Finally, seeming to come to some decision, Queen Elizabeth gave a short, sharp nod. Her grandfather’s shoulders relaxed as he let go of the young girl’s hand. The girl held tight to the poppet he’d bought for her in the market only that morning, squeezing her as the queen’s sharp black eyes roved over her face.
Opening pursed lips, Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, Gloriana, Queen of all England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, began to scream.
Wait, that’s not right, I thought. What happened next was that the queen had taken her grandfather aside to speak privately while the girl . . . while I . . . looked out the window at the garden. Then—?
My eyes popped open as the scream came again, faint and lingering, followed by a high-pitched wail. A glance at the digital clock on my bedside table told me it was 11:43 p.m., meaning I’d been in bed a total of twenty-seven minutes.
I threw off the covers and stumbled down the wooden steps. I dashed across the room and threw open the door.
Illuminated only by antique wall sconces, converted in the last century from their original gas, the darkly paneled hallway seemed to stretch out to nightmarish lengths. My bare feet slid on the faded carpet runner as I skidded to a halt before the last door on the left.
From inside came two distinct cries.
I wasn’t the only one who’d heard. Moira MacPherson, plump cheeks flushed from sleep, appeared seconds later, and I allowed myself an inward sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to face this alone. In her fluffy bathrobe and pink sponge curlers, Moira nodded at me solemnly.
Down the hall, Mac, Moira’s balding husband, was wrapping a flannel robe around his gangly form.
“Happening again, is it?” Yawning, Mac scrubbed at small blue eyes, identical to his granddaughter Phoebe’s. “I thought Greta had prescribed something to help our Sarah rest?”
In the last month, Dr. Greta Lund, Aunt Lucinda’s Danish doctor friend, had spent hours with my mom, helping her learn to cope with the aftereffects of her traumatic ordeal. Afterward, Greta and Lucinda often spent time together, sharing a cup of tea or a glass of wine.
That the good doctor also knew all the family secrets came as something of a surprise.
“Thick as thieves, those two were,” Moira had told Phoebe and me one evening after Aunt Lucinda had escorted Greta through the back door to her car. “Greta spent all her holidays and summers here, her own family being a bit of a mess, you see? When she chose medicine over staying on with the Viators, it nearly broke Lu.”
Taken aback, Phoebe and I looked at each other. The idea of anything “breaking” my imposing aunt was beyond both of our imaginations.
The hell? Phoebe mouthed.
I shrugged. But as Moira ambled off to clear the dinner table, Phoebe and I scrambled to the kitchen window to watch Lucinda and the pretty, gentle-voiced Dr. Lund. They were standing very close together. And when Greta laid a hand on Lucinda’s cheek, my aunt smiled down at her with such devastating emotion, I could only gawp.
“Whoa,” Phoebe whispered, eyes going round as marbles as she turned to look at me.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Whoa.”
Phoebe beamed. “But that’s brilliant! I always felt sorry for Lu, you know? No matter how strong she is or how she claims to be ‘married to the Viators,’ she has to be lonely. And especially now, with the illness and all. Gram claims the blood transfusions are helping. But I heard Greta tell her that without a sample of the disease, there’s no real way to cure it.”
I turned away from the window, giving the two women their privacy. Whatever was killing my aunt’s red blood cells was a complete mystery to her doctors. Of course, what they did not know—?could never know—?was that the disease rampaging through my aunt’s bone marrow had been acquired during a trip to thirteenth-century Romania.
From behind my mother’s closed door, the baby mewled.
“Mom won’t take the sedatives, ’cause of the nursing,” I told Mac.
“I offered to wean the babe to the bottle,” Moira put in. “But Sarah wouldn’t have it.”
As Mac started down the hall, Moira waved him back.
“No need, mo ghràdh,” she said quietly. “Get to yer bed. Hope and I can handle this. It won’t be the first time, aye?”
Mac paused, then stifled a yawn as he nodded. “A’right then. But call if you have need of some warm milk. Or a tot o’ whiskey. I can fetch either.”
As the door to their bedroom closed, Moira turned back to me. “Scotsmen,” she tsked. “Always thinking life’s ills can be cured with a bit o’ spirits.”
Moira and I faced the door together. For the moment all was silent.
Maybe they went back to sleep.
The staccato tinkle of shattering glass sounded through the thick wood. Moira gave a cry and grabbed the crystal knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t open. Cursing in Gaelic under her breath, Moira reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a skeleton key.
“Learned my lesson last time,” she told me as she twisted the brass key in the lock.
Though every lamp was lit, so that the room blazed with light, I didn’t see my mom. The wicker bassinet in the corner was empty, but the room was filled with the sound of my two-month-old sister’s squalls.
The bedroom smelled of baby powder and furniture polish, underlaid with a metallic tinge. Light from the small chandelier glinted off shards of glass that lay strewn across the wooden floor and braided rug. On the bedside table, strands of purple heather tangled in a puddle of water where a vase of Waterford crystal had stood earlier that evening.
While Moira dashed to the bed and rifled through the rumpled quilts, hoping to find the baby there, my gaze flicked around the room. In the shadowed space beneath the four-poster bed, I thought I saw something shift.
“Mom?”
Moira, back at my side, pointed a shaking finger. “Hope,” she murmured. But I’d already seen it. A small scarlet stream that flowed from beneath the bed.
I dropped to my hands and knees. “Mom,” I choked out. “It’s me, Hope. Mom, are you hurt? Is Ellie okay? There’s blood, Mom. Why is there blood? Please come out, you’re scaring me.”
“Hope?” My mother’s voice sounded scratchy and hoarse, as if she’d been shrieking for hours. “Is it really you? She . . . she didn’t take you?”
“Wh-what?” Stifling the sob that was trying to wrench itself from my throat, I croaked, “No one took me, Mom. I’m right here. Just . . . come out, okay?”
Moira eased down, knees cracking as she knelt.
“Sarah,” she called softly. “It’s me, darling girl. It’s your Moira. Hope’s fine. Come on out, now. We’re sore worried about you. And the babe.”
For a time, my sister’s wails quieted and all we could hear was my mother’s uneven breathing. I glanced down as something warm touched my fingertips. The blood had reached the spot where my hand pressed against the floor. It began to pool up around my fingers. Shuddering, I jerked away.
“Mom!” My voice cracked. “Mama. Plea—”
“Sarah Elizabeth Carlyle!” A stern voice cut me off. “Stop this nonsense and come out of there this instant!”
My arms wobbled, and I nearly wilted in relief as my Aunt Lucinda marched across the room, towering over me.