BONE HOUSE by Betsy Tobin Page B

mistress responds with the trace of a knowing smile.
    “In the arms of the devil, my dear.”
    Just then the painter arrives outside her chamber and she bids him enter. When he does, his eyes dart quickly to mine, then he bows and greets her formally.
    “I trust you’ve passed an easy night?” she inquires.
    “I have.”
    “And that you’ve heard the news,” she continues. “Our little village is not so small as to be completely devoid of entertainment.”
    The painter pauses. Her comment is intended to provoke him: a challenge of sorts, though admirably he does not take it up.
    “In my country, the thieving of a grave is not thought of in this way,” he says.
    My mistress frowns. “You misunderstand me,” she says coldly. “It was merely a figure of speech.”
    He nods politely. “Shall we begin?” he says.
    “As you wish,” she replies, waving me away with a hand.
    Once again I go below to the kitchen, but as I descend the steps leading to the great hall, I meet my master just entering from the cold. He stops short when he sees me, and his face is pinched and white, his hair completely awry. A fit of coughing overcomes him and he reaches out a hand to steady himself against the railing of the stairway. I take a step forward.
    “Sir, are you all right?” I ask. After a moment, the cough subsides, leaving him gasping for breath, which comes in great, raspy draws. Finally he regains himself and raises his head, his eyes now red and watery.
    “I have been to see her,” he says in a voice that is barely more than a whisper.
    I stare at him, unable to respond. “The grave,” he says. “I had to see it for myself.” His eyes are wild with anger now. “Who would do such a thing?” he says urgently.
    “I do not know, sir,” I reply. He pauses for a moment, regaining his composure.
    “How is the boy?” he asks. “He is recovered?” I think of Long Boy and his vacant stare. How does one recover from such a thing?
    “A little better,” I say slowly. “He was grateful for your gift,” I add untruthfully. My master nods, waves one hand, does not wish to speak of it: the dirt of money.
    “May God take pity on her soul,” he mumbles, more to himself than me. I nod and curtsy and he stumbles forward up the stairs with difficulty, grasping the rail as if it is a lifeline.
    When I reach the kitchen, Cook hands me a freshly baked scone. “You must eat,” she says sternly, and I do, for I find that I am suddenly famished. I eat one and then another, watching her movements, until she stops suddenly and turns to me.
    “The rising of the dead,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “It is a sign from God. A warning.” She regards me closely and I stop chewing, my mouth filled with bread. Cook is prone to superstition but her fears are not without cause. She crosses herself, then raises her eyes again to mine.
    “It is an omen, an ill one, to be sure,” she says.
    I stay with her until the others return: their presence seems to have a calming effect, and she continues about her work as if no talk has passed between us. After a few minutes I slip away unseen, hoping to check on Long Boy, wondering if my mother has returned. When I reach the cottage, to my great relief I find him there. He seems to know me this morning, though his cheeks are unusually bright and there is an excited spark in his eye. As soon as I enter, he crosses to me eagerly and grabs my hand.
    “I have seen her,” he says. “I have seen her in the night, and she will come for me.”
    I take a deep breath, reach a hand to feel his brow. His temperature has risen again, no doubt a result of his night wanderings.
    “Your fever has returned. You must lie down.” I take his arm and gently ease him back onto his bed, covering him loosely with the bedclothes. But as I do something catches my eye beneath his blankets: a small, worn volume bound in cloth of deepest crimson, its threads fraying round the edge. The boy reaches for it and in