Where the Briars Sleep

By Emma Beaven

In this early nineteenth-century gothic ghost story, Rose Shedd discovers something is stalking her, something unseen and filled with rage, something that demands recompense, and Rose's life, the life of her sister, and the remnants of her family depend on memories she has forced herself to forget.

 

She couldn't imagine being alone in the dark, the wardrobe looming over her, its door creaking, hangers rattling. Anything could sneak up on you in the dark when you closed your eyes. Anything.

 

Arriving back at her home estate, the first thing Rose does is visit her stepsister Sarah's grave, taking her younger sister, Maggie, along. After a forced retreat at the cousins', Rose looks forward to some normalcy and a return to routine. Not to mention the unexpected upcoming ball hosted by their elusive neighbors to introduce their son Henry, who has been away. Perhaps this mysterious Henry may become interested in Rose. Or most likely he would become her younger sister's fourth suitor and Rose would endure more "old maid" banter.

 

With the oppressive heat and unpredictable weather, Rose and Maggie are caught in a sudden severe thunderstorm. Maggie makes it back before the sky unleashes its fury, but Rose is caught behind. She really doesn't mind, however, because she loves the rain and the wind and the gardens and could stay outside their stuffy mansion forever. Away from the wardrobe.

 

In the midst of the storm, Rose is cut by a briar and becomes caught in the mud. She sees a woman on their front porch. Maggie?

 

"Help me, Maggie!" But the woman is gone. 

 

From then on, nothing and no one are as they seem in this twisted gothic Victorian ghost story. A tale of three sisters, family secrets of the darkest nature, and how our decisions have ripple effects, with themes of nature, romance, family, faith, forgiveness, consequences, and a creepy wardrobe with a door that never quite shuts that will have you sleeping with the lights on.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tangled Tree Publishing
• Release date: Jul 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922359506

Book preview

One

North Baltimore, Maryland - 1803

The ribbons were scattered. A blooming array of colors twisted and wound about the wood floor like brightly colored snakes. But there was one color distinctly missing.

Maggie. 

Rose went to find her younger sister, glancing briefly at the wardrobe as she passed, avoiding looking at the mirror.

Maggie! Where are my new ribbons? 

No answer.

Why must she insist on wearing my new ribbons when she has more than enough of her own? Rose fumed and went to find her younger sister. As she stormed out of their shared bedroom, she briefly glanced at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror as she passed, immediately seeing the wisps of black hair that had escaped what would have been a perfect twist.

At the top of their curving staircase, she grasped a swath of her skirt and ran down the stairs, taking care not to trip. She had tripped twice before and not broken her neck only by chance.

Rose pushed through the glass-paned doors of the sitting room, where she found Maggie with her embroidery. Right underneath Mother’s portrait. Rose tried not to look at it and instead focused on her sister’s perfectly coiffed hair. You’re wearing my ribbons.

You haven’t used them since you bought them. Maggie smiled smugly, looking up from her sewing. Plus, they look prettier on me.

Rose breathed in deeply, her dress constricting her throat and wrists. She didn’t envy Maggie’s straw-blonde locks, though she would never say it. I need them so I can match my dress for the party, Rose said, brushing back another escaped black curl. She fingered her pale blue dress, a slight frown spreading across her face as she thought of how plain it seemed. She had to do much better for the party. And better than Maggie, especially.

Were you still planning on the dress we saw in town? The one you asked Father to bring?

What if I was? Rose asked, feeling a warmth creep up her face, and not from the muggy morning humidity.

Oh, nothing, Maggie said quickly. "I’m just not sure these red ribbons would match the blue of that dress.

Rose let her back relax against the velvet sofa and studied its detailed embroidery, gold flowers against dark navy blue.

A slight breeze blew lightly through the lace curtains from the front of the house into the stuffy parlor. Rose tilted her face in its direction.

The old grandfather clock chimed, and Rose startled, her gaze inadvertently drawn to the eerie moon on the clockface, then to the two paintings hanging on the wall next to the clock.

One showed a younger Rose and Maggie. Rose’s dark tresses fell from the confines of a pearl comb while three-year-old Maggie’s light hair was cut short. They wore matching green dresses with thin lace along the arms. Rose had one hand on Maggie’s shoulder, the other holding three white lilies. Rose’s stormy eyes stared directly at the painter, whereas Maggie’s dark blue eyes gazed expectantly at her older sister.

