Of Bees and Mist: A Novel

ONE

Few in town agreed on when the battle began. The matchmaker believed it started the morning after the wedding, when Eva took all of Meridia’s gold and left her with thirteen meters of silk. The fortune-teller, backed by his crystal globe, swore that Eva’s eyes did not turn pitiless until Meridia drenched them in goose blood three months later. The midwife championed another theory: The feud started the day Meridia held her newborn son with such pride that Eva felt the need to humble her. But no matter how loudly the townspeople debated, the answer remained a mystery—and the two women themselves were to blame. Meridia said little, and Eva offered conflicting explanations, which confirmed the town’s suspicion that neither one of them could actually remember.

THE TOWN FIRST TOOK notice of Meridia at the hour of her birth. That evening, following what would be remembered as twenty-seven hours of labor, she was extracted blue and wrinkled from Ravenna’s womb. Her lungs, despite the ten slaps administered to her rump, refused to take even one breath. The midwife was about to bundle her away when Ravenna scolded: What are you doing, woman? Give her to me!

In her calm, ordinary voice, Ravenna told the baby that after putting her through eight months of discomfort and twenty-seven hours of unadulterated pain, after ruining her figure and swelling her breasts and wreaking havoc on her appetite, the least she could do was give her mother a farewell cry. The tiniest squeak would do, said Ravenna. A yowl would be even better. Ravenna went on for some minutes, rocking her daughter gently, and by the time she recited the intimate details surrounding the baby’s conception—if you could only see the ungodly contortions your father had me do—Meridia spluttered a cough and inhaled her first breath.

Stubborn little creature, chuckled Ravenna. Do you think you’re too good for this world?

The midwife waited in vain for the baby to cry. Meridia gasped and grimaced, but one thing she did not do was cry. An hour later, shaking and scratching her head, the midwife departed. To every person she saw she confided, One hundred babies delivered, and I’ve never seen one like her. Whether she is an angel or a demon only time will tell.

A few months shy of Meridia’s first birthday, a blinding flash of light traveled at great speed in the dark of night and awakened her. There was a crash and a tumble, followed by a terrible scream, and suddenly she was snatched up from her bassinet and crushed against Ravenna’s bosom. At the age of three, after Meridia learned enough words to speak, she tried to articulate to Ravenna what she had witnessed. All her mother did was sigh and mutter, Some things are better left as dreams, child. Was it a dream then? Meridia wanted to ask, but Ravenna had turned to her vegetables and forgotten her. Her mother’s back was straight and sturdy—capable, Meridia suspected, of holding unknowable secrets.

The house at 24 Monarch Street was made of glass and steel. Perched on a high hill, it boasted a mansard roof, large latticed windows, and a veranda banked by daffodils. Stone steps climbed the sloping garden to the front door, over which an ivory mist hovered regardless of weather. The mist was a bane to peddlers and visitors alike, for it often held them suspended in midair, stole their hats, or chased them away with terrifying noises. Inside, the house obeyed a law of its own. The wood floors echoed no sound of footsteps, and people simply appeared in doorways without warning. The spiral staircase shortened and lengthened at random, and it could take toddling Meridia two seconds to two hours to go from one floor to the other. Mirrors were especially treacherous: In them Meridia could glimpse unfamiliar landscapes and all shapes of apparitions. Despite the large open windows, dusk never quite left the rooms; the sun could be blazing yet inside, the brightest objects looked dim and unappealing.

It was always cold in the house. Even at the height of summer with the fire going, Meridia was unable to keep warm. In the mornings, the nurse dressed her in heavy winter clothes as though a storm was brewing. At bedtime, the good woman wrapped her in two or three blankets and still her bones chattered. The cold emanated from one room, where at all hours a frosty wind fluttered curtains and rattled lamps. Meridia did not know how Ravenna could sleep in that room; her father, Gabriel, certainly never did. Meridia was four when she noticed that no words had ever passed between her parents. Five when she realized that the three of them were never in the same room at the same time.

Gabriel spent his days in the study at the front of the house. Exactly what it was he studied, no one could say. In hushed tones, the nurse and the maids referred to him as a man of science, a celebrated scholar, an astute investor who had doubled his inheritance and was now living for the sake of knowledge. They were all terrified of him. No sooner did they sight his shadow than they trembled like leaves. Gabriel seldom spoke to them. A gesture or a look was all he needed to convey his command, which everyone but Ravenna followed like a mandate from heaven.

