All through the rest of that long day, I held her hand and whispered to her who I was, whom I had buried, who had buried me, wishing her to pass it along, to carry it to those I could no longer tell. To tell all the whispering dead what I knew. And her quiet was a blank letter upon which I could write what was, and what might be, her face unmoving, though I knew she listened; my voice was a steady sound in the dark room. Into her silence I poured my philter, and stirred it round, speaking low and urgently at first, then slower, in time to her breathing.

It came slow and slower, then so slowly, it was as though the gaps between breathing were a little sleep. And then finally, it was the gaps that came more frequently than breath. Just at twilight, a change fell over the room; I looked up into her face and saw she stared at me, wide awake, it seemed. “Maisie?” she asked.

“Yes, Mama?”

“You have come.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She smiled. “I thought I should die alone.”

I took her hand and pressed it between my own, the tears streaming down my face. “Nay.”

She swallowed. “Maisie,” she whispered. I bent my face close to hers. “Yes, Mama.”

“All your life—” She passed a hand across my forehead as though she checked for fever. And she opened her mouth once more, but this time could not find strength for voice. I could not keep my eyes from hers. I could not keep from feeling as though we both had begun to drown.

“Hush, Mama,” I soothed. “I am right here.” But her mouth would speak, and her silent lips said, “I did love you.” And then she breathed out, “Maisie.”

There was no sharp break, no sudden plunge away. Mama sailed from me as if over a calm sea. For when it came, the final change was slight as the first breeze catching cloth, the sail opening—opening and then the gentle drop.

And the word set adrift from her lips had been

Maisie.

AFTERWORD

AFTERWORD

“But what did it matter?” I asked Bart tonight.”What would have been lost had I not written it all down as I could?”

“A lasting pleasure,” said he, quietly shutting this big book and turning round. “For that was just how it was.”

“How it was?”

“And greater,” he said firmly.

“Ah, then it wasn’t at all how it was.” I smiled.

“Regardless”—he patted the book on his lap—“here is your legacy.”

I laughed then, but after he had departed, I took up the book and wrote Bart’s words down. I suppose he is right.

Here is my legacy, then. My book, my boat. One of you will find this after I am gone.

22 June 1924

Grange House

PRAISE FOR Grange House

PRAISE FOR Grange House

“Pulses with mystery, ghostly melancholy, and young passion … Captivating.”

—Boston Herald