Then with no more than a nod, the three women stood abreast at the edge of the millpond.
Mrs. Bowe closed her eyes and inclined her head.
“She’s still down there.”
“Good,” said Mother Peale. “Let’s begin.”
The three women joined hands. The words were simple and quickly became a chant. “She shall not rise. She is bound to this place. She shall not rise. . . .”
Then Mrs. Bowe added other words. The boundaries of the spell closed in and the power of the binding grew tight and firm, like the twisting of a rope.
“She shall not rise. There shall be no dreams. He shall not dream. He shall forget her name. He shall not dream of the waters. No dreams . . . ,” Mrs. Bowe intoned as Mother Peale let go of Dolores’s hand and drew out a length of cord into which she began tying knot after knot to hold the spell. “There shall be no dreams. He shall not dream. . . .”
But the words died on Dolores’s lips. Those words would bind her son as well. No dreams. He would not dream, that’s what they were saying.
“Stop,” said Dolores.
“Do not interrupt!” barked Mother Peale.
Mrs. Bowe raised her voice and kept right on intoning those words. “She shall not rise. He shall not dream. She shall not rise. He shall not dream.” And Dolores knew it was wrong. They couldn’t take her son’s dreams from him. Life could deal you a miserable hand, but you could dream of something more, something better. Sometimes dreams were all a person had. She knew that better than anyone. So she waited until the two women looked at her and nodded that it was almost over. Dolores removed her glove. The freezing air stung her skin. She kneeled in the hard, icy mud, and drew a glyph with her fingertip, splintering, as she had predicted, the end of her painted nail. As she had traced the sigil, she said out loud, “You shall not rise to harm my son! You shall not rise—” And then, deep below her breath, she whispered, “But he shall dream whatever he wishes to dream. In his dreams he shall be free.”
Mrs. Bowe and Mother Peale did not hear Dolores’s final words, but instantly, the ice cracked with a sound like thunder, and water oozed up, flooding out onto the frozen surfaces. Dolores fell back from the edge of the pond as Mrs. Bowe and Mother Peale stepped forward and pulled her up, the three joining hands once more. In one voice, they called out, “Child of the waters, we bind you to your bones. Do not rise! Do not stir! Drink lonesome water and remain below. Sink down! Sink down! We bind you to your bones. We three bind you. By ice, we bind you. By cold, we bind you. By the wills of the Wailing Woman and the Mother of the Narrows and the blood-kin of your paramour, we bind you! By the will of Three, you are bound!”
And the wind rose into a blast, and the green water froze thick and hard again across the pond.
The air grew still. Dolores was trying to catch her breath. Mrs. Bowe took a piece of wool tartan she’d been wearing as a shawl and spread it on the cold ground and the three sat down together, breathing hard. Mother Peale took out a tinderbox and built a small fire to keep them warm while they waited and recovered themselves. It might have been nearly dawn by the time they began making their way home.
Mother Peale looked at Dolores, then at Mrs. Bowe, with concern coloring her face.
“It will be all right,” said Mrs. Bowe.
Mother Peale hoped those words were true, but the wind had changed direction, coming in hard now from the north, and she wasn’t so sure.
Their words would hold. All their words would hold. But because of Dolores’s whispers, down below, at the dark cold bottom of the pond, Beatrice slept, but began to dream again, sending her sunken mind out beyond the boundaries of her watery prison house. And Silas wanted to dream of her. His mind called to her through the lashings of the binding spell. While she could not rise, and his waking memory would remain a blur, in sleep she would find him.
THE SUN WAS COMING UP and Silas hadn’t slept all night. He stood on the porch of Mrs. Bowe’s house, waiting. She hadn’t come home last night. That had never happened once during his time living next door to her. Most days, Silas could tell the time by what was occurring next door. Specific kitchen sounds and smells signaled breakfast, lunch, teatime, and dinner. Regular. The sound of music and dancing almost always came on around eleven p.m. Humming came from the garden in the early morning and often an hour before dusk.
