Chapter 5 #2
“That woman. His daughter—Miss Carmichael. Something weren’t right about all that business. I saw her body in the receiving tomb, before they buried her. She looked too good for three days dead. Her skin still had color to it.” The man scrapes his foot against the gravel. “I’ve heard things, too.”
“What?”
“People have seen her. In town, like. Wandering the streets in the same dress she was buried in.”
I swear beneath my breath. I was so careful that night, taking the back alleys in the wee hours of the morning after my escape. But Charleston, and especially the Peninsula, is at its heart a small town. All it would take is one person seeing me out their window to start the chain of gossip.
“Are you saying Miss Carmichael isn’t really dead?”
Billy barks a dry laugh. “It’s whether she stayed dead. Your mother ever tell you any stories, growing up?”
“I suppose so, yes. Fairy tales and the like.”
“Well. My mam’s stories would make your skin crawl. About monsters. Old horrors. Things like the Abhartach and the Dearg-Due, a beautiful woman risen from the grave, who hungers for the blood of men.”
“I’ve heard those old tales.” The officer chuckles. “Meant to scare children and keep them in their beds. Surely you’re not implying that’s what’s happening here?”
“I saw the papers. Read about that dead prossie they found. Heard she didn’t have a drop of blood left in her body.”
The constable clears his throat. “We’re still investigating that. Try to put superstitions and gossip aside, Billy.”
“Fair enough, sir. But mark my words. If it’s a Dearg-Due, that prossie won’t be the last body to turn up.
Just watch. Any woman that’d kill her own sister .
. . she might have it in her to kill again, wouldn’t she?
The lads were talking about it at the Hibernian meeting, just last week.
Some of ’em used to work for the family.
The Carmichaels. Won’t own slaves, so they hire our sort for work.
The Scots think themselves a cut above us, you know. ”
A chill runs up my back, from far more than the cold marble crypt behind me. It took only one person seeing me on the street to start the rumor that I still live. And despite the constable’s warning, I have a feeling Irish Billy won’t stay quiet.
How long will it take for word to spread that I’m a blood-drinking, undead murderess, risen from her grave? It seems ridiculous. But the Lowcountry is a place that lives and breathes superstition.
I wait for the men to depart, until I can no longer discern their voices, and flee through one of the cemetery’s side gates.
I’ve no real idea of where I should go next, or where I might hide.
My disguise has been successful thus far, but how much longer will it work?
I think of Arabella—that flare of recognition in her eyes when I stumbled into her at the pawnshop.
I must assume she recognized me. It will no longer benefit me to believe otherwise.
My image will have been all over the papers, with news of my “death” on my way to the gallows. Something that sensational wouldn’t easily fade from the public’s consciousness. It’s only a matter of time before someone else recognizes me, even if Arabella didn’t. I need to leave the city.
I stay close to the river on my way back to town, my mind awhirl as I comb through my limited options.
I can’t chance the steam ferry to Mount Pleasant—too crowded.
But with the money I’ve stolen, I have more than enough to buy food and charter a skiff across the Cooper.
I’ll take refuge in the salt marshes for now, on one of the many barrier islands along the coast.
By the time I reach town, I’m wedded to my choice.
I buy a crust of bread from a vendor in the market, just as he’s closing for the day, and fill my new leather water flask at the artesian well.
After midnight, once the streets have emptied, I walk to the eastside wharves, staying in the shadows.
Exhaustion tugs at my limbs, the sorrows of the day taking their toll.
I’ll find a place to sleep, close to the wharves, then hire a skiff at dawn.
I’m nearly to the docks when someone whistles, high and loud.
I freeze in place, ducking into a doorway.
“You there. Boy!” The voice is authoritative and loud. One of the dock officers on patrol, no doubt. “I see you there, hiding. Come out. I only want a word with you.”
I slow my ragged breathing and unfold from the doorway. A young, clean-shaven guardsman stands there, in the guttering light from a streetlamp. He nods at me and smiles tightly. “A bit late to be on the streets, isn’t it, lad?”
I don’t answer, my mind combing over the reasons why a boy might be out this late on a weeknight.
“How old are you?” he prods, taking a step toward me.
I dip my chin. “Four . . . fourteen, sir.” I’m quietly grateful that I’ve always looked younger than my age.
