2412 Ash Street
by Wil

2412 Ash Street

by Wil

Andrea was crumpled on the floor, her head on the seat of a delicate looking chair, weeping. Curled on the velvet, within reach of her clasped hands was a worn brass locket. Attic dust gathered at the dark skirts of her mourning dress, cobwebs speckled her hair; none of it mattered.

Downstairs in the salon, her Aunt Marguerite and other relatives were gathered after the funeral service and the reading of her mother's will. They were likely roaming about the house, tisking at the weeks dusty shelves and unaired drapes; peering into the curio cabinets for their death prizes and clucking their teeth because Andrea wasn't with them playing the good hostess.

She'd watched them for some moments at the service, when she wasn't staring hard-eyed at the brown curves of the casket willing her eyes dry. Their eyes were for each other, their tears for show under elaborate hats of gauzy shadow netting to match their black crepe gowns. It was all about appearances, silken handkerchiefs at the ready, whispering solemnly to each other about how her mother had lived and died.

A somber spectacle.

A feasting of vultures; creatures without compassion.

She was the orphan now.

Her mother was dead. Her life was changed forever.

No more laughter, no more kind kisses on her forehead in the middle of the night, no more roses and lilac smell and lazy Sunday afternoons in the conservatory with them both still in their shifts eating scones and drinking tea, being decadent.

No more talking.

No more listening.

Andrea's fingers rubbed and kneaded the black velvet beneath them as her body tensed in pain. She was hiding, and she knew it. But she didn't think she had the strength to be who they wanted her to be; to play the game. Her mother had been the only one who could make her think twice about protocol and proper etiquette. Abigail Bishop had put the rules in their proper place; actions within reason and with moderation and on some occasions not without a lot of fun.

A tall, formidable woman; broad in her shoulders, firm in her hands, easily the match to many of her male counterparts and she knew it, as did they. Her mother had never had a chance at taking advantage of feminine wiles, but she'd delighted in teaching her daughter the whole of it.

Abigail's easy grace and self possession ran in Andrea's veins and the knowledge of how to use it ran in her mind; lessons taught with wit and a smirk and tested at the few but extravagant galas her mother had permitted herself to attend. They'd been a pair, one tall and striking in her own way, the other small and dark.

They'd been echoes of each other.

The loss of that kindred teaching spirit forced a bruising sob from Andrea's throat. Even in the end that brightness had remained, though it weakened rapidly. Her mother suddenly refined to her greatest essence, honed like sharpest steel.

Beside her mother's deathbed she learned of the laughter and tenderness of love as Abigail calmly spoke of the relationship she'd had with her husband; Andrea's father, before she died. Some things, she'd said, a mother didn't leave her child not knowing.

And even so, the joy that lit up her face as she spoke of the man who'd respected and cherished her was enough to make her daughter listen closely.

Andrea had never known her father. He'd died when she was two; cut down by a drunk and brawling husband too confused to understand the doctor was trying to help his ailing wife. She'd always wondered how her mother could stand to be alone when other women lived two to a house, or rustled their skirts behind eligible widowers. The other women she saw all seemed to need a crowd.

But now she knew, her mother had found something special and wouldn't taint it, wouldn't compromise it.

Now she knew and hoped that she would likely do the same. Andrea had never felt alone growing up, but it was different to have the knowledge that her mother was just like her. Since she was three years old, Andrea had known she was different. She'd looked at the swing under the trees in the garden and pointed and laughed at a man who wasn't there. To the rest of the family, she'd grown up 'telling tales' and having 'imaginary friends'. Only her mother believed her.

As she matured, her mother began politely turning mediums, spiritualists and such others away from the door. She'd learned to shut up by then, but they all somehow heard the story of her childhood friend, her childhood tales. There had always been someone in the family eager to talk to strangers about what they'd heard or seen her do; about Abigail's patience with her strange deluded child.

Her fingers reached out and gripped the locket. No, not deluded, gifted. Like her mother. Her mother who had protected her by standing firm with relatives, even throwing tea at unwelcome visitors at the door. Her mother who had kept secret the fact that her husband had never left her. Andrea knew why those virtual strangers downstairs were pawing eagerly through her new belongings. They were hoping to peek behind the wall of privacy Abigail had erected once her husband had died.

In the last moments of her mother's life, her father had made himself visible to her and in a flash all those moments of sudden comforting warmth in her dark hours, the feeling of solidity and strength and pride, had made sense.

Her mother had been a born necromancer. She'd been more expert than any of the poseurs that turned up at the door. They interacted with the dead in a way that required bones and blood, hair and teeth. Theirs was a life steeped in grave robbing, so quarrelling heirs could learn the secrets of their true inheritance. And even the most successful among them lived in houses where the chill never went away; where ghosts spiraled angry and greedy hoping somehow to touch life. Those spirits were compelled to accomplish some task before being sent on. Whatever message they needed to give to the living was disregarded, they were tools. Often one tried to posses their captor in frustration.

