Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls

by Claire Legrand

  Would they?

  She had to climb over the stone wall into the backyard because the gate wouldn’t open. The fall skinned her knees and tore her stockings, but she kept going because something was right at her heels, something cold and dark and clicking, scratching at her ankles.

  The back door didn’t budge, not when Victoria tugged and kicked at the latch, not when she threw her whole body against it.

  She turned and pressed herself back against the stained glass. As she tried to catch her breath, her eyes darting around into her mother’s rose gardens, she felt hot pinches on her arms, hands, and legs.

  Victoria had felt those pinches before. Before she even decided to look down, she knew what she would see—gleaming wings, black beetle eyes, sharp feelers, ten little feet digging into her skin.

  “Mother?” she whispered. She squinched her eyes shut, imagining the door swinging open to reveal her parents, and her father would pat her on the back for being brave, and her mother would call the police, and everything would be fine. “Father? Where are you?”

  She gulped and looked down.

  The roaches were everywhere.

  She tried to count all of them, glinting on the porch and on her shoes and hands, clicking their tiny black eyes, waving their feelers and wings.

  Pretend it’s a test, Victoria, she told herself. You need an A. Count.

  One, two, three, seven? She managed only that much before all those hundreds of legs tugged at her stomach and hands and feet, like they were trying to smash her into a little ball. Black wings flitted over her eyes, sucking away the sounds of the storm. They swarmed over her, covering her head to toe, until she almost couldn’t breathe. She was falling, down, down . . .

  She was flying, or no—she was being dragged, past wet rocks—or was it a black ocean?—or was it a starless sky? The roaches roiled all around her, between her fingers and legs and across her face, tugging her on with their stinging pincers. They were underground, Victoria realized, perhaps in a tunnel. She smelled mud and rock and stink, and the air was cold. She wanted to cover her ears to block out the buggy clicks and hisses coming from everywhere, but she couldn’t move her arms. Tiny legs crawled all over her and beneath her, sweeping her along, pinching and pulling her skin like hundreds of burrowing hooks. Mud and grime got in her mouth, filled up her nose and ears. She coughed and choked and tried to claw for air, but she was too covered in bugs to move her arms.

  Everything stopped.

  Victoria blinked and blinked again, and nothing changed. When she closed her eyes, darkness; when she opened them, darkness. When she allowed herself to breathe past the buggy pinches she realized the roaches were gone. There was no more pain, and her arms and legs were normal again.

  But she was alone, and the floor was cold. She wouldn’t let herself cry, not yet.

  “Pull yourself together,” she said, but her voice sounded so shaky and unlike herself that it scared her. Mud clung to her lips, and her throat tasted like dirt.

  “Hello?” she said, wiping her mouth. The floor beneath her was damp stone. She crawled around to get her bearings, patting the floor as she went. Before she could move much, she bumped into a wall, and then another one at the other side. When she tried to stand up, she hit her head. There wasn’t even room to push herself fully up onto her hands and knees. She had to crawl around like one of the bugs that had brought her here.

  Victoria shrank into a corner. Scuttling noises sounded from somewhere—everywhere—or was she imagining things? Was she dead? Was this a coffin? A nightmare?

  She hoped it was a nightmare. She pulled her legs up to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut, which made her tears fall, but she was too afraid to be angry with herself.

  Over and over, she whispered, “Wake up, Victoria. Wake up.”

  FOR A FEW SECONDS—OR WAS IT WEEKS—Victoria lay in the corner of this low, damp room. It was too dark, and she was too frightened, to measure time. She couldn’t sleep or move.

  She started to think that the walls, which she couldn’t see in the dark, were moving.

  Wild thoughts began forming in her head. Was she floating, or was she in fact lying on a cold floor? Was the dark really dark, or was it roaches mashed into a film covering her eyes? Was she upside down? Inside out?

  Things itched and scratched her. She swatted bugs that weren’t there and realized the things scratching her were her own fingernails raking her skin raw.

  She heard a dripping noise and began tapping her tongue against her teeth in time with the drips.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Her mouth felt drier with each tiny splash.

