Coral

Lullaby, and good night,

With pink roses bedight,

With lilies o'erspread,

Is my baby's sweet head.

Lay you down now, and rest,

May your slumber be blessed!

Lay you down now, and rest,

May thy slumber be blessed!







--There Comes Sadness--



The physical discomfort eventually fading and leaving only the emotional disquiet.

She was hospitalized for two weeks. And at first it was easy, as she was only lucid in short periods--the most vivid of which was when they brought the tiny bundle in for her to see.



A beautiful, delicate girl child.



They christened her Mary Olivia Eloise, and she was buried in the Rookwood family cemetery. The Ollivander plot had been too overgrown from years of neglect, and no one of them was in any mood to take up the task of magically disentangling the weeds, and repairing the crumbled stones and fences.



Amanda had not been strong enough to attend to the somber interment. She had barely been able to lift her arms from her side to hold the baby before they took her away- Edward had to place a supportive hand under her trembling arms.



After that, she had been perfectly willing to sleep for awhile, though no amount of sleeping draught could silence the nightmares. After the two weeks had passed, she had been transported home to recuperate in the second bedroom, which had been temporarily converted into what looked esthetically like a bedroom, but functioned like a miniature hospital.



There was a cot in the corner, and at any time, Amanda could look across and there was someone there, watching. That, more than any reassurances that she received, helped to encourage her to fight down her demons of guilt. After Edward and Stella had told her everything--that the baby was dead and that it was the result of something she had taken-she had been confused and appalled.



She could remember nothing after the walk to the shop. After that, it became a hazy vision, then blackness. She remembered waking only minutes before Edward entered her hospital room. The fact that she could not remember anything, did little to curb her guilt, and she spent many morbid weeks crying drily into her pillow, wishing she had died as well. A few times, she contemplated the possibility of making that happen. She wondered if she might simply die from lying still and hoping?



She did not die.



The human mind and body is too resilient, and within it, dormant lies the primitive instinct to survive at all costs. She began to notice, against her will, that the corners had grown cobwebs, and she resisted the urge to brush them down.



She began to worry about what condition the rest of the house might be in, and the shop as well.



She wondered what Edward thought of her? How would she feel in his place? She learned from Stella that he and Polly had torn the house apart searching for anything that might have contained the poisonous combination of herbs and drugs. They destroyed every crumb of food, threw away every cube of ice, every bottle of shampoo and bath oil, and cologne. They examined the tap water, tested the toothpaste, and poured out the lamp oil in case it was contaminated.



The fact still remained that they found nothing. Not a trace of anything other than the ordinary potions ingredients that she had been trained by Eloise to use. And she would never have intentionally taken any of them! But what had happened? She tried and tried to find those lost fragments of her memory; she tried until her head ached, and and her temperature soared, but still she could discover nothing.



What must Edward think of her now?



She couldn't be certain. Everyday there were flowers and small gifts from him in her room, but his manner was vague. After the first week, he convinced Stella and Winter that they needn't stay overnight anymore, he and Polly were more than capable of caring for Amanda.



Then, in the evenings, he would read to her, and though they never spoke of what had happened, it was somehow not necessary. The only difference she noted was that he was slightly more polite, more gentle, and less inclined to talk seriously with her. If he was angry, she decided, then the best way she could make it up to him would be to try to be more careful in the future, and to be as little trouble as possible now. And above all, to find some way of proving to him tha she had not purposefully harmed herself of her child.





Bit by bit, she convalesced, and after what seemed like an eternity, she was allowed to go downstairs. Under strict instructions not to do anything, she found downstairs to be even less interesting than upstairs, except for one thing--the pianoforte. Polly transfigured the piano stool into a more comfortable and supportive chair, with low unobtrusive arms.



At first she did not play, because she enjoyed playing, and she thought that she did not deserve to enjoy anything. That somehow, that would be braking the sacred mourning. With urging however from Edward, Stella, and Polly, she was at last convinced to try and Amanda had rummaged out her tatty old sheet music folio.



Flipping violently through the yellowed sheets, she went straight for Chopin's Étude Op. 10 No. 3 in E major.



It was a form of self flagellation, and she poured her heart and anguish into the performance. Finished, she amanged to paly it agian, and make it sound even sadder.



" What are you playing?" Polly had asked.



" Tristesse..." she replied vaguely.





" Ah...well, it is very sad."



" I know."





It made her ache, but he bruised herself with the lyrics repeatedly, letting her fingers work up speed over the keys, day after day, until at last Stella had stormed in from the kitchen one afternoon, where she was helping to make lunch.



" Amanda, I think that is quite enough of that." she had said. Before she could stop her, Stella ripped the sheet music from the stand and with a strange wave of her hand, banished it from the room. Amanda agreed. She had wanted to stop, but it was as if she couldn't once she started. Her hands worked against her will, her voice cracked over the notes. Everytime she sat down, she played the same piece.



The spell was broken, and Amanda simply sat at the keys, feeling for the first time, the inability to feel sorry for herself, and waited for the desire to play to take over.



" Do you know soemthing that isn't so sad?"



" Nope."



" Well, how about something with words?"



" All right."



The next time her fingers touched the keys, a new, low feeling of grief took over. This one was less horrific, and more soulful. It was the grief she would carry for always.





" I'm a poor wayfaring stranger

While traveling thru this world of woe

Yet there's no sickness, toil, or danger

In that bright world to which I go

I'm going there to see my Father

I'm going there no more to roam

I'm only going over Jordan

I'm only going over home"





The song was no less sad, but it was strangely comforting. Well, it was to Amanda. Estella was accustomed to hearing it intoned at sad intervals of life.



Polly however, had been aghast.



" Cor! But that makes my skin crawl!" she had muttered after a few minutes. She gave a dramatic shudder before escaping upstairs to freshen the bedrooms.



" I know worse songs." Amanda called, smiling weakly.



" I see you've been practicing." Stella noted. " It sounds perfect. I'll have to find you some more sheet music. Anything in particular?"



" I don't have any Chopin." Amanda said. " When can I start moving around again?"





" When you get your color back. "





" I know dark clouds will hang 'round me,

I know my way is rough and steep,

Yet beauteous fields lie just before me

Where God's redeemed their vigils keep

I'm going there to see my mother

She said she'd meet me when I come

I'm only going over Jordan,

I'm only going over home."







" Anyone else besides Chopin?" Stella asked, trying to hold her attention.



" Billy Joel might be nice."



" Just the music, or the entire person?"



Amanda stuck out her tongue, with a playfulness she did not feel. She wanted to visit the grave--but was refused her wish. This left her with a tiny gaping wound that would not close. Her body was empty, her arms were empty, the bassinet upstairs was empty--but until she could see the place where her daughter rested, she knew that she could never truly believe what had happened.



The next day, she sent Polly out for a time, and went upstairs to the nursery. She had not stepped foot inside since the day they had decorated it. It was exactly the same, of course. The stars on the curtains still danced, the stars overhead still shot. The eyes of several plush toys, reflected the light from her lamp.



On the dresser, she could see the form of the death album, a dark custom of the Pureblood Wizarding families. She had not looked inside, and did not intend to now. She knew it contained photographs. She knew it held the tiniest lock of hair.



Keeping her eyes riveted in it's glossy black cover, she stepped back out of the room, and closed the door, taking from her pocket a long, ornate skeleton key, she slipped it into the protesting lock, and with a good hard turn, locked the room.



Satisfied, she walked back down the hall, never having noticed that one thing, just one tiny thing about the room was different.



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Brahams Lullaby-Johannes Brahams

Tristesse-Chopin

Wayfaring Stranger-Traditional