Julian #2
Abigail huffs, but I can spot a small smile playing at her lips, as if she’s happy she wasn’t the only one scolded today.
“Atty is always in the back courtyard, waiting,” she says. “He does it almost every day.”
“I see that.” After a moment, I decide that Atlas’s peculiar actions might be worth asking Abigail about. She is horrible at keeping secrets, after all. “He said he’s waiting for a cure. What does he mean?”
The girl next to me shifts uncomfortably, her eyes darting around the expanse of the music room. Almost as if she’s making sure we’re alone.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. Atticus won’t like it.” Her voice is small when she speaks, like she’s scared of disappointing me.
“That’s okay; you don’t have to tell me. Want to play the piano?” I stand, leaving my mug behind, and I move toward the grand instrument.
I can feel Abigail’s eyes on my back as I walk away, but I don’t want to sit around and pressure her. I’d feel horrible if she got in trouble because of me or if she felt obligated to spill the truth.
“Atlas is sick,” she suddenly says, and I stop, turning to face her. “He has a condition that makes him… different. Sometimes it’s not so bad, and sometimes he won’t even leave his room.”
“That… that sounds really hard.” I say nothing more, scared of pushing.
But Abigail nods softly, her sad eyes trained on her dress shoes. Something that was weighing on her shoulders seems to fall away, her small body sagging as she speaks again.
“Everyone is so worried for him, and they won’t tell me what sickness he has. They say I’m not old enough. But Atticus babies him, and Mother and Father do whatever they can to help relieve the pain.”
“The pain?”
“Yeah. Sometimes I can hear him crying all the way from the top of the west tower. His skin gets hot, and he starts acting funny. He won’t even let us touch him sometimes.” Abigail looks devastated by this fact.
I can’t seem to wrap my head around what disease this could be. Pain and hot skin? Acting funny and not letting anyone touch him? Nothing correlates with just one illness; at least, not one I know of.
“Is there anything I can do for him?” I ask her because I genuinely would like to help, even if his presence is stifling.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “All he can do is push through and wait for the cure, is what Momma told me.”
“Well, things will be okay,” I assure her, extending a hand in her direction. “Let’s play some music, yeah? It’s too sad in here.”
Abigail grins, hopping down from the couch to come and take my hand.
As her little fingers play a complicated series of notes, filling the space around us with a beautiful melody, my mind stays firmly planted on the peculiarness of Atlas Chastain and how much I crave clarification.
As if she were manifesting by speaking it into existence, I do not see Atlas for several days after my conversation with Abigail. Eventually, I asked Oscar about it, and he said that Atlas is currently very ill and only Hannah is allowed to care for him during this time.
I’ve seen her slip into the small, dark door that sits at the base of the stairs that lead to the top of the west tower a few times now, and my curiosity and concern have only grown.
But there’s nothing I can do, short of barging up there and checking on him myself, which is not allowed.
Does he become contagious after dark? Does he become volatile?
I slip under the thick cotton duvet that covers my bed, sighing softly as my head hits the pillow. With Atticus wanting nothing to do with me, and Atlas being sick, I spend all day with Abigail or cleaning the estate.
In the spring, I’ll tend to the garden.
I don’t feel I’m doing enough. My father and I are paid very well and given stellar benefits for working here at Chastain Castle, and I don’t believe I’m earning them.
At least Dad is constantly at work: running errands for Master Abraham or helping Oscar with grunt work. I, on the other hand, play with dolls, take braiding lessons from a nine-year-old, and clean.
I’m an in-house nanny taking care of only one of the three ‘children’ I’m supposed to be attending.
Before I can wallow any further, the bell by the wall titled W4: Abigail begins to ring.
The emergency bell!
I’m out of my bed a moment later, sliding on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black crewneck sweater, slipping my feet into my house slippers as I book it out of my room.
It takes me maybe a full minute and a half to reach Abigail’s room on the second story, across the estate. The air is stifling.
