Chapter Text
When the women appears, she is covered in blood. Her face is stained crimson, her brown hair tugged into intricate tangles that hang low down her back. She stands, at the edge of the girl’s bed, looming and tall, at about six foot, and screams. Her voice, an unearthly, shallow howl that seems disjointed from any sound that had bequeathed her ears prior to it, pierces the girl’s ear even in moments of silence; those blessed seconds where sound ceases and she can finally inhale her first breath. It comes, like a hunter in the night, a malicious howl of unease, a battle cry of uncertainty, for which the origin, she does not know. The first time meeting her was at twelve, when she appeared at the crack of dawn before her new governess’ tenure at the House of Moore. She screamed and howled and cried and gagged until small Erin was up with red-rimmed eyes and tears spilling against the will of her body, and she begged, for the first and last time in her life, Erin begged for the woman to leave. Her shadowy body, her strange, infectious darkness that seamed to consume the mammoth room, her form, unable to be fully understood in the breadth of the murkiness, was a haunting to Erin.
At first assessment, Erin thought she was haunted.
In a strange way, she still thinks so.
‘He’s dead,’ Ellen whispers to her sister.
Roisin Moore is a bright girl. She has that strangely enchanting combination of bright, cerulean eyes and dark chocolate hair that runs so low down her back it brushes the top of her backside. Her face is all sharp edges and chiseled perfection, and if she wasn’t a Fenian sympathiser, she might’ve been swept off her feet by some English lord, ready to risk his family’s fortune for a piece of her fortune, like wishing at the feet of Aphrodite, giving all your earthly possessions for the brush of her hand against your cheek. She stands tall like an oak, with an imposing nature that could make even men recoil from her presence. Erin always thought Ellen was the only woman who could match her, in fierceness and beauty. Together, they are a peculiar combination: beauty and madness.
Roisin spares her a glance that is twisted with warning. Don’t speak. Don’t say anything. Look away. Erin feels herself instinctively averting her gaze before thinking, lacing her fingers together, trying to crumple her fingers into an odd shape that strains her flesh and muscle. In her lap is a discarded attempt at crochet that her grandmother disapprovingly stares at.
‘You should keep trying, Rin. You have some real talent if you’d give it a shot and a half,’ Her mother, Soarise, attests, the tips of her knitting needles lightly hitting together as she weaves a new blanket for Erin.
‘I have given it a shot, Grandmama,’ Erin sighs, pushing herself back into her chair, the clump of fabric compiling around her, drowning her in wool and inherited cotton. ‘I’m no good.’
‘That’s the kind of restless talk that gets you wound up with no husband and no prospects,’ She nods her greying head towards Roisin. ‘You don’t want to land in that position. Not with your…,’
Erin shoves the mediocre wrap of woollen threads off her lap onto the floor with a disruptive clank that draws uneasy stares towards her. In the dark, rank pub, attention is the currency of danger. Erin feels the agitating heat of shame creep up her spine, the back of neck flaming under the heat of people’s glances. She watches Roisin’s teeth grit, sitting on edge, about to force through the venomous words beginning to retch into her mouth, from the pits of her stomach. Ellen tries to afford her some kindness, a forced smile creeping onto her face. Pretty and delicate. It makes Erin’s stomach crawl.
‘Erin!’ Her grandmother hisses, groaning as she reaches over to scrape her work fro2m the sticky wooden panels of the floor. ‘Sit back down at once!’
Erin glances around the small room, impervious stares burning into the edges of her skin, peeling away at the fragile threads of flesh that encase her nervous, blackened soul. In the corner, she sees her, antlers cracking through the skull of her ruptured frame, twisting into coils at the top her head. She hisses, a smile shoving it’s way on her face. A feeling boils in the depths of her stomach; trepidation curling around her organs like a vicious hand wrenching itself through her viscera, shoving through her organs and grabbing onto whatever was vulnerable. All of her.
