The Study of Silence

  For my mother

  “The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent

  and easy is the way.”

  -Virgil, The Aeneid

  “Oh, the torment bred in the race,

  the grinding scream of death

  and the stroke that hits the vein,

  the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,

  the curse no man can bear.

  But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no,

  not from others but from them,

  their bloody strife. We sing to you,

  dark gods beneath the earth.

  Now hear, you blissful powers underground -

  answer the call, send help.

  Bless the children, give them triumph now.”

  -Aeschylus, The Oresteia

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  ©2016 Malia Zaidi. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN: 978-1-54391-638-6 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-54391-639-3 (ebook)

  Prologue

  My hair is tangled, a loose knot at the nape of my neck, where my head rests against the cool stone wall. I close my eyes and see it all swimming like a dream beneath my lids. And him, always him. I open my eyes, still here. Still here. The thought echoes in my mind as if I have spoken it aloud, and it is bouncing from the uncaring walls of this chamber.

  Suddenly, from somewhere above and beyond comes the sound of clanging metal. A door opens and with a screech is shut again. Closed. Secured. Barred. Steps follow. Slow, reluctant steps. One, two, three . . . I want to lose myself in the monotony of the rhythm. I grow used to it, even enjoy it, when the steps suddenly cease once more. Silence. Then nearby, another metallic cry. A key is turned in a rusty lock. A door is opened. A door. My door. Steps again. Two this time. Only a small space to cross. I notice his shoes first. They gleam in the low light. Attached to the shoes, a man in a dour black suit. I look up at his face, but perceive only shadow, dark lines. Squinting, I make no effort to get to my feet. There is no pretending we are equals now. He has no choice, but to crouch to my level. I have brought him down with me. To me.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  His face is close, and I am shocked by his youth. I had expected gray temples and furrowed brows. He is younger than I, not by much perhaps, but nonetheless. His eyes meet mine. Can I speak to him? Should I tell him the truth, my truth? A sudden bang from a place beyond these walls makes him flinch and he tears his gaze from mine, only for a moment, but it is decisive.

  His voice is quiet, calm . . . kind? “My child, speak.”

  A warbled laugh escapes my dry throat. My child. I am no one’s child any longer. The words are ludicrous coming from this man, this frightened boy in an adult’s body. He wants to be here nearly as little as I, and fights with himself not to recoil at the sudden sound erupting from my mouth. I frighten him. I, a helpless creature sitting at his feet, frighten him. Another choked laugh.

  “Shall I get you some water.”

  Water. I shake my head.

  “Will you not let me hear you?” I am struck by his earnest expression, nothing like the permanent mask of stern reprimand, the looks of disgust I have received these past weeks. Could I tell him? Might he understand? It would not change my fate. But someone else would know the truth. Before I can think of reasons to stay silent, before I can begin to understand the consequences, my words pour out. The last words I will ever speak find compassionate ears. Once spoken, they cannot be unspoken, and when I complete my tale, my truth, I am empty. There is nothing more and I am nothing more.

  The light is so bad I cannot tell whether he has paled at my confession. Our eyes meet in the gloom, glowing embers. He watches me for another moment, then gets to his feet, brushes his trousers and walks the few steps back to the door. I hear him rap the thick wood twice. Then the lock is turned.

  He speaks once more, his words run through me like flour through a sieve. Nothing sticks. Nothing stays. I am water and he is oil. The door clatters shut and his steps fade away.

  I am alone.

  Time passes strangely in this place. Moments become hours become days, when the door opens again. I am pulled to my feet by rough, calloused hands; hands not used to kindness. Words are spat at me. I do not hear, do not speak. I am only a spirit. I am jerked out of the door, along a passageway, up cold stone stairs. My feet scrape the ground. I do not feel pain. I am denied even my last walk. Another door. Up wooden steps, this time. Tiny splinters dig into the soft soles of my bare feet.

  “Stand!” he commands and lets go of my arm. I try, but these legs are no longer mine and betray me, buckling like those of a newborn foal. He mutters a cruel word, hissed in anger, in hatred he cannot possibly feel, for he does not know me. None of them know me. How can we hate what we do not know? Do I hate him? His touch the last my skin will ever feel, his words the last my throbbing ears will hear . . .

  I see faces before me, staring. Their eyes bulge hungrily, looking like creatures, not human at all. Then they are gone. My world is black. Rough fabric scratches my face. I am pulled back. Secured. I hear words, hollow, sharp, final.

  I—

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, she is the sweetest little thing,” I say, lifting the tiny child from my cousin’s arms. Her eyes are wide open and as blue as those of her parents. A patch of downy, pale hair covers her small head, and I gently run my hand over it. She makes a gurgling noise, which I take for contentment.

