“Where’s Siobhan?”
“Oh, she left me weeks ago. Her health. Rheumatism. I’ve been getting by on my own just fine, for now.”
I look around the front parlor. The mirrors are draped in black crepe, the clock silent on the mantel, as is the custom for households in mourning. But a fine veneer of dust covers everything. There are cobwebs in the corners. The grate still holds ashes from the last fire. And on closer inspection, Mother herself is diminished; her acclaimed beauty, while still present, has faded. Her oily hair hangs in limp plaits from a pale center part. Only her eyes, the selfsame violet as my own, still shine, wet with grateful tears.
“Oh, Lil, my love. My darling girl,” she croons, wringing her hands. “Tea. I’ll fetch it. Would you like cake? I’ve made a sponge, just in case I had callers.”
“I’m famished, Mama. I’d love cake.”
I perch on the davenport, focusing my thoughts. There are so many things I want to talk about with her. This may well be the final time I see her in this life, and my heart is full of complicated feelings. There’s Rebecca, of course, and Papa. I want to know the details of his death—I hope that he did not suffer.
When Mama brings the tea and pours it for me, my hand shakes as I lift the cup to my mouth. Her sponge cake is dry, and tasteless, but I eat it all the same. She sits across from me, in her favorite chair, and leans forward. Walter settles at my feet, nuzzling his head against my shins.
“Oh, Lil! I used to dream of this moment. Of being reunited with you on this side of heaven, by some miracle.” She laughs, runs a hand over her oily hair. “I didn’t believe him when he told me you were still alive. But he was right, wasn’t he?”
I still, a shiver running through me. “Who told you I was alive?”
“Why, Dr. Broadbent. He examined you after Papa claimed your body at the jail. He’s the one who insisted that we leave the lid to your casket unscrewed. He felt there was a chance, however slim, that you might have just had another one of your fits. He watched over your body, in the receiving tomb, for three nights before he agreed with Papa that it was all right to bury you.” Mama sighs. “It was torture for me, Lillian. All of it. We didn’t have a public funeral. There was a sensation about it all in the papers, so we did it quietly. Just me, Papa, and Father Flynn.”
I sit back in my chair, flummoxed. Dr. Broadbent certainly knew I’d survived the grave, at least since Barbara Kincaid’s party. He saw through my guise as Mary Jones on the same night Arabella died. But he substantiated the vampire claim as well. They quoted him in the papers—he told them my dress was covered in blood and that I was unnaturally pale when I came to fetch him from the party to see to Arabella.
“When did Dr. Broadbent tell you I was alive, Mama?”
“After Arabella died, darling. He saw you at a party. But Arabella told me she saw you, too. In town.” Mama’s eyebrows furrow. “Did you kill her, my dove? Or any of the others?”
“No, Mama. I did not. I’ve never been a killer.” I grip the arms of the chair to keep my hands from shaking. “And quite frankly, it wounds me that you would even question it. We need ... we need to talk about Rebecca.”
“I can’t talk about Rebecca,” she says, her face crumpling. “I cannot.”
“I didn’t kill her, Mama.” I say the words clearly, calmly. “I think we both know what happened. Who was responsible.”
“Lillian, please . . .”
“I’ve forgiven you for it. For all of it. That’s why I’ve come.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away. “I know you had the best intentions. You changed, after the twins died. Their death wasn’t your fault, Mama. Lots of people died. I almost died, too.” My fingers find the smallpox scar on the back of my wrist, remembering how the fever raged through my body. Through our home. “You nursed us all, as best you could. I remember.”
“It was horrid. I cursed myself for not having all of you inoculated. I should have. It saved my life.” She sobs. “Do you know the guilt I felt, after losing my babies? So needless.”
“Yes. And you didn’t want to lose another child,” I say gently. “You couldn’t. So you believed every charlatan that came knocking at our door when it came to Rebecca. I remember, Mama. I remember when you started with the syrup. You thought you were doing the right thing. But it killed her. Slowly.”
“How dare you,” she says coldly, her tearful eyes narrowing into angry slits. “To come here, and imply ...”
“It’s not an implication. It’s the truth. I watched you. I knew what you put in that syrup.”
“It was helping her!”
My hands knot in my skirts. I bite my lip to quell the vicious words that long to jump free. “I know you believe that. I do.”
“Of course I do. Because it’s the truth.”
“Then if it was so innocent, so well intentioned, why didn’t you tell the judge? The jury?”
Her tear-reddened eyes skate from my own. “I ... I was frightened, Lillian.”
My anger crests, spilling over the edge of my fragile composure. “So was I!” I roar, standing. Walter runs from the room, his tail tucked between his legs. “Do you know what it was like? Prison? Papa’s money, his bribes, saved me from the worst of it. But there were men there who wanted to rape me, Mother. Killers—real killers—who would have snapped my neck like a twig. I had to listen to the sounds of torture, day and night. Rats crawling over me while I slept. I suffered from dysentery and nearly died. There was no respite from the horrors. And yet I endured it all. And I would have, unto death. For your sake!”
“Stop!” she wails. She claws at her hair, one of her looped braids falling loose. “I didn’t ... it wasn’t my fault. You can’t understand what it was like for me.”
As I watch my mother dissemble, the realization that I’m never going to receive her contrition, that she’ll never admit her fault in Rebecca’s death, washes over me. She isn’t capable of seeing the world through my eyes. She isn’t capable of loving anyone—not even her own children—more than she loves her feigned innocence.
