Maud had no idea why she was crying. She felt Mrs. Lambert’s buttons dig into her cheek. She breathed in the scent of starched linen and lavender water. She wrapped her arms around the rich woman’s waist and hugged back. “I love you, Mama.” The words that had sounded false in rehearsal came easily now. “I love you!”
“Oh, Caroline, I love you, too,” Mrs. Lambert whispered. “I love you, I love you — and oh, my dearest, forgive me those ugly words! I didn’t mean them —”
“I know, Mama.” Maud felt her wig lurch as Mrs. Lambert caressed her curls. She removed one arm from the woman’s waist so that she could hang on to it. “I understand.”
“Help me!” Judith’s voice was a shock. She was almost screaming. “My sister! My sister! Help me!”
Maud felt Mrs. Lambert’s arms loosen. Reluctantly she turned back toward the two spiritualists.
“She’s dying! Help me!”
Slowly, Mrs. Lambert released her phantom daughter. Maud stepped to one side. As soon as she saw Mrs. Lambert lean over Hyacinth, she backed up, step by step, reached for door of the map closet, found it, and hid herself within. She pulled at her skirt, taking care that none of the cloth was caught in the door —
There was a tinkle of broken glass. Someone was screaming. Maud blinked in the darkness. Something was happening on the other side of the panel, something that had not been rehearsed. Hyacinth, who was supposed to be emerging from her trance, was shouting, and Judith, who never lost self-control, was shrieking like a banshee. The din was so terrible that Maud could not distinguish the words. The light outside the door increased — Hyacinth must have turned up the lamp — and the screaming went on. There was a sound like cloth tearing, a heavy thud, and several sharp cracks, different in timbre from Judith’s rappings. “Quickly!” “No time!” “Look there!” “She’s hurt!” and — from Mrs. Lambert — “Your servant —?” and from Hyacinth, sharply, “Out!”
The door slammed. Someone had come in, or gone out, the front door. Maud strained to hear. She heard a queer trickling noise, like a stream with a strong current — the sound of people shouting outside the house — was that Hyacinth? — and then a man, shouting about fire. There must be a fire, Maud thought, and they’ve gone outside to look at it, but why? It didn’t make sense.
The light outside the door grew brighter. Maud’s nostrils twitched. Something was burning — but supper was over and Muffet never . . . Smoke. Still disbelieving, Maud opened the door of the map cupboard.
The room was bright with fire. The kerosene lamp had fallen, and flames sprouted from the broken glass. The tablecloth lay rumpled on the carpet, cradling a lapful of fire. Fire danced on the threshold of the doorway, making the velvet curtains shrink and twitch. The women had left the house just in time.
Maud retreated. She had a crazy desire to rush back inside the map closet, squeeze shut her eyes, and hide until the fire went away. Then Hyacinth’s words came back to her, as clearly as if she stood at Maud’s side. The wood’s cracked. Too many holes and it’ll splinter into bits.
Maud whirled. Using her body as a battering ram, she flung herself at the back wall of the map cupboard. The wood panel creaked, but it didn’t splinter. Maud cast a frantic look around the room. There was a bronze sailing ship on the mantel — heavy, with a sharp-pointed bow — and she seized it with both hands. Her arms sagged with its weight — it was heavier than it looked — but she gripped it tightly and beat it against the back wall.
At the first blow, the panel splintered. With the second and third, she smashed a hole big enough to crawl through. She forced herself into the breach, wiggling like an animal trapped in a hedge. Her arms toppled the books on the other side of the wall and pushed open the glass doors of the bookcase. She kicked forward until her arms caught hold of the shelf’s front edge. Then she began to pull through.
Only once, at the very beginning of her life, had she fought her way forward with such urgency. The splintered wood gripped her tightly, snagging her dress, gouging her skin. She felt no pain. Head first, she labored, pulling and kicking, until she toppled free and tumbled onto the floor of the library.
She leaped to her feet. She took one last look through the hole in the panel and saw the room was full of smoke. The fire was surging toward the front parlor. Maud raced through the library door, into the hall that led to the kitchen.
The kitchen looked surprisingly peaceful. The supper dishes were done. There was one place laid on the table. Muffet had left out Maud’s supper; a covered plate stood between knife, fork, and spoon —
Maud froze with her hand on the door. Was Muffet in the house? Muffet almost always went for a walk after dinner — or out into her garden — Maud flew to the screen door and strained to see out, into the dusk. Please, she thought, let me see Muffet. But the hired woman was not in the garden. If she were upstairs, she would not hear the cries from the street.
Maud stood paralyzed. She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to flee from the fire. Even if Muffet were upstairs, she wanted to run. She tried to imagine Muffet out walking. The hired woman would come back from her walk, with her basket of seedlings, and Maud would greet her and they would both be safe. Then the drama changed. Maud saw herself leaving the house. Only later would she learn that Muffet had died, trapped in the attic, burned to death. Maud tried to imagine life after that and found it impossible. She let go of the door handle and turned toward the back stair.
Her body rebelled. Just as she couldn’t picture a future in which Muffet died, her legs could not accept the idea of turning back to the fire. Maud knew her time was short. If she was to go upstairs, she must go quickly. But her legs belonged to an animal that didn’t want to die, and they would not budge. Maud forced herself to take a step. Another. Her body fought back every step of the way.
Up the stair she clumped. The smoke pursued her, a ghost without a shape. Another flight — one jerk at a time, each foot a lump of lead. At last she reached the attic. She shrieked, “Muffet!” though she knew Muffet could not hear. She jogged stiffly through the box room and into Muffet’s bedroom. “Muffet!”
The room was dark. Maud stooped and swatted the bedclothes. The quilt was smooth and cool. Muffet was not there.
With that knowledge, Maud’s body underwent a transformation. All at once, she was free to leave the house, and every cell in her body leaped with joy. She flew down the steps with a grace and fluidity she had never known. Her feet scarcely touched the treads of the stairs; her hand soared five inches above the balustrade. Even when she reached the thick clouds of smoke on the second floor, she was euphoric. She soared through the smoke like an owl through the dark. She whisked through the kitchen, palms out, smacking open the screen door so that it slammed behind her.
Once outside, she began to cough. Her eyes watered; the smoke smell was so strong that she fancied that the insides of her nostrils were scorched. She was aware of the sound of great bells ringing and the brassy din of someone hammering a gong. She heard people shouting from the front of the house. There were hoofbeats — galloping horses — the firefighters were coming. Maud pulled off Caroline’s wig and stashed it under the lilac bush. Then she fled, taking the path toward the shore.
She was halfway to the ocean when she stopped running. She halted, panting, one foot on the boardwalk and one on the sand. Why had she come here? She sat down and pulled off Caroline’s stockings.
What should she do? She tried to recover her wits, heartening herself. She was alive and Muffet was alive. That was good; that was better than good. Moreover, she had done well during the séance. But beyond that thought, another lay in wait. Maud shook her head to ward it off. She got to her feet. She had to know what was happening back at the house.