  She recited things to keep the silence from becoming any louder:

  Penser. To think.

  Je pense. I think.

  Je pense beaucoup de choses. I think many things.

  Dans le noir. In the dark.

  Le noir. The dark.

  After a while, Victoria’s mind raced with too many words, and they were all screaming. She began to hum a little made-up tune to drown out the silence, scratching the floor with her thumb because that kept her from flying away.

  She hummed and hummed and thought about Lawrence. If Lawrence were there, he would turn being trapped here into some sort of game, and Victoria would say out loud that it was stupid, but inside she wouldn’t be so scared anymore.

  The floor beneath her shifted.

  Victoria cried out and buried her head in her arms. Now she was imagining that the floor was moving. It would drop away, and she would fall and fall forever. The bugs would get her again and chew off all her hair, and then her skin, until they found her black, glossy bug skin underneath, and then she would be one of them.

  She hummed louder. Lawrence. Think about Lawrence. Lawrence hums when he’s happy.

  From somewhere outside, footsteps approached, cutting her off. She heard the turn of a key and the slide of something heavy. White light filled the seams around the opposite wall. Victoria scooted back. This was her little dark room. She stared distrustfully at the seams of light. Would they start popping closer and closer with loud bangs like right before Professor Alban disappeared?

  The opposite wall slid away with a clang, locking in place somewhere Victoria couldn’t see. The light seams became a bright rectangle that burned Victoria’s eyes. She hid her face from the glare.

  “Had enough of the parlor, have you?” said a voice.

  Victoria blinked for several seconds. The dark shape in front of the white light became what it really was—Mr. Alice, rake in his gloved hand, the bare hand reaching toward Victoria with curling white fingers.

  It was so strange to see another person after all this time—months had it been?—that Victoria didn’t shy away. She let him grab her by the collar and pull her out of wherever she was. As Mr. Alice led her away, Victoria managed to look back over her shoulder.

  She saw the empty space of her tiny room, which was really like a cabinet set in a tremendous black wall. She saw the open metal door Mr. Alice had unlocked. The empty cabinet was the only thing in a wall that never seemed to end, stretching from the floor to a ceiling that didn’t exist, going on forever from left to right. A forever wall, like the forever hallway. One lonely cabinet.

  “The parlor?” Victoria said, as Mr. Alice dragged her out of that room into another one—a smaller room with nothing but a red cushioned bench against the wall.

  Mr. Alice didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured at the bench and said, “This is the lobby.”

  After they passed through that room, Mr. Alice shoved Victoria free. She stumbled to stay on her feet. Mr. Alice gestured with his rake.

  “No funny business,” he said, “or it’s back you go.”

  Back in the parlor? Victoria shuddered but tried to hide it.

  “I don’t know, it was nice to have a bit of peace and quiet,” she said, tossing her curls. That didn’t quite work, because her hair was matted and dirty from the bugs, and her voice was a little
shaky.

  “She said you’d say that,” said Mr. Alice. “She’s so clever. She’s been watching you. She liked you, but then you started getting too nosy, didn’t you? And now it’s time to learn your lesson. She’s so clever.”

  “Who’s she?” said Victoria, although she already knew.

  “Mrs. Cavendish, of course.” Mr. Alice’s tongue lingered on the words, drawing them out into something slimy.

  Victoria jerked her chin up. “My parents will be here any minute now, you just wait. They won’t let you do anything to me. Father will sue you and take all your money.”

  Mr. Alice laughed. The sound scratched its way into Victoria’s brain and wouldn’t let go.

  They emerged onto a balcony. It was familiar, with swirling rails made of dark iron and wood. Victoria looked over the edge and saw, far below, the polished wooden floor of the gallery she had walked through the other day. She looked up and saw the ceiling with those strange birds, so close now that she could see how real their feathers looked.

  “Strange,” she said, reaching up to touch the nearest one.

  Mr. Alice snatched her hand away. “I wouldn’t. She doesn’t like her children deformed, and the birdies get hungry.” He chomped perfect white teeth at her. “Snap.”

  Victoria jumped back, although a part of her brain thought of how eager her father would be to discuss teeth-cleaning regimens with Mr. Alice.

