The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

24
THE BONES
Stephanie Bucklin
“There are bones in the garden.”
Lady Mordemag looked up from the table, her dark black eyes blinking ones, twice,
as one dainty white hand held her teacup inches from scarlet lips. She was still beautiful,
even in her raggedy, thin, demolished state, the one that had begun to grow all those
years ago, ever since even she had to come to face the truth.
“Bones?” said Lady Mordemag.
“The children found them.”
Lady Mordemag set her teacup down on the white saucer. It rattled, the little gold
petals of its design shivering in some phantom wind. The table was dusty, set in its
perpetual manner, only the teacup ever swapped out. Two pairs of dishes, two sets of
cutlery, two large wine glasses. The maids used to clean them every week, until there
were not enough of them to care. The rest of the room was no better: dusty sofas,
dusty bookcases, dusty curtains that remained drawn, allowing in only the tiniest sliver
of butter-yellow light.
“And what,” said Lady Mordemag, looking up at her accuser, dark eyes narrowing in
the dim light of the manor, “does that have to do with me?”
The speaker, Darya, shifted. She glanced back towards the door, an impossible square
of bright light, like the portal to another world. She was the only one who dared address
Lady Mordemag, most of the time. Perhaps the woman still had some buried soft spot
in her heart for her children that made her extend courtesies to their governess—or,
more likely, Lady Mordemag maintained a veneer of politeness because she understood