The Named (21 page)

To get into the attic I have to open a square in the ceiling with a hook and pull a ladder down. With this skirt it’s a chore in itself. But the room is not so bad, fairly large, as the attic runs the length of most of the top level of the house. The ceilings are low with cross-beams zigzagging the length and breadth of the entire room, and the bed is small and hard, the room icy cold; but hopefully I won’t be staying long.

I soon understand exactly what’s expected of me, basically everything from making beds to dusting, beating the multitude of rugs, starching all manner of white fabric, including the household linen, and helping out in the kitchen.

Keen to get on with what I’m really here for, I work through my duties as quickly as possible, leaving Abigail’s room for last. I want to spend more time with her
than with my chores, without having Mrs Smith complaining that I should be working elsewhere. I have a plan; I hope I can pull it off.

Abigail is sleeping when I enter her room. Quickly, I go about my chores. I drop my broom with a loud bang to the polished wooden floor, and she doesn’t stir. What if she’s already dead? But then she moans softly and I relax a little.

Having finished my chores, I go and stand by her bed. There’s a book on a seat nearby – a selection of poetry. I place the book on her side table and sit on the seat. Glancing at the door, I’m grateful no one’s around. For a minute I do nothing except watch Abigail sleep. She’s small, but has the look of someone who still has a lot of growing to do. Her hair is long and plaited in two braids. She lies unnaturally still. Her bed linen is neat and tidy for someone who spends a lot of time among the sheets. Perhaps she’s just a deep sleeper, not troubled by bad dreams. Her skin is pale, but that figures, as she’s been so ill. I take her hand, close my eyes and begin to visualise.

What I perceive shocks me. Her body is in the midst of inner torment, every cell fighting some sort of alien and very unwanted invasion. I search through blood, bone, organ and tissue, desperately trying to find the source of this intrusion. My head pulses with possibilities and visual images. I suddenly feel nauseous.

‘What are you doing?’

Breaking my concentration, I turn towards the voice, gently laying Abigail’s hand back down on the white, stiffly starched sheet. ‘Pardon me, ma’am, but Miss Abigail called out in her sleep. I sought to comfort her.’

Miss Smith takes in Abigail’s sleeping form and gives
a tight nod. ‘In future, Evans, you come and find me.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Abigail stirs with a soft moan and opens her eyes. I start thinking that at last I’ll get to speak with her.

‘If your chores are done, Evans, you may leave now.’ Great, I’m not even going to get a chance to introduce myself. Reluctantly, I get up and with a last longing look at Abigail – or Abby, as her mother calls her – I start to leave. Abby’s eyes are wide open now and looking at me questioningly. I give her a wide smile as I slowly back out of the room. Mrs Smith’s stern eyes follow me all the way out the door.

With a little spare time on my hands, I go outside for a look around. It’s a farm and there are lots of activities going on. I head towards the sounds of men talking and animals grunting and snorting. There’s a square fenced-off area adjacent to a large shed that is probably a barn. I get a few strange looks from the workers there, and as I can’t see Ethan anywhere, I go back inside. In the kitchen I help a woman named Mary prepare a stew with corn on the cob, sweet peas, turnips and other vegetables. But it’s the pecan pie that grabs my attention: the largest pie of any sort I’ve ever seen. I get it out of the wood-fired oven carefully with two hands. It must weigh a couple of pounds on its own.

As we work, I ply Mary with questions about Abigail, but either Mary is reluctant to discuss the girl’s health and background, or she just doesn’t know much. I think, considering Mary’s been working here for years, she’s probably keeping quiet out of family loyalty.

I work for two days and still don’t get any closer to Abby nor to the reason for her illness. Mrs Smith is so
protective, hovering over her daughter like a watchful hawk. I’m also worried because I haven’t seen anything of Ethan yet. Where is he? He promised he would be nearby. Well if he is, he’s sure doing a good job of remaining invisible.

By the third night I decide to hurry things along. Abby is obviously not getting any better, while Mary grows snappier with her matronly concern. I sense Mrs Smith may be off-loading some of her concerns for Abby onto her. So when the house finally falls asleep, I slide out of bed, braving the cold with every step down the ladder. Hurrying on bare feet down the long narrow hallway, and with a quick look around, I open the door to Abby’s room.

