On The Other Side Of This…

Four o’clock.  Teatime, but there’ll be no such served in the Hall today.  The black cloth that covers the mirrors throughout the smial plays dark contrast to the riot of colorful flowers that should have brightened every space.  Passing down the long corridor that leads to the Master’s quarters, there is little sound coming from the rooms that lay upon each side.  The nursery, too, is far quieter than it has ever been, although there are nearly two dozen children here today.  Sam’s eldest has gathered most of the youngsters about her, reading quietly from an old storybook, while Rose and Diamond tend to the little ones.  They appeared to have so little in common, our three little wives, thrown together by the friendship of their mates, but their differences masked a fellow feeling no less than ours.  The memories of her are thick in these sun-drenched rooms, where the new Mistress of Brandy Hall has been no less generous in these last seven years than her predecessor, raising the victims of life’s misfortunes alongside her own sons.  Theo has curled up in a window seat with his four-year-old brother on his lap, all teenaged wit and rebellion washed under by his mother’s passing.

Diamond looks up from our month-old daughter’s little face and catches me peeking through the half opened door.  The small shake of her head tells me that he is not here, and I move on without a word.  The arched entrance to the parlor is flooded with summer light and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, coming in from the darkened hall.  Reclining in the afternoon’s golden glow, his infant son upon his heart, my cousin looks for one peaceful instant asleep himself.  But he looks up, one hand gently resting upon the tiny back, and I can see his heart still stands upon the riverbank, as it did this morning.  I’ve no wish to disturb this small pause in time’s swift course, to move us all into the next part of this singularly cruel day.  Death, like all things, is for my people an occasion for the comforts of food and company, and when the life has been long and full, it is a joyous celebration, full of laughter as well as tears.  But when the very young are taken, or the loss is so bitterly tragic as today, even we have no heart for song.

Yet many have come, those who were on the way for the child’s birth and those who live near enough to have heard today of Estella’s passing, all of them waiting for the Master of the Hall to open his doors, that they may share the useless comfort of their sympathy.  The words are bitter on my tongue.

“Everything is ready.”

Three small words to say that the grave is dug and her body laid out, awaiting the final farewell of those who loved her.  The next few hours will be an agony of expectation and self-control, each curious glance, each kindly word a trial, when I well know he wants nothing more than to ride into the Wilds where duty binds him not at all to this quiet strength he has taught us all to expect of him.

“Alright,” he says, rising slowly, careful of the sleeping newborn in his arms.

Clouds suddenly pass over the Sun, throwing the room into gray shadow, and as he steps into the darkened hall, the heavy August afternoon breaks into a drenching rain.