brushed the hair aside. In her eyes was a fire Silas had not seen since she’d come to rescue him from his Uncle’s. Her back went rigid. She put her face directly in front of his and said, “Silas Umber, do not presume to command me, not in my own house, not ever!” Her tone was so severe, so shot through with cold anger, that Silas took a step back. But his frustration flared again, and he said tersely, “Then let me ask you more politely, since you’re feeling fragile: Kindly stay out of my business, Mrs. Bowe. You have done something to me and to . . .
her
.” Already her name had sunk so far down in his mind that he knew he’d never reach it. “I can feel your hand in this, tonight. Even before tonight, I heard your voice just before she disappeared.” His anger was like flying dust in the air between them and it stung both their eyes. “Mrs. Bowe, until you fix this, whatever it is you’ve done, I can’t forgive you. I won’t. Until you’ve undone whatever your meddling has made, I want you to stay away from me.” He walked toward the door leading to the hallway between their houses. “It should be easy to avoid me. I am visiting an estate on the north side of town, on family business, and may be a day or two. If you want us to continue being friends, fix this by the time I get back, or I’ll find a way to fix it myself.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly for a moment, waiting, expressionless. When Mrs. Bowe opened her eyes, she looked pained, as if she’d been frightened of something she’d seen, and been hurt by his words. Her shoulders drew back as if she were going to begin ranting at him, but then she removed her coat and draped it slowly over the carved newel post of the banister. Taking the first three steps, she looked down at Silas in the foyer and spoke slowly and formally.

“Silas Umber, there are some things that shall not go with you when you leave Lichport. The ledger must remain in your house.”

“I am not
leaving
Lichport!” he insisted.

“The fact that you say this tells me you are not ready to make this journey. It is too soon. You are not bound to answer this call, Silas. Not now. Not yet. Is this some whim born of your reading? It is customary to wait until a messenger calls for you.”

“If you are referring to the word carved into the door of my house, yes, I think the messenger has already come and gone.”

Mrs. Bowe paled visibly. “You are not prepared for this. You know almost nothing of the world that awaits you.”

“You’re right,” Silas said.

“Good! Bless you for seeing some reason anyway.”

“I mean that you’re correct, I don’t know enough about this place to go there directly just yet. I should make a stop or two to make inquiries, as is customary.” He was serious, but the sarcasm dripped from his words.

Silas could tell that Mrs. Bowe knew exactly what he meant. He was goading her now. He assumed she would not approve of his returning to the house of the Sewing Circle. She turned and climbed the stairs without a word, but when she reached the landing, she looked back down and said quietly, sincerely, “I wish you luck upon your journey.” But the flush rose again to her face and she wrung her hands in abject frustration. “Worse and worse. That is how you’ll make things if you continue on in this reckless manner. Beginnings are delicate things, Silas Umber, yours especially. You have taken only the merest step upon your path. Child, learn to walk before you run.”

Silas started to speak but remained silent, letting her stinging words claim precedent in the air. He knew that Mrs. Bowe thought of him as a child, despite everything they’d been through and everything he’d done. He turned and strode out of the foyer, and when he reached the end of the hallway that connected their two houses, he stepped across the threshold and firmly shut the door. And for the first time since he’d begun living next to her, Silas locked the door behind him.

S
ILAS WENT INTO
HIS STUDY
and finished checking the contents of his satchel. He didn’t know what he might need, if anything, for a short visit. He had his jacket and the death watch already. While he chose to obey Mrs. Bowe’s direction to leave the heavy ledger behind, he made sure the small
Book of Cerements
from the ledger’s back cover was still in his bag from his recent visit to the lighthouse. He had added much to its pages in the past months. He would bring with him the rest of the contents of the “work” bag—the crystal vial, a small silver bell, an iron knife, some old keys, a can opener—that his dad had used in his time as Undertaker. He didn’t know what all of them were for, but it felt wrong to take them out. Around his neck was the pendant his father had given him bearing the head of the god Janus. From the closet he retrieved a pair of gloves and an old, ill-fitting, moth-eaten overcoat to keep off the cold, even though the town map showed it was only a short walk past Fort Street to the entrance of the Arvale estate.

He would make two stops first, and then see what was waiting for him beyond the gates.

The downstairs parlor of the mansion of the Sewing Circle was lit with candles. They were expecting him. Silas found this unsettling. In truth, everything about the three made him uncomfortable: the mystery of them, the weight of their knowledge that gave an edge to every word they spoke, and how they always seemed to know so much more than they ever told him. They made him feel small, and Silas didn’t like it. Still, he needed them, needed their insight, and he wanted to look upon the tapestry, their great work, to “see what may be seen,” as they might say.

Silas entered the large beamed chamber at the top of the long staircase. He did not immediately see the three ladies, but he could hear the clicking of their bone needles and the low hum of the spinning wheel, ever turning. As Silas stepped closer to a familiar corner of the tapestry, he noticed three figures embroidered at the edge at the Millpond, one with a walking stick, one with a shawl, and one he knew, just from the proud angle of the neck, representing his mother. Silas felt his anger stir again, annoyed even at the symbolic depiction of others meddling in his business.

“You have strong women in your life. Strong women who care deeply for your safety,” three voices spoke in chorus as they stepped out of the long shadows of the room. The women wore tight-fighting gray gowns that spilled onto the floor in tendrils and wisps of fraying fabric. Their sleeves came to points over the backs of their white hands, and it was hard to tell where their fingers ended and their sharp bone needles began.

Silas kept looking at the tapestry, trying to be nonchalant. “I can take care of myself.”

“Truly? Then why do you keep coming back here to visit us?” asked the first of the three pointedly. “Are you so addicted to the wonders of the textile arts? Do you adore the sound of our voices?”

“Is it love?” asked the second, her voice trailing off in a little laugh.

Their warm banter putting him briefly more at ease, Silas said, “Indeed, it must be the pleasure of your company.”

“That is well. That is most well. We like admirers,” the three said together.

“But,” Silas began, “now that I’m here . . .”

“Here it comes,” said the first of the three a little wearily. “All right, then. How may we help you? You know how we live for your little queries.”

“I am looking to learn something about a house once owned by my family.”

“Oh, yes?” said the second knowingly. “And what house would that be? The Umbers have made homes in many houses.”

“Arvale.”

At the speaking of that name, the three began to laugh. “He means
the
house. He has eyes but sees nothing!” They stepped back, behind him, farther away from the tapestry.

“Silas Umber, look again.”

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“It’s already before you. Right there. Close your eyes and look again, squint if you must, tilt your head. The angle of approach is everything.” Silas backed up and turned his head one way, then another. Slowly, by half-closing his eyes, he began to discern elements of the tapestry he hadn’t noticed a moment before. Nothing had changed. Not a stitch had been added or subtracted, but he could see that some buildings, taken together as a whole, formed parts of a greater structure. The more he studied the tapestry, the farther back he stood, the more of this other building he could discern. It seemed at once both isolated and connected to everything else in the weaving.

Silas noticed that the ladies now stood with him on both sides, one to his left, two to his right. They were admiring their work.

His mind bubbled with so many questions that he could draw forth only the most obvious. He had accounts of the house’s history, and had found references by his father and other Undertakers that suggested Arvale’s significance, but many of the pieces didn’t seem to fit together. Silas could tell by their smiles that the ladies knew much more about Arvale than he did.

“Can you tell me what I’ll find when I arrive at this place?”

“You know we cannot. That depends very much on you and why you are going. You know this already.”