Valentin opened the door to Ada’s room and pushed me into it. He started to swing the door shut, then paused, pinning me with a narrow, furious gaze.
“I will have other clothes sent to you,” he said. “Do not wear hers again.”
13
I dreamed someone slept in the bed with me, and woke gasping for air.
It took longer than it should have to convince myself it was only a dream.
I rose to dress, taking deep breaths to steady myself. By the door, a clean, simple gown and shawl lay folded on the floor. Valentin had been as good as his word. I was glad enough to leave Ada’s frilly dresses in her closet. I felt as much revulsion at the idea of wearing the girl’s clothes as Valentin felt at seeing them on me. All the gilded, fanciful touches in her room made me feel inexplicably furious, and faintly ill. I turned away from them and went to the window. There was a trellis under it, covered in vines. It would be easy to climb down, if I wanted. If that were any way to escape.
It was very early, and the sun hadn’t yet risen above the grand houses on the eastern side of the street. I brushed my hair, staring out at the garden and gate, and tried not to think how often Ada must have done the same. She had left a presence here that I could feel. I had slept in her bed and hadn’t quite felt alone. I didn’t feel quite alone now. I glanced over my shoulder on a nervous instinct.
And someone was there.
I spun around, my whole body trembling. There was a figure in the corner, in shadow.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “How long have you been there?”
The figure rose slowly. It wasn’t so very dark in the room, but I could make out no features. Was it a man or a woman? I couldn’t tell. Cold horror pricked up my arms.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded again, backing away from it. I clutched the window behind me.
The figure didn’t answer, though somehow I knew it heard me. It took a step forward, into the light, without becoming any more illuminated. I held a hairbrush in my hand. I threw it as hard as I could.
The brush hit the wall across the room with a ringing sound of brass on papered wood. It dropped to the ground. It had hit nothing, because there was nothing there.
I turned away and leaned my forehead against the windowsill, bracing myself. I was not sure what would be worse to see when I turned back again: that the figure was still there, or that it was not. I took a deep breath and looked.
It was not.
I nodded. Nothing was there. Nothing was watching me. That was good. It was only the madness, beginning to finger its way into my mind.
That was not good.
Things are not always so simple, Thea. You think that because you do not see a thing this moment, it is not there?
I turned back to the window again, ignoring my mother, staring determinedly at things I knew were truly there. The trellis. The oak tree. The gate. Someone outside of the gate.
I squinted harder at the gate in the uncertain light, seeing movement. The guard was pointing away, talking and gesturing in an aggressive manner to a figure on the other side. The figure was tall and slim, dark-haired and familiar. He seemed real; I could make out particulars, and that was reassuring. He did not leave, despite the guard’s threats. The black-haired man folded his arms across his chest and turned, looking up at the house.
My heart lurched. I jerked back from the window, into the shadows.
It was my father.
Questions pelted my mind like grapeshot. Was it really him? Had he seen me? He couldn’t have, could he? But how did he know I was here? How could he have found us? Were the police with him? Would the Germans let him in?
On the latter question, at least, my mind was soon put to rest. When verbal threats failed to remove him, the guard took his musket from his shoulder and pointed it at my father’s heart. Vellacott put up his hands and backed away. He left, with a searching backward glance at the windows.
I dressed as quickly as I could and rattled the door to my room. For the first time, the lock infuriated me. I was trapped in this haunted room. This room that mocked me with every silly feminine flourish, that still smelled like her perfume. No wonder I was seeing things that weren’t there. Of course my mind was twisting, locked up in here with ghosts while my father hunted me. A yellow mist of panic clouded my vision. I had to get out, I had to. I swore at the lock and began to pound on the door, shouting profanities in every language I knew.
It worked. Heavy steps pounded down the hall.
“Quiet!” hissed Valentin from behind the door. “You will wake the ladies with that filth!”
“Let me out of this donnerwetter dollhouse!” I shouted back. “If you leave me in here another moment I will break everything in here that she ever touched, n’est-ce pas? Je merderai on all her pretty little things, I’ll—”
Valentin threw the door open, a thunderous look on his face. He seized my shoulders and shook me until my teeth rattled.
“Quiet, you wild creature! What is the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”
Abruptly, he stopped shaking me. He pressed the back of his free hand to my forehead. My eyes widened, locked on his. His question repeated itself in my mind.
Have you gone mad? Have you gone mad? Have you gone mad?
The yellow mist began to clear. The door was open now. The wild desperation began to recede. Valentin was solid in front of me, his strong hand on my arm thick and real: no figment. He
