3 Elle To Lie #3
A cold draft runs across my spine, pricking my heating body.
Mr. Croxton sets down his tea, nearly drained already. “I’m apprenticing as a glassblower, miss.”
“Why did you join the society?” I ask.
“Do you need the boy’s entire history before you?” Douglas demands from across the room. “He’s not suspicious. Let him go.”
I’d tell Douglas I want to ensure no threat’s been missed. But I won’t kid myself. Hot, slick tendrils flow through my bloodstream, urging me to keep the glassblower. Devour him.
“My father.” Mr. Croxton sits straighter and glances at the door. “He helped write the letter asking the lieutenant governor for support. He’s been sick, so I’ve taken on some of his tasks.”
“A good man,” Douglas asserts. He can’t know that. “He may have a family. A wife who loves him. Children waiting for him to come home.”
Mr. Croxton has come to the island on a Sunday and doesn’t wear a ring on the hand clutching the teacup. His apprenticeship will have him wait at least a week before investigating further, if he’s telling the truth. I need more time and more information.
“Girl,” Douglas all but growls, “scare him off or I will.”
Maybe he can, using the small tricks within a ghost’s grasp of the living world.
I picture Liney upstairs and shivering. The hunger doesn’t lessen, but I can distance it a little.
“I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Croxton, and thank you for answering my pestering questions.
” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as though bashful while I take the cup and saucer back from him.
I settle them on the kitchen counter beside the knife.
“My father won’t return tonight. I fear the storm may delay him and endanger you, should you stay. ”
“Storm?” Mr. Croxton rises from his chair, voice pitched up half an octave.
One tendril squeezes around my calf at my defiance of its potential meal. I bite down on my cheek to stay the course.
“You didn’t feel it in the air?” I draw my eyes up wide and cover my mouth in a show of surprise.
“A nor’easter formed off the coast, and it’s coming quick.
It could easily wreck your boat. We can’t have that over what, you’ll excuse me, sounds like a problem that is in your society’s favor until my father collects his wages. ”
Mr. Croxton turns to peer out the window. The frost has covered the bottom half of the glass. A cough sounds from upstairs. This isn’t one of the creaks and sighs of the lighthouse. It’s Liney.
Mr. Croxton pauses, tilting one ear up.
I slip my hand around the handle of the knife. This time the hunger ripples through me, heat and want and fury. It craves the fulfillment of my deal. Promises ripe for consumption.
Douglas moves between us. “Try,” he pleads, a desperate break in his voice as his watery gray eyes search mine. “You don’t want another ghost.”
Mr. Croxton wouldn’t become a ghost. When I killed Douglas, I made no sacrifice of him. Whatever vengeful mechanism stopped him from moving on won’t save Mr. Croxton. His fate will be worse.
One thought breaks through the hunger’s hold on me. It sounds like Liney, as though she has whispered it through the boards above. If you don’t try, you’re the same as the monster you scorn.
“Did you hear that?” I ask. Mr. Croxton nods. My tongue burns, punishing me for this mercy. “Mice. They drive me mad, but they’re always gone when I search up there.”
Mr. Croxton nods but drags his gaze higher until he’s staring at the boards. The quickening pulse in his stretched neck echoes in my ears. “I could take a look for you?”
“No, thank you.” It comes out too rushed. “Mice are oddly nice company, and I can’t bear even a little mouse come to harm.”
Douglas chokes on a laugh but says nothing. His neck begins to bleed again. Dark trickles cascade down the wound’s ragged edges. If I focus, I’ll see his long-dead pulse live on in the bubbling of his windpipe.
“A kind heart.” Mr. Croxton turns away as I let go of the knife handle. “That won’t help you should you find too many holes in your grain bags.”
I laugh and lead him to the front door. A growl rumbles in the pit of my stomach. My blood sings with want—to rip, tear, submerge.
“I’ll tell my father that you came,” I say, opening the door. My gut twists like eels in protest, worse than any month’s blood. “If he can give you the number, can you send his wages to a lockbox on the mainland? A relative in town could collect them.”