  “She is, isn’t she?” Briony beams at me from her position on the chaise longue. The birth was complicated, when little Elsa Tyche Farnham decided to make a premature entry into this world, surprising us all. She arrived a whole four weeks early, a shrieking, wrinkly, red-faced bundle. Despite our fears for the little one, not to mention Briony, both have made a full recovery in the past month and must contend with countless visitors and well-wishers, eager to
see the long-awaited and much wished-for Farnham baby.

  “I’m your Aunt Evie, and I’m going to take you riding and teach you to drive a motorcar one day,” I cuddle the tiny bundle, and she reaches out to tug at my necklace. She has us all wrapped firmly around those sweet, pink fingers of hers. “Where are the others?” I ask, pulling my gaze away from the child and looking at my cousin.

  “Jeffrey has taken them into town, as a treat.”

  “How are they handling being older siblings?”

  Briony and her husband, Jeffrey, adopted three children not two years ago, when I still lived with them in their villa on Crete. Iona, the eldest just turned eleven, and has always possessed a maturity that belies her years. The younger ones, Timon and Areta, are another matter. I know how concerned Briony was that they would feel excluded upon the arrival of the baby, a biological child at that, when attention has been lavished upon them for as long as they have belonged to the family. Sharing it must come as quite a sacrifice.

  “They have adjusted remarkably well, I think. I worry, but Jeffrey has been a help, and it is so lovely having you and my parents around.”

  “I wish I could be of more use to you, not dashing off to Oxford at the end of every weekend,” I say with a shrug, for I am currently completing the last year of my studies at St. Hugh’s. It is a great source of pleasure and, admittedly, pride for me, but it is bittersweet, too, as I had not expected my cousin and her brood to return to England so soon.

  “You enjoy it, I can tell you do. It was a shame you broke off your studies when Aunt Iris fell ill those years ago. Have you made any decision what to do once you are finished? Will you find a house in London? And what of Daniel?”

  What of Daniel? A good question, and not the first time Briony has asked it. Daniel is in London now. Miles away, and yet, unarguably close. I have spent more than a year in his company. A bond has formed between us that stretches beyond romance. We are together, and we are not. He is in London, and I am in Oxford, or here at Chesterton, the country home of Briony’s parents, where she and her family are currently staying while she recovers and the house in London is renovated. I do not see him much these days, a visit once every other week. What of Daniel, indeed?

  Deciding to avoid the question by answering another, I say, “I am looking for a place in the city. As yet, I have not been there often enough to get very far in the search. I do not even know whether I want a flat or a house, or where it should be. It all feels quite . . . overwhelming. Strange to think I am all grown up and must make these decisions on my own without any experience as the mistress of a home.”

  “You are not looking in Belgravia?”

  I chuckle and Briony grins wickedly. My Aunt Agnes, under whose stern gaze I grew up, resides in the heart of that neighborhood and it is indeed desirable to venture farther afield.

  “I rather think I shall look elsewhere, though I am considering how to poach Milly from her household. She was more than a maid to me when I lived there, a friend, really. I felt guilty when I took off to live with you and had to leave her behind. I wonder whether she can be persuaded, and whether Agnes will permit it.”

  “There would probably be some rigid stipulation attached to such a bargain.” Briony lowers her voice to mimic my aunt. “’You must attend a weekly Sunday night dinner. You must wear pearls and gloves and long hemlines.’” We laugh, and I can just about hear Aunt Agnes making much the same demands.

  “Oh, dear. What will I get myself into?” Our laughter has roused Elsa, who was starting to doze, and she pounds her tiny fist against my chest. “Hello, little boxer. Yes, yes, you want attention, too. We understand.” I jiggle her gently and she gives a gummy smile, a bubble of saliva dribbling down her chin and soaking into the lace of her collar. “How can it be that a tiny, toothless person, who has no control over her bodily functions is so utterly charming?”

  Her mother sighs blissfully. “She is perfect. My perfect little fortune.” Briony and Jeffrey, a scholar of classical antiquity, decided to bestow the middle name “Tyche” on the new addition to their family. Tyche meaning “fortune” in Greek. The name serves the added purpose of connecting her to her Greek-born siblings.

  We sit together a while longer, marveling at Elsa’s long lashes and little feet, and chatting about our plans for the Christmas holiday, until I take my reluctant leave, promising to return soon.

  “Tell the others I am sorry to have missed them.” I gently place the sleeping child into her mother’s arms. “And take care of yourself.” Briony nods indulgently and I slip from the room, careful not to make a sound to stir Elsa from her peaceful slumber.

