by Quenby Olson
I’ve no doubt Mrs. Selwyn considers me something of a witch, though her own inventive mind has probably exaggerated many of the details during the last five weeks I’ve lodged under her roof. By this time, I’ve become a regular messenger of Satan, dabbling in the black arts and scrawling pentagrams on her gritty floor. That she might say prayers for the condition and keeping of my soul, I can’t bring myself to believe. For Mrs. Selwyn is the type of woman who prefers her religion to be a vague and distant thing, the good Lord and his angels residing comfortably in the stories she read out of a primer six decades ago. In her mind, God and his host must dwell somewhere near the Queen, cordoned off and quite unreachable.
But contrary to Mrs. Selwyn’s belief, there are no allusions to the dark arts in my tiny room. A bed, a small chest that leads a double life as a wardrobe, a cracked washstand, and a chair that might have been salvaged from a dreary attic. There are few amenities here. The chair stands beside the bed, acting as a small table beneath its burden of a cup of water and—what would astonish Mrs. Selwyn—a creased and dog-eared Bible.
The book was here before me, no doubt left behind by the room’s previous occupant, a young man who absconded in such a rush he left two socks—mismatched—and a pair of braces slung over the back of the chair.
The man never returned for his belongings, and the socks are now relegated to the position of stopping up a mouse hole in the baseboard. But the mice-chewed tufts of wool can’t keep out the heat that insinuates itself into the room, finding no escape with the setting of the sun. The window, a small pane of bubbled glass that looks down on an alley without an escape, refuses to open no matter how much force I might use against it, and I spend too many evenings moistening the glass with my breath before I take to beating my head upon the papered wall.
But instead of abusing my head, I channel my energy into my fingers, and my right hand slides down the length of my left arm with a movement that has become almost instinctive. My fingers push at the cuff of my blouse until they’ve wrapped around the narrow span of my wrist, the pad of my thumb gliding over the fleshy welts of repaired skin that will forever prevent me from displaying my forearms in public.
With such a vain thought still tickling my conscious, I drag the paper out from under my arm and toss it onto the end of the bed, accompanied by the gloves I pull from my waistband.
Outside my window, several feet below, the morning traffic has already begun to subside. The threat of the sun’s warmth pushes people indoors, and they shuffle into the dark like tribes of Bedouin retreating beneath the protection of their tents, the blistering heat of the sun given free rein over the city for the next few hours. I adjust my hat, finally pulling out the pin and tossing the sad accessory onto the bed along with its companions.
Without ceremony, all the other pins holding my hair in place follow suit. My clothing is done away with, blouse and skirt soon draped over the back of the chair, sharing their space with the braces I’ve yet to part with. I lie on the bed, on top of the blankets that have served no other purpose except to add a much needed layer of padding to a mattress that sags beneath even my slight weight, and I close my eyes, count the fluttered beatings of my heart as my breathing begins to slow. I try not to move, even though the sweat builds on my bare skin, and my ears and nose are worried by a large fly.
At some point, I must have drifted off, because when I open my eyes, the light has changed directions, and the shadows cut across the floor at shallower angles. I pull my legs back, tucking them beneath me as I struggle to sit up. The heat has made my head thick, and my throat is sore.
Pushing damp strands of hair off my face, I reach out for the Bible that sits on the chair beside me. A nub of pencil is tucked between some of King David's Psalms, the closest thing to a bookmark at hand, and I flip through the pages for some minutes, absorbing nothing, but only feeling the weight of the paper, as thin as tissue, between my fingers.
So turgid are my thoughts at this moment, it takes some minutes for the knock at the door to rouse me. Not until the knock has taken on enough force to shake the dust out of the wall do I call out for a brief respite from the noise while I struggle to find the correct end of my skirt.
"A note for you," Mrs. Selwyn grumbles when I greet her at the door. My blouse still sticks to my skin as my fingers commence a short battle with the buttons. "Just delivered. I ought to charge you, you know, demand some sort of pecuniary reimbursement for all the trouble of trudging up here to bring this to you."
But she knows she’ll receive no extra payment from me, so the wrinkled and folded slip of paper is thrust into my hand with a narrowed glance, as if her watery eyes will be able to see through me and into the room behind, on the lookout for some unholy ceremony her knock had interrupted. And all the while, her feline companion tangles with her ankles, his tail alone throwing a tuft of hair into the atmosphere with every pass. He protests once as Mrs. Selwyn backs away, her steps purposefully loud, an affectation meant to display all the energy she’ll use to return downstairs and back into the depths of her chair. I’ve already closed the door on her before she’s cleared the landing, and I glance at the note, reluctant to open it now that I’ve had an opportunity to read the poorly written direction.
One last minute of debate, and I tear at the shoddy seal, unfold the note and grimace at the still damp ink that transfers itself onto my fingers.
Dear Dorothea,
I pause for a moment, then blink as I realise those two words have been crossed out, with another, much plainer salutation written below.
Dorothea,
The rest of the note barely suffices as a complete sentence. My eyes skim to the end of it, until they’ve fastened on the flowery signature that tells me more than the dozen other words managed to convey.
