I stare at Gran Jessamine’s white face. The rise and fall of her chest has come to a halt. The straight line of her lips has curved into a subtle smile. Her eyes, still open, seem different somehow—the icy blue of her irises replaced by the black of her pupils.
Dead, at last.
An involuntary chuckle escapes my mouth while a small shiver runs down my spine. By the gods, it’s cold in here. As if the icy winds don’t care about the double-glazed windows and heavy velvet curtains that are supposed to keep them out.
I rub my arms, but after these long hours waking by Gran’s side, the chill has settled deep within my bones. A hot drink, or even better, a bath… that’s what I need right now, but that’s wishful thinking. Mrs Whitmoore surely won’t be up yet.
Still unable to grasp the truth, I venture another glance at my grandmother’s still body. The way she lies there, sunken into the soft mattress, her silvery hair framing her now delicate features, makes her appear almost fragile.
Shaking my head, I avert my gaze. This is not the grandmother I knew. Nothing to be afraid of now. She can no longer tell me what to do. Never again will her reproachful glare pierce me, nor can her sharp tongue hurt me.
“I’m free.” I say the words out loud and repeat them twice, but still they feel meaningless.
A small, insistent voice whispers in my mind, “don’t be silly. You’ll never be free. She’ll always be with you, right within your soul.”
“No.” I shake my head, trying to chase the thought away, but still it niggles in a dark corner of my consciousness. “No,” I repeat, louder this time.
I rise from my chair and start pacing the dim room. My footsteps on the wooden floorboards reverberate unnaturally loud in the quietude of this frozen morning. The words still echo in my mind. Never free. Never free.
This isn’t fair. With every step I take, I fling my denial in the air with a stubbornness that astounds me. Louder, ever louder—until, at last, I shout my defiance into the cold emptiness that surrounds me.
“Lady Pamina?”
I jump at the sound of Mrs Whitmoore’s voice. Heat rushes to my face. What must she think of me?
“I knocked, milady, but…” she spreads her hands and shrugs. “Are you well? And how is your grandmother?”
Without waiting for my answer, she hurries across the room and bends over Gran Jessamine.
“O dear,” she mutters. “May N’kell’s holy name be praised now and in the worlds to come.”
She straightens and stands beside the bed for a moment, then bends over again and, with awkward gentleness, presses Gran’s eyes shut. Then she walks up to me briskly and takes both my hands in hers.
“Do you need anything, child?”
Child. I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m an adult. Twenty frosts and—at least for now—the lady of the manor. But it wouldn’t do to speak harshly to her. She means well, after all.
She lets go of my hands and, bustling towards the door, she mumbles—seemingly more to herself than to me—“I’ll draw you a bath, that’s what I’ll do.”
The door falls shut behind her and, overcome by a strange sense of loss and loneliness, I feel tears pricking behind my eyes. My knees wobble and I stumble to the nearest chair. I grab the backrest just before I collapse.
With my head buried in my hands, I take long, gulping breaths of air. My side aches, my stomach churns, and my temples throb.
For how long I sit there, I don’t know, but then she’s back. Mrs Whitmoore.
“Here.” She shoves something into my hand. Tea, I realise. A large cup of steaming chamomile tea. Not my favourite, but it should calm my nerves.
“I put extra honey in it,” she says. “I know you like it better that way. Drink up. Your bath is almost ready.”
She remains standing beside me, and, just like an obedient child, I bring the cup to my lips and take a first sip. Foul brew! Even the extra honey can’t mask that sickly, wilted taste. It’s like drinking a liquid bouquet that has been left out in the sun for too long.
When, finally, I’ve drunk it all, I hand the cup back to her. With my tongue still sticking to my palate, I can’t even thank her, so I just nod to express my appreciation for her care.
She nods back at me, her eyes revealing a sympathy that seems to contradict her stoic expression and rigid posture.
“Come,” she says without preamble, “time for your bath.”
Again, she’s treating me like a child. I suppress a sigh, but, too numb to object, I follow her out of the room and through the draughty corridors until we reach the baths, where the humid heat cuts off my breath.
As she helps me out of my dress and into the tub, she keeps muttering under her breath about this poor child—me, I suppose—but I barely listen. It’s just a conversation she’s having with herself, her way of coping with Gran’s death.
It still stings, but I can’t allow myself to be affected by the woman’s silly babbling. I need to be strong. Show her, and everyone else, that I am a capable woman who can handle herself, the estate, and the servants.
Or… a sudden anxiety makes me question myself and my place in the world. What if Gran bequeathed the estate to someone else? To Aunt Violenta perhaps, or Uncle Thidias? What if she left me with nothing?
Where would I go? I’d have no one!
