Go ahead, Briony, knock. That’s what a regular person would do, and really, it’s not so very difficult. But I was lying to myself.
I always lie.
Father sits beside Rose. Eldric sits beside Dr. Rannigan. I’d almost forgotten Eldric lives here, that he’s slept here for ten whole nights.
“How are you, Rose?” I say.
There comes a long pause, and Father answers for me. He tells me that Rose has the swamp cough. He tells me that the cough’s not terribly bad—it never is at first—and that scientists in London are working on a cure, and that surely before Rose falls very ill, the scientists will have found a remedy.
Father always lies.
Dr. Rannigan knows Father is lying. He says there’s nothing to do when the cough gets bad, save for injections of strychnine to stimulate her heart. And morphine, of course, morphine at the end, to ease her passing.
“Rose,” I said, “I’ve a mind to call at the firehouse tomorrow. Would you like to join me?”
Father glanced at Dr. Rannigan. Dr. Rannigan nodded and said a bit of fresh air wouldn’t hurt, and went on to tell us how to wrap her up and how long she might stay out, but I was too busy regretting my offer to listen. Rose is besotted with the firehouse and the firemen, and a besotted Rose is a tedious thing indeed.
Father looked from me to Rose and back to me again. For the first time since Stepmother died he noticed our clothes. He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded remarkably like “Good God!” He said we couldn’t go about dressed like twin versions of the Little Match Girl; and that we certainly couldn’t testify at Nelly Daws’s trial like that; and that Pearl would know how to fix us up.
We were to have new clothes.
We were to have new clothes because I tried to bargain with the Boggy Mun and he outwitted me. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Father shouldn’t feel guilty, but he does. We were to have new clothes because I made Rose sick.
This, to me, is Hell.
On and on ring the lunatic bells.
Storybook events come in threes. So, it seems, does Hell. Here’s the third strand of Hell woven into that night.
I lay in bed, listening to Rose cough. It was a wet, skin-scraping cough, very different from her earlier cough. Rose had never had the swamp cough. I was a fool.
I was a fool, yet I was clever.
It was the clever Briony who’d called up Death. She called it up so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Mr. Dreary, who wouldn’t have died had she not called it up. It’s rather unbearably circular.
But there are more unbearable circles.
It was the clever Briony who dreamed up a plan to save Rose. She dreamed up the plan so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Rose, who wouldn’t have contracted the swamp cough had she not gone into the swamp.
The clever Briony knows that when she enters the swamp, people die. The clever Briony intended that Rose contract the swamp cough. She has always been jealous of Rose.
This to her is the third strand of Hell.
10
Lo: the Gloriousness
That night, the swamp craving returned.
What a strange word,
It makes me sympathetic to Fitz the Genius’s craving, which was for arsenic. It sounds a peculiar thing to crave, but apparently more people than one might expect are addicted to the stuff. That’s what Father said after he dismissed Fitz, even though that meant I had no tutor. Even though he was still a genius. I couldn’t see that the arsenic affected him a bit.
Father sacked the Genius, I banished the Brownie, and then I was alone.
Night faded into blue ink. I was bored, I didn’t want to be hanged. I was bored. I buttoned myself into collar and cuffs. I tied myself into ribbons and shoes. Dawn clung to me like cobwebs.
I find it impossible to be bored when I help Rose get ready for the day. That’s because I’m too busy loathing her. Loathing and boredom don’t mix.
“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station,” said Rose.
“Before you take any of those steps, you must put on your shoes.”
“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station.”
Honestly, if I don’t save her life, I’m going to kill her!
Despite her cough, Rose was in unusually good spirits. That was irritating. If I’m to trade my life for Rose’s, I’d appreciate her exhibiting a touch of melancholy. Also acceptable would be despair.
“You talked last night while you were asleep,” said Rose.
“Your shoes, Rose!”
“How can you talk when you’re asleep?”
I could blame myself for her good spirits, if I wanted to, which I didn’t. Rose’s fascination with the fire station began when I set the library fire. I’m still astonished that it was Rose herself who alerted the fire station. She told me all about it—how the alarm bell went off, and the firemen went rushing about, harnessing the horses and checking the ladders, and how it was the handsome Robert himself who lifted her onto the fire wagon and stood right behind her so she wouldn’t fall, and off they went, the hose-carts rattling behind.
“I prefer that you not talk,” said Rose.
I myself preferred not to talk, but I’d have to talk to say so. “Robert wears shoes.”
“I don’t like my shoes,” said Rose.
“I’m wearing my shoes and you don’t see me complain.”
“You only hear a person complain,” said Rose. “Not see.”
How has Rose lived for seventeen years and no one has ever killed her, not once?
“Perhaps you ought to put your shoes on in the wardrobe.” Rose was irritatingly agreeable. She crawled into the wardrobe and shut the door. Rose has a theory that time goes more slowly in the wardrobe, which may be true, given the amount of time she spends in there.
“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station.”
“How many steps to the breakfast table?”
“I don’t want breakfast,” said Rose. “I want to go to the fire station.”
We ended up compromising. We’d have toast, only toast, which as Rose said, is quick to eat. But Eldric was waiting for us in the dining room, wearing one of Pearl’s ruffled aprons. “You look very beautiful,” I said. “Is this a special occasion?”
“I suppose you could say so,” he said. “I’m in charge of breakfast this morning.”
“Boys don’t wear aprons,” said Rose.
“This boy does,” said Eldric. “He does when he’s cooking eggs.”
“But Pearl cooks our eggs,” said Rose. “Anyway, I prefer toast today and so does Briony.”