  As I crunch down the gravel drive toward my motor—a recently acquired dark blue Bentley Three Litre—I sense a distinct chill in the air. We are not on Crete anymore, and autumn is well and truly making its presence felt. Climbing into the car, I am glad to have the roof up, for a raindrop spatters the windshield as soon as I close the door. Clouds in all hues of gray are swirling ominously about the sky like a Turner masterpiece. Rolling out of the long drive, I begin my journey back to Oxford.

  I am enjoying my studies more than I had anticipated, needing some structure, some grounding, after spending over a year living a life of leisure on Crete. Coming home was daunting, past demons closer and reminders of loss everywhere. Still, I have convinced myself it was the right choice. If for no other reason than the felicitous coincidence that Briony and her expanding family have also returned to these shores. Happy memories are bound to outnumber sad ones under these circumstances. Even remembering the look of delight on my cousin’s face as she held her child earlier, or when she watches the others at play, is enough to warm my cheeks and bring a smile to my lips.

  The rain is strengthening, and water sloshes about, blurring my vision of the road ahead. Squinting, I slow my speed, eager to remain on the track and out of a ditch. At my back, I hear the faint purr of another engine even over the tinny sound of the rain. Looking into my rearview mirror, I notice the dark outline of a larger car only a small distance from me. The driver must have just turned onto the road. I focus my attention on what is ahead, feeling the skin between my brows constrict with concentration. Suddenly, there is an almighty screech and from the corner of my eye, I glimpse the hind legs of a rushing doe disappear into the brush. I slow down and glance back, the dark motor’s front wheels are embedded in the ditch running parallel to the path. The driver must have swerved to avoid the animal and run himself off the road!

  Carefully, I pull to the side, turning off the engine. Shifting in my seat, I peer through the rain spattered back window. The other vehicle, a large Austin by the looks of it, has ceased any movement. Sighing, I fumble for my umbrella and climb out, trying to avoid larger puddles while making my way to the immobilized car. A man pushes open the driver’s door and gets out.

  “Are you hurt?” I call out, a little wary being alone on a country road with a stranger. It will be dark in an hour this time of year.

  “We’re all right. Blasted deer! Probably having a good laugh behind those bushes.” Though rain is drizzling onto his face, I can see the man is older than me by just a few years. His copper hair is darkening under the weight of the water, and I step closer to offer the protection of my substantial umbrella.

  “Oh, no. It’s all right, thank you.” He shakes off my help. “It’s not far to the next village. We will wait until the rain stops and set off. That Bentley of yours won’t be able to pull us out of the ditch.” Again, he shakes his head, frowning in bemusement at his dilemma.

  “Us?” I ask, peering into the dark interior of the car.

  “Yes, my son. I told him to stay inside.” He leans down to the open door. “It’s all right, mate, but we will have to—”

  “Nonsense,” I interrupt. “Come along, I will drive you to the next village. There we can find someone to pull you out of the ditch.” Relieved to find a ch
ild present, I feel more confident making this offer. He cannot be too villainous with his son sitting beside him, can he?

  “We couldn’t ask for that.”

  “You did not ask. I offered. Now come along before it gets dark.”

  Despite my insistence, the man eyes me for another moment with indecision, then leans down and opens the car door to call to his son.

  “Thom, climb out, would you, son. We’ve had the great fortune of being offered a lift.” He turns his head to give me a smile. A moment later, a boy with his father’s coppery hair climbs out on the other side. He looks up at me with curious brown eyes, and his enthusiasm grows considerably when he takes in the Bentley a stretch down the road.

  “What a spiffy motor!” he exclaims, eyes widening at the gleaming contraption.

  I laugh. “Come along, if you want to see the inside, young man.” The boy follows my instruction without a question, or, for that matter, a backward glance at his father. The man himself catches up to us quickly, his long legs taking wider strides than ours.

  “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he apologizes again.

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “I have not even introduced myself. My name is Stanton, Lucas Stanton. And this is Thomas.”

  “Evelyn Carlisle at your service, gentlemen.” We climb in. It is warm, and I take a moment to wipe the condensation from the windshield. The rain has lessened and the sky, where it meets the horizon, is white. The storm has passed, it seems. It will ease my drive to Oxford, once I have sent these fellows on their way.

  “How fast does it go?” comes the boy’s voice from the back row

  “Eighty miles an hour, if you can believe it. I confess, I have not yet pushed it to such speeds. Today, I fear, the conditions do not allow for such an experiment, even in the name of educating the youth.” I smile into the rearview mirror, and catch a grin from Lucas Stanton beside me. “I am told the Duke of Kent has the same car,” I add conspiratorially.

  “My!” exclaims Thom.

  “Do you live nearby?” asks Stanton. “I do not like to think of you going out of your way.” He looks out of the window. There is a distinct easing in the atmosphere.