"Tell me, Rose. Tell me."
"The day my mother died, I... I just lost it." Her breath hitched as the words forced their way out. "We were alone in the world, just me and her. She was my everything. My entire life was contained inside our cottage. It was small," she continued, her breath shaky, "but it was enough. The fire always burned in winter, the windows stayed open in summer. We had a little garden out back. Chickens, too. Not many, just enough for eggs. We didn't need much. She taught me how to cook, how to stitch, how to read from the many books we had." A ghost of a smile flickered over her lips, there and gone in an instant. "She used to sing when she worked. I don't remember the words, just the sound of her voice. I thought we'd always be together." Her voice caught. "She made it feel safe."
"Then, one winter, we both got sick. I remember the way our breaths sounded in the cold, like we were breathing through wet cloth. We spent days in bed together, huddled under the blankets, trying to keep warm despite the fever. I was so weak I couldn't even stand up without getting dizzy. She was just as bad. We boiled eggs, and that's all we managed to eat for days. We slept, and slept, and talked, and slept more, trying to fight the worst off. I could feel her hand in mine, cold and clammy, but I held onto it. Not once did I consider we could die from it." Her voice cracked again, and she pressed trembling fingers to her lips, as if trying to force the words back inside. "I don't think she did either," she whispered, her tone breaking on the last syllable.
"One morning, I woke up, and everything was quiet. Too quiet. I turned over to say something to her, but she didn't answer. She was lying there, her eyes half-open, staring at nothing. Her lips were blue. Her cheek felt like ice when I touched it. I shook her, I called her name over and over, but she didn't respond. She was just... gone. And I knew it. I knew it the second I touched her, but I kept shaking her anyway, screaming her name as if I could bring her back."
Rose swallowed, her throat bobbing painfully. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, just pooling and pooling.
"I don't know how long I stayed there, next to her. Hours? A whole day? I couldn't move. I just kept looking at her, waiting for her to blink, for her chest to rise. But she didn't. And eventually, I... I couldn't look at her anymore. It felt like she was staring at me. I couldn't take it. So I got up and went to the kitchen. I closed the door behind me, like shutting her out would make it less real. And I broke down. I wanted to destroy everything. I wanted the entire world to fall apart like I had. That was the first time. Suddenly, I had a bunch of broken porcelain to clean, and my hands were bleeding. I don't remember much."
"Of course, I didn't feel any better once I regained consciousness. The house just stood there, silent, indifferent. I was all alone in that empty, cold kitchen, and the only sound was my own voice. I don't know how long it went on. It felt like days. I lost track of time. I couldn't think. I couldn't eat. The only thing I could feel was this deep, hollow ache in my chest, like someone had carved out a piece of me and left a bleeding wound behind." Her hands dropped to her lap, clenching into fists so tight her knuckles turned white. "Eventually, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't just leave her there, lying in our bed. I went outside, found a shovel. My hands were shaking so badly, and it took forever to dig a hole her size. But I couldn't stop. I dug and dug until my fingers were raw and blistered. I don't know how long. All I know is that I was out there, in the cold, digging a grave for my mother."
Rose pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to steady herself. Her eyes were fixed on some distant point, as if she were caught up in the whole scene playing out again. Her mother's ghost watched her from the corner.
"When it was finally deep enough, I went back inside. I wrapped her in a blanket because I couldn't stand the thought of the dirt touching her skin. I dragged her outside, through the floor. She was so heavy! Like she wasn't even a person anymore, just rocks in a sack. Then I put her in and shovelled dirt over her. It felt like I was suffocating her all over again. When I was done, I found some stones to put around the grave, just so she wouldn't be forgotten. It was all I could do. No prayer, no mass, no priest. Just me and..."
The room was thick with silence, the kind that felt like it could crush her under its weight. Marcus didn't speak, didn't move. He just watched her.
"And then it was just me," she continued, her voice a broken whisper. "The house felt so big and empty without her. I kept expecting to hear her voice, to see her sitting by the fire. But she wasn't there. She was ten steps away, under the ground. It was just me and the silence. Weeks went by. Maybe months. I don't know. I lost track of time. I picked vegetables from the garden, collected eggs from the chickens. I chopped wood to keep the fire going. I don't remember much from that time. Only that sometimes, I was taken by that rage. I broke things. Hurt the chickens. I woke up far away from the house, in torn clothes and barefoot. I screamed until my throat ached. I wasn't really there," she repeated, her eyes raw and red-rimmed.