‘Erin..,’ Roisin calls, a sickening saccharine sound cooing through the air. ‘Is everything alright?’
Erin purses her lips, licking them sparsely, eyes darting from Roisin, Ellen and her grandmother. ‘Yes, I’m just feeling… under the weather. My weakened constitution is calling for bedrest.’
‘Oh child!’ Soarise calls, slowly clambering to her side, achingly elderly form slowly crouching to Erin’s side. Roisin is over in an instant, Ellen hot on her heels. ‘You should’ve just said. We would’ve returned you home instantly.’
‘I-…,’ Erin hesitates. ‘I just didn’t want to… inconvenience anyone’s leisure.’
‘Sweet child,’
‘I can take you home,’ Roisin interjects firmly. ‘I would hate to disrupt you grandmama. I should’ve taken closer care of you in the morning.’
‘What a beautiful sister you have, Erin,’ Soarise croons with joy, rubbing a loving arm up and down Erin’s clothed shoulder. ‘But no. You are with friends.’
‘I can escort myself home. It is only a block away,’ Erin says firmly. Her eyes flicker to the corner. The Antler woman, who’s eyes obscured beneath a shadow, tilts her head. Her grin begins to crack further across her face, an unearthly sight, that breaches the edges of her mouth and rips apart the rest of her check to accomodate the expression.
‘Escort yourself!’ Soarise shrieks, and Ellen and Roisin nod with her uneasiness.
‘Grandmama is right. It is unseemly for a woman taken ill to walk alone. I will walk you home and return - it shouldn’t take any more than a moment. We shouldn’t disrupt anyone for this,’ Roisin says firmly, an unsaid message erupting within her eyes, piercing into Erin’s face.
‘Right… Roisin. That is quite kind,’
‘Quite!’
The air is bitter with the first tinges of winter. It’s the kind of whipping cold that berates any open piece of flesh; any exposed part of the body, with a lashing so cruel it might’ve been orchestrated by the British army. Erin feels herself succumbing into the soft woollen of her scarf, trailing idly behind her sister, who flames through the streets, feet working at double pace, shoulders knocking into passer-by’s.
Roisin glances over her shoulder, the low hanging smog and crowded streets threatening to lose Erin in the mess of it. She slows herself, trying to hang to Erin’s lackadasiel pace.
‘Oh, come, Erin. Some of us have errands to return too,’ Roisin softly knocks her side into Erin’s. A moment of silence passes, in which the endless hum of chatter seems to infuse itself in the gallows of space between them. Roisin shifts nervously, trying to look to her sister and recover some sense of familiarity, rotten through years of discomfort and space.
‘I know you’re not sick,’ Roisin finally whispers, like a dark conspiracy. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you think is going on?’ Erin huffs out, her breath appearing like a cloud of smoke out of her mouth. ‘I couldn’t stand another moment, pretending to knit and sit there, dull and uninterested.’
‘Erin—,’
‘You get to run off with Ellen. Be important. Fight for what you believe in. But I’m guarded like the state’s biggest secret. My greatest adventures are the walks between home and the pub, trying to eavesdrop,’ Erin bitterly cuts her off, head ducked down.
‘You know why you can’t be involved,’ Roisin guiltily whispers, unable to meet Erin’s eyes. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to involve you…’
‘But you can’t,’ Erin finishes her sentence. ‘Roisin,’ Erin comes to a stop in the street, the traffic adapting to them, moving around them, encapsulating their stagnant frames in the endless movement of the street, ‘It’s been three years. I’m of age, I’m clearly sane. Please… involve me! I’m going to die of a dead-brain if I have to spend my days by Nana’s side until my demise!'
‘Erin, you know the deal,’ Roisin levels her gaze, staring into her sister’s dark eyes. ‘If your… constitution ever recovers, you can join. But at this point, I cannot vouch with full confidence that you can be trusted.’
