foyer. Her eyes were fixed forward, locked on the door, and in her hand she held the silver cross from our bedroom wall in a grasp so tight that blood was trickling out between her fingers.
Emily’s nurse, Miss Dugdale, approached me when I crossed the threshold, her face etched with worry. “She has not moved from this place since early this morning. She will not speak. I tried twice to escort her to the parlor, but the moment I laid hands on her she screamed; I dared not try a third time.”
I offered Miss Dugdale a compassionate glance and thanked her for her efforts; this was not the first time I discovered my spouse in this condition, and when last it occurred, only time broke the spell. I asked Miss Dugdale to leave us, and when she had departed I went to my wife, circling around her slowly.
If she had been silent earlier, that wasn’t the case now. As I leaned in close, whispers escaped from her lips, the words so soft I could not make them out. I thought it might be the Lord’s Prayer, but I wasn’t certain. I tentatively reached for her hand, the one holding the cross, and gently took her into my own grasp. She did not cry out as she had for Miss Dugdale; instead, the whispers stopped, and she gasped.
I leaned into her. “You should go to bed, my love. You’ve had a long day. You’ll feel better by the light of morning.”
With this, I tried to walk her towards the stairs, but she would not move—her feet held to the marble as if they were part of the stone. “What is it? What bothers you so?”
I knew she heard the words; I saw this in her eyes, but she did not answer. Beneath my grasp, her fingers clutched the cross tighter still, causing it to slice into a finger. The warmth of her blood rolled over the back of my hand. When I tried to pry her fingers from the silver, the start of a scream welled within her throat. I dared not continue; I would get it from her after she calmed.
“He is putting the man back together again,” she said softly. Emily followed this with a short laugh. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, but the man in black can put him back together again. The man in black can make him good as new.” Her face twisted into an expression of horror, and she turned to me, her eyes wide, her mouth opened slightly. “You must stop him.”
“Stop who? I do not understand.”
“You cannot let him put the man back together again.”
“Who?”
At this juncture, she began to hum. Not a tune, mind you, but a single note held for an ungodly length of time, as if breathing were not a necessity. I knew of no other course of action, so I took her shoulders in hand and shook her violently in hopes of breaking this stuporous spell. “Who do you mean, Emily?”
“The man in pieces who fell off the wall, the man who had a great fall.”
It was then that it struck me. “Do you mean Patrick O’Cuiv?”
She raised the silver cross to her lips and kissed it. “God has turned His back on him. The man in black has made it so.”
My eyes grew wide. “How do you know of Patrick O’Cuiv?”
I know I never mentioned the man to her, not in the past years or the past day. Maybe she heard us speak of him last night when I thought she was asleep? I supposed that was possible, but our bedroom was located a great distance from the library, and with all doors closed, it seemed very unlikely. Maybe she snuck down the stairs and we did not hear her. But I administered her so much laudanum, I cannot imagine her waking, let alone coming downstairs.
At this point, her arms went limp, and she began to shuffle towards the stairs. I took the opportunity to help her; there was no telling when she would be willing to move again, and I didn’t wish to ply her with a drug for