with herself.
Hermione had gathered that from Lance. She felt sorry for her aunt then, even when Lance told her what her aunt had cried as she’d collapsed before the coffin: “He moved, he moved.” When Hermione had finished her bath and Alison was still playing with their bath toys, she stole up to the top of the house. Perhaps if she comforted her aunt, her jaw would stop aching with the fear of entertaining thoughts that Queenie mightn’t like.
At first she knocked timidly, with just one finger. The huge dim passage made that sound dismayingly small, and so did her distance from the rest of the house. Knocking more loudly brought no response, and made her even more nervous. At last she poked the door reluctantly with her finger, poked until the door swung wide.
Her aunt was lying face up on the bed. Her eyes were closed, her hands were folded on her chest. Her chin was thrust up so rigidly that Hermione felt certain she was dead. A ship moaned on the horizon, and the murmur of grown-ups downstairs sounded even farther away. Hermione wished so hard it made her head swim that they would miss her and call out to her, because then she could run downstairs. Nobody called her, and she found herself trudging helplessly forward into the room where the furniture looked like the shadows grown more solid, trudging toward the still figure on the bed.
She was close enough to touch her aunt before she noticed the shallow rise and fall of the flat chest beneath the folded hands. She had to swallow before she could speak. “Auntie, are you going to die?” she whispered out of pity, and hoped at once that Queenie hadn’t heard.
Queenie’s eyes opened so slowly they looked gloating. They were the only part of the long pinched face that moved. Their first glint froze Hermione. She could only stand and shiver as her aunt glared at her with icy loathing. At last Queenie’s lips drew back, baring gritted teeth, which parted just enough for her to speak. “So that’s what you’re hoping for, is it, my little shoat?”
There wasn’t so much as a hint of emotion in her gentleness, and Hermione was almost too frightened to speak. “No, Auntie, I only—”
“Shall I tell you something you won’t relish? I’m never going to die. Never, so don’t waste your time looking forward to the day you’ll be rid of me. He should have listened to me,” she added as if a memory was making her forget who she was speaking to. “You needn’t die unless you choose to, and you wouldn’t choose to if you didn’t let yourself grow old. It’s all an illusion, disease and ageing and death. You just need the will to see through it.” Then rage flared in her eyes as she noticed Hermione again. “And you dared ask me if I were dying. You deserve to be shown what that means.”
Surely she wouldn’t if Hermione told her she was sorry, if she pleaded with her not to do whatever was gleaming deep in her eyes. Or if Queenie was beyond being placated, Hermione could scream for her parents; she had only to open her mouth. Then she heard the door close tight behind her.
Perhaps a draught from the window had closed it, but Queenie smiled as though she had closed it herself without moving from the bed. Hermione would have run to the door, except that Queenie’s glare was paralysing her with terror even before she understood why. Then she did, and she would have buried her face in her hands if she had been able to move, so that she wouldn’t see what Queenie was waiting for her to notice.
A stirring in one corner of the room, alongside the window and out of reach of the meagre daylight that lingered above the sea, dragged her head around to look. She tried to tell herself that the grey mass that filled the corner from floor to ceiling was just a shadow, and then it stirred again as a spider that looked as big as her hand scuttled back under the cornice, leaving its meat struggling in the midst of the web. She felt as if her gaze were caught
Hermione had gathered that from Lance. She felt sorry for her aunt then, even when Lance told her what her aunt had cried as she’d collapsed before the coffin: “He moved, he moved.” When Hermione had finished her bath and Alison was still playing with their bath toys, she stole up to the top of the house. Perhaps if she comforted her aunt, her jaw would stop aching with the fear of entertaining thoughts that Queenie mightn’t like.
At first she knocked timidly, with just one finger. The huge dim passage made that sound dismayingly small, and so did her distance from the rest of the house. Knocking more loudly brought no response, and made her even more nervous. At last she poked the door reluctantly with her finger, poked until the door swung wide.
Her aunt was lying face up on the bed. Her eyes were closed, her hands were folded on her chest. Her chin was thrust up so rigidly that Hermione felt certain she was dead. A ship moaned on the horizon, and the murmur of grown-ups downstairs sounded even farther away. Hermione wished so hard it made her head swim that they would miss her and call out to her, because then she could run downstairs. Nobody called her, and she found herself trudging helplessly forward into the room where the furniture looked like the shadows grown more solid, trudging toward the still figure on the bed.
She was close enough to touch her aunt before she noticed the shallow rise and fall of the flat chest beneath the folded hands. She had to swallow before she could speak. “Auntie, are you going to die?” she whispered out of pity, and hoped at once that Queenie hadn’t heard.
Queenie’s eyes opened so slowly they looked gloating. They were the only part of the long pinched face that moved. Their first glint froze Hermione. She could only stand and shiver as her aunt glared at her with icy loathing. At last Queenie’s lips drew back, baring gritted teeth, which parted just enough for her to speak. “So that’s what you’re hoping for, is it, my little shoat?”
There wasn’t so much as a hint of emotion in her gentleness, and Hermione was almost too frightened to speak. “No, Auntie, I only—”
“Shall I tell you something you won’t relish? I’m never going to die. Never, so don’t waste your time looking forward to the day you’ll be rid of me. He should have listened to me,” she added as if a memory was making her forget who she was speaking to. “You needn’t die unless you choose to, and you wouldn’t choose to if you didn’t let yourself grow old. It’s all an illusion, disease and ageing and death. You just need the will to see through it.” Then rage flared in her eyes as she noticed Hermione again. “And you dared ask me if I were dying. You deserve to be shown what that means.”
Surely she wouldn’t if Hermione told her she was sorry, if she pleaded with her not to do whatever was gleaming deep in her eyes. Or if Queenie was beyond being placated, Hermione could scream for her parents; she had only to open her mouth. Then she heard the door close tight behind her.
Perhaps a draught from the window had closed it, but Queenie smiled as though she had closed it herself without moving from the bed. Hermione would have run to the door, except that Queenie’s glare was paralysing her with terror even before she understood why. Then she did, and she would have buried her face in her hands if she had been able to move, so that she wouldn’t see what Queenie was waiting for her to notice.
A stirring in one corner of the room, alongside the window and out of reach of the meagre daylight that lingered above the sea, dragged her head around to look. She tried to tell herself that the grey mass that filled the corner from floor to ceiling was just a shadow, and then it stirred again as a spider that looked as big as her hand scuttled back under the cornice, leaving its meat struggling in the midst of the web. She felt as if her gaze were caught
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