Chapter 1
Richard Gravely was dead. His wife, Susanna, had been by his side through every agonizing moment, holding his hand as he took his final, strained breath. She had whispered a prayer, pleading for God’s mercy to end his suffering. Over the last several months, she had watched him waste away, his once-strong frame reduced to frailty, his rattling cough echoing through the house. She had washed countless blood-soaked handkerchiefs and spent sleepless nights by his side, offering what comfort she could to the man she once loved and felt protected by.
When his chest at last stilled, Susanna broke down, her sobs tearing through her like storm waves crashing against a fragile shoreline, each breath a jagged gasp through the hollow ache in her chest. A bittersweet relief accompanied her anguish, and though guilt crept into her thoughts, she rationalized it as relief for his release from suffering, not her own freedom from the burden. The room still carried the acrid tang of old blood, mingling with the faint, sweet decay of sickness that had seeped into the curtains and wooden floorboards.
The doctor pronounced him dead shortly after his breathing ceased. Placing a hand on Susanna’s shoulder, he offered his condolences. "Thank you," she muttered, wiping her tears. Then, flatly, "When can you remove the body?"
A few moments later, two disheveled young men entered the bedroom. They hoisted Richard’s corpse on a makeshift stretcher with a soft grunt, their boots scuffing against the worn floorboards, and carried him out to a waiting cart. "They’ll take him to the undertaker," the doctor whispered. "When he’s ready, he’ll send for you." Susanna nodded and waited politely for the doctor to leave.
From the parlor window, she watched as the cart trundled laboriously over the cobblestone street, its wooden wheels creaking against the uneven stones. The streetlamps cast faint halos of amber light that dissolved into the dense, rolling fog, shrouding the cart in an ethereal glow, as if the night itself conspired to swallow it whole. The lone horse moved at a somber pace, its hoof steps echoing in the chilled silence, the rhythm a solemn dirge. Beyond that, the only sound was Susanna’s own shallow breaths.
In moments, the cart vanished into the swirling mist, leaving the street as empty as her home, as her heart. Relief or despair—she could no longer discern one from the other—settled over her like a suffocating blanket. Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the sofa, its fabric worn and familiar beneath her trembling hands. Closing her eyes, she exhaled a long, quivering breath. For the first time in months, the ache of exhaustion lulled her into sleep, even as the room around her seemed to hold its breath.
A young woman walked along the well-traveled gray cobblestone street where Susanna lived. In her gloved hands, she carried an inconspicuous brown travel bag and a handwritten note with an address written in long, flowing script. She read each number on painted signs in front of each home before arriving at her intended destination.
She stood outside the iron fence and looked upon the house. A sense of apprehension and foreboding washed over her as she gazed into the windows looking for any sign of life and, even she would not admit this to herself, any sign to turn around and walk away. Her hands trembled slightly as she stood rigidly at the fence. The pathway to the front door was gray stone and lined with white flowers darting out from the lush grass. The front door was black with a tarnished brass handle dulled by age. Red and brown brick covered the outside, forming a boxy shape that only curved to allow for the parlor windows to see out at almost any angle. Cracks in the mortar hinted at years of weathering, giving the house a sense of weariness that mirrored its owner.
As she took in the house's sight, she read the address on her note once more. This was it. She took a deep breath and opened the gate; the hinges squealing in protest, and walked up to the door.
A knock at the door woke Susanna. Despite her unconventional sleeping arrangements, she felt surprisingly alert. Through the smoked parlor glass, she recognized the figure at the door and rushed to open it.
"Rose," Susanna said, flinging her arms around her sister. Tears sprang to her eyes. "I…" Her words faltered as sobs took over. Rose returned the embrace, holding her sister tightly, her grip firm but trembling, as if holding her sister together would somehow keep the grief from spilling over.
"Shh," Rose whispered. "You don’t need to say anything." They held each other for a long moment before Susanna pulled away. "Come in, please. You must be exhausted."