Rose felt a twinge of guilt. It had been a long time since Maggie had looked at her that way—perfectly trusting and somewhat in awe.

The other painting showed Mother. Though she died nearly fifteen years ago, it still hurt Rose to look at the portrait. But at this moment, she let her eyes linger. Mother’s honey blonde hair was a shade paler than Maggie’s, pinned into curls encircling her softly curved face. Her mother’s green eyes glimmered like jewels, the light bouncing off them while she focused thoughtfully on some faraway object. She wore a heavy gray dress trimmed with fur and dark blue floral embroidery. The room behind her was decorated with opulent thick rugs and an ivory pedestal with a flowing bouquet of exotic greenery.

She sighed. Sometimes Rose imagined she heard Mother’s voice in the back garden, floating on the soft breezes that stirred the thick, overheated air.

Rose turned to find Maggie looking at her fixedly.

How about we have a walk? Maggie reached for her bonnet and smiled. It’s hot and stuffy in here. Come on. I’m sorry. It’ll be nice. We can pick some flowers.

Yes, I suppose that would be nice, Rose agreed. She greatly preferred the cool gardens to the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the house.

We can make a bouquet for Mariotta. One for her new vase.

Rose’s face darkened at the mention of their stepmother. I hate her vase. It’s so putridly ugly. We have plenty of other vases we can use.

Maggie frowned at Rose in her motherly way, her lips tightening ever so slightly.

I’m going to get my bonnet, Rose said with a heavy sigh. She whisked out of the room before Maggie could say anything else.

The house was already heating up, especially as Rose climbed the stairs. She found her bedroom door closed. One of the servants must have been through already. She pushed open the heavy oak doors, and sure enough, the window was open and the bedsheets had been tidied. But the heat was still overwhelming.

She moved quickly to the large wardrobe with its broken keyhole and its door that never latched. As the temperature shifted throughout the day, the door would slowly creep open, the wood swelling and forcing the door out of its frame.

On a shelf above her hanging dresses, several bonnets, ribbons, muffs, and gloves were scattered in disarray. Rose reached for her favorite bonnet, the one threaded with yellow ribbons, and as she pulled it down, half of the shelf’s contents came with it. Damn!

Her bonnet floated to the floor as she dropped to her knees to gather everything that had fallen. As she reached for her bonnet, she froze.

An orange ribbon peeked out from under the white wardrobe.

Rose recoiled immediately, catching her foot in the long skirt of her dress, which caused her to trip and thud hard onto her backside.

I know I cleaned up, she whispered, clutching her bonnet to her chest.

Rose?

Rose startled and quickly jumped up. Maggie stood in the doorway, staring at her.

I tripped. On my skirt.

I see. Maggie reached for her hand. Well, don’t trip on the stairs.

Stop treating me like a child! Rose pushed past Maggie. And why did you leave such a mess?

Me, leave a mess! Maggie laughed. When you just throw everything up there?

I mean on the floor, Rose said as Maggie moved past her. You left a ribbon on the floor.

A ribbon? Really? Maggie shifted her gaze to the floor. She stepped closer and cocked her head. That’s not mine.

Her abdomen twitched. Of course it is. I don’t wear orange.

Neither do I. It must be—

It’s yours! Rose cried out before Maggie could say her name. My God, Maggie, why don’t you just pick up your mess?

Rose! Maggie shouted, her eyes wide open. Why are you behaving this way?

Rose rushed from the room, but before she rounded the first curve of the stairs, she saw her sister kneel beside the wardrobe, snatch up the ribbon, and quickly drop it out the open window.

Two

Rose waited at the front door, red parasol in hand, and said, I’m ready, as Maggie raced to the stairs. She was calmer, her head clear from just a few moments earlier.

All right. Maggie smoothed her dress, eyeing Rose surreptitiously as she checked the lacing on her boots.

Storm. Rose breathed in deeply, savoring the sudden weather change that was infecting the air. I hope it’s a big one.

Feeling more at ease as soon as she stepped through the heavy front doors, she threaded her way around a set of chairs and small table, heading across the wide veranda, delighting in the way the winds were already picking up.

With the green lightning, Maggie said, smiling. It was good for the two of them to be out together like this. Especially for Rose. If only things could be like this all the time.