"But then, one day... the landlord's footman came to check on the house. I heard the door creak open. I remember the sound of their heavy boots on the wooden floor, the way it made my heart pound in my chest. I was terrified. I didn't know who they were, what they wanted."
"He left and called for others. So many of them. I heard the front door open wide, the rush of cold air flooding in. I tried to stay as still as I could under that bed. I lay there, curled up, pressing my hands over my mouth to keep from making a sound. I could see their feet moving around the room, searching. My body was trembling so hard I thought they'd hear the bed frame shaking."
She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by the images in her head. "One of them bent down, looked right at me, but he didn't reach for me. He just stood up slowly and walked away. I thought maybe I'd imagined it, that he hadn't really seen me. But then he left, and I heard him calling for others. They dragged me out by the ankles. I know I fell into rage again because I don't remember anything until I was outside, being held down like a rabid dog."
Tears streamed down her cheeks now, but she didn't wipe them away. She looked at Marcus with a wild, haunted expression. "They unburied her," she spat, her voice rising, filled with a fury that seemed to crack open the numbness she had wrapped herself in. That fury. That was when the monster was born. "They dug her up. They moved her. I remember seeing them shoveling away the dirt I'd so carefully piled up, the stones I'd placed. They pried her out of the ground. They laid her corpse out! They accused me!" she cried. "They looked at me like I was a murderer. Like I'd done something to her. As if I'd ever hurt her! As if I'd ever do anything to my mom!"
"They saw a dirty, wild girl in a house with a grave out back, and that was all they needed to know. They didn't care about the truth. They just wanted someone to blame. And I was there. Alone, covered in dirt, screaming like an animal. I was the easy answer. They kept yelling at me. I would've torn them apart if I could. But they were stronger."
Marcus caressed her hair. "That's when they took you in," he said quietly, his voice almost gentle, but there was a hard edge to his words.
"The landlord did. Yes," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "My... The lord of the house hit me until I stopped fighting." Her voice broke, and she wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold the pieces together. "I remember the taste of blood in my mouth, the way it mixed with the dirt they shoved my face into. My head was ringing from the blows. I could barely see through the tears and the pain. Then I managed to be sane for longer times. That's what saved me from being cast out on the street."
She looked at Marcus, her eyes wide and glassy, as if she were seeing him for the first time. Marcus's hand slid from her shoulder to cup her cheek. Rose took a deep breath to continue.
"I stopped speaking for a while. I went quiet. I realized it didn't matter what I said. They'd already decided what I was, what I'd done. The more I screamed, the guiltier I looked. So I shut down. I was gone after that," she whispered. "They took everything from me. My home, my mother, my voice. I didn't exist anymore."
For the first time in forever, she had spoken it aloud, ripped the memory from its dark corner and held it out in the open. And it hurt her. It hurt more than she could have imagined.
She screamed.
***
Rose woke up drifting out of a heavy, disorienting swamp. Time had passed, but she wasn't sure how much. The sun was still out. She lay still. The void inside her seemed endless, as if the remainder of her emotions had been scooped out. She wasn't rested, but she wasn't tired either--just suspended in a hazy state of numbness. Her head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. A bitter taste clung to her lips, sharp and acrid like poison. Whatever he had forced her to drink left a bitter trace behind, a scent that mingled with her breath and coated her mouth. She swallowed hard, trying to rid herself of it.
The bed creaked softly beneath her as she shifted onto her side. The sheets were steeped in his scent, a mix of tobacco, old pages, and the faint, lingering trace of parfum. The smell clung to her like his touch, inescapable and suffocating. Her fingers tightened on the fabric as fragments of memory pushed their way into her thoughts. She was in his bed, his room.
The soft rustle of a page turning cut through her thoughts. She reached out, her hand brushing against the fabric of the sheets, and then further until it met something solid.
This was not the familiar softness of her mother's embrace or the comforting wrinkles of Maria's old hands. It was muscle, taut and firm under her touch, the skin smooth and unyielding. She flinched. Mr. Carvalho. He was sitting beside her, a book over his bent legs, the soft afternoon light casting gentle shadows on his face.
Marcus shifted his gaze to her. Rose still had half-closed eyes, her brows furrowing as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The laudanum would leave her confused for a while.
"You're awake," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. She flinched, but he didn't pull back.
"What did you make me drink?" she croaked, her voice hoarse.
