Adeline de Grimstead

Adeline Odilia de Grimstead was just six years old when she underwent the operation of a lifetime. Born with a rare disease that rapidly deteriorated her spine, she was entirely bedridden by the time she was three years old. Doctors from all over the world came to her bedside in Milford, England, but none could offer a remedy save one. Dr. Sebastian Redstone had been studying how the human body repaired itself and was known for his outlandish experimentation on the regrown of human digits and limbs. He proposed grafting wood to what was left of Adeline's spinal column. It was a life-threatening, ungodly and inhuman procedure. But out of options, her parents consented. 

Redstone selected a branch he believed susceptible to new growth: oak that had been infested with mistletoe. A parasitic combination of wood long thought to have magical properties.

Adeline's entire back was split open and the grafts were made. No human should have survived such an operation, and yet, somehow, Adeline not only survived but six weeks later, she was out of bed and walking. 

Some called the event a blessed miracle, a divine intervention from the angels. Some said the procedure was a horror most foul, an act of sacrilege that would result in infinite unholy rest for all involved. 

For a time, Adeline lived a life of a normal girl. Then a most unspeakable thing happened. Adeline reached puberty and the grafting took on a life of its own. Branches sprouted from the base of her neck, and even when they were cut-- at great pain to Adeline--they grew again overnight. Left untrimmed, the tree grew up, spreading branches over her head as though she now carried her own living parasol.   

The people of Milford blamed the parents for creating this abomination. Devil worship, they said. They stormed the house and set it on fire, burning her parents alive. Rumour was they'd already killed the doctor. 

Aided by her most loyal servants, Adeline escaped to Canada with her family jewels and hid herself away in a house in the wilderness.

But the unspeakable horrors of Adeline de Grimestead also came with a gift. She could read the patterns of leaves that fell from her branches with the most accurate twin gifts of sight and mediumship the world had ever known-- though few in the world would ever know anything about her.

It was a miracle she'd survived the surgery, a miracle she'd escaped her parents' fate. She was a living miracle with the gift of sight. There was nothing she couldn't see coming.

* * *

Fifty years later

On a grey October morning, after a restless night, Lady Adeline de Grimstead lit a candle in her rear parlour and shook the branches. She found comfort in the ritual, though not always so. She used to be terrified by the rush of thoughts and feelings when she read the leaves. She would know things she ought not to know, see things she was never meant to see, hear words meant for someone else's ears. For a child, these things were frightening. But Adeline was no longer a child. These days when the readings came, she understood what to do with them. She knew if the news of a woman's pregnancy would scare off her new husband, so she understood the news could not be revealed until the husband was ready. Secrets, lies and truths. She played these like cards in a game of Hearts. No one ever came to her to hear the truth; they came to hear the things they wanted to hear. 

Small autumnal oak leaves fell to the dark floor. Sleep had eluded her more so than usual. She unfocused her eyes. Rain pelted the window as Adeline studied the leaf patterns with a frown. That can't be right. She cleared the floor and shook the branches again, and again she frowned at the results. I must be more exhausted than I thought. She cleared the floor and read the leaves a third time. 

Tension pulled across her shoulders. She poured a bracing cup of tea and settled in her chair behind the desk, letting her mind wander over the messages scattered across the floor. She swallowed the last drop and read the leaves in her cup, but they provided no better prophesy. 

In the afternoon she read the oak leaves again, three more times, always with the same outcome. She repeated the process in the evening just after sundown but fared no better. 

Nine readings. All the same.

Trouble was coming. In every reading she saw the same three possible outcomes-- death for some, death for one, or death for all. 

Though she tried to see a clearer more definitive path, none was forthcoming, and that was perhaps the most troubling of all. She'd never felt so blind. Not in fifty years. 

What was she going to do? What would she tell the staff? 

An oily film of unease coiled around her spine-trunk. Adeline pulled her shawl tighter. She wasn't familiar with this feeling; she didn't like it. She wanted the lamps turned up, the fires stoked. 

She knew better. There wasn't light nor fire enough to prevent this.

She sighed. 

No matter the outcome, guests were coming. Preparations had to be made. 

She went to inform the staff. 

* * *

Five days later

Deep in the forest of Ontario, a carriage pulled up outside the home of the Lady de Grimstead. Hers was a three-storey, twelve-room, red-brick house with lacy white trim and a turret to one side-- a smaller version of her home in Milford. Surrounded by a grove of mature maples, the house resembled something out of a fairy tale. Gold leaves drifted down to the bright green yard like gently falling snow. From the shadows of a second storey window, Adeline stood propped by a cane in each hand and watched her guests arrive. 

