Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy) (30 page)

“I am not lost,” Silas said, his voice unsteady.

“As you please,” Maud replied in a terse whisper as she turned away.

“Maud, please, you are not hearing me. I do not think—”

But she’d had enough excuses. She tore at her hair and wailed as Silas looked on, unsure how to calm her. He wanted to tell her that his work at the marshes had been based on guesses, that he hadn’t known then if anything he did would work.

“Maud! Maud!” Silas couldn’t think of anything to do but call her name. She would not answer. She sobbed frantically, casting aside the reins of self-control, her words an unintelligible mix of misery and Latin. Silas stood there, unsure what to say or do. Maud looked down from where she hung on the air and spoke through her tears once more.

“Go! Find
your
lost little girl! Leave me now to recover myself. Perhaps when you have settled your own mistakes you might again consider your obligation to your own kin. Until, then, leave me to my grief. Silas, go!

In her face, Silas saw pain and betrayal, but something else. Was it revelation or resolve? She had learned something from him, or figured out something for herself. He didn’t like not knowing what had she had gained from their exchange.

She drew her hand over her eyes to dry them.

Before Silas could speak again to comfort her, she rang her small bell furiously and Lars came running to the doorway. When Silas turned back to Maud to say good night, to tell her to be easy, that he would try to help her, she was gone.

As she departed the library, Maud Umber’s shoulders grew heavy, for she wore both sorrow and shame about her like a shawl of iron. She had shown her hand too soon. Silas knew what she wanted and how desperately she wanted it. She had pushed too hard and he had refused to help her.

Maud retreated to her private chapel. She lit no candles. Her tears were quickly drying.
What to do now?
she considered.
Perhaps Silas is truly unable to help me. Perhaps I brought him here too soon.
Yet, it might still all be for the good.

She thought she knew who had been released in the catacombs: perhaps the lost daughter of the one imprisoned in the sunken mansion. Yes. That seemed more than likely. Who else would have called out like that to Silas? What other spirit could sense so particularly Silas’s gifts? It must be the lost daughter. What a miserable time in the house that had been. Now her mind was turning, striving to call up the events of six hundred years ago. The girl’s name was stricken from the world. The
Damnatio Memoriae
had done its awful work, but the threadbare events of the past still hung in Maud’s memory. The father had punished the daughter. Why was that? Had there been a child?
Yes.
The girl had a baby, in secret, and the father had
put her away
, but not before there had been terrible curses all around and the threat of worse. But what had become of the baby? How in wrath the father had scoured the house and the forest for it! If Silas found the girl, he might find the baby, too . . . and then . . . the girl might be put back in the catacombs, the poor immoral thing. Or, she might take the waters and the baby could remain . . .
in the house. With me. Like the spirits of the mothers of the marshes, another child could bring me peace. And then . . . would I then ascend to some higher seat?
she wondered. If she was right about what and who the girl might be, why, there was already a bond. Had she been quicker to help, things might have gone another way long ago, the baby might even have come to her then.
Yes,
she thought,
this could be the ending of my many sorrows. Perhaps Silas’s settling of that terrible and ancient spirit could, in its way, serve to bring me peace.
Silas would find the ghost’s lost name.

Already, Maud could feel the house changing around her, passages and halls long sealed, now throwing wide their doors for the new Janus; old spirits stepping forth from the very stones of the walls, eager to speak to the one who might one day command them all. All she needed to do now was wait.
Abide, abide,
she told herself,
and all shall come to joy.

In her mind, like the dawning of the midwinter sun, there rose a small bright vision of the child. Only a child. Nothing more. She closed her eyes and could almost feel it in her arms. Silas would find the name of the lost girl, and bring her to the Limbus Stone. He would. He promised. Maud prayed that it might be so.

“O Holy Mother, Lady who is the defense of all, Glorious Queen of Heaven, preserve me now when my eyes are heavy with shadow and the darkness of death, and the light of the world is hidden from me. Oh, most gentle Lady, who was borne through the mist and into the midst of the angels and archangels and stood singing to thy glorious child, succor and preserve me in this dread hour when my heart’s ease waits close at hand . . . ,” she began, her words falling away into desperate repetitious whispers. “Let him find the name he seeks. Let him bring home the child, and bring it to me, and all will be well and all will be well and every good thing shall be well.”

