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Authors: Bethany Griffin
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is the same odd shadeâMother only met him last year, when she was invited to visit the ancestral home. She returned to the city enamored with the house and the ancient family to whom she had discovered we are related. Mr. Usher invited her to come for an extended stay, and she was thrilled, but her excitement has soured.
âHe will, surely, do some renovations,â she said in her breathless way, when we complained that there was a hole large enough for a person to disappear through the floor of one of the bedrooms, and the carpet was threadbare, and that there was a water stain on the wall of Honoriaâs room.
Mother is less happy every day that we are here. To try to appease her, Mr. Usher bought us new dresses, and there are dozens of servants. In the city, we only had a cook and a boy who ran errands. Mother says that the more servants a person has, the more important they are.
But we hear terrible noises in the night, and Mr. Usher says odd things.
He is much younger than I expected, since I imagined that the master of such an ancient house should be elderly himself, and he is very interested in Honoria. She never smiles at him, but then, she never smiles at anyone.
Mr. Usher has a mad sister. They keep her locked up so that she doesnât do herself damage.
I wish to see her, but Mother says that it is out of the question and has forbidden me to go up to the attics. We are guests here until Mr. Usher proposes marriage to Honoria. Then we will have a home.
Iâm not sure that Mother is quite enthused with this plan now that we have arrived, but we have no other place to go.
My youngest sister frets, even as I comfort her. At thirteen years old, she is easily frightened, though old enough to know better. The servants in the city said she was touched in the head, but she isnât simple. Just odd. Our mother is too distracted, too lost in her dreams, so I will be the mother that my youngest sister needs. She is the only beautiful thing in this terribly bleak house.
29
M ADELINE I S T WELVE
H esitating beside the kitchen door, I try to gauge the mood of the house. It is oddly subdued, as if it isnât aware of me at all. Good. Iâve discovered that if I show no excitement about going outside, the house will generally allow me to walk through the doors and stand on the grounds. Since Father tried to steal me away, the house is especially wary, so I must be careful.
Mother says it stormed every day, from the moment Father took me to the day that we were caught. Then she laughed her cruel laugh. âYou didnât make it far, did you?â She claims Father hid me in one of the outbuildings. But why, then, do I remember hearing the sea? The entire thing seems like a dream, like one of the stories that float through the house, and Iâm not even sure it was real. Iâve barely seen Father in the weeks since I woke up, back in my bedroom.
Sometimes, in the spring, the tarn, the stinking lake in the front of the house, overflows, and noxious water floods the grounds. I can see the unflooded part of my garden from my window.
Once again, all of my fragile happiness is encapsulated by my garden. It is all Iâve found to nurture. It is mine.
I created this seed of hope in the depths of a lonely winter, certain that if my flowers bloomed, it would prove that I am not cursed, that I might have life to look forward to instead of death. Iâve been building it in my mind, as important as any of my other rituals.
All around my clearing, there are rank black blooms, which seem to have burst from the vines overnight. The vines themselves are covered with rot, slimy to the touch. I pull them from the earth and discard them. In my flower garden is one lone dandelion, standing defiant against the army of roses. It is not one of my flowers; my bulbs and seeds lie dormant, lifeless, underground.
I kneel, clearing back the vines that grow over everything.
30
M ADELINE I S E LEVEN
F
âHe will, surely, do some renovations,â she said in her breathless way, when we complained that there was a hole large enough for a person to disappear through the floor of one of the bedrooms, and the carpet was threadbare, and that there was a water stain on the wall of Honoriaâs room.
Mother is less happy every day that we are here. To try to appease her, Mr. Usher bought us new dresses, and there are dozens of servants. In the city, we only had a cook and a boy who ran errands. Mother says that the more servants a person has, the more important they are.
But we hear terrible noises in the night, and Mr. Usher says odd things.
He is much younger than I expected, since I imagined that the master of such an ancient house should be elderly himself, and he is very interested in Honoria. She never smiles at him, but then, she never smiles at anyone.
Mr. Usher has a mad sister. They keep her locked up so that she doesnât do herself damage.
I wish to see her, but Mother says that it is out of the question and has forbidden me to go up to the attics. We are guests here until Mr. Usher proposes marriage to Honoria. Then we will have a home.
Iâm not sure that Mother is quite enthused with this plan now that we have arrived, but we have no other place to go.
My youngest sister frets, even as I comfort her. At thirteen years old, she is easily frightened, though old enough to know better. The servants in the city said she was touched in the head, but she isnât simple. Just odd. Our mother is too distracted, too lost in her dreams, so I will be the mother that my youngest sister needs. She is the only beautiful thing in this terribly bleak house.
29
M ADELINE I S T WELVE
H esitating beside the kitchen door, I try to gauge the mood of the house. It is oddly subdued, as if it isnât aware of me at all. Good. Iâve discovered that if I show no excitement about going outside, the house will generally allow me to walk through the doors and stand on the grounds. Since Father tried to steal me away, the house is especially wary, so I must be careful.
Mother says it stormed every day, from the moment Father took me to the day that we were caught. Then she laughed her cruel laugh. âYou didnât make it far, did you?â She claims Father hid me in one of the outbuildings. But why, then, do I remember hearing the sea? The entire thing seems like a dream, like one of the stories that float through the house, and Iâm not even sure it was real. Iâve barely seen Father in the weeks since I woke up, back in my bedroom.
Sometimes, in the spring, the tarn, the stinking lake in the front of the house, overflows, and noxious water floods the grounds. I can see the unflooded part of my garden from my window.
Once again, all of my fragile happiness is encapsulated by my garden. It is all Iâve found to nurture. It is mine.
I created this seed of hope in the depths of a lonely winter, certain that if my flowers bloomed, it would prove that I am not cursed, that I might have life to look forward to instead of death. Iâve been building it in my mind, as important as any of my other rituals.
All around my clearing, there are rank black blooms, which seem to have burst from the vines overnight. The vines themselves are covered with rot, slimy to the touch. I pull them from the earth and discard them. In my flower garden is one lone dandelion, standing defiant against the army of roses. It is not one of my flowers; my bulbs and seeds lie dormant, lifeless, underground.
I kneel, clearing back the vines that grow over everything.
30
M ADELINE I S E LEVEN
F
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