Free Night of the Candles by Jennifer Blake Page A

gown? You should have called me.” The nurse smiled, surprise in her eyes as she moved into the room, then her face changed and she stared fixedly at Amanda as she came closer to the bed.
    “You … you didn’t … you weren’t in this room last night?” Amanda asked, her eyes wide.
    “No, fraeulein, not after I left you when you dozed off.”
    “You didn’t attend me, not at all?”
    Marta shook her head slowly.
    “Who did?” There was an undertone of anger combined with a touch of something like fear in her voice.
    “I don’t know, fraeulein, I heard nothing after I retired to my own small room at the back of the house.”
    “Marta, please. I … I woke up this morning wearing this gown I have never seen before, my hair was down, and I can’t remember how it came about! I can’t remember!”
    “The gown, fraeulein, it belonged to Madame Amelia. It was one of her favorites. Herr Jason chose it for her on his last trip to New Orleans.”
    Looking down, Amanda plucked at the green satin ribbon, “Marta … if you didn’t help me … Why can’t I remember? Is there something you aren’t telling me? Have I been in a delirium and you are afraid to let me know of it?”
    “Oh, no, fraeulein, nothing like that.”
    “Perhaps Sophia … but no, I would still remember it even if it was necessary for Sophia to help me to change.”
    “I am sure you could not have awakened her without waking me,” Marta said.
    “Then … I must have done it myself … and yet, I wouldn’t dream of going through Amelia’s things. I would certainly never think of wearing them.”
    “Look, what is this?”
    The nurse moved to the foot of the bed where she removed a handkerchief that had been tied about the post. “Why, it is one of Madame Amelia’s handkerchiefs. See, it has her initials embroidered in the corner, surrounded by a laurel wreath.”
    As Marta turned it first one way, then the other, in her large hands Amanda stared at it. It reminded her of something. Oh, yes. It was only a ridiculous childhood memory.
    It had been a game she and Amelia had played the rainy summer during the first year of the war. They had pretended they were spies for the confederacy. The top floor of their grandparents’ house had been enemy territory. Amelia most often took the active part, spying out the lay of the land while Amanda lay on watch across the river, the lower hall. They had nearly driven their grandparents mad with their skulking and peering around doors. When Amelia had discovered something she had thought worth reporting, she would creep out and tie her handkerchief to the banister as a signal. Have information. Am returning. Then she would sneak down the back servants’ stairs while Amanda tried to meet her outside on the gallery. If at any time either of them were seen, they were “caught” and were assumed to have paid the extreme penalty for spying, death.
    It had been a harmless game. Amanda smiled a little, remembering their excitement and pleasurable sense of mock fear. It was ridiculous to connect such a childish message to the handkerchief tied about the post of her bed. What was she thinking of? She must have been more affected by the blow on the head than she realized.
    Amanda was a practical young woman with very little superstition in her make-up, and yet, as she watched Marta put the handkerchief away in the armoire, she shivered.
    “Perhaps … perhaps I put the handkerchief there at the same time that I took her gown. I … I must have. There is no other explanation.”
    “Fraeulein…”
    “Yes … what is it?”
    “Have you ever sleepwalked?”
    “Never.”
    “Well, try not to worry, fraeulein. Injuries to the head are strange sometimes. It is not uncommon to find forgetfulness associated with them.”
    Amanda did not reply, but the distress died out of her face, leaving her calmer.
    It returned, for a moment, when later that morning as she ate her breakfast she touched her lips with her napkin and