House of Salt and Sorrows - Erin A. Craig Page 0,8
patted the empty space beside her, and Papa sat. After a moment or two, his shoulders began to shake. He was crying.
Morella leaned against him, wrapping her arm around his back and drawing him closer. I looked away as she reached up to stroke his cheek. I didn’t need to hear what she was saying to know her words consoled Papa like a soothing balm. She might not have understood our island ways, but I was suddenly glad of her presence at Highmoor. No one should have to bear such compounded grief alone.
Turning away from the window, I crawled into bed and snuggled up next to Verity, letting her measured breathing lull me to sleep.
The first thing I spotted at the breakfast table was Morella’s blue satin dress. Pleats of white organdy wound around her elbows, and a choker of pearls dotted her neck. It dazzled like a jeweled hummingbird in a room full of covered portraits and crepe wreaths.
She looked up from the side table as she picked through the trays of food. Highmoor kept a relaxed morning schedule. Everyone drifted in and out of the dining room, serving themselves.
“Good morning, Annaleigh.” Morella added a gingered scone to her plate and slathered it with butter. “Did you sleep well?”
In truth, I had not. Verity was a restless sleeper, lashing out like a mule whenever she turned. My mind kept wandering back to Eulalie and the cliff walk, too full to properly doze. It was well after midnight before I drifted off.
“Hello, my love,” Papa called out from the doorway.
We turned, both assuming his greeting was for us, but he crossed over to kiss Morella good morning. Though his frock coat was dark, it was a sooty charcoal, not the raven black I’d grown accustomed to.
“How well you look,” he said, turning her in a circle to admire the barely discernible bump.
“I think pregnancy agrees with me.”
She did radiate a flushed happiness. Mama’s pregnancies were full of terrible morning sickness, with bed rest prescribed long before the usual confinement period. When I was old enough, Ava and Octavia let me help with her care, showing me the best oils and lotions to ease her pains.
“Do you think so, Annaleigh?” Morella asked.
I supposed she was trying to be kind, including me in the conversation.
I studied the bright lapis satin. She looked lovely, but it was the wrong thing to wear the day after laying a stepdaughter to rest. “Are Eulalie’s dresses already too small for you?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, of course.” She used the moment to run a satisfied hand over her stomach.
“Actually,” Papa interrupted, reaching over to add a pile of kippers to his plate, “we have something to discuss with everyone on that very subject. Annaleigh, can you get your sisters?”
“Now?” I glanced at the eggs I’d just spooned out. They would not keep warm.
“Please?”
Purposefully leaving my half-assembled plate on the center of the table, I trudged upstairs. I was an early riser, but not all my sisters shared my morning habits. Mercy and Rosalie were absolute bears to wake up.
I chose Camille first.
She’d opened the curtains, letting weak gray light play over her rich plum-colored furnishings. I was surprised to see her in front of her vanity, stabbing a pin through a lock of hair. Though her lips and cheeks were bare, pots of color and cut-glass vials of perfume lay scattered across the tabletop. A black crepe cover, twin to the one shrouding my own mirror, was crumpled at her feet. I wondered when she’d thrown it there.
“Back from breakfast already?” she asked.
“Papa wants everyone downstairs. He has something to tell us.”
Her hand paused over a box of jewelry, then reluctantly picked up a jet-black earring. “Did he say what?”
I sat next to her on the bench, running fingers over my own chignon. I hadn’t seen my reflection in nearly a week. “Morella’s blue dress said plenty. Eulalie would have an absolute fit if she knew what was going on. Do you remember after Octavia died, when Eulalie wanted to go see—what was it, a traveling circus or something?—and Papa wouldn’t let us leave the house? He said”—I deepened my voice to a close approximation—“ ‘Grief such as ours shouldn’t be seen by the public eye.’ And Octavia had been gone for months!”
“Eulalie sulked for weeks.”
“And now we honor her by wearing black for what, five days? Papa is already wearing gray. It’s not right.”
My sister opened a jar and examined the wine-colored lip stain. “I agree.”