“What do you think, Briony?” said Father. “Will the girls of the Swampsea be glad of a new and handsome face?”
I hate it when Father puts on a show, pretending we’re the kind of family that chats and gossips and laughs. People always say one thing and mean something else beneath. I’m the worst of all, but at least I don’t lie to myself about it.
Anyway, I have no idea what other girls feel, regular girls. I am not a regular girl.
I squeezed a peek at Eldric as he and Mr. Clayborne shook hands. Father was wrong, of course. Eldric wasn’t handsome, not in a Greek statue kind of way, not like Cecil Trumpington, who wants to marry me. Well, Cecil actually wants to marry the idea of me. He wants a girl with ivory skin and corn-silk hair; he wants a girl with the face of an angel.
But not even Cecil has such gorgeous, slouchy clothes as Eldric. Everything about Eldric screamed of the things I’d never have, of London and theater and turn-on lamps and motorcars—
“I don’t care to shake that boy’s hand,” said Rose.
And piped-in water—
Mr. Clayborne held Eldric at arm’s length and smiled at him.
And piped-out lavatories—
Mr. Clayborne pulled Eldric back and kissed his cheek.
Kissing? Men kissing! We don’t go in for that sort of thing in the Swampsea.
But we were country mice. Perhaps the history books will report that, as the new century entered its second decade, men in London took to wearing mink coats, which led naturally to—
The constable stuck his great brass badge into our air cushion. The rest of the constable followed, which was a pity. The air cushion was filling up—now the Swamp Reeve, now Mayor Brody and his greyhounds, now Judge Trumpington and his wife.
Ah yes, the beautiful Mrs. Trumpington, and the beautiful Mrs. Trumpington’s beautiful frock. Mrs. Trumpington, looking just like a May flower—although it was hardly April—a May flower in peach batiste with a lace underskirt and too much embroidery to mention, so I won’t. Rose and I wore identical frocks, not to Mrs. Trumpington but to each other. We’d had them for ages and they made us look about twelve rather than seventeen. But Rose likes looking twelve: She also wore a pinafore and a pink hair ribbon. She wears them every day.
“I don’t care to shake hands with that boy,” said Rose. She has only one way of speaking, and it is loud.
Oh, Rose! Now Eldric would look at us and pity our shattered, fragile family and our shabby, childish clothes; and I’d be obliged to hate myself, and to hate him too, although I’ve had a lot of practice and it’s not terribly burdensome. Hating, I mean.
I hate myself.
Eldric had certainly noticed us now, his eyes first on Rose, now swiveling to me, now back to Rose; assuring himself, as everyone did, that we were that interesting freak of nature, the identical twin. What did he think as he looked at our angel faces? What would he think if he knew what lay beneath the face of the angel named Briony?
“I don’t care to shake hands with that boy.”
Father gave up; I saw it in his shoulders. You can never win with Rose. He must have forgotten that while he was talking to God.
“Please allow me to introduce my daughter Rosy.”
Rosy? Honestly, Father, there you go again, putting on your pretty mask, playing at the game of Perfect Family. We are not the sort of people who go in for pet names.
“How do you do?” Eldric smiled. He had golden lion’s eyes and a great mane of tawny hair.
“I knew it,” said Rose. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” said Father.
“I’m not rosy,” she said, which is true. The two of us are alabaster girls, lovely to look at, or so we hear.
How could I bear it, Eldric living with us, this non-child, this boy-man? I’d have to keep on my Briony mask. I’d have to keep my lips greased and smiling. I’d have to keep my tongue sharp and amusing. Already, I was exhausted.
“And you?” said Eldric. After a heartbeat of silence, I glanced up. Eldric was looking at me, this golden London boy, looking at me with amber eyes. “What am I to call you?”
“You may call me Briony,” I said, “which makes it awfully convenient because so does everyone else.”
After a hiccough of silence, Eldric laughed. Then so did the others, except Rose. And me, of course. I don’t have much laughter left. I’ve looked after Rose for years and years, and she drained me dry long ago. What’s she feeding off now, I wonder. My soul juice?
I’d have to talk to Eldric, wouldn’t I? Talk to this foreign boy-man animal. I knew nothing of boy-men and I didn’t care to learn. And he wouldn’t merely be living with us, but sleeping in Stepmother’s sickroom, sleeping in the very bed on which she had died.
And eat with him?
Mealtimes had been so awkward after Stepmother died and Father started spending time at home again. Neither of us with anything to say, and Rose no great conversationalist herself. We hadn’t had proper mealtimes while Stepmother was ill. Skipping meals is terrifically convenient: It gives one lots of time to brood and hate oneself.
Anyway, I hate cooking and I hate the kitchen and I hate Rose when she begins gulping air, which she was doing now as a way of limbering up for a fit of screaming. I’d warned Father, reminded him Rose doesn’t like strangers, but Father never listens.
I used to be embarrassed when Rose screamed in public, but I was glad now. Once we got it over with, I could take the two of us home, peel off my mask, and let my face fall into its witchy folds.
But first there’s the getting it over with. Rose’s screams are like knitting needles. They jab right through your ear, into the soft squish beneath. She’d start any second. At least Rose doesn’t hide what she feels. At least she’s not silent, like Father.
There are several kinds of silence. There’s the silence of being alone, which I like well enough. Then there’s the silence of one’s father. The silence when you have nothing to say and he has nothing to say. The silence between you after the investigation of your stepmother’s death.
We’ve never spoken of the inquest, at which the coroner testified that Stepmother had died of arsenic poisoning. Of the inquest, at which Father testified that Stepmother might have taken her own life. Of the inquest, at which I testified that Stepmother would never have taken her life.
Not ever.
The air shattered; Rose’s scream had begun. The others jumped, then looked about, wondering if they should pretend not to notice. But I was still thinking about silence.
Father’s silence is not merely the absence of sound. It’s a creature with a life of its own. It chokes you. It pinches you small as a grain of rice. It twists in your gut like a worm.
Silence clawed at my throat. It left a taste of burnt matches.
No, our family doesn’t talk much.
3
A Crown for the Steam Age
“I don’t prefer to talk about it,” said Rose from behind the cupboard door.
“She mislike all them new gentlemen, Rose do,” said Pearl Whitby, except she was Pearl Miller now and I always forgot. She was Pearl Miller and she was married and she had an extremely ugly baby.
Pearl was right. She used to help out before Father remarried, and she knew that Rose didn’t like strangers, especially not in the house. Eldric was bad enough, but Father had invited a third gentleman whom Rose had never even seen. I’d never have believed Father could do something so stupid, and I have a great deal of faith in Father’s stupidity.
Didn’t he remember that Rose hated surprises? That she’d especially hate a surprise guest, and a man, at
