THREE
I stand in front of the cabinet, staring at the reflection of the blond girl from the alley. The obvious answer is that I’m looking at another projection. I don’t even get a chance to consider that, because my first reaction is to jerk back, startled… and the girl in the mirror moves with me.
Bruises dapple her neck, and there’s a dressing on her temple, as if she’d been struck there, and my mind goes instantly to the alley, hearing her gasp and fall back, seeing hands around her throat.
The girl—young woman, I should say—is no more than twenty. Honey-blond hair that curls to midback. Bright blue eyes. Average height with curves not quite contained by the corset over my chest.
Not me.
None of it is me.
I take a deep breath. Or I try to, but the corset restricts the movement. I look down to see I’m wearing a dress. A long-sleeved cotton dress, not unlike the one on the little girl who fled. When I run my hands over the bodice, I feel stiff stays beneath.
Who puts an injured young woman to bed while wearing a dress and corset?
I almost laugh at my outrage, as if this “young woman” is a stranger and I’m incensed on her behalf.
This stranger is me.
Footsteps thump up the stairs. Heavy floor-creaking steps, with lighter ones pattering along. My head jerks up, and I lunge, only to inhale sharply as the corset tightens. I gather my skirts—a phrase I’ve never had cause to use before—and race to the door, easing it shut before the people reach the top of the stairs.
A few moments later, someone turns the knob, and I brace my back against the door.
“Catriona?” a woman says. “Open this door.”
I close my eyes and lean against it, and I have no idea what I’m doing, only that I do not want to face anyone until I’ve figured out what the hell is going on.
“Are ye certain she’s awake, Alice?” the woman asks.
A girl’s voice says, “Aye, ma’am. She were on her feet ’n’ talking, though what she said… Her mind must be addled fae th’ blow.”
The older woman grumbles. “We dinnae need this.”
I struggle to follow the accents, which seem thicker than I’m used to in Edinburgh. My brain smooths their speech into something I can follow.
“Catriona?” the older woman says.
I clear my throat and channel historical-novel dialogue while sending up a thanks to my dad, the English prof.
“I-I fear I am unwell, ma’am,” I say. “Might I lie abed awhile longer?”
I wince. I sound like a community-theater player in a period drama. Even my voice isn’t my own. It’s the higher pitch I heard earlier, with a thick Scottish brogue.
As silence falls, I wonder whether I’ve laid on the “historical-novel-speak” a bit thick.
More footsteps. These ones firm, soles smacking along the hall floor.
“Sir,” the older woman says.
“What the devil is going on?” A man’s voice, clipped with annoyance, his brogue softer.
“It’s Catriona, sir,” the girl says. “She’s awake.”
“Awake?” Genuine shock sparks in the man’s voice.
The knob jangles. The door opens an inch before I thump against it, forcing it shut.
“She’s barred the door, sir,” the girl—Alice—says again. “She’s not herself.”