Read Online BONE HOUSE by Betsy Tobin - Free Book Online

says. His gaze drops down to the vial. “It is indeed very precious to me, and I am grateful for its safe return.” He looks at me a little expectantly then, and I can only manage a half-smile. “My mother said you found it on the path . . . I cannot imagine how it came to be there.”
    I take a deep breath before replying. “No sir, I did not. It was given to me by Dora before she died. She desired that it be returned to you . . . in the event that any misfortune should befall her.” My master lowers his eyes then, stares at the vial, loses himself inside it for a moment.
    “I see. Then I must thank you doubly for your discretion,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
    “She had some knowledge that death was near,” I say, moving toward him slowly. “Indeed she feared that it was imminent.”
    He frowns, his eyes cloudy with confusion. “But her death was an accident.”
    “One that she prepared for,” I reply. We both stare at each other for a long moment.
    “What are you saying?” he asks.
    I shrug. “I only wish to know the truth.”
    He pauses then, his fingertips resting lightly on the desk, and just then his body sways almost imperceptively. “The truth is that I feel her loss acutely,” he says finally, sinking down into his chair and burying his hands in his hair. He stays this way for several moments, the room so quiet I can hear the ticking of the timepiece in the corner.
    “But I know nothing of her death,” he says finally.
    I wait a moment, ponder my options.
    “Perhaps you knew she was with child,” I offer.
    His face freezes. “No,” he says, his voice crackling like fine paper. “No, I did not.”
    And I believe him, for there is a time when lying is not possible, when the flesh and fluids within us betray all our truths. This is when I ask my final question: the one I have been waiting for.
    “The baby she carried, could it be . . . ” I hesitate, summon my courage. “Is it possible that it was yours?”
    He looks at me and his eyes slowly bloom with pain. His face twitches and his chest heaves. Then he shakes his head, just barely, from side to side. “Such a thing could not be possible,” he says, his voice barely audible.
    My mouth is dry like cotton. “Forgive me, sir,” I whisper.
    Then I take his books and run from the room.
    By the time I reach the main house I am drenched with fear. I have never seen my master thus, and though I do not fear for the sake of my own person, I am nonetheless frightened for his. Our bodies are the safe house of our passions, but there are limits to what they will contain. If the house becomes too full, it will unburden itself in some manner: either by sickness, or by deed. In truth, the severity of his response confounds me. Though my question clearly caught him unawares, it was not ill-founded, for he is a man like any other. And though I took some liberties in the asking, I did so with the knowledge that theirs was no casual liaison, as he himself had only just revealed to me the depth of his affections. Indeed, Dora touched so many in our midst, that it now begins to seem as if she spun a dense web of loyalty around her, one so vast that I cannot step in any direction for fear of tripping up against the thread of her presence.
    And I myself am caught within the web, for like my master, I feel her loss acutely. Why else do I seek an answer to the riddle of her death?
    At the end of the day, when I return to my room, I find a plain-wrapped parcel waiting on my bed. When I open it a small cloth purse drops into my lap, together with a note on white parchment. Though he does not sign it, I recognize my master’s hand. The message reads simply: “Please deliver this safely to her son.” I open the purse and empty its contents onto my bed. It is more money than I have ever seen—indeed it is more than I have ever
dreamed
of seeing. What does he hope to buy with this money, I wonder. Is it the price of my silence, or the cost of his