"Aunt Jocasta": An October Tale

 

Aunt Jocasta

 

     The iron engine drew into the station, exhaling a tired breath of steam that mingled with the dust of the unpaved streets on this side of town. Like a mirage, gabled neighborhoods rose in the distance, safe from the rattling entrances and exits of the train, shimmering bronze with trees. A few of the tattered inhabitants of the backstreets scuttled along on their errands from shadow to shadow in the heat. The dry summer wind of the last days of September drove the dust, both human and otherwise, down the clapboard corridor of ramshackle buildings.

     In the front car the lawyer, Mr. Blaine, turned away from straining to look through the mists and back to his charges in the seat opposite him. Mr. Blaine was an impassive man by profession, his large bristling mustache shrouding most of his expression. Those who knew him would have been shocked by the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and an unwonted brightness there that might have hinted at an incipient tear. The tear did not form. He grumbled, clearing his throat, straightened his somber suit and examined the children.

     They were a brother and sister, roughly the same age and height. Dressed in mourning black, their faces looked unnervingly alike. The same delicate sunken cheeks, pale skin, and sad questioning blue eyes. The main difference was their hair. It was the same ash blonde, but the girl’s tresses were in one long straight braid and under the boy’s black cap luxuriant curls fell almost to his shoulders. Blaine thought uneasily that if you put the boy in a dress, you would have sworn that they were sisters. He cleared his throat again.

     “Samuel,” he said, “Samantha.” He glanced quickly out the window, then back. “This is the place. This is where your aunt lives. This is Banfrith.”

     The girl widened her eyes.

     “She’s not our aunt,” the boy said. Blaine would have said his voice was sullen if it hadn’t been so tremulous.

“Father’s cousin, then,” the lawyer said sternly. “If you wish to be pedantic.” He searched the depot landing, which still roiled with steam and dust. He softened his tone.

“Look, children. You are lucky that you have your Aunt Jocasta. You have no other family. If we had not found her by advertisement, you would probably be separated inside some state institution until you came of age. She could have kept her silence and we would have been none the wiser, but she chose to take you in. Think of that. She will be, in effect, your mother.”

“Our stepmother,” Samuel said flatly.

The girl’s eyes widened even more. Her lips moved automatically in a whisper that was more seen than heard husking out of her mouth.

“Wicked,” she breathed.

“Here now, none of that,” Blaine said firmly. “You shouldn’t go into this with any prejudice.” He found he had been leaning in, as if to comfort or convince the children. He straightened again, to put a commanding distance between them. “She obviously cares about you as her relations, and if you give her a chance, I’m sure you will soon be one happy family. She has no children of her own and she’s already forty, so isn’t likely to have any. The fact that she will now have you and you will have a guardian seems to me to be a felicitous example of the Lord tempering the wind to the shorn lamb.”

“Why couldn’t He just have left the lamb alone?” the boy said, wretched defiance in his voice.

“Samuel!” Blaine barked. “Be a man! If not for yourself, then for your sister. What happened, happened, and we must take life as it is. And Samantha, let’s have none of this wicked stepmother talk anymore. That is simply foolish fairytale stuff, and life is real, life is … is serious.”

He turned to give them a moment to take in his words and recover themselves, looking out to the platform. He gave a start. There in the clearing steam, as if it had just emerged but somehow had never moved, was a tall slender figure in black that had to be Jocasta Weir. When she saw him looking, she smiled.

 

Once they had disembarked and descended to the platform, he took a few cautiously measured steps toward the lady who stood waiting with a questioning look as he approached, pushing the children before him like a shield. She was not what the lawyer had been expecting.

She didn’t look forty, to begin with. There was a poised, ageless air about her. Although she was dressed in mourning like the children, there was nothing sad about her satiny dress. The pleats and folds gleamed in the afternoon, the mazy pattern of the weave emphasizing her firm figure. The black simply seemed to make her auburn hair and green eyes stand out even more. The only signs of age were a few fine lines that crinkled when she smiled at his approach.

“Mrs. Jocasta Weir?” he asked hesitantly.

“Mr. Blaine,” she confirmed, extending a strong but graceful, black-gloved hand, her smile deepening. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I only wish it could have been under more fortunate circumstances.”

Blaine took her hand and bowed, close enough to catch a whiff of rose scent. It broke his concentration and made him pause for an instant before he could gather his wits together to reply, “As do I, Mrs. Weir. My condolences for your loss.”

The lady pouted in troubled commiseration for the briefest flash, then turned a warm, welcoming look down at the children.

“And these must be Samuel and Samantha,” she smiled. They looked up at her warily. She put a sympathetic hand on their shoulders. “You poor dears, how you must be grieving.”

With a sudden movement she pulled them to herself, squeezing them close, not bending toward them but standing even straighter, chin lifted and eyes heavenward, as if registering a vow.

