The Maiden's Hand- Part 2.
Moonlight, mother of shadows.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |Part 4
II
They returned to the parlour room sometime after eleven. With giddy inebriation, everyone felt more at home, and able to peek under the dust sheets that protected the rest of the furniture. Peter scurried around in the shadows of the room, rolling sheets up and getting them out of the way. If they’d noticed him, they’d have thought he was an excellent servant. He made sure everything looked presentable—for there was no telling when other unexpected relatives would return home, either. Peter’s anorexic pile of mail indicated that there was never the need to inform him of anything ahead of time, and certainly not in writing.
Peter left them to pontificate over cigars and booze, and returned to his sanctuary. The little room in the East wing of the cold, draughty mansion.
Wilfred, needing to freshen up, visited his own chambers and decided to visit Peter on his way back.
“You’re still doing those sad little drawings then,” he said, lighting a cigar in the doorway. Peter’s wall was covered with them: Chivalrous heroes, Greek Gods, Pharaohs and other royals from times gone by. Beside his bed, a gilded copy of L’Morte D’Arthur. Wilfred scoffed. “You’re like something from a Barrie story. Let me know when you’ve grown up.”
Peter said nothing. His cousin's words sailed through him weightlessly, like clouds borne of lakes, passing through rocks and brambles effortlessly on their way back up to the sky. Cold, and still. Peter would be still. Peter would rise above.
Earning nothing for his remarks, Wilfred disappeared down the corridor.
That was when Peter heard the laughter downstairs.
When he reached the parlour room, they were playing catch with the hand.
He heard them retire to bed in the small hours. Doors closed and talk faded until it became silence. One of them was a terrible snorer. Peter clutched the pillow and pushed it against his ear. Outside, the rain hammered against the glass, rolling down, down into puddles on the path, waiting to hold a freshly made mirror to dawn’s face in the morning. The rain pleased him. The comforting patter of a summer evening washed away the violation. It soothed the fresh branding of intrusion his unwanted guests had marked him with.
He drifted off to sleep, and dreamed himself to be a guest of honour at the round table. King Arthur was greatly pleased with the young half-breed from a far away land. He had defended the honour of the Egyptian princess, Ankesunamun, and had travelled to England to be thanked for his valiant efforts. Just as Arthur’s hand reached out to shake his, the sound of screaming woke him.
“He put in my bed, the little bastard!” said Jack, red-faced and spitting with fury. “Where is he? I’ll break his legs.” The four young gentlemen stood on the landing in their nightwear, three of them significantly paler than the victim of the prank. Wilfred and Benyon blocked Jack’s access with their bodies as he tried to lunge in Peter’s direction.
“Peter, come here,” Wilfred said, summoning his cousin from the shadows.
Peter, still in his pyjamas, shuffled across the landing to where the guest rooms were. “Did you do this?” he asked quietly, raising an eyebrow like a disappointed parent.
“N-n-n-no.” Peter shook his head vehemently.
A flicker of pity crossed Wilfred’s eyes. “What is the matter with you?”
“I-I… It w-w-w-asn’t—”
Wilfred, not having the patience to wait for Peter to finish his sentence, waved him away. “That’s the last time, Peter. No more. Now go back to bed.”
Wilfred, after calming Jack down and taking the hand, entered the parlour room downstairs. Benyon followed him in, and retrieved the book he’d left in one of the chairs. Wilfred placed the hand back in the case and closed it, turning to see Benyon standing near the doorway.
The two men crossed the hall wordlessly and ascended the unlit staircase, Benyon gripping the smooth mahogany handrail to secure his position in the unfamiliar surroundings of his friend’s house. Wilfred, knowing the place like the back of his hand, moved soundlessly into the corridor. The landing forked off at the centre: guest rooms in the newly refurbished west wing, Wilfred and his father occupying rooms at the heart of the house, and Peter’s room down in the east wing, with storage for company.
Wilfred stopped outside his room and turned to look at Benyon. “Goodnight, then?”
Benyon seemed to step back. “Goodnight.”
Wilfred huffed. “Is that it, then?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll change after you’re married, you know. Women are disgusting like that. They end up matronly. You marry a pretty, slim girl and the next thing you know, you’re parading her around like the prize sow at the county fair.”
Benyon said nothing.
Wilfred couldn’t read him. There was too much dark. It seeped into every corner. He wondered where the moon had got to. He craved to see even so much as a slither of moonlight to highlight Benyon's beautiful face.
Finally, Benyon drew a deep breath and spoke. “I’m going to bed, now. You ought do the same.”
Not what he wanted to hear. “Night, then,” Wilfred said, his voice cool as he handled the doorknob. Dejected, he slipped into his room and closed the door. Without removing his dressing gown, he collapsed onto the bed and folded his arms, unlocking them only to wipe away angry tears that seemed to burn his eyes. He let it all happen, and when it had run its course, he got up and removed the dressing gown. The moon had returned, finally, glowing through the slits in the curtains. He went to it and looked out, and realised he was quite tired. His throbbing head was back on the pillow soon after, as he lay on his front, drifting away.
He didn’t move when he heard the door of his bedroom open slowly, gently, surreptitiously. His heart skipped a beat. Benyon had changed his mind.
Wilfred lay still, anticipating the warmth of Benyon’s body that always came when he curled up beside him. It didn’t come.
“I see you’ve changed your mind then,” he whispered without turning his head to look at his visitor. Benyon didn’t answer. “Well, you can get in. Just close the door.”
Nothing.
Wilfred sighed when he heard the footsteps treading the plush rug, growing closer until they stopped. The mattress dipped beside him, but not by much.
He drew a breath to scream in a way that was so desperate, so terrible, so cold that it had no sound.
At first, in the dark, Wilfred couldn’t see; he could only feel. Dry, coarse lips widened and met his. A rough hand held his trembling face. His eyes, open and terrified, soon adjusted to the darkness, and convinced him that he was looking into two eyeless sockets, as cavernous as impending doom could ever be. He didn’t struggle as death swallowed him into a blackening abyss.
Part 3- 07/03/2025
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I am also soundlessly screaming.
They should have left the hand alone. The Maiden now has ample life energy that will be forcibly donated by ignorant and bragadocious morons.
This is beautifully written Hanna. You're turning into a prolific writer.