Maggie blew out a breath. You just want to get soaked. Only the sweet Lord knows why. She seemed to hesitate, eyeing the thick purple clouds overtaking the last remnants of blue in the sky. I don’t want to get caught in the storm.

I love it! Rose reached for Maggie’s hand and weaved through the grass, her eyes on the fringe of woods several hundred yards to the left. Please, Maggie, let’s get flowers quick. I promise I’ll be good when we get back. We can sew or read or play piano or talk about the brutally lovely confines of domesticity.

You know picking flowers is just as bad. We’re not little girls anymore.

Rose smirked. Yes, but the woods are so wild. Anything could be in there. Anything but stitching. She giggled and raced toward the woods, knowing Maggie wouldn’t abandon her to the storm.

Rose, wait! The rain!

Rose heard Maggie’s pounding footsteps behind her as she bundled her skirt higher to take bigger strides. They raced past the pink marble pond and through the edges of the McCanns’ yard next door, which was fenced by a perfect row of twenty large camellia bushes. Rose reached the edge of the woods as the first heavy gust of wind washed over the trees. In the darkness, she could still see clumps of wildflowers as well as a small patch of tiger lilies and large purple irises. Around them, wild roses crawled across the lower branches of the trees.

Maggie huffed behind her. Slow down. I hate running! She reached out, but her fingertips fell short of Rose.

Ignoring her sister, Rose struggled away and went for the irises and lilies. Hurry and grab a bunch of wildflowers. I’ll get these.

Maggie’s brows dipped low as she stepped farther into the patchy woods.

As Rose picked her way to the profuse growth of wild roses, a sharp, nearly incapacitating pain pierced her head. Mama? she whispered hoarsely, her gaze roving over what looked to be a marble step.

Rose? What are you doing? Maggie’s voice seemed dim and far away, drowned in the racing wind.

Confused, Rose shuffled forward to the area covered in briars that wound their way about the brighter flowers, dragging them into the darkness.

Ignoring the pain in her head, she ripped at the fragile stems as the sky emitted a heavy rumble. Reaching for another handful of irises, she felt a sharp pain in her hand. Immediately, she paused and brought the wound to her face. A thin trail of blood ran across her palm, where what looked like a thorn protruded from a soft mound near her wrist. Irritated, she plucked at it as another roll of thunder broke.

She looked up at the sky, at the deep purple clouds that threatened to erupt at any minute, and then back to the earth. Unintentionally, she had wandered there. Perhaps because she had been away, been gone. And forgotten. And now she stood by the family plot, her wounded hand lingering over her stepsister’s nearly hidden grave. A small drop of dark red blood fell from her palm, dotting the weathered marble.

Come on! Maggie’s hand fell onto her shoulder, a bit of lace visible in Rose’s peripheral vision.

I’ve got a thorn in my hand.

What?

Look!

Maggie leaned her head over Rose’s shoulder, frowning. Just come on! We’ll check on it inside! Without waiting, she took off across the lawn.

Rose followed slowly, uncaring as raindrops hit her face. She made her way past the McCanns’ yard and looked toward the front porch. Maggie had already made it to the steps, her flowers clutched to her chest as she tried to shield her head from the wind.

As Rose crossed the lawn, the sky’s torment exploded viciously, wind whipping the rain onto her like waves in the ocean. Her dress quickly became heavy and soggy, its hem dragging through the dirt. She tried to pull up her skirt without hurting her still bleeding palm, but it was impossible. Judging from the pain in her hand, she was sure her skin was tearing apart a little more with each movement, and her dress seemed to have doubled in weight. The wind blew harder, making it difficult to see the house as she forced her way through the yard, now thick with mud.

Maggie was completely out of sight now, but no lights had yet appeared in the house.

As quickly as she could, Rose moved, but the mud sucked hard at her shoes. And as she neared the porch, the square heel of one of her shoes embedded itself and refused to come out as she tried to take her next step. Face-first, she hit the ground, landing on top of the flowers she had picked. Cold, slick mud went down the front of her dress and coated the lace on her bonnet.

Disgusted, Rose spat and attempted to sit up, still very aware of her throbbing hand. Rain and mud ran off her face as she did so. She attempted to wipe it out of her eyes, the grit stinging sharply. Whimpering softly, she pushed herself up with her good hand and gazed longingly at the porch.

