by Em Bailey
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I say nothing to Lucille, partly because she’s right and partly because I’ve scared myself.
Harry told me to hang in there until he came to get me out, but sleeping in past dawn is one of the primary rules Esther mustn’t break. It makes me fear that my self-control – the one thing I’ve always had in here – is starting to slide away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Felicity and Lucille hover outside the chat room as I check for the guiding word. My nerves flicker as I turn on the screen. Maybe my sleeping in will have already produced a renewal notice. But all I find is the guiding word. Dare.
We’ve never had a word like this before and I’m not sure how to interpret it. As a challenge? A threat?
‘What is the word?’ calls Lucille from the doorway.
I turn around so I’m looking directly at her. ‘Dare,’ I tell her.
Lucille frowns. ‘That’s a very strange guiding word. Are you sure?’
I gesture to the screen. ‘Come and have a look for yourself.’
She hesitates and I know she’s weighing up her desire to catch me out in a lie against the risks involved in breaking a rule by coming in here during the day. ‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘I trust you wouldn’t lie to us.’
I make a daring breakfast – soup rather than the bread or porridge we usually have. Then Felicity goes off to the farm and Lucille goes to the parlour to sew, leaving me alone in the kitchen with a mess to tidy up.
The sleeping-in incident has left me on edge, like I can’t really trust myself. Practically every task on the farm has rules or rituals attached to it. There’s an order to how the floor must be swept (‘from the far right corner to the far left’) and how dishes are washed (‘first cutlery – largest to smallest – then plates, bowls and pots’). Even the porridge must be stirred in a particular way – twenty times to the left and then twenty times to the right, swapping hands with each direction change. There are so many opportunities for mistakes.
I stare at the pile of breakfast dishes and decide there are too many dangers to start with this task first. I need to do something more straightforward, with less room for error. I look around. The stove. Cleaning it is back-breaking and exhausting but it’s also one of the few tasks where there’s very little that can go wrong. You stick your head in it and scrub. Maybe by the time I’ve finished it my mind will have sorted itself out.
I tie on my most worn-out apron and look for the green headscarf I always wear to protect my hair from the grime. But I can’t find it, and have to make do with another scarf instead. My chest pinches. He’s taking things from us, I’m almost positive now. It’s just not possible that I could be so continually careless.
I scrub and scrub, determined that every surface will be spotless by the time I’ve finished. Despite my tiredness it feels good to be working hard. It keeps my fears at bay. As I work, a chant starts up in my head, going around and around in time to the movement of my scrubbing brush: Get me out of here. Get me out. Get me out of here. Get me out.
‘What are you doing?’
Lucille is standing behind me, a pair of Felicity’s woollen tights dangling from one hand and a darning needle clamped in the other.
‘I’m cleaning the stove,’ I say.
Lucille folds her arms. ‘You were singing. I heard you singing.’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ I say but I’m not sure. Maybe the chant that I thought was only in my head had begun leaking out.
‘You were, Esther!’ she says roughly. ‘And you’re strictly forbidden to sing. I’ll have to report you. Give me the key to the chat room.’
I stare at her, shocked. No-one has ever reported another Special One. There’s always been an unspoken agreement between us: we do whatever we can to protect each other.
‘You don’t think I’m serious, do you?’ Lucille hisses.
‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll change your mind. Please, Lucille. Don’t do it.’
It’s very un-Estherish to beg like this, but I don’t have a choice. There’s a very, very slight possibility that he didn’t hear me singing. If I can talk Lucille out of writing the report, there’s a chance I’ll survive just a bit longer in here. Long enough for Harry – if it is Harry I’ve been writing to – to figure out a way to rescue me. I don’t allow myself to think about how unlikely all of this is. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before, Lucille,’ I tell her softly. ‘You know that. And I promise I won’t do it again.’