Watching the street, Silas could feel in his gut that something was going on and secrets were being kept from him. While Mrs. Bowe did regularly leave the house now, it still felt wrong for her not to be in at night. At least she might have told him where she’d gone. Usually, when he left to work, he would tell her his destinations, just in case anything were to happen. But now his fretting made him feel like a hypocrite because he’d barely spoken a word to her all week. The worst part was, he suspected that her absence had something to do with him. There was a ringing in his ears, and he convinced himself it meant someone was out there, someplace in Lichport, saying his name. And Silas didn’t like secrets. So here he was, his mind full of assumptions, standing watch on Mrs. Bowe’s front porch, waiting to question her the instant she came home.
It was cold in the open air, and Silas pulled his jacket collar up to lessen the biting wind on his neck. He could hear a dog barking somewhere off by the park near Cedar Street. He was thinking about going back into the house when suddenly he saw Mrs. Bowe, Mother Peale, and his mom come out from behind some buildings and emerge onto Main Street. Silas watched as the three of them paused at the intersection of Main and Fairview, Mother Peale continued south toward Temple Street with his mother and out of sight. Mrs. Bowe stood watching the other two for a moment, before she turned back to Main and walked toward home, where he was waiting for her.
Silas was expressionless, blocking the threshold as Mrs. Bowe ascended the steps from the street to the front door of her house. She looked at him and said, “Good morning, Silas,” as though everything were perfectly normal.
“Good morning?” Silas said. “You’re gone all night and all you’ve got for me is ‘good morning’?” But he heard the sharpness in his tone, and spoke more softly, adding, “I mean, I was worried about you. I don’t like thinking about you wandering around all night and no one knowing where you are. You’ve never been gone all night before—”
“Silas, please! I am delighted to learn of your concern for me, but let me get inside. I’m cold.”
Quietly, Silas moved to one side, then followed Mrs. Bowe in and closed the door. But annoyance was rising in him again. Why was she being so coy? And why was she with his mother? What could the two of them possibly have to talk about? He suddenly and very keenly felt that awkward place inside him that was filled with question marks: a name he couldn’t quite remember, a night when he could smell Mrs. Bowe’s perfume on the wind just before . . . when . . . when something awful had happened. Without waiting for her to take off her coat, or for any explanation, Silas started in on her once more.
“I know you’ve done something again. Why were you out all night with my mother? What’s happened to—” He stumbled in his mind, trying to dredge up a name. It was just below the surface. He could nearly grasp it, but then it slipped away again into the murky water and his face twisted in frustration. “What’s happened to her? Why can’t I remember what’s happened? What have you done?”
She looked down, away from his stare, to pull at the tips of her gloves. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Silas, and please, lower your voice, I am right here.”
“You’ve done something. I can feel it in my mind, like you’re pushing me away from something I want. What did you do? Why were you with Mother Peale and my mom? Tell me now!”
“Silas, I am your friend, I’ve only been—”
“Just tell me what you’ve done; then we can talk about our friendship,” he said low in his throat, almost a growl. He hadn’t planned on getting this upset with her, but now his face was flushed. She was treating him like a child and he couldn’t hold his
anger down any more.
Mrs. Bowe took her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. She turned away from him, saying, “I can’t believe you would take such a tone with me. Please just—”
But Silas spat his words at her before he could stop himself.
“Mrs. Bowe,” he intoned, lowering his head, keeping his eyes locked on hers like an animal about to fall upon its prey, “speak!”
