The Bone Garden Page 2

  “I have seen no one.” She did not mention the children she sometimes spied through the fence, chasing a dog or throwing a ball back and forth. She might not have known who Miss Vesper was referring to, but it was not those pigtailed girls.

  Miss Vesper took a seat in one of the two overstuffed armchairs flanking the fireplace. She did not curl her legs beneath her and sink into the cushions as Irréelle had always longed to do. Instead, she sat like she would at her desk, with her back straight and her legs crossed.

  Without an invitation to take the other chair, Irréelle stayed where she was.

  “I suppose that is neither here nor there. And now you are here and he is there.”

  Irréelle nodded. A few strands of hair fell forward into her face and she left them there, grateful for something to hide behind.

  “It’s a shame you are so strange, and weak too. I had another task in mind for you.”

  It always came back to this, the task she could not perform. “I am not so weak.” Outwardly she may have looked unfinished, as if there were not enough colors to fill in all her lines, but the inside of her felt bright and sharp. Even if Miss Vesper could not see it.

  Miss Vesper looked her up and down. “But as I said, you are so strange.”

  Irréelle knew that better than anyone. She pressed her knees together, though they did not align, but nothing could prevent her trembling. Miss Vesper’s voice cut deeper.

  “With you, I had quite enough imagination, but not enough bone dust.” Miss Vesper swiped at invisible specks on her dress. Then she closed her eyes and tilted her head. The light fell across her face, emphasizing the lovely angle of her cheekbones. “I imagined a smart girl, small and quick, with black hair, sparkling eyes, delicate features, and strong, strong bones.” Her eyes snapped open and focused on Irréelle. “You are small.”

  The words stung, no matter that they were true. Irréelle’s cheeks burned. Miss Vesper might have slapped her and it would not have hurt so much. “Perhaps I can be mended and made right.”

  “No, no. Certainly not. I could not spare the time nor the bone dust. It is far too precious, and you are too odd to be helped.”

  “Perhaps I am useful still.” Irréelle glanced down at herself. “As I am.”

  “As you are? Absolutely not.” Miss Vesper ran a finger along her eyebrow, though it was already arched and smooth. “Why, if anyone were to catch sight of you, they would not even know what to make of your freakish form. No matter the importance of this task, I could never risk sending you out into the world. What would people think of me if they knew I created a creature such as yourself? You haven’t thought of the trouble you might bring to my door. You are a selfish thing.”

  Irréelle did not like to dwell on the unusual manner in which she was made, but of course Miss Vesper was right. If anyone were to see Irréelle (and they did not immediately faint from fright), they would be suspicious of her nature and wonder from where she came. The last thing Irréelle wanted to do was cause Miss Vesper any harm. “I only wanted to help.”

  “That may be, but what you want is of little concern to me. Off you go, then.”

  Irréelle was breathing very fast, doing her best to keep the tears from spilling past her pale eyelashes. She turned to leave, wanting to run from the room so Miss Vesper would not see her cry, but she walked toward the door as if nothing were wrong. One foot already in the hallway, Irréelle paused when Miss Vesper spoke again.

  “Remember, my dear, you do not really and truly exist. You are a figment of my imagination, tethered here by the finest thread.”

  3

  The Measure of a Girl

  Alone beneath the oak tree, she watched tears splash into her lap. She told herself to stop, but the tears refused to obey and continued to stream down her cheeks and through her fingers held up to her face.

  For all the cruel things Miss Vesper had ever said to her (that she no doubt deserved), this last reminder was the one that hurt most deeply: that Irréelle might not exist outside of Miss Vesper’s own mind and could be thought away, if only she closed her blue eyes and wished it. Much like smashing a bug underfoot, she had explained to her once, stomping her heel to the floor for effect.

  Thinking of it again, Irréelle winced. Her stomach squirmed like a poor smooshed bug wiped from the bottom of Miss Vesper’s shoe. In a different but equally horrible manner, Miss Vesper might wipe Irréelle from her mind and turn her back to dust.