Lucille hesitates. Maybe she feels sorry for me. Or maybe she’s enjoying being the one with the upper hand, watching me grovel like this. She sighs dramatically. ‘I won’t write it yet,’ she tells me. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it at some stage. I’ll be watching you, Esther. You’d better be careful.’
I am careful. I do every chore with a self-awareness I haven’t required since I first arrived at this place. I check and double-check everything, think carefully before I complete the simplest thing. I’ve stopped trusting myself. Every action feels like it carries the danger of a mistake. The constant checking slows me down, stresses me out – but it’s the only way I seem to be able to function.
It’s late in the afternoon, not long before Felicity is due to return, when I hear a scream from behind the house near the woodpile. It’s a horrible sound – terrified and pain-filled.
Lucille comes running from the parlour. ‘What was that?’
‘It’s Felicity,’ I say, my blood turned to ice. ‘Go and see what’s happened.’ I long to run outside myself. But I can’t, I can’t. All I can do is pace the kitchen floor and wait.
Finally there are footsteps – slow, staggering ones – on the verandah. I run to the door and fling it open. Lucille is standing there with Felicity bawling in her arms. Both of them are covered in blood.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘She’s cut herself with the axe,’ says Lucille, her voice stuttering with shock.
Felicity’s skirt is a mess of dark red and ripped material. She starts shrieking as I carefully lift the layers back to reveal a deep, nasty gash in her thigh, about the length of my palm. Blood wells from the wound.
She needs to go to the hospital, I think immediately, but that’s not possible.
I turn to Lucille. ‘We have to stop the bleeding. Right away.’
Felicity’s whole body trembles as she sobs. Her lips are a frightening shade of blueish grey.
Lucille is frozen in the doorway, her face stricken. ‘I don’t know what to do!’
‘I’ll guide you through it,’ I say. ‘Put her down over here.’ I push two of the kitchen chairs together to form a kind of bed. Then I rush around, preparing things. Strips of material. Boiling water. A very sharp needle and thread.
Felicity’s eyes are still squeezed tight when I return, but now she’s crying so hard she can barely breathe. I crouch down next to her, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘Felicity? You don’t need to worry. We’re going to look after you. You’re going to be fine.’
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. It’s one thing to have someone disappear through the gate never to be seen again. It’s quite another to have them die here in the kitchen in front of you.
‘Felicity, please,’ I say, as I jump up and remove the needle and thread from the boiling water. ‘You have to calm down.’
Felicity nods but the racking sobs keep pouring out of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she wails, bunching her hands into little fists.
I take another look at her thigh, where the blood is still gushing, and the fear makes my voice boom. ‘Stop it, Felicity!’ I command. ‘Calm down, right now!’
She chokes into a whimper, and lies there, shaking. I loop some thread through the needle’s eye and show it to Lucille.
‘Wash your hands,’ I instruct her. ‘You’ll have to stitch up the wound.’ Lucille shrinks away from the needle. I drop my voice so that Felicity can’t hear. ‘Lucille, if you don’t do it, sh
e could die.’
Lucille shakes her head, fear and stubbornness combined in her expression. ‘She can’t die. She’s immortal.’
I’ve never had the urge to shake someone as much as I have it now. I thrust the needle in Lucille’s face. ‘Do it!’
‘I can’t,’ she whispers, her face almost as pale as Felicity’s. ‘I’ll – I’ll pass out. I know I will.’
I can see that this is a very real possibility. Reluctantly I realise I have no choice. I’ll have to do it myself.
I kneel down beside Felicity and gently lift her arm out of the way to start wiping the area clean with soap and water. Her eyes fly open and she starts to writhe with terror, but I hold her down firmly until she makes a low, shuddering sound and is still.
Behind me, Lucille gasps. ‘You’re not allowed to touch –’
I cut her off. ‘I am the healer, Lucille. Go and make the pepper tea, please. Extra strong, with lots of honey.’
‘But I –’
‘Lucille!’
She turns and reaches for the kettle.
