The Lady in Yellow: A Victorian Gothic Paranormal Romance

Eleven

That evening, Veronica sat on the balcony in her dressing gown, forefinger pressed tightly between the pages of her novel. Mist poured down the lawn, swirled slowly through the trees, crept toward the tomb shining dimly in the moonlight.

The imaginings of the novelist were no match for her own. Belden House was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Mr. Crowe had suggested to her that the twins might be a bit mad, but it seemed they were of a different breed all together. Grateful as she was to have the job, she wondered if she was the right person for it. What could she, with her simple convent education, teach children who took such outlandish notions as magical blood, as gospel?

And to see a wolf in garden was the last thing she'd bargained for.

Perhaps she'd been mistaken. It could have been Wolfgang, after all.

She soothed the scars on her hands and wrists where Tala had bitten her deeply enough to draw blood. Her heart beat rapidly with an impulse to flee.

"Oh, dear God," she muttered and put her hands over her face. She took a deep breath and stared out at the spectral trees. "I've got to calm down."

Softly at first, then slowly growing louder, a bell tolled through the fog. The sound was deep, unearthly, and as compelling as if the bell ringer sought to pull one's soul away from its moorings. Lost in wordless thought, she floated back into the house.

Though she locked the French doors behind her, she could still hear the bell. The sound echoed, holding her attention, then faded into silence.

Firelight played over the walls, flickering into the treasure room under the archway, catching, in a shadowy dark corner, the gleam of a white rocking horse. A faded tapestry hung behind the horse, a medieval scene of horsemen dashing through the forest. The scene seemed to move in the dance of flame and shadow, to have come to life. She wondered if there were a door behind the tapestry, opening into a secret room, or perhaps a series of rooms, containing a collection of discarded childhood memories... rooms without windows... completely interior chambers.

A wash of moonlight illuminated the filmy curtains that wafted in from the open, floor length windows. Outside, a high, thin wail rose up, making her shiver. Veronica put her hand on her chest to calm her heart.

She wondered if she had the nerves for mysterious old houses in the untamed wilderness of the Yorkshire moors. She stroked her face with her hands before covering her eyes. Foxes didn't howl like that.

It was best to go to bed and forget. Sleep had a way of sorting things out, solutions arising with the sun.

Eyes riveted to the moonlit curtains, Veronica walked slowly to her bed. She sat on the edge looking out through the balcony doors. That music...it was beautiful, soothing as a lullaby, but also haunting as if to instill uneasy dreams. She got under the covers and pulled the bed hangings tight. Murmuring a prayer, she pressed the silver crucifix against her chest. The Lord would keep her safe.

Yet, Veronica's mind kept re-playing what she'd seen in the garden earlier that day: a hare running swiftly up the lawn, a white dog chasing it down. She rolled onto her side, and buried her head in the pillows.

Veronica had just fallen asleep when, just below, a high-pitched wail climbed the air, then faded.

Startled by the cry, she got up and went out to her balcony. The moon cast long shadows over the grass. Though the night sky had cleared, remnants of mist still clung to the roots of the birch trees, gathering in the wishing well among the lilies like a cloud. She couldn't see the creature that had whined. The only sounds, accompanied by the chirruping of frogs around the well, were the voices of the children singing.

"Green grow the lilies, o...

Bright among the bushes, o..."

Who had allowed them to go out at this hour? Didn't Mrs. Twig know about the wolf?

Looking down toward the wishing well, Veronica leaned anxiously over the balustrade. "Jack! Come inside!" she shouted.

Hearing no response, she grabbed her dressing gown, raced downstairs, and dashed through the French doors to the back yard.

The twins were at the wishing well, singing, slowly, as if to drag the ballad out as long as possible, so that it sounded like a funeral march. Veronica hurried toward them. Halfway across the lawn, she slowed her step, peering into the shadows of the birch grove.

The lilies rustled. A white beast leaped out to the lawn, bounded over to Veronica, and pressed his body against her.

"Wolfgang!" she cried.

Gasping with relief, she gripped the fur at the dog's neck and waited for the twins.

"Miss Everly!" they cried.

"What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" Veronica said under her breath.

"Playing. We always do. You shouldn't worry about us, Miss Everly," said Jacques.

"Especially not after tonight," said Jacqueline with a calm, steady gaze. "It's the last night of the full moon. We'll be finished tonight."

"Finished with what?"

"Its only eleven o'clock," said Jacques.

"Past your bed time," Veronica said.

Noses in the air, the twins brushed past her. The dog broke free and ran along with them. Struck speechless, Veronica watched them cross the lawn into the moon-cast umbra of the house, and go inside.

The moon was glowing at the top of the trees, three nights full. This was the last night... for what?

Veronica glanced back at the well. What had they been up to? Hanging a doll or something?

The voice was in her mind again, whispering, commanding her, as in a nightmare, to complete immobility. The air, the land, the trees were glimmering. A pale yellow light bloomed up from the hollow of the wishing well, gathering like mist.

The lilies trembled.

A glowing, golden-haired lady, dressed in an ornate yellow gown of great antiquity, a crown of birch twigs on her head, drifted out onto the lawn.

Veronica held her breath and stared.

The lady in yellow stared back.

Veronica stumbled as if she'd been struck on the chest. Then, with a sound like a low, moaning wind, the lady turned toward the lilies, and slipped back into them like smoke returning to its fire.

*