Meridia regarded her father with both fear and respect. A tall and elegant man, Gabriel was direct in manner, limited in patience, scrupulous in appearance. He had a firm chin and a grim mouth, and his dark eyes were severe and without warmth. He walked with a slight stoop, which gave him the appearance of a swooping raptor. Not once had Meridia heard him laugh. That he resented her—for reasons that would not become clear until years later—was the first thing she noticed about him. If he were to ever take her in his arms or speak a kind word to her, she would not have the slightest idea of what to do.

One day, despite the nurse’s warnings, Meridia stole into the study when no one was looking. She had simply meant to peek around the door, but when she saw that Gabriel was out, she braved herself to enter. Though she had no previous recollection of being there, the room looked welcoming and familiar. She grinned at the towers of books that made up the walls, at the hanging maps and graphs full of numbers. Cabinet after cabinet was jammed with flasks, beakers, burners. Meridia skipped toward the massive desk by the window. Jars of growing seeds populated the surface, and they were all winking at her. She was reaching to touch them when a shadow fell across the desk.

Who gave you permission to enter?

Meridia turned and shrank. Her grin instantly melted from her face.

Speak up! Don’t just stand there drooling like an ape.

I—I—

Gabriel had not raised his voice, yet Meridia felt the whole world was screaming at her. Confronted with his immaculate suit and shiny oxford shoes, she felt dirty, small, purposeless. As she beseeched the maps and books for a way out, every object in the room darkened like an artifact of hate. Meridia dropped her eyes and did not dare lift them.

You are five years old and quite capable of forming a sentence. Do you mean to stand there and insult me with your silence?

Papa—I—

She was saved from further agony by her nurse, who ran into the study trembling with fright.

It’s my fault, Master. I didn’t think—

Gabriel did not deign to look at her. It is immaterial what you think or don’t think. If I ever find her in here again…

Quick for her considerable bulk, the nurse yanked Meridia out of the study. Once upstairs, she berated her charge soundly, but soon took pity and enfolded the child in her arms.

You darling girl, she said with infinite tenderness. Don’t you mind your father too much. Some men can’t help themselves when they’re battered.

Her eyes pale and small, Meridia stood without moving. What had she done wrong? Why did Gabriel despise her like an enemy? Failing to stop the chill where his shadow had touched her, she wondered if all fathers were cruel and all mothers forgetful.

IF THE STUDY WAS Gabriel’s shrine, then the kitchen was Ravenna’s sanctuary. In this large, bright room where the ceiling soared two stories high and the tiles were scrubbed four times a day, the lady of the house poured her venom into the endless meals she cooked. As she chopped, grilled, and boiled, Ravenna addressed the vegetables in a dark and private language, telling them of sorrow and despair. The fury of her pots and pans kept visitors away, while her air of absentmindedness spun a web of solitude about her. These endless meals, much more than her family could eat, were invariably donated to the poor. Apart from the kitchen, Ravenna entrusted the house to the care of the nurse and the two maids. This included the rearing of Meridia, whose existence she seemed able to recollect only with difficulty.

Ravenna’s attire was limited to a plain black dress, which she kept protected with a white apron while she cooked. Long-sleeved and high-necked, the dress hid her pale arms and pointed shoulder blades, but did little to soften her appearance. Her face was so sharply angular it was saved from gauntness simply by her generous nose. Perfumed with verbena, her black hair was swept up into an implacable knot, so tight and bonelike it seemed a natural projection of her skull. Ravenna moved in a stiff and sudden manner, as though the aim of her action was decided at the tail end of a moment.

Due to her mother’s forgetfulness, Meridia did not correctly estimate her date of birth until she was six. For years, using her own approximation, the nurse had always given her a present—her one and only—on July 2. However, on the morning of July 19 in her sixth year, Ravenna made a great clatter in the kitchen and summoned her. Child! she said breathlessly. Why do you wear such a long face on your birthday? Look, I’ve made you a caramel cake. Go up to your room and put on a nice dress. I hope you don’t mind that our party will be smaller this year. Meridia did not care for caramel and Ravenna never once held a party for her, but she did not trouble to correct her mother.

