“We should go,” I said, taking Mary’s hand.
The three of us went through the barn again, out into the afternoon light.
Faraday walked behind us, exclaiming at Trotsky’s soft fur, her gentle barnyard smell, the twistiness of her attempts to escape. At first, Mary glanced over her shoulder at every squeak, but soon she settled into telling me the estate’s gossip.
Aunt Veronica had a new composite bow. Grandpa Dwight was angry at the deputy mayor, who was causing zoning trouble. Some of the little kids were happy that Peter wouldn’t be bullying them anymore, but Mary missed him. Uncle William had come back from an assignment very sad because he’d had to kill a barking dog.
“You’ve got a cuticle,” she said, rubbing at my fingertips with her free hand. “What if it snags your funeral clothes?”
“I’ll fix it before tomorrow.”
“No, me.Please?”
I glanced backward—Faraday was still entranced by Trotsky.
“Fine.”
Without breaking stride, Mary brought my ring finger to her mouth. Her face twisted into a bare-lipped smile, and I felt the small, sharp teeth close gently, searchingly.
There was aclick.
She dropped my hand, and I could see her tongue moving in her mouth, worrying the little nubbin of hard flesh. Then she swallowed.
I rubbed my finger, wet but smooth.
“You don’t have a taste, Jessica.”
I patted her head. “You just didn’t get enough of me.”
“How do you think Trotsky will taste, on her big day?”
“Hmmm…like rabbit?”
Mary threw back her head and laughed. Her namesake in the second row would be the last in the Little Graveyard.
Slay the rabbit, spare the child.
6
Peter’s family lived in the Grey Cottage, the old servant quarters near the back gate.
There were four of them left. Uncle Cyrus and his two sisters were blooded. His brother was dead, and never mentioned. Peter’s mother had run away as a teenager, returned to the fold, then botched her first assignment. Now she worked on the family cars with Uncle Orrin.
Cyrus taught pain resistance, and was in charge of buying nearby farms when they failed. His nickname among the landowners of Upper Falls was Reaper.
I found him in Peter’s room, filling boxes with my cousin’s old sports gear, for return to the family stores. All around were bags stuffed with Peter’s pottery, a few scraps of fabric from last Quilting Day.
“Jessica, welcome home.”
I bowed a little. “Thank you, Uncle. May I help?”
He pointed—on the bed was a box of hand wraps and boxing gloves. The wraps were a tangled wad. Peter had always been careless with equipment, one of the smaller demerits on his ledger.
I sat on the bare mattress and pulled the box onto my lap.
“Your provost is here,” he began. “He was kind enough to bring us Peter’s things.”
Not so much kind as prudent. After generations of students, of new buildings, of improvements—the Shakespeare garden, the climbing wall, the archery field—we legacy families had made Helshire our own. Personal service was expected.
