Girl of Flower and Flame

Chapter Four

Even when Tut had trampled her fingers on his way to Madam's, Eulalia didn't move. She couldn't, not ever again after the news Madam had delivered. A child was dead because of her mistake. But how could it be? She'd been certain she wasn't one of them.

She wasn't sure of the time that passed while she lay on the floor that'd been worn smooth by her and the other children, though she was aware of what light there was softening until her shadow lay with her. Not even Orla, the cook, bothered with her, though Eulalia felt the floor move each time she stomped from the kitchen, grumbling about what lazy children they were and how someone had eaten her biscuits again.

Eulalia didn't move. Lying there, she was like a bird fallen mid-flight, her hair spread around her were her wings.

The other children stood around, curiously poking at her. It was Rowan that moved her eventually, scooping her up in his arms as if she were lighter than a wisp of dandelion, and carried her up to her room. Eulalia swooned, limp arms nearly brushing the floor. She didn't blink, her eyes unseeing the landings above that led to the attic. She didn't move until she was in bed, wrapped in a layer of warmth.

"What has you so ill?" Rowan asked, kneeling on one knee at her bed.

She couldn't form the word in her mouth. She turned away to the window instead where she might have once seen the land with its endless horizon, but now saw how it had all gone spoiled and gray. "A storm is coming," she said.

He squeezed her fingers.

"I can taste it," said Eulalia. "It tastes of our ruin." Her gaze was faraway, glassy.

Rowan got up. "I'll get you some warm milk."

She allowed him to leave her side. Rolling onto her back, she watched a small spider scurry along the gilded accents of the light fixture, a bulb inside flickered, almost ready to give out. Eulalia couldn't bear it, so she shut her eyes and pulled the covers over her head to hide her shame. She had thought she had escaped it for the time at least, but it had found her again—death neither her friend nor enemy. She'd felt safe for a while hidden behind the vine covered walls of Hampstead House.

Why had she been so foolish?

"Flame to ashes, ashes to dust," she said, still hidden beneath the sheets, her tongue tasting the fabric as she spoke. She had known this better than anyone. Had she not gone through the woods at the end of last summer and watched all her work wither? Had she not been in the fire, until it filled her lungs, and nipped at the hem of her nightgown? Had she not heard them scream? She hadn't forgotten. She hadn't wanted to remember that night was all. Her darling sister, Sylvie, made of autumn—of pure flame. What had started as an innocent game had devoured everything in a minute. It had been her fault then too.

"Show me again, Sylvie," she had said, awed by her sister's gift of seizing the very essence of autumn, a warm fireplace or steam rising from a cup of cocoa. Neither of them had understood then what they were and was baffled by Sylvie's strange wonder.

Eulalia could still imagine her sister, her shock of russet hair, her laughter, and later her agony. She'd just turned thirteen, still as tiny as a bird. And Eulalia couldn't bear it. She tossed away the sheets. The spider was crawling along the ceiling now, over the cracks in the plaster, and Rowan was coming up the stairs.

She didn't need warm milk but to turn back time.

He came in with it anyway. "Put it in your favorite mug," he said, holding it up for her to see, the one that resembled a flowerpot.

Eulalia couldn't smile and didn't try to. She took the steaming mug from him. "Close the door."

He doubled back to do as she'd asked. The room wasn't hers alone. She and Lena shared the single queen-sized bed, but for now the other children would be busy having dinner—cabbage soup with too much vinegar. Madam's favorite.

Eulalia drank her too hot milk, giving her taste buds a shock. Rowan watched her, searching, she knew, for a hint of what had happened. She set her mug down on the night table, right beside one of Lena's books. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, tucked her pillow behind her back, and leaned against it.

"You should know," she began, then paused, as if she was already too winded to continue.

Rowan nodded, his silent request for more.

"There was a child at the orphanage today," she said, fingers tightening around the sheets that were almost as gray as the sky outside the windows. "Madam thought she might be one of us."

"Go on." Rowan nodded again, his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I... I thought she wasn't." Eulalia turned onto her side. "Then just now..." Her voice splintered, but she swallowed and went on. "Just now, Madam tells me she died, drowned in the pond, glowing like the tail end of a glowworm." Eulalia didn't try to stop her tears from falling. "Why does death follow me everywhere, Rowan? Why can't it leave me alone?"

The bed groaned beneath his weight as he scooted closer. Rowan pressed his forehead against her shoulder. "Death is cruel, but you shouldn't think it was your fault. You're too hard on yourself, Eulalia."

He knew, of course he knew what had happened to her parents and sister all those years ago. Other than Tut and Madam, Rowan was the only other person she'd told.

"Cry if you must," he said, brushing her hair behind her ear. "But I won't let you blame yourself forever."

"We pretend I even have forever, not with death on my hip." Eulalia buried her face in her pillow, not minding how wet it had become.

"If he does come, which I doubt, I'll find you on the other side," he said.

"You think too highly of me." Her entire body shook from how much she cried.

Rowan took his face away from her. He made a sound of disbelief. "Is that my worst crime?"

"Some might say."

"They don't know you as I do."

"Better for them."

"Stop it, Eulalia."

She casted her teary eyes on him. "I'm only telling the truth. Don't you see it was all my fault? If I hadn't mistaken her, she'd still be alive."

"You don't know that, and what you think is true is only your opinion."

She was quiet, a single tear cascading from her eyes down her apple cheeks. She tugged a loose thread in the pillowcase. "Tell the children I'm ill."

"If that's what you want then I will. I'll have Lena sleep with Harlow and Perrie if you want that too."

She nodded. "Yes."

He stood and the bed bounced. "Finish the rest of your milk. I'll make sure no one bothers you." He made to leave, changed his mind, and kissed her forehead.

"I am with you forever and always," he said.

"Forever and always," she repeated, twining her fingers with his.

All her crying had tired her, but she did as Rowan had asked and finished her milk in one gulp, the excess dripping from her mouth, down her chin. She wiped it away with her hand. That was all the strength she could muster. She hadn't any left to change out of her clothes, though Rowan had long since removed her boots.

Eulalia curled her toes, as if some bout of inexplicable pain had swept through her petite frame, but she'd done it to feel herself, that she was here, and death hadn't taken her yet. When had she fallen asleep? She couldn't remember, but woke too early the next morning, bolting upright in bed, gasping, shaken from a nightmare. She searched for the warmth of Lena beside her, but touched nothing but the cold, empty sheets where Lena would have been. Rubbing her eyes, she remembered Lena had slept in Harlow and Perrie's room.

The moon spun light beneath a window. It was in that square of light she stood a moment later. The taste of an arriving storm was still on her tongue, thick and rough, like bread that had been kept past its time. It smelled as stale. Though rain was good for the flowers and the cotton and wheat grass on the moors, she'd hoped for warmer days, for more time out in the sunshine on the eve of her eighteenth year. She hefted the window farther open and stuck out her hand, palm turned up. Sure enough, a raindrop struck it, rolling to the tip of her finger, lingering for a moment before it fell away.

She sang a hymn her mama had taught her long ago for Francisca.