It takes a few minutes to dress and fix my hair, the last pin slipping into a hastily braided bun before I set my hat to my head, giving it a last futile nudge to keep it in place. Drawing in one more breath of stale air, I walk out of the room and down the stairs as fast as I can without alerting Mrs. Selwyn to my departure. But I feel her eyes on me as I walk toward the door, or rather, the eyes of her watchman, the grey cat, poised on a dusty shelf, so close to the exit I hear his purr in my ear as I duck my head and step out into the daylight.
Chapter Two
* * *
* * *
The juice trickles over Marta’s plump fingers, settling beneath her fingernails as she tears off another strip of orange peel and quite unceremoniously tosses it over her shoulder.
"Are you sure you won’t have some?"
I glance at the mangled fruit in her hands, the section of orange, squashed from her ministrations, dripping from her fingertips. But even with the unnatural heat of the sun beating down on the back of my neck, I’m not tempted by this morsel of refreshment.
"Never mind," she says, and pops the disassembled fruit into her mouth. A dribble of juice rolls down her chin, but it’s gone in a second, a quick flick of her tongue lapping it up. "Oh, it is a right steam bath today, isn’t it? Sure I can’t get you something to drink?"
"I assure you, I am fine."
"Hmmph."
Another section of orange disappears, another chunk of peel thrown to the ground. All around us, the most stalwart of the city’s pedestrians brave the midday sun. Men in swallow-tail coats and collars that refuse to wilt. Mothers leading herds of smartly dressed children from one shop to another. Pigeons fluttering around gutters that contain only the most distinguished forms of refuse. Even Marta shines in this part of the city, her shrewd eyes inspecting every hansom that rumbles past us, as if another business opportunity might be hidden away inside the noble equipage.
And look at how my dear Marta is dressed! I’ve never seen her broad shoulders decorated with such finery. Bronze silk trimmed with velvet, over a blouse edged with lace. It’s a wonder she’s not succumbed to the heat, wearing so many layers, but there’s not a bead of perspiration on her upper li
p that isn’t wiped away with an embroidered handkerchief before the light has a chance to reflect off the moisture’s surface.
"It’s a shame," she says, once the fruit is demolished, a faint glistening at the corners of her mouth the only proof of its prior existence. "A real shame to see what’s become of you."
She has seen me once in the last five weeks, and before that, it was a span of two years between meetings. I cannot but wonder which of my remembered selves she’s taken to using as a comparison.
"You’re wasting your youth, Thea, hiding away like you are."
"Ah." I look away from her in order to cover the subtle twitch at the corner of my mouth. "I wasn’t aware matters had gone so far."
She pushes out her bottom lip and blows out a breath that bothers the dyed feathers poking out of her hat. "You’re doing it right now, you know. Trying not to be seen. It’s in the way you stand. I don’t remember you standing like that when you were a girl." A dark look settles over her brow. "You need to go back to the stage, d’you hear?"
My fingers tangle together and break apart before she’s able to read something more into my brief hesitation. "No," I say, at last. "I shouldn’t have ever been there in the first place."
"Oh, really?" Her eyebrows, plucked into an unnaturally high arch, rise even further. "You were disposed enough towards it back then, or have I gotten it all mixed up in my head? Mind you, my memory isn’t as reliable as it used to be."
Ah, the advantage of having someone like Marta among my acquaintance. I'm never without someone to remind me of my former mistakes.
"I was so young." And I wince at this poor excuse, as if every sin can be readily forgiven so long as it was committed well before the last of a person’s molars have broken through. So I continue talking, offering up justifications that sound increasingly false to my ears. "It was different then. I thought it would help. I thought it would make me stronger. And it did, for a time."
"And I’m sure the money didn’t hurt matters?"
A sigh escapes me, almost a scoff. She takes it as my reply.
"Two years you were in that bloody hospital," she says, leaping from subject to subject with all the skill of a seasoned acrobat. "You’d think there’d be an improvement of sorts. But look at you! Like you’ve not slept or eaten proper since Michaelmas."
There’s something in her expression now, a flash of maternal concern. And then a blink, a turn of her head, and there, it’s gone.
"How much money do you need?" Her voice is harsher now, a woman of business as her fingers delve into a discreet pocket between the voluminous folds of her skirt. I hear the clink of coins, and perhaps, if I turned my ear towards it, the rustle of a few bank-notes.
And now there is nothing left but for me to speak, and it’s amazing how quickly I revert to the gestures of my childhood, my head lowered, something like complaisance tinged with shame shaping the words that seem to have stranded themselves in the vicinity of my throat.
"One month’s rent, is all." Out of the corner of my eye, the glint of a sovereign. "I’ll pay you back. You know I will."
"What about food?" She presses the coin into my hand, follows it with another. "You don’t cook for yourself?" Her head shakes in answer to her own question. "You need to get a lining in your stomach before a good wind up and snatches you away."I’ve already stashed the coins out of sight before she passes a bank-note beneath my nose. Her grasp on the paper remains firm, and I make no move to possess it.
"In return," she says. "A favour."
My eyes follow the wrinkled note, until I feel like a cat stalking a frayed end of yarn. "I will do my best to oblige, Marta."
