‘Relax your forehead. Let it go, Willa. Take a deep breath and let your shoulders drop. Good. Let the chair support your weight. Excellent.’
Willa feels the heat of Clovis’s hands as she makes passes over her head. Then she slips her hand into her pocket and holds the cicada in her sweaty fingers. She can almost feel Clovis’s attention move to her pocket.
‘There is nowhere you need to be, nothing required of you.’ Her voice is softly soothing and more coaxing than ever before. ‘You can totally and completely relax. And sleep. Sleep deeply.’
Willa’s head drops forward.
‘Willa, can you hear my voice?’
A pause.
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to relax even more deeply. And sleep very, very soundly. But you will still hear my voice and follow my instructions. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Lift your right arm.’
Willa takes her hand out of her pocket and raises her arm high over her head. Clovis glances at the old ship’s clock on the wall. She won’t give another instruction until Willa is in excruciating pain. She waits. Minutes pass.
Willa’s arm trembles.
‘Now, lower your arm.’
Her arm floats down.
‘Stand, Willa.’
The chair creaks as Willa slowly leans forward and comes to standing.
‘Raise your right arm.’
She does.
‘Good. You’re doing so well. Now stand on one leg, your right.’
She easily balances on her right leg.
‘Listen carefully, Willa, there’s a pole in front of you. It stands securely and is much taller than you. I would like you to dance for me. Just like girls do in the films. Hear the music, see the strobe lights, reach out to the pole and dance.’
Willa tilts her head like she’s listening for music. She squints and then she nods to a beat. Her shoulders sway, followed by her hips and pelvis. She reaches out and grabs an imaginary pole and swings around it slowly, in rhythm to the music. She has nothing to lean against, nothing to take her weight, but her body adjusts as she wraps her arms around an imaginary pole. Her back arches, she lifts a leg and slides it down, making the impossible seem possible. Then Willa gyrates more suggestively. Her head tilts back and she moans as if in ecstasy.
Satisfied that Willa isn’t faking a trance, Clovis stops her.
‘Very good, Willa. Sit down again.’
Willa gropes for the chair with her eyes still closed.
‘Take a moment to relax even deeper.’
Willa’s breathing returns to normal.
‘Tell me, did you see one of the sisters Fitzgerald?’
‘Oh, yes, mistress,’ Willa’s voice regresses fully, returning to that of a young servant.
‘Good. And tell me also, did you tell anyone other than me that you thought you recognized one of the Fitzgeralds?’
‘No, mistress.’
‘No one? Not a soul? Not Rafe? Or Finn?’
‘No, mistress, not a soul.’
‘Why not, Willa?’
‘’Twas embarrassed, mistress.’
‘Why, Willa?’
‘They might think I was a bit barmy.’
‘And tell me, do you really believe it was a Fitzgerald?’
‘Oh, yes, mistress. I’m certain of it. She’s alive and well.’
‘Good.’
Clovis places a pen in Willa’s hand and a notebook on her lap with a sheet of letter-sized paper on top.
‘Just two more things to do, Willa, before you’ll wake refreshed. I’d like you to sign this piece of paper.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
Guided by Clovis, Willa scrawls her signature.
‘There. Good girl. We’re almost finished.’
Clovis takes a phial out of her pocket.
‘I’m going to give you a few drops of medicine now. You’re to drink it all up. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, mistress. Drink it all up.’
‘That’s right.’
Clovis removes the top of the phial and places it in Willa’s hand. Slowly, she raises the phial to her lips and then tilts the glass and drinks until all the liquid is gone.
Clovis sits perfectly still, waiting for a reaction.
Willa’s body goes slack, then she begins to slip from the chair. Clovis makes a move to catch her, but stops and allows Willa’s body to fall to the floor with a loud thud.
Clovis kneels down to take her pulse, which, in Willa’s favour, is naturally weak-feeling. She plans to move Willa into her bedroom revealing a case of suicide, supported by the signed note. Easy. Simple.
The sound of the door opening catches Clovis off guard. Finn is not due home for hours. And yet here he stands in the doorway with Owen Mockett at his side.
‘Thank god you’re here. She’s just collapsed. I found her like this. Look, the phial is empty.’ Clovis thinks on her feet.
Finn and Owen hold out their hands for Clovis to see the phials in their palms. Then they open them and toss them back like shots of whisky.
For one wild moment Clovis thinks they too have committed suicide. Then Willa sits up. Clovis looks from Willa to Finn and Owen who are still standing, angry and accusing.
‘What … what is going on here?’ she spits.
‘Willa, all right?’ Finn asks.
‘Alive and well.’ She snatches the letter from Clovis.
‘Perhaps you’d like to read them my forged suicide note?’ Willa asks Clovis.
Clovis’s knees buckle, the chair catches her.
Finn and Owen form a barricade in front of the door.
‘Your night has only just begun,’ Finn snarls at Clovis.
‘Mockett,’ she entreats him.’ Owen. What are you doing?’
Owen throws a copy of Henrietta Martin’s letter at Clovis’s feet.
‘What is this?’ he says.
Clovis snatches it up. ‘Oh, this again?’ She laughs as she reads the letter, a strange and unsettling laugh that will remain memorable to everyone in the room, the way a terrible nightmare is recalled with a slice of terror, until finally it fades away.
The sound of footsteps at the door interrupts Clovis’s hysteria.
Grim and determined, Stefán and Margrét enter the room.
‘Oh. You,’ Clovis says with rancour. ‘The Lord of Iceland and his hag servant, Margrét the Lonely. Yes, I saw it in your eyes the night you brought the boy to me. Lonely as an assassin. Get out of my house.’
Clovis tries to part the group but falters as a shadow