I find Abby sitting up, leaning against a stack of pillows and reading by the light from a single candle by her bedside. When she sees me she gives a little startled squeal. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she says with a slight giggle. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. You must be Judith Evans. Mother says your work is sloppy and poor.’

Her insult makes me gasp, but I realise quickly that she’s joking. Even though the light is dim and her face should be in deep shadow, I can see her as if the room were showered in brilliant sunlight. A mischievous smile is clear on her face.

‘I must work harder then, even though my knees and elbows are red raw from scrubbing these polished floors for hours every day.’

Again she gives a little laugh, which turns into a gasping cough. Instinctively I place my hand across her back, visualising her ribs through her raw and damaged lungs. There’s fluid there, too much, and phlegm as well. In slow circular motions I try to soothe
the aching tissues and will the fluid back and out through its proper channels.

She stops coughing and sighs, leaning back against her pillows. Her eyes are wet from the intense coughing. ‘Whatever you did, thank you.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Well, don’t go away, you brought me good luck. I can actually take a full breath now that horrible rasp is gone.’

This surprises me, as I’ve been cleaning in here every day while Abby sleeps and I haven’t noticed the rasp before. ‘Do you only get it at night?’

She wipes her eyes. ‘Yes, especially when it’s cold.’ Sounds like asthma or bronchitis, both common medical disorders. But this is not what I sensed that first day I held her hand. That was a body in revolt. If only I could take her hand again without arousing her suspicions or appearing strange. She reaches out to the wooden chest at her side for the jug of water there.

I pour her a glass, handing it to her. ‘Would you like me to read to you?’ I ask, forming an idea.

‘I’d love that. My eyes are sore from this miserable light.’

‘I could light more candles for you.’

Her eyes grow wide. ‘Oh, no! If Mother saw them she’d make me put them out and go to sleep.’

‘Pardon my saying so, but couldn’t you use the sleep? Staying awake at night is probably why you sleep so much during the day.’

Her voice grows hoarse. ‘I sleep far too long as it is!’

Her conspiratorial tone makes me smile. I take the book she’s reading out of her hands, sit down and start to read one of the poems aloud. She enjoys it and asks
me to continue, until I think she’s never going back to sleep. But at last her eyes droop and finally close. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. I glance around and listen intently; thankfully no one’s awake yet. It has to be close to dawn by now, which is when the household starts rising, so there is no time to lose. I take Abby’s hand and close my eyes and concentrate.

As before, the battle raging within her frail body thunders through my brain. Layer by layer my thoughts fold through her blood vessels, organs and tissues, searching for the source of her problems. Finally I see it. Damaged cells fighting a toxin that is very strong, yet subtly disguised. I understand now why even Abby’s doctors haven’t been able to find the cause. It’s poison, probably administered in minute quantities so as not to be apparent, but harmful enough to eventually kill her.

I attempt to start the healing process straight away. It will take some time to repair all her damaged cells, but that’s not the problem I foresee. Whoever is doing this will obviously keep doing so unless Ethan or I can discover his identity. How hard is that going to be? With all those chores I have to do, I can’t possibly watch every person that enters or leaves Abby’s room. And who’s to say the assassin even has to get that close? Her food is prepared in the kitchen on a separate tray. Anyone could have access to it. And if the assassin realises Abby is recovering, he may decide to up the dose, enough to finish her off in one hit.

‘Ethan, where the heck are you?’ I ask this without expecting an answer. At first I didn’t want Ethan coming on this mission just to baby-sit me. I get enough baby-sitting from Matt. For most of my life I
can remember having this urge to do things for myself, and to do them as well as the next person or maybe even a little better. But Ethan is more experienced, and I’m not so stupid as to turn his help away when it’s needed. Like now.

The door clicks softly behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin. Ethan walks in, barefooted on tiptoes.

He comes over and squats beside me as if this helps make him invisible. ‘It’s Wilbur, remember?’

‘Of course. So where were you?’

‘They wouldn’t hire me. Apparently they’d just taken on a maid at a friend’s request.’

‘How did you get in here? I didn’t hear a thing.’

