Page 15 of Blackwicket
Damn the tear that slid down my cheek.
“Eleanora.”
I attempted to shove the door closed, but my father slapped his palm against it.
“Wait, wait, you need to know something.” He pushed, and I relented enough to see his earnest expression.
“What?” I spat.
“Fiona’s funeral is in two days. At the Nightglass estate.”
The mention of my sister’s funeral landed like a punch. For a moment, my anger had made me forget.
“No,” I responded.
“What d’you mean no?”
“Her funeral won’t be at the Nightglass estate. She hated that place. I’m here, so I’ll take over the arrangements.”
“But it’s already done.”
“You can’t make those decisions. You’re not even on her goddamn birth certificate. As her last legal living relative, it’s my responsibility. The funeral will be here. She’ll be buried in the family plot.”
“Eleanora, find some sense, nobody will come to this house anymore. The kids in town recite rhymes about it, for fuck’s sake.”
“Then I’ll bury her myself.”
“That’s just plain stupid, Cricket.”
He was right, but heartache enhanced my stubbornness.
“Appreciate it as proof that I inherited at least one of your qualities, Darren.”
I drove my shoulder into the door, the sudden force giving my father no chance to react. He’d never dare knock, let alone barge in, but I turned the bolt anyway, just to underscore my hurt. It secured itself with well-oiled ease. Fiona must have locked it often.
My eyes burned, tears threatening to start and never stop. I knew if I didn’t address my grief soon, it would harden and become something worse, but I needed a bit more time.
I raised my eyes to the high coffered ceiling two stories overhead, where the seven-bracket brass chandelier still hung, its arms adorned with lacy cobwebs. Many of my winter days had been spent lying in the warm pool of sunlight that streamed from the high window, tracing the curves and coils of the fixture, pretending to stroke the fern-shaped fronds of the medallion with my fingertips.
“Hello,” I whispered, and the house creaked, releasing a long-awaited breath.
“I’m not staying,” I added, wanting to make sure it understood that I wasn’t its salvation, that it couldn’t depend on me.
There was a shudder in my soul as everything fell silent, a deep, fathomless noise. My ears ached from the pressure of it.
Leaving my bags on the parquet floor, I moved to the old front desk, running a touch over the top where the edges of gold filigree had faded. Here were the memories of early years, of a pair of little girls sitting on high stools, drawing pictures, and welcoming the rare visitors with bright smiles meant to lift spirits, already aware of what was being brought to leave behind in our mother’s care.
Next to a wall of slats for letters and correspondence was the small square board for keys. Blackwicket House boasted twelve rooms, ten designated for guests and two for family. All the keys were present, still hanging on their hooks. The back wall beyond this was bare, grass cloth wallpaper faded, gold vines and emerald leaves dusty and sun-bleached, evoking fairytales from my youth, however dim. I’d occasionally broken the rules and used magic to bring the metallic threads to life, stirring them in a bewitched breeze, winding them through one another until theyformed silhouettes of castle turrets and forest cottages. Fiona had never caused mischief, but loved it when I did, and though such magical larks were kept small, lest the Drudge grow too curious, they were cherished moments.
Moments now turned to thorns in my heart.
A heaviness descended around my shoulders, eager to crush me beneath the weight of loss. To battle it, I decided to take stock of the damage a decade of neglect had done, to gather the stories of Fiona’s struggles and what she endured to be driven to do the things my father accused her of.
I couldn’t face the first floor. Not yet. So, I climbed the stairs, my footsteps falling louder than they used to. The paneling from downstairs continued, the yellowing cornices following the slope of the ceiling. I came to the hushed landing of the second floor, knowing it was illogical to begin here. I needed to go where Fiona had most likely spent her hours: the family wing. The stillness I found atop the last flight was eerie and uncommon. There was no natural light besides the watery sun shining through diamond windowpanes at either end of the hall. To combat this dreariness, the walls had been lined with sconces, their white globes resembling a parade of full moons guiding a weary traveler. I flipped a switch. There was a buzz and a pop, the lights coming on in slow succession, as if struggling to remember their function. Finally, they found their footing, and the hall grew luminous with the insincere glow of artificial light.
Energy anomalies were not unusual, not with what lived here, but the audible buzzing served as a sign that the issue was mundane, not magical. I could ignore it. Let the house catch fire with faulty wiring. Let it burn.
Ten years ago, a mere three rooms in Blackwicket House were livable, and even those barely so. The walls and ceilings had become wrecked with mildew from cracked windows and thepoor state of the roof, which let in rain. The linens and rugs had soured and browned with water, paper peeling, windowsills becoming soft with rot. Isolde Blackwicket had closed each door, never to open them again.
