The Woman Called Nova*

Note: Andrew and Cecilia are supposed to be British noble kids, twins

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When he returns to full clarity of mind, he sees that Cecilia has taken over the flashlight. Her beam is much steadier. Andrew crouches over the skeleton and then turns to her sister. She’s been studying the carcass, Andrew knows she has, her faces exposes her, the grin she’s trying to suppress. He also knows she’s now studying him, too.

            “Who do you think they were?” asks Andrew from her sister whose grin vanishes in an instant.

            She doesn’t answer but asks another question in return, “How do you think they died?”

            The carcass lacks structure, the skull has rolled away from the body. Bones of the arm and fingers are chaotically mingled with the rib and spine bones. The leg bones are somehow too far away from the rest of the body.

            “They were probably the one who owned the house. This is where they commanded their speculations from. Probably drank tea all day and never ceased taking visitors.”

            “Something caused them to come down here,” Cecilia points out.

            “Or maybe they were a recluse,” says Andrew.

            “They were a painter, I think,” says Cecilia. “One who wasn’t any good but had got many charitable patrons.”

            “The fire trapped them here.”

            “Which means they starved to death,” finishes Cecilia.

            “Maybe it was dehydration.”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “Maybe they didn’t starve either,” says Andrew. He flicks the flashlight over the cans and jars of food stacked into the corners of the room.

            “But why didn’t the firefighters save them,” asks Cecilia.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Maybe it was suicide.”

            “A weird suicide at that,” says Andrew and reaches over the corpse for the skull. They both know Shakespeare’s Hamlet as part of their private extra curriculum. Andrew doesn’t dare joke around, toying with the skull like Hamlet had. He studies the skull and its many sides but gives it over to her sister when he feels the gagging sensation come on. She accepts it, yearning to slide her fingers over it, feel its form, its physical realness.

            The room is a dead end. Most of the cabinets have been pushed over, stuff has spilled out. But they don’t dare to remain in the musty atmosphere for any longer. Perhaps they would explore it fully some other day.

They hurry out and slump through the field of hay as fast as they can, but the grass seems to be growing heavier by the minute. The moon shines no more and they take out the flashlight again, showing a path through the countryside. They enter the manor the same way they left, through their hallway window. Their bloodhound slumbers with loud snores under a rose bush and doesn’t budge when they skip right past its nose.

            The skull they decide to hide in Cecilia’s room, since the servants clean it less often than Andrew’s room.