P. N. Elrod - Jonathan Barrett 02 - Death and the Maiden

Long Island, September 1776

"But this is miraculous," said Dr. Beldon, lifting my elbow closer to his lar

ge, somewhat bulging eyes. Next he ran his fingers over the point where the b

one break had been. "It's not possible. There's not a single sign that you we

re ever injured."

Which was of great relief to me. For a time I'd feared I would never recover

the full use of my right arm. Beldon had chanced to call on me this evening

just after I'd awakened and had been surprised to see that the sling I'd wo

rn for nearly a week was gone.

"And there is no more discomfort when you move it?"

"None," I said. Days earlier, Beldon had expressed to me the need to rebreak t

he bone so as to properly set it again, but I'd been putting it off. Now I was

very glad of that procrastination.

His fingers dug a bit more deeply into the muscle. "Make a fist," he order

ed. "Open. Close. Now stretch your arm straight. Twist your hand at the wr

ist." Eyes shut, he concentrated on the movement. "Amazing. Quite amazing,

" he muttered.

"Yes, well, God has been most generous to me of late," I said with true since

rity.

Eyes open, now his brows went up. "But, Mr. Barrett. . ."

"You said yourself that it was a miracle," I reminded him. Our eyes locked.

"But I don't think you need take any notice

of it. Should anyone be curious, you may certainly inform them that my arm

has healed as you expected."

He didn't even blink. "Yes. I shall certainly do that." The only clue that any

thing was amiss was his slight flatness of tone and a brief slackening of expr

ession.

"Nothing unusual about it at all," I emphasized.

"No . . . nothing un .. ."

I broke off my influence upon him and asked, "Are you finished, Doctor?"

Blink. "Yes, quite finished, Mr. Barrett, and may I express my delight that y

ou are feeling better?"

We exchanged further pleasantries, then Beldon finally took his leave. My

valet, Jericho, had silently watched everything from one corner of my room

, his dark face sober and aloof yet somehow still managing to convey mild

disapproval.

"It's only to spare us all unnecessary bother," I reminded him, shaking my s

hirtsleeve down.

"Of course, sir." He stepped forward to fasten the cuff.

"Very well, then. It's to spare me unnecessary bother."

"Is the truth so evil?" he asked, helping me put on my waistcoat.

"No, but it is unbelievable. And frightening. I've been frightened enough for

myself; I've no wish to inflict that fear upon others."

"Yet it still exists."

"But I'm not afraid anymore. Bewildered, perhaps, but—"

"I was speaking of other members of the household."

"What other members? Who?"

He made a vague gesture rather akin to a shrug. "In the slave quarters. Ther

e are whisperings that a devil has jumped into you."

"Oh, really? For what purpose?"

"That has not yet been decided."

"Who is it that thinks so?"

His lips closed, and he busied himself at brushing lint from my shoulders.

"I hope you have discouraged such idle gossip," I said, adjusting my neckclo

th. It had become rather tight in the last few moments.

"I have. There will be no problems from it. I only mentioned this because y

ou were seen."

"Doing what?"

"Something .. . extraordinary. The person I spoke to said he saw you ... flyin

g."

"Oh."

"Of course, no one really believed him, but his story was disturbing to the m

ore gullible."

"You hardly surprise me." One or two of our slaves, not as well educated as J

ericho, would certainly be prey to all sorts of midnight imaginings, especial

ly if they'd been listening to fanciful tales before bedtime.

"Can you fly, Mr. Jonathan?" Jericho's face was utterly expressionless.

I gulped, my belly suddenly churning. "What of it, if I could?"

There was a considerable pause before he replied. "Then I would suggest tha

t you be more discreet about it."

My belly stopped churning and went stone still. "You . . . you've seen me?"

"Yes."

Oh, dear.

He stopped brushing at lint and turned his attention to the shelves in my al

ready orderly wardrobe.

"You seem to have taken it rather calmly."

"I assure you, I was most troubled when I saw you floating over the treetops

yesterday evening . . ."

"But... ?"

"But you looked very happy," he admitted. "I concluded that anything capab

le of giving you such wholesome joy must not be a bad thing. Besides, my b

omba has told me tales of his childhood that talk of men turning themselve

s into animals. If a man can learn the magic to become an animal, then why

can a man not learn the magic to fly?"

"This is not magic, Jericho."

"Are you so sure? Then what is it that turns a tiny seed into a tree? Is that n

ot a kind of magic?"

