No. It
wouldn't.
All he could think of was
those scratch marks in Royle's saddle and what their attacker had
done to the rider.
"There's nothing wrong
with it. It's fine, and just as good as yours," Kate said, hands on
hips, anger making her complexion the same hue as her Little Red
Riding Hood costume. "You can't even see it for Heaven's sake, so
how do you know it isn't?" She tugged up the velvet
hood.
Mrs. Fletcher had made the
costume for Kate from a pair of old curtains, and Grady found
himself once more admiring the charwoman's talent. The hooded cape
looked better than anything she might have purchased at a costume
shop.
"Because it's not scary.
You're supposed to dress in something scary for All Hallows. I told
you that
last
year
when you came as a swan!" Neil was dressed in a black sheet that
Mrs. Fletcher had fashioned into a cloak, and one of the master's
old dress shirts, the sleeves rolled up and pinned to fit. It still
hung loose on the boy's wiry frame, but combined with the black
pants, oversized top hat and the butter knife he brandished with
wicked glee, the overall effect was appropriately sinister. Grady
had even ringed Neil's eyes with shoe polish, while the charwoman
had patted his face with flour the rain had all but washed away.
Nevertheless, he looked just like the pictures Grady had shown Kate
in some old copies of the
London
Advertiser
---crude sketches of the fearsome
maniac known as Jack the Ripper.
"Well I don't care what
you think. I'm not going to listen to criticism from a blind old
grouch like you."
At that, Grady had had
enough. He pulled Kate aside, more roughly than he'd intended, but
it communicated the message that she had gone too far. With a scowl
she yanked free of him.
"I won't hear that kind of
talk from you," he told her in a level tone. "And you," he said to
Neil. "Leave her alone. Her costume is one of the best out there,
and so is yours. Why the two of ye insist on gettin' on each others
nerves is beyond me, but we're callin' an end to it now,
understood?"
They both nodded.
"Good. Now listen
carefully to me. I'm goin' to leave ye two on yer own for a spell.
I want you to stay out there in the hall where everyone can see
you. Under
no circumstances
are ye to go outside."
Kate frowned. "Why? Where
are you going?"
"I have to meet Greg
Fowler down at the Fox. He needs to talk to me about
somethin'."
"Drinking," Kate said in
disgust.
"What does he want you
for?" Neil said, no doubt wondering if his job was in
danger.
"Well, I won't know until
I get there, Neil. Now I want you to promise me ye'll stay in the
hall."
"We will," Kate said, in a
tone that suggested she would do what she liked and not be told
different. She was a sensible, well-behaved girl, but she had a
defiant streak a mile long, and knowing that made him feel even
more nervous.
"Look," he said, running a
hand over his hair. "This is important. I don't very often give
orders, but I have to now, and I'm not leavin' until I get your
solemn oath that ye'll follow 'em."
Neil took a step toward
him, an expression of concentration on his face. "You're scared,"
he said. "I can hear it in your voice."
Grady smiled weakly.
"That's the cold, boy. Wait 'till you get to be my age and you'll
understand."
But Neil didn't look
convinced and Grady silently cursed the boy's perceptiveness. He
needed them to trust him, and the fear in his voice was betraying
him. It would appeal to their curiosity, and might lead them to
defy him.
"How long will you be?"
Kate asked.
"Not long. Half an hour at
the most. I'll be back in time fer the apple bobbin', I
promise."
"All right." Kate went to
Neil's side and took his arm. For once he didn't resist. The slow
cautious quality of their movements made Grady feel guilty on top
of everything else. He had scared them, and realized he should have
known they would hear the unspoken fear in his words, sense the
peeling edges on his mask of composure. They were not imbeciles,
and now they would worry until he returned.
"I won't be long," he said
again, watching them as Kate opened the door to the music and the
babbling of the crowd.
"We'll be here," Kate said
over her shoulder.
15
Uncomfortably hot in her
witch outfit, Tabitha nibbled on a piece of fruitcake and forced
herself to relax a little. The dance had started almost an hour ago
and as yet she had seen no sign of Neil. She prayed the inclement
weather had kept him and Kate indoors. If it had, then there could
be no comeback from Donald. After all, she didn't control the
weather, so she couldn't be blamed for his plan---whatever it
was---failing.
Still, fear gnawed at her.
Something felt odd about the night. Everything in the hall looked
the same as it did every year, albeit with a lot more people
present than ever before; there were dancing ghouls, giggling
goblins, crepe paper on the walls, plastic devils on the doors, and
people enjoying themselves, but the air felt different somehow. Up
until now she'd blamed the storm. The air always changed before
thunder and lightning, but deep down she knew that she had snatched
that convenient explanation only to keep from examining more
closely the ominous feeling she'd had all day long.
Just
nerves
, she told herself. Considering she
had allowed herself to be manipulated by her brother into setting
up an innocent blind boy, she had every right to feel uneasy. She
had nothing against Neil Mansfield. He had never done anything to
her to warrant reprisal, had not threatened her honor with his
forced sullen responses. Worse, she realized that if she was
completely honest with herself, a little part of her did actually
like him, and yes, in a romantic way. She had, however, quelled
those feelings in the past because of pity---which she knew was
unfair but couldn't help---and a little fear of her own. Fear of what
it would be like to court someone who couldn't see, and fear of
what people would think of her for doing so. Her father would
certainly react with disdain that his 'little princess' couldn't
summon the resources to find a boyfriend with a less obvious
handicap.
The fruitcake hung like a
knot in her stomach and she quickly scanned the small tables set
out around the hall for something to drink. At last she settled on
a glass of punch from a confetti-filled bowl, but the knot
remained, like a manifestation of guilt.