Maggie, help! She could barely make out anything through the downpour, but she distinctly saw her sister’s silhouette poised beside the door. Maggie, please!

Disbelief replaced disgust and self-pity when she saw Maggie watching her, unmoving.

Well, go to hell, then!

Rose coughed, suddenly afraid she was drowning in the mud. With a determined yank, she tugged her shoe out of the muck and picked up her pile of mangled flowers.

Maggie? Rose looked at the door. Maggie was gone.

Rose struggled up the porch steps, trying desperately not to trip on her soggy, ripped skirt. Finally, drenched and dirty, her dress in ruins, she made it to the door, flung the heavy timber open, and staggered into the house.

The hallway was dim when she entered, and water from her clothing soaked the wood floor, leaving dark, ominous-looking stains. Rose sneezed as she fumbled with her sopping skirts.

A moment later, she became aware of a light in the passageway to the kitchen, its flame rising and flickering as the wind blew through the open door. For a minute, she stood hypnotized, fingers trailing on the doorframe.

Close it!

Rose dimly heard the door slam shut. Befuddled and cold, she turned to face her sister, while in the distance, thunder rolled as rain pounded the windows.

The dark of the hallway was hardly penetrated by the tiny lamp, and Rose shivered again. Maggie approached, her face ghostly in the orange glow of the flame. Rose, you need to change. She gestured behind her to the maid, Rachel, who followed at a distance, still mostly cloaked in shadow.

You left me in the mud, Rose said softly.

I just ran inside. Maggie shrugged innocently. It was wet. I got a lamp.

Rose’s confusion distorted her face in the dancing light. I saw you standing there. On the porch.

On the porch? Maggie looked at her sister, brows scrunched. Why would I stand out in the cold and wet, staring at you? Do you think I’m a lunatic? I came inside.

Hey! Rose snagged the back of her sister’s dress, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

Maggie turned and glared. What’s wrong with you? I almost dropped the lamp.

You left me! Rose’s voice echoed in the dark, empty hallway.

I never came back out, Maggie said, exasperated. Come upstairs. You could get sick if you don’t change soon.

Rose stared down at the brown-laced, tattered flowers, then dropped them to the floor, confusion flooding out of her. All right.

Rose looked Maggie up and down. Her clothing appeared surprisingly dry, her skirt falling perfectly from her waist, the lace drooping only slightly from just above her elbows.

As she followed, Rose watched her sister’s pinkish skirts swish. She shivered. Maggie hadn’t changed her dress. Rose could have sworn she had seen red-and-white stripes outside. Who wore red and white? She twitched involuntarily.

Are you freezing? Maggie’s tone was softer, more sympathetic. Rachel will draw you a hot bath. I’ll get you a blanket.

Rose gazed down at her ruined clothing as she slipped her hand onto the banister railing. She had tracked long swaths of mud on the black-and-white marble as she moved farther into the house, and a distinct rip marred the hem of her soiled skirt. My clothes are ruined, she said weakly. The stairs seemed endless as she pulled herself up.

It’s okay. You have other clothes.

Maggie helped pull her up the last couple of stairs and into their room.

I’ll lay out fresh clothes. Do you want a shawl? Maggie offered.

Rose shivered as they entered their bedroom. Yes, let me have my blue shawl. I would like a bath, I think.

Of course. Maggie stopped picking through the wardrobe and stepped out into the hallway. Rachel? she called. Rose will have a hot bath. Her footsteps faded as she walked down the hallway, leaving Rose alone.

Rose glared at the open wardrobe door, a faint trickle of annoyance spreading through her. Why did Maggie have to leave it open? She knew Rose hated it. She was always doing that—leaving all the doors open. Endless open spaces for anything to slip silently through in the night.

Hesitantly, Rose moved toward the door, peering into the opening. Goddammit, Maggie. She moved to the closest side of the wardrobe. Her dresses were lined up but slightly ruffled. Rose reached a finger toward the open door and pressed softly. The door moved a few inches and she edged closer. What’s the problem, Rose? she muttered to herself. What’s going to be in the wardrobe? Instantly she wished she hadn’t said it out loud.

Nothing’s in the closet, Rose. Nothing’s in the wardrobe. No problem.

With a trembling finger, she gave the door another push. It closed almost all the way. She hesitated before glancing back toward the hallway.

Still no Maggie.