  “The . . . birdies . . . get hungry?” she said, and as Mr. Alice pushed her toward the stairs, Victoria saw the birds shifting on the ceiling. They ruffled their feathers and blinked beady eyes at her.

  Victoria and Mr. Alice walked down five flights of dark, narrow wooden stairs. Victoria went first. Whenever she hesitated, Mr. Alice jabbed her shoulder with the rake’s prongs.

  “Where are we going?” said Victoria at last. They had reached the bottom, and now Mr. Alice was leading her through the gallery. Victoria looked around as much as Mr. Alice allowed her. Sometimes he got impatient and jabbed her shoulder. Just as the first time Victoria had been there, the balconies and rooms above her shimmered and crawled. Unlike the first time, she heard faint sounds of life—running footsteps, echoing whispers, people calling out to one another.

  But these sounds weren’t comforting. They felt like nightmare sounds, only this wasn’t a nightmare; it was real.

  “Just keep walking,” said Mr. Alice.

  “I’d really like to get some more information.”

  “Of course you would,” a new voice said. “You like figuring things out, don’t you, Victoria?”

  “Mrs. Cavendish,” said Victoria, trying to remain collected despite all the muck covering her. “How nice to see you.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Victoria,” said Mrs. Cavendish. She stood in a doorway ahead of them, her hands clasped at her waist. “You may not know when to mind your own business, but you’re certainly polite.”

  Victoria just barely kept from spewing all sorts of decidedly impolite things at Mrs. Cavendish.

  “Thank you,” she said instead, but Mrs. Cavendish seemed to know what Victoria was really thinking. That smug look on Mrs. Cavendish’s face, the kind smile, the pretty dress and hair and eyes—all of it seemed to say, “That’s right, Victoria. Keep quiet like you’re supposed to.”

  Mrs. Cavendish thought she had won, at least this round. Victoria imagined a blackboard with tally marks. Mrs. Cavendish already had several; Victoria, none. Her mind reeled in disgust. She simply must start doing better.

  “Let’s walk this way, shall we?” said Mrs. Cavendish. She gestured behind her, into the part of the gallery Victoria hadn’t yet seen. “I’d like to give you a tour before lights-out.”

  Victoria followed Mrs. Cavendish past many closed doors and oil lamps in the walls. As they walked, Victoria noticed that with each passing moment, the lamplight grew dimmer.

  “What’s lights-out?” said Victoria.

  “When all the lights go out, of course.”

  Mr. Alice, bringing up the rear, laughed.

  “It’s important for the Home’s structure,” said Mrs. Cavendish.

  The word “structure” had never sounded so sinister before.

  “Mrs. Cavendish does her best work at night, she does,” said Mr. Alice, bobbing his head as though he were quite pleased with himself. “With her knives and her strings and her—”

  Mrs. Cavendish snapped her head around at him. “That’s quite enough, Mr. Alice.”

  He ducked away to hide his face, staring at the ground.

  Victoria froze. What was that all about?

  “Now, you saw the parlor and the lobby, of course,” said Mrs. Cavendish, her voice sweet and soft once more, although she gave Mr. Alice one last glare. He shrank away, cuddling his rake. “That’s where I keep new arrivals till I’m ready for them. It’s also where I put children who misbehave.”

  Victoria’s mind instinctively latched onto the idea of rules. “What counts as misbehavior?”

  Mrs. Cavendish only smiled. They passed into a long room with a long table in the center. At either end of the table sat two grand black chairs that looked like thrones. The chairs along the sides of the table were smaller versions.

  “This is the dining room,” said Mrs. Cavendish. “We eat meals here. It’s important that we eat as a family. Also, I like to watch how those I love enjoy my cooking.”

  Deciding to ignore the disturbing way Mrs. Cavendish said “love,” Victoria made quick work of counting the dining room chairs. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine . . .

  “I wouldn’t bother counting the chairs, Victoria,” said Mrs. Cavendish. “It all depends on how many we have at each meal. Children . . . come and go.”

