Crewel Yule by Monica Ferris, Melissa Hughes

she dead?” “I saw her, she’s got to be dead!” “How did it happen?” “Where’s that elevator?” “Come on, let’s walk down!” But Betsy clenched herself shut, and waited for an elevator to come, to take her up, out of this.
    It did, finally, and she dashed in and punched the button for the eighth floor four or five times, then jittered from foot to foot while it rolled smoothly upward. She was almost surrounded by glass, but kept her eyes firmly on the twin doors until the elevator stopped and they slid open. The eighth floor seemed empty. Certainly Jill was not at the railing anymore.
    Betsy hurried down the hall, around the corner, to her suite. There were big bay windows on either side of the door, with the door inset between them. She fumbled the card key into the slot. A little light blinked green and she opened the door, almost falling in her eagerness.
    “Jill!” she called.
    No answer.
    “Jill! Where are you?”
    But Jill was not in the room.
    Betsy stripped her wrists of the plastic bag handles and dumped them on the floor near the window. There was already a heap of filled bags there. She frowned at them until she realized they must be Godwin’s purchases.
    She wondered where Godwin was. Had he gone down to the atrium? Surely not—he would wish to attend the scene of an ugly accident even less than she did.
    Was he still shopping? Was anyone still shopping?
    The room was too silent. Who knew what was happening out there? She went out to see. The hallway was still empty, but there was a lot of talking going on down in the atrium, she could hear it. No screams or shouts now.
    Maybe, somehow, she wasn’t dead. Could it be? Reluctantly, she went for a look. There was a big knot of people down there, all talking and gesturing. As she watched a little clearing began to grow and there was the woman on the floor, her limbs impossibly crooked. Betsy looked away, but it was too late; the image left its outline on her retina, a stain that was permanent.
    Her gaze fled along the atrium floor—and there was Godwin! He was going toward a table whose single occupant was someone in a wheelchair. The woman appeared to be weeping, and Godwin was being sympathetic.
    Sympathetic was something Betsy could do. She decided to join them. She turned and went down to the end of the gallery, then turned down the long side toward the elevators. Halfway along, sitting on the floor, was another weeping woman. She was in navy-blue slacks and sweater. Her knees were drawn up and her forehead was resting on them, and she was sobbing so hard her shoulders were shaking.
    Betsy went to stoop beside her. “Here now, here now,” she said, “are you all right?”
    “Y-yes,” the woman managed. She gulped and went on, “Or I will be. That poor woman, I saw her . . . on the floor down there . . . Oh, God, Belle’s dead!” The sobs renewed themselves.
    “Belle—was that her name?” asked Betsy. “Did you know her?”
    The woman nodded. “I used, used to w-work for her. B-Belle Hammermill. Sh-she’s from Milwau-k-kee.” The woman wiped her face on her gabardine knees and sniffed once, twice. “Sor-sorry.”
    “Yes, it must be a shock to you, seeing someone you know . . . like that.” Betsy touched her gently on the shoulder. There were lots of silver threads in the yarn of the dark sweater, harsh to the touch.
    “A shock, yes. T-terrible.” The woman lifted her face to look at Betsy and forced a trembling smile. Her oval face was surrounded by very curly auburn hair; she was pretty, or would be when she wasn’t so upset. “Thank you for stopping,” she said. She glanced at the name tag and added, “Ms. Devonshire.” She choked and sniffed hard, seeking control. “Sorry. I’m Eve Suttle from Silver Threads in Savannah. But I used to work for Belle.”
    “Oh, then this must be especially horrible and sad.”
    Eve made a strange grimace. “It—is. I can’t stop crying.” She began a struggle to stand.