and I am sure I could feel it breathing.
It became my father’s favourite thing in the world. He loved it more than anything.
My mother had become mysteriously ill over the last few months and was confined to her bedroom, as she was too weak to move about. The curtains were always drawn in her room as the sunlight was hurting her eyes and gave her headaches. Many doctors came to visit, each prescribing different potions and remedies, none of which ever made her any better. Eventually the doctors stopped coming. It was believed she simply had a weak heart and must rest and let nature take its course. As Father spent most of his time abroad with business or in his study worshipping his new clock, she was very lonely, and only had me and her sister for company.
A unt Rosebud lived nearby . She was a widower; a tall, stern woman with amber, reptilian eyes and a bun of black hair coiled on the top of her head. Every morning she would visit my mother, sit by her bed. Every morning she would bring her needlework, for she enjoyed embroidering biblical phrases onto lace, and every morning she would bring with her a homemade cake to cheer my mother up. Little comfort gifts.
One morning, before Aunt Rosebud’s visit, I took my mother some snow-bells, which I had picked from the garden. The flowers were so delicate, like fairy bells, as white as whirlpools.
“Good morning, Mamma,” I said, The room smelt of lavender and something salty.
She smiled and I kissed her on the cheek and put the snowbells into the empty vase by her bed.
“How lovely they are John. Thank you.”
Around the room, the embroidered biblical phrases hung mounted and framed on pieces of lace. They were surrounding her. They were closing in on her.
“How are you feeling?”
“The same,” she said, sadly. “Tell me about your telescope. What did you see last night?”
“Orion’s belt and the Great Bear. They were very clear, very bright. And I saw a shooting star, which is good luck.”
“Do you think the angels are up there John? Do you ever see angels in the night sky?”
“Not yet. But I will keep looking. Maybe the shooting star was an angel and he’s coming to get you well again.”
There’s a tap at the door and Aunt Rosebud enters, steely eyed, holding a ribboned box.
“Good morning Lily,” (she ignores me) “I have brought a walnut cake.”
“That’s very kind of you, sister; but I haven’t much of an appetite.”
“Nonsense, you must eat.” And she glared at me, my cue to leave.
This time, when I left the room, I sat by the keyhole and watched and listened. I had never done this before. But there were too many of those biblical lace gifts. There were too many of her cakes. My mother was drowning in them.
Aunt Rosebud perched by the bed, her voice low and hissing: “Lily, dear. Will you not try some of the walnut cake I have brought?”
“No. Perhaps later.”
“Just a little, Lily, just a little. It will help you get better. Good girl.”
“It tastes funny. It tastes strange.”
“Just eat it my dear.”
That was all I needed to hear.
----
p O i S oNeR
----
W hen my father returned from Paris that evening I went up to his study and I told him what I heard.
“And what are you suggesting, John, exactly?” he said, sitting at his study desk, half glancing at the grandfather clock.
“Aunt Rosebud is poisoning Mamma.”
He looked at me for quite some time. I think he knew. And then he looked at the grandfather clock, its eyes shifting towards him.
“Don’t be silly, John, and never mention this again.” His eyes fixed upon the clock. I stood in the way between the clock and him, blocking his vision of this weird idol.
“Father, look at me.”
My father’s connection with the clock was broken, and he stared at me sadly. “You will never mention your ridiculous theories to anyone. It would break your mother’s heart. Now go to your room.”
He knew. He knew. He knew .
That evening I crept into my