"You'll need a little
something stronger than that if your boyfriend doesn't show up
soon," said a voice behind her and she turned to find Donald
standing uncomfortably close, the burlap sack he'd come to the
party dressed in scratching against her fingertips.
"I can't believe you're
wearing that," she said disdainfully, indicating the fabric
stretched taught around his midriff.
"I'm a sack of potatoes,"
he proclaimed with obvious pride. "Besides, I only look half as
ridiculous as the rest of these idiots, and that includes you. What
are you supposed to be anyway? A granny?"
"Leave me alone," she said
and turned back to the table. A moment later, her hat was gone,
snatched deftly from her head. Slowly, she turned. "Give it
back."
Donald propped the tall
witch's hat on his head and spread his hands expansively. "How do I
look? Better?"
She considered arguing,
but then sighed in disgust. "Fine. Keep it."
Donald grinned. "So where
is he?"
"How am I supposed to
know?"
"He's your boyfriend. You
should know."
"He's not, and I don't. He
mightn't even come."
Donald stepped so close
she could smell the alcohol on his breath, and for a moment she
thought he was going to kiss her. "You better hope he does," he
said. His eyes moved briefly to her lips, reinforcing the peculiar
fear. The pungent smell of alcohol wafted into her face and she
grimaced. At length, his gaze met hers. "Because if he doesn't," he
continued, teeth bared, "you're going to have to go get him and
drag him here." His eyes were wide and bloodshot and now she knew
what the silver item the bandaged man had given him earlier had
been. A flask of alcohol.
"Why?" she asked then,
"why do you want him so badly? What did he ever do to
you?"
"'What did he ever do to
you?'" Donald mimicked in a high voice. "Who says he did anything?
I'm just sick of him getting special treatment because he's blind,
that's all. He stumbles around the village like that old drunk
Campbell and yet everyone treats him like he's royalty. Kick the
feet out from under the little bastard and half the village is
running after you with sticks. Pfft! That, and...well...let's just
say a friend of mine has a special interest in him, all
right?"
"Who is he?" Tabitha
asked, aware even as she did so that she might be pushing Donald,
forcing him to lose his temper and hurt her, but she couldn't help
herself. She had to know, for it was growing ever more apparent
that her brother, no matter how callous and cruel he could be
sometimes, was not the sole instigator of whatever bit of
unpleasantness was in store for Neil.
"None of your bloody
business," Donald sneered. "Just---"
He was cut off by the
sudden appearance of Little Red Riding Hood, who looked right past
him to Tabitha, and smiled knowingly. "Hi Tabitha."
It was then that Donald,
who'd been about to launch into an angry tirade at being
interrupted and so brusquely shoved aside by, of all things,
a
gir
l,
noticed who she was, and, more importantly, who
she had on her arm.
Jack the Ripper.
Panic seized Tabitha as a
wide grin creased her brother's lips.
***
Mrs. Fletcher had always
considered herself a religious woman, though her faith had taken a
considerable blow after the death of her husband and youngest son.
She'd stopped going to church but hadn't abandoned her beliefs. Not
entirely, at least. Tonight, that faith had returned in a wave, for
what she had just witnessed could be nothing short of a miracle. A
dying man had not only awakened, he had spoken to her, even if the
words that had crept from his pale lips testified to little more
than the extent of his agony. But then he had raised his hand and
beckoned to her to help him sit up, dispelling all doubts she might
have entertained that his apparent improvement had been an
ephemeral thing, a brief misleading reprieve that portended his
final moments. She was dumbfounded. Though she'd never have said so
aloud, she had assumed he was not long for the world. His
appearance, coupled with Doctor Campbell's grave pronouncements had
led them all to believe they would soon be mourning him and
comforting the children in their grief.
But now...
Now she couldn't wait for
the children to come home, to see their father sitting up and
speaking. They would not believe their eyes. Hope would be
restored, and it would be as if the curtains had been opened at
last on a dark and dusty house. A house she intended to invite
Doctor Campbell to visit at his nearest convenience, if for no
other reason than to see the proof that past accusations of his
incompetence had been well-founded.
"My God," she said as she
fluffed the pillows and set them behind the frail man's shoulders.
She was weeping uncontrollably, her tears renewed each time he made
a gesture on his own, displaying strength that had been denied him
for so very long. He was still deathly pale, and frail, but in his
eyes the life had begun to return, the white clouds dispersing,
allowing the blue to peek through.
A miracle. A true miracle,
and only the needs of the master kept her from running out of the
house into the storm to find the children to break to them the news
they'd been waiting an eternity to hear.
He
has returned to us!
Yet something about his
demeanor, something she'd been quick to dismiss as the vagaries of
his illness, bothered her greatly, damming the tide of her
jubilation whenever she focused on it.
His hoarse whisper sent the thought
fleeing from her mind.
"What is it, sir?" she
asked.
"Water," he
croaked.
"Of course." Concerned,
she hurried for the tray she'd left in the doorway and carried it
to the nightstand. In the glow from the lantern, the master looked
cadaverous, prompting Mrs. Fletcher to wonder if she had been hasty
in her assessment of events, if she had indeed been correct that
his revival was simply a merciful gift before death came for
him.
She watched him smooth the
covers over his chest, a simple motion that had nevertheless become
alien in this room; a gesture they'd never expected to see him make
again, and was now all the more significant because of it, then she
sat down on the edge of the bed. As she lowered the glass,
preparing to bring it to his lips, he brought his hand up and took
it from her. Again, she was astounded. Was it even possible to
recover so quickly? What kind of strange ailment fled the body so
fast and left a strengthened body in its wake?