the blood of his victims.
We search the dusty shelves of the library. Together. He touches my shoulder sometimes, touches my hand as I turn the pages of the book. He is gentle and kind.
If we were married, then perhaps I would not be so frightened at night, when the house seems more powerful and the curse wraps itself around me and caresses me before it strangles me.
I distract myself with stories of the past. Sneaking down to the secret places below the house. Mr. Usher does not approve. He wants to avoid the darkest places, but I know we canât ignore the crypt. The curse originated on those very foundation stones. Our ancestors walked here. When I go into the vault, all the history of the House of Usher presses down on me, filling me with power to face the future.
48
M ADELINE I S S IXTEEN
âM adeline,â Dr. Winston says, pressing a packet of crushed herbs into my hand. Iâm supposed to empty the packet into my tea to help me sleep. âMeet me in the hall of portraits. In an hour. When Iâm done mixing and measuring medicines for the other doctors.â
His voice is much warmer than when he talks to the older doctors. With them he is cold and detached. With me, he is . . . attentive.
I wait in the hallway, so I donât lose track of time. Some hours, like the ones in the middle of the night, seem to last forever, while others flow so quickly there seems to be no interval between meals, no time between sunrise and sunset.
How will the house react to meeting him here, away from the doctorsâ tower and all of their clicking, clanking machinery? In my bedchamber, he wonât allow his eyes to linger on me like he did when he asked me to meet him.
49
M ADELINE I S F OURTEEN
âI tâs daytime, isnât it?â I ask the housekeeper, peering out the door into the semidarkness. Cassandra pulls me toward the door and whines.
I know it is midmorning, but there is no evidence that the sun still exists, and the landscape is mottled with clumps of fog. I look to the housekeeper, seeking her advice. Should I let Cassandra go out into this midday twilight?
âWhen the fog is this thick, you can get lost in it, and wander into another world,â she warns.
Would another world be better or worse than this one?
Then she is back to her duties, ignoring me. None of the servants wish to hear me speak, but the housekeeper is particularly superstitious. Iâve heard the whispers. She believes I am ill luck incarnate, which is why she wonât meet my eyes. The servants think the curse revolves around me, not the house. They fear my misfortune will somehow rub off on them, that my very presence in the same room could destroy whatever good fortune theyâve got left. And if they live here, they arenât very fortunate.
Gathering my nerve, I pull the door open, and Cassandra bounds outside. I named her after a doomed prophetess that Roderick told me about, an ignored twin, left behind, who could see the future.
Cassandraâs been pent up inside for too long, and she leaps into a run, bypassing the garden. I take a few tentative steps away from the house. For a moment sheâs ambling along, and then sheâs gone, through a patch of mist . . . to nothing. I cry out and follow, but the cold hits me in the face. Itâs cold even for February, and as I try to catch my breath, I catch sight of a shape in the mist. I step forward, straining my eyes, and then I see a creature, partially obscured by the fog. I canât tell what it is; the mist is too thick.
At a bark from behind me, I turn, relieved to see Cassandra bounding toward me.
The housekeeper is standing in the doorway, holding a lantern up above her head. The lantern is losing its battle with this unnatural darkness, but it illuminates the harsh stone of the house above her, smooth except for one great fissure.
A wide crack starts at the kitchen doorway and goes upward, but itâs impossible
We search the dusty shelves of the library. Together. He touches my shoulder sometimes, touches my hand as I turn the pages of the book. He is gentle and kind.
If we were married, then perhaps I would not be so frightened at night, when the house seems more powerful and the curse wraps itself around me and caresses me before it strangles me.
I distract myself with stories of the past. Sneaking down to the secret places below the house. Mr. Usher does not approve. He wants to avoid the darkest places, but I know we canât ignore the crypt. The curse originated on those very foundation stones. Our ancestors walked here. When I go into the vault, all the history of the House of Usher presses down on me, filling me with power to face the future.
48
M ADELINE I S S IXTEEN
âM adeline,â Dr. Winston says, pressing a packet of crushed herbs into my hand. Iâm supposed to empty the packet into my tea to help me sleep. âMeet me in the hall of portraits. In an hour. When Iâm done mixing and measuring medicines for the other doctors.â
His voice is much warmer than when he talks to the older doctors. With them he is cold and detached. With me, he is . . . attentive.
I wait in the hallway, so I donât lose track of time. Some hours, like the ones in the middle of the night, seem to last forever, while others flow so quickly there seems to be no interval between meals, no time between sunrise and sunset.
How will the house react to meeting him here, away from the doctorsâ tower and all of their clicking, clanking machinery? In my bedchamber, he wonât allow his eyes to linger on me like he did when he asked me to meet him.
49
M ADELINE I S F OURTEEN
âI tâs daytime, isnât it?â I ask the housekeeper, peering out the door into the semidarkness. Cassandra pulls me toward the door and whines.
I know it is midmorning, but there is no evidence that the sun still exists, and the landscape is mottled with clumps of fog. I look to the housekeeper, seeking her advice. Should I let Cassandra go out into this midday twilight?
âWhen the fog is this thick, you can get lost in it, and wander into another world,â she warns.
Would another world be better or worse than this one?
Then she is back to her duties, ignoring me. None of the servants wish to hear me speak, but the housekeeper is particularly superstitious. Iâve heard the whispers. She believes I am ill luck incarnate, which is why she wonât meet my eyes. The servants think the curse revolves around me, not the house. They fear my misfortune will somehow rub off on them, that my very presence in the same room could destroy whatever good fortune theyâve got left. And if they live here, they arenât very fortunate.
Gathering my nerve, I pull the door open, and Cassandra bounds outside. I named her after a doomed prophetess that Roderick told me about, an ignored twin, left behind, who could see the future.
Cassandraâs been pent up inside for too long, and she leaps into a run, bypassing the garden. I take a few tentative steps away from the house. For a moment sheâs ambling along, and then sheâs gone, through a patch of mist . . . to nothing. I cry out and follow, but the cold hits me in the face. Itâs cold even for February, and as I try to catch my breath, I catch sight of a shape in the mist. I step forward, straining my eyes, and then I see a creature, partially obscured by the fog. I canât tell what it is; the mist is too thick.
At a bark from behind me, I turn, relieved to see Cassandra bounding toward me.
The housekeeper is standing in the doorway, holding a lantern up above her head. The lantern is losing its battle with this unnatural darkness, but it illuminates the harsh stone of the house above her, smooth except for one great fissure.
A wide crack starts at the kitchen doorway and goes upward, but itâs impossible
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