Free Haunted by Lynn Carthage

mattress maker of Versailles. Hundreds of swans’ feathers had been selected for this particular bed, deveined and washed with rose water until soft and fragrant as a cloud, then sewn into the golden ticking that some rat-brained maid had dared to spoil.
    But if she had been stabbing me and not simply the mattress, why were there not bloodstains? Had the Louis Des Anges feathers spread their wispy fringes to gather the blood, as swans may stretch their wings for rain, and somehow returned it to me?
    Why had her treacherous murder attempt failed? My strength, her weakness?
    It hardly mattered since I could no longer recollect her name or face. I did know that I had to do her work . . . a noblewoman without any servants.
    So, now, I dress my own hair, pushing away spiders that nest there overnight and picking out their egg clusters. I myself choose my gowns from the smear of dry rot in the closets and cupboards. Some days I fetch my own tea, bringing it to myself on a lacquered tray foxed with age; other days I don’t bother.
    I miss being waited on. I miss many things. Fine things. In France, we drank champagne like it was water.
    The monk who perfected its aging said it tasted like stars. So we drank stars, the aristocracy: a bit of the sky was our due. I shan’t forget the sight of hundreds of glasses carefully filled by servants with the lightest of amber—so light it was almost clear—frothing from within like an excitable child.
    I have always loved a beautiful vessel filled with a delicious drink. And sometimes what I choose to drink—dear Phoebe, you shall learn!—makes that champagne of centuries ago taste of nothing. Rather than stars, I swallow moons and galaxies and the vastness of space.
    Back then, children meant nothing to me. I was so young myself. Then I left the elated pleasure of France to travel across the water to dark England with the grudging shuffle of my extended family . . . excepting of course my despised sister. If France is champagne, this country is common ale. I’ll never forget the brutish wind on that crossing and the heavy roll of the boat on the waves.
    We found land that called to me, that I knew from stories told to me, in a forest deep enough to provide a warren for me to wander in my belled skirts. But I discovered I took no pleasure in it unless accompanied by a gaggle of other laughing women. Believe me, my brother and his wife, and the odd aunts and uncles and their offspring that constituted our family, were not as high-spirited as me.
    All of us were sobered, dampened, by this brooding country. The picnics and frolics of Versailles were a long way from these dim woods. Once the manor was built, I had a man paint my friends onto the wall in a long mural: Marie, Sabine, Pierre, Auguste, Gustav, Claire, and dozens of others I was lonesome for, lolling on a green lawn resplendent with flowers.
    I eventually retreated to the house since walking the grounds only reminded me of what I had lost. But I found a sort of happiness. We began hosting balls in our glorious ballroom. Once again, champagne poured from the necks of elegant green bottles. I gazed at the gowns of women who had money enough to care about the fastening of the bodice, or whether a length of ribbon had been woven by cheap shopgirls or by devout Irish nuns handpicked for that purpose by God.
    I simply stopped leaving. Outside, the cold sun knew my abnormal heart and cast cruel light into my clouded eyes, making me blink like a subterranean beast brought to the surface. The fine soles of my silk slippers fell prey to the ravages of pebbles digging into my arches, trying to insinuate a tear.
    The manor was large enough to stretch my legs. Plus—it loved me. I felt this. It approved of my furnishings, my draperies. It adored me playing a trick on a woman who should have recognized it, for it was her own trick! And under my firm tutelage, the estate tempered the forces that had otherwise