there too, not least by her fear of seeing the rest of the room. It had aged horribly, cracks clawing at the ceiling and the walls, wallpaper bulging rottenly, furniture sagging forward at her, wardrobes opening like bat-wings that would enfold her in darkness. She began to sob dryly, and then Queenie sat up at the edge of her vision, a tall thin pale shape. Hermione felt a scream mounting behind her locked teeth as she turned to look.
But Queenie hadn’t aged, nor had the bed. If anything, she looked younger, enlivened by her power over her niece. She seemed to know all that Hermione was seeing, for she was grinning like a skull. “Look at yourself,” she murmured almost tenderly.
Perhaps she was only mocking Hermione; perhaps she wasn’t telling her to do so literally. All the same, the child would have fled to the window and jumped rather than look at herself in the mirror. Queenie seemed to tire of her; she closed her eyes and waved Hermione away like an annoying fly. Or was that a last cruel trick to make Hermione think she was safe? As the child reached shakily for the doorknob she saw her own hand, a blotchy hand that looked almost fleshless and far too large. It was an old woman’s hand.
She squeezed her eyes shut until they blazed and throbbed, and grabbed the doorknob, tugging until the door lurched at her. It felt as if it had been released, though the frame wasn’t warped. She fled along the corridor and fell down the first flight of stairs, bruising her legs. She crawled sobbing down to the next floor as her father ran to her, demanding to know what was wrong. When she realised that he saw nothing odd about her, she was able to look at her hands, her small, familiar pink hands. She clambered desperately up her father to hide her face against his chest. “A spider, a spider,” she babbled. “I couldn’t get out of the room.”
She didn’t think he ever realised she meant Queenie’s room. She wouldn’t go to bed until he promised to sit with her all night. When at last she dozed off she awoke to find he wasn’t there, and wakened Alison with her screams before he came back. When they went home to Liverpool a nightmare followed her and lurked in her sleep for years. It was a nightmare about waking up—about wakening to find she was as old as she had seemed in Queenie’s room.
She plucked a weed out of the earth and scoffed at herself, somewhat tentatively. What was so odd about dreaming you’d be older when you woke up, since in fact you would be? Queenie had made her believe the room had aged, that was all—no great feat when her victim had been just a child. She’d kept her childish for the rest of Queenie’s life. She seemed even to have got the better of her afterwards, at the funeral the other day, when Hermione had made such a fuss about the locket. Queenie must have been wearing it the night she died, and someone had decided she should wear it to the grave. She was letting this view take root in her mind when the phone rang.
It was her mother calling from Waterloo. “We’ll be here two days and then at home if you need us.”
“I’m sure I won’t, mother. Tell Alison Lance was calling, will you? I told him she might be in touch, but I didn’t commit her to.”
“What was he after?”
“He wanted to talk to her about Rowan, and something about the will.”
“He’d better stay away from Rowan. I don’t care who says he’s cured. And God help him if he tries to make difficulties for Alison now. He’d have been the last person Queenie would have left anything, him and his father, and Richard wouldn’t accept anything even if she had.”
Hermione said goodbye to her mother and went outside for her tools: it was growing too dark for gardening. She washed her earthy hands and strolled down to her shop. The shopping streets of Holywell were short and haphazard, as if they’d tumbled down the hill into this disarray. There was no clear view along most of them, which was why
But Queenie hadn’t aged, nor had the bed. If anything, she looked younger, enlivened by her power over her niece. She seemed to know all that Hermione was seeing, for she was grinning like a skull. “Look at yourself,” she murmured almost tenderly.
Perhaps she was only mocking Hermione; perhaps she wasn’t telling her to do so literally. All the same, the child would have fled to the window and jumped rather than look at herself in the mirror. Queenie seemed to tire of her; she closed her eyes and waved Hermione away like an annoying fly. Or was that a last cruel trick to make Hermione think she was safe? As the child reached shakily for the doorknob she saw her own hand, a blotchy hand that looked almost fleshless and far too large. It was an old woman’s hand.
She squeezed her eyes shut until they blazed and throbbed, and grabbed the doorknob, tugging until the door lurched at her. It felt as if it had been released, though the frame wasn’t warped. She fled along the corridor and fell down the first flight of stairs, bruising her legs. She crawled sobbing down to the next floor as her father ran to her, demanding to know what was wrong. When she realised that he saw nothing odd about her, she was able to look at her hands, her small, familiar pink hands. She clambered desperately up her father to hide her face against his chest. “A spider, a spider,” she babbled. “I couldn’t get out of the room.”
She didn’t think he ever realised she meant Queenie’s room. She wouldn’t go to bed until he promised to sit with her all night. When at last she dozed off she awoke to find he wasn’t there, and wakened Alison with her screams before he came back. When they went home to Liverpool a nightmare followed her and lurked in her sleep for years. It was a nightmare about waking up—about wakening to find she was as old as she had seemed in Queenie’s room.
She plucked a weed out of the earth and scoffed at herself, somewhat tentatively. What was so odd about dreaming you’d be older when you woke up, since in fact you would be? Queenie had made her believe the room had aged, that was all—no great feat when her victim had been just a child. She’d kept her childish for the rest of Queenie’s life. She seemed even to have got the better of her afterwards, at the funeral the other day, when Hermione had made such a fuss about the locket. Queenie must have been wearing it the night she died, and someone had decided she should wear it to the grave. She was letting this view take root in her mind when the phone rang.
It was her mother calling from Waterloo. “We’ll be here two days and then at home if you need us.”
“I’m sure I won’t, mother. Tell Alison Lance was calling, will you? I told him she might be in touch, but I didn’t commit her to.”
“What was he after?”
“He wanted to talk to her about Rowan, and something about the will.”
“He’d better stay away from Rowan. I don’t care who says he’s cured. And God help him if he tries to make difficulties for Alison now. He’d have been the last person Queenie would have left anything, him and his father, and Richard wouldn’t accept anything even if she had.”
Hermione said goodbye to her mother and went outside for her tools: it was growing too dark for gardening. She washed her earthy hands and strolled down to her shop. The shopping streets of Holywell were short and haphazard, as if they’d tumbled down the hill into this disarray. There was no clear view along most of them, which was why
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