The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

“The lady is in one of her moods,” Marcy, one of the two remaining maids, warned.
Darya paused from brushing her hair and looked up, to the corner of the mirror where
she could see the maid silhouetted in the doorway, almost ethereal.
“She is?”
“Aye.”
“Wait,” Darya said, as the maid turned to go. The dark curls bobbed backward, and
the wary face, half-obscured by the fading sunlight, looked back at her again. “The
bones. Did you hear about the bones?”
“I don’t want trouble,” the maid said, and disappeared again before Darya could
press her further.
Darya finished brushing her hair and looked in the mirror. She felt old, ancient,
though she had not yet passed thirty. It was the estate. It drained the life out of her,
and spit back up bones. She ran one hand over her chestnut hair, the waves loose and
lifeless. Underneath her eyes, she could see fine lines already forming, like the threads
of spiderwebs. She thought of the men who had once called her beautiful, and then
wondered if she would ever hear someone say so again.
The bell clanged. Dinner was ready.
The children had washed and primped, though Annabelle had not worn the frock
Darya set out for her. Darya felt a ruffle of annoyance, but it was too late—Lady
Mordemag sat at the head of the table, a fine pearl brooch around her neck, her hair up
and coiffed. She smiled, a slick, serpentine thing, and asked Annabelle if she had had a
pleasant day.
Be nice to her, thought Darya. For Humphrey’s sake, if not your own.
“It was fine,” Annabelle said, into her plate. Marcy brought out the first course; the
other maid was nowhere to be found. It was a thin, grainy soup, spiced with pickled fish.
Almost everything they ate up there was pickled or salted, nowadays.
“I’ve brought you a present, my dear,” Lady Mordemag said, as they all pushed around
the soup and pretended to eat. Humphrey’s eyes shone as he watched his mother, though
she seemed not to notice. “A teacup.”
“I don’t want a teacup,” said Annabelle.
Anger flashed across Lady Mordemag’s face, but she smoothed it soon after. Darya
felt her pulse quicken. “It used to be your father’s.” She pulled something from her lap, a
napkin, and folded from it a thin, pristine porcelain cup, decorated around the top with
little navy whales. “Do you like it?”
Annabelle looked up furtively, and then back down at her plate.
“And you, Humphrey?” Lady Mordemag said, with another of her serpentine smiles.
“Darya, it is beautiful, is it not?”
Darya agreed that it was.
“Would you like it, Annabelle?” Lady Mordemag said. “No? Well, Humphrey, I
suppose that means it’s yours.”
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