Household (40 page)

“You!”

Echoing words, one after the other, drummed into her ears.

There was a smell in the room, noxious, horrible, rotten and putrefying.

Livia coughed and flung a hand over her nose, but the smell remained because it was coming from her flesh. She stared at her hand and wailed in horror. The skin was wrinkled, splotched with huge brown spots. She screamed and her voice was old and cracked, a thin wail from a withered throat. The wind blew around her, icy cold, pushing her toward the rim of... what? She could not remember; the wind was no longer cold but was dry and hot. She must open a window else she would suffocate.

“Livia, Livia, Livia, do not step beyond the rim.”

The voice was only a thread of sound, and she did not know what it meant. What was a rim? She looked about her but could see nothing because she had no eyes. Her eye sockets were on fire with agony, blood pouring down her cheeks and dripping from the tangled veins which had once nested her eyes. Screams tore from her throat, screams of pain and fury. “Eyes, eyes, eyes, give me back my eyes,” she howled and beat blindly on whatever substance lay beneath her. She crawled forward, because something was urging her forward.

“Dreams, Livia, dreams, dreams... do not leave the circle!”

She must leave, even if she had to crawl. She must crawl like a worm, for her arms and legs were gone, too. She was nothing but a rotting trunk. She writhed and pulled herself along the floor like a giant worm. Where was Septimus, and why was she lying on the floor?

She looked up and could see the hooded figures standing around her beyond the rim, trying to draw her forward. They were reaching for her.

She rolled back, trying to rise and go somewhere... where? The chair... but she could not rise. She was in terrible pain. Her head felt as if it had swelled to twice its size. Her temples throbbed, each throb a separate beat of agony. Sharp pins were pricking her arms and legs. Her breast burned. Knives seemed to be slashing at her belly. Terrible pressure was being applied to her ankles and feet, as if they had been squeezed into iron boots.

She drew herself into a ball, trying to stifle her cries but to no avail. Great groans were being wrenched from her as she felt the pain inside and out. Her heart seemed to have been pulled from its moorings, throbbing out its message of torment to every lacerated portion of her anatomy. And through it all, she knew that it could be stopped, that all pain would cease immediately. The hooded figures at the rim of the circle were chanting, and in their chant she heard the words that told her that once beyond the rim of the circle, she would be free of the agony. It was the circle itself that was filling her with such excruciating, atrocious pain. Mindlessly, she edged forward, forward, dragging her useless limbs toward that barrier of monolithic figures. Once she was among them, she would be free from this intolerable suffering. Closer, closer, closer, she came to their bare feet.

“Livia, no, no, no, it is an illusion. I suffer as you suffer, but it is an illusion.”

She was past believing that warning. An illusion could not cause such frightful torture. She must walk but could not walk! She could not rise; her limbs were knotted. She must crawl. They were stepping back, preparing to let her through. There was a crash as if something had slammed against the glass, and at the same time she heard another sound, as if a door had banged back against the wall.

The pain was suddenly, miraculously gone. Livia staggered to her feet. Looking down, she saw to her horror that she had been very close to the rim of the circle. As she moved back hastily, an arm went around her waist. She tried to pull awray, until on looking up she saw that Septimus was holding her. A cry escaped her. He was so pale and hollow-eyed as if he had suffered a grave illness.

.

“Ahhhh!” A long scream deflected her attention from him. Looking around her, she saw
them
, clad in the hooded capes she remembered from the dreams that had not been dreams. They had come. Of course, they had come! They had been standing at the rim of the circle chanting, but they were not chanting now. They were screaming, all of them, running hither and thither around the room, bumping into each other and cowering in fear as if trying to get away from something. Several of them were looking upwards, their hoods fallen back. She recognized Charlotte and Vivienne, and there was Christopher, dodging from—bats! Three huge bats were wheeling and darting about the room, descending to attack with powerful claws, to beat with mighty wings. She moved closer to Septimus, clinging to him fearfully. She had never seen bats attack anyone. They were such shy creatures, flying out at eventide to become lost in the trees, but these were not shy. And there was someone else. He had just walked in through the garden entrance, a tall man with golden hair and strange slanted eyes. He was smiling, but it was not a nice smile. He was angry, furious. He had left the garden door open, and now he was picking up one struggling cowled figure after another and throwing them out into the garden as if they had been made of rags rather than flesh and blood. Oddly, Livia did not feel afraid of him. Instinctively, she knew he would not hurt her. He had caught Vivienne in his arms now, and it seemed as if he would throw her out too, but no, he had changed his mind. Clutching her against him, he ran out into the darkness. Vivienne’s loud scream beat against Livia’s ears and was abruptly replaced by her wild laughter.

