My eyes struggled to focus through an impenetrable fog rising from the ground like simmering brimstone as black mud slowly inched its way up to my hips.
“H-hello…?” I shouted, my voice a ghostly echo. “I need help!” I struggled to move, sinking another inch until I deduced my struggles were in vain and would only accelerate my demise. “Hello?” I shouted again; my pleas lost in the fog.
Knowing I must keep still, I calmed myself long enough to halt the mud. I took a survey of my surroundings, finding the land flat and devoid of form. Marshland stretched as far as the eye could see, each direction merging with the horizon until I realized I was well and truly lost. In the distance, I heard the soft lapping of water as a chill slithered up my spine. “Help me!” I screamed until my throat ached. “Help… me…”
As my voice trailed off, a sense of defeat overwhelmed me. No one knew I was here, and I would most likely drown when the tide crept in. I gave up on being rescued and focused on remaining calm. No good ever came from histrionics.
Despite my best efforts, I continued sinking until the mud lapped at my chin. It was then I began to panic and struggled against my earthly restraints. I could not move my feet, nor my arms, and opened my mouth to scream. I gagged on a mouthful of foul-tasting sludge, choking as it clogged my windpipe. Breathing became an exercise in torture as my lungs tried to expel the miasma that tasted of soil and dead and dying things. “Hel—”
Mud filled my nostrils and stung my eyes. I tried to blot out the horror unfolding before me, but could not. I did not feel any pain, just a cold emptiness as the mud finished what it started. When I was completely submerged, an arm broke free and my hand reached up in silent supplication for divine intervention.
There was none.
The tide erased all evidence of my death, and it was then I realized someone wanted me to witness theirs. As I hovered above the water—my nightgown stained and damp—I was transported to a time when the water was not so deep and the mud twice as deadly. Two men in a wagon followed the road to where I’d been buried and drew to a halt. One climbed out and seemed none too pleased with the task at hand.
“He ain’t payin’ us enough for this!” he grumbled, pulling out a flask. He took a healthy draught and handed it to his companion. “Are ye sure she’s dead?”
“Saw it meself,” the man answered, shaking his bald head. He wore rain gear and carried a shovel. “He laid into ‘er with the candlestick somethin’ fierce.”
The man with the flask winced. “What did she do to deserve that?”
“Does it matter?”
“I s’pose not.”
“He sent all the servants away before he did it, too.”
“No more,” the man in the rain gear pleaded. “Let’s get this over with.” He ran to the wagon and tapped on the canvas tarp covering a lump. “She ain’t movin, Silas.”
“Good. Bring ’er out.”
I watched as the man lifted a dead Anjuli from the wagon and laid her on the ground. “Do we wrap ’er or what?”
“We dig a hole. That’s all he said.”
They got to work, digging a hole large enough for Anjuli’s petite frame. They were not careful with her, dragging her elegant body on the ground like cordwood. Mud and detritus clung to her raven locks, making a mockery of the jewels she once wore in her hair. When the hole was large enough, they scooped her up and threw her in. They buried her, shoveling mud carelessly until nothing but a long strand of hair remained. Then they stood back to admire their handiwork.
“Terrible shame,” the one with the flask lamented. “I thought he loved ’er.”
“Think she’s the only one he’s ever said it to?” The man in the rain gear spat on her grave. “The tide will take care of the rest.”
“Well, come on. Best not to be out ’ere when it rolls in.”
They picked up their shovels and left, their wagon leaving briny ruts in the mud.
An eerie silence filled the night, the sky gleaming hideous shades of green and yellow. Stars winked down at me, oblivious to the desecration that had just taken place. I still hovered above the water, seemingly unable to do much but bear witness to a burial. My body drifted closer to the spot where Anjuli lay. Her skull shattered, and her bones broken to force her into her makeshift tomb. I held my breath as if afraid I’d miss the smallest sound. My fingers clawed at the mud, heaving giant handfuls as I sought to save her.
But, as the mud drifted back to replace what I had taken, I knew there was nothing to save.
* * *
My eyes flew open, a scream dying on my lips.
Jon burst through the door, much like Macha’s prediction not so long ago. “Anne!” he cried in his shirtsleeves. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I—I saw… her,” I stammered, my eyes blinking rapidly. I could still taste the mud. “They… buried her.”
“Who?”
Confused and still half-asleep, I struggled to tell Jon what I had seen. He looked like he believed me, but when he summoned the nurse to dose me with a sedative, I knew he thought I had dreamed it all.
“I’m not crazy,” I mumbled as the laudanum took effect. “Why don’t you believe me?”
He stroked my hair. “Anjuli was never found,” he said, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Grandfather searched for years.”
“B-bog,” I said before I drifted away. “Where the road… vanishes.”