On the few occasions when they sat together in the living room, Ravenna would often drop her knitting and regard Meridia as if she had no idea who she was. Recognition, if it did occur, was swiftly followed by a tremor of shame. Are you unhappy, child? she would ask anxiously, sinking her chin to her bosom. Before Meridia could reply, Ravenna would snatch back her knitting and let fall a torrent of words: Keep your spine stiff at all times. Never show anyone your tears. Never be at anybody’s mercy. Nod if you’re listening, child!

Owing to her fear of infectious diseases, the nurse seldom allowed Meridia out of the house. Twice a month at most, when the sky was clear and the sun gentle, the good woman would take her to Cinema Garden for a brisk stroll. These outings were far from pleasurable for Meridia. Boiling inside a contraption of scarves and underclothes, knee socks and unyielding rubber boots, Meridia attracted as much jeering as pity as she staggered from one street to the next. The nurse, oblivious to her condition, would embarrass her further by remarking loudly, Mind that dirty boy—from the looks of him he hasn’t seen soap in weeks…See that wart-ridden woman over there? You’ll end up like her if you don’t do as I say…You’re sweating an awful lot, dear. Tell me if you feel an attack is coming on… Ten minutes after they arrived at Cinema Garden, before Meridia had time to inspect the blossoms or feed the golden swans in the fountain, the nurse would insist that they return home immediately before a contamination could occur. All of Meridia’s objections would be met as follows: You’re irritable. Are you sure you haven’t touched anything? Let’s leave before it gets worse.

One afternoon in Meridia’s ninth year, after she had been housebound for three weeks, Ravenna suddenly switched off the stove, untied her apron, and declared that she would take her to the market. Curious to know what a market was, Meridia hurried to put on her shoes. The nurse attempted to fortify her with the usual garments, but Ravenna stopped her with a bellow. Have you lost your mind, woman? It’s hot enough outside to brand a cow! Amid the nurse’s scandalized look, they set off, Ravenna severe in her black dress, Meridia torn between a smile and a sense of disloyalty to the nurse. She soon forgot the latter, however, when Ravenna took her hand and led her across the street. To her amazement, no one laughed at her. Several onlookers even complimented Ravenna on her pretty daughter.

I can’t and won’t argue with you, Ravenna answered solemnly. Any woman would be lucky to have a darling like her.

Meridia blushed all the way down to her shoulders. It was the first time her mother had ever praised her.

That day, Ravenna took her to a hot and crowded square. Meridia’s eyes flew wide at the sight of people jostling and arguing, stalls crammed with fruit and vegetables, sacks of rice and flour, spices sold in egg-shaped jars. There were fowls dead and alive, fish heaped on beds of ice, crabs in bamboo crates, meat suspended from iron hooks. A woman grew herbs out of her body—thyme on her arms and rosemary on her chest—which customers plucked fresh with their own hands. A tattooed man swallowed whole radishes and spat them out chopped, seasoned, and pickled. The air was thick with aromas—both pleasant and odious—and the ground was wet and dirty. Had it not been for Ravenna’s hand, which she clutched tighter as they made their round, Meridia would have felt overwhelmed. The nurse would never have taken her to this place.

Somewhere along the butchers’ aisle, Meridia lost her mother. A current of people swept her back; she was pushed and prodded, stepped on, then driven against her will up and down the square. Ravenna was nowhere in sight. Without her, Meridia went unnoticed, glared at by shoppers only when they found her in the way. The butchers’ cleavers frightened her beyond measure, the ruthless thwack of blade against bone and meat chucked hastily onto grainy papers. Along the ground, blood formed a fly-spotted river. The louder Meridia shouted, the more the crowd roared to drown her.

Perhaps she cried for hours. Her throat was certainly hoarse when a hand brushed against her cheek.

Why are you crying, little girl?

Meridia looked up to find a well-dressed woman in a sea green hat. Choking back tears, she labored to explain, but the woman interrupted her.

Don’t worry. Your mother is only playing hide-and-seek. Come, we’ll find her soon enough.

The nurse’s warning about the ghastly things that happened to children who followed strangers went off in Meridia’s brain. However, not knowing what else to do, she took the woman’s hand and followed.

They searched the square twice without finding Ravenna. On their third try, just as the last ray of hope was fading in Meridia’s breast, the scent of verbena came strongly to her nose. She froze in her tracks, then quick as lightning dropped the woman’s hand and charged against the crowd. She had spotted Ravenna’s implacable knot. So great, so complete was her relief that her heart felt like bursting.

Standing before a flower stall, Ravenna was carrying packages in her hand. She turned abruptly when she felt the urgent tug on her dress.