"Me? You look like you haven’t slept in months," Rose replied, sympathetically.
Susanna smiled wearily. "It feels like I haven’t." Her dark-circled eyes and pale complexion contrasted with Rose’s rested and radiant appearance. Where Susanna’s fair hair clung limply to her freckled face, Rose’s jet-black waves framed her sharp cheekbones, her beauty too poised, too polished, as if untouched by the grief consuming her sister.
They moved to the parlor. Rose clutched a single piece of luggage tightly. "Here, let me take that for you," Susanna offered.
Rose’s eyes flashed. "No!" she said sharply, then softened. "It’s fine. I can manage it."
Taken aback by the outburst, Susanna nodded and sat down. "I’m sorry for being late," Rose said. "I only received your letter a few weeks ago and came as soon as I could."
Susanna lowered her eyes. "It means a lot to me you’re here. Richard passed… just a few hours ago."
Rose’s jaw tightened as her gaze flicked away. "I’m so sorry."
Susanna’s fingers tightened around the chipped edge of her teacup, its cool ceramic grounding her against the emotions roiling within. "It’s all right," she said, attempting to steady her trembling voice. "I’m just glad you’re here now." She reached out and squeezed Rose’s hand.
Susanna wanted to crumple on the floor and cry, she wanted to scream and pound her fists against the wall. Instead, she stifled a choked sob forming in her throat and changed the subject abruptly to avoid her impending emotional outburst, "How was the continent?", Susanna asked.
Rose’s eyes widened at the abrupt change of topic but obliged. "It was… wonderful. Paris was beautiful. Rome was delightful. And Berlin…"
"Goodness," Susanna interrupted. "I didn't know you went all over Europe."
Rose smiled faintly. "Work took me to all kinds of places."
"A governess travels so much?" Susanna asked, her tone sharpened with disbelief, as she recalled the governesses she knew who rarely left their hometowns. Her eyes darted over Rose’s face. A shadow crossed Rose’s expression as she averted her gaze.
"The family I worked for traveled frequently," Rose said, her voice tightening. "It couldn’t be helped."
Susanna pursed her lips. "You were so hard to track down. I wrote to you so many times and heard nothing. When I told you about Richard, it was like shouting into the void. I must have sent a dozen letters." Her voice cracked. "You were always the one I could depend on. And you weren’t here."
Rose looked down, her jaw tightening. "I…"
Susanna waved a hand, cutting her off. It was a simple gesture but one that she did more for her own benefit than Rose's. This feeling of erupting, it was directed at Rose in this moment but not at all what she was most upset about and she realized that. "Oh, never mind. Maybe I’m being unfair. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters."
Rose’s lips curved into a soft, sad smile. "I’m here now."
Susanna closed her eyes and leaned back. "Good. I need rest."
Rose helped Susanna upstairs and into bed, waiting until her breathing slowed into rhythmic patterns. Only then did Rose allow herself to slip back downstairs, moving silently with a purpose. She opened her luggage and pulled out a stack of envelopes, all addressed to her in Susanna’s handwriting. Tracing the faded paper with her fingertips and her expression unreadable, she walked to the fireplace. With a determined nod, she placed the stack on the dying embers. The paper caught fire; the flames flickered like serpents as they devoured the letters until they were nothing but black ash. The scent of scorched paper mingled with the lingering tang of smoke.
Reaching into her bag again, she removed a final envelope and glanced around to ensure she was alone. She placed it in the fire, and as the flames consumed it, the initials “DMI” glowed briefly before vanishing in a plume of smoke. Rose stared into the fire, her face a mask of quiet resolve.
Finally, she opened the bag one last time, her fingers brushing the cold steel of a small revolver, a reminder of the gravity of her situation. Her breathing slowed as she listened to the creak of settling wooden floors. As her ears tuned in to even the smallest of sounds, adjusting ever so slightly to the nuances of the new environment. A gust of wind caused the windows to rattle and bulge. Passing as quickly as it arrived, the house grew silent once more, and she closed the bag, her gaze lingering on the stairs.
