Gerard’s shoulders rose. “People have reported seeing hallucinations, having nightmarish comas they couldn’t wake from. Sometimes their throats seize up—they suffocate on their own blistered tongues.” He blinked down at me. “I can never apologize enough for this. I can’t believe I was so careless.”
“So…it was like a dream?” I asked, a wave of relief washing over me.
Only a dream.
Not me.
Not my mind.
Not truly.
Gerard frowned. “It’s hard to say. Some people believe it’s more than that. That it’s an experience, doors opening up to other worlds. A portal to realms beyond ours. I’ve read many accounts from survivors saying they saw all sorts of unimaginable wonders. Some even claim to have spoken with the gods.” Gerard leaned forward. “Is that who you saw?”
“Who I saw…，” I repeated.
The woman with her weeping eyes.
She’d not been human, that much was abundantly clear.
Could she have been a god?
I opened my mouth, forming the answer.
I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him everything.
The ghosts.
This god.
But what would Gerard think of me?
Surely a girl with the capacity for such terrible thoughts—Eulalie’s drooping clavicle swayed in my memory—such terrible visions, was not the right choice for his son.
Camille’s words haunted me.
No one is going to want a mad little fiancée, for a mad little wife, issuing out mad little children. You’d be ruined forever.
But it wasn’t my fault.
I wasn’t mad.
It was the laurel.
Wasn’t it?
“There was no laurel on the night you saw those women,” a little voice deep in my head taunted.
Those were peacocks.
“Hanna wasn’t. Hanna Whitten who has been dead and gone these last twelve years,” it reminded.
Stop it.
Stop it right now.
“It’s not dreams and it’s not the laurel,” the voice insisted, sounding uncannily like the weeping woman. “It’s only ever been you.”
I took a great swallow of water, choking back the scream fighting to break out.
Gerard could never know. Any of it. I couldn’t risk my relationship with Alex, my place at Chauntilalie, the very security of my future over this.
I couldn’t.
“I can’t remember,” I lied, then took another gulp of water.
“There must be something,” he insisted, a strange light growing in his eyes. “It seemed to affect you so strongly. You can tell me, Verity. Even if it’s just a fragment of memory.” His hand fell over mine, covering it with the appearance of concern.
I shook my head. “There’s nothing. Truly.”
“You called out several times.”
I shrugged helplessly.
“You spoke to someone. You seemed afraid of them.” He squeezed my fingers, his grip unusually tight.
“I wasn’t…I can’t remember.” I felt pinned in place, unable to break free of his grasp or from his fervent gaze. “Gerard, you’re hurting me,” I gasped.
Instantly, he released his hold. “I’m…I’m so sorry, Verity. I’m not sure what came over me.” He pushed back a lock of hair. “Perhaps I breathed in too much of the laurel myself…” He reached out as if to smooth away any lingering pain in my hand but then froze, thinking the better of it. “I’m deeply sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said, trying to hide away the quiver I felt. “It’s been a strange day for everyone.”
He nodded gratefully. “Indeed. Indeed.”
“I should like to return to my rooms now,” I said, struggling to stand up from the chaise.
“Of course, yes. I’ll escort you there,” he offered, jumping to his feet and lending out an arm.
“No,” I said hastily. “I…I know you’ve so much work that needs tending to. And…you’ll want to air out the greenhouse more, of course.”
Gerard looked chagrined. “Of course. Of course, yes. I will make sure to do that.”
I took an unsteady step from him. Then another. “Good. Thank you.” I was two steps up the terrace before he stopped me.
“Verity.”
The sound of my name on his lips, an exact echo of how Eulalie had spoken it, made me wince.
How had I remembered Eulalie’s voice?
I turned.
“If you do remember anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
A flurry of trembles fluttered through me and despite the heat of the day, I suddenly felt painfully cold. “Of course,” I lied.
Gerard smiled and turned back toward the greenhouse.
My rooms were blessedly free of servants when I returned, feeling as though I were shaking apart from the inside.
“Water,” I muttered, coaching myself through the rising panic welling within me. My throat felt dry all the way down to my stomach. With trembling hands, I poured a tall glass from my bedside pitcher and chugged it back fast, not stopping until it was empty. “More.”
I imagined the water running down my throat and pushing the last of the laurel nightmare from me, cleaning away any remaining traces of that wicked woman.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
I stared at the empty pitcher and was about to pull the plush chain dangling at the side of the bed when something Hanna once told me stirred in my mind.
Whenever something’s troubling you, you always turn to the water.
I nodded at the sage wisdom of her phantom voice.
I just needed more water.
* * *
Ropes of gilt flowers wound themselves round the rose-gold faucet. The water rushed into the sunken tub. Rows of glass bottles lined the bathroom’s vanity, filled with salts, flakes, oils, and dried flowers. I opened them without thought, pouring messy and extravagant amounts into the tub. They bloomed across the water in a beguiling purple hue, shimmering with iridescent luster, and perfuming the air.
I didn’t care about any of it, the colors, the redolent scents. I just wanted to get into the water.
I struggled out of my blouse and skirt. They clung to me in the steamy air and I nearly tore my chemise to be free of it. I felt slowly strangled, the snug embrace of my corset reminding me too uncomfortably of the vines creeping over my skin. My fingers shook as I undid the final set of hooks and eyes and tossed the garment to the floor.
I all but fell into the dazzling water.
The tub was exceptionally deep and long and I dove beneath the surface, completely submerging myself for as long as my lungs could stand.
When I finally bobbed back up, the water rose past my chest, coming up to my chin. I turned one of the handles with a flick of my toes and the faucet’s steady stream slowed to a trickle before petering out. I inhaled deeply, basking in my wet surroundings and finally feeling as though I could draw in a proper breath.
The water was warm and comforting, surrounding me in an embrace that felt of home. I stretched out, lying on my back, and stared up at the painted ceiling. Leaves, blossoms, and birds edged its surface, thick at the sides, then tapering off as they approached the small, vined chandelier in the center of the room.
My body swayed back and forth, tossed on the momentum of the little ripples pacing about. I’d obviously cleaned myself since coming to Chauntilalie but this was the first time I’d truly stopped to appreciate the wonders of the room, of the tub.