A laugh erupts from behind the door, a laugh so loud the rifle slips from his hands and clatters to the floor. Bram scrambles to snatch it back up and aim the barrel towards the laugh.
You’re getting careless, Bram. You forgot to bless your flower; must be the fatigue setting in.
Bram watches in horror as the petals of the rose fall away, one by one, leaving nothing but a thorny stem. The entire mess grows black before his eyes and crumbles away. Behind the door, the laugh comes again, then a loud bang on the door. More of the paste around the edges falls to the ground with the blow, and Bram feels his heart sink as he drops back into the chair.
The laugh fades away, and again the room fills with silence followed by the voice in his head, his sister’s.
I used to love picking flowers in the commons outside our home in Clontarf; do you remember? We had a park right outside our door, and the harbor beyond that, Artane behind us. Ma used to take me for walks along the shoreline. We would picnic and watch the ships drift in from the sea. Those were special times. Of course, you were already ill, even back then. You were nothing but a thin wisp of a boy, so frail you looked as if a tumble from your bed might be the death of you.
I remember Nanna Ellen tucking you in each night and telling you a story. Sometimes she would let me sit in, but even if she didn’t I could hear her from my room and I would listen to every word. Does that bother you, Bram? Does it bother you I eavesdropped on your private moments?
Bram says nothing.
Her stories were so enthralling; I couldn’t resist. If you ask me, they were wasted on you. Half the time, you were in such a fevered state you didn’t know where you were, let alone able to offer the attention they deserved. And even on those rare nights when you did listen, you would drift off to sleep long before the story was complete. I would be willing to wager you never once heard the end of one of her stories. I did, though. I learned how they all end. Every last one of them. That night when she pounced on you from the ceiling? I know how that story ended. Would you like me to tell you?
Bram takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets the air back out through his mouth. Sleep tries to capture him, his eyelids threatening to surrender. He stands away from the chair, takes three circuits around the room, then sits back down. He wants another drink of the brandy, but that isn’t wise; brandy will only make him more tired.
“There you go again, drifting off to sleep in the middle of a story.”
This time the voice is that of Nanna Ellen, exactly as he remembers her from his childhood. And the voice doesn’t sound like it is inside his head anymore; this time the voice comes from behind the door, muffled by its thick oak.
“I didn’t want to leave that night, I really didn’t, but you and your sister gave me little choice. You should have never gone into my room. You had no business in there, in my private space. I would have never entered your bedroom like that, unbidden. I would never have considered rifling through your belongings like a common thief rifling through a victim’s possessions. I loved you—you, and your sister, too.”
Bram feels his eyes drift shut, and he forces them open and sucks in a deep breath. The musty air is so thick with dank dust, it tickles at the back of his throat. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the flask, and allows himself another drink.
“You’re sitting here as an adult because of me, Bram. You know that, right? I could have left you to die that night, but I didn’t. I saw what mischief your witch doctor of an uncle was conjuring and I stepped in to quell it, your mother and father be damned. You have no idea what kind of trouble that brought on me, do you? I