I knock once, loud and hard, before swinging the door open.
“Abigail?!” I rush inside, frantically searching for her.
The young lady is sitting on her bed, her blonde hair a mess and her pink nightdress soaked in sweat. She’s crying.
“S-sorry, Julie,” she forces out. “I’m having such a bad dream.”
“You are?” I sit next to her on the bed, running a hand soothingly over her hair.
“I’m dreaming that Atlas is being hurt. Right now, he’s being hurt,” she says, her big green eyes welling up with more tears.
“You’re not dreaming anymore, Missus Abigail. You’re safe now.” Only as the words leave my mouth do I hear it.
A soft groaning, as if it’s filtering in through the vent above her closet and coming from far away.
Like the top of the west tower.
“I’m awake now? Atty is safe?”
Terror courses through me. The soft, breathy groan comes again, and I know with everything in me that it’s him. The pitch, the softness, the way it rises an octave at the end, the same way half of his sentences do.
I’m hyper-aware of Atlas—of course I would recognize his groans of pain.
“Yes, my friend,” I tell Abigail, hiding my fear behind a gentle smile. “Let’s sleep now; everything is fine.”
“O-okay, Julie. Good night.” She lies back down, rolling onto her side to close her eyes.
I stay statue still for a few minutes, waiting for the sound of her breathing to even out. And as soon as it does, I run from the room.
Chest heaving, I stand before the door that leads to the west tower. I can barely breathe. The space around me has grown thick with humidity, and I swear I can see beads of condensation sliding down the wood of the door.
That insidious atmosphere is back with a vengeance, and all possible warning bells are going off in my mind. Something is wrong.
I should go up, right? I know what the rules are, but he’s hurting up there. Should I wake up the master of the house? Oscar? Would that be wasting time, when I could run up these steps in a matter of seconds and be by his side?
I don’t like the idea of him being in pain. He’s too small, too soft to be crying like this. What if something bad has happened? What if someone is up there with him? What if they’re hurting him?!
“Ugh.” His groan comes again, louder now that I’m at the door.
My hand shoots out, wrapping around the doorknob. It’s warm to the touch.
“What are you doing?” Atticus’s voice startles me. He sounds angry.
I angle my body to be able to see him, while still keeping my grip on the door. I can’t seem to let go, as if some invisible force is keeping me glued to it even as it burns hotter and hotter.
“Your sister called me. She was having a nightmare. On my way out, I heard… I think Atlas is in trouble.”
Atticus walks straight toward me, a glare I’ve never seen taking shape over his features. He takes my wrist and peels my hand off the door, pushing himself between me and the entrance.
“This doesn’t concern you. Leave.”
“But he needs help! If I can’t go up, you go up,” I demand, my own anger rising to meet his.
“No, Julian. I am your employer, and you will obey. Leave my brother alone. Mind your business.” Atticus stares me down, his tone unrelenting as he speaks to me as if I’m an impudent child.
“So you’ll let him suffer, then?” I push. “You’ll let him cry alone?”
“I have no choice!” he shouts. “It’s the way these things are done. Do not try to tell me how to love my brother. He is my brother and absolutely nothing to you.”
In the way his eyes fall to stare at the hardwood beneath my feet, in the way his brow furrows and his lips tilt into a guilty frown, I can see that this is crushing him. He wants to help; he wants to go upstairs. And just like me, he cannot.
Sweat dots his hairline, and he breathes heavily.
I’m realizing for the first time that I’ve never truly seen Atticus upset before. I’m realizing that maybe he loves his family so much that it’s turned him vicious and territorial. Paranoid.
“Sorry,” I concede quietly. “I was just scared for him. I’ll leave now. Let me know if you need anything.”
With a dismissive nod from Atticus, I turn and head back toward my bedroom.
How strange these people are, the Chastains. And how peculiar that I care for them all so much already.