‘Why!’
‘Because your sick!’ Roisin hisses. ‘You’re sick! And I know you haven’t recovered. You may hide it, you may suffer through conversations and smile through your days but I still hear your screams at night. I know you still suffer and you cannot fight for a country if you are struggling fighting for yourself. Your war is greater than I will ever know and I will not impose another conflict upon you.’
‘Roisin—,’
‘No!’ Roisin grabs Erin’s arm, ‘This is final. You are not getting involved with the Fenians. You will crochet with Nana. You will retire to home when necessary and you will cease with this until you are better.’
Rosin begins to storm towards their home with a fervour that worries Erin.
‘What if I never get better?’ Erin finally shouts, drawing the intrusive eyes of onlookers.
Roisin pauses, finally turning on her heel to return to her sister. She meets her eye, drawing her close with a hushed voice, ‘Then you never join the Fenians.’
When they parade Benjamin Lee Guinness’ body through the streets of Dublin, it’s more of an invitation then a funeral march.
Roisin and Ellen gather themselves in the early morning; she hears them through the thin walls of the Moore estate. Hushed whispers and small giggles. The chitter of cunning plans. She hears the sharp gasp of Roisin as Ellen informs her of more and more.
Dawn is when Erin has always awoken. The Antler women stands crooked in the corner of her bedroom, clothed half in darkness and half illuminated by the coming sun. She doesn’t speak, but her meaning reaches Erin all the same, in siren songs of uncertainty, the high pitched ringing of death, the crackling of Erin’s ears that splits her head into a pounding headache.
The Irish begin to stir in the streets of Dublin outside of their home. Their chanting begins early, earnest and orchestrated with careful planning, they begin to gather on the streets they will surely march Benjamin Guinness through. They flock together in crowds of worry, enough to stress the plans of the funeral. Erin wants to join; she can hear the slamming of doors as Roisin and Ellen stumble their way through the servant’s corridors, the conspiratorial whispering as they plan their next steps. She hears the hesitation in Roisin’s step as they pass by Erin’s room, before finally acquiescing to reason and following Ellen out of their home.
To explain the House of Moore is to regale a tale of aristrocracy and excess. An Earlship, the Earl of Finch, a seat in Parliament, estates in Dublin, Belfast and Enniskery: a suitable townhouse in London, one on the threshold of Oxford, another in Bordeaux and a final residence in Bath: the house of Moore was aristocracy at it’s most disgustingly luxurious. Homes in Europe, with the Americans clawing on the edges of their noble ranking, the House of Moore was amongst those who might’ve been caught up on the wrong side of this conflict; and most certainly, they were. It was Erin’s grandmother who first stained the noble House of Moore. Soarise Moore was a widowed matriarch with a strong hatred against the treaties her husband and other noble men had willingly accepted with the English. She had tried to raise her sons and daughters with her sense of nationalism, but it had dwindled amongst the pull of riches, the enticement of dowries and debutantes, of being debuted before the Queen, of summers in France and winters in Italy. Everything seemed to be more worth than fighting for the home of Ireland. It was not until she had her first granddaughter, long after she’d been banished from the Moore family home in Dublin, that she’d finally been able to brush her fingers against the beating heart of another family member. Roisin was exactly what Soarise Moore had been waiting for. Someone who she could trust with her fortune. Someone who she could sink every fibre of her being into.
She might’ve touched Erin too with her rebellious spirit. If her childhood had not been spent crying at visions and screaming in the streets at fractious thoughts that never could fully be articulated. It seems that another coming of Soarise had come into the Moore family, but not as she’d expected. Someone no one could understand or fathom, someone they looked upon with wary gazes and cautious steps. A stranger in her bloodline. An anomaly in her home. Erin’s father was waiting for a strong son-in-law or a son. Neither of which he could attribute to Erin providing; and such, she was a waste of space, breath and words. A ghost he could pretend resided in the northern corners of the estate, and avoid entirely.
