and skirts fell limp. She sagged and let the tears run unchecked down her wrinkled old face. Slowly, reluctantly she pushed the door shut.
A clock ticked somewhere in the dark recesses of the hall. To Vanessa it was ticking backward in time—back to the year when she was eighteen and standing as she was now, looking fondly at the home she loved so dearly. Then she had looked at it through tears of farewell. She had run away from Bloodstone, away from her weak, distant mother, from her indifferent, uncaring father. She had listened to Tutrice and to her heart and she had allowed her emotions to rule her senses. And so, she had fled.
Without turning, Vanessa asked Tutrice, “Why did I leave all this? For what?”
“You know why,” Tutrice answered, almost in a monotone.
“It was you who urged me to run after him.”
“No, I merely told you to go away, to go away from this accursed house.”
“Stop saying that.” Vanessa put her hands over her ears. “Bloodstone is not accursed. It is our home.”
“It is your grave.” Tutrice shouldered past Vanessa and disappeared through a door tucked under the curving staircase.
“Old fool,” Vanessa yelled as the door shut.
Suddenly a man appeared at the head of the stairs. “Vanessa?” he said. “Vanessa, is that you?”
“Father! Oh, Father!” She ran up the steps and threw herself into his arms.
It was not a comfortable embrace, however—they had not been accustomed to embracing. After a moment, she stepped back and looked him up and down.
“You’re looking so well,” she said, but her father looked far from well. “And Mother? Is she well?”
Her father motioned to a door that stood partly open. “She is in the sitting room.” He gave a little chuckle. “You know your mother. She never changes.”
But her mother too had changed. Hester Mallory sat before a fireless hearth calmly working on a bit of embroidery. She glanced at Vanessa. She did not smile.
“Hello, Mother. I’ve come home.”
“Yes.” Hester gazed at her daughter for a moment, then returned her attention to the needlework in her lap.
Vanessa looked from her mother to her father. “You don’t seem surprised at seeing me,” she said, forcing the pitch of her voice higher in order to give it a more cheerful lilt. “It has been five years, you know.”
“We know,” her father answered. “Of course, we are overjoyed at seeing you.” He paused. “They told us you drowned.” There was no emotion in his voice. The words came out flat and stiff.
“Me? Drowned?” She suddenly laughed gaily.
Jeremiah nodded gravely. “Five years ago. You and Captain....” He fumbled for a name, but none came to him.
“I’d prefer his name remain unspoken,” Vanessa said quickly.
Her mother looked up from her sewing. Their eyes met and locked briefly. After a moment, Hester Mallory looked back down to her embroidery.
“It was a mistake,” Vanessa said. “I’ve come home to start anew. Tutrice and I....”
“Is Tutrice here, with you?” her father asked. He looked strange. His eyes widened, his lips trembled slightly.
“Yes, downstairs. Oh, I left the horses hitched to the landau.”
“Everything will be taken care of.”
For an uncomfortable moment they just stood looking at each other. “Why is the house boarded up?” Vanessa asked.
“Boarded up?”
“Yes. I had to rip away the boards in order to unlock the front door.”
Jeremiah looked toward his wife. “Hester? Were you aware of this?”
“Yes,” she said, drawing thread over a design on the linen.
“Please tell me why.”
“You forget, Jeremiah. The front door is never used anymore.”
Jeremiah cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, of course,” he stammered. “I forgot.”
“Never used?” Vanessa said, again frowning in confusion. “May I ask why?”
“Bloodstone is very old,” her father told her. “It will fall around our heads one day.”
“Surely it can be repaired.” Vanessa looked around at the lovely, sparkling sitting room. Everything in the room was polished and new looking. The heavy velvet portieres cascaded gracefully from the tops of the French windows. The rugs and furniture were in perfect condition. The upholstery seemed unworn and fresh, the colors vivid and bright.
Her father made a helpless gesture. “Let it fall,” he said.
Vanessa whirled on him. “What are you saying? Let Bloodstone fall? You can’t let Bloodstone fall into ruin. I won’t permit it.”
Slowly his eyes moved to meet hers. “It is of no consequence now,” he said.
“Of no consequence? You must be mad!” She suddenly realized that something was terribly wrong; something had happened during her five-year absence, something dire. “What happened?”
“Happened?” her father asked innocently. “Nothing. Everything.”
“Please explain.”
Jeremiah looked away and glanced at Hester. She looked up at him briefly, then back at her sewing.
“There is nothing to explain,” Jeremiah told Vanessa.
“There is everything to explain. Bloodstone is gradually falling to pieces on the outside. Why have you allowed it to deteriorate outwardly while inside it is more immaculate than ever?”
“One does not live on the outside of a house,” Hester put in without looking up.
Vanessa stared at her. In all her years she’d never known her mother to enter any discussion. She was stunned for a moment. “You’re making no sense. I demand to know what has happened since I left.”
Tutrice, standing in the doorway, said, “You will learn everything soon enough.” She nodded to Jeremiah, then to Hester. “We will stay in the west wing as usual,” she told them.
“Of course,” Jeremiah answered.
“Come along, child,” Tutrice said to Vanessa. “You’re tired.”
Vanessa’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “I am not tired...nor am I hungry...nor am I cold,” she snapped. “Leave me be, Tutrice. Why must you hover over me?”
“Suit yourself, girl.” The
