BONE HOUSE by Betsy Tobin Page A

mother she took steps to shelter him from the outside world and its dangers. If I am to unravel the questions surrounding her death, I shall have to seek my answers elsewhere, for I sense that there is little more to be learned from him directly.
    My mother returns at dusk, appearing some degree refreshed. The boy seems relieved when she enters, and she goes to him directly, spanning his forehead with her hand to check for fever.
    “He is fine,” I say. “I gave him the tonic.” They both ignore me, she concentrating on the feel of his brow. After a moment she releases him and nods.
    “I am grateful for your help,” she says a little tersely. “You can return now to the Great House.” I hesitate a moment, watch her move to the fire, give the pot a stir. She cannot stay here indefinitely, but she is not likely to leave him thus. What will she do when he is recovered, I wonder? She lights a candle and places it on the table, then seats herself by the fire and takes out a ball of newspun wool and her knitting needles. My mother’s hands are never idle, and they fly about the needles like two swallows worrying a nest. The boy lies peacefully in the corner, and I hear himsigh as I put on my coat and slip out the door, leaving the two of them to their silence.
    In the scullery of the Great House Cook is scolding Little George, the roasting boy, for allowing a joint to burn. When I enter, she leaves him cowering and comes toward me, wiping her hands on her bloodstained apron.
    “You were overlong away,” she says.
    “My mistress?” I ask.
    “I had to keep her from your room,” she scolds me. “I told her you were deep in sleep.”
    “I am grateful,” I reply.
    “Aye,” she says with a grimace, waving me away. I dash up the rear stairs and hasten to my room. Once inside I remove my kirtle and lay it on the bed, then I take the glass vial out of its pouch to examine it once more. Just as I do, I hear a soft knock on the door. Quickly I lie down on the bed, shoving the vial out of sight beneath my kirtle. My mistress enters and I feel my face flush, though I manage to smile at her in greeting.
    “You’re awake,” she says.
    “Yes. I am much improved.”
    “I am glad to hear of it,” she says with a nod. Her eyes flicker briefly around the room searching for a place to sit, and for a moment I fear that she will sit upon the kirtle, but to my relief she settles herself on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed.
    “Lucius gave you a fright, I think,” she says a little archly.
    “I was . . . overcome for a moment. I cannot think why,” I say. “It was silly of me,” I add with a smile.
    “Was it?” She raises an eyebrow. “At times our minds and bodies are in complete accordance. If one succumbs, so does the other.”
    “I suppose so,” I say, shifting awkwardly.
    “Still,” she continues, “if you consider it, her death is not so very surprising. The great-bellied woman lived in a state of perpetual sin, my dear. She must have known that God would claim her in the end,” she says pointedly.
    “Yes, of course,” I murmur.
    “We shall dwell no more upon it,” says my mistress, reaching over to pat my hand. She rises, and as she does she accidentally dislodges my kirtle, which lies folded at the foot of my bed. I slides to the floor and the vial hits the wooden boards with a thump.
    “How clumsy of me,” she says, bending down to retrieve the kirtle, and as she picks it up she notices the vial. She holds it up to me.
    “This is Edward’s. Wherever did you find it?”
    “On the path outside the house, mum,” I stammer.
    She holds it up to the candlelight, admiring it for a moment. “He lost it some years ago. I was terribly disappointed, as I’d purchased it myself from a dealer in London.”
    “It is very beautiful,” I say.
    “Perhaps one of the servants took it,” she says with a sigh, disregarding in her way the fact that
I
am a servant. “I shall take it to him immediately,”