Maud grew quiet. She lit a candle and sat in her chair within the glow, imagining the weight of a child, any child, in her arms. She looked with longing and jealousy both at the statue of the heavenly mother and the baby seated on her lap. When she’d lost her child she lost herself, her place as Undertaker, and any status she’d once held in the family. Her death had not improved matters, but only brought her grief into terrible focus. She knew this, she’d always known it, but she could not see beyond it. Only a child could bring her peace. She reached out for the statue. The carving was smooth with a patina of devotion and desperation. She took it from the altar and cradled the statue in her arms, rocking her body back and forth. She closed her eyes and began to sing so softly that her breath did not disturb the candle flame.

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child,

by, by, lully lullay.

O sisters too, how may we do,

for to preserve this day,

this poor youngling for whom we sing,

by, by lully lullay.

Herod the king in his raging,

charged he hath this day,

his men of might, in his own sight,

all young children to slay.

Then woe is me, poor child, for thee!

And every morn and day,

for Thy parting not say nor sing

my, my, lully lullay.

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child,

now mine
, lully lullay . . .

L
ARS WAS STANDING OVER
S
ILAS
, shaking him.

“Let go of the dream and wake!” Lars shouted, clutching Silas’s shoulders.

Silas threw his head from side to side. His hair and face were soaking wet, as if water had been poured over him in his sleep. He was sitting upright in the bed. His eyes were wide open, and he was staring in terror at something not in the world of the room. Lars looked frantically over his shoulder to be sure. The chamber was empty but for the two of them.

“Silas Umber, wake!” said Lars, striking him with an open palm across the cheek.

Silas’s head fell back, then rolled to the side, his eyes fluttering, but a moment later, he spoke.

“Lars?” he asked hoarsely.

“I am here,” Lars answered.

Silas looked up, his breathing labored. He was gasping as though there had been no air in the room. He could see the real worry on Lars’s face.

“It’s okay,” said Silas finally. “I’m okay.”

“What did you see?” asked Lars.

Silas shook his head, not wanting to answer.

“Silas—”

“Nothing more than I deserve,” was all Silas replied.

There was only the sound of their breathing in the bed chamber.

Outside the window, the howling had stopped. A sallow light crawled in through the casement.
Perhaps the furious spirit only comes at night?
Silas thought as he rose from the bed. It might be morning.

Woven throughout the twisted bedclothes, books and scrolls were strewn across the bed. Silas had brought them from the library and he’d fallen asleep looking for a name or a clue to the identity of the spirit from the catacombs, all to no avail.

His plan was to return to the library and spend the day there, continuing to search through the enormous volumes of family genealogies. Then, when darkness fell, if the ghost returned, he would ascend the tower to see if he could speak with the spirit, or call her into any state of conscious presence. Silas thought that if he could get her to talk, there might be a chance of calming her, and hopefully bringing her Peace. It would be better, he thought, to try this without Maud or anyone else about. He found little comfort in the simplicity of his plan or the desperateness of the situation, but he knew nothing of the spirit or its past, and so would have to go gather shards and join them together as best he could.

He dressed quickly. Before leaving, he looked out of his window toward the front of the estate. Everything was as it had been before he’d slept: Bricks lay scattered on the earth below the walls, and the path home was still nowhere to be seen. The trees remained woven together as if the road to Lichport had never been.

Opening the door of his rooms, Silas could hear music drifting through the corridor.

Somewhere, a violin played an elder tune, all in a minor key, all filled with longing. The music seemed to be coming from the stones of the wall, or emanating from a lower room, below the thick wooden boards and carpet, or perhaps drifting down from above, sifting past the beams. It rose and fell, and Silas imagined it was the house, singing to itself. The tune, a reminder of some age long gone, hung upon the air like smoke as they made their way toward the library of Arvale.

“Where does all the family stay?” Silas asked Lars, who walked a few steps ahead of him, leading the way.

“I really cannot tell you. I have wandered the longest corridors, visited rooms on every side of Arvale, and have found only empty chambers. Truly, Silas, they must reside within the very bricks themselves.”

When they entered the library, a fire was already burning upon the great hearth. Someone else had been there through the night. Without waiting, Silas began to explore the shelves, pulling out books and scrolls and piling them on the long table. Lars pretended to share an interest in the books for a few moments, but then took a pair of dice from his pockets and sat down on the floor and began to play with them idly.

Soon Silas was engrossed in reading, poring over pages, not entirely sure of what he was looking for, but hoping some hint of the spirit’s identity would rise from the words before him. Lars sat upon the carpet, playing with the ivory dice. Lars rolled a nine and then tried to hand the dice to Silas. “Your turn, cousin.”

Silas shook his head. “No, no. You roll for me.”

“How do you know I won’t cheat you?” Lars asked, raising an eyebrow.

Silas smiled but did not look up from the table. He reached down from his seat and put his hand briefly on Lars’s shoulder, saying distractedly, “Go on, I trust you.”