  Irréelle sniffed and dried her eyes. Tears would only anger Miss Vesper, and all Irréelle wanted was to please her.

  She lowered her hands and held them out in front of her. They were perfectly proportionate, one to the other, and because of this Irréelle often thought they looked out of place compared with the rest of her body and all its irregular lines. She turned her hands this way and that. They looked real enough to her. When she wanted them to move, they moved, turning a page in a book when she finished a chapter, handling the bone borrower in its delicate work, pulling blades of grass from the lawn.

  Without quite intending to, Irréelle found herself clenching fistfuls of grass. She opened her hands and blew across her palms. The blades scattered, sprinkling to the ground.

  From the yard behind her house came a sudden peal of laughter. Her gaze darted to the wooden fence separating the houses. She climbed to her feet and walked over to the bushes surrounding a white-bloomed hawthorn. Behind them, she found the section of the fence where one of the wooden planks had split, and through it she could see into the other yard. Pushing to her tiptoes, she shut one eye, and with the other, she peered through the crack and caught the pigtailed girls at play, red-faced with laughter.

  Her bones twinged the way someone else’s heart might ache.

  They were not aware of her in the least.

  They did not even know she existed.

  If they peered over the fence, Irréelle wondered if they would see right through her, or if they would shriek at the oddness of her body and run screaming to their parents. She was not sure which was worse. All the same, she watched them.

  One girl lay flat on her back in the overgrown grass, arms and legs splayed. She seemed to be doing nothing more than staring at the sky. The other girl spun in circles, arms out to her sides, pigtails sticking straight out from her head. Her skirt billowed around her. The faster she turned, the more off balance she became, though she fought to remain upright as long as she could, until she stumbled and her legs collapsed beneath her. She fell, dizzy and laughing, to the ground, landing in a heap beside the girl who must have been her sister (they looked quite alike). They rested so near that their fingers brushed against each other.

  Irréelle pressed her face closer to the fence despite the rough, splintery wood grating against her cheek. She thought that, just maybe, their pinkies linked together, though it was hard to say for sure given the distance.

  “I could do this all day long,” said the first girl.

  “I’m seeing double,” said the second girl. She slapped a hand to her forehead as if to hold her vision still.

  “Do you see two of me, then?” the one said to the other, leaning over her sister and making a rather silly face with her tongue sticking out of her mouth.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” the other said to the one.

  The first girl ignored this comment. “Again!” she said, jumping to her feet. Loose strands of hair escaped from both pigtails.

  Soon they were twirling in circles again, one clockwise, the other counterclockwise. Somehow, they managed not to crash into each other. They seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, yet Irréelle’s stomach flipped just thinking of revolving so quickly, and worse, losing her footing. She did all she could to deflect notice, and the last thing she would want to do was spin and lurch in such a way as to call more attention to her body’s imbalance.

  Except the girls made it look so fun, so carefree, like their appearance did not matter at all. They did not give it a second thought, not the d
isarray of their hair, not the grass stains on their skirts, not the flailing of their limbs. Maybe they would not even think her so odd. Sometimes she tried to imagine what it would be like to say hello to them, but she knew she would never gather the courage.

  If only she had someone to call a friend, just as the sisters had each other. She would not care what they looked like or if they were made of dust and bone. All that would matter was that they were kind.

  Irréelle did not wait to watch the sisters fall. She drew back from the fence and disentangled herself from the lilac bush, pushing the hawthorn’s low-hanging branches out of her way. At her back the girls laughed again, until they were breathless.

  * * *

  Much, much later that night, after she had scrubbed herself clean and eaten dinner alone in her room, and when she was almost certain Miss Vesper would not need her for anything else that evening, Irréelle closed her bedroom door, knelt on the floor in front of her bed, and pulled out an old, worn box. She lifted the lid and drew out a feather.

  It was glossy and black, from either a crow or a raven. Whichever, it must have been a large bird, because the feather was longer than any other she had found before. She ran the silky vane through her fingers. Each of the barbs sprang back into place.