"Now you're speaking of science or philosophy."

He shook his head. "I speak only of what's been said. If I choose to ascribe a

ll that has happened to you to magic, then it is magic."

"Or superstition."

"That comes in only when one is afraid or ignorant. I am neither, but I have

adopted an explanation that is tolerable to me."

"Maybe I should adopt it for myself, as well. Nothing else I've considered h

as come close to explaining things so handily. Especially things like this."

I touched my miraculously healed arm.

"And this?" he asked, his hand hovering over a small mirror that lay facedo

wn on one of the shelves.

"Yes, that, too. You can get rid of it, y'know." Since my change, I'd found t

hat particular vanity item to be singularly useless, not to mention unsettlin

g. I'd more or less known what to expect, but it had still given me a sharp t

urn to look into a mirror and not see a damned thing. I'd briefly and irratio

nally worried that that was what I'd become: "a damned thing." Father and I h

ad discussed it thoroughly, for I was very upset at the time, but we'd been u

nable to explain the phenomenon. Perhaps Jericho was right and it was magic.

"As you wish," he said, tucking the offending glass into a pocket. "Does Mr

. Barrett know about the flying? Or Miss Elizabeth?"

"Not yet. I'll tell them all about it later. The news won't grow stale for wai

ting. And I promise to take your advice and be more discreet."

"I'm relieved to hear that."

After a moment, I added, somewhat shyly, "It's ... not really flying, y'know."

He waited for me to go on.

"I sort of float upon the air like a leaf. But I can move against the wind or wi

th it as I choose."

He thought that over for a long time. "And what is it like?"

A grin and a soft laugh bubbled right out of me. "It's absolutely wonderful!"

And so it was. Last night I'd done the impossible and broken away from the gr

asp of the earth to soar in the sky freer than any bird. It was surely the mo

st remarkable portion of the legacy I'd come into since my . . . death.

Or rather, my change.

The details of that particular story—of my death and escape from the grave—

have been recounted elsewhere. Let it suffice for now that upon my return,

I soon discovered I'd acquired the same characteristics that governed the w

aking life of a certain Miss Nora Jones, a lady with whom I had shared a ve

ry intimate liaison.

Like her, I was now able to influence the very minds and thoughts of anyon

e around me, thus allowing me to resume my former life with my family almo

st as though nothing had ever happened. I had learned the secret of how to

heal swiftly and completely. And I was able to fly ... so to speak. Thoug

h I'd never actually witnessed Nora indulging in such a display, I had no

doubt that she was capable of doing it, since my own condition now so comp

letely mirrored her own.

Mirrors. Yes, well, you've heard about them already.

Like her, I was also unable to bear sunlight, which might be considered a

heavy burden, but for the fact that my eyes were so improved. The night ha

d become my day; the stars and moon my welcome companions in the sky. When

the sun was up, I slept—or tried to; I was having some difficulties there

, but more on that later.

My strength was that of a young Hercules, and my other senses enjoyed simil

ar improvements. Each evening I discovered a new delight to the ear, a fres

h appreciation of touch, and, though I was not required to breathe regularl

y unless I chose to speak, I could pick out and identify a scent almost as

well as one of our own hunting hounds. Taste had also undergone considerabl

e alteration, though I never exercised it upon what might be considered a n

ormal meal.

For, like Nora, I had come to subsist solely upon blood for my sustenance.

But again, more on that later.

"What are you writing, little brother?" asked Elizabeth, peering across the

library as she walked in. Her nightly practice at her spinet had ended, but

I'd been so absorbed in my work that I hadn't noticed when the music stopped.

"A letter to Cousin Oliver," I replied.

The early part of the evening had passed pleasantly enough amid familial co

ngratulations on my recovery. Diverting attention from myself, I had given

all the credit to Dr. Beldon, much to his great enjoyment. Father and Eliza

beth, who, along with Jericho, knew the full truth about my changed nature,

required a more detailed account from me, which I'd promised, but had yet

to provide. By subtle gesture and with a well-placed word or two, I gave th

em to understand that my healing was connected to my change, and thus not a

topic for general discussion. We'd quietly arranged to talk later. As I ha

d no

interest in Mother's card game and was too restless to read, I'd taken sanctu

ary in the library to deal with some necessary correspondence.

"But you just sent one only . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"I know, but much has occurred since my last missive."

She thought about that awhile, then came over to stand next to Father's desk

, where I happened to be working. "I have something for you," she said, pull

ing a flat packet from her skirt pocket.