Below his words pulsed the tone of command, the same tone an Undertaker might use to banish or summon. That power in his voice grabbed hold of her. Before she could recover, she turned so quickly that the neat bun on the top of her head unwound, spilled about her shoulders, and hung down in front of her face. She paused and slowly brushed the hair aside. In her eyes was a fire Silas had not seen since she’d come to rescue him from his Uncle’s. Her back went rigid. She put her face directly in front of his and said, “Silas Umber, do not presume to command me, not in my own house, not ever!” Her tone was so severe, so shot through with cold anger, that Silas took a step back. But his frustration flared again, and he said tersely, “Then let me ask you more politely, since you’re feeling fragile: Kindly stay out of my business, Mrs. Bowe. You have done something to me and to . . . her.” Already her name had sunk so far down in his mind that he knew he’d never reach it. “I can feel your hand in this, tonight. Even before tonight, I heard your voice just before she disappeared.” His anger was like flying dust in the air between them and it stung both their eyes. “Mrs. Bowe, until you fix this, whatever it is you’ve done, I can’t forgive you. I won’t. Until you’ve undone whatever your meddling has made, I want you to stay away from me.” He walked toward the door leading to the hallway between their houses. “It should be easy to avoid me. I am visiting an estate on the north side of town, on family business, and may be a day or two. If you want us to continue being friends, fix this by the time I get back, or I’ll find a way to fix it myself.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly for a moment, waiting, expressionless. When Mrs. Bowe opened her eyes, she looked pained, as if she’d been frightened of something she’d seen, and been hurt by his words. Her shoulders drew back as if she were going to begin ranting at him, but then she removed her coat and draped it slowly over the carved newel post of the banister. Taking the first three steps, she looked down at Silas in the foyer and spoke slowly and formally.
“Silas Umber, there are some things that shall not go with you when you leave Lichport. The ledger must remain in your house.”
“I am not leaving Lichport!” he insisted.
“The fact that you say this tells me you are not ready to make this journey. It is too soon. You are not bound to answer this call, Silas. Not now. Not yet. Is this some whim born of your reading? It is customary to wait until a messenger calls for you.”
“If you are referring to the word carved into the door of my house, yes, I think the messenger has already come and gone.”
Mrs. Bowe paled visibly. “You are not prepared for this. You know almost nothing of the world that awaits you.”
“You’re right,” Silas said.
“Good! Bless you for seeing some reason anyway.”
“I mean that you’re correct, I don’t know enough about this place to go there directly just yet. I should make a stop or two to make inquiries, as is customary.” He was serious, but the sarcasm dripped from his words.
Silas could tell that Mrs. Bowe knew exactly what he meant. He was goading her now. He assumed she would not approve of his returning to the house of the Sewing Circle. She turned and climbed the stairs without a word, but when she reached the landing, she looked back down and said quietly, sincerely, “I wish you luck upon your journey.” But the flush rose again to her face and she wrung her hands in abject frustration. “Worse and worse. That is how you’ll make things if you continue on in this reckless manner. Beginnings are delicate things, Silas Umber, yours especially. You have taken only the merest step upon your path. Child, learn to walk before you run.”
Silas started to speak but remained silent, letting her stinging words claim precedent in the air. He knew that Mrs. Bowe thought of him as a child, despite everything they’d been through and everything he’d done. He turned and strode out of the foyer, and when he reached the end of the hallway that connected their two houses, he stepped across the threshold and firmly shut the door. And for the first time since he’d begun living next to her, Silas locked the door behind him.
SILAS WENT INTO HIS STUDY and finished checking the contents of his satchel. He didn’t know what he might need, if anything, for a short visit. He had his jacket and the death watch already. While he chose to obey Mrs. Bowe’s direction to leave the heavy ledger behind, he made sure the small Book of Cerements from the ledger’s back cover was still in his bag from his recent visit to the lighthouse. He had added much to its pages in the past months. He would bring with him the rest of the contents of the “work” bag—the crystal vial, a small silver bell, an iron knife, some old keys, a can opener—that his dad had used in his time as Undertaker. He didn’t know what all of them were for, but it felt wrong to take them out. Around his neck was the pendant his father had given him bearing the head of the god Janus. From the closet he retrieved a pair of gloves and an old, ill-fitting, moth-eaten overcoat to keep off the cold, even though the town map showed it was only a short walk past Fort Street to the entrance of the Arvale estate.
