“Thank you. Thank you, Dr. Marsh.” Charles released the man’s arm and put his hand up to shield his eyes.
“But you should know… I was in Blacknowle last night. My last call was to see Mrs. Crawford with her ulcer. I drank a glass in the pub afterwards, and there were those that were asking after you…”
“What did they say?” Charles asked anxiously.
“They said you’d been in earlier frantically trying to find a doctor, saying that your wife and child had eaten something they shouldn’t have. Perhaps some plant, eaten by mistake. I will do as you ask, but you ought to be prepared for… rumors, in the village.”
“Rumors we can ignore. And we will leave Blacknowle, as soon as Celeste is well enough to travel. Then they can keep their rumors, and bother us no more.”
“It’s probably for the best.” The doctor nodded. “I am most terribly sorry for your loss,” he said, shaking Charles’s hand and turning to walk away. As if reminded by these words, Charles rocked on his heels, seemed about to fall. Dimity rushed over to him, instinct seizing control of her body. As she reached him, Charles’s legs buckled and he toppled, his arms flailing as though he was falling from a great height. Gladly, Dimity let him drag her down with him. She knelt and put her arms around him, and crooned to him gently as he sobbed and sobbed. She stroked his hair and felt his tears wetting her, and she let love light her up like the dawn breaking, strong enough, she hoped, to save her.
When she was asked, as asked she would be, she was to say gastric flu. Charles reminded her of this, two days later, when his tears had given way to a kind of dreadful, stony calm that was more like a state of wakeful catatonia; as though he’d been hypnotized. He moved as though he was half stunned, and Dimity felt unsafe in the car as he drove her to the top of the track to The Watch, and left her there. Dimity nodded and did as she was instructed, though the only person who asked her was Valentina, who then studied her daughter, looked her deeply in the eye, and knew that a lie was being told. She extracted the true cause of death from her, by the sheer weight of her will and the subservience that she’d bred into her daughter; then she put her head to one side, considering.
“No cowbane within three miles of the village by my reckoning-not when the summer’s this dry, and the farmers cut and burn it wherever they can. I wonder how the girl came by it? Hmm? I wonder if you might know how she came by it?” She gave an ugly cackle, and Dimity cowered away from her, shaking her head, saying nothing more. But she didn’t need to. Her mother could read her mind sometimes, and her spiteful smile, her grudging respect, were bitter as bile to Dimity.
On the third day, Dimity saw the blue car creeping cautiously down the driveway to Littlecombe, as if carrying something precious and desperately fragile. She followed it down, a short and unhappy procession. Celeste was escorted into the house by Charles, who kept one hand around her waist and one hand in the air before them, as though to ward off any obstacle that might arise. In the September sunshine, Celeste’s face was transformed. Her complexion was gray, her cheeks drawn and hollow. Her eyes had a distant, haunted expression, and her hands shook constantly-sometimes just a tiny tremble, like a shiver, sometimes jerking convulsively, like Wilf Coulson’s grandma, who had the St. Vitus dance. Dimity hung back as they went past her into the house. Delphine followed them, and did not look up. She was pale and looked older somehow; and as though she would never smile again. Dimity saw this, and could not believe that this was how things would be, from then on. Things could not be fixed, or changed. Things could not go back to the way they’d been. The thought turned her guts to water, and for a moment she feared she might mess herself. Something inside her was fighting to get out, but she felt that if she let it, it would kill her. So she fought with it as she followed them into the house and stood, and waited, and watched.
Nobody spoke to her. Nobody spoke at all. Nobody seemed to notice her until she put a cup of tea down next to Celeste, drawing her flat and lifeless blue gaze.
“I know you,” Celeste said, frowning slightly. “You are a cuckoo… a cuckoo child…” She brushed her hand down Dimity’s cheek, but though her words froze Dimity’s blood, suddenly Celeste smiled, just a tiny bit, just for a second. Then her eyes slid away to roam the room, as if she couldn’t remember where she was, or why. Her arms twitched, shoulders hunching. Dimity swallowed, and looked around to see Charles standing behind her. He drew her to one side.
