Ghosts and Other Lovers by Lisa Tuttle Read Free Book Online

not! I'm not feeling poorly. This is something else. I don't know what it is, but it's not connected to -- to that -- at all. And it's not like a cold, something that clears up or goes away after a few days. . . . It's never gone away at all, not wholly, not since it started. It's a part of me now. Sometimes I can control it a bit, but I can't make it stop -- I can't make it go away." Mildred had never been her favorite sister; indeed, had they not been related, Eustacia was not certain she could have loved her. But that look on her face, even had it been the face of a stranger -- a look of horror, of loathing, barely controlled -- for that look to have been caused by her -- it was unbearable.
    Eustacia burst into tears.
    "Oh, stop that! Stop that at once. Crying never helps."
    "Why are you so angry?"
    "Because you're being silly."
    "But why do you look at me like that? As if . . . as if it's my fault . You can't blame me -- I didn't make this happen -- I never wanted it. If I were bleeding you wouldn't tell me to stop; you couldn't expect me just to stop; you'd clean my wound and bind it and perhaps send for the doctor--"
    "I shall send for the doctor. Not now, but in the morning. I would have done so sooner if I had realized -- but I can't think there's any urgency, if this has been going on all month, and you still walking around as if it were nothing. . . . Now will you go to your room, before you make any more mess? You're dripping."
    "It's not my fault." Her tone was belligerent, but what she wanted was reassurance. Acceptance.
    "We don't choose our afflictions," Mildred said coldly, looking away. "But we shouldn't be proud of them."
    Alone in her room, Eustacia wept again. She had been very young when her mother died, and was seldom aware of missing her. But she missed her now. Mildred might have taken Mother's role as the female head of the family, but Mildred was not her mother. Her real mother would not have been horrified by the changes taking place in Eustacia, no matter what they were. Her real mother now would have embraced and comforted her, wept with her, not kept Mildred's chilly distance.
    A pale, semi-opaque tendril was snaking out of her wrist when a fat teardrop fell, disintegrating it. Saltwater -- or maybe it was only tears? -- seemed to work more efficiently than plain water. Eustacia was so fascinated by this discovery that she forgot to cry.
    After some time, she lit the lamp and sat down to write to Lydia. Downstairs, she suspected, Mildred would be writing a letter to be dispatched to Dr. Purves in the morning. Well, she would send a letter, too, on the same topic but from a different perspective, and to someone who would probably be of more use than a doctor. Lydia, after all, had seen for herself what Mr. Elphinstone could do. Lydia would be in sympathy, and she might know someone who could help. Not Mr. Elphinstone, but there must be other mediums -- perhaps even a lady medium? Lydia, with her wide social circle, was bound to know someone who knew someone. . . . If absolutely necessary, some third party might even approach Mr. Elphinstone in a roundabout way. He must have realized by now that his plan to take control of her had not worked, so perhaps he could be persuaded to lift his curse.
    Composing the letter was difficult. When put into words, what had happened to her sounded horrible, and Eustacia didn't want Lydia thinking that. She didn't want her favorite sister horrified or revulsed, as Mildred was. She had to choose her words carefully. She couldn't say too much. She was mysterious. She evoked the spirit of the séance. Lydia must come and see for herself. When she was here, Eustacia would be able to make her understand.
     
    * * *
     
Until the doctor arrived, Eustacia was made to keep to her room as if she were contagious. She usually never minded solitude, and was grateful for any excuse to avoid work, but what once would have felt like freedom was now an imposition. She