He would make two stops first, and then see what was waiting for him beyond the gates.
The downstairs parlor of the mansion of the Sewing Circle was lit with candles. They were expecting him. Silas found this unsettling. In truth, everything about the three made him uncomfortable: the mystery of them, the weight of their knowledge that gave an edge to every word they spoke, and how they always seemed to know so much more than they ever told him. They made him feel small, and Silas didn’t like it. Still, he needed them, needed their insight, and he wanted to look upon the tapestry, their great work, to “see what may be seen,” as they might say.
Silas entered the large beamed chamber at the top of the long staircase. He did not immediately see the three ladies, but he could hear the clicking of their bone needles and the low hum of the spinning wheel, ever turning. As Silas stepped closer to a familiar corner of the tapestry, he noticed three figures embroidered at the edge at the Millpond, one with a walking stick, one with a shawl, and one he knew, just from the proud angle of the neck, representing his mother. Silas felt his anger stir again, annoyed even at the symbolic depiction of others meddling in his business.
“You have strong women in your life. Strong women who care deeply for your safety,” three voices spoke in chorus as they stepped out of the long shadows of the room. The women wore tight-fighting gray gowns that spilled onto the floor in tendrils and wisps of fraying fabric. Their sleeves came to points over the backs of their white hands, and it was hard to tell where their fingers ended and their sharp bone needles began.
Silas kept looking at the tapestry, trying to be nonchalant. “I can take care of myself.”
“Truly? Then why do you keep coming back here to visit us?” asked the first of the three pointedly. “Are you so addicted to the wonders of the textile arts? Do you adore the sound of our voices?”
“Is it love?” asked the second, her voice trailing off in a little laugh.
Their warm banter putting him briefly more at ease, Silas said, “Indeed, it must be the pleasure of your company.”
“That is well. That is most well. We like admirers,” the three said together.
“But,” Silas began, “now that I’m here . . .”
“Here it comes,” said the first of the three a little wearily. “All right, then. How may we help you? You know how we live for your little queries.”
“I am looking to learn something about a house once owned by my family.”
“Oh, yes?” said the second knowingly. “And what house would that be? The Umbers have made home
s in many houses.”
“Arvale.”
At the speaking of that name, the three began to laugh. “He means the house. He has eyes but sees nothing!” They stepped back, behind him, farther away from the tapestry.
“Silas Umber, look again.”
“What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“It’s already before you. Right there. Close your eyes and look again, squint if you must, tilt your head. The angle of approach is everything.” Silas backed up and turned his head one way, then another. Slowly, by half-closing his eyes, he began to discern elements of the tapestry he hadn’t noticed a moment before. Nothing had changed. Not a stitch had been added or subtracted, but he could see that some buildings, taken together as a whole, formed parts of a greater structure. The more he studied the tapestry, the farther back he stood, the more of this other building he could discern. It seemed at once both isolated and connected to everything else in the weaving.
Silas noticed that the ladies now stood with him on both sides, one to his left, two to his right. They were admiring their work.
His mind bubbled with so many questions that he could draw forth only the most obvious. He had accounts of the house’s history, and had found references by his father and other Undertakers that suggested Arvale’s significance, but many of the pieces didn’t seem to fit together. Silas could tell by their smiles that the ladies knew much more about Arvale than he did.
“Can you tell me what I’ll find when I arrive at this place?”
“You know we cannot. That depends very much on you and why you are going. You know this already.”
“It is a family visit,” Silas said hesitantly. He didn’t want to tell them he had been invited, that the name of the house had been carved into his front door. He wanted to know what they knew.
The first of the three reached over, and with a long, pale, pointed finger, she gently tapped Silas’s chest in the very place where his pendant lay under his shirt. She smiled as she withdrew her hand. “You’re going for more than a Sunday dinner, I warrant.”