Free Descent Into Dust by Jacqueline Lepore

were excitedly planning the new baby’s layette and I am sure did not miss me. I found him standing in the middle of the second-floor hallway, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at the archway over the music room. Upon his spying my approach, his smile of greeting seemed rueful. Waving his pencil, he pointed to an inscription. “I’m writing them all down. Fascinating, do you not agree?” Squinting at the words, he intoned out loud, “Exitus acta probat.” He paused to scribble in his notebook. “I shall translate it later.”
    “The result validates the deed.”
    He gazed at me, surprised. “You know Latin?”
    “I do,” I replied coolly. But my ennui was a farce; I was unforgivably flattered that I’d impressed him.
    “Hmm.” He regarded me with those glittering onyx eyes, then strode away, caught up in his thoughts.
    I followed. “Why are you interested in these inscriptions?”
    He placed the notebook under his arm and the pencil in the pocket of his pants. “I believe, Mrs. Andrews, these are clues.”
    “Clues? To what?” I was being disingenuous and he knew it. His eyelids lowered to half-mast. He smiled patiently at me, as if in silent remonstrance that I should know better. He moved along and I fell in step with him.
    “Mr. Fox, I read the Coleridge poem last night. Twice, in fact. Please explain why you suggested such a thoroughly inappropriate selection.”
    He frowned. “But what did you think the poem was about?”
    “Christabel meets a stranger and invites her into her home, although the nature of Geraldine’s wickedness was not clear. There seem to be more hints of disaster than any real description.”
    “Did you realize, Mrs. Andrews, that Geraldine is a revenant?”
    “A ghost!” I exclaimed. I meant to be mocking, but the sound of my voice was too high-pitched.
    “More precisely, a being that is, for lack of a better explanation, undead.”
    I could barely breathe. “And again I ask you, sir, what relevance do you feel this has on any situation at present?” I feared I knew the answer.
    “That, Mrs. Andrews,” he said with crisp accents, “is exactly what I intend to find out.”
    I stepped in his path. “Please do me the favor of explaining yourself.”
    He hesitated before responding. “Mrs. Andrews,” he began,his tone conciliatory, “might I inquire after the child. Little Henrietta.”
    Fear stopped me dead in the space of a heartbeat, cooled my heat. “Why do you wish to know about Henrietta?”
    “You are close to her. Surely, you would notice any changes in her behavior of late. Unexplained fatigue, a pallor that seems untoward.”
    Suspicion crowded my thoughts. “Are you referring to the affliction in the village?” I asked.
    He inclined his head.
    The cold fear that had doused my annoyance now chilled me. “Mr. Fox, again I implore you to tell me what it is you know. Or, at least, suspect.”
    His eyes flashed, a brief glimpse of anger, and then I saw his emotion shift into something bleak and…And if I did not know better, I might have thought I saw real regret there. His response was simple. “No, Mrs. Andrews. For your own good, no.”
    My vision blurred and I fought for my self-control. “Mr. Fox, we both of us know something very wrong is in Wiltshire. If Henrietta is at any risk, you must tell me what it is. You must trust me with your thoughts.”
    He drew in a slow, thoughtful breath. “And do you trust me?” he queried gently.
    The soft-spoken question was like a slap. Would I trust him—indeed not! What would I sound like, speaking of talking shadows and clouds and tapping at the window? Yet I wanted to tell him. Holding all of this inside me was becoming unbearable.
    “So we are at an impasse,” he murmured somberly.
    I pushed past him, rubbing the palm of my right hand againstmy skirts to minister to the itch there, so great was my desire to strike him. If I had thought violence would have served any purpose, I would have.