“Well, you have a new home, now. We are family. And I swear I shall take care of you, all the days of your lives.”

Brother and sister did not struggle or object, as Blaine had known some children to do in similar circumstances, but they didn’t hug her back, either. They simply stood there lifeless in her embrace, Samuel sullen and Samantha looking lost. The dull black cloth of their mourning was a blot of shadow against her shining darkness. She looked down on them, bravery and compassion showing in every feature. She exhaled and lifted her chin.

“Now, Mr. Blaine. I imagine we have some business to attend to. Would you care to return to my house with us to take some tea to refresh yourself before we settle down to it? In more congenial surroundings?”

The lawyer took out his watch and consulted it. He frowned.

“As pleasant as that would be, ma’am, I’m afraid I cannot. The train leaves in thirty minutes, and I should be on it.” He reached into the inner pocket of his topcoat and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I have the necessary documents here with me, though, and they are extremely straightforward. If you have someone who can be witness for you nearby, it will only be the work of the moment to sign them, and our transaction will be concluded.”

“But of course,” she purred. “My man, Trager, drove me here today; he will do. There is pen and ink in the station house. The stationmaster knows me very well and can be a second witness if necessary. Ah, and these must be yours, my dears.”

A porter had rolled up beside them, a pitifully small pile of luggage on his trolley. He touched his cap and ducked his head and looked inquiringly at the group.

“Put them over next to the bench, please, and children, you sit here with your cases. Oh, dear, such a little space to carry your old lives in, isn’t it?” She handed the porter a coin and he left, touching his cap again. The boy and the girl sat down obediently. She reached down and fondled their pale hair.

“Now wait here, and when Mr. Blaine and I are done, you and I shall not only be family, but we shall also be a family. Isn’t that nice?” There was no response from the two, but her smile never changed, and her fingers lingered a moment, twining Samuel’s curls.

“Mr. Trager?” she pitched her voice, calling behind her without looking away. “Will you join us in the stationhouse, please?” She looped her hand suddenly through the lawyer’s elbow, leaning on him and drawing his inside. “Come, Mr. Blaine. You can begin showing me what to do with all these legal ins and outs. I’m sure if it was up to me, I would just take them home, feed them some cake, put them to bed, and that would be that! They’d never leave me again. But if I’m to take care of them, I suppose we must be sure it is all nicely squared away with the law.”

“Indeed, we must,” said the lawyer earnestly. “Things are never as simple as they seem, and it is our business – the business of Blaine, Garrity, and Son, Limited -,” he handed her a card. “To ensure that all runs smoothly. In the case of your late cousin …” His voice was cut off as the door closed behind him.

A few seconds later a large morose man in an ulster and a tall rusty top hat came clumping onto the platform from the street side, glanced sourly at the siblings, then followed the other two, shutting the station door with a surly clash. The children were alone.

For a quiet moment they sat there, watching the dust blowing down the empty street. Then Samantha spoke up.

“I don’t like her,” she said in a weak whisper. Even sitting next to her, Samuel had to strain to hear. “I don’t like her one bit. She’s not at all like Mummy!”

“Now, Sammy,” the boy said, taking her hand and squeezing it in encouragement. “You can’t expect her to be. She’s not even blood kin.” He let go and pretended to examine the luggage. “She seems nice enough,” he said vaguely.

“But you know she’s really not,” the girl choked. There were hot tears in her eyes, her pale cheeks flushed. “I know you must feel it too. She’s wrong, no matter how much she sugarcoats it, and she does not mean us well.”

Samuel looked away.

“She cannot harm us too badly,” he said at last. “And besides, it won’t last forever, whatever happens.”

“It will only seem like forever,” she said pettishly, wilting back into her seat.

“Ten years,” he said. “Ten years at the most. And then we’ll come into our own.”

She tossed her head.

“Why can’t we just go now?”

He smiled.

“Do you really think we could do that? Two children by themselves?” He shook his head. “They would never allow it.”

“Even so, we could …”

At that moment the door opened, and she snapped her mouth shut, lip quivering. Aunt Jocasta stepped out, looking radiant, a document clutched in her gloved hand.

“It’s done, dears,” she smiled. “Let’s go home.”

 

While the taciturn Trager loaded up their luggage, Aunt Jocasta had the children thank Mr. Blaine and say goodbye. The lawyer patted them on the head, boarded the train again, and that, as far as he was concerned, was the end of the matter. The newly formed family mounted the waiting carriage, Trager in the driver’s perch, Aunt Jocasta and Samantha snuggled together in the passenger seat, and Samuel on top of the luggage strapped behind. The last thing Blaine saw of them was the boy lurching and clinging on determinedly as the coach started jolting down the dusty street. 

