Authors: Bethany Griffin
The Fall (28 page)
He wipes away tears with the back of his hand. “We were close as children,” he says. “And I wish I could have saved her. It was one of the reasons I came here, to see what I could do, and if she was gone, as I suspected, to try to save Roderick.”
“And what do you think, now that you're here? Now that you know?”
“Roderick has changed Melancholia is overwhelming him. Is it the family illness?” he asks.
“Yes. You must get him away from the house. Please. It is killing him. Living here is killing him.”
So, there it is. All these years of waiting for Roderick to return to me, and neither of us is happy. He is going mad, and I am mad with worry for him.
“He doesn't want to leave,” Noah says slowly. “I've mentioned travel. He says he's finally found his place.”
“That's the madness speaking,” I tell him. “This was never his place before.”
“On the contrary.” He's intense now, his eyes boring into me, forcing me to believe him. “He was always aware that his place was here, with you. School was merely an interlude.”
Again, the tragedy nearly overwhelms me. I waited so long for Roderick, and here we are. Deteriorating, going mad, at the whim of the house.
I tap my fingers against the side table, remembering that I must distract the house when I can.
“It doesn't matter whether he says he wants to stay. He isn't in his right mind. To save him, you must get him out of the house.”
“Even when he says he is dying?”
I've thought about this, considered. Can Roderick survive now without the house? I don't know. But what other options do we have?
“Yes.”
This was why I had summoned him. We need a hero. Watching his reflection, framed by the baroque mirror that Roderick introduced to the room, I know that he is exactly what we need. His answer does not disappoint me.
“I will do whatever you ask.”
M
y sleep is disturbed by footsteps pacing up and down the hall through the night. I sit up, terrified. Dr. Winston? Sometimes I am sure that he must have a hiding place beneath the house, or perhaps within. That he will burst through the wall, like Cassandra, except this surprise will be horrible and end with someone dead. I hope, if he was trapped somewhere, he died quickly.
Or maybe he is just waiting someplace, waiting for us to die.
How strange it is, I think, that there are three of us here, now, so near the end, when before it was always me, alone. Having companionship is addicting. Wonderful. The very idea of being alone again strikes fear into me. Despite the circumstances, the odd moments when Roderick is painting and Noah sits across the room, scanning a book, fill me with contentment.
This morning, Roderick sleeps late. Exhausted.
I sit in the parlor and ask the servants to bring me tea. I dilute it with water, since the taste of tea itself is overwhelming, like most foods have become, but the warmth is soothing.
“Good morning, Madeline,” Noah says from the doorway. All of the bedrooms in this wing look out into this common area, with couches and rugs and bookshelves and Roderick's musical instruments scattered about.
I offer him tea. He sits next to me, too close, perhaps, on the love seat, and accepts the cup from my hands.
“You keep so much inside,” he says. “I can tell. You are so worried, so overwhelmed.”
“Yes,” I say. His concern unsettles me, and I find myself dangerously close to tears.
“Perhaps it would help to tell someone,” he suggests. “I would be honored to listen.”
I have been waiting for a very long time to tell someone.
I reveal myself to him, slowly at first, and then in a rush, blurting all of my hopes and my tenuous dreams. He's easy to talk to, with attentive eyes and a manner that doesn't indicate that he thinks I'm lying, even when the things I say must seem difficult to credit, or that he's judging me. Without meaning to, I tell him things that I've never told Roderick. I explain in whispers how I want to destroy the house, how I must destroy it. I beg him to protect my brother so that I can finish this task.
“I cannot do what I have to do, if there is a chance it will hurt my brother. I've always tried to protect him.” I've asked him before, to take Roderick out of the house, but I hadn't explained fully, hadn't said the words, until now.
His eyes narrow, but his expression is gentle. Does he know how desperately I wanted Roderick to see the truth? And now the truth is killing him.
“I understand,” he says.
I don't know if I believe him. How can anyone understand, really? But it is good for him to at least pretend, to listen and try.
“Thank you,” I say.
“But I haven't done anything. Not yet.” He holds out his arms. “Come here, Madeline.”
We are sitting so close that we are touching, and it seems natural to go into them, to let him hold me. I put my face against his shoulder.
“There, there,” he says, holding me tight and comforting me like I could be a child. I think how different this is from embracing Roderick or Dr. Winston, how different he is.
Roderick walks into the room, stopping on the threshold, either to give us a moment of privacy, or to allow me to compose myself and dry my tears.
N
oah comes to my room later, stopping in the doorway. I would invite him in, but I don't want to shock him with such impropriety. Instead, I meet him at the threshold. He is on one side of the door frame, and I am on the other.
“Roderick is sleeping,” he says. “He needs his rest.”
“Did he take something?” I ask. The doctors leave sleeping draughts. I don't take them, but Roderick often does.
“Something from a mug.” His brow creases. He's worried. He cares so much about my brother.
Noah leans into my room, close enough to kiss me.
“Do you find me very much like him?”
“In looks. Not in disposition. Roderick is a dreamer. You are more . . . focused. Grounded. I like that.”
I have dreams. I told him earlier. But they are not as flimsy or as intellectual as Roderick's dreams.
“If I asked you, would you take me away from here?”
It isn't a fair question, and I would never leave Roderick, but it's pleasant to pretend.
He closes his eyes. “I would never forgive myself for abandoning Roderick. But yes, if you asked, I would take you away from here. I would put you on my horse, and take you tonight.”
Possibilities float before me. Futures. He would take me away from here.
I could be happy. I could live. I deserve this future. But I can never claim it.
“Madeline!” It's Roderick, calling my name from his bedchamber.
“I think he's calling in his sleep,” I say.
