Haunting Violet
Page 27
It wasn’t much. But at least it was something.
The next morning I tried to ask if Mother knew anyone with a name starting with “T-r-a,” but she told me not to bother her while she was preparing for the ball. Without any new sightings, I managed to forget about the voices and the spirit-board for a little while. A ball is a most wonderful distraction when one concentrates hard enough. Elizabeth spent hours preparing, which mostly consisted of arguing with her mother about corset stays versus the physical need to breathe. Neither she nor I were debutantes just yet (and I never would be), but we were allowed to wear our best gowns and put our hair up with pearl-tipped pins. Should anyone ask, we were even allowed to dance. It was considered perfect practice for when we officially came out. If I felt a little like a show pony, I was proud enough of my off-the-shoulder periwinkle blue gown not to mind it terribly.
The ballroom was spectacular, as expected, lit with beeswax candles and oil lamps. Giant ferns and orange trees had been brought from the conservatory and placed in all the corners, creating shadowy and secret jungles. And, of course, there were roses everywhere—white ones hanging from the ceiling, red petals scattered over every surface: floor, table, and punch bowl. Even the orchestra was hidden behind rose-draped screens so that the music seemed to float from nowhere at all. In the room adjacent, the buffet table was piled high with cucumber sandwiches, plum cake, and soda creams. Footmen circulated with trays of lemonade and champagne. There were easily a hundred guests, as Lord Jasper had invited most of his neighbors alongside his friends and family. Couples waltzed in a large circle in the center of the room. It was beautiful.
But something wasn’t right.
The ballroom was far more crowded than the guests alone could account for. Next to or behind each of them was an extra person: misty, cold, thin as glass and just as transparent.
I rubbed my eyes but the spirits remained, waltzing, walking, and singing. A few were dressed as the rest of us, some were in chitons, and one woman was in a full Renaissance gown.
A man waltzed by in the striped waistcoat of a dandy, another in a doublet and hose.
A lady in a dress such as Marie-Antoinette might have worn, with her hair piled high around a small, gilded cage complete with singing bird; a girl in a gypsy skirt; and a man who looked decidedly like a pirate. His ear hoop gleamed and he moved like smoke.
Some wept, some laughed. One appeared to be screaming into an old man’s ear but he didn’t so much as blink. Indeed, none of the other guests could see them, judging from the lack of fainting and shrieks.
I could see them perfectly.
And they could see me.
I’d never felt the way I did in that moment, when they all turned in unison to clap their phosphorescent eyes on me. I felt light and yet heavy as stone. My stomach turned upside down, as if I was riding far too fast in a broken carriage. I felt somehow far away from my body and yet utterly trapped in it through fear and awe.
Rowena, on the other hand, barely acknowledged me, which seemed odd. She was usually far too eager to insinuate herself into my company. Instead, tonight she hovered protectively by Tabitha’s side, water pooling under her feet. She wore a crown of white lilies. She looked at me, at last, as she tried to place herself between her sister and a man whose back was turned to me. I couldn’t recognize him; he wore the same dark suit as every other man here, with indistinguishable brown hair cut in the current style. He could have been anyone.
And I didn’t have time to wait for him to turn around.
Because the other ghosts abandoned their posts, no longer dancing with unknowing partners, watching over wallflowers, or pressing close to widowed dowagers.
They rushed at me, all at once, as if some beacon only they could see had been lit above me. Their expressions registered countless emotions: relief, excitement, anger, fear, longing.
The force of it crashed over me like icy water.
Their mouths moved but I heard no words: only something like thunder and a high-pitched screech, like metal on metal, which had me clapping my hands over my ears. The ribbons on my dress fluttered.
The rest of the party carried on, sipping lemonade, gossiping, smoking cigars outside in the still garden. I barely heard the sweeping music or the scuff of silk shoes on the floor. There was nothing but those ghostly faces, those misty bodies.
Hands reached toward me, dozens of spirit hands touching me with all the weight of winter. I’d never felt such cold in my entire life, not even the day I’d fallen into the river in February.
“Stop it!” I stumbled back a step, trying to bat them away. A prim-mouthed guest looked at me disapprovingly. I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there, frozen at first and then pushing at imaginary hands.
I moaned once before a warm hand, palm comfortingly callused, closed around my upper arm and yanked me back out into the hallway. He dragged me or I stumbled after him, until he stopped in a shadowy alcove. I pressed my back against the solid wall and slid down to the floor, heedless of my new gown and the pale silk flowers sewn along the hem and trims.
CHAPTER 8
Violet.”
I admit I was too afraid to open my eyes. At least that awful grating sound had died away.
“Vi! You’re pale as a ghost!”
He had no idea.
“Violet, for God’s sake, open your eyes.”
Colin sounded worried, sharp. He was a little watery around the edges when I looked at him, wavering faintly before returning to reassuring solidity.
“What the bloody hell happened?”
“I …” I had to struggle to find my breath. He crouched down in front of me, blissfully alone. No pale face loomed behind his shoulder or whispered in his ear. I was so grateful for it that I clasped his hand. He looked briefly startled before returning the light squeeze. “I wasn’t feeling quite right.”