 

They reached Aunt Jocasta’s house just at noon. Although it was painted in deep colors of blue and red, they seemed to smolder and swim like drowned fires under the dark green fir trees that surrounded the house.  The building dripped with cut and pierced frieze boards, carved balusters, braced arches, and scrolled brackets, painted a white that had started to blister in the harsh sun. The three dismounted, and Trager cracked his whip and drove the creaking carriage to the back of the house.  As they approached the front porch, a dim figure arose and came forward like an owl from its hollow.

“Greta,” Aunt Jocasta said brightly. “This is my nephew Samuel and my niece Samantha.” She put her hands on their reluctant backs and pushed them forward. “Children, this is Mrs. Mickelson, my housekeeper and cook. But you may call her Greta, I’m sure. I know you will be good friends.”

“Madam.” The lean old woman bowed, her cloudy dress slightly wrinkling at the waist. “Master and Miss.” Wisps of thin gray had escaped her mob cap, and the whites of her iron-colored eyes seemed red with weeping. They learned later that her rheumy orbs were always like that. They smiled at her hopefully and bowed back, but her mouth remained a rigidly formal straight line.

“Welcome home,” she said stiffly, and stepped aside. Aunt Jocasta went ahead, the children in her wake, and Greta glided after them and quietly shut the door behind.

The inside of the house, if pretty and daintily arranged, was if anything even darker than the outside. Heavy purple curtains shrouded every window, with only here and there a thin beam of sunlight stabbing through the shadowy rooms, picking out the heavy wooden furniture like deer suddenly surprised in the woods. Samuel and Samantha glimpsed all this as Aunt Jocasta took them to the back of the house and led them to their rooms.

“Here we are,” she exclaimed, bursting open a door. “This, Samuel, will be your room!”

They peered in cautiously and glimpsed a spartan chamber containing a bureau and a bare bed, and nothing else. Samuel inspected it, wondering at its close atmosphere, then noticed there wasn’t even a window. He said nothing.

After a heartbeat of silence in which neither sibling made a move to enter, Aunt Jocasta turned undauntedly and moved down the hall.

“And here,” she exclaimed, turning to a doorway on the opposite side of the corridor and throwing the entrance wide, “Is your special place, Samantha dear!”

The girl stepped in slowly past the lady’s opening arm. The room was slightly larger than that offered to her brother, and there was one curtainless blank window, but other than a rather stark wardrobe there was no difference in its furnishings. Aunt Jocasta noticed their impassive faces.

“I’m sorry the rooms are so … so basic, my dears,” she said apologetically. “But I’ve had no children of my own you see, and it’s been rather a while since I was a little girl myself. I had no idea what you might want.” She brightened, as if the idea had just struck her. “But consider this. Soon, I’m sure, you’ll be able to trim your rooms just to your liking, and in no time, you’ll be right at home. Won’t that be nice?”

Samantha looked up at her.

“Do they have to be so far apart?” she trembled.

Aunt Jocasta looked surprised.

“But, my dear, that’s how the rooms are positioned. I can’t rearrange the entire house.” She gave the girl’s shoulder a squeeze. “Besides, your brother’s right down the hall.”

“Do … do you think we could sleep together in the same room, at least for the first night?” Samantha swallowed.

“You see, it would be the first time we were really apart since Father and Mother,” Samuel began hurriedly. “… and, and it’s a strange new house and all …” His voice petered out under his aunt’s expression and stopped.

“I completely understand the situation.” Her voice was sorrowful but stern. “But you are no longer children, and I do not think it would be right. We must begin as we mean to go on. Soon you will be a young lady and gentleman, and it is time for you to grow up.” She smiled again. “Now I think it is time we had some dinner, while Trager here unloads your things.”

The children turned with a start and found the angular servant looming out in the hallway, half of their luggage clasped effortlessly in his bony hands. It seemed unnatural that those heavy feet could have sidled up silently behind them. As they went back to the front of the house Samuel looked back. The butler was lifting their heaviest trunk as if it were the lightest hatbox and carrying it easily over the threshold. A little shudder shook the boy’s frame and he turned away to follow his aunt.

Dinner, at least, was more pleasant. After Greta had laid the table and left, there was no need for any conversation. Samantha dined slowly but with perfect manners and ate little. Samuel, in contrast, consumed his food in fearless defiance, as if to prove something. Aunt Jocasta ate her dinner with the contentment of a cat consuming cream, and if she noted any action lacking gratitude or polish, she made no comment. 

After a final dish of curds and blueberries for dessert, Aunt Jocasta reached out and rang a merry little bell. Greta promptly appeared; her knobby hands clasped in front of her apron, her mouth a primly severe line.

“That was excellent, Greta,” she sighed. “I think we shall all have a little rest now. Are the children’s rooms ready? I imagine they must be tired after their journey.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the housekeeper’s voice husked. “Trager has unloaded the bags, and I have unpacked them, and put on fresh sheets.”

