THORNFIELD
Jane (let’s call her Jane now, everyone else does)—
Jane Errant sets out for a house called Thornfield, where she is to tutor a clockwork French girl who sings stuttering arias.
The housekeeper claims the house has no ghosts in it. The changeling chooses to believe her, although she already knows that the servants laugh too loudly and that strange footsteps sound in the attic. As she lies awake at night, the attic creeps into the governess’s thoughts, just as it creeps into yours. Dreams of yellow wallpaper, and women who will not be caged.
THE CLOCKWORK GIRL
Adele, unlike Jane, is ideal.
At eight years old she is already pretty, with bright blue eyes that are empty of thought. Her golden hair falls in ringlets, and when she sings she tilts her head just so and shakes her curls as her mother taught her. She smiles frequently at men, displaying teeth that are white and straight.
If you let her, she will sing for you. She will recite poems that she doesn’t understand, raising her hand in the places her mother taught her. When she has finished, she will sink into a curtsey and look up demurely through her fringe of golden hair.
In France, her audience pretended to find this sweet; the gentlemen watched her with eager eyes as she danced for them like a music-box ballerina. Afterward she was sent to sit on their knees. Sometimes in their laps.
Adele dislikes the governess’s lessons, for they are full of big words and numbers that clatter noisily in her head. But she likes the governess well enough, though she is a plain, mousy thing with a thoughtful face. At eight years old, Adele already knows that women should never be thoughtful. They should be pretty and work hard to catch men’s eyes and keep them.
It takes a lot of concentration not to think of the footsteps she hears in the attic, but Adele has been practising the art of thoughtlessness for a long time. Her mother began the clockwork process—to aid Adele’s dancing, she said—and now Adele has almost completed it on her own. Sometimes, when the ghosts in the attic threaten to dig their way into her mind, Adele likes to think about her clockwork body, how solid it is, how quiet and regular. Her body will last forever, and unlike people, it will never abandon her.
The noise in the attic starts again, but Adele turns away. She places her hand over her heart, feeling its fleshy beats thud disgustingly against her ribcage. Soon, she thinks, her transformation will be complete. Then she will be perfect. Then she will be loved.
THE ATTIC
It is time we speak of the attic, this space around which Thornfield’s stories turn. Thornfield is a fairy-tale prison, after all; its thorny walls must guard something. But do they guard it from the world or guard the world from it?
The changeling lies awake in her virginal governess’s bed, listening to the attic. Are those footsteps she hears real, or figments of her imagination?
One night, tentatively, she writes out a note, and slips it through a crack into the attic: Who are you?
Excellent question. Sadly, it goes unanswered for weeks. During this time Adele lisps her lessons and the governess is bored. Idly, she plans a trip to the crossroads.
One day she finds a note pinned to her door. The pin is long and sharp; its head is red as blood. The creased paper contains a single word: Myself.
The governess writes a longer note, filling the margins with carefully phrased questions. She never receives an answer. The attic has already told her all she needs to know.
THE CROSSROADS
At midnight the changeling goes to the crossroads. She puts her delicate hands to the dank, pressed earth and digs a hole as deep as her forearm. She takes out the charm—a simple thing made of rags and rabbit’s blood, like the ones her nurse used to make—and drops it down.
There, the changeling thinks. Now do something.
Nothing happens.
The changeling lets a breath out she did not know she was holding. She formed the charm to ask for a change, a breath of excitement in a life fast becoming dreary. But of course nothing will happen. Her nurse’s tales were fantasy only.
Then the hair rises on the back of her arms. Her sweat crisps into cold jewels of ice and skitters to the ground. It pools around her accusingly.
Looking up, the changeling sees a lone dog rushing toward her, eyes gleaming like underwater coins. Her nurse told her stories about dogs like this, fairy guardians of solitary ways.
She feels a surge of fear. Is this another beginning for her? A rough hand come to drag her into yet another story?
The dog rushes past her. It’s his master—and hers—who stops. Falls, actually, tumbling from his horse with a clatter of bones and ugly deeds. It’s up to the changeling to help him to his feet again, a dark man with gloomy manners.
If he had been handsome, if he had smiled, if he had treated her kindly—this story would be different.
She is used to rudeness, and to the insults he hurls in her direction. She offers him a hand and helps lift him up, into a story she—mistakenly—believes unchanged.
THE SECOND INTERVIEW
“When you came on me in the Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse. I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?”
The governess tells her master the truth: She has none she can remember.
“And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on that stile? Did I break through one of your rings, that you spread that damned ice on the causeway?”
The changeling feels an unaccountable chill at Rochester’s words. Does he know? But see how perfectly she answers, mimicking her master’s ironic tone:
“The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago.”
The lie looks well on her, reflecting in the light of her preternatural eyes.
