The Family Blood: A Sundered Veil Short Story by Quenby Olson

Author:Quenby Olson [Olson, Quenby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780692189818
Publisher: Worldtree Publishing
Published: 2018-09-13T04:00:00+00:00

***

They did not unlock the door for two days.

It was neither my aunt nor my uncle, not even Mrs. Prim as I had expected when I first heard the footsteps approach my room. Instead, it was the housekeeper, whose name I still had yet to learn, only because no one had bothered to tell me and I had feared a clout on the ear should I have taken the trouble to ask. She brought no food with her, which was the first thing I noticed. My stomach had ceased rumbling the night before, and I had been without water for two nights and a day. She said nothing at first, and gave no attention to the state of my room—the unwashed linens, the dress I'd worn for three days straight, the cold ashes left to flatten and grow damp in the fireplace. "Now," was the only word she spoke, and that one scratching at the back of her throat, as if she had not opened her mouth for as long as I'd been locked in the attic room.

I slipped off the edge of the bed, my head thick while my limbs seemed to float no matter how much effort I put towards keeping them anchored on the floor. It was near midday, I believed, the light in my room as bright as the window would allow, but the corridor I stepped into was dark, illuminated only by the glow spilling out from my room. I glanced towards the light fixtures, but there was nothing to aid our journey through the dimmer halls and down to the first floor.

The entire house was cold, only slightly warmer than my room had been. I sniffed, seeking out evidence of any fires or candles or gaslight to heat the air, but a chill permeated everything. Even the walls I brushed against as cold as if they'd given up on knowing warmth again.

The housekeeper led me to the drawing room, left me standing just inside the door before she shuffled off, head down and heels scuffing on the floor. Before me, an audience was assembled: My Aunt and Uncle Debney, along with Mrs. Prim stood in front of the fireplace, one that lacked a fire despite the rain that lashed against the windows. Madeleine and Matthew shared a sofa, both of them still small enough that their feet didn't reach the floor. They sat with their hands clasped in their laps, their eyes dark and unblinking as they surveyed me.

Mrs. Prim stepped forward. There was little light in the room, the drapes drawn closed, and without a single lamp burning, the grey of her gown took on an even more shadowed hue. I blinked at her, not trusting my eyesight or the threads of ink that seemed to spread through her eyes and into the skin surrounding them. I looked at her hands, at her fingers—flexing and curling inwards, over and again—the skin stretched across them like paper about to collapse into dust, her veins bulging, the ends of her knuckles white and shining beneath the surface.

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