Rose stared outside the parlor window from the safety of her perch on the sofa. Each shadow that moved across the street seemed to carry a secret, and her eyes darted back and forth, scanning every face for a hint of recognition. It wasn’t a busy street, nor was it a busy day; even so, she searched. A part of her craved the validation of seeing a familiar face—a sign that her anxious unease was justified. Yet, each time a stranger passed, a small part of her exhaled in relief.
Her delicate fingers brushed against the bitter cold metal of her revolver. Its weight offered no comfort, only a grim reminder of why she had brought it. Knowing what might make it necessary crushed any solace it could have given her. The revolver was both a lifeline and a threat, and the thought of using it churned uneasily in her stomach.
As the sun dipped down towards the horizon, the lamplighters began their nightly task, their silhouettes stretching long across the cobblestone street. Rose stood abruptly, clutching her bag as she searched the house for a suitable room. There was a singular bedroom on the ground floor. Its single window overlooked the back garden and its door opening into the hallway that led to the kitchen and front entrance. She opened and closed the door a few times, noting that it only squeaked when pushed past the frame. The window stuck stubbornly, frustrating her attempts to open and close it, and she made mental notes of the four spots on the floor that creaked underfoot: one just inside the door, one by the bed, and two near the window.
She crouched and ran her fingers along the boards, their grain uneven beneath her touch. The subtle incline where the wood had buckled seemed insignificant, but she made a mental note on it, regardless. The room’s walls are a pale yellow paint, bordered with floral wallpaper near the ceiling. A single light wood dresser stood against the back wall, and a sturdy brass bed sat next to it. Rose sat on the mattress, dragging her bag up beside her. From this vantage point, she could see the doorway clearly. She lay back briefly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opened them again, her gaze fell instinctively toward the door.
Upstairs, Susanna stirred from her sleep. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains before night fell completely, shrouding the room in darkness. She stretched languidly and reached across the bed. Her hand met the soul wrenching empty spot where Richard had once lain, and the realization struck her. He was gone. A gasp escaped her lips as she clasped a trembling hand over her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. The brief respite of sleep had shielded her from this harsh reality and in her waking moments, a few seconds of forgetfulness brought about months of pent up grief and sorrow.
Her sobs wracked her body, raw and unrestrained, as she clutched the sheet in her fists. She had been a dutiful wife to the end, yet a dark part of her had wished for his death. She had told herself it was to end his suffering, but now, faced with the stark loneliness of his absence, she hated herself for the thought. Even if only for one more day, she longed to feel his presence beside her. At least for one more moment. One more second of being in his presence would be enough.
Susanna reached for her rosary on the nightstand. She clutched the beads in her hand until her knuckles turned white. As if the harder she clutched her proverbial lifeline it would absolve her of her guilt. She whispered a prayer for her husband’s soul, "Forgive me," she murmured. She released the beads, and they fell and swung back and forth by her side in silence. The two words were all she could muster. A deep, dark pit twisted and churned deep inside her core that refused to release and grew as she muttered her prayer. As if her soul was trying to claw its way out of her wretched body. She did not deserve absolution.
Downstairs, Rose sat on the bed, her revolver still within reach. She listened to the creak of the settling house, her mind racing with plans she dared not second guess. The weight of the revolver was nothing compared to the burden of her secrets. Above her, Susanna prayed for forgiveness. Both women sought solace in the dark, though for entirely different reasons.
Susanna sat with her feet off the bed, her bare toes brushing the cold floor. Her breath shuddered at the sensation, and her toes instinctively curled around the wood. Shaking her head as if to banish the storm of thoughts clouding her mind, she stood and hugged her arms around her body, seeking some semblance of warmth. She walked toward the door, her steps hesitant but deliberate.