Her strange hysterics was drowned by screams from those members of the Circle who still remained inside. Septimus’s arm suddenly grew rigid. He was staring straight ahead. Livia, following that mesmerizing gaze, saw to her amazement that an attractive and well-dressed young couple had arrived. One was a very pretty girl with blonde hair piled in a high pompadour. She wore a loose silk coat over an evening dress that seemed far too sophisticated for one of her years. She could not be more than 18, and Livia judged her to be even younger. The man with her seemed about 22. He, too, was in evening clothes, and though his coloring was dark, his features proved that he was either a brother or a cousin of his companion. Who were they? She did not think they were members of The Seventh Circle. No, she was sure they were not, for the four or five people remaining in the room were giving them a wide berth. In fact they, whom she now recognized as Christopher, Joyce, Charlotte, Charles and Mabel, were shrinking back, their faces drained of color and their hands raised as if they were warding off more bats.

The bats, she realized with no little relief, were gone. Even though they had certainly created a welcome diversion, she could not like the ugly creatures. And where had they come from? The more she thought about it, the stranger their fortuitous arrival seemed—almost as if they had been sent! She paused in her thinking. On the face of it, the idea of bats being sent was ridiculous. It suggested that someone had been able to tame and guide them. She had never heard of anyone taming bats. It would have to be done at night because they all slept during the day but at night were hungry and hunting.

“Livia, are you feeling better, my love?”

“Better, yes.” She looked up at Septimus, and meeting his concerned gaze, her memories of the past few hours descended like a dark cloud. Hours? Had it been only hours? She glanced at the clock. It was a little after 11:00. She had been in the library for three hours; it had seemed more like three centuries. Yet the fear and the agony were fast fading from her mind. In their place were only questions, and these were being deflected by her curiosity concerning the brief bat invasion. “I am so confused,” she murmured. “These people... where did they come from? And why are the others so frightened?”

They were more than frightened, she realized. They were hysterical, practically gibbering with fear as they bolted for the garden door, their screams reaching her from the garden and then fading into the night.

“To answer your question,” Septimus said gently, “I believe they were afraid of what my psychic antennae tell me are your distant relations.”

“My relations?” Livia looked at the young couple and received cordial nods from them both as they came over to her.

“My dear child,” the girl said. “You are Livia, are you not? But I could not be mistaken, even if I had not known you were present. You have Mark’s eyes, and you bear a certain resemblance to my elder sister Kathleen. Also you have my father’s height. Don’t you agree, Colin?”

“Yes, my dear Juliet.” He looked about him. “Where has Lucy gone?”

“I didn’t see her go.” Juliet frowned. “But Swithin is ill.”

“Yes, she must have gone to him, poor love.”

“Who are you?” Livia demanded. “How can we be related and... did you say... Lucy?”

“You’d best sit down, my dear.” The girl looked at her compassionately. “We have a great deal to tell you.”

“My father...” she began concernedly.

“Your father, my child, is in very good hands,” Colin assured her.

“Yes,” Septimus agreed, “I am sure that is true.” Leading Livia to the couch, he sat down and drew her against him. Feeling his arms around her, she could no longer protest. Gratefully, she rested her head against his shoulder while Colin and Juliet, pulling up two other chairs, prepared to discuss family relationships.

❖

Swithin Blake awakened from a disturbing dream in which he had been back in his family mausoleum in Boston, mourning the death of the only woman he had ever loved. But when he opened his eyes and looked toward the chair near his bed, he found to his extreme relief that it had been a nightmare. He smiled at Lucy. “I fear I ate too much at supper.”