But the divide down the centre of the family line, a harsh, crude separation, strained the chances of either. From Erin, Roisin or Soarise, the women of the Moore family seemed to be cursed with an incurable disposition of disobedience. And her father might’ve done something about Roisin had he not believed she was her only chance of securing a suitable heir to his fortune. Erin was another matter entirely.
It was her ghostly form that allowed her to slip through corridors. Importantly, it is what allows her to slip around the corner of her room, nightgown brushing against the mahogany floorboards, silk robe hanging over her arms and shoulders, bare feet cringing against the cool of the floor. Her hair is coiled into tight curls, pinned to her scalp as she slowly encroaches to the preferred meeting room of her father.
She feels the presence behind her, drawing close to her, but she ignores the weight of it, the heaviness of it’s breath against her neck, the heaving of it’s weighted body behind her.
‘There will be disruption…,’ A voice begins. She can barely scrape together the wording of it. But it’s deep and pounding, echoes against the open walls of the room. ‘… I know you were a loyalist to Sir Guinness…I need men to aid against the Fenians… would you be so kind, my lord… my lord offers their deepest gratitude should you be of assistance…’
Her father’s voice bounds equally to his, ‘I would love to help… we must discuss payment for this kind of endeavour… these Fenians are scum… the House of Guinness will stay strong… I will of course be of assistance…,’
Erin slowly wraps her body around the hallway, drawing closer to the room. It’s a startlingly large meeting room; with a nice, oak table in the centre; windows drawing from ceiling to floor, with draping curtains that hang heavy over the piercing morning light. It’s decorated with portraits of their House of Moore, but the one of Soarise that once hung above the table has been taken down and replaced with a crudely painted landscape of England, undertaken by her father.
She sees her father at the head of the table, but only the back of the man who reports to him. He’s in his robes, a tray of breakfast before him and a pipe hanging loosely from his lips. The paper sits discarded from his side and the man before him, fully dressed, has his hands clasped firmly behind his back in deference.
‘Mr Rafferty, I am in great allegiance to the House of Guinness and would wish to aid them in any way whatsoever. I will dispatch the men you require to your effort of assisting the funeral today. Should you require any further assets, please just let me know,’ Her father nods, pulling the pipe from his mouth and puffing out an air of smoke.
‘I would thank you greatly for this assistance, my lord,’ The man bows, low and courteous, before beginning to turn towards the door. His face flashes to the exit and she thinks she captures the glint of his stare before gasping and shoving her back around the corner, against the cool wood.
It’s Sean Rafferty who reports to her father.
He’s a tall man; she’s heard of him lurking around. He’s the kind of man that is better known of than witnessed. Imposing and broad, a menacing air that speaks for him more than he does, with an iron weapon in his hand. The enforcer for the House of Guinness, she’s sure her sister knows more about him than she ever would.
He’s coming for you.
The Antler woman besides her whispers, a cruel taunt as she leans her unseemly, gangly form over her, a goading smile, flashing her yellowing teeth. She can smell the hideous odour from her mouth, hear the gurgle of spit in her throat, feel the knotted hair brushing against her arm. She looms over, and Erin can feel her blood shoving its way through her veins so fast it burns against the thin tissue, forcing it’s way to her thumping heart, the bile rising in her chest, an anxiety so deep it aches her stomach.
‘My lady,’
She is gone in the instant Erin startles herself into reality, and who she faces is much worse.
Sean Rafferty stares at her with an unsteady gaze. He averts his eyes quickly to her unseemly form, encased only in night clothes, obviously in thought. ‘I apologise greatly for the intrusion. I hadn’t known you were—,’
‘You may take your leave,’ Erin replies bitterly, wrapping the gown around her frame. ‘The maids will escort you to the exit should you struggle to find it.’
Sean parts his lips to say more, but she quickly slips away, shame burning her cheeks.