BONE HOUSE Read Free Page B

of the accident. It took them some time to carry her home; in the end they dragged her on a sledge across the icy fields. They laid her out in her cottage, and afterward I overheard one say that Long Boy had been struck dumb by the sight of her. My mother helped prepare her body for the grave. She said afterward that the back of her skull had been split open by the sharp stone, and that her blood had flown so freely there was none left remaining. In the few days that followedbefore she was buried, her house was the scene of much mourning. Every member of the parish came to pay their last respects, and many came from neighboring villages and owns. While I was there, my mistress’s physician came, and I watched as he examined the wound to her head. He had raised her eyelids and peered at her pupils, then passed his hands loosely over her limbs and belly in a gesture that struck me as part exploratory, part caress. Finally, he picked up her hands and examined the palms, cradling her long fingers for a moment in his own. He then replaced them and turned away, making for the door. I moved to intercept him, but before I had a chance to speak, he disappeared.
    My mistress stirs and raises herself on one elbow, beginning to cough. I move quickly to her side and support her thin frame with my arms. The bones of her shoulders feel like bird bones, as if they will snap under too much pressure. Her brittle frame shakes from the cough, a dry, rasping sound that slices through the stillness of the chamber. When the cough subsides she remains bent over, her breath a whistle, and I stare down at the bald patch at the back of her head, the size of an orange, like babies have. Finally she swallows and raises her head, fixing me with her watery gray eyes.
    “I shall perish from this wretched cough,” she says.
    “No, mum,” I reply. I hand her a mug of ale, which she takes with a nod. She likes it warm, and drinks copious amounts throughout the day. She slurps down half the liquid in one long draught and hands me the remainder, waving it away.
    “Where is Lucius?” she asks.
    “On his way, mum.”
    “He should live closer,” she says. “What if I should suffer a stroke?”
    “My Lord Carrington is near to hand.”
    “I should still perish,” she says with a sniff. “One cadaver treating another.” This last is not an understatement: her otherphysician, Carrington, is so aged he cannot walk without assistance from a manservant. The last time he attended her he himself was so overcome during the examination that he had to be carried from the room.
    I return to my seat by the window, take up my needle and thread. Her eyes trail past me to the glass. Outside the sky is flinty gray. The winter has been exceptionally harsh, like those I remember from my childhood. She shivers and draws her gown more closely around her shoulders, then lies back against the cushions.
    “She must have frozen within the hour,” she says obliquely. It takes me a moment to realize she refers to Dora. “For her sake at least, I hope that she was already dead,” she continues, her tone not quite indifferent. It is not the first indication I have seen of her disapproval.
    “They said she was killed outright by the fall,” I reply. My mistress raises her eyebrows.
    “Perhaps,” she says a little distractedly. “Perhaps it was the fall after all.”
    Something in her tone catches me. I raise my eyes and she is picking at a loose thread on her bedclothes. I frown, hesitate a moment.
    “It shattered her skull,” I say. “Lucius examined her.”
    “Many, many times, I should think, over the course of a lifetime,” she adds. It occurs to me for the first time that age does not preclude jealousy. I do not look at her, as I can think of nothing to respond that does not smack of disrespect. We sit for a while, with only my needle pricking the silence.
    “It is difficult to believe that she is dead,” she says finally. I raise my head and she is looking