BONE HOUSE by Betsy Tobin

turns to face me on the landing. “Are you unwell?” she asks.
    “No, mum. I am quite well,” I say, blushing anew.
    “Your color is excessive,” she declares. “Perhaps we should send for Lucius to bleed you.”
    “That will not be necessary,” I say. She knows that I have only just been bled not three weeks earlier. Indeed, the entire household undergoes the ritual regularly at her expense, with the exception of Cook, who like my mother has no time for doctors and their regimens. Lucius bleeds us each in turn in the Great House kitchen, using one of Cook’s earthen bowls to catch the spoils. The first time Little George was bled he fainted straightaway. Alice, on the other hand, appears to relish the procedure, laughing with delight when her vein is opened, as if the whole thing were part of some sideshow at a country fair. For my own part, I do not look forward to the process, but find that once thevein is opened and the blood has started to flow, a curious light-headedness sets in which is not entirely unpleasant. But now I gather my wits about me and steer her toward the stairs.
    “Come,” I remind her. “It is nearly noon.”
    Upon our return, the painter awaits us—a fact which embarrasses me but pleases her. He is examining a painting on the wall outside her chamber, a leather case tucked discreetly under one arm. He turns to face us as we enter and nods politely, and immediately I am struck by his youth, for he cannot be more than thirty. His face is clean-shaven, like that of a child, which is unusual these days but not unbecoming in his case, for his skin is smooth and free from scars. His hair is dark and combed straight back from his forehead, falling neatly to his shoulders, and his nose is straight and long. He wears a coarsely woven tunic of deepest green, adorned with only the simplest of collars, black woolen leggings, and brown leather shoes that have begun to show their age. But what strikes me most about his appearance are his eyes, for they are a deep and wondrous green, the color almost luminous in the half-light of the chamber.
    My mistress crosses over to his side and nods at the painting on the wall. If he is impressed by her fine dress he does not show it, merely bows to her formally as she indicates the painting with one hand. It is small and rectangular and shows the landscape lying to the west of the house.
    “Does it meet with your approval?” she asks with a smile.
    “It is very accomplished,” he replies politely.
    “My husband commissioned it especially the year before he died. The painter was from Holland, and was among the first to do this sort of work. Perhaps you know of him?”
    “No. I have not seen his work before, though I am familiar with the style.”
    “He was very talented. We had intended for him to complete a set of landscapes of all the land surrounding the house. But hewas dissolute, and in the end we were forced to terminate our association with him.” She smiles then, benevolently. The painter says nothing, though I can sense his unease. “Do you paint landscapes?” she asks.
    “No, madame. I only do portraiture.”
    “A pity, as I thought to have a study made of the gardens while you were here.” She pauses to see if he will offer his services, but he does not, a fact which surprises me, as most would have been more obliging.
    Her smile fades and she bids us follow her inside her chamber. Once inside she lowers herself with some difficulty into a chair and nods for him to be seated.
    “I trust your journey was not overtiring,” she says in measured tones.
    “It was uneventful,” he replies. His English is fluent but not without an accent. According to my mistress’s cousin, he is from Flanders, having come across to England some years earlier to escape religious persecution in his own land.
    “You travel unaccompanied?” she inquires.
    “I have no need of servants,” he says simply.
    “You do not fear our highways then.”
    “I have no