That’d be me, disguised in men’s clothes as I am on every supply run. A trip to the postmaster’s is a much safer bet than visiting the Society for Harbour Safety.
“If he can find time soon…” He adjusts his coat collar closer around his neck. Against the cold or me? “I had the oddest thought. As an undocumented girl here, known only to your father, you’re the closest a living person can be to a ghost.”
Mr. Croxton bids me a good day, leaving me confounded at the statement. I keep a hunter’s stare as he walks across the small field and disappears into the copse. Wind ripples through Liney’s dress, but I don’t feel it anymore. My skin has heated beyond its touch.
Douglas calls praises of my restraint behind me. I can’t focus on him. Mr. Croxton got away. He could destroy us. I bought us a week until he may check on us again. What would explain the absence of James Douglas then? Was the ghost comment innocent or a threat? Was I convincing enough?
Minutes pass, and I can’t move from the doorway.
Fluffy snowflakes drift onto my hair and melt into its waves.
If I let go of the frame, I’ll bolt after Mr. Croxton.
A slice, a twist, a pull. So few motions, such little exertion, to pierce a soul from its vessel.
My nails leave crescent moons in the wood.
The wind quiets for a moment. As though promising me easy passage toward my prey.
“Hold!” Douglas calls, realizing victory isn’t what’s hiding beneath my skin. “You’ve done it, girl. Hold.”
He passes through me. A chill spreads, a relief compared to the oil lighting inside me.
My own muscles beg me to give in. He’s only one man. One of thousands from the mainland. There could be many reasons for his absence on Monday. And he was so suspicious. How can I trust that he won’t bring a group of society men after the storm?
My greatest worry this morning was how to cook a cod to Liney’s liking. Now our world could crumble at the will of a glassblower.
“I’ll check that he’s gone,” Douglas promises. It’s a strain for him to make it a few feet from the scene of his murder, save if I will him to. “Hold. It will pass.”
He disappears into the woods. Is he lying? Could he find a way to appear to Mr. Croxton and betray me? No, he would’ve shown himself to Liney long ago if he could. I’d be touched at his efforts if they were for me. Douglas will never truly help me, only Liney.
I should’ve followed the man to the boat. I should’ve killed him here, made it quick, thrown him down to the basement. Douglas has injected a ridiculous weakness in me when I once wouldn’t hesitate.
The tendrils slither up my spine, spreading their influence to my nerves. It won’t be denied its appetite.
“Elle?” A quiet whisper from the staircase. Liney.
It’s all I need. I push back from the frame and slam the door. Wind, snow, and bloodthirst be damned. The hunger snarls inside me but knows it won’t be satisfied quite yet. I breathe slowly through my nose. Salted fish, doused fire, and leftover tea ground me.
“You can come down. We’re safe.” For now. I’ve only delayed the inevitable.
Liney descends the stairs, nearly tripping in my trousers. Like a child playing dress-up. She hugs me tight. I glance out the kitchen window. There, like a portrait, is Douglas. He nods to me, and then his gaze softens as it drifts to Liney before he begins blinking in and out of my vision.
Mr. Croxton is gone. Douglas helped me. We weathered the storm of my hunger, yet it was only the first pang of the night.
“Will you open a private letter box when you leave after the storm?”
I hoped she hadn’t heard the details, but that wish didn’t account for the old boards and echoing rooms.
“I’ll wait.” We’ll hunker down and weather both storms here. Liney stiffens her hold. “We have supplies to last through the winter. I’ll visit them in spring. Mr. Croxton will have other duties by then, I’m sure.”
Liney leans back, her eyes glassy. “No trip to the mainland? All winter?”
“One thing at a time, little ghost.” I change my tone, lower and faster. No room for rebuttal. “The storm is our priority. You secure the windows and clear driftwood. I’ll check the oil level for tonight. Then I have a treat for your supper.”
Liney doesn’t argue, but there’s clear displeasure in her slumped posture and heavy steps.
We need a night in together, free from the worries of men living and dead.
The gale will batter our home, but we’ll be safe as church mice.
She’ll forget all the excitement of the day when we are alone, as we are meant to be.
The hunger remains, circling in my system. Biding its time.