The wardrobe door remained open just a crack, mocking her. Holding her breath, Rose reached out and slammed it shut and backed away, nearly tripping on her ripped skirt.

See? Nothing there.

Who are you talking to?

Rose whipped her head around and peered at Maggie. Annoyance trickled in again at her sister’s seemingly smug and confident stare mocking her as Rose crossed her arms around herself. Everybody does that. Talks to themselves.

Maggie extended a hand to Rose. Come on. You’re cold.

Rose recoiled. I can make it on my own. She was seething now. Her sister always acted as if she were the one to care for Rose despite Maggie being the younger one.

Rose ripped her eyes away and lifted her sopping skirts, all the time feeling Maggie’s gaze on her. She trod across the room to the door, trying to hide her shivers as she made her way to the tub.

Do you need—

I’m fine. Rose’s voice was prickly, like her cold skin. She turned a little in the dark hallway to look at Maggie, and a tremble unrelated to the chill rocked her.

Maggie stood still in the room, her lamp bouncing shadows across the white walls. Behind her, through the open bedroom door, Rose saw that the wardrobe door hung open wide. Not slightly, as if she had not secured it properly, but all the way open, gaping in a toothless scream.

Rose?

Rose whirled around. Did you open it? She kept her voice calm.

I didn’t open it, Rose. Maggie sighed. You know I didn’t.

Rose gestured helplessly toward the wardrobe. But—

Listen to me carefully. Maggie secured her fingers around her sister’s arm. The door is always like that.

Thunder shook the house as Rose stared hard at her sister. Slowly an image formed in her mind.

No….

Daylight. Someone missing. Someone—

Rose!

Rose shrieked. Maggie’s fingers were like a vise around her wrist. Water still dripped from the end of her sleeve.

With as much effort as she could muster, Rose raised her head, met Maggie’s eyes, and slowly said, I’ll have my bath now. And I guess I need help getting out of this dress.

Three

Raindrops still pinged against the glass of the parlor windows. Maggie stood behind her, gently brushing her hair, and Rose leaned back, feeling much more relaxed. Now that she could think clearly again, she knew Maggie wouldn’t have just left her there in the rain. She had been confused, her vision blurry from the mud and rain.

Rose pulled her blue shawl tighter about her shoulders as Maggie finished brushing and affixed a large red bow into her hair. Maggie cocked her head as she stepped in front of Rose. Perfect!

Thank you, Rose said, a smile slowly starting to grow on her face.

Pale gray light sifted through the window, barely exposing the perfect sea-green wallpaper decorated with thin bony trees and strange birds. The air had appeared to clear between them, despite what had happened earlier, and Rose was feeling almost buoyant.

She twirled the curtain’s pull cord between her fingers and pressed her head against the glass, straining for the sounds of crunching gravel. It had to be soon.

She drew her feet up onto the cushion of the window seat and pulled her knees in close. Father and Mariotta had left early, and it was getting late. Would Father bring her the dress? She’d loved it the minute she had seen it the last time they were in town, and with only a few alterations, it would be perfect for her. Blue had always been her favorite color, and she was excited at the thought of wearing it at the ball.

Father’s travels for business had become more frequent since Mother died, though at least Mariotta had gone with him this time. Rose couldn’t decide which was worse, being left alone after Mother died or being left alone with a grieving stepmother lurking about the house like some gruesome specter with red, watery eyes. For God’s sake, it had been over a year since Sarah died. Still, Rose felt a pang of guilt at the thought.

Finally! The faint sounds of an approaching carriage came from the drive.

Rose hopped off the window seat and carefully gathered the skirt of her fresh pale pink dress.

Candles were still lit in the hallway, but they quickly extinguished as she flung open the heavy entrance door. The wind was light and not nearly as cool as she had expected as she stepped into the forecourt. Rachel stood at the ready on the pavement, watching gravely as the carriage approached.

Along the drive, two sturdy horses drew a familiar black carriage to the front door. Rose stepped outside as the carriage rolled to a stop. Behind her, she heard a door slam on the porch.

Hello there! Maggie whirled past Rose to meet the carriage, clattering down the stairs with a fan and walking stick in hand, clad in her gray silk dress she must have changed into.

Rose frowned at her. Really, Maggie?

Maggie stuck her tongue out in return. The carriage door opened, and she grasped her stepmother’s arm as she alighted. Welcome home, Mariotta, Maggie said, giving a quick kiss to both of her cheeks.