Rachel Bleaney was first to exit the carriage. She brushed wrinkles from her dark burgundy travelling gown and climbed the stairs to the porch. Through the years, Adeline had allowed selected seers to bring clients for a consultation, but these days, that list of seers had dwindled down to just Rachel. The seer was becoming reputable in Kingston, where she made her home. 

The client, Margery Thomas, helped a child of no more than four years down from the carriage. Both mother and child wore black. White ribbons trailed in the breeze from the child's long blond hair. When word arrived from Rachel, the note said she would be bringing two people with her. Adeline needed to speak with Rachel. The little girl would have to wait in the carriage.

Children were not permitted to enter her house. Ever.

She was about to call for her staff to intervene, when she stopped, her attention still caught by the child. 

While the mother went ahead, the girl stopped and lifted her chin, her gaze roaming up to the second storey window. Another observer might see the girl's face and think she smiled with delight, but Adeline noticed her eyes: cold and sharp. A shudder of fear rode down Adeline's spine.

There would be no sending the child to wait in the carriage.

The mother returned, crouched in front of the girl and spoke to her. Words of warning about manners and behaviour, hopefully. She brushed the girl's skirts, smoothed stray wisps of her hair, and then turned to follow Rachel to the front porch. 

The girl looked up at the house again, her glare going straight to the window where Adeline stood. So defiant, so full of challenge. 

"It's to be like that, is it?" Adeline murmured. 

A devilish grin spread across the child's mouth. The wind stirred up the fallen leaves, swirling them around the child's feet.

The readings were coming to fruition.

A feeling at once dark and familiar radiated through Adeline. Her nose picked up the remembered scents of frankincense and alcohol. Her spine ached in memory. 

She hoped the preparations would be sufficient.

Footsteps clunked down the hallway and stopped at her door. Adeline kept her eyes on the child below.

"Everything is ready, my lady," the cook said. 

Without turning, Adeline asked, "The rest of the staff?"

"Spending the evening in town, my lady."

"Good," Adeline said with more confidence than she felt. "Show the guests to the parlour and then leave."

The cook hesitated. A woman now in her fifties, the grown child of her trusted servants, loyal to a fault, though it took a number of years for her to become complacent at the sight of Adeline. "Are-- Are you certain--"

"Quite." Adeline sensed the woman remained in quandary. Or maybe the woman sensed Adeline's quandary. 

"It seems unwise to leave you alone with guests in the house."

Adeline sighed. "They will take their supper in the front parlour, and then I will do the reading. They will leave shortly after that."

She drew in a breath, braced herself, and turned away from the window.

Adeline put on a brave, calm face. "Go with the others. Enjoy your evening off."

After the ominous nine identical readings, the decision to send her staff away or keep them nearby in case she needed them weighed on Adeline, but her mind kept coming back to that one possible outcome of her divination: death for all. If sending away the people who'd been most loyal to her was the only way to keep them safe, so be it.

The cook's mind seemed to be whirling between counting all the days she'd ever had off, which were few, and all things to do in the local village, which were fewer.

Adeline tapped a cane on the floor, as if shooing away a stray dog. "Go."

Go before I change my mind.

The cook mumbled, "Yes, my lady," and shuffled back downstairs. 

Adeline turned back to the window and found the child had gone inside.  

* * *

Adeline waited in the chair behind her desk in the rear parlour while the guests took their dinner. And then she waited until the time was right. The clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes until it chimed the hour of nine and the draped doors between parlours opened. The dim glow from a single candle in the front parlour spilled across the dark floor, leaving Adeline's sanctuary cloaked in darkness.

Rachel Bleaney entered first, followed by the client towing her child by the hand. The little girl seemed bright, amused, and not at all weary from a day's travel or the lateness of the hour. 

"That's far enough," Adeline said, when they'd taken no more than a step into the room. The canopy of leaves above her head rustled when she moved. Her voice was ancient, crackled by time and wisdom. 

The candlelight from the front parlour lit them from behind; the scent of leftover mutton rode in with the cool draught.

Rachel curtsied. "Lady de Grimstead, this is Margery Thomas, and her daughter, Sophie."

"Close the doors," Adeline ordered. 

Rachel turned around and obeyed, leaving them in near total darkness.

"I've read the leaves. I know why you're here," Adeline said. "State your purpose." 

Margery licked her lips, swallowed and cleared her throat. "Ah, yes. Th-thank you for your gracious hospitality, L-Lady de Grimstead. My daughter and I seek a solution to-- to--"

"Not you," Adeline said impatiently. "The child."

