Black Satin Ribbon: Chapter 1

Charlotte had spent hours watching the uncooked dough rise on her dead father’s chest. It had started out as small as a closed fist and grown fat, “absorbing the sins of the departed.” It went into the oven having tripled in size, bursting with secrets. It emerged fragrant and sweet, with a floral pattern etched in the crust. 

Countless times, she’d been certain his mangled chest was gently lifting the “corpse cake” up, only to be startled and then disappointed. Her father was dead. Next to his body was a bowl of rose red wine. 

The parlor window had become a rectangle of violent purple. Twilight flashed a warning: those with gentle spirits, go inside. 

Night changed everything. The fog emerged and, fortified by the smoke, cloaked everyone in the unknown. It blocked the view and smells of the hyacinths in the neighbors’ gardens and rendered the lamps meaningless. By the time a man could tell the difference between an invitation from a desperate woman or the sheath of a dagger, it was already too late. 

As far as Charlotte could tell, London after dark was still a city of bustling commerce, but instead of trade and ledgers, the currency was human nature. Perhaps sunlight was the only thing that kept any civility at all. 

A large moan filled the parlor. Charlotte froze and then quickly relaxed. Emily had opened the door and the hinges cried out for grease.  

Charlotte hadn’t felt a sin eater was necessary. But her maid, Emily, had grown up near Wales, where superstition reigned. With her lady now all alone, Emily wasn’t going to allow for unnecessary risk. Risk of what exactly, the maid wouldn’t say. 

Why had sin eating fallen out of fashion in London? There was so much sin to go around. 

The sin eater arrived with an eerie type of beauty. High cheekbones, pale skin, wide blue eyes, all shrouded in a black cloak. She looked like a beautiful skeletal doll. She sat down and ate in large, methodical bites. “Save some sin for the rest of us,” Charlotte muttered. Ignoring this, the sin eater finished the loaf and drank the wine straight from the bowl, without breaks. 

Her mouth was smeared with red liquid as she took a small bag of money from Charlotte. “The bread tasted different on that one,” she said and slipped back into the night. Charlotte couldn’t help wondering about all the things hidden in the fog, waiting for her unconventional guest. The wooden plate and bowl went straight into the fire, flames curling around them. 

Black drapery flowed from the top of the mirrors down. The rest of the house felt empty, yet the parlor’s walls were closing in. The photos of her father were placed face down, which was a relief. Even before his death, she’d found them cold and unfeeling. They had nothing in common with her father except his likeness. Identical by some unnatural coincidence, just like the body in the parlor. At home, he’d had almost a jolly side, eyes that lit up when no one else’s did. These portraits looked more like him in death than life. They were portraits of foreshadowing to her now. 

Outside, horseshoes clanged against the cobblestone. A carriage door slammed and a firm hand knocked on the door. 

Emily opened the door, slowly this time. Charlotte heard muffled whispers and then the creaking of the door again. A gentleman stepped into the parlor. He looked distinguished and tired. He had a dark beard with silver starting to poke through.

“Hello Charlotte,” he said. “You likely don’t remember me. I’m your Uncle Silas. I’m here to act as your guardian.” 

Charlotte didn’t speak. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. Was she still breathing? This man was in his fifties, at least a decade older than her father. She saw a resemblance in the face, but where her father had been blond and blue eyed, this man’s hair was the color of midnight (as was hers), with some silver threads. 

All Charlotte could do was stare at her father’s body, yearning for answers he’d never be able to give. His sunshine colored hair perfectly in place. The lines on his face suddenly pronounced. She stifled the urge to run from the house, where her father’s dead feet pointed towards the door to make him eager for the grave. 

Emily alerted the head housekeeper, who would to Silas. Charlotte thanked him for the visit and excused herself. On the way up the stairs, Emily said, "What's wrong? This is excellent news. You'll be taken care of."

Charlotte whispered to her maid, “I don’t have an Uncle Silas.”