Felicity begins to whimper as I pinch the two edges of the wound together and push the needle through, and then she’s screaming again. I pull the thread tight, and glance up just in time to see her eyes roll back and her tiny body go limp. I never thought I’d feel grateful for causing someone to pass out, but I do. It’s better this way. Easier.
I work quickly. Felicity’s skin puckers and pulls as the needle passes through it. Four stitches, five, six. It’s such a long, deep cut that it feels like I’ll never be able to sew it all up but, finally, after ten stitches, it’s closed. As I bandage the wound, Felicity’s eyes flutter open and I talk to her, trying to coax her into calmness before the terror takes hold again. ‘You were so brave, Felicity! It’s all over now and you’re going to be fine.’
I want so desperately to gather her up in my arms, but instead I rock back on my heels and take a few deep breaths, wiping my hands on my apron. Then I start tearing bandages into strips to dress the wound.
‘What were you doing with the axe out there, anyway?’ I ask as I work.
‘Chopping firewood,’ she whispers, her eyes brimming as she looks at me. ‘I thought I could do it. I’ve watched Harry use the axe lots of times.’
I’m wrapping the strips around her leg when Lucille comes back, a steaming cup of tea in one hand. ‘I found a biscuit too,’ she says, ‘but snacking is –’
‘Great idea,’ I say, plucking it from her fingers. ‘Something sweet is exactly what she needs.’
Lucille’s hand is trembling as she holds the cup of tea, and her face is still smeared with blood. I suddenly feel guilty for being so sharp with her. She’s probably also in shock.
‘Thanks, Lucille,’ I say, forcing a cheerful tone. Felicity’s leg is now covered in an enormous bundle. ‘You did a great job of bringing her inside. I know it must’ve been awful.’
But Lucille isn’t paying attention. She has just noticed the blood on her clothes. ‘Well, these are now ruined,’ she says in a huff.
I roll my eyes at Felicity, who manages a watery smile in return.
My chores fall by the wayside for the rest of the afternoon as I tend to Felicity, encouraging her to eat and drink. There are many things to worry about – infection, for instance, how much blood she lost – but I try to keep the anxiety out of my voice. I even find myself thinking crazy things – like if he saw what happened, then maybe he’ll send an ambulance to collect Felicity. But I know this is very unlikely.
I am vaguely aware of Lucille coming in and out of the room but I’m too occupied with Felicity to pay her much attention. When Felicity has a little more colour in her cheeks, I carefully remove the dressing and check the wound. The skin around the stitches is an angry-looking red and the cut itself is weeping slightly.
‘It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?’ says Felicity.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course it is.’
Lucille has come back into the kitchen again and is hovering in the background, like she’s expecting something. She has changed into a new dress, one that makes an impatient-sounding swish as she moves.
I stand up, suddenly exhausted but knowing I still have things to do. ‘You must be hungry, Lucille,’ I say. ‘Sorry there’s no proper dinner tonight, but there’s still some bread and I can boil some eggs.’
Lucille holds out her hand. ‘I want the key to the chat room,’ she says, stiffly.
‘What!’ I can’t believe it. ‘Why?’
‘Firstly, you were humming. Then you touched Felicity. You’ve been really snappy with me and now you haven’t made dinner, which is one of your primary chores.’ Lucille folds her arms. ‘I have to report you, Esther. You’ve run out of chances.’
Felicity struggles into an upright position. ‘No!’
‘It’s okay, Felicity,’ I say, surprised by how calm I feel. It’s like Felicity’s accident has changed something in me. Like I’m no longer scared of what he’ll think. Or maybe I’m just too exhausted to care any more. I pull the chat-room key from the chain I keep it on, walk over to where Lucille is standing and hand it to her. ‘You go and write your report.’
I drop the key into her open palm. She looks at me, frowning. ‘Aren’t you scared of being renewed?’
‘The process of renewal strengthens the soul,’ I say, poker-faced. Then I turn my attention back to Felicity. I’m aware of Lucille standing motionless behind me and then, wordlessly, she marches off down the corridor. A few moments later I hear the rattle of the key in the chat-room door.