The next morning I tried to ask if Mother knew anyone with a name starting with “T-r-a,” but she told me not to bother her while she was preparing for the ball. Without any new sightings, I managed to forget about the voices and the spirit-board for a little while. A ball is a most wonderful distraction when one concentrates hard enough. Elizabeth spent hours preparing, which mostly consisted of arguing with her mother about corset stays versus the physical need to breathe. Neither she nor I were debutantes just yet (and I never would be), but we were allowed to wear our best gowns and put our hair up with pearl-tipped pins. Should anyone ask, we were even allowed to dance. It was considered perfect practice for when we officially came out. If I felt a little like a show pony, I was proud enough of my off-the-shoulder periwinkle blue gown not to mind it terribly.
The ballroom was spectacular, as expected, lit with beeswax candles and oil lamps. Giant ferns and orange trees had been brought from the conservatory and placed in all the corners, creating shadowy and secret jungles. And, of course, there were roses everywhere—white ones hanging from the ceiling, red petals scattered over every surface: floor, table, and punch bowl. Even the orchestra was hidden behind rose-draped screens so that the music seemed to float from nowhere at all. In the room adjacent, the buffet table was piled high with cucumber sandwiches, plum cake, and soda creams. Footmen circulated with trays of lemonade and champagne. There were easily a hundred guests, as Lord Jasper had invited most of his neighbors alongside his friends and family. Couples waltzed in a large circle in the center of the room. It was beautiful.
But something wasn’t right.
The ballroom was far more crowded than the guests alone could account for. Next to or behind each of them was an extra person: misty, cold, thin as glass and just as transparent.
I rubbed my eyes but the spirits remained, waltzing, walking, and singing. A few were dressed as the rest of us, some were in chitons, and one woman was in a full Renaissance gown.
A man waltzed by in the striped waistcoat of a dandy, another in a doublet and hose.
A lady in a dress such as Marie-Antoinette might have worn, with her hair piled high around a small, gilded cage complete with singing bird; a girl in a gypsy skirt; and a man who looked decidedly like a pirate. His ear hoop gleamed and he moved like smoke.
Some wept, some laughed. One appeared to be screaming into an old man’s ear but he didn’t so much as blink. Indeed, none of the other guests could see them, judging from the lack of fainting and shrieks.
I could see them perfectly.
And they could see me.
I’d never felt the way I did in that moment, when they all turned in unison to clap their phosphorescent eyes on me. I felt light and yet heavy as stone. My stomach turned upside down, as if I was riding far too fast in a broken carriage. I felt somehow far away from my body and yet utterly trapped in it through fear and awe.
Rowena, on the other hand, barely acknowledged me, which seemed odd. She was usually far too eager to insinuate herself into my company. Instead, tonight she hovered protectively by Tabitha’s side, water pooling under her feet. She wore a crown of white lilies. She looked at me, at last, as she tried to place herself between her sister and a man whose back was turned to me. I couldn’t recognize him; he wore the same dark suit as every other man here, with indistinguishable brown hair cut in the current style. He could have been anyone.
And I didn’t have time to wait for him to turn around.
Because the other ghosts abandoned their posts, no longer dancing with unknowing partners, watching over wallflowers, or pressing close to widowed dowagers.
They rushed at me, all at once, as if some beacon only they could see had been lit above me. Their expressions registered countless emotions: relief, excitement, anger, fear, longing.
The force of it crashed over me like icy water.
Their mouths moved but I heard no words: only something like thunder and a high-pitched screech, like metal on metal, which had me clapping my hands over my ears. The ribbons on my dress fluttered.
The rest of the party carried on, sipping lemonade, gossiping, smoking cigars outside in the still garden. I barely heard the sweeping music or the scuff of silk shoes on the floor. There was nothing but those ghostly faces, those misty bodies.
Hands reached toward me, dozens of spirit hands touching me with all the weight of winter. I’d never felt such cold in my entire life, not even the day I’d fallen into the river in February.
“Stop it!” I stumbled back a step, trying to bat them away. A prim-mouthed guest looked at me disapprovingly. I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there, frozen at first and then pushing at imaginary hands.
I moaned once before a warm hand, palm comfortingly callused, closed around my upper arm and yanked me back out into the hallway. He dragged me or I stumbled after him, until he stopped in a shadowy alcove. I pressed my back against the solid wall and slid down to the floor, heedless of my new gown and the pale silk flowers sewn along the hem and trims.
CHAPTER 8
Violet.”
I admit I was too afraid to open my eyes. At least that awful grating sound had died away.
“Vi! You’re pale as a ghost!”
He had no idea.
“Violet, for God’s sake, open your eyes.”
Colin sounded worried, sharp. He was a little watery around the edges when I looked at him, wavering faintly before returning to reassuring solidity.
“What the bloody hell happened?”
“I …” I had to struggle to find my breath. He crouched down in front of me, blissfully alone. No pale face loomed behind his shoulder or whispered in his ear. I was so grateful for it that I clasped his hand. He looked briefly startled before returning the light squeeze. “I wasn’t feeling quite right.”