I instantly recognized it. "My journal!"

She gave it over. "I kept it from your things when Mother was having your roo

m cleaned out. I was afraid she'd either throw it away or read it herself, an

d I didn't think you'd have liked either of those choices."

"You're right, I wouldn't. Thank you."

"I didn't read it," she added.

This surprised me, not because Elizabeth was a prying sort of person, but b

ecause at the time she'd thought me dead. "Why not?"

"I couldn't bring myself to. These are your words and your thoughts, I just

couldn't bear the idea of reading them so soon after .. . anyway, I wanted o

nly to keep them safe. From her. I don't know what I hated most, her utter c

oldness over you or the way she ransacked your room like a bloody vulture."

Mother again. "It's all over now."

She put her hand on mine. "Yes, thank God."

"It would have been all right if you had read it. There's nothing in here tha

t I wouldn't have minded sharing with you and Father."

She smiled at that. "But you're back and there's no need, is there?"

"May there never be another," I solemnly intoned, putting my hand over my

heart.

That brought out another smile, which was most pleasing. Her good humor a

nd mine restored, I picked up my pen and regarded the sheet of paper befo

re me, wondering what to put down next.

"Mind if I keep you company?" From one of the desk drawers she pulled out

a penknife and some goose quills.

"I should welcome it," I said absently.

Apparently Elizabeth was prepared to wait for Father to join us before call

ing for my promised explanation. Taking a chair

next to the desk and close to my candle, she began carving a point on one of

the quills. "Are you going to tell Oliver about what's happened to you?"

A brief laugh escaped me. "Hardly, or he'd think that the Fonteyn half of m

y blood had finally boiled my brain. Did I ever mention to you that tour we

took of Bedlam?"

"In noxious detail." She steadily sliced away on a quill, pausing only to narr

owly inspect the results of her work.

"I've no wish for Oliver to regard me as a potential inmate, so be assured tha

t the details of my recent experience will find no place here."

"Then what—"

"Nora."

Her name temporarily halted Elizabeth's inquiries, and I took the opportuni

ty to dip my pen into the inkpot. After reading again my few lines assuring

Oliver of my continued good health and a wish for the same for him, I had

to pause yet again and think how to proceed. Before leaving England for hom

e some months ago, I'd asked him to keep an eye on Nora for me and in such

a way as to leave no doubt that my relationship with her had quite ended. M

y lightness of attitude quite puzzled my poor cousin, considering his aware

ness that Nora and I had been passionate lovers for nearly three years.

But, of course, Nora had caused me to forget all that.

I wasn't sure if I should curse her or bless her for what she'd done to me.

Some nights I did both. This was one of those nights, and they happened mo

re and more frequently as my memories of her returned. Though she had commi

tted a great wrong against me, I yet loved her and missed her terribly.

"Ow!"

Elizabeth had had a mishap with the razor-sharp penknife and nicked a finger

. She ruefully held it close to the candle to inspect the damage, started to

put her finger to her mouth, then stopped, her eyes suddenly shifting up to

meet mine.

"Be more careful," I said, trying not to stare at the drop of blood welling fro

m the tiny cut.

She lowered her hand slightly. "Does this trouble you?"

"Why should it?"

"Because you've an odd look on your face. Are you hungry?"

"No, I am not hungry." Not yet. Later, after everyone was asleep and the world

was quiet, I'd slip out and . . .

"Then what?"

"I can smell it," I whispered, not without a feeling of awe.

She brought her finger close to her nose and sniffed, then shrugged at her fail

ure to sense it. "A little speck like this?"

"Yes. It hangs in the air like perfume."

"That must be interesting for you," she observed. The bleeding had stopped,

so she wiped away the blood on her handkerchief. Picking up the quill, she

gingerly resumed her delicate work with the knife.

Disturbing, more like, I thought, unable to ignore the scent and the reaction

s it aroused within me. I raised one hand to cover my mouth and ran my tongue

over my teeth. There, the two points on my upper jaw ... a slight swelling,

not painful.. . quite the opposite, in fact.

"Jonathan?"

"It's nothing," I said, a bit too quickly, letting my hand drop away.

But she seemed to know what I was hiding. Sweet God, Jonathan, you've no

thing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not," I said. "Really."

"Then why the glower?"

I made a fist and bumped it lightly against the desk, then opened it flat. "I'm

not sure I... that I'm . . . comfortable with this part of what's happened to me

."

"You do what you do because you have to."

