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“I suppose it belongs to Merricat,” Constance said. “It does not belong to Merricat, or anything like it. This is money.”
“It’s not her money,” he was shouting, “she has no right to hide it.”
I was thinking of Charles. I could turn him into a fly and drop him into a spider’s web and watch him tangled and helpless and struggling, shut into the body of a dying buzzing fly; I could wish him dead until he died. I could fasten him to a tree and keep him there until he grew into the trunk and bark grew over his mouth. I could bury him in the hole where my box of silver dollars had been so safe until he came; if he was under the ground I could walk over him stamping my feet.
“It’s all my fault, anyway.” That was her new way of thinking.
“First you will have to explain to Cousin Charles,” Constance said, and I was chilled.
Constance stood behind him, leaning against the sink.
but of course she never did because that was the last day.
“It’s my fault, all of it,” Constance said. I thought she was going to cry. It was unthinkable for Constance to cry again after all these years, but I was held tight, I was chilled, and I could not move to go over to her. “You are evil,” I said to Charles. “You are a ghost and a demon.”
“Don’t pay any attention,” Constance told him. “Don’t listen to Merricat’s nonsense.”
“My niece Mary Katherine has been a long time dead, young man. She did not survive the loss of her family; I supposed you knew that.” “What?” Charles turned furiously to Constance. “My niece Mary Katherine died in an orphanage, of
neglect, during her sister’s trial for murder. But she is of very little consequence to my book, and so we will have done with her.” “She is sitting right here.” Charles waved his hands, and his face was red.
I was laughing at Charles and even Constance was smiling.
“Impossible,” Uncle Julian said. “We have not the room. Constance?”
Charles looked at her and at me and at Uncle Julian. He was clearly baffled, unable to grasp his fingers tightly around anything he saw or heard; it was a joyful sight, to see the first twistings and turnings of the demon caught, and I was very proud of Uncle Julian.
“Merricat? Why should anything be done? I said I would clean your room.” “Aren’t you even going to punish her?” “Punish me?” I was standing then, shivering against the door frame. “Punish me? You mean send me to bed without my dinner?” And I ran.
but something had gotten into the wood and stone and paint when the summerhouse was built and made it bad.
I sat between Constance and Uncle Julian, in my rightful, my own and proper, place at the table. Slowly I began to listen to them talking.
“Mary Katherine should have anything she wants, my dear. Our most loved daughter must have anything she likes.”
“Mary Katherine, we love you.” “You must never be punished.
“I quite agree, my dear. Mary Katherine must never be punished. Must never be sent to bed without her dinner. Mary Katherine will never allow herself to do anything inviting punishment.” “Our beloved, our dearest Mary Katherine must be guarded and cherished. Thomas, give your sister your dinner; she would like more to eat.” “Dorothy—Julian. Rise when our beloved daughter rises.” “Bow all your heads to our adored Mary Katherine.”
“Wash your face, Merricat,” Constance said gently. “And comb your hair; we do not want you untidy at table, and your Cousin Charles is already angry with you.”
although the pipe on it was burning. I had known all day that I would find something here; I brushed the saucer and the pipe off the table into the wastebasket and they fell softly onto the newspapers he had brought into the house.
I laughed because it was clear that Charles was afraid to go upstairs and follow the smoke; then Constance said, “Charles—your pipe—” and he turned and ran up the stairs. “I’ve asked him and asked him,” Constance said. “Would it start a fire?” I asked her, and then Charles screamed from upstairs, screamed, I thought, with the exact sound of a bluejay in the woods. “That’s Charles,” I said politely to Constance,
“We neatened it just the other day,” she said. “It has no right to burn.” She began to shiver as though she were angry,
together we watched the great feet of the men stepping across our doorsill, dragging their hoses, bringing filth and confusion and danger into our house.
the front of the house was white and pale and uncomfortable at being so clearly visible;
“Constance, don’t watch them.” “Can they see me?” she whispered back. “Is anyone looking?” “They’re all watching the fire. Be very quiet.”
the fire which was running through the bones of our house. It was Charles’ fire.
singing hot noise upstairs,
“Why not let it burn?” a woman’s voice came loudly, laughing,
“Why not let it burn?” the woman called insistently,
“Let it burn,” the woman called.
“Let it burn,” the woman called.
Then he bent down, searching thoughtfully, and finally, while everyone watched, he took up a rock. In complete silence he turned slowly and then raised his arm and smashed the rock through one of the great tall windows of our mother’s drawing room. A wall of laughter rose and grew behind him and then, first the boys on the steps and then the other men and at last the women and the smaller children, they moved like a wave at our house.
Above it all, most horrible, was the laughter. I saw one of the Dresden figurines thrown and break against the porch rail, and the other fell unbroken and rolled along the grass. I heard Constance’s harp go over with a musical cry, and a sound which I knew was a chair being smashed against the wall. “Listen,” said Charles from somewhere, “will a couple of you guys help me with this safe?” Then, through the laughter, someone began, “Merricat, said Constance, would you like a cup of tea?” It was rhythmic and insistent. I am on the moon, I thought, please let me be on the moon. Then I heard the
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“Put them back in the house and start the fire all over again.” “We fixed things up nice for you girls, just like you always wanted it.” “Merricat, said Constance, would you like a cup of tea?”
Over it all was the laughter, almost drowning the singing and the shouting and the howling of the Harris boys.
Julian Blackwood is dead.” Then they were quiet at last. After a minute Charles Blackwood said from the crowd around us, “Did she kill him?”
“Did she kill him?” Charles Blackwood asked again.
“I am going to put death in all their food and watch them die.” Constance stirred, and the leaves rustled. “The way you did before?” she asked. It had never been spoken of between us, not once in six years. “Yes,” I said after a minute, “the way I did before.”
Uncle Julian had believed that I was dead, and now he was dead himself; bow your heads to our beloved Mary Katherine, I thought, or you will be dead.
Perhaps the fire had destroyed everything and we would go back tomorrow and find that the past six years had been burned and they were waiting for us, sitting around the dining-room table waiting for Constance to bring them their dinner.
“We are on the moon at last,” I told her, and she smiled. “I thought I dreamed it all,” she said. “It really happened,” I said. “Poor Uncle Julian.” “They came in the night and took him away, and we stayed here on the moon.”
“I had no dinner last night,” I told her. “Oh, Merricat.” She sat up and untangled herself quickly from Uncle Julian’s shawl and the leaves; “Oh, Merricat, poor baby,” she said. “We’ll hurry,” and she scrambled to her feet. “First you had better wash your face.”
We moved together very slowly toward the house, trying to understand its ugliness and ruin and shame.
but she had opened it a thousand times before and it ought surely to recognize the touch of her hand, so she took the latch and lifted it. The house seemed to shiver when she opened the door, although one more draft could hardly chill it now.
It seemed that all the wealth and hidden treasure of our house had been found out and torn and soiled;
I wondered which of them had pushed over Constance’s harp and I remembered that I had heard it cry out as it fell.
Our father’s safe lay just inside the drawing-room door, and I laughed and even Constance smiled, because it had not been opened and it had clearly not been possible to carry it any farther than this. “Foolishness,” Constance said, and touched the safe with her toe.
I stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up, wondering where our house had gone, the walls and the floors and the beds and the boxes of things in the attic; our father’s watch was burned away, and our mother’s tortoise-shell dressing set. I could feel a breath of air on my cheek; it came from the sky I could see, but it smelled of smoke and ruin. Our house was a castle, turreted and open to the sky.
