Jostling with some of the other patients, I look for the one of me.
At first I can't see it, can't distinguish anyone in this collection of dingy, grey images. Then I catch sight of my nose, caught in unflattering profile as I turned my head at the last minute; it can't be anyone else. But if it weren't for that, I wouldn't recognise myself. The girl in the photograph has unkempt hair, a gaunt face and, startled by Beatrice's cry, her eyes stare wildly. She looks quite, quite mad.
With a small cry, I toss the photograph face down on the table. This is what my brother has done to me. Was this his intention?
"Careful, Miss, you'll break it." Eliza picks up my image and studies it.
"Does it—is that what I look like?"
She doesn't hesitate. "No, it's rubbish, that."
I'm sure she's not telling the truth, but I feel better.
She turns to Roberts. "Mr. Sneed's going to put these on the walls?"
She sounds doubtful and I'm not surprised. Who'd want these dismal ghosts haunting them?
Roberts laughs, a short snorting laugh. "Garn! I dunno what the Chief Loony wants 'em for but trust me, it'll be for somethin' that lines 'is own pockets." She claps her hands. "Now then, me beauties, put yer pitchers down, and find yerselves somethin' to do."
Mrs. Smythe is parted with difficulty from her photograph, which she insists on showing everyone. "It's not such a good portrait as the one taken with the Archduke, but it's not a bad likeness."
I approach Roberts. "Is it all right if I walk in the hallway?"
Out of the corner of my eye I see Eliza's head lift.
Roberts exaggerates her surprise. "Oh, you want some exercise, do yer? Go on then. Don't wear yerself out."
***
I tap on the door. No answer. I turn the handle slowly so it doesn't make a noise and peer inside. The curtains are drawn; in the gloom I make out the figure on the bed. No movement. I should go ... I hesitate. Then I draw closer.
She is curled up on her side, like a child. Her face is partly obscured by her hair, but in the line of her cheek, I see that resemblance again. Without thinking, I put out my hand, about to touch her, when she opens her eyes and looks directly at me. Instantly I draw my hand back. This isn't Grace, this is Beatrice, a stranger.
"Sorry," I whisper. "Sorry to wake you."
Her eyes focus. "Louisa?"
"Yes."
In a quiet voice she says, "I was dreaming. I was walking down a lane picking primroses from under the hedge."
I've never seen her smile before. It lights up her face. She seems totally relaxed. Maybe it's the aftereffects of a sedative.
She starts to sit up but then stops suddenly, her body stiff, her eyes wide. She stares past me. Involuntarily, I glance over my shoulder, but there's no one there.
She starts to shake, making small whimpering sounds.
Drawing a chair to the bedside, I take her hand in mine. She is trembling, staring off into the distance. I should leave her in peace.
"Were you a good child?" she asks suddenly.
I'm so surprised at the question I laugh, and Beatrice's eyes widen. Was I good child? Papa was proud of me, but as for Mamma ... I never meant to be bad, but I was always upsetting her. Has she put me here as a punishment? No, I can't believe it.
Beatrice is still waiting for an answer. "I tried to be, but Mamma was always in despair over me. I don't think I was the sort of little girl she expected so she didn't think I was very good. Why do you ask?"
She regards me seriously for a moment; then turns her head away. "Mamma said I was a good child." Tears run down her face.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
She turns her violet eyes towards me. "My stepfather—he's a photographer."
"Oh." I don't like seeing her so upset, but I have to admit I'm curious. I don't have to pry, though—Beatrice seems ready to talk.
Her words spill out. "His studio is a glass house on the roof. It makes a great noise when it rains. But when the sun comes out, it's like a house of light. I used to like it then. But my stepfather"—she breaks off and swallows—"he said it was better when it was cloudy—too much light spoilt the photographs."
She looks away again and adds, "It's yellow, the dark room, yellow, with yellow-shaded lamps." A tremor goes through her.
With an intake of breath, I remember the photographer this morning—his yellow fingers straightening my head.
Her hand in mine begins to tremble again. "We'd only just gone to live with him, Mamma and I. We were so poor after Papa died, my little brothers and sisters were sent away to live with various relatives, but Mamma let me stay, because she said I was good and helped her.
"My stepfather said I was a pretty child and he wanted to take photographs of me. At first it was easy—just standing still. And he gave me sixpence." A pause. "But then—" She swallows again. "Then he wanted me take off my clothes."