In my study I transcribed; in the garden I wandered; in my bedroom I stroked the cat and held off my nightmares by staying awake. The moonlit night when I had seen Emmeline appear in the garden seemed like a dream to me now, for the sky had closed in again, and we were immersed once more in the ewilight.
With the deaths of the Missus and now John-the-dig, an additional chill crept into Miss Winter’s story. Was it Emmelihat alarming figure in the garden—who had tampered with the ladder? I could only wait ahe story reveal itself. Meanwhile, with December waxing, the shadow h at my window grew always more intense. Her closeness repelled me, her distance broke my heart, every sight of her evoked ihe familiar bination of fear and longing.
I got to the library in advaniss Winter—m or afternoon or evening, I don’t know, they were all the same by now—and stood by the window to wait. My pale sister pressed her fio mirapped me in her impl gaze, misted the glass with her cool breath. I only had to break the glass, and I could join her.
‘Whatever are you looking at?“ came Miss Winter’s voice behind me.
Slowly I turned.
‘Sit down,“ she barked at me. Then, ”Judith, put an on the fire, would you, and then bring this girl something to eat.“ I sat down.
Judith brought cocoa and toast. Miss Winter tinued her story while I sipped at the hot cocoa.
‘I’ll help you,“ he said. But what could he do? He was just a boy.
I got him out of the way. I sent him to fetch Dr. Maudsley, and while he was gone I made strong, sweet tea and drank a potful. I thought hard thoughts and I thought them quickly. By the time I was at the dregs, the prick of tears had quite retreated from my eyes. It was time for a.
By the time the boy returned with the doctor, I was ready. The moment I heard their steps approag the house, I turhe er to meet them.
‘Emmeline, poor child!“ the doctor exclaimed as he came near, hand outstretched in a sympathetic gesture, as though to embrace me.
I took a step back, and he halted. “Emmeline?” In his eyes, uainty flared. Adeli was not possible. It could not be. The name died on his lips. “Five me,” he stammered. But still he did not know.
I did not help him out of his fusion. Instead I cried.
Not real tears. My real tears—and I had plenty of them, believe me—were all stored up. Sometime, tonight or tomorrow or sometime soon, I did ly know when, I would be alone and I would cry for hours. For John. For me. I would cry out loud, shrieking my tears, the way I used to cry as a little girl when only John could soothe me, stroking my hair with hands that smelled of tobacd the garden. Hot, ugly tears they would be, and when the end came—if it came— my eyes would be so puffed up I would have only red-rimmed slits to see out of.
But those were private tears, and not for this man. The tears I gratified him with were fake ones. Oo set off my greehe way diamonds set off emeralds. And it worked. If you dazzle a man with green eyes, he will be so hypnotized that he won’t notice there is someone ihe eyes spying on him.
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I do for Mr. Digence,“ he said, rising from beside the body.
It was odd to hear John’s real name.
‘However did it happen?“ He looked up at the balustrade where John had been w, the over the ladder. ”Did the safety catch fail?“
I could look at the corpse without emotion, almost. “Might he have slipped?” I wondered
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