Thunderation! He’s gone. Escaped.
I don’t know how long I stand on the sidewalk, surrounded by pressingbodies, bumping against me as they make their way past. The earth tilts crazilyfrom side to side, and I grow nauseous.
“Miss Hester?” Cordelia gasps. “Is that you?”
She grips my arm, muttering her disapproval—each word a lecturein and of itself. “What a state you’re in! Hands bleeding, dress torn. I knewI shouldn’t have left you.”
Now she’s glaring at Isaac. I don’t need seeing eyes toverify this. I feel him flinch under her scrutiny, poor lad.
Cordie gathers my cane, scarf, and reticule from where Idropped them at the gazebo. Teeth chattering, I shake uncontrollably, so shewraps me like a mummy in the scarf and buttons my coat as high as it will go.Cordie bids Isaac a crisp farewell and leads me back toward High Street. I donot wish to face my parents after the evening’s debacle, so I drag my feet abit. This elicits even more criticism from my companion.
After walking several blocks, Cordelia and I meet WillardLittle Hawk, the family handyman, at the livery near city hall. “What in blazeshappened to you, White Hair?” he cries over the All Hallows hubbub.
Impatient, geriatric, and possessing an arthritic hip, Willardhas known me most of my life. I cringe at the volume of his voice, and thenickname he gave me long ago. It's Willard-talk for the color platinum. Hesometimes adds Silver Eyes or Pale Skin to his repertoire.
Willard helps us into the buggy, and we ride for home as theclock tower chimes midnight. Usually the witching-hour is an ill omen, butperhaps not in this case. Instead, it feels fortuitous. My mother hearsCordelia’s account of the Halloween party without interrupting once. Quite outof character for Mama. In addition, my companion does not embellish upon thetale. Rather, she edits things out with a vengeance, saying that I merelydropped my cane and fell, thus incurring the injuries to my hands and the ripin my gown. I don’t know which my mother feels worse about—my scrapes or theruined ensemble from Paris.
No, that’s incorrect. I do. It’s the dress.
“Carry Miss Hester upstairs, Willard,” Mama says. “She’s ill.”
I wave my hands, but Willard scoops me up and follows orders.Traitor. Turncoat. He knows I hate being fussed over. Cordelia shoves aside theridiculous mound of porcelain dolls that decorate my bed. Mama collects themfor me, and no matter how often I hide the frilly ladies, they are returnedwithout fail. Willard sets me on the mattress, and my mother closes the doorafter he leaves. Feeling stiff and sore, I let Mama remove my clothing until Iam left with only a chemise and drawers.
She rustles through the armoire and chooses a nightgown. I knowthe exact one by its unfriendly, stiff-taffeta sound. The skirt is heavilyembroidered, the neckline a volcano of erupting lace. It’s utterly absurd toanyone with a lick of common sense and impossible to sleep in.
“Ready yourself,” Cordie murmurs, and I feel awkward stretchingmy arms out into the air.
The nightgown is a fitting costume for Halloween, I suppose.Instead of resembling a real female, I am dressed like one of those porcelaindolls Mama values so much—perfectly groomed, impossibly stylish. Yet surfacefinery does not compensate for what I lack, or transform me into the daughtershe longs for.
Mama makes a familiar, rattling sound—metal against glass, spoonto bottle. I scramble away, like a rabbit fleeing a fox. No laudanum! Leave mealone! But my mother catches me and pulls me back to the bed. As always, Cordiedoes as her employer demands and holds me down. I hate being reduced to thispanicked state. Lack of sight and speech shouldn’t take away one’s fundamentalright of refusal.
I don’t want it! Please let me go.
After three failed attempts, they force a dose of laudanum intomy mouth. I cough and sputter as the burning liquid slides down my throat, tastingbitter and sickly sweet. Rattle-clack. My mother returns the spoon and bottle toher pocket. She removes my spectacles and tells Cordelia to clean me up and changethe pillowcase. Mama sets my eyeglasses on the table and calmly bids megoodnight, as though physical aggression has not just taken place. Cordeliawipes my chin and neck with a wet cloth, and I lift my head as she replaces thepillow.
“There,” Cordie says, sounding apologetic. “Good as new.”
But that isn’t so.
I am not good or new, and never shall be. I hate my mother forwhat she did. I loathe being made weak and dependent. Even worse than theunclean feeling I get from the laudanum, I’m tainted from tonight’s murderousvision. Now I must bring a killer to justice. That or suffer the freckledCornishwoman’s taunts until the end of time. Already, I hear her whispering inmy head. Do well of me, Visionary. You owe a body that.
Then the ghost materializes near the window of my room,watching me with thinly-veiled contempt. Blood drips from a gash at the side ofher head and stains her red and white checkered blouse. It reminds me of a picnictablecloth. I see myself clearly through her eyes, as though I am she.Ghost-sight can be quite helpful with investigations, but it isn’t always flattering.Laughter bubbles up in my chest, gets stuck in my throat. What a shamefulpicture I present! Idiotic nightgown, slack mouth, glassy expression. No wonderthis ghost is upset. I’d doubt myself if I were in her place.
She begins to shriek, but I’m not over-bothered. I merely turndown my hearing and smile. With laudanum pumping through my system, I lose allsense of propriety and engagement. The ghost rants a bit more, and I noticeagain the charming sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Ofcourse they would be a great deal more charming if she didn’t look as thoughshe wanted to throttle me. Perhaps I’ll call her Freckles as a nickname. Ismile even more at this idea. Freckles must sense my levity despite her effortsto terrify me because the ghost stomps her foot and disappears with an angrypop. Ghost-sight leaves with her, and I am blind again.
Unaware of the spirit’s departure, Cordelia brushes a strand ofhair away from where
