The wardrobe doors had rows of drawers along the inside. Still holding the golden dress, Jane opened them one by one and found plenty of gloves, along with gilded fans, satin ribbons, paste jewels, square shoe buckles. She found a beautiful cream-colored pair of gloves in poor condition that would work perfectly for Dorie. The left glove was marred by a dark red wine stain that splashed up the forearm like blood. Jane held it up to the golden dress, imagining how it would all fit together, the gown, the gloves, the night.…
Martha whistled and Jane looked up, guiltily dropping the folds of the golden dress. The maid leaned on her broom, studying the ball gown with an oddly wistful expression, and Jane suddenly remembered that despite Martha’s sternness and angularity, she was younger than Jane herself. “I saw her once,” Martha said. “I was eight, and she came to town. I thought she was so fair. Wore deep blue silk like a queen. Saw her just once—no more.”
“And then she was gone,” breathed Jane, recalling the horror that Edward had described to her. Pregnant with Dorie—killed and taken over by the fey.
Martha shook her head, seeming to recall herself to her purpose. “You got your gloves,” she said. “I think you’re done here.”
“I need some linen I can cut into child-sized gloves,” said Jane.
“That box, if the rats ain’t et it.” Martha stared down at Jane with folded arms till Jane and her booty were on the way out of the attic.
*
Dorie was still under the bed when Jane got back. Jane’s heart leapt to her throat in the first instant of seeing those legs stick out from under the bed, for all the world like a rag doll, like something dead. What if the iron was poison after all?
Heart thumping, Jane kneeled down and lifted the bed skirt, looked under the bed.
The girl’s eyes were open. Dorie was staring blankly at the underside of the bed, tar-smeared hands flat on the floor.
“Dorie?” said Jane. “Are you all right?” Carefully she pulled the little girl out from under the bed, out into the room. “Do you want to eat lunch?”
A hint of a shrug.
“You must be hungry,” Jane said. She levered Dorie to a sitting position, surprised that the girl offered no resistance. “Let’s check your arms and eat our lunch.” With her rag she made sure that the flecks of iron covered every bit of Dorie’s fingers and up her arms. Then she wiggled Dorie’s fingers into the long cream gloves from the attic, smoothing the bloodred stain of the left one up and along the arm. Dorie sat passively and watched.
Jane brought the tray in from the hall. In accordance with her request yesterday, it was mostly simple finger foods—the first spring peas in their shells, cut in half. A bun, that Jane tore into bite-sized pieces. A small bowl of applesauce—Jane cringed.
She pushed the tray toward Dorie. “Let’s eat the bread and peas,” she said gently.
Dorie sighed, slumped. One gloved hand came out and grabbed a piece of the roll, ate it. Then the next bite. Then the next. Not looking at Jane, she ate everything on her plate, then looked at the applesauce.
A waver—a flicker of blue. The light in Dorie’s eyes flickered up in response … and then died away.
Sighing, Dorie held out her hand, and Jane placed the spoon in it. Spoonful after difficult spoonful Dorie went through the applesauce until it was all gone.
Jane looked down at the silent girl in astonishment.
This was victory, sure enough.
So why didn’t it feel like it?
*
Jane felt unsettled by her odd triumph with Dorie. Uneasy from her encounter with Mr. Rochart. The nightmares came again—sometimes she was Jane, sometimes she was her brother, stiff on the battlefield. They were coming every night now, coalescing on a scene she wrenched away from, knew she didn’t want to see. But when she pulled away from the vision of the battlefield, the terror came sliding in through her cheek, poured itself through her like water, until she woke up panting.
In the past there had been Helen to soothe her when she woke in terror. Now there was no one. Jane felt as though the ground were shifting under her feet, a sliding back and forth of uncertainty. Perhaps if she could just see him—she could talk to him about his daughter. Talk to him—just talk to him.
The days passed and still he did not come.
Jane looked for him in every shadow of curtain, every stroke of the clock. She lay awake in the blackest hour of the night, unable to let her failures or successes go, her mind flicking through each day’s events, relentless.
Dorie on her stomach, slumped on her gloved elbows, listlessly working on her letters.
Lunch: soup with the last of the put-up vegetables, the first spring peas on the side.
Martha shutting a gossip magazine with a snap, Cook gesturing with a wooden spoon at a full mousetrap and grinning.
Mr. Rochart, where her thoughts always landed. But she hadn’t seen Mr. Rochart. Hadn’t seen him since he was with that redhead, Miss Ingel.