Margery flustered, searching for answers from Rachel Bleaney, who knew enough not to interfere but stand quietly to the side. Next to her mother, the girl kept her head bowed. 

"She's here because of--of--"

"Silence!" Adeline's command was sharp but not loud. "I want to hear from the child. Step forward, and state your purpose."

Reluctantly, Margery released Sophie's hand. She smoothed her daughter's hair and straightened the shoulders of her dress before sending her off with a nod and smile she probably meant to be reassuring. Sophie turned and took one step toward Adeline. 

"What's your name?" the Lady asked. 

"Sophronia Thomas."

"Is it?" The question hung in the silent room, at once fragile as a soap bubble, and dangerous as a knife blade. "Tell me why you're here."

"He's coming," Sophie said. She spoke with surprising confidence, not at all afraid of the monstrous woman before her. This was a new experience for Adeline; normal children hid their faces in their mother's skirts upon meeting her. They cried, they shrieked, they ran away. 

"Come closer, child. Let me look at you." 

Though the girl moved further into the dark room, she stepped slowly, cautiously, and yet with confidence; the lighting was dim, but also strategically placed to keep the Lady cloaked in mystery. 

"Let us gaze upon each other," Adeline challenged. 

The girl took a step, closer to the center of the room.

"Closer," Adeline whispered sharply from the shadows. 

The girl took another two steps, and then suddenly dropped to her knees as though struck down. A hiss escaped her mouth.

Since it was going to come down to a choice between death for some or death for one, she knew which to choose.

Margery lunged for her daughter, but was caught in Rachel's arms. "What have you done to my daughter?"

"It's all right, Mrs. Thomas," Rachel said, though she wasn't convincing. 

Candlelight flared to life from white candles on the mantle and the scent of sulphur filled the room. In the middle of the room, a circle of salt had been laid down. At the center of the circle, surrounded by nine unlit black candles, the girl lay writhing like a lassoed pig. 

"What is this? What's going on?" Margery panicked, her voice rising. 

Adeline stood. She took a cane in each hand and made her way out from behind the desk. 

"Tell them," Adeline said. "Tell them what you did."

Sophie pushed herself up until she sat on her knees, as though every inch of movement caused her pain. She raised her chin. 

"I called him," she said defiantly. 

"Tell them why," Adeline said. One by one, as she paused at each black candle, she rapped her cane on the floor and the wick flared to life. 

"Because you moved me from my friends," Sophie said tightly, as though the words were being ripped from her mouth. "Because-- because you stopped paying attention to me--" 

Adeline turned her head and gave the girl's mother a pointed look.

"You didn't love me! You never loved me!" the girl wailed.

"I--I don't understand," Margery said. "What's happening? What does this mean?"

Rachel had released Margery when she stopped struggling and had become mesmerized by the scene before her. 

Adeline was only halfway around the circle. She stopped and said wearily, "Mrs. Bleaney."

"Are you--Are you certain, Lady de Grimstead," Rachel asked, her voice wobbling. "She's just a child."

Adeline grew impatient. "Mrs. Bleaney, don't pretend you're here for the girl. You came to protect your reputation because you encountered a problem you could not solve. So know this: you have excellent command of your gift and you will go on to predict many accurate things for many powerful people--a Prime Minister, no less. But you will not always be correct then, as you are not correct now. Mrs. Thomas, do you know why you are here? Because no other medium you consulted could tell you the truth. Why tell the truth when it's so easy to sell candles and elixirs? Would you rather I gave you a magic potion that won't make one bit of difference?"

"B-But we came for your assistance," Margery said. 

Adeline sighed. "Mrs. Bleaney, explain."

Rachel swallowed. "Mrs. Thomas, the thing that's been haunting your family--slamming doors, flickering the lights, killing neighbourhood pets--was called forth by your daughter, apparently because you relocated away from her friends and stopped paying attention to her."

"What? No--"

"Yes," Adeline snapped. "You left your child vulnerable and a demon slipped inside."

"But--"

"Shall we resume?" Adeline asked impatiently. Her canes tapped on the floor as she continued her path around the circle. "Now, where were we? You were explaining yourself to your mother."

"You moved me from my friends," Sophie said. "You shouldn't have done that."

Adeline waited, but Margery blinked, clearly bewildered by the experience. "Explain it to her, Margery."

Margery blurted, "We-- We had to move. The baby was coming and the house was much too small--"

"You heard what Mummy said. Now--" Adeline thumped her cane. "--tell them what else you did."