“Does your mother know you’re out here alone?”
I could almost laugh at the irony of his question. “I don’t have a mother anymore, sir. I live with my aunt.”
“I see,” he says, giving me a calculating look. “Why are you out so late?”
“My cat. She’s been lost these three nights past, and I thought I heard her crying.” The lie is so quick and clever I can’t help but be proud of it.
“Well, best hurry home. There’s only trouble to be found this late. There was a murder just a few streets away.”
“Tonight?” I feel my skin blanch. “A . . . a murder?” Another one?
“Yes. Now hurry along. And don’t let me see you out here again.”
“Yes, sir.” I stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. I must be deferential and walk on, and look as if I’m going home, lest the officer follow me and ask more questions I don’t want to answer. But if I truly did have a cat, I’d still be worried about her. “What about my cat, sir?”
The officer’s lips purse. He shifts his weight from side to side impatiently. “What does she look like, and where do you live? If I find her during my patrol, I’ll bring her home to you.”
“She’s a ginger cat,” I lie. “And I live there.” I wave my hand in the general vicinity of Guignard Street.
He gives me a curious look. “Well, run along now.”
I turn and walk away briskly, with purpose, as if I’ve somewhere to go. When I’m nearly to the corner, I turn to look. The guardsman has gone back to his patrol, pacing the riverfront with steady, long strides.
I sigh, my shoulders wilting. Another murder. Probably a lady of the night, like Sally, close as I am to Elliott Street’s brothels and taverns. I’m doing the right thing, leaving. These streets no longer feel safe. For many reasons.
I tuck into an unlocked stall in the market and rejoice at the sight of a shriveled orange the dock rats have yet to find. After eating its stringy, tough pulp, I collapse into myself, my grief over Papa and my fears of the future taking hold. When sleep finally claims me, I dream of Rebecca.
In the dream, we’re both young, and it is Christmastide.
Mother sits in the background with her tatting as Rebecca and I play by the fire with new porcelain dollies.
But something isn’t right. Rebecca’s doll looks just like her.
But my doll has no eyes, no face. Her neatly parted brown hair is her only defining feature.
“What will you name her?” Rebecca asks. Her eyes are bright, and her color high—the perpetual roses in her cheeks even more florid, as if she’s feverish.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “What would you name her?” I stroke my doll’s soft hair.
“Prudence . . . or perhaps Temperance.”
“She has good Christian values, does she?” I ask, slyly.
“It’s more that she’s plain. Like you. Those are good names for a plain girl.”
I bite my lip and turn to study the flames flickering in the grate.
Tears bristle in my eyes. Rebecca doesn’t mean to be cruel.
She’s only parroting the things Mother says: that she’s the pretty one, and I’m the clever one.
Never mind how that makes the two of us feel.
I ignore the hurt coursing through me, and smile at her. “What’s your doll’s name?”
“Caroline, like Mama.” She admires the doll’s long-lashed blue eyes, her red-gold locks. “Someday, she’ll marry a prince and have a kingdom full of riches.”
“That’s a lovely thought.”
Rebecca turns her head and coughs. It’s soft, at first, and then it overtakes her completely, shaking her slender frame. Her face reddens, her eyes bulging as she fights for each wheezing breath. Mother rushes over, lifts Rebecca by the elbow. “To bed now, Becca. I’ll fetch your syrup.”
Irritation floods through me. It’s always the same routine.
Rebecca has a fit of coughing. Mother comes with the syrup.
And no one ever investigates why the coughing happens in the first place.
“This always happens in the winter. When there’s a fire,” I say.
“And again, in the spring. Could it be the oak leaves?”
“What?” Mother asks, frowning.
“The leaves from the oak tree. Siobhan uses them for kindling.”
“Your sister has a delicate constitution, Lillian.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“You’ve tired her out, playing too long, that’s all. You should know better. She needs her rest.”
Rebecca coughs harder, her eyes running with tears.
Mama pulls her away, the pretty redheaded doll forgotten by the hearth.
I pick up the doll, study her perfect features.
The urge to toss her into the fire overtakes me.
My anger and resentment at my mother’s favoritism and coddling simmer beneath the surface.
Instead, I lay the doll carefully on Papa’s chair near the hearth and steal three cookies from the tray Siobhan left on the sideboard. There are benefits to being invisible.