But her mother had talked her husband's spirit into staying on this plane with her, to watch over his wife and child. And their house had never been cold. Andrea had never had to fear anything. She'd never even seen more than hints of shadow. And once she'd breached womanhood, the only spirit she could sense in the house was one she'd known all her life. Her mother had gone to the ghosts instead of making them come to her, she'd attended to their business and been paid handsomely by their families. Andrea knew now why her mother had died with no debts.

The scent of rain in autumn garden swirled around her, pressure against her back, a head against her shoulder.

Andrea turned her head to see Douglas settling against her, more solid than he'd ever been. Her guardian. Her childhood friend.

The utter aloneness she'd been trying to suppress fluttered and eased. Andrea turned, curling into him letting her tears flow in relief as she realized of all the people now in the house, Douglas alone could comfort her. Douglas, a ghost.

A hand stretched out, pale and translucent and Andrea felt a whisp of breeze at her cheek and then a solid caress. He nuzzled her hair, murmuring and the heavy pain in her chest began to squeeze itself out, making her gasp for breath.

"I'm here, Andrea. I'm here."

Andrea closed her eyes and let her last solace rock her.

"I w..."

A rattle and iron creak covered the sense of his words as the flap into the attic flew open.

Andrea started, dropping the necklace and almost fell as Douglas' solidity vanished.

"Andrea? Andrea!"

A grey haired head peered out into the wood and silt world of the attic. "There you are. You have guests, Andrea. Now is not the time to hide away like a child. You are lady of the house now and ..."

Andrea tuned her out, wiping her cheeks, trying to collect herself. She could see Douglas not even an inch away from her, staring grimly at both her aunt and the golden yellow tint of the locket and chain curled into the dust on the floor.

Abigail Bishop had been a necromancer. The moment she realized there was a presence bound to the house she'd dedicated summer after summer to hunting down anything in 2412 Ash that might be binding Douglas to this plane. This locket, probably his own mother's, with a lock of hair from his infant head was all that remained.

Andrea wasn't quite sure why her mother hadn't used it to release him. But the knowledge that it was here, had sent her up into the attic from her mother's bedroom. Numbed by the endless chatter downstairs; shocked into recklessness and grief at the sight of her mother's things laid out in boxes to be put away, she'd finally wanted more than Douglas' willing ear or voice.

A rough hand on her shoulder, shook her out of her daze and started tugging her towards the attic steps.

"I think a little time away from this house would do you good, Andrea." Marguerite shivered, stepping through Douglas and attributing her chill to some wayward draft. "Come, dinner is waiting downstairs and then you must pack."

-=-

Downstairs the endless circle of relatives perked up, eyes probing when Andrea made her appearance. Almost all of them had something in their hands, some memento; a handkerchief collection, a bauble, a book.

She was no longer covered in streaks of soot, her face and hands clean; her hair brushed. They stared at her anyway. Andrea ducked her head and tried to ignore it. Dinner and then her aunt's house for a few days. It was supposed to be a chance to recover, to be the one looked after for a change. Andrea was dreading it.

She sat at the head of the table, swallowing the lump in her throat to take her mother's seat and watched her relatives fan out before her. One of her cousins was holding up a delicate china bowl, marveling to see the light through it, another stroked the damask table cloth.

"Have you decided who will live with you?"

Andrea shook her head and refocused, bringing the sea of faces and arms into a semblance of people. "Live with me? Why?"

Marguerite clucked. "A young woman alone, in the city? That is hardly wise. And in a house as large as this one, why a burglar could break in and steal you blind in three rooms and you'd never even hear. I can understand not selling it, my dear, but surely you don't expect to left to your own devices. Not completely."

A few of the older women nodded, muttering in agreement.

Andrea stared, almost dumbly and shook her head. "I'm... I'm used to it, Aunt. When mother was about her business and it took her overnight I stayed here without complaint and I was much younger."

There was a scandalized hissing at the further ends of the table.

Marguerite clucked again. "Shh, your mother. I loved her, you understand. But leaving a young girl alone overnight..."

"I wasn't alone."

Marguerite continued unheeded. "We shall choose two or three of your cousins. You'll like it, you'll see. Finally some company your own age. They can take you to plays and introduce you around. We won't neglect you at all. I'll come myself at least once a week to check up on you all, keep an eye on the accounts and of course I'll stay when you come back, to see you all settled."

Memories of Sunday mornings and laughter and love seemed to wither slightly. Almost in defiance something sparked within Andrea's breast. She spoke up. "I said I wasn't alone. I wasn't. And I shan't be now, when you and the others leave."

A great aunt in her tightly laces corset managed somehow to snap herself upright as if she'd been slumping. "Andrea! Marguerite is only being concerned. Where are your manners?"

"Where are yours?"

The humming tone since she'd come downstairs was finally getting to her. It'd been there all along she realized, from the moment her relatives showed up at the door to take charge of all the arrangements. She'd just been tuning it out, lost in a haze of indecision.