BLANCHE
A party of gentlefolk has arrived at the great house. The servants scurry through Thornfield’s dark chambers, trying to scrub away layers of Gothic with harsh brown soap. The governess can think only of the woman she heard talked about: Blanche Ingram, the lady the servants say her master will marry.
On the night of the party, the governess sees her rival for the first time: a woman white as bleached marble. Blanche has an imperial air about her, the crackle of repressed power. She is careful not to touch the governess, not even with the hem of her gown.
Oddly, there is something about Blanche that reminds the changeling of herself. Ignorant of all but the most basic instincts of the fey-blooded, she cannot tell what it is. She only knows that Blanche’s power is to be respected; that her anger will make itself felt even at great distances. She knows, also, that Blanche has inherited a feral cruelty that the changeling herself does not possess.
Oh, thinks the governess, as Blanche passes by. Is this the kind of woman her master likes?
The changeling has learned to love her master (poor thing). And why not? In his rough way, he has treated her kindly. At least, he has been interested in her, and to those who are used to being ignored, interest is a kindness.
Besides, Thornfield is a dreary place. There is little else for a young woman to do here but fall in love or go insane. The changeling chose the first option (she thinks). She cannot unlove him now, merely because he has ceased to notice her.
THE FORTUNE TELLER
An old gypsy is at the gate, hissing prophecies. She offers to tell everyone’s fortunes, if the servants will let her cross the threshold.
The guests summon her into the hall—a stooped cipher of a woman, bundled like a leper—and give her a private room to interview them in.
One by one the gentlefolk go in, laughing. They emerge with questions gathering in the creases of their eyes. Blanche comes out and announces that she is leaving; the party has exhausted her. She asks that all due apologies be conveyed to the host.
The governess has not met Blanche’s gaze until now. A
ll night, this fine lady’s eyes swept past her, but now she stares at the governess, and her eyes glitter like cold iron.
The changeling stares back, her face set. Sensing danger, she is stubborn. As Blanche turns to leave, Jane feels the same chill she did at the crossroads. This will not go well, she thinks, but does not know what she is afraid of.
A guest comes and touches her arm. The gypsy woman wants to see her.
THE THIRD INTERVIEW
The changeling and the gypsy woman confront each other in a flame-lit room.
“Why don’t you tremble?”
“I’m not cold.”
“Why don’t you turn pale?”
“I’m not sick.”
“Why don’t you consult my art?”
“I’m not silly.”
The gypsy laughs. You are all three, the old woman says. Cold from want of love, sick from desire, and silly for not pursuing it.
The changeling will say nothing to that. The flame flickers in the eye. Perhaps she already detects her master’s face beneath the soot and rags. Perhaps she’s already wondering what game he’s playing.
WAITING
After the guests leave: silence.
The servants move about as quietly as they can, cleaning up all traces of the week of parties. The governess wonders at her master’s charade, about the queer games he is playing with her and Blanche Ingram.
Her master is congratulating himself on his cleverness. He thinks he has driven Blanche off with a few well-turned prophecies. But women like Blanche have a way of making their feelings known even after your doors are barred to them, and the changeling fears that Blanche’s power will not be gainsaid.
There are signs. A tree in the garden is blasted by lightning, and afterward the air around its stump smells like roses. The milk left beside the door turns sour. The clouds around Thornfield threaten rain, but no storm arrives.
The changeling can sense the magic in the air, but she has not the least idea how to turn back the curse coiling around them. Someone has set something dreadful in motion, and she does not know what to do.
It occurs to the changeling that she might ask the attic for help, but the thought stirs fear in her. Instinctively, she knows that whatever is locked in the attic is not on her side. It is on nobody’s side but its own. Unleashed, there is no telling what it might do.
THE PRECURSOR
Blanche’s curse arrives in the form of another visitor, one who brings the tropical past clinging to his heels. He gives his name as Mason. He comes, he says, from the West Indies.
The West Indies. It’s easy to forget, here in the damp mist of Thornfield, that there’s an empire out there. Its blood brews the coffee at your table. Its ghosts wander your darkness; children whose bones were ground into sugar pound on the wet glass. You can shred their hands on the broken panes, but it will not keep them out—some of them are already inside.
“Mason—the West Indies,” her master repeats. The governess feels chilled, though she does not know why.
MIDNIGHT
Something has happened in the attic.
Mason, the newest houseguest, is brought below stairs, his shirt soaked with blood, his pale eyes rolling.
“She said she’d drain my heart,” he tells Rochester. The words stagger down the halls, leaving bloody handprints on the yellow wallpaper.
The changeling is all for going to the attic herself, candlestick in hand, to do . . . what, she could not say. She does not know what to call the strange power seething under her skin, but something dreadful seems to be called for.
As she goes to mount the attic stairs, a servant’s brown arms restrain her. The young woman shakes her head silently. No. This is not a governess’s concern.
There is blood seeping into the floorboards, crawling into the bones of the past. The housekeeper is on her knees, trying to prevent a stain.
