The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

The sunlight moves over my feet, flowing like water until it reaches the hem of my dress. I recoil when I observe that the hem is ripped into tatters. I swallow, fearful of what Lottie will say. I’m afraid to see Mother’s face when she learns the dress is spoiled. I’m always spoiling my good clothes, and I never notice ’til it’s already happened.

Up and up creeps the glaring white. I feel the warmth of the sun reaching my legs through layers of silk and linen, and it feels good, like the blood is coming into them at last, like I might be ready to move. I lift my right foot and creep it forward an inch, farther into the sunbeam. This time, my foot goes where I ask it.

“You’ll find . . . ,” I hear myself say as the sunlight floods up my skirt to my waist.

I stretch my arms into the light, spreading my fingers and enjoying the feeling of them moving. But then, something interrupts me.

I pause, ears twitching. I hold my breath.

It’s almost not there, but it’s there.

A whisper.

Startled, I take a step backward, hunting around the room for signs of life, but the light is so bright I can’t make out the dressing table or the bed anymore.

“Who’s that?” I cry. My voice trembles.

The whispering continues, and I wrap my arms around my waist, cupping my elbows, eyes straining wide to see forms in the room with me. I can’t see anything, but I can hear the whispering growing clearer.

It’s a young man’s voice. Somehow it sounds both very far away, and very close by.

In a strangled cry I scream, “Herschel!” before I can help myself. As soon as his name escapes my lips, I clap my hands over my mouth for fear someone will hear me, that I’ll wake up with my aunt leaning down over my bedstead with that curious look she’s been giving me all week.

The murmuring creeps nearer, but I can’t make out the words. I knot my fists in my skirts to keep my hands from trembling.

“I know you’re there!” I shout. “I can hear you!”

The sound seems to wrap around me, and along my neck I feel a breath of breeze. A shadow flits through the white sunlight of the window, and I spin, hunting for its source. My hands find the foot of Mother’s bed, and I grip the post. The light is changing, getting whiter and yet dimmer all at the same time. On one wall, a candle flames to life, but it’s not in a place I remember a sconce being.

My knees shake, and I can barely hold myself up.

“Please wake up, Annatje,” I whisper as tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes.

The voices grow more distinct, but I still can’t make out exactly what they’re saying. The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“Please go away,” I sob. “Please! Please leave me alone.”

The sunlight collapses in on itself and more candles sputter to life, flames licking up the walls with tendrils of smoke. Though I know the wallpaper is pale pistachio, its color looks wrong. It looks somehow pistachio and red at the same time. I feel more breaths of air along my neck, brushing against my cheek, stirring the curls over my ears.

I shut my eyes, my throat closing as the tears run down my face. The voice is in my head, is in my ears, is behind me and around me and next to me and right in front of my face.

The voices are talking to me.

All at once the town house begins to shake, as though last night’s fireworks for the canal celebration were shuddering anew over the Bowery. I hear the explosions and smell the burned gunpowder and soot. The walls and floor vibrate around me like the walls of a bass drum, and the last of the sunbeam is swallowed up by candlelight, pulling darkness along behind it. Under my hands instead of my mother’s bedpost something soft springs into being, smooth like tufted velvet.

Without warning, I feel invisible fingers close around my elbow. My eyes fly open and my mouth releases a piercing scream.

And then I hear a young male voice very clearly say, “Listen.”





CHAPTER 2