"Andrea." Marguerite again, tension and strain in a voice trying to be tender. "We all know you were close to your mother. As you should have been. But there is no reason grief should make you coarse or ungrateful."

"Ungrateful?"

The spark began to burn a little brighter.

"Where were you all on my birthdays? Where were you when my father died? Surely you would have helped out a widowed mother then. But you didn't, did you? I don't even remember mother turning you away from the door."

There was more scandalized muttering, but Andrea pushed herself to her feet. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, using it as a shield in front of her. What did she have in common with these people, besides blood and her mother's maiden name. Nothing. She could let them go, them and how they lived and all their expectations.

"I have let you turn me and twist me for the past three days, when all I wanted was comfort and silence and peace. But enough is enough. Please, stay through dinner, but that is the extent of my hospitality towards you." She turned, pointing a finger at Marguerite. "I will not be going with you when you leave."

Her mind flashed on the first moment of home she'd felt in days; upstairs in Douglas' arms, too relieved to even think about what it meant to touch him for the first time, to touch him at all. Her resolve grew.

Marguerite shook her head, standing up too, and moving to embrace her niece. "Andrea, you're distraught. I should have sent you straight to bed."

Andrea shook Marguerite's arm off. "No. No more talking over me, or around me. I've found my limit. I may not be of age yet, but I will be soon and I will not let strangers inside my mother's house."

Marguerite shook her hands looking bewildered and angry. "You will stay here alone then ? And shut us out, as she did?"

"I won't be alone." Andrea was almost shouting, but she paused, realizing that Marguerite had been trying not to hear her. It occurred to her then that her mother must have been in a similar position years ago, when her husband died and all her relatives expected her to go home to them with her child.

She lowered her voice. "I haven't been alone for years. I have Douglas."

"And who is Douglas?"

Andrea paused. Her mother surely had never done this. But her mother had been older, settled and in a different kind of pain.

Andrea smiled softly, almost laughing as she crushed the bridge between her and her family underfoot. "A ghost."

No one said a word. People were pointedly looking away from her.

She slipped her hands into the pockets of her skirt and was surprised to feel cool metal there. Douglas must have tucked the necklace into her clothing as she climbed down the stairs. Andrea pulled it out and slowly fastened the locket. The metal felt cool around her throat, the thin oval pocket slipping into the hollow of flesh that buzzed when she finally spoke.

"Douglas?"

The weight of him came first, displacing air. Then came color, texture and form. Soon, bright eyes, a hint of blush and the slight tugging of a smile balanced his tall form.

Andrea slipped her hand into his and smiled at him.

Douglas leaned forward and cool lips kissed her forehead. The scent of rain was even stronger. Rain on wooden shutters, rain on stone. Andrea blushed, it was hard to realize now, what her mother had meant about respect and cherish; to realize why Abigail hadn't wanted to die without having a good long talk about love.

Andrea nodded slowly and cool hands stroked her temple, brushing back a tendril of hair. She turned to her assembled relatives, nervous but right; feeling it right all along her skin.

"I'm not alone."

-=-

Sleep had come lazily, sinking into her bones with a procrastinator's energy for the task. The day had been full and wearying, but now was finally over. Which was why Andrea was confused when cool hands skimmed her cheek, brushing hair off her forehead, moving down her arms, across the linen on her stomach, up to her breasts. This last touch brought her awake with a flutter of eyelashes and confusion. Sleep banished. No one had ever touched her there.

Soft lips pressed against hers. Cool. Rain.

"Douglas?"

There was a nip on her bottom lip and sudden pressure over her, beside her, the bed sinking in.

"Yes, Andrea."

Andrea smiled and blushed, shifting to try and pull her covers up over her face. She'd made the decision today, when she'd thrown her relatives out. She'd live her life as she wanted to, use her gift as she needed to and take a chance...

And yet...

Nervous, she peered into the darkness, but there wasn't even a moon to send shafts of light through her open windows. She couldn't see, there was only a blanket of shadow holding a voice she knew so well.

Someone kissed her forehead through the linen and then gently tugged it down. The air above her glowed softly, becoming a beloved face, eyes, tumbling hair, a shirtless chest - all real and in color, if surrounded by a faint nimbus.

The face smiled.

A hand brushed around her cheek, ran through her hair. "Andrea..."

Fingers stroked her throat, shifting the locket there. "My Andrea..."

Andrea blinked as the metal slid against her skin. She scrambled suddenly to take it off. "I... I should take it off. I do... I mean I was making a point. But, you're free. I will free you Douglas."

"Shh..."

There were licks, kisses; against her jaw, her cheek, the line of her throat, just above her breasts.

"I've wondered for years why I never wanted to move on. When I realized..."

His arm curled about her waist, simply pulling her closer; they had time enough for other things. "I'm here because I want to be. My choice." The necklace snicked itself shut, fastening about her throat again. A perfect fit. "And now, I'm not alone."

 

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