“Very nice.” Aunt Jocasta stifled a slight yawn. “I shall go and rest in the sitting room, I think. Show the little dears to their beds, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She turned her red staring eyes on the children. “This way, please.”

They left, and Aunt Jocasta leaned back in her chair a moment, eyes closed and relaxing. When her eyelids raised dreamily there was an odd little smile on her face. She looked over at the siblings’ plates. Samantha had left a blob of berries behind. Jocasta reached out, scooped it up, and, with a prim little gesture and a flick of her red tongue, ate it up. Then she rose and went to her rest.

It was not to last long, though. She had barely settled herself down in her plush red armchair when there was a knock on the door and the sullen form of her nephew came in without leave or call. In one hand he carried a slip of paper, clutched in an angry grip.

“Why, Samuel,” she gasped, a little flustered, a hint of angry surprise in her voice. “Whatever is the matter?”

He thrust the paper forward and offered it stiffly in his hand.

“This was in Samantha’s things,” he said. “I think you should read it.”

Her eyes widened, as much at the impertinent tone as in astonishment. She took the object hesitantly from his hand and unfolded it.

It was written on unfamiliar, rather coarse paper, the letters inscribed in a blocky impersonal hand, as if to defy identification. Her eyes narrowed as she read the quatrain out loud.

          “Thirty days has October,

          Thirty days to look things over;

          But when it comes to thirty-one

          Then, my dear, your days are done.”

Aunt Jocasta looked up, her clear blue eyes wide with almost theatrical innocence.

“But my child,” she said. “What can it mean?”

“I think it is fairly plain,” the boy said bitterly. “It’s a warning. A threat. An ultimatum, even.”

“Oh, what nonsense,” she said reasonably. “Who would want to threaten you?” She tried to hand the paper back, but the boy refused to take it. She examined it again.

“Surely this must be some kind of prank, probably slipped into your luggage on the train by some juvenile comedian among the porters. The best way you can defuse the joke is to pay it no heed and not let it prey on your minds. All right? You are perfectly safe here.” She lay the paper aside dismissively.

“Now go back to your sister and tell her that all is well, and to put it out of your thoughts.” She smiled. “I’ll see you again at supper.”

The boy turned without a word and sulked out. Jocasta sat still for a moment, looking after him with narrowed eyes, then picked the paper up and perused it again. Her brows drew together, and she reached out and tugged the bellpull. In a moment Trager appeared.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said deferentially.

She flicked out the note towards him between two fingers.

“Trager, when you unloaded the children’s luggage, did you notice anything unusual?”

The hulking man’s eyes glanced at the paper in consternation, then looked up at his mistress anxiously.

“No, ma’am, I can’t say that I did.”

The lady smiled enigmatically.

“Can’t you? Perhaps you should read it.”

The butler took the paper hesitantly and cast his eyes over it. Aunt Jocasta watched him closely as he did so and noticed him turn a shade paler. He looked up, his expression a little defiant, she thought. He handed the note back but said nothing, only goggling at her with his clouded, fishy eyes.

“Perhaps you will be more careful next time,” she snapped. “I would have nothing troubling those poor little dears while they’re with me. Nothing, do you hear me? There should not be the least suspicion of trouble in their minds.” She settled back. “After all, haven’t they suffered enough?”

“Indeed, ma’am,” Trager rumbled fervently.

The lady held him fixed in her eye for a moment, until he started to twist, hands trembling almost imperceptibly.

“You may go.”

The man turned and left, seeming to shrink a bit as he went. Jocasta watched his back as if she would divine something even from that. She sat pondering a few moments after he was gone, then made a motion to throw the paper into the fireplace. She checked her hand at the last moment and looked at it again, flattening it out. She got up and walked over to where an ornate, untouched Dore bible sat open on a lectern on the sideboard. She slipped the note in near the back, smoothed the pages, then headed for the kitchen to see Greta about the supper.

Despite windows being open to left and right and a gigantic hood over the roaring stove, the kitchen was a boiling cavern of steam and smoke, lightened every now and then by a lick of flame escaping from the grated iron door under the grill. The lanky figure of Greta wove back and forth through the billows, going from pantry to cabinet to table and back to stove, checking her simmering pots and peering into the oven with staring eyes. So intent was she on her labors that she gasped at the sudden unwonted appearance of her mistress at the kitchen door.

“Ma’am,” she panted, eyes respectful but darting helplessly to her chores. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Greta,” Jocasta smiled sweetly, gliding into the room. The steam seemed to part before her as she advanced. “Just go on with what you’re doing.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” The old woman continued her dance around the room. It was more hesitant now as she adapted her steps around her slowly advancing employer, questioning looks following the lady furtively. Her eyes widened a bit as Jocasta stopped at a little cabinet on the wall catty-corner to the china, drew out a key, and unlocked it.