What is it, child?

Ravenna’s face was calm and untroubled. Meridia could not speak, for tears had once again sprung to her throat.

What is it? Why are you crying?

What do you mean? rebuffed the woman in the sea green hat. She’s been looking everywhere for you!

Ravenna shot her a puzzled look. What on earth for? I’ve been right here all along.

Unable to contain herself, Meridia broke out sobbing. Ravenna bent down and wiped her tears with her sleeve.

Tilt your chin up, child. Keep your back straight. Why are you letting the whole world see you cry?

Meridia sobbed all the more. Tossing her head, the woman in the sea green hat snorted, then gave Ravenna a sharp look before leaving. This look, unnoticed by the mother, sliced deep into the daughter’s heart.

Though Ravenna held her hand all the way home, Meridia took no pleasure in it. The stranger’s look burned in her vision, and along with shame and sadness, it stirred a reckless dark feeling inside her. More than once she wished she had a cleaver to hurl, not at the woman in the sea green hat, but at the forgetfulness that imprisoned Ravenna in a different world. She wanted to strike until her arm was tired, scream until her voice was gone, and hound down whatever demon had erected this wall between them.

TWO

One morning in the spring of her twelfth year, Meridia was arranging her school books in the hall when she glanced up into the mirror and beheld the face of a ghost.

It was old, ravaged, and female. Skin creased, chin hollowed, eyes dulled to a dirty yellow. Accustomed to seeing strange things in the mirror, Meridia did not become alarmed until the ghost grimaced like an old friend. She sprang back with a scream when the yellow eyes spun.

What is it? Is there a ghost in there?

The nurse, puffing into a coat a few feet away, was instantly at her side.

Shaking, Meridia pointed to the mirror. The nurse inched closer, rolled up her sleeves, and throttled the frame with both hands. She saw only her own reflection.

What did you see? she teased, her generous bosom rocking with laughter. A pink dolphin or a three-headed horse? How many times must I tell you, if you think brightly, you’ll see only bright things around you.

The nurse fixed her silvering hair in the mirror and pinched her robust cheeks to give them color. Still shaking, Meridia wanted to ask her, Did other houses have mirrors like theirs, full of tricks and surprises, incapable of reflecting the plainest truth?

The nurse opened the front door and stepped into the mist. Meridia followed with her books. On her lips wavered another question. Why did the mist never leave their door, harassing the mailman and the paperboy like a jealous presence?

After countless pleas on Meridia’s part and a bemused intercession on Ravenna’s, the nurse finally agreed to let her go to school dressed like other students. In place of scratchy knee socks and woolen underclothes, Meridia now wore light cotton shirts and green pleated skirts, a pretty bow for her hair and shoes that did not pinch her calves. This small victory, however, did not come without costs. For one, the nurse kept a tighter watch on their walk to and from school, sticking to the same route, disallowing detours, forbidding Meridia to go off by herself. Not one to conceal her pride, the nurse let every mother in the schoolyard know that Meridia was the best student in her class. Once, she read Meridia’s composition out loud, her ample figure brimming with maternal fire while Meridia flushed bright red. The other students she held under the greatest scrutiny, convinced they were carrying lice in their hair and bacteria under their nails. As for Meridia’s teachers—she patronized these gentlemen with pursed lips and pointed brows, skeptical of their skills and qualifications.

If only your father would undertake your education at home, the nurse often grumbled to Meridia, who shuddered at the thought of Gabriel and her shut up in the study. Schools expose children to unsavory influences.

That morning, the nurse talked even more than usual as they walked. She chatted about the arrival of spring, praised Meridia on her recent examination score, and told her she was lucky to have an extraordinarily good head for numbers. It gives me a cramp to see you sweep through a long column of figures without gagging. You must’ve gotten it from your father. I’m glad all my calculations can be performed on two hands. Pale and nervous, Meridia did not reply. In fact, she had not spoken a word since they left the house. They were a block away from school when the nurse realized this.

You’re quiet this morning. Still thinking about the mirror?

Meridia chewed her bottom lip until the nurse’s silence compelled her to respond.

I had that dream again last night, she said with uncertainty. The bright flash in the middle of the night.

The nurse slowed down and faced her. Did you tell your mother?

Meridia nodded. This morning, while you were upstairs.

And what did she say?

What she always says. ‘Some things are better left as dreams.’

