Part 8: Silver (Hell's) Bells

Previously in the Vines inquiry— Frank relived the terrible memory of his and Dick’s 16th birthday; with a pond that wouldn’t freeze and socks that stayed dry.

The vice broke and Frank sucked in a gulping breath. Back then and now. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat. He put a numb hand to his chest to make sure it was still there as he pressed his back into the wall of the staircase. Frank stamped his feet, squashing the memory away. He was here. Alive, older, in the manor.

Da-dum. Da-dum.

Frank’s heart sounded out into the still night, percussion for the wood winds outside. A few breaths passed until it quickened, rising. Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum. The beat repeated on itself. Took up a new rhythm. Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum…. It rose within him; a bass, matte version of a song in bells he remembered. It wasn’t a Christmas carol, but held the same crystalline chill and potential for melancholy. Had he heard it in the kitchen while his mother made coffee? No, somewhere cloudier. A different woman. 

Frank looked to the front door, the snow falling through and listened as each flake let out a bell’s chime.

Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum.

The song rushed through the front door. It behaved as helium, swelling to fill the space. The whole foyer rang in time. Was it coming from outside? Whistling through the trees? No, the parlor. 

“It’s here,” said Richard. He turned up the record player. “I hear.” Frank nodded along to the beat, soothed.  

“Get the butcher knife,” said Rosalind.

Sign up today!

“Wait. There’s no time,” she continued. “Do the lions still work?”

Frank heard a metallic clicking. An unoiled groan. 

“What about Francis?”

“Nothing can go wrong!” Rosalind snapped her fingers. “With what I gave him, he’ll be out until morning.”

“We agreed not to tell him.”

“And we still do. What would it do? Just worry him. Or worse, inspire action. He’ll be lucky in a few days’ time. We’ll be in the New World.”

“But will he be grateful for it?” said Richard with that menacing schwarm Nia had mentioned.

Frank never noticed it before. Like growing up in a house that always smells of cat piss.  

“He won’t have a choice. Let’s not hold our breath, hmm? Nia’s got that covered.” His parents laughed together and shared a kiss. “Okay. Don’t look at me like that. Go quickly. Through the wrist. I need you to flick the lever. We can’t miss this.” 

His mother tried to suppress it at first, letting out only little whimpers and colorful cursing, but soon the pain must have been too much. She boiled over through her teeth. Curdling screams echoed in the parlor’s cavernous ceiling. Richard raised the volume on the record player, heightening intermittent words of encouragement from a chorus of different voices. 

“You can do this, darling. You can do this. Live full. Live well,” he said as Rosalind yelped. “You’re almost through the tendons. There. Halfway done. Pull hard. Twist here, darling. It’ll snap.” 

Rosalind cried and wept, but never begged, as she went about her work. Through it all, the bell song hovered within audible reach, but was never as loud as Rosalind’s grisly score. 

“Richard. I’m going. We’re going to get…” 

“Yes, my Rosa,” he said.  “Good-bye, darling.” 

Frank was crumpled on the stairs, both hands over his mouth and tears running down his face. He heard a sloppy, wet dumping. The bell song cut off and a heap collapsed.

He knew it had to be his mother. Who else could stop a room in its tracks like that?

“It’s done,” said Richard. He sounded almost relieved. Finally unburdened.

“How long will she—,” started Nia. Richard shushed her. Moments later, they were applauding. The rest of the room, dozens of pairs of hands, joined in. The applause lasted for minutes while more something was thrown on the fire and Richard opened another bottle of champagne.

With the clinking of glasses, they finished up the soirée.

“Hail Feenuín!” said Rosalind, clear as the crystal glass in her hand.

“Hail!”