okay,” she whispered, “it doesn’t stink very bad.”
A breath of sound, “Willow …”
Pulling herself up on one elbow again, Willow pressed her ear to her grandmother’s mouth and strained to hear more. Was Mémé trying to say she still loved her and wasn’t angry? No other sound came, and Willow sank back down, nudging against her grandmother, harder this time, trying to shove her out of the wettest area, pushing her own legs deeper into the cold. She scrubbed at tears. She deserved to be there. “You still love me. Don’t you!”
Tory appeared, already halfway across the room, her nightly glass of sherry in hand. Seeing her, Willow jumped. In her mind, Tory could move through the house, coming and going without sound and staying invisible until she appeared just inches away. Did she love to scare Willow, or like Sister Dominic Agnes, did she want to catch her being bad?
At least Tory didn’t have her sewing basket with her. Papa liked how his sister made dolls for poor children, but Willow hated seeing the dismembered arms and legs stuck full of pins and looking as though they’d been torn off soft bodies. And heads, too, with sharp pins run through their empty faces, marking the placement of absent eyes, noses, and lips. To Willow, the pins were just the sort of thing doctors would do to her given the chance.
Studying the emaciated figure of her mother, the red in Tory’s glass began to shiver. Her mother looked grave. She caught hold of her emotion, turning to Willow. “Why are you crying?” And at Willow’s shrug, “Go on, it’s time for bed.”
Willow wanted to go to her own bed, but she wouldn’t leave Mémé or let Tory discover the wet. She gripped Mother Moses. “I’m supposed to sleep here. Mable said so.”
“Did she eat anything?”
On the floor, Friar hadn’t moved since his meal, and Willow told her eyes not to look at him.
Tory hesitated a moment longer before leaning over the table, blowing out the last candle, and starting for the door. “Sleep there if you want, I don’t suppose it matters.”
In the quiet, motion at the dark turret windows caught Willow’s attention. Nickel-sized white flakes swooped inward, the snow kissing the glass and melting. Then movement from Mémé’s desk where the top sheet of paper Willow had pushed to the corner earlier drifted to the floor.
Making sure the blankets didn’t lift this time, Willow wiggled out and ran for the page. Her damp dress, especially a wet place along the hem, stuck to her leg. Her mind said, Yuck, yuck . She crawled back into bed with her treasure. Fighting an urge to throw up, she wedged her legs into the wet.
The tiny black words swam and made her rub her eyes again. She knew many of them by heart. Week after week, Luessy had read the lines to her. Familiar words here and there helped her remember whole lines.
“The soul,
Forever and forever…
longer than the soil is brown and solid
longer than water ebbs and flows….”
She read as slowly as she could, spending the words as carefully as nickels and dimes, wanting them never to run out.
“I will make the true poem of riches,
to earn for the body and the mind whatever
ad…here…is, adheres,
and goes forward and is not dropt by death.”
Mémé was listening. Willow felt sure of it, and she turned the page over, reading words Mémé had underlined.
“Of your real body…
item for item it will ee…lude
the hands of the cor…pus, corpse-cleaners
and pass to fitting spheres….”
A tear rolled from Mémé’s eye, moving down the side of her face and into her thin hair. Willow had never seen her grandmother cry, and the sight made her moan. She let go of the page she’d been holding and using a finger, pushed the next tear back towards Mémé’s eye. The skin under Willow’s finger stretched and smoothed, as though she pushed through frosting.
She tried again to read. She wanted to read louder than the pounding in her chest, louder than how
A breath of sound, “Willow …”
Pulling herself up on one elbow again, Willow pressed her ear to her grandmother’s mouth and strained to hear more. Was Mémé trying to say she still loved her and wasn’t angry? No other sound came, and Willow sank back down, nudging against her grandmother, harder this time, trying to shove her out of the wettest area, pushing her own legs deeper into the cold. She scrubbed at tears. She deserved to be there. “You still love me. Don’t you!”
Tory appeared, already halfway across the room, her nightly glass of sherry in hand. Seeing her, Willow jumped. In her mind, Tory could move through the house, coming and going without sound and staying invisible until she appeared just inches away. Did she love to scare Willow, or like Sister Dominic Agnes, did she want to catch her being bad?
At least Tory didn’t have her sewing basket with her. Papa liked how his sister made dolls for poor children, but Willow hated seeing the dismembered arms and legs stuck full of pins and looking as though they’d been torn off soft bodies. And heads, too, with sharp pins run through their empty faces, marking the placement of absent eyes, noses, and lips. To Willow, the pins were just the sort of thing doctors would do to her given the chance.
Studying the emaciated figure of her mother, the red in Tory’s glass began to shiver. Her mother looked grave. She caught hold of her emotion, turning to Willow. “Why are you crying?” And at Willow’s shrug, “Go on, it’s time for bed.”
Willow wanted to go to her own bed, but she wouldn’t leave Mémé or let Tory discover the wet. She gripped Mother Moses. “I’m supposed to sleep here. Mable said so.”
“Did she eat anything?”
On the floor, Friar hadn’t moved since his meal, and Willow told her eyes not to look at him.
Tory hesitated a moment longer before leaning over the table, blowing out the last candle, and starting for the door. “Sleep there if you want, I don’t suppose it matters.”
In the quiet, motion at the dark turret windows caught Willow’s attention. Nickel-sized white flakes swooped inward, the snow kissing the glass and melting. Then movement from Mémé’s desk where the top sheet of paper Willow had pushed to the corner earlier drifted to the floor.
Making sure the blankets didn’t lift this time, Willow wiggled out and ran for the page. Her damp dress, especially a wet place along the hem, stuck to her leg. Her mind said, Yuck, yuck . She crawled back into bed with her treasure. Fighting an urge to throw up, she wedged her legs into the wet.
The tiny black words swam and made her rub her eyes again. She knew many of them by heart. Week after week, Luessy had read the lines to her. Familiar words here and there helped her remember whole lines.
“The soul,
Forever and forever…
longer than the soil is brown and solid
longer than water ebbs and flows….”
She read as slowly as she could, spending the words as carefully as nickels and dimes, wanting them never to run out.
“I will make the true poem of riches,
to earn for the body and the mind whatever
ad…here…is, adheres,
and goes forward and is not dropt by death.”
Mémé was listening. Willow felt sure of it, and she turned the page over, reading words Mémé had underlined.
“Of your real body…
item for item it will ee…lude
the hands of the cor…pus, corpse-cleaners
and pass to fitting spheres….”
A tear rolled from Mémé’s eye, moving down the side of her face and into her thin hair. Willow had never seen her grandmother cry, and the sight made her moan. She let go of the page she’d been holding and using a finger, pushed the next tear back towards Mémé’s eye. The skin under Willow’s finger stretched and smoothed, as though she pushed through frosting.
She tried again to read. She wanted to read louder than the pounding in her chest, louder than how
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