"Look at it!" The prince demanded.
"I don't dare." Julian moaned.
"She is the same color as the walls. Is she not?". Prince Albert pointed to the vision of Nanny Rittenhouse--younger than she was in the reality of the Royal Street house,, but still desiccated, dry, crunchy, brittle and gray like a pile of dead leaves fit only for burning.
"I couldn't say," Julian trembled.
"Come now, Your Grace. Don't be so stubborn. You were raised to be agreeable. Would your mother, the duchess, say?"
"My mother is dead. Dead at the hands of that murderous prostitute. She'll say nothing."
"Outside," the prince grinned. Outside, she's dead. Not in here."
"No." Julian shook his head.
"Listen," Prince Albert pointed to the figure of the nanny. "it begins."
Julian forced himself to look forward. He watched though his whole body--if you could call it such--quivered with fear and disgust.
"Master Julian," the specter of the nanny barked. "No more hiding. Your mother, Her Grace, is nigh."
Julian gasped as he saw the ghost of himself--aged three tears--emerge from his favorite hiding spot behind the big, crimson chair by the cold, flame-less hearth.
"There you are, you naughty little pig." the nanny growled. "Have you nothing to say?"
"I'm sorry," the little boy whispered.
"Look at him." Julian said, beginning to sob as he gazed upon his child-self. "Look how fresh and rosy he is against this background of death and pain. He hasn't faded yet."
"Only you decide when he fades." the prince snapped. His eyes brightened. "She comes."
The massive, carved door at the end if the vision of the room belched open as the duchess entered.
"Nanny?" the duchess cooed. "He is still dressed!"
"Yes, Your Grace. He is a foul piggy."
"Hurry then, before the water calms." the duchess growled. She narrowed her eyes at the boy. "Now, Julian. It is time for your bath."
Did you miss chapters 1-346. If so, you can read them here.
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