Margery froze, unmoving, the colour draining from her face. Her mouth hung open, waiting to hear the reply she didn't want but clearly knew was coming. 

"I told you I didn't want a sister," the child said bitterly.

"Arabella," Margery whispered. Tears filled her eyes. 

"Don't say her name," the child snapped. "You should have listened to me."

"Oh Sophie," Margery choked on a sob. "What did you do?"

"Don't you see, mother? I found someone who would listen to me. He listens to me."

Having heard the full story, Adeline's stomach turned. "Does he child? Or do you listen to him?" Without waiting for an answer, she banged her canes on the floor. 

The child whipped her head around and glared at Adeline. 

"He's coming for you," she said smugly. "He told me so. He is coming to collect your borrowed time."

Adeline laughed, which was not the reaction the small girl had expected. She took two more steps and the last candle burst into flame. The circle flared, brightening the room. "Mrs. Bleaney, the ewer. You know what to do."

Rachel went to the desk and picked up the silver jug. She scooped her hand inside and hurled a handful of the contents at the girl. 

The child shrieked and tried to shield herself from the showers of salt. "Mummy!"

"Stop! Please, stop! You're hurting her," Margery pleaded with tears running down her face. 

While Adeline admired the woman's concern for her child, she grew tired of her interference. "Mrs. Thomas, only one thing led you here," Adeline said. "There's only one reason everyone else refused to help you."

Adeline made her way behind the desk to an unlit fireplace. She dropped one of her canes to reach up and lift down a sword. The leaves crowning her head shimmered in the candlelight. 

"It's going to take a monster to slay a monster," she said. 

Margery paled. "No. Oh please, no."

Adeline didn't have to say her name again. She merely lifted her eyes to Rachel and the woman knew what to do. Rachel set down the jug and wrapped her arms around Margery, dragging her to the edge of the room. 

"Be brave, Mrs. Thomas. Let your bravery be your daughter's blessing," Adeline said. 

She stood next to the circle, towering over the small girl, the branches above her spread toward the ceiling. She dragged the sword in one hand and leaned heavily on the cane in the other. 

Just one death was all that was needed to set things right.

"Mrs. Bleaney," she said, "the holy water."

Rachel made soothing sounds before she left Margery at the edge of the room and retrieved a silver pitcher from the desk.

The small child twisted around, snarling like a rabid animal. "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I? Come out, you coward." Dropping the cane, she raised the sword in both hands, poised to strike. 

Rachel Bleaney hurled the contents of the pitcher onto the little girl. Her head whipped back, her spine arched. Wind howled in the circle, billowing through her dress and blowing her hair toward the ceiling. 

Margery screamed for her daughter. 

It all happened at once: Margery threw herself into the circle, grabbing for the child, shielding her with her body, as the sword crashed through the ghostly shape of the monster rising out of the child's arched body. Sword met shield. The shield fell. The monster ascended. 

The circle was broken by the mother. A storm of noise raged through the room, drowning out the women's cries, cresting as it pulled screams from everyone present. The monster formed into the shadow of a man as the noise died down. The room stank of frankincense. Cold fear rose from the shadows. A single word escaped Adeline's lips. 

"No."

Rachel reached for Margery and the girl, but the monster got to Rachel first. 

He had the face of a gentleman-- a strong angled jaw, a softness about the eyes-- until his mouth split open, revealing rows of small sharp teeth. His ghostly eyes flashed with anger. A hiss escaped his mouth. His misty form ran full force at Rachel, knocking her across the room. Her body smashed into the wall and then crumpled to the floor in a shower of lath and plaster. 

Adeline, having been knocked over when she tried to stop the swing of the sword, struggled to get to her feet, to get the branched burden she carried off the floor, to get up with the sword in her hands. 

Margery, wounded and bleeding, screamed at the apparition. "No! You cannot have her!"

She had herself wrapped around the small body, a pool of blood spreading beneath her. The child's limbs dangled, unmoving. He towered over Margery, biding his time, gaining strength by the moment. 

"You know what she did," he hissed, sounding surprised. 

"I don't care!"

"She's had a taste for it. Hell is the only place for her now."

"You'll never have her!"

He reached out his long arm and struck Margery with the back of his hand, sending both her and the girl across the room. He turned to face Adeline and smiled. He'd tired of playing with rag dolls.

Adeline, finally on her feet, raised the sword and swung for the centre of the ghostly apparition. He turned at the last moment and stepped beyond the sword's reach. 

"We meet again," he said smugly. 

He was tall and thin-- merely skin pulled over bones, stretched and hungry. He hadn't been ready to come through yet.