  She carried the feather to the fireplace. Embers glowed orange in the hearth and filled the tiny room with warmth. She poked the quill into the coals until the tip darkened with ash.

  Hidden on the back of the door, little dashes marked the white paint. She stood in front of the markings, her back pressed flat against the wood, her posture as straight as it could be, her longer leg bent just so. Feather in hand, she brought it overhead and ever so carefully touched quill to door, drawing a line of ash to mark her height.

  Stepping back to compare the lines, she realized she had grown by a pinch (give or take a smidgen), which might have been an adequate way to measure salt, nutmeg, or bone dust, but it was not a very accurate way to measure a girl. Without a ruler, she had come to accept that it would have to do.

  She had not grown by much. Yet it was enough to satisfy Irréelle. She liked to think she had this secret. That she could change (even in such a small way as this) without Miss Vesper imagining it done.

  Still using the feather, she measured the length of her bones. It tickled the insides of her wrists and the backs of her knees, but she did not laugh or smile. Concentrating on the task, she measured the bones in her legs and the bones in her arms, but no matter how many times she did so, it only confirmed what she could already see with her own muddled eyes. Her limbs did not align.

  They might grow longer, but they did not grow evenly. For some foolish reason, she always expected different results and therefore was always disappointed. Irréelle would never look right. Not completely. If she did not want Miss Vesper to wish her away, she would need to be very good and please Miss Vesper with every task.

  Maybe, if Irréelle did everything just as she should, Miss Vesper might spare some bone dust after all. She could set Irréelle’s bones right. She could imagine her normal.

  She could imagine her real.

  4

  For Luster and Longevity

  Miss Vesper always slept late. Or rather, Irréelle always woke early, quick to shed the cloak of sleep and the gnawing fear that if she spent too long in the darkness, she might never find her way out of it. It would be so easy to drift away, falling not into dreams but into nonexistence.

  She rose before the first hint of morning light, before the chirping of the sparrows and robins replaced the chirping of the crickets and other night creatures. It was a time when those with any sense stayed comfortable in their beds, or for Irréelle (who was a sensible girl), it was a stolen time all her own.

  At this hour, drifting soundless down the staircase, the house was quiet and still. She trespassed through the silence, wondering if she ought to wait for the dawn to properly announce the start of the day before intruding upon it. Until it was rightly morning, she felt as if she were passing through a place that looked like, sounded like, and smelled like yesterday. The air was stale.

  She slipped into the study. In the hearth, the embers had burned down sometime in the night. She cleaned away the soot and then rebuilt the fire so it would be blazing just in time for Miss Vesper’s morning cup of tea.

  In the firelight she could not help but notice the sad state of the daffodils, sapped of color and drooping in the center of the desk. They were most decidedly dead.

  When she lifted the vase, withered petals fell to the floor in a way that reminded her of autumn leaves tumbling to the ground. She scooped them up and went into the kitchen, thinking of the fact that she had never picked flowers before, which Miss Vesper had referred to so fondly, and decided to replace them.

  The back door creaked as she opened it. Stepping outside, she whispered good morning to the bones, trusting the wind would carry her message. Even here, blocks from the cemetery, she felt the gentle pull of them. It seemed as if they were so much closer, their trembling warmth soothing her loneliness.

  She followed the path that led around the side of the house, passing the hawthorn and lilacs. A small rose garden grew to the left. To the right, flower beds ran along the fence, daffodils and tulips, lilies and chrysanthemums. With blooms tilted upward, they waited for the first rays of sunshine.

  Irréelle bent at the waist and snapped the stem of a tulip between her fingers. Dew clung to the red petals. She chose five more just like it, the brightest she could find, and then three yellow ones as well. In the crook of her arm, she carried them back inside and into the study, filling a vase with fresh water on the way.

  She took extra care arranging the flowers, spending many minutes adjusting them this way and that, the yellows placed between the reds, aware of their best angles. Just as she stepped back to admire her work, Miss Vesper entered the room. Irréelle spun around at the sound of clicking heels.