  All the same, Victoria held the number thirty (not counting the two big chairs) in her head. Perhaps it would be useful later. But useful for what? Victoria asked herself. She did not have an answer.

  “This is the library, the Classroom of Manners, the Classroom of Beauty, the hanger,” Mrs. Cavendish said, leading Victoria through room after room after room, Mr. Alice a lean, hulking shadow behind them. Even with all her memorization skills, Victoria had trouble keeping track of everything.

  “What’s the hanger?” she said.

  “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” said Mr. Alice, laughing again.

  Mrs. Cavendish started walking faster, glancing around her into the shadows, and Victoria had to jog to keep up. Every time they passed a room, the lighting faded a bit more. When they came back to the gallery, the walls, polished floors, and balconies overhead were practically roiling. Victoria rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

  “The gardens,” said Mrs. Cavendish. Her eyes flicked here and there, obviously looking for something, and she kept licking her lips. A piece of her hair fell out of place, and she pulled it back around her ear, irritably. Victoria didn’t know what to make of that. Perhaps it was nothing.

  They came out onto a flat terrace at the rear of the Home. Tall lamps lit the terrace and also the gardens, which stretched away beneath the trees in swirling aisles and patches like a grand maze. Near the back of the gardens were two small cottages, lit up with soft amber light.

  On the left side of the gardens loomed a sprawling, crooked tree.

  In fact, everything seemed crooked, like the reflections in funhouse mirrors. And everything . . . moved.

  Victoria rubbed her eyes again, trying to wake up.

  “I’m afraid a more thorough tour will have to wait till morning,” said Mrs. Cavendish, sliding her fingers back and forth along the terrace railing. In the growing darkness, she seemed much twitchier than she ever had before. “But they’re my pride and joy, you see, these gardens.”

  “That patch looks kind of messy,” said Victoria, pointing to the sprawling tree. It was much bigger than the others, fat and deformed, and dark.

  Mrs. Cavendish’s hands tightened on the railing. She looked at Victoria with a sweet smile and quiet eyes.

&nbs
p; “It’s a stubborn bit of the gardens,” said Mrs. Cavendish. She hooked her arm through Mr. Alice’s and petted his hand. “Mr. Alice works hard at it, though. Don’t you, my darling?”

  Mr. Alice smiled, not taking his eyes from Victoria. “I’m an excellent gardener.”

  “He’s been with me for a long time,” Mrs. Cavendish murmured, stroking his arm. “After all, it’s such a big house to keep in order.” She smoothed a lock of Mr. Alice’s dark hair back into place behind his ear. “He’s my special project, Mr. Alice. My special helper.”

  “I’m an excellent gardener,” repeated Mr. Alice. His eyes never stopped moving—like a roach’s eyes, Victoria realized, taking a tiny step back. For a horrible instant, the image of Mrs. Cavendish and Mr. Alice reminded her of herself and Lawrence. “Special project,” Mrs. Cavendish called Mr. Alice. And Lawrence was Victoria’s project. Or at least, he had once been.

  The comparison made her stomach turn. She was no Mrs. Cavendish. . . .

  Was she?

  But even Mrs. Cavendish had said it: You’re like me, Victoria. And Mr. Tibbalt hadn’t said it aloud, but he had seemed to think it too.

  From behind them, within the Home, something groaned. Victoria jumped. Mr. Alice did, too, muttering to himself, his eyes darting about so fast they seemed likely to pop out. Mrs. Cavendish, however, stared coldly at the Home, scanning the roof.

  “What was that noise?” asked Victoria, her heart pounding.

  Mrs. Cavendish’s head snapped around to her. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to ask questions, Victoria,” she said. Then she smiled and took Victoria in hand to reenter the Home. “We’ve got to get you to bed. Cleaned, scrubbed, dressed, and in bed. All that nasty dirt.”

  “But I—”

  “Please be quiet, Victoria,” said Mrs. Cavendish, her hand pinching Victoria’s. “It’s almost lights-out.”

  The lamps in the gallery were now so dim that the floor was a shimmering black ocean and the walls of balconies were cresting waves. Every now and then, Victoria caught swooping motions overhead out of the corner of her eye.