‘There’s a window in the basement with a broken lock. No one saw me.’ He looks over at Abby sleeping. ‘Do you know what’s wrong with her yet?’

‘Poison.’

‘As Arkarian suspected. What can you do?’

‘I think I can heal her, but we have to find the culprit, or there’s not much point if he can get to her again.’

‘Any suspects?’

I shrug, completely at a loss. ‘Mary prepares the meals, but anyone around here could find a way into the kitchen.’

‘So you think the poison is coming through her food?’

‘Well, I’m not at all sure, but Mrs Smith watches over Abby very carefully.’

A rooster crows outside, offering us a warning that the day is about to start. Ethan gets up. ‘I’d better make myself scarce.’

‘Where are you staying?’

He stands. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve managed to get some very dignified work tending the animals in the barn. The job comes with accommodation.’

There’s something in his tone that gives him away. ‘This work doesn’t involve a shovel, does it?’

He grins. ‘I see your sixth sense is outstanding this morning.’

The sound of a nearby door opening with a soft creak, and closing again just as slowly, has him running out and down the hallway. I decide to do the same, but footsteps immediately outside Abby’s door make me turn and look to the window for an exit. But the door opens before I get halfway towards it. Having only a second to find cover, I dive to the floor, silently rolling under Abby’s bed.

A woman enters, but it’s not Mary, nor Mrs Smith, nor even Abby’s sister. And there’s a scent about her that is strangely familiar, though I can’t readily place it. Seeing her face would be great, but if this is the assassin, then her face, her whole body in fact, is probably altered enough to disguise her true identity. Only her eyes would remain the same. Suddenly she speaks, one word, very softly and close to Abby’s ear. I don’t catch it. But I do catch the gurgling sound as this woman pours liquid into Abby’s water jug. My heart jerks; this has to be it. This woman is tampering with Abby’s water. And of course no one else will drink from it in fear that they might catch whatever ails Abby.

The woman goes to leave. I can’t reveal myself or risk arousing her suspicions that the Guard is on to her now. Still, I just have to see who it is, in case our paths should cross by day. As soon as the door clicks behind her, I run out and take a peek, careful not to
make a sound. But all I see is the caped figure of a woman darting barefoot down the hallway to the stairs that ultimately lead outside.

Ethan appears from the other end of the hallway, startling me into making a squealing sound. He covers his own mouth in a gesture meant to remind me to speak softly.

‘Did you see that woman?’ I ask once safely back inside Abby’s room.

‘Yeah. I saw her yesterday too. She attracted the attention of a couple of the men in the barn. They call her the widow Wittman,’ he whispers. ‘Apparently her name is Margaret. She moved into the house down the road about two months ago. She has no children, lives alone and keeps mostly to herself. Though once or twice she’s brought over some freshly laid eggs and butter beans. That’s probably how she managed to get hold of a key to the back door and make herself a copy. And remember, if she’s from the Order, she won’t be in her mortal body either. It’ll be hard to identify her.’

‘Well, we know what she gets up to in her spare time.’

‘Exactly. So how is she administering the poison?’

‘She tampered with Abby’s water.’

He goes over to the bedside table, withdraws a small container from his trouser pocket, and fills it with the water. Pocketing the small bottle, Ethan quickly leaves, as the house is now rising.

I get rid of the water in the jug, washing it out thoroughly in the kitchen, and replace it with fresh clean water from the outside pump before anyone notices.

The day passes slowly. I manage to finish my chores by mid afternoon, and I decide to go for a walk to see
just where this assassin is staying. I reach the house at the end of a narrow lane and the sight of it makes me shiver. The front windows are broken, the porch railing is missing bars, and there’s paint flaking off the walls in sheets. It’s an old tumble-down house, but this is not what’s chilling my spine. It’s an eerie sense that something evil has taken up residence within those walls, something much more evil than the woman in Abby’s room this morning.

I turn and run back to the Smith farm, but not to the attic for a rest. I decide to keep busy, keep my mind off the creepy vibes emanating from that old house. When night finally descends my nerves are still jumping. But I have to try to heal Abby tonight, and hopefully Ethan will find a way to stop this woman who calls herself Margaret, so that we can both return home safely. I just can’t stop thinking of that evil presence, knowing it doesn’t fit.