  “There you are,” Miss Vesper said by way of greeting, as if she had spent all morning trying to find her. In her hand, she held a bone china saucer and cup of tea.

  “Good morning,” Irréelle replied.

  Ever observant, Miss Vesper craned her neck, graceful in even this small movement, and glanced at the new flower arrangement. “Lovely,” she said. “If only I did not detest the scent of tulips.”

  Irréelle edged backward, knocking into the desk. She sniffed the air. “I did not think tulips had any scent at all.”

  “Precisely. You did not think.”

  “I will replace them with roses, if you prefer. Or daffodils again.” She reached for the vase, but Miss Vesper shook her head.

  “That will not be necessary. Leave them.” Although the tulips may have been without fragrance, the tea she sipped smelled of mint. “Sometimes, it is enough that you try so very hard to please me.” She smiled, and a dimple appeared in one of her cheeks.

  Irréelle warmed at the words and felt her face flush. Yet as soon as she received this attention, she felt the need to deflect it. She lifted a small ceramic bowl from the desk and held it up in front of her. “For your tea?”

  Miss Vesper took a pinch of the white powder Irréelle offered, which guests, if she had ever had any, might have mistaken for sugar or maybe salt, but was in fact bone dust. It was a very special blend, not for dark imaginings and creations but for Miss Vesper’s longevity. She sprinkled it into her tea, dipped her pinkie in the liquid, and stirred it once, then twice, until it had dissolved. Then she tasted it.

  Her hair, which had fallen rather limp and dull overnight, brightened and curled, bobbing on her shoulders. And her eyes, glassy from the sleeping serum she drank on restless nights, sharpened.

  “Perhaps a dash more,” she said, and poured the remaining contents of the little dish into her tea. “However, now I’ve used the last of this variety, and you will have to gather more.” She looked at Irréelle over the rim of the cup as she took another sip. Her ashen cheeks pinked with health
.

  Irréelle scolded herself silently. She should have collected it yesterday with all the rest. If only she had deeper pockets to fit all the vials. “I will gather more.” Irréelle turned to go, but Miss Vesper’s voice held her there.

  “And do be mindful of wiping your boots when you return. Just look at the dirt you tracked in from outside.”

  Irréelle looked down at the floor but could see nothing on the hardwood except the small beige-and-blue rug under the desk. But if Miss Vesper saw dirt, then it must be there, for she had a very keen eye.

  Miss Vesper set down her cup and saucer. She lifted her hand, narrowed her eyes, and at her command a fine swirl of dirt and dust rose from the soles of Irréelle’s boots and also the floor, in exactly the places she had stepped. “Hold out your hand.”

  The small cloud of dirt swept up from the floor and sprinkled down into Irréelle’s palm. Although she had witnessed it many times before, Irréelle always marveled over this strange and spectacular feat, and Miss Vesper’s oneness with the earth. No matter how hard she concentrated, Irréelle could not lift a single speck of dust. If only she had an ounce of Miss Vesper’s magic, Irréelle might be able to align her crooked body.

  “Staring is quite rude,” Miss Vesper said.

  Irréelle lowered her eyes and closed the dirt in her fist. Mumbling an apology, she turned to go.

  “Bring my teacup to the kitchen. I am through with it.”

  “Yes, Miss Vesper.” And thus dismissed, Irréelle fetched the cup with her other hand and slipped out of the room.

  As she walked down the hall, the last of the tea sloshed inside the cup. Peppermint scented the air, and Irréelle could almost taste it on her tongue. She bit her lip. Perhaps if she drank it, she too could command the dirt or turn her cheeks rosy.

  Oh, she should not have thought it, but as soon as the idea settled in her mind, she could not shake it. Irréelle glanced over her shoulder and scurried into the kitchen. Before Miss Vesper could chance upon her, Irréelle placed the cup to her lips, tipped back her head, and poured the contents down her throat.