The Changeling's Fate

Seven: The Murder

The infuriating trill of my phone alarm pulls me from a night of restless sleep, filled with dreams of being chased by a malevolent unknown. There had been a separate entity in the dream, one who silently watched me as I fled, choosing not to extend a hand hand to help or harm, resulting in a feeling that has left the lingering sensation of being an ant underneath a scientist's microscope even now.

Pulling my shoes on from beside the bed, I leave my duffel bag in its space beside the door and head out of the mid-dollar motel I'd checked into last night, ready to make the final twenty-minute segment of the drive to Judy's. Although getting on in age, Judy still took in kids, and with the assistance of a live-in farm manager who did as much work with the home and its occupants as he did with the farm, she had a distinct lack of living space capable of hosting overnight guests. Faced with the choice between starting the two-hour drive at 0500 morning of or throwing sixty bucks on a hotel and gaining a sooner reprieve from Amelia, I had chosen the latter, and was only now pulling onto the rambling gravel drive on the outskirts of Louisa that would lead to Judy Shoemaker's rural property.

The crunch of gravel underneath my civic's old tires brought a dark face to the window of the lemon-yellow Victorian, doubtlessly one of the residents flicking the lace curtain aside to see who's arrived. Pulling the hand brake, I shove the car into gear to prevent it from rolling and lock the car. By the time I've pushed open the door of my sedan a welcoming party is waiting in force.

"Alexandra. I'm so happy you were able to make it." Judy's at the forefront of the group, kind grey eyes still astute, despite the heavy wrinkles and slight tremor of her outstretched hand betraying the weight of the eighty plus years she's lived. The words are spoken in earnest but prod a thread of guilt in my conscience anyway; I haven't been in back in a year or more, despite the relatively short drive.

She makes no move to meet me I, and as I approach I realize it's because she likely can't. The slim silver lines of a walker rest in front of her and I'm ashamed that don't know if it's a new development or not. I hadn't intended to ignore Judy or the farm, but I hadn't been inclined to take an interest either.

Judy, however, holds no such reservations toward me, and by the time I'm in grabbing distance she's straightened to grab both of my hands in her own and plant a kiss on my cheek.

"It's good to see you too Judy. And you as well, Steve." I nod towards the middle-aged man with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, lingering just over Judy's shoulder. Steve is the weekend volunteer who turned full-time farm-and-house manager right about the time I was leaving Louisa for ATI.

Steve returns my nod and heads back into the confines of the house, leaving just Judy, myself, and the three residents who had come out to see who was showing up for my breakfast this month. We make our way into the sitting room and the older two boys, probably fifteen or so, give brusque hellos before disappearing up the stairs. The only girl who didn't leave, a dark haired mouse of a girl who can't be older than thirteen or so, is also likely the one who announced my arrival from the downstairs window, and I'm certain I haven't seen her in any of my past visits.

Ever the perfect host, Julia introduces us as we take our seats in the parlor's old-fashioned settee's and high-backed armchair, furniture that was forbidden from use except during such events as meetings of Judy's knitting circle, book club, and, of course, her breakfasts. "Alexandra, this is Cynthia." Judy motions toward the girl who's stoic expression doesn't waiver as Judy continues. "She's twelve and got here only a few weeks ago. I'm hoping you can help make her more comfortable here, share some of your experience."

"Nice to meet you, Cynthia." I return, shifting in my seat. The stuffing padding my chair's cushions are lumpy in some spots, saggy in others. The rationale behind the no sitting in the sitting-room rule escapes me; the furniture is uncomfortable enough on its own to warrant its disuse.
Cynthia mumbles something underneath her breath in reply which sounds vaguely like nice-meet-you-too although it was so soft I only caught bits and pieces,