'Don't look, Lillian. Never look into the eyes of a Sin-Eater, you will be as cursed as he is and will forever languish in darkness.'
Lillian Elmes remembers the warning her mother gave her about the town's Sin-Eater only too well.
How could she n...
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What have you done, Lily?
William's words are haunting me, clinging to my back like a shadow, a heavy weight dragging on my frame. It is hard to shake the ghost of them, but it is his face that I cannot banish from my thoughts.
Irritating as he might be, my darling younger brother is a part of my world I cannot be without and to have witnessed that look upon his face – shock, anger, and worst of all, betrayal – I am not sure how I can ever forgive myself for inflicting this wound upon him.
It was difficult enough to see all the faces of those mourners in the parlour room. For them to know that not only was I, an unmarried woman, harbouring a secret illicit acquaintance with the Sin-Eater of all people, but that the man himself was now accused of having something to do with my own mother's death. For them to believe that it was my actions – my secretive, terrible actions – that caused this tragedy to befall my family.
But for William to believe it too? For him to hiss those words to me in front of everyone as Daniel was led away.
To see Papa's face? So stricken and distraught?
What have I done?
I stand in the hallway, lost in my own home. The front door is now closed, the mourners gone, and yet the black veils remain, as does Mama's body, which resides still in the coffin in the parlour room. William has fled to his bedroom. Papa is locked in his study.
And I remain alone.
Not knowing what else to do, I cross the threshold into the parlour once more, hesitating in the doorway. The pungent stench of cloves hangs in the air. My gaze travels slowly over the portraits, the furnishings, the rugs, the bone china. All these meaningless things.
Approaching the coffin, I trail my fingertips over the plush satin edge as I walk around it, staring at Mama's face. They have done well, I note, although there is a touch too much rouge on her pale cheeks. Mama was not overfond of too much colour and yet she had it in abundance – in her eyes, in her smile, her laughter. How I had missed her laughter of late and how shamed I am to realise that mayhap I was the reason for that.
