Jane left the nursery, slamming the door behind her.
*
Day after day and the frustration didn’t lessen. The more Jane coaxed, thought up new games, took Dorie’s Mother doll away, the blanker and more stubborn—and more infuriating—Dorie got.
By the end of the month Jane was wondering whether she had the temperament to stay after all, no matter how much she wanted to help the girl. She had heart for the task, she had determination—those weren’t the problems.
It was the self-doubt that was getting to her. The anger lumped along behind her like a black dog nipping at her heels. It raged inward, telling her it was her fault that Dorie was intractable. You should leave, it told her. You expected a lonely girl like you; you expected you could swoop in and solve her problems with a bit of iron and a hug. Never mind that yours weren’t solved so readily. Never mind that when you finally found Niklas and the foundry, you wouldn’t speak to anyone for weeks—just sat hidden under a worktable and watched the other scarred children try to master their ironskin, their curse.
Jane hated her inability to make a difference in Dorie’s life, and she hated how exhausted the girl made her. Where was her patience for this poor waif, battle-scarred just as she had been? Where was Jane’s loving kindness?
Gone since the war, Jane thought. Gone with her brother.
*
Jane and Dorie were sprawled on the stone floor of the kitchen, heedless of dignity, when the weekly mail came. Jane had momentarily given up the battle and was watching Dorie waft cut-up chunks of the last mealy storage apples into her mouth.
“Sure and you’ll never get that one to use her hands,” said Cook.
“Maybe she just wants to use her feet like a monkey,” said Jane. “I should take off her shoes.”
“Being tired makes you sarcastic,” said Cook. “Now you’ll be seeing what we went through.” She held the white bowl against her broad hip, beating air into the cake batter.
“All you had to do was let her draw light pictures on the floor while you worked,” said Jane. “I’m responsible for her mortal soul.”
“She’ll be having a soul, now? Ha,” said Cook.
There was no real rancor in these exchanges. Jane rather liked Cook’s lazy cynicism. It meant there was one place in the house she didn’t have to guard her tongue and bite back the sarcasm that spilled over it. That was a rarity—even Helen had not suffered Jane’s black dog moods very well.
But even if she could be caustic with Cook, they had little else in common. And Jane couldn’t stay in the kitchen all the time, anyway. She got to her feet. “Finish your apple, Dorie, and then we’re going back upstairs.”
Dorie looked mutinous and Jane sighed inwardly, careful not to let it show on her face. You couldn’t let children know when they were shredding your last bit of patience.
The old butler, Poule, appeared in the kitchen doorway. She nodded at Cook and reached up to hand her a circular. She was nearly as short as a dwarf, Jane thought—not that the dwarves were seen much anymore either. And for Jane—
“A letter?”
Bright eyes gleamed, but the butler didn’t answer the obvious. As Poule reached up to hand Jane the letter, Jane saw a stray flash of light from her sleeve, as if light glanced off metal. Jane’s eyes narrowed. Just what kind of roles were Mr. Rochart’s servants really playing? The woman turned and left, her worn black shoes stirring up a small puff of flour that Dorie had spilled.
Jane slit the envelope with a silver paring knife and tugged out a thick fold of heavily written-on paper. “It’s from Helen!” she said. “I was almost getting worried. I’ve written her twice.”
“And she not once?” said Cook. “Tsk.”
Jane laughed and dismissed the implied rebuke. “Helen probably has twenty letters started to me by now—seventeen of them mislaid. Goodness knows what the flat looks like anymore.” She unfolded the page, pleased that Helen had managed to get a letter actually out the door to her. “Dearest Jane…” began the letter, and then, typically Helen, it launched into a flowery description of the latest ball she and her fiancé had attended, replete with tidbits of gossip about people Jane had never met. The flow of minutiae was occasionally interspersed with a command for Jane to return to the city immediately and have as delightful a time as Helen was having.
Jane flipped over the page, and an engraved card fell out and fluttered to the floor. Jane picked it up—and stopped.
“It’s a wedding invitation,” she said.