“I’ve told her about Élodie, but I don’t know…” He paused, his face creasing into lines of anguish. “I don’t know if she realizes what I’ve told her. I think I will have to say it again.” His dread at the prospect was audible. Behind him, Delphine’s eyes were the only bright thing in the room; glazed and shining like polished stone.
Charles crouched down to tell Celeste, clasping one of her limp hands in both of his. It was a gesture that betrayed his own need for comfort; Dimity saw it and she longed to hold him. In the pause before he spoke, Dimity and Delphine stood so still they might have been statues.
“Celeste, my darling.” He lifted up her hand and pressed it to his mouth, as if to stop the words. “Do you remember what I told you, last night?”
“Last night?” Celeste murmured. The faintest touch of a smile gave an apology, and she shook her head. “You told me… I would be well soon.”
“Yes. And I told you… I told you something about Élodie. Do you remember?” His voice shook, and Celeste’s smile vanished. Her eyes darted around the room.
“Élodie? No, I… where is she? Where is Élodie?” she said.
“We lost her, my darling.” After he spoke, Celeste stared at him, and her eyes filled with fear.
“What are you talking about? Òu est ma petite fille? Élodie!” she called suddenly, shouting the word over Charles’s head. He gripped Celeste’s hand ever tighter; his knuckles were white. Dimity thought he might crack her bones.
“We lost her, Celeste. You and Élodie… you ate something that poisoned you. Both of you. We lost Élodie, my love. She is dead,” Charles said, and tears rolled down his face. When she saw them, Celeste paused. She stopped looking around for Élodie, stopped shaking her head in denial. She watched Charles weep and realization spread across her face; the shadow of a loss so huge that it could not be contained.
“No,” she whispered. Beside Dimity, Delphine let out a whimper. She was watching her mother with a gaze so raw and tender it was like her heart had been torn wide open for all to see.
“We lost her,” Charles said again, lowering his head as if in submission, as if to accept whatever punishment she would give.
“No, no, no!” Celeste cried, the word rising to a howl that turned the air to ice. With a sob, Delphine ran across to her, and threw herself down beside her mother, wrapping her arms around her. But Celeste fought her, disengaged her arms, and scrabbled to push her away. “Get off me! Let me go!” Celeste told her.
“Mummy,” Delphine moaned, pleading with her. “I didn’t mean to.” But with a final effort Celeste shoved her back, so hard that Delphine fell from the couch to the floor. Celeste sat up as if she would rise, but did not have the strength.
“Élodie! Élodie!” She called the name over and over. It was a plea, a command, a wish. And on the floor beside her, Delphine could only huddle, a picture of abject misery, hugging her own knees for comfort. Charles neither moved nor spoke; he had nothing left. Inside, Dimity was falling. She was falling too fast for thought, for words, and at her feet a spatter of urine was spreading across the floor.
Delphine was sent away to school at the end of the week, the day after her sister’s funeral. She went mutely, quietly, as though she had surrendered all right to an opinion, all right to free will. Dimity stood to one side as Charles hefted her trunk into the back of the car. Celeste emerged from Littlecombe, moving with the careful, small-stepping walk she had adopted since the poisoning; as though she no longer trusted her feet. She was draped in a loose robe, one of her lightweight caftans, but it hung from her now. She was thinner, the sensual curves of her body carved away. She took no trouble to tie a sash around her waist, or arrange her hair, or put on jewelry. Her skin had not regained its glow; her eyes were always red-rimmed. This creature seemed like the ghost of Celeste, as though she had died along with Élodie. She stood motionless when Delphine kissed her cheek and put careful arms around her, and did not return these signs of affection. Charles watched this awful exchange with a distraught expression.