Ironskin

Nothing happened.

 

Tension poured out, turned into cautious triumph as Dorie’s face blanked out, her focus caught by what was not happening. This time Jane saw the tiniest of blue lights scatter over the blocks and die away.

 

And still nothing happened.

 

Dorie’s mouth opened in a wordless, taut cry, and she kicked the blocks across the room in frustration.

 

“Dorie, bring those back, please,” said Jane.

 

Dorie stomped her feet and clacked. She kicked the remaining blocks, stack by stack, banging them across the room.

 

“Bring them back this instant,” repeated Jane. She levered the kicking girl to her feet. “Blocks. Now.”

 

Dorie kicked and squirmed, freeing herself, and Jane’s temper rose to match Dorie’s. She caught one of Dorie’s sticky angry arms and forced it down to pick up one block and bring it back. Another. “No more disobedience,” said Jane. “No more throwing blocks.”

 

Dorie’s mouth opened in a silent howl.

 

One by one Jane marched her to pick up every single block. Dorie was a sticky dead weight in her arms, her arms and legs stiff and her jaw set. When the last block was picked up Dorie collapsed on the floor, as if Jane had destroyed her.

 

Martha’s knock on the door was a relief. “Bean soup,” the maid said. “Cod in white sauce.”

 

Jane’s heart sank. She looked at the sauced fish and porcelain bowl of stew on the tray.

 

Dorie stared up mutinously. Jane knew that look. The look of trying to waft the tray through the air.

 

But the tray would not go.

 

Dorie looked down at her tar-covered arms and wailed, a thin miserable sound. She raised her arms—rubbed them furiously together, trying to scrape the paste away. But her motions were clumsy and the tar sticky. Her scrapings only smudged the paste around.

 

She lay down and starting yelling in earnest, drumming her feet on the side of the dresser.

 

“What’s wrong with her?” said Martha in disbelief. And then, “You put tar on my floor?”

 

“It’s an experiment,” Jane said briefly. “This food won’t work.”

 

“Won’t?”

 

“I need something she can eat with her hands,” Jane said. “Tell Cook I need plain cut-up vegetables, plain cut-up bread. Apologize from me for the extra work.”

 

Martha was still peering at screaming Dorie.

 

“I’ll tell you all about it after I tell Mr. Rochart tonight,” said Jane. “Lunch—please?”

 

Martha backed out with the tray, and Dorie’s howls and kicks redoubled. After a while, Jane heard Martha return and leave the new tray outside, but she did not open the door. Jane waited until the girl wore herself out, till the furious kicks became languid thumps of the heel, and the howls were just a rhythmic grunt in the back of her throat.

 

Perversely, Jane was almost glad to see the tantrum—it made Dorie seem more human, to see her throw a full-blown, audible tantrum that looked exactly like any other frustrated child might have thrown, rather than her usual trick of calmly walking to the window and ignoring Jane. No, this tantrum was real, even down to the petulant part of being too tired to continue, but too stubborn to totally give up. Jane watched the kicks die away. Then she brought the tray in and set it down in front of Dorie.

 

Dorie sat up, sniffling.

 

“I know this is hard,” said Jane to the tear-streaked face. “But I promise you it’s important. Your father wants you to use your hands. Will you try again for me?”

 

She wiped the tips of Dorie’s finger and thumb, pushed the tray toward Dorie and held her breath, hoping the promise of food would lure the girl into one more effort. Sniffling, Dorie ate most of the bread and all of the carrots.

 

That was the last thing she did as Jane asked.

 

The minute lunch was finished, Dorie plopped down in an afternoon sunbeam and lay on her stomach, her hands flat to her sides. Her eyes were open, her lips pressed shut, and she refused to budge. Finally Jane went and retrieved a book from the library, sat down with her back to the window, and calmly read. Or at least pretended to calmly read—the book she had grabbed turned out to be about the politics of the Ilhronian city-states in the 1600s, a subject she would’ve found dull at the best of times.

 

Twice Jane set down the book, got up, and built herself a castle from the blocks, hoping the game would lure Dorie back to life. But Dorie refused to budge.

 

Eventually Dorie fell asleep. Jane brought in warm water and towels and wiped the tar off the limp arms. She settled Dorie down for her nap. Dorie did not stir, and Jane gazed down at her, wondering how she could look so innocent in her sleep. Dorie’s fingers twitched on the coverlet.

 

Jane stepped from Dorie’s room, softly closing the door behind her. Martha was dusting in the foyer below, one ear cocked to the room above. Her eyes widened as a bedraggled Jane came down the stairs, covered in bits of tar from stem to stern, a book tucked under one arm and dirty towels in her hand.

 

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