"So you say," Adeline said, gathering her courage. Margery's interference with the ritual Adeline had prepared meant the death of him was no longer an option; banishment would have to suffice. If she could manage it.

"You remember me," he hissed. "I was there when they saved your life. I gave you your gifts."

Adeline pressed her lips together. "You gave me nothing. I owe you nothing."

She swept the sword, and ran it right through him, straight into the solar plexus. The blessed silver wouldn't hold him for long. She began the incantation. His presence began to diminish. In a fit of rage, he stretched out a long arm and wrapped his wraith-like fingers around one of her branches. 

She held tight to the sword and raised her voice, the incantation nearly complete. 

He yanked with a force that ran all the way through her. The base of the tree snapped. The searing pain brought Adeline to her knees. 

His eyes gleamed triumphantly. 

Through clenched teeth, she spoke the final words. 

An unholy wind gathered from the shadows, swirled around him in a column, and disappeared through the floor, taking him with it. 

All went silent. 

Adeline collapsed to the floor. 

* * *

The room was too quiet. That's what woke her. In all her years, the noise in her house had been constant: cooking, washing, servants' chatter. With one exception. Quiet was the companion of Death. 

Death had entered the room. 

All that remained was the outcome: for some, for one, or for all. 

The candles had blown out. The only light came from a slanted beam between the doors to the front parlour. But she saw enough: Rachel slumped at an odd angle by the doors. Mother and child huddled together, motionless.

A groan escaped Adeline as she tried to move. She had little left to give, but there were words she needed to say, things she needed to do, while there was still time. "Mrs. Thomas?"

Margery gasped. 

"Is the child alive?"

"She's hardly breathing. She won't wake up."

Relief filled Adeline. 

"You're safe now, Mrs. Thomas. He's gone for good."

The woman turned with her child clasped to her chest. Tears fell from Margery's eyes. She hugged Sophie tighter. 

"Mrs. Thomas, I need your help. Come here."

Margery snapped to attention. "What--?"

With her daughter clutched in her embrace, she crawled over to the elder woman. 

"Take a branch. Bind it around your daughter's wrists. As long as she wears it, she will be protected."

"Oh, Lady de Grimstead. No. I couldn't--"

"It's the only way. The mistletoe infected oak is the only thing that will bring her protection. Served me well, all these years."

One of the larger limbs-- the one he'd grabbed--had turned completely black. Margery reached for it. 

"Not that one," Adeline snapped. "Take a live branch. Quickly."

With a trembling hand, Margery reached over and wrapped her fingers around one of the branches with leaves that were more green than autumn bronze. 

"It's so soft and warm," she said. She pulled her hand away. "I won't do it. I don't want to hurt you." 

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Adeline sighed. "Guide my hand to a live branch. Help me."

Margery wrapped Adeline's fingers around a smooth branch and together they snapped it off. A gasp escaped Adeline's mouth. Her eyes lost focus. 

Margery's voice hitched. "Lady de Grimstead--"

"It's just Adeline now." Darkness crept to the edge of her vision. She blinked. The end was near.  

Margery sniffed. "I'm so sorry this happened to you."

Adeline exhaled. She wanted to pat the woman's hand and reassure her, but couldn't summon the energy required to move. "Bind the girl's wrists. All will be well."

"I-- I don't know how to thank you," Margery said quietly. 

Adeline had grown so weary, so tired. "Go home, Mrs. Thomas." With that, the last breath left her body. The miracle of Adeline de Grimstead--was no more. 

* * *

Twenty years later

A young woman stalks across the cobblestone streets outside the two-storey home in Kingston. An easterly breeze kicks up her blond hair, cropped to ear-length. She wears trousers and a long-sleeved blouse cuffed at the wrists. She steps inside the front door and sits down in the front parlour to wait for her appointment with Kingston's renowned medium. A vase of nettles sits on the mantle and a bowl of acorns adorns the coffee table. 

The door to the rear parlour opens and a middle-aged woman exits, wiping away tears, though she's smiling. 

"Come in," a woman calls from within the rear parlour. 

The young woman follows the voice into the other room, anticipation building inside her alongside dread.

"Please have a seat," Rachel Bleaney says without looking up, as she resets the items on her table. "How can I help you today? A reading of tea leaves, the cards, or your palm?"

"I need your help." The young woman sits down and unbuttons her cuffs. She pulls up her sleeves and holds out her bare arms. Red marks ring her wrists. "He's coming." 

END

 Originally published in Matters of Time: an Outliers anthology, 2021.