The Gates of Sleep

though; she mostly adopted “personalities” from the books she had read for the various people she was supposed to be writing to.

When she was done, after a good four hours of work, she had an aching hand, but a feeling of triumph, only tempered by the fact that sitting for four straight hours in a tightly laced corset left her feeling half-strangled and longing for release.

She glanced over to her keeper, and saw that Mary Anne was still immersed in her novel. Her lips thinned.

I don’t believe I’m going to reveal the secret of my success, she decided, and picking up her books, went back to the rear of the library.

But instead of putting the books back in the cupboard in which she’d found them—because it occurred to her that she might need them again—she concealed them among a shelf of geography books. Then she returned to the cupboard and sought out further books of instruction in manners, and did the same with them. In particular, she found a little book with pictures designed to lead a child through the maze of cutlery at a formal dinner that she actually hid inside another book, for retrieval later. She suspected that she would still have to learn these arcane rituals by doing them, but at least this way she would make fewer mistakes.

Only then did she select a novel herself from the shelves and retire demurely to her desk. And just at sunset, Arachne appeared.

When she saw that Marina was reading, her lips hinted at a smile. At least, Marina thought they did. But when she saw the neatly stacked and addressed envelopes in the tray, she definitely frowned.

One at a time, she picked them up, studied the address, opened the envelope and read what was contained inside, then discarded envelope and missive in the wastepaper basket beside the desk, saying nothing. Finally, she finished the last, dropped it on the top of the pile of discards, and turned a frosty smile on Marina.

“Well done,” she said, in a tone that suggested—nothing. Neither approval, nor disapproval. “But I thought you were not aware of the rules of polite address? When I questioned you earlier, you gave me the impression that you had been raised—quite rustically.”

Marina licked her lips. “I have—read a good many novels of society, Aunt,” she said carefully. “And the books that you left with me guided me in the exercise that you set me.”

Carefully chosen truth—provided that “the books left” included the entire library.

“Novels.” Arachne gave her a penetrating look, tempered with veiled disbelief. “A clever use of fiction, niece, but you should be aware that the authors of these books are not always careful in their research. And most, if not all of them, are not or never were members of polite society.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Marina replied, bowing her head so that Arachne would not see her eyes.

“And now you must dress for dinner. Mary Anne?” Arachne swept out of the room, the train of her black silk skirt trailing on the floor behind her with a soft hiss. She was gone before the maid even responded to her peremptory summons.

Dress for dinner. Well, Marina had an idea what that meant. Novels were full of it. Apparently her aunt expected that even when there were only the two of them, dinner would be completely formal.

She followed the maid back to her room—through the oppressive sitting room, through the stifling bedroom, but the woman beckoned her onward, through a door on the opposite side of the room that she had not noticed.

Past that door was a dressing room and a bathroom. A surprising bathroom, the like of which, frankly, Marina had never seen before. It had been done up in the style of a Roman bath, as designed by a modern artist. And it was the first room in the house in which she could draw a free breath.

The bathroom was plumbed in the most modern fashion. There was a huge bathtub, a flushing water closet, and even a shower-bath in one corner. Mary Anne went to the bathtub and immediately began drawing a hot bath. Hot water came out of the bronze, fish-shaped spigot, which meant there was a boiler somewhere nearby.

The bathroom itself was decorated in Marina’s colors, greens and aquas! Green muslin curtains hung at the windows, green mosaics of shells and seaweed decorated the walls and floor, even the tub was painted green, and the fixtures were green-patinaed bronze. Mary Anne stripped her of her clothing as she stared wide-eyed around her; the moment the corset came off and she could take a deep breath, she did so, feeling free for the first time that day.

When Mary Anne left, she quickly adjusted the temperature of the bath—the maid had run it too hot for comfort—and got into it before her keeper could return. The tub was enormous, far bigger than the baths they used in winter in Blackbird Cottage. She wanted to lay back at her ease in her own element, but if she did, the odious maid would probably insist on bathing her, or washing her hair for her.

So she began her own scrub, so that Mary Anne would not be tempted to lend a hand. And to avoid the rough-handed maid’s “caresses” to her head, she let down her hair and washed it first, pinning it up atop her head, wet, when she was finished. Mary Anne hurried in when she heard the splashing, too late to interfere with the hair-washing; she frowned, perhaps because she’d been thwarted, but possibly because her mistress had given her no orders about what to do if Marina managed to act on her own.

“I wouldn’t have washed my hair, miss,” she said with unconcealed disapproval. “It being so near dinnertime and all.”

But it wasn’t—it wasn’t even six o’clock, and formal dinner was never until eight. “I’ll dry it in front of the fire,” Marina said. “It dries very fast.” And with that, she arose from the tub, donned the loose—thankfully loose!— dressing gown that Mary Anne hastily held out, took a brush from the dressing table and sat on a stool in front of the fire in the bedroom.

This is an Earth bedroom. Could it have been Mother’s? She thought not; but—the sitting room was reds… Fire? Could it have been Thomas’? There was another room on the other side of the sitting room—if that one was a Fire room, it would make sense that the uncles would have been near to each other when they lived here. And Uncle Thomas wouldn’t have minded a sitting room in Fire colors.

There was no trace of Thomas now, but just thinking that the room might have been his made it seem less stifling. She brushed out her hair herself, carefully working through the knots and tangles, and used a tiny touch of magic to drive the water out of it. She had no desire to incur Arachne’s further disapproval by appearing at dinner with damp hair.

With a full hour remaining before dinner, somewhat to Mary Anne’s astonishment, her hair was dry and ready to be dressed, and so was she.

Her hour of freedom was over. It was time to be laced back into her imprisoning corsets.

Black again, of course; this time a satin skirt with a train, a black silk blouse with the same high neck as before, but this time a quantity of black jet bead trimming. Mary Anne pinned her hair up in a more formal style, with a set of black jet combs ornamenting it. Pinned was the word; once again, Marina wondered that there wasn’t blood trickling down her scalp.

But Mary Anne did not conduct her to dinner when the gong rang; instead, she excused herself, leaving Marina to find her own way down. Which she did; it wasn’t that difficult. Georgian houses like Oakhurst weren’t the kind of insane mazes that houses that had been built up over hundreds of years turned into.

Dinner was not quite as difficult as luncheon, although it was just as uncomfortable. Arachne was already there, although she hadn’t been waiting long. The footman seated Marina; Arachne was served first, Marina second. Arachne sat at the head of the table, Marina down the side, some distance away from her aunt. At least Mary Anne with her disapproving coughs was not in attendance.

When the footman served the first course, before she reached for a utensil, she heard a discreet sound from him, more of a clearing of his throat, hardly loud enough to hear. And before the footman took the tureen away, she noticed that he was pointing at one of the spoons with his little finger.

She took it up, glanced at him; he smiled, only for a second and very faintly. Then his face resumed its proper mask, and he retreated to the sideboard.

She had an ally!

She watched his hands through the rest of the meal, aware that her aunt was waiting until