Inside were three shelves filled with medicine bottles of various sizes and colors. Greta paused a moment as she saw the lady draw out a bottle without a label, a squat bottle so darkly blue as to be almost black. Greta turned quickly away to her cooking, but Jocasta made no efforts to hide what she was doing as she came over to the table.

There was a tray there already with the soup, three bowls covered with plates to keep them warm, though there was little chance of them cooling in the sweltering heat. Two small bowls and one large. Jocasta pointed to the smaller bowls.

“For the children?” she asked. Greta turned to see, then looked to her work.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A spoon, please, Greta.”

The old cook stepped over to a drawer, handed out the utensil, then stepped back, checking into a covered pan.

“Samuel and Samantha,” Aunt Jocasta said matter-of-factly, as she took the dishes over the smaller bowls. “Are very tired and nervous after the trials of their long journey, poor dears.” She pulled the cork on the dark bottle; it sounded like an almost silent sigh. “I think a little tonic will settle their nerves and fix them right up.” She poured out an inky syrupy spoonful and started stirring it into the soup. Greta frowned a little.

“Couldn’t you just give it to them?” she asked. “Surely it will … spoil the taste.”

Jocasta tapped the spoon on the side of the first bowl and poured another dose.

“Nonsense, Greta. I assure you it is completely tasteless.” She stirred the spoon into the second bowl. “And if they knew they were taking medicine, it would only make them more nervous. Trust me. I know children.” She covered the bowls again. She looked at the used spoon for a second, then put it into her mouth.

“Mmm,” she said. She popped it out. It was sucked clean. Her mouth curled into a little grin. “As I said. Tasteless.” She put the spoon in the sink, set the bottle back into the shelf, and locked it securely.

“Now just be sure they get their soup, and I’m certain the children will soon be settled down.” Aunt Jocasta turned with a twirl of her skirts and a flip of her red hair and was gone, leaving the old cook to her job in a swirl of smoke and a small but decisive bang of the door behind her.

Supper that evening was restrained but polite. Aunt Jocasta was pleased when, at the end of the meal, Samuel and Samantha rose together and calmly bowed and thanked her with quiet courtesy and retired to their rooms. It was not much, but it was better than their previous brooding air.

Afterwards Samuel came to Samantha’s room to bid his sister good night. In their long white nightshirts and with Samantha’s blond hair unbound, they looked more than ever like twin pale angels.

“Did you notice how things were at supper?” the girl asked after they had embraced. “How she watched us?”

“Yes,” Samuel said. “I’m more than ever certain she means us harm.” He patted her shoulder.  “But don’t worry. We can survive whatever she does.”

Samantha smiled tearfully. “Until Halloween.”

The boy’s arm dropped.

“Yes. Until Halloween,” he said encouragingly. “But many things can happen between now and then. We just have to keep our eyes open and look for opportunities. Who knows? She may even grow to genuinely like us, and then …”

“Somehow, I don’t see that happening, Sam.” The girl drew away from him, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking.

“No, I suppose not.” The boy braced himself. “But keep your spirits up. Whatever happens, nothing lasts forever.”

Samantha shuddered, hugging her arms across her chest, her thin shoulders heaving.

“Believe me, Sam,” she said, “That is the one unalterable fact that life has taught me so far.”

 

The next day, when they were at the table but before they ate breakfast, Aunt Jocasta had an announcement.

“When I knew you were coming to live with me, children, I made inquiries as to enrolling you in school right away, so you should not fall behind. I have now been informed by the principal that they are undergoing an outbreak of measles at the present time.” She smiled bravely. “The good news is that you shall not have to attend school for a month.” Her mouth dropped in sympathy. “The bad news is that, for your safety, you will have to be quarantined within the house.”

Samuel stared at her. “In the house?”

“Mayn’t we even go outside?” Samantha asked.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Jocasta pouted. “There’s no telling if some naughty child might not wander by and infect you. Such a shame! I so much wanted to show off my new family, and now no-one will even know that you’re here.” She rallied courageously. “Oh, but I’m sure we can entertain ourselves for a while, especially as we use the time to get to know one another. The days will fly by!”

“How long will we have to stay inside?”

“Oh, I imagine until November at least,” Aunt Jocasta said offhandedly. “By then the outbreak should have run its course, and the cold weather seems to slow such things down.”

Samantha looked woefully at the window. Even so early in the morning, the air was muggy and still.

“Will it ever get better?” she said. “The air is so hot and close. Won’t it ever get cooler?”

Greta suddenly appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray with breakfast: three steaming bowls of oatmeal and a rack of buttered toast. The old cook started serving them onto the table.

