Er, have I ever hit you? Pinched you? Slapped you? Just… asking.
I don’t need to ask. I’m a damned detective. I can follow the clues, and the fact that I misunderstood before now only proves how distracted I’ve been. More Psych 101. The brain likes stereotypes because they are mental shortcuts. We have so much data to process in everyday life that we rely on these shortcuts far too much.
In this world, the data is overwhelming for me. So I’ve shut down the part of me that I’d like to think is bias-light, and I shoved everyone into boxes. My undertaker employer will be grim and foreboding. As a man with servants, he’ll be an inconsiderate asshole. The body I inhabit is that of a pretty teenage housemaid. She’ll be meek and mild and not terribly bright. Oh, wait, she was a thief? Then she did it out of desperation, a girl from the slums driven to steal for a living. The twelve-year-old scullery maid flinches from me? She’s a poor and timid creature. Oh, she’s also nice to me? Because we’re sisters in service, bound by circumstances.
Sisters, yes, in the worst of ways. Two girls forced to live together, one of them taking full advantage of her superior size and position. The kind of sister that made me glad I was an only child.
Catriona bullied Alice. Of all the things my host-body has done, that upsets me the most, and it’s a lead weight on my mood, dragging it deeper into the gloom.
“Hello, Alice.” I speak as kindly as I can, and she still tenses, as if that kindness is a trick. She’s not a timid girl. Not a fearful one. Just one who has learned her own tricks to avoid punishments she doesn’t deserve, like abused children in every time period.
I want to say something. I cannot. I can only show her that I have changed.
“I’ve missed dinner,” I say. “And I can’t remember whether we are allowed to take food from the larder. Is there something I may have?”
She eyes me, and I see the problem. Catriona doesn’t ask—she takes. Maybe this is the trick. I will eat something and blame Alice for saying it was okay.
“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll ask Mrs. Wallace in the morning. I’m fine tonight.”
I’ve started to step past her when she says, “We’re allowed to take any leftover bread or rolls, as Mrs. Wallace will bake more when she rises. But there’s none tonight. She has been running herself ragged preparing for Mrs. Ballantyne’s return, and I think she may have reheated day-old rolls for the master.” Her lips quirk. “He was too distracted to notice. He always is.”
“Ah, well, thank you for letting me know.” I pause. “I know I’m asking a lot of silly questions.”
“Your memory is affected. That’s what Dr. Gray says.”
“It is, but…” I glance around, as if being sure we are alone. “I fear letting him know how badly it is affected. I realize I do not seem myself, and that is because I scarcely remember myself, and I fear if the master finds out, he’ll have me sent away.”
She frowns. “Dr. Gray would not do that. He might try to study your affliction, but if it becomes overtaxing, Mrs. Ballantyne will stop him.”
“Perhaps, but I am still anxious. So I appreciate your answering my questions, and I apologize if I do not seem like the person you knew.”
Her gaze goes wary, but she only nods.
When I start to leave again, Alice sighs. “You ought not to go to bed without dinner. There are biscuits in my room. When Dr. Gray does notfinish his, I take them, as Mrs. Wallace would only throw them into the rubbish. You can have the ones from today.”
“I won’t take them all, but I would appreciate one. Thank you.”
Alice helps me fix tea and gives me two of the biscuits she took from Dr. Gray’s tray this afternoon. I thank her again and ask how her day was. The question seems to throw her. Because each day is the same as the next? Or because Catriona would never ask and therefore it’s suspicious? Probably the latter, and there’s nothing I can do except vow that we’ll get past it.
And what will happen when her tormentor returns? Because Catriona will return. I cannot—will not—acknowledge any other possibility.
Since it seems I’m not leaving any time soon, I’ll have time to teach Alice how to deal with the return of the person who owns the body I currently possess, and I’ll try not to think aboutthatbrain twister too much.
When I enter my room, the first thing I see is a book on my dresser.Records of Washing Away of Injuries,by Song Ci, translated by W. A. Harland. I crack it open and smile for the first time in hours. It’s the thirteenth-century Chinese book of forensic science that Gray had mentioned. Underneath is a folded note. I open it to see calligraphy-worthy penmanship. However messy the man may be in his personal habits, his writing is enviable.
Catriona,
This is the book I mentioned, in case you care to read it. Please do not feel obligated to do so. In fact, I would be more annoyed to discover you forced yourself to read it rather than admit you are not interested.
He signs with a flourish that makes me smile again. It is the stereotypically illegible doctor’s signature, and yet still as beautifully scripted as the rest.
Do I want to read this book? Hell, yes. I’d never even heard of it, and my heart does a little flip of joy as I take it to the bed with my biscuits. I reach for my cell phone to use the flashlight and…
I get the damned oil lamp burning and set it up beside the bed. When I open the book, I need to adjust the flame, and I’m still squinting. I’m reminded of being on a car trip with a friend, and when I tried to read in the passing streetlights his parents had warned that I’d ruin my eyesight reading in the dark. Still not sure whether that’s a thing, but I do wear contacts.
No, Ididwear contacts.
I hadn’t even realized I’m no longer wearing them. I peer across the room and then down at the book. I can see it perfectly. Thank God for small mercies—I imagine in this world, unless a maid is half blind, she’s not going to get spectacles.