“Sleep,” he murmured, his voice sounding as if he had just encountered the tide.
When next I woke, the room was dark and the shadows… restless.
* * *
The next morning, I was in Jon’s arms and on my way to visit Colonel Havelock. “I tried to get him to come downstairs,” he said, his mustache tickling my cheek, “but he’s a stubborn old goat.” He paused on the landing. “Are you certain you’re up for this? We can always say you have a splitting headache.”
“Let’s get it over with,” I sighed, wondering what kind of aftershave he used. It was mildly pleasing, with crisp notes of cedar and underlying tones of sandalwood and musk. “Did you tell him about my dream?”
“Not yet,” he muttered, taking care not to jostle me too much. “I merely told him you’ve been having nightmares. If I tell him about the bog, he’ll have every servant within a twenty-mile radius out there with picks and shovels. It’s best if I hurry to Dublin and return as soon as possible. Once he gets a thought into his head, it’s difficult to dislodge it.”
“Sounds like my aunt.”
“In my absence, you ought to write to your sister.”
“Whatever for?”
“I don’t know. Let her know you haven’t forgotten her, I suppose.” He grinned. “Polite manners and all that sort of rot.”
“I doubt she’d respond.”
“Think she’s really that indoctrinated?”
My restless gaze settled on an oversized vase full of dried flowers. I frowned, wondering who thought to mix orange and purple flowers in a hallway full of blue and red wallpaper. “My aunt has had more than enough time to teach Eileen the important things in life. Money, climbing the social ladder and walking over anyone who stands in her way. You know… what makes a lady?”
Jon’s shoulders shook beneath my hands. “You don’t have a high opinion of Eileen, do you?”
“At this point? No. I’m afraid I do not.”
“Ever think of a visit?”
“I don’t have money for that.”
He gave me a queer look but said nothing. Instead, he waxed poetic on the colonel’s new bed. “It’s got rails and everything,” he went on, ignoring my groan. “I know a bed isn’t a rare occurrence, but Grandfather was beside himself when they delivered the thing. He had it custom-made. In Vienna.”
“That’s nice.”
“It may seem like an ordinary bed, but for a man who has fallen out of his fair share, it’s a wondrous thing.”
“I suppose the nurse appreciates it.”
“Not really. Grandfather won’t allow her near his throne. I had to hire a man to care for him. I really should have done that in the first place.”
“And has your grandfather baptized him with his bedpan yet?”
“Er… he wouldn’t dare.”
“And why not?” I demanded, thinking everyone should be baptized at least once. “Do you know how many times I had to wash my hair?”
He laughed. “I’m terribly sorry for that. Grandfather remembers little of the incident. He seems to think you provoked him.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Do not upset yourself, Mrs. Powell. What’s done is done.”
I glared at him. “So, I am a wife again?”
Jon shrugged, the fabric of his jacket rough beneath my fingers. “It’s better this way. I didn’t know what to tell the servants when we arrived. And the doctor assumed we were married.”
“That I understand. But what about—”
“I haven’t the heart to tell him, Anne. If it comes to that, we’ll do what needs to be done.”
“And you’ll be happy with that?”
He stopped in his tracks, making me wince. “I thought we settled all this.”
“I was just looking for confirmation. I don’t want to sidle up to the altar and have the vicar ask me where the groom is.”
“You think I’d do that to you?”
“No,” I answered dryly. “But your feet might.”
Biting his lip, he continued down a darkened hallway until we came to a familiar door. My heart clenched in dread. “I would never abandon you, fair damsel.”
“‘Fair’?” I wrinkled my freckled nose, suddenly wishing I looked like my mother. “Tolerable, perhaps.”
“You’re a silly girl,” he chided, directing me to knock on the door. “Just remember to let me do the talking. And whatever you do, do not mention the bog.”
My mouth opening on a retort, the colonel’s voice rang out—hateful and full of spite. “Who is it?”
“It’s Jon, Grandfather,” Jon called. “And I’ve brought… Anne.”
“Anne…? Anne who?”
“Grandfather,” Jon pleaded warily. “Please.”
“Very well, you may enter.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Turn the knob. Slowly,” Jon instructed, fear brimming in his eyes. “Something’s wrong. He’s never this…”
“Docile?” I offered, the knob coldly metallic in my hand. “Has he been sedated today?”
“We never sedate.”
“Then how do you—”
“We don’t.”
“Never?”
“There’s been no need since the sari’s return. Though I suspect that may change.” Jon nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Ready?”
As the door creaked open on rusty hinges, I felt the rush of excitement and dread. Excitement because of Anjuli and the hope of eventually solving her murder.
And dread because the man slumped in his wheelchair beside the window may have been the one who wielded the candlestick that shattered her skull into a million pieces.