The nurse frowned, stopping completely, and then dispelled this with a shake of the head. "Your mother does say that a lot."

Meridia grimaced. What does she mean by it?

The nurse picked up her pace. How many times have you had this dream?

Meridia thought carefully. Twice this past week. It’s been like this for years. It will turn up night after night for some time, and then nothing for months.

And you see—

The bright flash. Something fell and someone screamed. Mama snatched me up and a hot, wet thing dripped down my face. Tears, I think. But it could be blood.

The nurse said nothing. Meridia, seized with conviction, suddenly swung in front.

It was no dream, she insisted. I was small but I was there in that room when it happened and I saw it all. What was it, Nurse? What was I seeing? And why does the dream come and go every few months like this?

The nurse swallowed, opened her mouth, and closed it again. She tried to look into Meridia’s eyes but managed only another shake of the head.

It isn’t my place to answer these questions, she said. If your mother said it was a dream, then you must take her word for it. She knows what’s best for you.

Meridia found this as maddening as Ravenna’s answer. But before she could object, the nurse had resumed walking. At the gate, the good woman smoothed Meridia’s long black hair with both hands and hugged her more firmly than usual.

Go on, don’t be late for class. I’ll meet you here at three.

Meridia nodded reluctantly and joined the stream of students. Sighing, the nurse waited until her charge went inside the building before turning home.

In the corridor, a damp hand appeared out of nowhere and fell on Meridia’s nape. In a panic she turned, books flying in every direction, but there was no one nearby. It was then she remembered where she had seen the ghost in the mirror. The dirty yellow eyes had glared at her before, wide and burning, in the dream.

ONE OF THE UNWRITTEN rules of the house declared that Gabriel must have a proper breakfast before work. He ate lunch in his study and dinner elsewhere, but every morning, he sat down at the dining table and waited for Ravenna to serve him. During this time, husband and wife never spoke to each other, and no one, including Meridia, was allowed to enter. After breakfast, Gabriel took his coffee and paper to the front hall and smoked there for a half hour. This half hour was the most excruciating time of the day for Meridia. Ravenna, who seldom made demands, was adamant that she greet her father before school.

On the best of days, Gabriel ignored her. On good days, he examined her coldly through a cloud of cigar smoke. On the worst, he spoke to her. Gabriel rarely raised his voice, but his words always managed to cut her. It could be as simple as a command to fetch things, open the window, relay a message to Ravenna, but the end result was the same: Meridia would go about the rest of her day shattered and distracted. She would feel as if she had been given a test and failed. Had she only performed better, pleased more, been smarter and prettier, he might not look at her with such contempt. If she never learned to resent him, it was because she never felt worthy of his love. In the nights when her tears came, they flowed silent and strangled. Often, Gabriel’s hatred prevented her from breathing.

Over the years, she managed to assemble an unflappable front before him. Though her heart might rumble like thunder, her lips no longer quivered when he scolded, and she became skilled in employing Ravenna’s advice to her defense. Hold your shoulders up. Do not blush. Do not even think about crying. In the back of her mind, Meridia was aware that her calm could only increase Gabriel’s hostility, but her pride did not allow her to act otherwise. As time passed, she endured his torment bravely. Her night tears, though they never completely stopped, fell less and less. But one day, something irreparable happened. Gabriel cut deep enough to sever the thread that joined them.

It was a hot Sunday morning in June. The house, despite the scorching sun, was colder than usual. Meridia entered the front hall shivering and distressed. The dream had come again in the night, and the yellow-eyed ghost had this time turned up in her bedroom mirror. Again she had tried to question the nurse, and again the nurse had refused to answer. Frustrated, Meridia was halfway through the hall when she realized her father was not alone.

Come closer, ordered Gabriel. Give these gentlemen a better look.

Two men were sitting with him, smoking and drinking coffee. One was bald and whiskered, the other wore spectacles that kept slipping down his nose. Meridia greeted them formally as the nurse had taught her. They continued to talk but did not take their gazes off her. After some time Gabriel said, Turn to the right and open your eyes wide.

Meridia did as she was told.

She’s quite pretty, said the one with the whiskers. She’ll go far with that nose.

The eyes leave much to be desired, said the other. Too wide and too far apart. And if you don’t correct her posture, people will think she’s consumptive.

Gabriel smiled. Go on. What else do you see?

The two scholars went on arguing. Meridia was instructed to lift her arms, bend her elbows, raise her skirt, stick out her bottom, and stand with one arm akimbo.