“Believe me, you will be cold soon enough,” Aunt Jocasta said primly, putting back a strand of red hair that had come loose. The bowls were rattled into place before the children. “Now eat up. We must attend to your health and watch your strength. Nothing affects our lives so much as what we put in our bodies.”

 

On the fifth of October, Aunt Jocasta called Samuel to her sitting room.

“Samuel,” she said seriously, “I’m afraid we must discuss your hair.”

“My hair?” His hand went up reflexively to his head and proudly twisted a curl. “What about my hair?”

“Look, dear, I know your mother must have loved those Little Lord Fauntleroy locks, but they simply won’t do in Banfrith. You’ll have a hard enough time fitting in with the rough little boys here, coming as you do from outside, but if you show up with that hair --!” She reached out a hand and fondled his head. “It really is precious, but for your own good it simply must go.”

“Couldn’t we have tutors then, rather than school?” the boy asked sulkily. “That’s what Mother and Father did. Didn’t they leave all their money in the will to provide for us?”

“Indeed, they did,” Aunt Jocasta drew back. “But you must realize that the money will not last forever. Rich as he was, your father can no longer produce more. It is my duty to expend what is left carefully, frugally, responsibly, so it will last until you come of age. We cannot afford such fripperies.” She shook her head sadly. “I, myself, was subsisting on a widow’s mite before I was burdened with the care of your parents’ fortune.”

“But must it be cut now? You said we wouldn’t be back to school until –”

“It will give you time to grow used to it and be less self-conscious on the day. Come now, it is time for you to be a man, and not a child. Besides, I’m told it is much more hygienic.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a pair of silvery scissors at the ready.

“Come now,” she said. “Come, be a good boy and bow down your head before your Aunt Jocasta.”

When he returned to his sister, the girl cried out in dismay at his cropped head.

“Oh, Sam, you look like a felon!” she cried.

“It’s only hair.” He sat down stoically; his shoulders slumped. “It can grow back.”

“But will she let it? Sam, this is to humble you.” She hugged him. “But it’s fitting for this … this prison!”

He reached up and patted her back slowly.

“It won’t last forever,” he repeated. “Have patience, Sammy.”

 

Samantha went to see Aunt Jocasta on the twelfth of October.

“Aunt, can you help me? I haven’t yet been able to open my bedroom window; Mr. Trager did once promise to look at it for me, but he didn’t. And the nights have been so bad!”

The lady drew in a sympathetic breath.

“Oh, dear, I think not. You see, though Mr. Trager did take care of things like that, it appears that he has left us.”

“Left us?”

“Yes, I’m afraid he’s gone. Well, he had been acting a little … erratic lately.” Aunt Jocasta looked somber. “I suppose it’s just as well.”

Samantha digested the thought for a moment.

“Well,” she concluded in a small, regretful voice. “He was always very kind to me.”

“Yes,” the lady agreed. “Well, it’s all part of the servant problem, as you find as you grow up. Very loyal up to a point, then poof, they get wild ideas in their head, and they’re departed! But don’t you worry, sweetheart.” She smiled her sleepy smile again. “I’m looking for a new man already. And I’m sure the weather will change soon enough.”

 

On the seventeenth of October the weather finally did change. After a morning of supreme stillness and humidity a sudden keen wind first stirred, then shivered, then lashed through the hot burning leaves, stripping them away as if driven by the line of low gray clouds that came rolling in with the blast. In the sunroom where they had been sitting, Aunt Jocasta looked up from her knitting at the children’s faces as they turned from their reading to the darkening windows.

In the gathering gloom their faces were pale, paler even than when they had first arrived, and their cheeks thinner. Their blue eyes glittered wide and feverishly as they listened to the growing wind that had started howling around the house.

“There,” Aunt Jocasta said, going back to her knitting. “That’s better.”

 

Four days later it had got so cold that Aunt Jocasta had some men over, to put up the winter shutters and get the heating in order. Samuel and Samantha were banished to the boy’s room until they were finished, “to keep out of the workers’ sight,” Jocasta said, “and not disturb them.” The siblings sat together on the bed, listening as bangs from the outside woodwork sounded through the empty halls and rumbles rose echoing from the ventilation. For a long time, they didn’t speak.

“It seems like fall has just skipped over us, and we’ve gone straight into winter,” Samuel said eventually.

“That will not stop Halloween from coming,” Samantha answered starkly, a hard look on her elfin face.

At that moment, there was a blast of hot air from the grate in the floor, that paradoxically made them shiver in surprise. They huddled closer together and listened as the furnace down below at the heart of the house awoke to burning, ravenous life. The workmen left soon thereafter, and they were left alone once more with their aunt and her cook in the cavernous solitary gingerbread house.

