“You asked me point-blank what I meant by ‘Ironskin or no.’ My ever-blunt Jane! And also you wondered if my fine friends care nothing for the war, think little of it, &c. I assure you it is true, and I am only reporting to you what I see around me. I try to be as cynical as the next woman about the malingerers who yet line our hospitals, and I try to accept it when my bosom friend Gertrude steers us clear of a begging ironskin in the street. I know she knows of you and has only pity for me, but I don’t think she understands what it means, and how that iron leg she reviles is at least the common decency of that poor boy to cover up a horrible curse. And yet she thinks he should go one step farther, and shut himself up so he is not seen at all.
“They all think that, Jane, and so I wonder what would happen if you came to live with me as I previously begged you to do. I suppose we should become social pariahs after all. That is not something I thought a month ago at the wedding, but I do believe that the society here gets more and more rarefied each day, as all these fine ladies and gentlemen try to hide anything that reminds them of the war far, far away, and move on with their lives. I do not believe they can conceive of what it was like to be in the country—the women, I mean. The men who had to fight understand it well enough, though I am rather shocked at the number of men who paid a poor servant to take their place in the war. Alistair would call that na?ve of me, and of course I understand that some lives are simply more important—their loss would make a greater impact, tear a bigger hole in the silk of society. And I knew full well when I married him that even my darling Alistair avoided the war, and I am glad of it.
“And yet … I am not certain it seems right. Sometimes I think, would Jane approve of this? I can hear your sharp tongue decrying it even as I write.
“By the time you read this I shall be past caring what others think of me. My Alistair has introduced me to a very surprising secret—a secret which you would no doubt be shocked to hear! Very soon those ‘fine ladies’ will be forced to treat me as one of their own, and their malicious tongues shall be well-stopped. Or rather, I shall be proof against anything said.
“Now you must come, for with this new capital I shall be able to champion even you. No doubt I shall hardly have time to see you between invitations, and yet I will, I must.… Do come.
“Your loving sister, Helen.”
Worry, empathy, irritation, all snaked through Jane’s core and made heavy her heart. She folded up the letter and slipped it into the bottom of her trunk.
*
“We’ll play a game,” said Jane. She was sitting across the room from Dorie, keeping a watchful eye for any uncharacteristic signs of anger. She was also still thinking of herself as a calm pool of water, because if nothing else, it reminded her not to let her temper carry her from normal-cursed Jane into orange-tongues-of-fire Jane. It seemed as though the imagery was helping with Dorie—the girl was not reacting to Jane’s anger the way Cook had been. Although that could be due to Dorie’s strange fey talent. It was so hard to tell.
“I like games,” said Dorie. She was speaking more this week, Jane noticed, answering with short sentences rather than nods and shakes of the head. Jane wondered if it was increased confidence, or comfort, or merely practice in listening to people hold conversations—maybe the chattering party guests were good for something after all.
“I’m going to throw a ball at you,” Jane said. “I want you to bat it away from you, just using your fey talent. Shall we give it a go?” In her mind this “game” was defense, but she wasn’t about to explain that to Dorie.
Dorie nodded, then remembered her voice and added: “Yes, please.”
Jane scrunched a cloth napkin into a ball and wrapped it with a length of string. She tossed it across the room toward Dorie’s lap, where it fell on her knee, bounced, and rolled away.
Dorie examined where the ball had come to a halt, then hefted it into the air. It glowed a faint blue. She let go, and it fell to the floor again.
“Now try doing that quicker,” said Jane. “When I throw the ball, grab it from the air.” She retrieved the balled-up napkin, tossed it again, and again Dorie missed it.
“Again,” Jane said. “Lash out at it.”
Dorie tried to obey, but what she seized was her Mother doll that lay on the bed, near the arc of the napkin ball. Glowing blue with streaks of orange, the doll slipped off the bed and thumped to the floor.
It was either a problem of dexterity or a problem of being out of practice. Or both. Just as catching a ball with your hands was a learned skill, so was catching a napkin with your mind. Dorie had built towers the first week Jane was there, before she got the tar, but that was a process of raising each piece and stacking it. Jane was certain Dorie could do this—but it was different.