Page 9 of Darkest at Dusk
“You missed supper,” she said as she crossed the room and retrieved his book from the floor. She set it down with unwarranted care, unease coiling through her as she stared at it.
Because a part of her knew.
A part of her had known from the second she crossed the threshold.
Still, she asked softly, “Are you hungry?” Her voice trembled as she turned back toward her father and stepped closer. “Papa?”
His lids did not flutter. His chest did not rise.
A cold, crushing weight settled over her, pressing inward, slow and merciless. It found the soft places beneath her ribs and burrowed deep.
With a gasp, she fell to her knees at his side and cupped both his cheeks. His skin was too cold.
Her breath hitched in her throat. Her voice broke as she whispered, “Papa…” The word came out small, her voice that of a child.
She pressed her ear to his chest. Listened. Waited. Willed his heart to beat. Wishing so hard. Wishing in vain. The silence roared.
A sob broke loose, raw and helpless, as she rested her cheek against the worn fabric of his sleeve. The shadows crowded closer, silent witnesses to her grief. A whisper slithered through the hush, curling into her ears, through her veins.
The wraith by the fireplace drifted forward, one arm outstretched, fingers curled like talons. The ever-present whispers became a storm, growing frantic, clamoring to be heard. Gone…Lost…Darkness…Alone…So alone…Do you see me…Can you see me…See me…See me…Hear me…I am here…I am here…Let me in…Let me touch…Let me…
Grief loosened the knots she tied in herself, rushing in through every gap. It was ever this way when she was unable to maintain the barrier that kept the wraiths at bay, when fatigue or strong emotions chipped away at her carefully constructed wall and the voices carried through the ethereal place that was not quite of this world.
Cold sweat beaded on Isabella’s brow. Her chest tightened, bound by invisible cords, the whispers cinching tighter with every breath.
He is dead…he is gone…gone…But we are here…we are here…
In her mind, she cried out, “Leave me alone. Go away. Go away!” But aloud she said nothing. She longed to slam her palms against her ears to block the voices, but she knew from experience it would not help.
She would still hear them.
And they would still know she could hear them.
But to admit by word or action that she heard them would be to admit she was mad.
Never say it. Never show it.
“Oh, Papa.” Her throat was thick, her mouth dry. Grief flayed her, her heart left naked and shivering.
Limbs heavy, thoughts foggy, she pushed to her feet. The voices she pretended not to hear rose and fell, making her shiver, following her when she moved through the house, half-blinded by tears. She drew the curtains and stopped the clocks to mark the moment of her father’s passing. She hung black veiling over the mirrors to prevent his soul from being trapped in the glass. Not that she believed his soul was at any such risk. His voice was absent from the cacophony that surrounded her, which meant he was gone, truly gone, his soul no longer here.
But she had no way to explain that to the servants, so she followed the rituals of death in order to mask the truth behind their familiar shape. She had learned to wear the pretense of sanity like a second skin—tight, fragile, always at risk of tearing away to reveal the madness beneath.
As she carried out her grim duties, she thought that she could summon the housekeeper and the maid and the cook. Perhaps she should. But she felt it was her place as Papa’s daughter to see the things done with her own hands. So, she carried out the tasks alone save for the whispers that lifted the fine hairs at her nape.
At last, she settled on the floor at Papa’s side and held his hand as the night crawled by, his still form draped in a blanket she had fetched. The shadows swelled and twisted at the edges of her vision, the whispers swelling with them. A pile of ash and a few glowing embers were all that remained of the fire when she roused herself hours later. By then, her tears were dry, and the whispers had faded to a rustle of dry leaves.
Her hands found the chain at his neck, lifted it over his head, and drew the iron key free. Its weight settled in her palm like a brand. She curled her fist around it, her grip tight, her resolve tightening with it. Papa had worn this key always; now, she would do the same. The legacy it locked away was hers, whether she wished it or not.
Chapter Three
Days later, Isabella endured the procession to the graveyard. The first carriage held the minister and pallbearers—six decrepit old men, contemporaries of her father’s. She half-feared they would all perish from overexertion in their effort to carry the casket to the grave.
The hearse came next, a black carriage with glass sides, its silver fittings dulled by the drizzle and grime. The undertaker had urged Isabella to choose one with four horses, a canopy of ostrich feathers, velvet coverings, and an elaborate cornucopia of flowers to flank the coffin. She had declined, settling instead on a hearse and mourning coach with one horse each, a modest floral arrangement, and a complete absence of feathers.
Papa had never been one for elaborate displays in life; she could not imagine he would want them in death. A good thing, that. Though she did not yet know the whole of it, she knew that Papa had left their finances in a less-than-ideal state. The figures she had not yet dared to total rustled at the edges of her thoughts like papers in a draft.
Isabella sat in the third carriage clutching a posy, accompanied by Mr. Christopher, her father’s solicitor. He was a middle-aged man with plump, ruddy cheeks and kind eyes. She had hired mourners to walk before the hearse, but there was no one else to remain at her side for Isabella had no close relatives to weep with her on this day. She had been a late life baby, a child neither of her parents had expected, an only child born to only children. Her mother had exhaled her last breath as Isabella drew her first. It had always been just Isabella and Papa. And now, just Isabella.