Square your shoulders, she reminded herself, feeling like a specimen in one of Gabriel’s jars. Plant your feet so your knees won’t buckle.

The men finished their cigars. Standing as still as she could, Meridia waited for her dismissal. But Gabriel, perhaps sensing her eagerness to be off, had another idea.

You are far too generous, gentlemen. He folded his arms neatly and reclined against the chair. I have a dull and plain daughter. Anyone with half a wit can see she has neither charm nor talent.

Oh, come on! said the whiskered gentleman. Why are you being cruel to her?

Gabriel grew solemn. Have you known me to speak unfairly? That little girl has no grace or beauty. She is awkward, unattractive, and silly. Her mind, if you could call it that, is idle and easily distracted. I expect nothing from her. She will bungle through life and slip out of it without leaving the faintest mark…

Meridia stood as if every part of her had become stone. On and on the shells exploded, but the more Gabriel raged, the harder and emptier she became. Her young mind understood what he wanted: a sign of defeat. All she had to do was show him a tear and he would stop. But for the life of her she could not summon the thing within her he most wanted to ridicule. So she set her jaw and denied him. There was no telling how long she would have gone on denying him had he not dragged Ravenna into the mud.

But what can I expect? His voice was even now, scalpel-like in its precision. "Her blood is in the child’s; her madness, too. They are both fickle, illogical creatures. They crave to be touched and admired, and then without reason they shut you out cold in the dark. And when your heart no longer has a place for them, they blame you for the hell and the ruin that is their own making!"

The blow hit. All at once Meridia’s stomach jolted, her insides squeezing out from between her thighs. She looked down and saw blood on her dress. While the two scholars sat dumbstruck, Gabriel sprang to his feet.

You animal!

He yanked her arm as if he might tear it off and shoved her into the hallway. Just before she smashed into the wall, Meridia caught herself. Behind her the door slammed. Another jolt assaulted her stomach.

She dashed for the staircase, hoping it would not play its usual trick. Yet the second her hand touched the banister, the treacherous thing lengthened interminably. She ran and ran, panting and wincing, but it seemed she would never reach the top. A trail of blood marked her steps, scattered petals on smooth, shiny marble. Through the hall door Gabriel’s voice was booming, apologizing to the scholars for his daughter’s barbarity. Meridia clamped her hands over her ears and kept on running.

When she reached her room, the nurse screamed in horror, letting fall the blanket she was folding.

My dear! Why is there blood on your dress?

The good woman rushed toward Meridia. Another glance told her there was no reason to panic.

You silly girl. The nurse smiled with indulgence. Or perhaps I’d better call you a little woman now. Why did you frighten me like that? I told you this would happen. Come, let’s get you changed before your mother sees you.

Meridia wrenched free and regarded her with angry eyes.

Why does he do this to me?

What are you talking about?

Papa! Why does he take pleasure in tormenting me?

The nurse gave a start. What—what did he do?

Meridia told her. The nurse clenched her lips until they drained of color.

Why does he hate me, Nurse? Why did he say those ugly things about Mama? Tell me why they never speak to each other.

The nurse turned to the window. Meridia stole up and yanked her arm, as forcibly as Gabriel had yanked hers.

Look at me! She jerked at her bloodstained dress. How much more do I have to take before you tell me?

Tears began to cloud the nurse’s eyes, but still she clenched her lips. Shaking like a ribbon, Meridia shouted, I will hate him if you don’t tell me. I will hate him with all my heart!

There was a terrible appeal in her voice, more forceful than if she had been crying. The nurse drew back, shocked to see the small, pale girl grow hard and savage. The air was filled with things Meridia could not yet phrase, things dark and unspeakable, heavy like clouds on an ominous day. It was the threat of them bursting and drenching Meridia whole that finally parted the nurse’s lips.

All right. I’ll tell you. But let’s get you out of that dress first.

TEN MINUTES LATER, SITTING in bed facing Meridia, the nurse began her story.

"You must understand that your parents did not always live like this. There was a time before the mist when the house came alive every night to the sound of music. Everywhere you looked there were flowers and candles, drinks served in tall glasses, lanterns twined over the garden. Men in evening jackets and women in silky dresses piled into the dining room and flooded it with laughter.