Felicity begins to cry. ‘You did a good thing. You helped me. He won’t renew you for that.’
‘Exactly,’ I say soothingly. But I know enough about him to realise that helping Felicity won’t have made any difference.
I have no idea what will happen after Lucille’s report, and I hardly have time to think about it that evening as I am busy with Felicity. But when I go down the corridor later to prepare for evening chat, I start to feel a little tense. The last late-night message instructed me to just keep being Esther. I couldn’t have done a worse job of hanging in there if I’d tried.
I start to wonder, with an inner lurch, if I’ve just lost my only chance of survival. But then again, what else could I have done? Let Felicity bleed to death in the kitchen? I don’t regret what I did. Not for a second.
Still, my hand shakes a little as I turn on my own screen. There’s nothing there, though. No message from him. No renewal notice. When it’s time for chat, I go and check on Felicity. She’s pale but awake, and struggling into her clothes.
‘You should rest,’ I tell her, but she shakes her head.
‘If I don’t go you’ll get in more trouble. And it’s my leg that’s hurt, not my hand.’
I can see there will be no convincing her otherwise.
I find it hard to concentrate during evening chat. I keep looking sideways to check how Felicity is going, but I also keep wondering if he has read Lucille’s report yet. I catch Lucille looking at my screen, probably trying to see if I’m writing un-Esther-ish things to my followers. But I don’t even care. I just want the session to finish so I can find out whether I’ll get a message tonight.
When the session finally ends (and I’m careful not to close it down a moment earlier than I should), I put Lucille in charge of helping Felicity back to bed. She looks at me suspiciously. ‘Why can’t you do it?’
‘Because I have to close down the screens,’ I say, in my patient, Esther voice. ‘And Felicity will need some help.’
Reluctantly, Lucille leads Felicity off and the moment they’re gone, I look back at my screen, willing a message from Piper to appear. And when one does – how are you, Esther? –I want to rush to reply. But I need to think my words through carefully. I don’t want to make him suspicious, should he be looking in on our conversation, but it’s important that I make the seriousness of my situation clear.
My role as healer was tested today. Perhaps my so
ul has grown restless.
The reply is a very long time coming and I feel the panic start to rise. Maybe I’m not communicating with Harry. Maybe I’m talking to some creepy old guy who knows nothing about my situation. The type of person who lurks online, ready to prey on the innocent and the naive – or the desperate, like me.
In the corridor I hear footsteps. The swish of a skirt. Lucille. I’ve got less than a minute left.
Piper? What should I do?
I’m not expecting the reply that comes.
This is good, Esther! Renewal is the solution to everything.
My stomach drops. It’s exactly what he might say. No! I want to write back. Come and get me out of here straight away! I can’t stay in here another moment.
But there’s no time for more writing, even if I dared. Lucille appears in the room and I only just manage to flick off the screen before she comes up beside me. ‘What is it, Lucille?’ I say. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to help you close down,’ she says.
‘Only I am allowed to do that,’ I tell her. ‘You know that.’
Lucille gives a tight-lipped smile. ‘Actually, that’s not true,’ she says. ‘I checked in your remembering book. All it says is that Esther must open and close the chat-room door. It says nothing about whether one of us can help with the screens and tidying the room.’
I keep my remembering book tucked away underneath my bed. ‘You went into my room?’ I say, shocked.
Lucille meets my eye, defiant, unashamed. ‘I thought at least one of us should be paying attention to the rules.’
The anger builds inside me, but before I can do or say anything Lucille lunges across and flicks my screen back on. I try to turn it off again but it’s too late.
‘There’s a message there!’ she practically screams. ‘Who is it from? Who are you talking to? I know you’re up to something, Esther! Stop trying to hide it!’ Wildly, she kicks at my chair, knocking it over so I’m sent sprawling to the floor. Then she clicks open the message on my screen.