Echoes of a silver vow

Chapter 3

My maids were huddled in the corner, pale and trembling. And there was Lillian. My sweet, delicate Lillian. She had a heavy chopping knife in her hand, and she was bringing it down on a cut of meat with a violence that made my heart stutter. With every brutal slam, a curse tore from her lips.

“Bastard! Thief! p*****t! Mentally retarded! Stupid! Bully!”

The meat was a pulverized mess. The vegetables were splinters. And then, as suddenly as it began, she stopped. She stared at the ruined food, her chest heaving. And then a sound I rarely heard broke from her—a raw, gut-wrenching wail. “Whaaaaaa!”

For a moment, the world froze. The ladies gasped. I stood paralyzed, my blood running cold as a thought flashed. It was Catherine who moved first, rushing down the stairs and wrapping her arms around her sobbing sister, murmuring soft, soothing words into her hair.

We managed to guide her to the living room sofa. The ladies tried useless platitudes, but Lillian just cried harder, her small frame shaking. I couldn’t stand it anymore. The sight of her tears was a physical terror and pain. I sat beside her and pulled her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin.

“Lilly, my little flower,” I whispered, my voice soft, a tone I reserved only for her in moments of true distress.

I felt the ladies’ shocked stares. They’d never seen Madam Silvia be anything but composed, calculating. They didn’t know the mother beneath the matron.

Lillian sniffled, her story tumbling out in broken pieces between hiccups—a man at the market, taking the best produce, and finally, stealing the ice cream cone right from her hand.

A wave of relieved laughter filled the room. Even I chuckled, shaking my head at the sheer childishness of it. Of course. A treat. I couldn't blame her, my Lillian was but a child. I remembered that Lillian was still crying and changed my expression from laughter to feigned anger.

I cooed her, wiping her tears and sniffles with my handkerchief. As I spoke she nodded, her sobs subsiding into sniffles. Seeing her face brighten, i promised her the pastry she had always wanted. As she whispered “Okay,” with her small and tired voice, I signed in relief. Only after saying a word of concern and making sure she was okay, did I let her go. I watched shuffle off with her mood visibly lighter, but instead of feeling relieved the knot in my stomach only tightened. The ladies teased me about my softness, and I gave them the answer they expected—she was my youngest, my good girl, she deserved to be spoiled. They left soon after, their curiosity satisfied.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Madeline teased Lillian at supper for her childishness and I promised Lillian a picnic trip, and her resulting joy was so bright it almost made me forget the dread I felt. Almost.

That night, after tucking her in and listening to her excited chatter about the picnic, I kissed her forehead and left her to dream. But sleep wouldn’t come for me, the scene of this afternoon made me restless. I went for a glass of water and, as is my habit, peeked into each of my daughters’ rooms.

Catherine was curled on her side, peaceful. Madeline was sprawled out, one arm hanging off the bed, I smile seeing that. And Lillian…, she looked peaceful as usual but never the less I moved closer her.

I adjusted her blanket, my hand brushing her neck.

Suddenly, I removed my hand in fright. She was burning up.

A fever, fierce and sudden, had taken hold. Her skin was slick with sweat, her breathing shallow. My heart hammered against my ribs, I calmed myself down ignoring the thoughs in my mind. I sprong into action and I rushed to get a basin of water. I thought of waking the maids but seeing how dark it was opted not to. I spent the rest of the night in a frantic dance with a cold cloth and a basin of water, but the heat beneath her skin refused to break.

As the first grey light of dawn filtered through her window, I could wait no longer. I shook Mrs. Nettle awake and thrust her into the room to tend to Lillian while I rushed for the door to fetch the doctor myself.

The noise roused Catherine and Madeline. They emerged from their rooms, bleary-eyed.

“Mum, what’s wrong?” Catherine asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

I must have looked a fright—hair coming loose, face pale with worry and exhaustion. “It’s your sister. She has a high fever.”

“A high fever?” Catherine’s voice was sharp with surprise. “When did that happen?”

Madeline frowned, her sleepiness evaporating. “But she was alright last night.”

I looked at my two older daughters, the words tasting like ash. “At midnight, after I went to drink a glass of water, I checked on all of you. When I went to Lillian’s room… she was practically boiling. I’ve been trying to bring it down, but it isn’t calming down. Mrs. Nettle is with her now. I’m going to get the doctor.”

I turned back to the door, my hand on the latch, but Madeline’s hand closed around my arm, pulling me back.

“Mum, you wait here. I’ll go.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Catherine cut in, her voice firm. “Mum, big sis is right. You should stay. You haven’t slept properly. If you were to break down, who would take care of Lillian?”

The protest died on my lips. They were right. The fear was a lead weight in my veins, but they were right. I could only nod, my throat too tight to speak, as I watched Madeline hurry out into the cool morning air, leaving me stranded in the hallway, listening to the ragged sound of my youngest child’s breathing from down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind Madeline, leaving a hollow silence in the hall. Catherine’s hand was on my shoulder, her touch light but steadying.

“She’ll be fine, Mum. Madeline will be quick.”

I nodded, my throat too tight for words. I kept telling myself, I had to be calm. I always had to be calm. “I know. Go sit with your sister. Keep her calm. I’ll fetch a fresh cloth and more water.”

Catherine hesitated, her green eyes searching my face, but she obeyed, slipping quietly into Lillian’s room. The moment she was gone, the composure I’d clung to cracked. My legs carried me to the washroom on autopilot. I grabbed the basin, the clean cloth. My hands trembled so badly the water sloshed over the rim.

A thought, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, pierced through the fog of my fear. It wasn’t just a fever. It couldn’t be. Not this sudden. Not this violent.

The basin slipped from my numb fingers. It hit the floor with a dull, wet thud, water spreading across the tiles. I didn’t try to catch it. My legs gave way, and I slumped against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor.

No. Please, no.

The prayer was a silent scream inside my skull. Not like this. Not now.

I pressed the heels of my hands hard against my closed eyes, as if I could push the terrifying possibility back out. Memories I had fought for years to bury surged forward—the heat, the pain, the irrevocable change. The destiny that waited like a predator.

Let it just be a fever. A simple, cruel fever. Nothing more.

But the dread pooling in my stomach, cold and heavy, told me I was praying for a miracle that would not come.