Thankfully he ignored me as well, and I didn’t have to say anything anymore.
Tired of knocking, Thierry threw his weight against the door a few times until it cracked, and then entered the bathroom. Past his figure I immediately saw a pool of blood… and next to it was the crumpled form of my sister-in-law. He gasped and ran to her while Charlotte pretended to be surprised and screamed hysterically, quite convincingly.
Madeleine was on the floor, half undressed with her eyes open, her head in a pool of blood. A bloody smudge was found on the rim of the bathtub. Charlotte must have tried to make it look like Madeleine had slipped and cracked open her head on the tub porcelain edge. Still, that wouldn’t explain the neck, I thought—but when I saw the body I had to do a double-take. Madeleine’s neck appeared smooth and untouched. There was no wound on her neck. Yet I wouldn’t question my memory—I remembered too clearly what I had briefly seen the night before.
And then I finally realized how Charlotte claimed to drink from random villagers’ necks and have them be ignorant of it the next day. She must have been able to heal the wound, somehow.
While I processed this, Thierry had rushed to his wife and knelt beside her, all the time calling her name as if to wake her, making small sniffling noises. He picked up the upper part of her motionless body and touched her head wound. A dry sob escaped his throat and he pulled her into his arms, cradling her. Charlotte had stopped screaming and now sobbed quietly, and we remained still for a few minutes while Thierry rocked his wife’s body. Finally he got up and carried her body outside, never questioning why, or how.
For hours there was commotion in the Great House and throughout the grounds. My mother summoned me alone, and at first I was afraid, not knowing what she wanted, but I quickly figured out that she was only trying to learn more information. She didn’t seem to know anything about what had transpired between Madeleine and me. Thierry had not said anything to her. In fact he had not said a word to anyone and remained locked in his old room. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t see me.
The following morning we were all summoned to Madeleine’s services. She was laid to rest in the Brunsfield graveyard where three previous generations of Ashbys were buried. Thierry remained somber during her funeral and burial. He didn’t speak; he was in a daze, and I saw his pain evident in his eyes.
But he didn’t weep for his wife.
6. Magistrate
Days passed, and Charlotte and I never talked about what happened. I never brought up her lapse in control. She didn’t seem repentant, and I was rather embarrassed to admit that I was, even if a small part of me, relieved that Madeleine was dead. Then I would catch myself and I’d try to be sad.
We tried to return to our normal lives, and took an entire week off from our regular employments to mourn our lost “sister”. But at the end of the week my chest was still in pain. I was sure my brother had broken a few ribs when he assaulted me.
Finally I talked to Charlotte and addressed what happened that awful night, but not to discuss her questionable morals—no, something else had been plaguing my mind all that time.
“How did you close her wound?” I asked casually.
“I knew you would ask me that question,” was her reply.
I paused. “You can read my mind now?”
“No.” She sighed. “I knew because I know you.”
I smiled at her, tentatively. “Well?”
She returned my half smile. “ Mon coeur , a few drops of my blood in the wound, and it heals itself.”
“How?”
“I am not sure. Argus simply told me to do it, and I have been doing it.”
“Directly in the wound?”
“Yes, I gather.”
“What do you think would happen if you poured a few drops of your blood over my ribs?”
She gasped and her face lit up. She had been so saddened at my broken body and
Tired of knocking, Thierry threw his weight against the door a few times until it cracked, and then entered the bathroom. Past his figure I immediately saw a pool of blood… and next to it was the crumpled form of my sister-in-law. He gasped and ran to her while Charlotte pretended to be surprised and screamed hysterically, quite convincingly.
Madeleine was on the floor, half undressed with her eyes open, her head in a pool of blood. A bloody smudge was found on the rim of the bathtub. Charlotte must have tried to make it look like Madeleine had slipped and cracked open her head on the tub porcelain edge. Still, that wouldn’t explain the neck, I thought—but when I saw the body I had to do a double-take. Madeleine’s neck appeared smooth and untouched. There was no wound on her neck. Yet I wouldn’t question my memory—I remembered too clearly what I had briefly seen the night before.
And then I finally realized how Charlotte claimed to drink from random villagers’ necks and have them be ignorant of it the next day. She must have been able to heal the wound, somehow.
While I processed this, Thierry had rushed to his wife and knelt beside her, all the time calling her name as if to wake her, making small sniffling noises. He picked up the upper part of her motionless body and touched her head wound. A dry sob escaped his throat and he pulled her into his arms, cradling her. Charlotte had stopped screaming and now sobbed quietly, and we remained still for a few minutes while Thierry rocked his wife’s body. Finally he got up and carried her body outside, never questioning why, or how.
For hours there was commotion in the Great House and throughout the grounds. My mother summoned me alone, and at first I was afraid, not knowing what she wanted, but I quickly figured out that she was only trying to learn more information. She didn’t seem to know anything about what had transpired between Madeleine and me. Thierry had not said anything to her. In fact he had not said a word to anyone and remained locked in his old room. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t see me.
The following morning we were all summoned to Madeleine’s services. She was laid to rest in the Brunsfield graveyard where three previous generations of Ashbys were buried. Thierry remained somber during her funeral and burial. He didn’t speak; he was in a daze, and I saw his pain evident in his eyes.
But he didn’t weep for his wife.
6. Magistrate
Days passed, and Charlotte and I never talked about what happened. I never brought up her lapse in control. She didn’t seem repentant, and I was rather embarrassed to admit that I was, even if a small part of me, relieved that Madeleine was dead. Then I would catch myself and I’d try to be sad.
We tried to return to our normal lives, and took an entire week off from our regular employments to mourn our lost “sister”. But at the end of the week my chest was still in pain. I was sure my brother had broken a few ribs when he assaulted me.
Finally I talked to Charlotte and addressed what happened that awful night, but not to discuss her questionable morals—no, something else had been plaguing my mind all that time.
“How did you close her wound?” I asked casually.
“I knew you would ask me that question,” was her reply.
I paused. “You can read my mind now?”
“No.” She sighed. “I knew because I know you.”
I smiled at her, tentatively. “Well?”
She returned my half smile. “ Mon coeur , a few drops of my blood in the wound, and it heals itself.”
“How?”
“I am not sure. Argus simply told me to do it, and I have been doing it.”
“Directly in the wound?”
“Yes, I gather.”
“What do you think would happen if you poured a few drops of your blood over my ribs?”
She gasped and her face lit up. She had been so saddened at my broken body and
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