"I’ve a girl, older than you, but just starting out. She’s taken to calling herself Lady Francesca. A load of tosh, really, but a few of my regulars have taken quite a liking to her."
She blinks down at me, her breath held. Unfortunately, I’m in no mood to give her the easy reply she desires.
"It’s a wonder you can find enough customers in this day and age," I say, and allow my attention to drift to a vague spot located on the other side of the street. "I hardly thought communications with the afterlife were considered to be quite the fashionable thing anymore."
"Well, there’s the thing, you see? All these ones being taken in for fraud, self-proclaimed psychics, Spiritualists, and all of them being charged with an assortment of criminal activities, it lends a dangerous air to the proceedings. Makes the old biddies and the fine gentlemen feel as if they’re doing something they shouldn’t. And you know as well as I, there’s always a good living to be made in practices that make a person feel not more than a bit guilty after the fact."
She puts on a charming smirk, a sign of our old Marta, come out to play.
"You know," she says, gives my rib cage a nudge. "It would be a boon to her if you’d agree to attend one of her sittings."
"No." The word slips out, maybe too soon, as if I’d been waiting for the opportunity to use it.
"Not in a professional capacity, of course. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do anything more than sit in the background and enjoy the show. But your presence might be the recommendation she’s been searching for."
A shake of my head. "Lady Francesca, you said?" I mutter, with a fine show of disbelief. The answer is still no.
Her gaze darts up to the sky. "She chose the name. Thought it might give her something more of a distinction among her peers, as it were."
"Makes her sound like a gipsy."
"Yes, well." Marta’s bosom puffs outward, her chin rising as if to accommodate this change in proportion. "She can be a bit too eager sometimes. Dramatically, I mean."
I look up at her, and even now, after all the years gone by, I still feel small and timid in her presence. "But isn’t that what you wanted from me? A more visible eagerness for the task at hand?"
"True. But even when you were being, well, how you could get sometimes—Lord, you know you were never an easy one to work with, don’t you? But you had a quality none of these other girls are able to pick up on. You were…" Her painted mouth puckers as she searches for the missing word. "Genuine."
"Well, thank you."
"Now, that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have played to the audience a bit more…"
"Right. Of course."
"It’s what they prefer now. People like to be dazzled, even if they know it’s all for show. You know, I’m even pushing Franny towards starting out with a few card tricks. Quite a talent for it, she has."
The sun has reached its zenith now. The sheen of perspiration on the back of my neck begs to be wiped away, and on my upper lip, the salty moisture settles. Other pedestrians are seeking out the nearest shade, lingering indoors, clinging to the shadows cast by a building or even another person. But Marta strolls on, shoulders held erect as she nods in the direction of a red-faced gentleman who is too busy dabbing at his face with a handkerchief to return the salutation. And then she dives back into the conversation as if she’d never paused.
"But it’s all for fun now, isn’t it? Between you and me, our Lady Francesca couldn’t make contact with a spirit if it gave her a right kick up the arse. I mean, no one believes in it anymore. But these coddled ladies and gents, they still get a thrill out of it every now and again, no matter what these scientific minds are spouting off. It’s all entertainment in their eyes. The same as going out to the theatre, or whatever else it is that keeps them occupied these days."
"Daft fools," I mutter beneath my breath, though I’ve not yet decided to which group I’ve referred: the scientists, or the ones who abhor them.
"Now, see? That’s the discernment I’m talking about! No suffering of fools from you, which means with your reputation and all, the only thing wanted of you is to give Franny a bit of a nod—a blessing, as it were—and folks will be more inclined to look towards her with something like respect. It’s not as if I’m asking you to sign away your firstborn."
"At least, not yet."
"Oh, will you listen to this!" She cries out towards the heavens, to anyone who will listen, and a few people do turn their heads, but the attention is fleeting. "Smart words coming from you, but you’ve yet to understand something. It’s all ending. To most people, you’re nothing more than a curiosity, halfway to becoming a relic. Or even a criminal, when the mood suits." She pauses, and I feel her eyes on me at this moment, boring into me with a strength I believe could burn through a wall if given the opportunity. She swallows, so loud I can hear it, and down her throat go whatever words, whatever questions she’s most desirous to ask me. "All I’m doing is offering you a bit of employment," she says finally, her voice quiet. "From the few who are still willing to pay for it."
If she expects this statement to trigger some sort of transformation in me, she’s mistaken. That is, of course, if she even takes the time to measure my reaction before plodding ahead.
"Do you remember Lord Ryall? There he was, ready to toss money on you. Put you up in a nice house, give you all sorts of pretty things, but you weren’t having none of it."
"If I remember correctly, Ryall’s inclinations tended more towards the physical than the spiritual."
"Be that as it may," she says, pronouncing each word as if it’s her first lesson in phonetics. "Chances like that aren’t flowing as free as they used to. And what with this blasted heat, and all these other buggers waving their Bibles about, the pace isn’t about to pick up anytime soon."
It’s a struggle to match the length of my stride to her own, and as her temper increases, I’m left jogging two steps for every one of hers.