Afterward, nobody comments on the incident. It is as though it never happened at all.
The governess resumes her correspondence with the attic. This time her note contains a single word: Why?
A few days later, she receives a reply, left on her pillow as though by an evil fairy. This time the note says simply: You’ll learn.
THE PROPOSAL
Her master begins (subtly, he thinks), by asking Jane what she thinks of the house. Of course she must approve of the house: Despite its Gothic appearance, the ghost in the attic, the alleged homicidal impulses of its servants, it is the only home she has. From here it is a short step to approving of the man himself, or so he hopes.
The governess, to her credit, is sceptical. She is in love with him, yes: but he is older than she, richer than she, and is a gentleman. Also, there is the matter of the attic. (She is astute enough not to mention the attic aloud, but she looks meaningfully in the direction of the house. Rochester chooses to ignore her gaze.)
Her master has answers for her: His wealth and age are usually considered good things, and he hates parties, so she will not have to mix much in society.
Eventually, she says yes.
In a fairy tale, the story would now be over. But in the attic, something broods, waiting.
THE WEDDING
On the morning of the wedding, the governess wakes with a mound of salt in her mouth. She spits out the white powder—her mouth is dry, so dry—and kicks away the iron horseshoe that someone has left at the foot of her bed. She sits up trembling, enraged.
Her fey self is housed in human flesh, and such weak tricks will not work on her. But the changeling knows she has been threatened. Someone in this house does not wish her well.
She glances askance at the servants who help her with the veil. One of them, perhaps? One of the laughing kitchen girls she called a friend? Or the housekeeper?
The mirror stares at her, its pale face reflecting hers.
She looks like a ghost in her bridal gown, a feathery concoction of silk and lace. Her master chose it for her, and who is Jane to argue? She owns no clothes but those that are handed to her.
Rubbing the glitter of salt from her lips, she tells herself that all will be well. It is only a dress, after all.
THE TRAITOR
At the foot of the stairs, Adele tilts her porcelain face up and mouths her words: “It didn’t work.”
There is no answer.
Uncertainly, Adele twists her tiny hands in front of her. The wedding will start soon. As the flower girl, Adele is expected to perform, and yet she is still imperfect, still flawed.
Desperation makes her bold. “I did what you said,” she tells the attic. “Now you must give me my heart.”
“It is not mine to give.” The attic’s voice is dry, amused. It sounds like dead leaves scraping together. A chill runs up the clockwork girl’s perfectly articulated spine.
Adele licks her lips. “But you promised—”
“I promise many things,” the attic says. “Only time will tell.”
Adele shakes her head. There are so many things she wishes she could say, but her perfect mouth cannot form the words.
THE CEREMONY
The wedding guests shuffle as Jane walks in. They are Rochester’s friends, and her veil turns their faces into white blurs.
The priest speaks and the governess tries to listen. Tension is gathering around her. Blanche’s curse is here, standing in the shadows like an unexpected guest. It looks like Mason.
Someone must have said something. Rochester turns to look at Mason. Adele is standing perfectly poised, one graceful hand cupped to her face in a perfect mimicry of shock.
“The groom has another wife,” Mason repeats.
Rochester is furious. He would kill Mason if he could, but this is England, and the wedding guests would be positively shocked.
Angrily he leads the curious and the cynical down the stone path to Thornfield, up that ancient house’s creaking stairs. The governess follows beh
ind, wondering if this is the worst Blanche can do to her.
Then she sees they are to go into the attic. She pauses at the top of the stairs, her skin prickling. Things are about to change. She can feel it.
THE MADWOMAN IN THE ATTIC
The governess hears the woman before she sees her. Snarls, thick and guttural, the sounds life makes when it refuses to be stamped out. A lurching, scrabbling figure on the floor, all hair and fingernails. Its look is hateful.
Jane recognizes that look, and the ring of salt that surrounds the woman. She recognizes the horseshoes nailed to the wall. They have kept her here, this fey thing, safely away from their white tablecloths and dining sets. The attic rattles with her fury.
Grace Pool, that whispering servant, warns them to take care. “One never knows what she has, sir; she is so cunning. It is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft.”
Lured, perhaps, by the abjection of the grovelling shadow, the gentlemen draw closer, staring the way people do through the bars of a cage. One of them disturbs the salt with the toe of his boot.
Instantly the fairy is at them, desperate for a chance to inflict damage. The magic that curls at her fingertips still blazes power. Her bared teeth are yellow. They draw blood.
They wrestle her down, pin her to the floorboards. Her magic is too tattered to stop them. She moans and hisses into the veins of wood, her bare feet kicking vaguely at the air.
The changeling has never seen one of the pure fey before. There were images, to be sure, memories lurking in her blood, but none of them prepared her for this once-proud creature clawing at floorboards, eyes empty of reason.
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