Her beautiful eyes lingered on his face. “I didn’t notice that, my love. You are not generally a heavy eater.”

“There must be some reason why I had such a terrible dream,” he said shuddering.

“A terrible dream?” she repeated. “What did you dream, my dearest love?” Her hand, cool against his forehead, gently swept his hair back.

“I...” He paused and chuckled. “Do you know? I can’t seem to remember. It wasn’t very pleasant. I am sure of that.”

“I’m glad you don’t remember it.” She looked at him lovingly.

“Why are you sitting so far away, my darling?” he inquired. “Come to bed.”

“Very well.” She dropped the cloak she was wearing and revealed a lacy shift beneath. Slipping under the covers, she snuggled against him.

“Oh, Lucy, Lucy,” he said tremulously. “It’s been such a long, long time.”

“A long time? Since we finished supper and came upstairs?”

“It has seemed so to me. I wonder why.”

“You’ve had a little illness. I expect that’s why you’re a bit confused.”

“Have I been ill?”

She stroked his hair. “Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I think I do, but I’m better now. How could I not be with you beside me, my only love. Do you know that you are all the world to me, Lucy?”

She did not answer. She kissed him gently on his forehead and fluttered her long eyelashes against his cheeks before pressing her lips against his mouth.

“You are here,” he murmured joyfully. “Have you come to stay?”

“When have I ever left you, Swithin?”

“I thought you... had.”

“We agreed that it was a dream.”

“A dream, yes. And may I have no more like those, ever in my life.”

“I promise you, you will not.” She kissed his ear.

“I shall hold you to it, my heart.” He sighed, and his voice grew weaker. “I am tired. I don’t want to be tired with you beside me, my Lucy. I’ve missed you so dreadfully all these long years.”

“But I’ve been here with you. My, my, you’ve had some odd fancies tonight.” She put her arms around him protectively.

“I expect I have. Kiss me again, Lucy.”

She held him very tenderly and pressed another kiss on his lips. She heard his deep, rattling sigh, then felt him relax and lie very still, as once her grandfather had. She remained beside him a few minutes longer, and though he was past hearing her, she said softly, “Goodbye, my life, my love.” Slipping from the bed, she draped her cloak about her and went softly down the stairs and out into the rose garden.

As she had expected, the sun was a faint red glow along the horizon and the nightbirds were flying to their nests or to their caves, while in other nests a sleepy twitter reached her ears, a twitter and a stirring. She bent to smell the dew-touched roses, and with her two fingers she nipped one off and kissed it. It was growing brighter in the east. She had always loved the sun. She was allowed one glimpse of its brightness, and in that moment she murmured, “Swithin.”

❖

The sun was beginning its progress across the heavens when Mark, carrying a weary but still excited Vivienne in his arms, was arrested by something he saw on the grassy path that stretched between the rose bushes. He hurried the woman into the library and with unceremonious haste placed her on the couch, saying commandingly, “You’ll wait until I return.”

She laughed up at him. “Yes, Master of all Masters,” she teased. Having made his wants known, he strode from the room and back into the gardens.

Mark bent over what he had seen on the path. Tears formed in his golden eyes and slid down his cheeks. Amidst the keening of the banshee and her cat perched on the roof, he thought he heard his great-grandfather’s sorrowful lament as well. Kneeling, he bowed his head. Later, he began to dig a grave for Lucy among the roses.

T
he woman was tall and striking. She held herself like a queen, and though obviously past middle age, her face had an enduring beauty. If her skin were lined and her mouth pale, her eyes, golden rather than the unimaginative “hazel” used to decribe them on licenses and passports, were bright, young and, at this particular moment, fierce.

She stood beside a huge pile of luggage and boxes like St. Michael at the gates of Paradise. There was a flaming sword in her fiery glance. She seemed to be daring anyone to challenge her right to be on the platform. She appeared totally oblivious to the fact that she was inconveniencing the people that surged about her, awkwardly avoiding her crush of paraphernalia, as they met relatives or rushed to the trains that thundered into and out of New York’s Grand Central Station in this autumn of 1921.