Violets

By Hannah Robinson

There are two rooms we don’t talk about.

One’s the scullery. No need to talk about it—we live there.

The other’s Miss Mary’s room.

Master Falwell keeps the door locked. Wears the key ’round his neck. Never speaks about the daughter he loved and lost, the wispy girl on the brink of womanhood, the dreamer with the ash-gray skin and tendril-like limbs. She’d always been frail, long as I’d worked at Falwell House, but she loved living so much that she died of it.

“Found in a patch of violets, poor dear. Her favorite flower. Doctor told her to stay in bed, but you know Miss Mary…” Gossip started spreading in town the week Mary died, and it only grew with time.

“I heard she still walks in the violet patch on foggy nights.”

“Well, I heard Old Sam sees her shadow in her bedroom window.”

I’ve listened to the whispers, but I never join in. In Falwell House, we’re forbidden to mention her.

At least, we were.

Now, Master Falwell’s on his own deathbed. Broken heart, says the doctor. Master’s been a shadow of himself ever since last year when a village boy carried Miss Mary home like a rag doll, limp and lifeless, her favorite purple ribbon still tangled in her mouse-brown hair.

Doctor says Master Falwell won’t last a week.

So, of course we’re talking about Miss Mary’s room. We’ll have to unlock it when we clean the house.

No telling what’s going to happen to the place. When Master dies, no one’s left but Sarah and me, the maids.

And Old Sam, the gardener—the most superstitious bloke in all Crestonshire. Sarah chalks up all Miss Mary’s ghost stories to him.

“Mornin’, Lizzie,” says Old Sam as I step into the spring sunshine.

“Mornin’.” I sit on the stair to watch him garden. It’s comforting, watching him helping things live.

“Catching some fresh air?”

I nod. “Smells like death inside.”

What I mean is it smells like medicine. The doctor’s been coming and going all week. He’s in there now, mixing Master’s remedy. I can’t stand the smell. Too familiar.

“Death’s comin’. When it does, someone’s gonna to have to take up the torch, if you catch my meaning.” Sam winks. Waits. “The violets?”

I frown. “What about them?”

He leans closer and squints, like he can’t believe anyone could be so stupid and still breathe. “You know, you’ll have to take the violets to her grave in Master’s place.”

I roll my eyes. “Sam, there’s nothing to that. Master Falwell is obsessed. I’m not pickin’, dryin’, and puttin’ loads of flowers by some stone all days of the year.”

“Suit yourself.” Sam raises his eyebrows at me. A warning. “You’re the one she’d want to do it.”

I know. I was the only one she trusted to make her breakfast right, to choose her hair ribbons, and to administer her daily medicine.

“Tomorrow makes a year, Lizzie.”

I know that, too. A year since the day my care couldn’t save her. I can still see her huge, pale eyes. Her childlike smile. Her thin fingers tangled in her hair. Will you braid for me, Lizzie? I can’t do it right, and Sarah always pulls.

I would take her hands—just as long as mine, but only half as thick—and place them in her lap. Then I’d braid her hair. Finish it with her beloved purple ribbon, then add a few flowers from the vase on the vanity. They’d wither within hours.

Too soon.

“Sam, she’s dead.” I say it to remind myself as much as him. “She doesn’t care whether there are violets on her grave or not.”

He doesn’t say a word. Just looks at me, eyebrows raised, then turns back to his pruning.

The door crashes open. Sarah charges out, breathless and white-faced. “Master’s dead!”

I jump up. “Already?”

She gulps in a breath and nods at me. “He said you’re to take her violets. Tomorrow.” She holds out a ribbon—Miss Mary’s favorite. The one I gave her. “Tie them with this.”

I glance at Sam, who smiles smugly.

“All right.” I snatch the ribbon. “I will. Tomorrow.”

“And every other day,” adds Sarah.

“Sarah, we have to move on. Master’s dead. I won’t be here to put flowers at Miss Mary’s grave.”

Sarah’s eyes bulge. “Master knew how Miss Mary liked you. He said you’re to stay here and bring her flowers. He said the house is yours.”

This is ridiculous. No one gives a maid his estate just so she’s situated to decorate a grave. I force a breath so I can speak. “What? No. I’ll stay until the house is in order. No longer.”

Sam shakes his head. “Suit yourself.”

I do as I’m told. I gather fresh violets from Mary’s favorite meadow, tie them with her favorite ribbon, and put them by her grave.

I help organize Master’s funeral. No one comes except us servants, the doctor, and the preacher.

The next day, I decide to stay in Falwell House. The doctor found a lawyer, and the lawyer said my name’s in the will. The way I figure it, if Master wanted me to have the place, there’s no reason to turn down a mansion. But I don’t really intend to carry on Master Falwell’s crazy tradition.

Three days after Master’s death, I start cleaning the place. I begin with Miss Mary’s room. I miss it. The key squeaks in the lock, and a layer of dust coats the floor. Everything’s just as we left it.

Except…

The four-poster bed is covered in dried violets. A mountain of them. As many as Master ever dried. And on the vanity, in the vase, are fresh flowers. Slightly wilted, tied with a familiar purple ribbon.

I gasp, my stomach tightening. The dust in the room is undisturbed, apart from a tiny patch beside the vase.

A single handprint.

As long as mine. Only half as thick.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hannah Robinson is a YA fantasy author who loves spinning tales of royal intrigue, assassins, and, of course, dragons. She has won several writing awards through Florida Christian Writers Conference, including 2019 Writer of the Year. When she’s not writing, she enjoys exploring nature, making music, reading old books, and drinking lots of tea.

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