 

The thirtieth day of October was wet and gray, and Aunt Jocasta was almost positive that the children had forgotten the threatening note from the day of their arrival. Indeed, they moved from room to room with a kind of calm acceptance, frail-looking and without passion. Still, she was worried about their progress. She went to see Greta in the kitchen.

The old cook looked up as if expecting her mistress’s visit.

“Greta, you know I’ve been dosing the children’s meals every day.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

“And you’ve made sure they get their meals? No accidents? No substitutions?”

“Oh, no, ma’am.”

“And yet they’re not progressing as quickly as I’d hoped.”

Jocasta looked pensive, then brightened.

“I know what we’ll do. Tomorrow we’ll fix them a feast, a celebratory feast. We’ll have the most delicate treats possible, such delightful dishes that they won’t be able to resist. After all, tomorrow they will have been here for a month already.”

“Yes. And the holiday, of course.”

“Oh, yes,” Jocasta airily, as if it had just occurred to her. “Yes, that too.” She headed for the door. “Start the preparations, Greta.”

The old woman’s wrinkled lips twisted into a thin smile.

“Yes, ma’am.” Her mistress left, and the old cook rolled up her sleeves and took down a huge roasting pan from where it hung on the wall.

 

October the thirty-first dawned clear and blue and cold. In the yard the sycamores and maples stood shorn of their colorful leaves, their white limbs like stripped skeletons; the dark firs closer to the house still cast a clinging shadow both outside and within. Jocasta woke up in a nest of clean white bedding and stretched awake with a purpose. Today was going to be a busy, exhilarating, happy day. She would make it so.

At breakfast she watched the children dutifully spooning up their dull morning porridge and smiled at the thought they little suspected the excitement that awaited them in the evening. All day she was in and out of the kitchen, directing Greta as the old woman concocted her special dishes, just for the children’s sake. Every now and then Jocasta added little dashes from carefully hoarded bottles, reserved for occasions just such as this, humming happily to herself as she thought of the looks on their faces as they tasted the wonderful surprise.

An hour before supper she left Greta to arrange the final touches and presentation. Aunt Jocasta went around outside the house, closing the shutters against the night. She saw that after a bright clear day the sun was setting like a fiery red ball behind the purple wall of cloud that fenced the horizon. She smelled smoke and heard the distant voices of children already laughing and shrieking in the evening air. She closed the last shutter with a satisfied air. No one was going to interrupt their evening. She went in and locked the front door firmly. She did not light the porch lamp, and the front rooms remained dark and unwelcoming.

Jocasta went to her bedroom and got dressed. Although still technically in mourning, her experience with the deaths of prior husbands had shown her just how alluring black could be, with the right fabric and appointments. After all, she had only married into the children’s family; there was no real blood between them, so no need to be dreary about it. And really, this was supposed to be a happy, festive occasion. The last ribbon in place, the last red curl tucked up, a last coy smile at the mirror, and Jocasta went to call the children to supper.

She found them in the drawing room, standing looking through the bookshelf. Samantha’s hand went up to Samuel’s shoulder as Jocasta entered. Their aunt was briefly reminded of the Millais’ picture of the Princes in the Tower, they looked so very blonde and so very pale in their black clothing. The only spots of color were their lips, burning a feverish red in their thin chalk-white skin. Their eyes widened anxiously at her approach.

“Samuel. Samantha.” She came forward slowly, deliberately, arms outstretched, palms up. “I know that you must be disappointed that the quarantine keeps you inside tonight, away from any fun. But I’ve prepared a special party for us, just our own little family, and I’m sure that no other children this evening will have treats quite like the ones I’ve had Greta make for you. And it all starts with a marvelous supper.” She beamed at them. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, Aunt Jocasta,” the children murmured obediently, and the lady was pleased to see that Samantha even gave a little eager smile, the first she had ever seen. She smiled back at the thought that she had finally earned her trust, and she swept them out towards the dining room, a firm, directing hand hovering over the backs of their necks.

The dining room was dark, lit only by a candle at each end of the table, but the dishes heaped on the table gleamed the richer for that. A glistening turkey, a heap of smoldering golden corn on the cob, glossy white mashed potatoes, tureens of brown gravy and cranberry sauce were all heaped around the centerpiece of an enormous hollowed out pumpkin shell that still steamed a little with the wine-red punch inside. Filling the spaces between all the dishes were little tarts, pumpkin and mince, and some filled with clear scarlet jelly glinting like a cat’s eyes in the flickering of the candles.

“Surprise!” Jocasta said brightly. “Have a seat, my dears.” They all sat, she at the head and children at either hand. Her warm glance darted between them.

“This magnificent feast is not only to celebrate the holiday,” she announced, “But also to celebrate the fact that you have been with me for one whole month! In honor of that, you need not wait for dessert, but tuck in as you like to all the sweet things, whenever you feel like it! Isn’t that fun?”