“Yes, he calls for you when he's distressed. Only you can soothe him.”
“I won't leave him, of course.” I couldn't. We both know this. Still, there is sadness as the possibilities wither away.
I will not abandon my brother. I will see this thing through.
T
he servants have prepared a feast. It is to be their last meal for us, though they don't know it. Tomorrow they will be sent away, to the coach station, or at least to the closest village.
We are seated at the new dining room table that Roderick had built to replace the one that was broken. The wood is imported. The beam that fell from the ceiling was carted away ages ago, and I do not know what holds up the ceiling now.
By the light of dozens of candles, the room is almost elegant. The candles create shadows where the ghosts can hide.
Roderick is smiling.
But our guest senses the ghosts and is frightened. His eyes dart to the shadows, even as he denies his fear. He watches Roderick.
“I dreamed of dying last night,” Roderick says. “I don't know when I will die, but I know how it will happen. My fear will be the end of me; I will die of fear.”
His hands shake as he relates this bit of madness.
Noah laughs. “You can't die of fear.” He doesn't sound certain, though.
It's the right thing to say. The mood lightens. Roderick grins. “Always so literal, so practical.”
“What else is there?” his friend asks.
“What about you, Madeline?”
Shyness overcomes me. I don't know how to answer.
“Do you live in a world of reality, or in Roderick's world of the sublime and the supernatural?”
There is nothing I can say that will please him. In my world, the sublime and the supernatural are the only realities.
S
o, this is my last night in the house. It is well past midnight.
I am in my bedroom, but not alone.
He is so beautiful. I watch the firelight on his face; it makes him glow gold. His eyelashes are dark against his cheeks.
He should not be here in my bedroom, but propriety doesn't really matter; I'm destined to die young.
The fire is warm. I stretch, basking in the warmth, forgetting my fear. We speak in whispers. His hands on my skin are cool and soothing. His sleeve brushes against the velvet of my dressing gown. In the warmth of the candle, our skin is the exact same shade.
I choose this. So few things, in my life, have I had control over.
Still, no matter what experience I've gained, I remain curious about kissing. I suppose that if I die tomorrow, I will continue to wonder about it, and all the other things I've never done.
F
rom the widow's walk, I wait for Roderick and Noah to leave, to cross the causeway. I must be sure they are gone. The servants have left on their holiday.
The trapdoor creaks open. I whirl around.
Dr. Winston.
In a way, I've been expecting him. Listening, waiting.
I'm surprised by how handsome he looks. When I imagined his return from the grave, I expected him to be coated with loathsomeness and dirt. Madness should be apparent, not hidden behind a kindly smile. Of course Roderick only becomes more beautiful as he loses his mind too, so I should not be shocked. They are both Ushers, after all. We are all Ushers.
“Once again, the house has chosen,” he says. “Mr. Roderick, who never even cared about any of it.” When he moves, I note that he has developed a peculiar twitch.
I watch him warily, unsure what he will do.
“Did you think it would be you?” I ask. My eyes scan the roof, looking for an escape route. Besides the flagstones below, my only way is back to the trapdoor, and he is blocking my path.
He shakes his head. Dr. Winston has changed. Whatever madness had taken over in the end, when he proclaimed himself my keeper, it seems to be gone. His eyes look clear again, dark, but not mad. He holds out a pocket watch.
“I found this under the house.”
I hold out my hand, and he drops it onto my palm. My first pocket watch. The one I took from Dr. Paul's overcoat. The one I lost in the tarn when Cassandra drowned.
“I found this too.” He reaches into his coat and brings out a leather collar that belonged to Cassandra. “I thought you should have it. She was the only one who was ever really worthy of your love.”
How did this come to be under the house? I reach for the collar. It belonged to her and is precious to me. When he gives it to me, I snatch my hand back, as if his touch might contaminate me. But instead of threatening me, instead of crooning that he yearns to cut me open, he reaches out a hand to me. Unlike the rest of him, it is smeared with grime from beneath the house.
“Come with me,” he says. “The house doesn't care. Its love is fickle. Come with me. We understand each other. None of the rest of themâRoderick, his friend, they won't understand.”
“No,” I say. I step back, prepared to dash back if he attacks me. He is between me and the trapdoor.
“Madeline?” Tears run down his face. “I don't hear the house anymore. Something happened when I was crawling beneath.” His entire body twitches again. “I'm like the pocket watch. The house isn't aware of me. I could help you.”
“You killed Emily,” I say. He doesn't deny it.
“So many regrets,” he says. And I think how Emily loved him, and that she was kind, and he killed her. “I see clearly now that the house has released me. We understand each other. Choose me.”
I can't, of course. I can't choose anyone. That is not how this is going to end.
He smiles. The smile from beforeâa ghost of the young man who came here with hopes of understanding the illness and making me well.
The house is resourceful. Even if he doesn't know it, it is still using him to try to stop me.
“No,” I tell him. “No,” I repeat, and take another step back.
The house rumbles, and planks shift beneath my feet. Dr. Winston's hand snakes out. He grasps my wrist.
I don't mean to push him, not really. But my hands connect with his chest, and he falls, just as the roof begins to cave in. A platform appears below, ready to catch him, but my vines twine around and around and strangle him.
I spin. I have to get to the crypt before Roderick and Noah return.
But the roof is falling away beneath my feet, even as I grab at splintering planks and slide into the house. I land in an unfamiliar corridor, ceiling tiles raining down around me.
I dash down the corridor. At the end are a staircase and a suit of armor. With all of my momentum, I shove the armor hard, my hand vibrating dully from the impact with the hollow breastplate. It falls into a mirror, which shatters, even as I leap over and keep going.