"Yes, but I've... I worry about what people might unnk should they find out.

"

"But no one else knows but me, Father, and Jericho. We don't speak of it, and

you're not likely to blurt it out in company."

"As if it's something shameful."

"Something private," she corrected. "Like your journal."

Unable to endure her steady, sensible gaze, I shoved my pen into a cup of le

ad shot and stood up to pace.

She continued to watch me. "Come now and listen to yourself. Worrying about

what others may think is the sort of thing that bedevils Mother. There's n

o need for you to pay any mind to that same voice, or you could end up like

her."

All too true. I had been haunted by a miserable chorus of dark voices mutter

ing of nothing but doubt and doom. "It's

just that most of the time everything is as it was for me before my ... retur

n. And yet"—I gestured vaguely—"everything is so different. I'm different."

She did not—thank God—gainsay me. The changes within that had literally bro

ught me back from the grave were profound, and their full influence upon ho

w I now lived were only just being realized. I slept, if one could call it

that, the whole day through, unable to stir for as long as the sun was up.

Since the household held to an exactly opposite habit, my enjoyment of its

society was unhappily limited. The rest of the time I was alone. Very much

alone.

And as for Elizabeth's little accident.. . well, it was yet another reminder o

f an appetite that the world would doubtless look upon as disgusting or at the

very least react to with alarm and fear.

I paused by the bookcase and stared at the titles within without reading th

em. "Remember the night I... came back?"

She nodded. It was not likely that either of us would forget.

"After we'd captured the rebels, two of Nash's Hessians escorted me to Mrs.

Montagu's. I thought I'd gotten rid of them, but they came back and saw me i

n her barn with her horses . . . feeding myself."

"Then what?"

"They ran like rabbits. They were terrified. One of them called me a name, 'b

lutsauger.' "

She stumbled over my no doubt questionable pronunciation. "Bluet-saw—"

I repeated the word for her. "It means 'bloodsucker.' Hardly flattering."

"Certainly not in the context that it was given."

"Not in any context."

"What of it? You're a 'bloodsucker,' I'm an eater of animal flesh."

"That's not the same."

"It would be if dining on a good hot joint was thought to be repugnant by most

people. It's not like you to be feeling sorry for yourself, little brother. I h

ope you can get over it."

I idly poked at a crescent of dust gathered in a tight corner of the bookca

se woodwork. One of the maids had been careless over her cleaning chores. W

oe to her if Mother noticed. "Perhaps the Fonteyn blood is doing its work u

pon me after all, and I shall become mad."

"I think not, since you've been diluting it so regularly with that of our livest

ock."

My openmouthed stare was returned with a flash of her bright eyes as she coc

ked her head to one side. It was meant to convince me that I was taking myse

lf far too seriously. "1 do believe you have a fool for a brother," I said w

earily.

"Better a fool than a corpse," she responded bluntly. "You're not going mad, y

ou're just getting used to things. I still am, myself."

"And what do you do about it?"

"Ask God to sort it out for me, say 'amen,' and go to sleep." The point of o

ne quill cut to perfection, she put it aside and picked up another. The feat

hering had not yet been trimmed away and she made a fine mess on her wide sk

irts as she worked to correct the oversight.

"Would that I could sleep," I muttered.

"More dreams?"

"Nothing but, and no waking to escape them is allowed."

"Dr. Beldon couldn't help?"

"He let me try some of his laudanum."

"And it didn't work?"

"Not really. He made up a draught and told me to take it when I was ready to

retire, but I knew I'd never be able to keep it down. So I went out to the st

ables and drew off blood from one of the horses to mix it in and was able to

drink that. It put me into quite a stupor, but the dreams were still there an

d more disturbing than usual. Never again." I dropped into Father's big chair

by the dormant fireplace. "Damnation, but the only rest I've gotten since my

return was when I was forced to shelter in the old barn."

"Perhaps you could go back and try it again."

"Why should my sleeping there be any different than here in my own bed?"

"I don't know. If you went back you might find an answer."

"It's hardly safe."

Her brows drew together as she glanced up from her fine carving. "No one

goes out there anymore."

"The Hessians might. You know they wanted to take Rapelji's house away fr

om him for their own lodging? He's lucky they changed their minds and too

k over the church instead."

"Not so lucky for the church."

"Better to have them there than at Rapelji's or even in our own house. I've

been down to The Oak to learn the news, and they're a pretty rough and savag

e lot. And they enjoy it."