Rose was glued to her spot.

The footman appeared, and Maggie gave him a smile. Hello, Christopher, she said brightly.

He barely gave her notice, which made Rose feel better, before he began instructing Rachel. Be careful with those bags, he said. I shall tend to the boxes.

Maggie paid Christopher no more attention, much like her jilted callers. Here’s your cane, she said to Mariotta. What can I carry?

Mariotta’s muddy green gaze rested on Rose, who attempted a smile, but it must have looked as half-hearted as it felt because Mariotta put a limp hand up, as if she were about to wave, then dropped it flatly by her side and went back to listening to Maggie.

Mariotta’s light red hair was styled and still remained wound upon her head, her yellow striped silk taffeta rustling softly about her feet.

Rose started closer, but then Maggie’s clear laugh rang out, so she remained standing in place until Mariotta reached her. Rose planted a perfunctory kiss on her stepmother’s cheek. She sensed eyes upon her but ignored the sensation as best she could.

I have presents from your father, Mariotta said.

My dress? Rose asked with a glimmer of hope.

Not at the moment, Mariotta said as she reached into one of the bags she was carrying. But I have—

Where is Father? Rose demanded.

But I have other things for you. A hopeful smile crossed Mariotta’s face.

Daddy was going to bring that dress. Where is he?

I’m sorry, my sweet, Mariotta said, enraging Rose even further.

Where was this coming from, this rising anger that threatened to consume her?

Stop it, Rose.

We’re going to town tomorrow.

Maggie.

When Maggie ignored her, Rose’s chest tightened as she stared at her sister, waiting to be acknowledged. Surely Maggie could see how important this was.

What will I wear to the party? The temptation to stomp her foot angrily rode her hard. I’m not going in my old clothes. I’m just not. Thoughts of the party drifted through her head: Maggie in a beautiful new dress and she in an old partially faded gown, her sister whisking about, completely outshining her. That could not stand. Still, it did her no favors to act like a spoiled child in front of everyone.

Father had loved that dress too. He told her so the last time they were in town together—how fitting the color was for her, how perfectly it would adorn her. It just needed a few alterations….

Hey. Maggie’s hand closed on Rose’s shoulder.

Rose froze, but it was Mariotta who spoke.

You and Maggie may go to town tomorrow. Your father is still away on business. Now if you don’t mind, I’m tired. She carried herself up the stairs, Maggie assisting.

The sound of their shoes clacking set off a series of sharp pains in Rose’s head. A giggle erupted, though from whom she couldn’t tell. She wondered what Mariotta might be saying to Maggie behind her back.

A distant rumbling echoed in the night sky.

Once Mariotta had been settled in her room, Maggie ducked into the sitting room and sat down near Rose. Her face pinched into a look of stern disapproval that belied her age, posture rigid, determined, as she sat in her chair and met Rose’s gaze.

Why do you have to behave that way? Maggie asked, keeping her voice just barely below shrill.

What? She doesn’t like me.

Maggie frowned and swiped at her nose. You know she’s still hurting.

It’s been long enough.

Maggie stood in front of her sister, drained from disbelief. How can you say that, Rose? How can you be so cruel? She stalked out of the room. Was it the missing dress that set her sister off? Or perhaps Mariotta’s lack of proper dismay over it? Either could have set Rose off.

Should I go back and sit with her? Maggie thought. She hated seeing Rose upset, hated the fear of losing her sister again. But she could not tolerate Rose’s cruel words toward Mariotta.

There had to be a way to make Rose see it. See how her words affected everyone in the household.

Maybe if she could somehow make Rose aware, perhaps they could slowly start to return to normal. And then Maggie would have her sister back.

Four

Maggie remained silent at the dinner table, and Rose followed suit. She sat across from her sister, who picked dully at her food and stared into her plate as if it were a looking glass. Lamb was not Rose’s favorite, but she usually ate at least a bit of her meals.

Mariotta sat at the end of the table, her fingers curled around her spoon, her eyes dull and glassy. Maggie narrowed her eyes, watching for a moment, but Mariotta failed to move the spoon to her mouth. She glanced over at Rose, then saw Mariotta’s arm start to move out of the corner of her eye. Very slowly, as if by rote, Mariotta spooned a thin, dripping bit of stew into her mouth. Then Rose raised her arm slightly, the movement so slow