“Yes, Aunt Jocasta,” said Samuel dutifully.

“Thank you, Aunt Jocasta,” said Samantha, and the lady was pleased to see the little girl pick up one of the red tarts and devour it in two bites.

She served the rest of the meal then, slices of turkey and cups of punch, urging them on to try another little treat in between courses. By the time the last course was served they had devoured three or four of the little pies apiece.

“I hope you two have saved just a little bit of room,” she said with an air of eager mystery. “Because there is a final treat.” She rang the handbell at the side of her plate. “Greta had made one of her specialties to top things off, an ambrosia fool! Fruit, whipped cream, and a marshmallow sauce so light and frothy it will carry you off to heaven!” She gazed excitedly at the kitchen door.

Greta did not appear. The door did not open.

Jocasta rang the bell again. And again. At last, she called out, her voice rather strained.

“Come along, Greta! We’re all waiting!”

Samuel wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“I don’t think Greta is coming,” he said.

“What! Why not?” Aunt Jocasta was frustrated, not really listening. She rang the bell again, angrily.

“Because we put her in the furnace about an hour ago,” he said calmly.

Jocasta’s head shot back, red hair bouncing, eyes wide and goggling at the boy.

“What?” she stammered. “What do you mean?”

“After all, we couldn’t be having with her wickedness anymore,” said Samantha. She reached and took another pie, bit into it. “I mean, she was letting you add ‘extra spice’ into our food like this.”

“Not that it could hurt us,” Samuel said. “But it was her bad intentions that count.”

“Now Mr. Trager was better,” Samantha countered. “A kinder and more prudent man altogether.”

“Yes,” Samuel agreed. “He must have reconsidered his situation working for you because he simply ran away. A case of conscience, perhaps. We sensed he’d done things for you before but killing two little children was beyond the pale.”

“Trager.” The lady somehow hissed the name. She drew herself up dangerously. “I should have taken care of Trager when he passed you that note.”

“Oh, he didn’t write the note,” said Samantha. “It wasn’t for us, you see. We wrote the note. It was for you.”

“For … me?” Aunt Jocasta seemed to crumble back into her chair.

“A warning for you,” Samuel said impatiently. “Why do you think I gave it to you?”

“We need a guardian, you see, until we grow up. You obviously had designs on our fortunes and then our lives, but if you could change … a pity really.”

Aunt Jocasta’s head swiveled back and forth between the frail-looking little children on either hand, incredulous at what she was hearing.

“No,” she said. “No. My plan was working. You were getting weaker; you were wasting away!”

The boy shook his head.

“Not because of your special ministrations, dear Aunt Jocasta, but for lack of our proper food. We had to refrain for a while, to see how things here would go.” He frowned distastefully. “Greta was a tough old bird, but she fell to my lot. I thought it only right that such a dainty dish as you should go to Samantha; after all, she is a growing girl.”

Jocasta hand darted for the carving knife, but Samantha’s grip was on her wrist in a flash. The thin little fingers were like iron. Samantha’s lips drew back in a toothy grin at the woman’s terror.

“Happy Halloween, Aunt Jocasta,” she said.

 

Two weeks or so later found Mr. Blaine feeling very irritated at being called back to Banfrith so soon. He looked at the children sitting on the couch and wondered if they might simply be bad luck, then dismissed the thought from his businesslike mind. They certainly looked no worse for their time with their aunt; their cheeks were blooming and their eyes bright. He shuffled his papers.

“Well, that is that,” he announced. “As her only living relatives, your aunt’s estate has been added to your inheritance. How that poor lady thought she could handle this house after her servants abandoned her, especially with two young children on her hands, is beyond me. They told me that she looked positively drained when they found her.” He coughed. “A lady like her couldn’t be expected to understand the dangers of asphyxiation from a faulty heating system.” He removed his pince-nez and looked at the children with watery eyes.

“What will happen to us now?” the girl asked, voice barely a whisper.

“Well,” the lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “As you know, Mrs. Weir was your last known relative. Unless and until we can find another,” he threw up a hand, “I suppose you can stay with me and Mrs. Blaine in a conservatorship until we can find somewhere to place you. My wife has agreed to take you on, at least until Christmas, so you can have a homey celebration.”

“She sounds nice,” the boy said. “How long is that?”

“Oh, now let me see. I believe it’s … yes, it’s just thirty-one days from now.”

The girl smiled.

“That sounds just about right.”

[Author's Note: I completed this story's first draft on October 31, 2019. But the original germ of the idea came from a dream I had all the way back in Briesemeister (how I keep returning to that theme!). The characters and setting were the same, but much less detailed of course, and the time was 'contemporary'. I even dreamed that little poetic quatrain, which is how I remembered the whole thing for so long.]