"I was a maid then, and no one in those days entertained like your parents. The best food. The best wine. The smartest conversations. Clever and handsome, your father sat on one end of the table while your mother ruled the other end with her grace and beauty. Even a stranger could tell how much they loved each other. It was said that an electric current jolted the room every time their glances met.

"When you were born two years into the marriage, your father threw a banquet that lasted three days. He covered your mother in jewels, took enormous pride in your survival, and proclaimed to the town that he was the happiest man alive. ‘My daughter, who has defied death, is the loveliest creature in all the lands,’ he said. It was not long before a handful of people took offense.

"What arrogance!’ they fumed behind his back. ‘His child is barely alive, and already he’s trumpeting his good luck to the winds!’ Your father dismissed this as idle talk, but the more he ignored it, the louder the rumbling became. Soon everyone in town was whispering, ‘Pull up a chair and watch. Heaven is bringing Gabriel down.’ Oh, those ingrates! How easily they forgot his dinners! I don’t believe in curses, but to this day I wonder if all their ill wishes contributed to what happened. By the time your father took notice, it was too late. The cold wind was already tearing the house upside down.

"It happened one night while the house was asleep. A gentle wind clattered the bedroom window, loud enough to wake your mother but not your father. Thinking the latch was unfastened, your mother got up to fix it. The instant she touched the window, the wind gathered force and flung her back against the bed. It howled like a beast of prey, ruffling the books on the desk, fluttering curtains, sliding your bassinet across the room. Your mother tried to wrestle it out the window, but the wind proved too quick and strong for her. She was on the brink of waking your father when the tumult died of its own accord. Shaking her head, your mother returned to bed. You and your father remained asleep.

"By then I had been promoted to look after you, and I was the first to notice the changes. The drop in temperature, starting in the master bedroom. The ineffectiveness of blankets and fire. The dusk inside the house, even at the height of noon. Every morning the maids set about their duties grumbling and shuddering. Bathing was a torment. Boiling water grew cold in a matter of seconds. By the time I discovered ice on your lips, I decided I could no longer keep silent.

"To my surprise, your mother told me she had noticed some of the same things. She was a different woman then, gentle and confiding. She told me about the incident with the wind, and confessed that she was troubled by it. ‘A fluke in the weather, madam,’ I tried to assure her. ‘There must be a logical explanation for all this strangeness.’ She did not believe me. As I turned to leave, she said something that made my heart lurch. ‘No matter what happens, promise me you’ll take care of my child. Think of me as you do today, even if I become a stranger to myself.’ Stunned, I stood staring as if she had struck me. A part of me wanted to weep for I didn’t know what.

"A few days later, your father complained about the chill in his bed. All night long a slab of ice was rubbing against him, making him so stiff he could hardly stand in the morning. The next night your mother kept the fire up until dawn, but it only made your father shiver all the more. A building inspector was summoned on Monday morning. After a week of combing floors and knocking on walls, the man sent an enormous bill and reported that the structure of the house was as sound as the day it was built.

"The cold seemed to affect your father the most. The rest of us—including you—could sleep with a few extra blankets, but not your father. He tried sleeping in different rooms at different times of day, but the chill followed him wherever he went. The occasional rest he managed to get was short and fitful. He became extremely irritable, critical of everything, and before long, he stopped inviting guests to the house.

"Your mother responded differently to the cold. She grew agitated and withdrawn, lost her appetite, and frequently complained of headaches. Keeping a relentless watch over you, she seldom left her room, and I often found her crying for no reason. She had trouble making up her mind, and in her frustration often harmed herself physically. Alarmed, I persuaded your father to send for a doctor.

"The doctor said she was suffering from an ancient feminine malady, ‘unpleasant but not at all uncommon.’ For remedy, he prescribed a combination of soft diet and pampering. ‘Horseshit!’ yelled your father before the doctor was out of the house. He stormed into his study, cold and weary, and ignored my petition for a second opinion.

"In a matter of days, the house bore witness to a series of unprecedented events. A plate traveled at breakneck speed and shattered over your father’s head. Doors slammed. Tables stamped against the floor. Arguments spilled from hot mouths and sullied the air. The dusk was by then a veritable presence, draping over the rooms like a funeral shroud. Your mother lost her gentle voice, your father his cool head. They bumped and pushed against each other, two creatures in splints and stitches. As time passed, they spoke less and less. When their glances crossed, the room thickened with frost. Finding no warmth in the house, your father went wherever he was invited, alone, and stayed out longer and longer.

"One day, three months