"I've heard the stories, Jonathan," she said dryly. Because of the recent oc

cupation, Elizabeth had hardly been able to stir a foot outside the door for

fear of being insulted by the very army sent to protect us. "Anyway, you've

wandered off the subject of the barn. Why don't you try spending the day th

ere? Jericho can run out and check on you if you're that worried."

I grimaced. "It's so open and unprotected, without doors or shutters. I only u

sed it because I had no other choice."

"But you were able to find rest then, with no dreaming."

That was inarguable. I was about to raise more objections anyway, just to ke

ep up the flow of talk, when Father came in, shutting the library doors behi

nd him. He was a tall man with a spare figure and a still-handsome face, but

lately more lines had begun to clutter his normally amiable expression. Imp

rinted there by the upheavals in our own lives and by the larger conflicts o

utside our home, they seemed to lift when he looked upon us, his children.

"Is the card game finished?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, they're still at it," he replied, meaning Mother, Dr. Beldon, and Mrs

. Hardinbrook, who was Beldon's widowed sister. "They've changed to someth

ing that needs but three players to work well, so I made my escape."

"Why do you play if you don't enjoy it?"

"It soothes your mother's soul." He strode toward the cabinet that held a sm

all supply of wine and spirits, then changed his mind with a sigh. "No. I'll

be damned before I let that woman drive me to drink."

"That woman" referred to Mrs. Hardinbrook, not Mother.

"What did she do tonight?" I asked.

Father rolled his eyes, looking glum. "She opened her mouth, and that's more

than enough. How she does clack on. I don't know as I've ever seen her paus

e for breath. At least when we're at cards she shuts up for the play."

"And when Mother is talking," Elizabeth put in.

Father grunted agreement to that, then turned all his attention upon me. "All

right, laddie, what's the rest of your tale? Just how did your arm heal so q

uickly?"

Elizabeth left off her carving of pens and put her hands in her lap.

I gulped. It's one thing to promise an explanation, but quite another to actua

lly deliver it, particularly when one doesn't know where to start.

"Well, it's connected with how I... escaped my grave." My last words came ou

t in a rush, as I wanted to get past them as quickly as possible. I did not

like to think about that time; it always made me feel ill. They could see ho

w difficult it was for me to talk, and waited me out. Suddenly restless agai

n, I launched out of Father's chair and stalked up and down the room.

"I... floated out," I finally said.

They exchanged looks. Father's brows went up. Somehow, this had been so mu

ch easier to talk about with Jericho, but then he'd already known somethin

g of the subject.

"That's how I got out without disturbing the earth. I can make my body ..."

They leaned forward, silently encouraging me to continue.

". . . make it. .."

"What?" demanded Elizabeth.

And the words just would not come. Their combined gaze left me entirely fl

ummoxed over what to say next. I was being foolish again, worried they wou

ldn't believe me, or worse, that they'd be afraid of me. But they'd accept

ed so much already and now seemed willing to accept more, so such worries

were certainly all in my own head.

"Jonathan," Father prompted, his expression kindly.

I nodded. "Yes. I'm trying. What it is ... is that I have the ability to make m

yself insubstantial, allowing me to pass through solid objects. To float."

"Float?" he echoed.

"Yes, sir."

Neither said anything for a time, but they did exchange looks once more. Th

ey did not, thank God, laugh.

"Well," he finally said. "What has that to do with your arm healing?"

It was my turn to stare. The floating and the restoration were so linked in m

y mind that it had been natural for me to conclude that others would also see

the connection.

"Uhh . . . that is ... when I ceased to float around, I was all better."

Another lengthy silence.

"I know I'm not doing this very well—"

"No, not at all," agreed Elizabeth.

"It's like that business with mirrors. I've no explanation for it, it just is."

"Perhaps," said Father, "if you gave us a demonstration?"

I'd foreseen the need for one from the start. That knowledge did not make i

t any easier, though. I nodded, went to the windows and closed the shutters

to prevent anyone from spying, then turned to face Father and Elizabeth. H

olding my hands up before me that I might observe my progress, I willed mys

elf to slip slowly into . . . whatever it was. The room seemed to fill with

fog as I grew more and more transparent.

Elizabeth rose straight up from her chair to gape. Father staggered back, bu

mped against his desk, then suddenly sat down. On the floor.

Immediately becoming solid again, I started forward, but abruptly froze in p

P. N. Elrod - Jonathan Barrett 02 - Death and the Maiden

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