We set off, our feet crunching on the gravel.
“So what,” Allison said with carefully flat inflection, “does your mother do here? It seems like a holiday resort.”
“It’s meant to be that way.” I glanced at her, but it wasn’t until we reached the end of the white mansion that I added, “My mother needs calm, not violence and straitjackets.”
Allison’s eyebrows lifted. “And has it worked?”
No, I thought as we passed a wisteria bush. But I do not think anything will work. . . . I took in a breath to tell her this, to explain that I had tried everything, when a long, throat-rattling shriek rang out—a shriek I knew well.
Fright burst inside me, and I broke into a sprint. My heels kicked up gravel, and I could hear
Allison running just behind.
We bounded past azalea bushes when another scream ripped out. With it came shouts.
I skidded around the last bush beside the fountain, only to find struggling figures on the other side of the low pool: my mother, screeching and wrestling with two nurses. I surged to the fountain’s lip.
“Mrs. Fitt, settle down!” shouted one nurse, her uniform rumpled and her hat missing. She held
Mama’s hands clasped.
“Let go of me!” Mama shoved and tugged, trying to free her arms.
The second nurse spotted me. “Miss Fitt, thank heavens! Help us get her back to her room! We’ve dragged her across the entire grounds.”
I stepped forward just as Mama whipped around. She yanked once, and her hands broke free of the nurse’s grasp. My mother was a powerfully built woman—it was a wonder the two small nurses had managed to contain her this long.
“You!” Mama thrust a pointed finger at me. “You!” Her gray hair was falling from its usual bun, and her walking gown was covered in dust and twigs.
“Mama!” I moved to her. “What’s wrong?”
“How dare you show your face here,” she yelled.
“What?” I turned to the nurses. “What is she talking about?” They only shrugged. I glanced back at
Allison; she waited by the azaleas, her face pale.
“Do not look away,” Mama hissed. “Do not pretend you do not know.”
“Know what?” I stepped toward her. “I don’t underst—”
“You told me Elijah was a necromancer,” she cut in, her voice gaining in volume and speed. “You told me that he killed Clarence Wilcox and those other boys. You told me he was dead!”
My mouth went dry. “He is dead.”
“Do not lie to me!” Her chest heaved, and her fingers curled into fists. “I do not know why I believed you when you had no evidence but a handful of Elijah’s letters. There was no corpse!” Her eyes raked over me, more lucid than I’d seen in months.
“The newspapers were right,” Mama went on. “You were working with the Spirit-Hunters to destroy the city. That criminal, Daniel”—she spat the name—“murdered Clarence.”
A cry shot over the water. It was Allison, a gloved hand to her mouth. But did she believe my story or Mama’s?
At that moment the nurses broke off and scampered toward the hospital. I forced my attention back to my mother, praying the nurses thought her words gibberish.
“Mama,” I said, clenching my skirts with my left hand. “I told you the truth.”
“The truth! The truth?” She shoved her face in mine. “I will tell you the truth, Eleanor. A truth I was too blind and heartbroken to see. You are a licentious, lying daughter. A harlot!”
My jaw dropped, and outrage coiled in my chest. “How can you say that to me? After all I’ve done to keep our family alive—”
“By consorting with criminals? By sneaking from the house?” Mama’s eyes thinned. “You were seeing that criminal boy, were you not? You planned to run away with him, but then he and the Spirit-
Hunters left you.”
“Stop.” My voice cracked out like a whip. “You have no idea of what you speak. I could have left the city—could have abandoned you—but I stayed. I sold all of my things to pay your hospital bills because you spent our entire savings.”
“I will not listen to this!” She threw her hands over her ears.
“Then don’t listen.” I advanced on her. “But Elijah is dead, Mama. You have to accept that. I saw him die—”
“Lies! Elijah is not dead. He’s not, he’s not! I saw him today, and he was most assuredly alive.”
I stared at her, speechless. It couldn’t be. . . .
“He came to see me,” she went on, clearly pleased by my horror, “dressed in the latest Parisian fashions and wealthier than you can even imagine. Yet most importantly, Eleanor, he was alive — alive!”
No! I clutched at my chest, suddenly unable to breathe, unable to think. Marcus had found my mother, and that meant it wasn’t simply me or the Spirit-Hunters he was after.