Downstairs, Rose’s ears caught the faint creak of movement from above. Her eyes darted toward the ceiling as she stilled, her fingers brushing the edge of the bed. She took a deep breath, whispering to herself, “It’s only Susanna.” The familiar rhythm of steps descending the stairs soon followed, confirming her thoughts. She rose from the bed and stepped into the hallway to greet her sister.
Susanna appeared at the base of the staircase, her expression weary and her shoulders drooping under the weight of grief. “I’m sorry for sleeping so late,” she said, her voice frayed with emotion.
Rose shook her head firmly. “I will not hear you apologize for such a thing. You clearly needed the rest.”
A small, sad smile crossed Susanna’s lips. “Yes… I suppose you’re right.” Her gaze drifted to the unlit lamps in the hallway and parlor. “I hope you weren’t sitting in the dark?”
Rose offered a reassuring shake of her head. “No, not at all. I was getting settled in the downstairs room.”
Susanna nodded, a hint of curiosity in her tired eyes. “I don’t think we ever used that room. The upstairs is much more comfortable if you prefer…”
Rose cut her off gently but decisively. “I’m all settled in this one if that’s alright with you.”
Susanna hesitated, her lips parting as if to press further, but she stopped. Instead, she gave a faint nod. “Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
The two women stood in silence for a moment, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, Susanna gestured toward the kitchen. “Let’s have some tea. It might do us both some good.”
Rose’s lips curved into a soft smile. “I’d like that.” Together, they moved toward the kitchen. Rose took a seat at the wooden table, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on its worn surface. Susanna busied herself heating a kettle, her movements slow and mechanical, like a ghost fulfilling a task she no longer understood.
As the kettle whistled, Susanna poured the water into two cups, the steam curling into the air. She placed a steaming cup of amber liquid in front of Rose before taking the seat beside her. She cradled her own cup in both hands, allowing the warmth to seep into her fingers. Taking a sip, she placed the cup gently on the table. Her gaze drifted to the white crocheted tablecloth.
Rose cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “It should go without saying,” she began, her voice low with a slight quiver, “I’m here for whatever you need. And I intend to stay as long as you need me to.”
Susanna’s lips parted as if to respond. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain cup. “I… I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “Other than burying my husband, I do not know what’s next. I’m completely lost.”
Rose reached across the table, her hand warm against her sister’s icy fingers. She squeezed gently, her mind racing with all the things she wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. Instead, she remained silent, offering the only comfort she could.
Susanna’s grip tightened in return. “Having you here…” She hesitated, her voice faltering. “It helps,” she finally whispered. The words were soft, almost fragile.
Rose offered a faint smile. “That’s all I need to hear.”
Susanna’s gaze lingered on the table, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. “I suppose tomorrow I should get an idea of my financial situation,” she said, her tone clinical, as if reciting a task list. “The doctors were expensive. Richard… as you know… had some money, but I need to see what’s left. It would be foolish not to plan for the future.”
Rose nodded, biting her lower lip. “I have money as well. If it ever comes to that, I’ll help however I can.”
Susanna glanced at her sister, her expression softening. “That’s very kind of you, Rose. I doubt it will come to that, but I appreciate your willingness.”
“All you need to do is ask,” Rose said resolutely.
Silence fell over the room again, thick and heavy. Each sister retreated into her own thoughts, the unspoken burdens they carried spinning out of control. Susanna’s mind raced through possibilities, none of them hopeful. Every scenario she envisioned ended in hardship and struggle, and she saw no path that led to prosperity. The best she could hope for was survival in its most basic form.
Across the table, Rose’s focus was narrower. She thought only of the next twenty-four hours, her immediate goal to get through the night and keep Susanna afloat.
The quiet in the kitchen was a stark contrast between the stillness of the room and the chaos of their thoughts. Neither sister spoke, unwilling to add to the other’s burden.
