I pace the floor, still avoiding my reflection in the mirror. Behind the flowery drapes are two floor-to-ceiling windows. They are covered by iron bars. Why should there be bars on the third floor? Who else has been held here, and for how long? Where are they now?
I try in vain to shake the bars. My hands can barely reach the panes. I cannot smash them in the hope of escape.
I sit with my legs tucked under me on the duvet and brush out my hair. I wish Mama were here to gently work out the knots. I yelp as I snag them.
I should sleep peacefully in such a bed. But it is too large and empty. I curl into a ball. I have the quivers, so I pray where I am instead of getting down on my knees.
“Lord Almighty, I’ve always believed You listened to me and kept me safe. Please send someone to rescue me before they do me further harm. I will never again tell lies.”
No one comes.
When Miss Top shakes me awake in the morning, I startle. I wonder if it is different for hearing people, who must come awake slowly to the sounds of morning. She smiles and nods. I wait for her to box my ears or drag me down to a waiting pile of unwashed dishes. So I am surprised when she pours fresh water into my basin, and more so when I am given a plate with oysters and hare. I eat quickly.
After stoking the fire and drawing the heavy drapes, Miss Top exits, and I get out of bed.
I feel no vibrations through these thick walls, nor through the floors with their heavy rugs. Occasionally, I sense a small shudder as a door is closed forcefully. Are others held here against their will? Are the cries of the insane all around me? I shiver and wrap my shawl tighter.
Miss Top enters again and, before I can peek into the hall, quickly closes and locks the door behind her. She lays new clothes on the bed. She looks at me boldly and holds up the petticoat. I decide not to struggle and allow myself to be outfitted in the red gown, complete with stays, matching shoes with paper inserts, and an elegant felt hat.
Why all this finery? It feels like a costume. From Andrew’s written rules on the Defiance, I assume I will be poked and prodded by more cold hands, and who knows what else.
Miss Top looks behind her and quickly rushes out. She must have heard a sound beckoning her. She exits through a small gap between the door and doorframe. I see the handle rattle, to ensure it’s locked.
I cross the room and look out the barred windows. Beacon Hill lives up to its name, as it is a hilly place, with stretches of land and trees. A fresh snow spreads out like a white blanket brushed to a fine nap. It must have been pasture land in the past. It resembles Chilmark more than anything I’ve seen in the city.
In the distance, I glimpse a massive structure made of brick with a huge golden dome. Not as picturesque as Faneuil Hall but equally impressive. I wonder if it is a grander version of our Meeting House.
Unlike Mrs. Muffins’s, with its comings and goings at all hours, Dr. Minot’s street is distant and silent. I don’t see many residents bustling to and fro. I have never experienced such physical isolation. Quiet within, quiet without.
I press my face between the bars imagining the details I cannot see. Are there trails of deer and other animal footprints?
It suddenly occurs to me that all I survey was once Indian land. Miss Hammond taught us the Massachusett Nation had many sachemships before the white settlers arrived. Outbreaks of small pox devastated their numbers. Does that mean this peaceful winter landscape also serves as a graveyard? Where are the survivors?
I turn back to the room and explore the bureau drawers. Inside are linens that would make Mrs. Skiffe burn with envy, so fine and smooth to the touch, impeccably ironed and folded. In the bottom drawer, carefully tucked under a sheet, I find a set of carved wooden toys. With delicate hands, I pick up Noah’s Ark and think of Reverend Lee’s sermon.
I run my hand along the bright yellow paint on a duck with wheels and its cord for pulling. Such fine wooden toys, made with great craftsmanship, are not meant to be hidden away in a drawer. I turn the duck over in my hands, and something falls into my lap. It is wrapped in a dainty handkerchief with the initials “A.M.” sewn into it. Inside, I feel a flat oval the size of an egg. I unwrap it.
A cameo! I’ve rarely seen anything so elegant in my life. One side is ivory, painted with the cherubic likeness of a girl only a little younger than I am. She has rosy cheeks and a cloud of dark hair surrounding her face. I replace the cameo in the drawer. Did my clothes belong to this girl? Is the room hers too?
I think of how Mama keeps George’s room as he left it. She would never let another soul occupy it.
Just then, the door flies open. Andrew seizes me by the arm and leads me toward the door. I lag behind but don’t resist. The first two doors we pass are open. One of them is the water closet where I bathed. Another is a bedroom smaller than mine. It’s bright and tidy. The rest of the third floor appears unoccupied. Perhaps this is not an asylum, after all.
If it is a personal residence, it is larger than the largest home on the island. Dr. Minot must be a very prestigious man. But if this is his home, where is his family?
We descend the curved staircase.
