shivering within their cruel restraints.
I gazed down at myself. Despite being a heavily boned garment the corset had really lovely, delicate fanning, with lots of floss and decorative stitchwork around the contrasting light- and dark-blue panels of the stays.
With half-a-dozen tugs of its laces I’d gone from angel in the house to wasp-waisted demoness, a metamorphosed nymph who owed her new life as an object of desire to the merciful Zeus of contemporary fashion.
Cliticia put a finger to my cheek. ‘So pale,’ she said. Her finger ran across my throat, my bosom, and then down the inward- curving steel busk that lined the corset’s front panel. ‘Almost like you ’ad the green sickness.’ I trembled. It seemed in anticipation of a question I longed to put, but which I could at that moment only frame in terms of my heaving, somewhat over-expressive bosom. ‘White girls eat arsenic to achieve a complexion like that. So romantic, so... deathly pale.’
‘The divine Edgar Allan says female death is “unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.’”
‘The divine Edgar? Never bleedin’ ’eard of ’im. But I’m telling you, if you want to keep that lily-white look, then my money’d be on arsenic to do the trick.’ She shrugged. ‘You might content yourself with a daily glass of vinegar, o’ course. But I doubt it. I think you'd be the kind of girl to go all the way.’
She went to the wardrobe, knelt down, and pulled out a doll from under piles of petticoats, silk drawers, and old-fashioned pantalettes. It was a fashion-plate doll, a scaled-down replica of a particularly curvaceous Shulamite. ‘This is Nixie,’ she continued. ‘Nixie is a creature of extremes, ain’t you, darling? She always goes all the way.’ Cliticia pecked the little bisque-headed doll on the cheek. ‘Someday, I ’ope I'll be like Nixie.’ She looked up at me. ‘Tell me, Maddy. And be honest, will you? Why do you really want to go to Babylon?’ She sat back on her haunches, her thighs pressed jealously together. ‘Is it because of the Men?’
I felt my throat constrict. ‘You mean the Minotaurs?’ I said.
‘Course,’ said Cliticia.
‘But why do you ask?’ I said, almost snapping at her.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she said, arching an eyebrow. ‘I see. So sorry.’
I gazed over her head. Light continued to stream through the window even though the sky seemed to have grown impenetrably sullen. Feeling sullen myself, I focused on Christ Church and the oeil-de-boeuf windows that lined its upper gallery.
‘Be careful when the Duenna talks to you about Minotaurs,’ said Cliticia. She put her index finger to her temple and rotated it, clockwise, then anti-clockwise, as if she were attempting to bore a hole into her head with the long, red drill bit of her fingernail. ‘They weed out the ones who’re, like, a bit wonky.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m not like that.’
‘Oh, yes you a-re,’ she chanted, ‘oh, yes you a-re.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Madeleine Fell’s crazy. That’s why they call her Madeleine.’ She exploded into laughter, infinitely pleased at having discovered in herself a hitherto neglected talent for word play.
‘I’m not crazy like some girls are,’ I said, as her laughter abated. We both grew quiet. Cliticia fiddled with her doll, and I continued to stare out at those circular windows that dotted the upper portion of Christ Church, so like the portholes of some ocean liner bound for the shores of oblivion, they seemed, and I a would-be passenger somewhat too eager, perhaps, to play the role of a stowaway. ‘Aren’t you frightened of... what might happen?’ I said at last.
‘I think about it a lot,’ she said, softly. ‘You can’t ’elp but think about it, can you?’
The silence closed in. Christ Church loomed above us, as it did over all Spitalfields, a great temple consecrated to some dark mystery of the blood. Its weight seemed ready to press me through the floor and basement,
I gazed down at myself. Despite being a heavily boned garment the corset had really lovely, delicate fanning, with lots of floss and decorative stitchwork around the contrasting light- and dark-blue panels of the stays.
With half-a-dozen tugs of its laces I’d gone from angel in the house to wasp-waisted demoness, a metamorphosed nymph who owed her new life as an object of desire to the merciful Zeus of contemporary fashion.
Cliticia put a finger to my cheek. ‘So pale,’ she said. Her finger ran across my throat, my bosom, and then down the inward- curving steel busk that lined the corset’s front panel. ‘Almost like you ’ad the green sickness.’ I trembled. It seemed in anticipation of a question I longed to put, but which I could at that moment only frame in terms of my heaving, somewhat over-expressive bosom. ‘White girls eat arsenic to achieve a complexion like that. So romantic, so... deathly pale.’
‘The divine Edgar Allan says female death is “unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.’”
‘The divine Edgar? Never bleedin’ ’eard of ’im. But I’m telling you, if you want to keep that lily-white look, then my money’d be on arsenic to do the trick.’ She shrugged. ‘You might content yourself with a daily glass of vinegar, o’ course. But I doubt it. I think you'd be the kind of girl to go all the way.’
She went to the wardrobe, knelt down, and pulled out a doll from under piles of petticoats, silk drawers, and old-fashioned pantalettes. It was a fashion-plate doll, a scaled-down replica of a particularly curvaceous Shulamite. ‘This is Nixie,’ she continued. ‘Nixie is a creature of extremes, ain’t you, darling? She always goes all the way.’ Cliticia pecked the little bisque-headed doll on the cheek. ‘Someday, I ’ope I'll be like Nixie.’ She looked up at me. ‘Tell me, Maddy. And be honest, will you? Why do you really want to go to Babylon?’ She sat back on her haunches, her thighs pressed jealously together. ‘Is it because of the Men?’
I felt my throat constrict. ‘You mean the Minotaurs?’ I said.
‘Course,’ said Cliticia.
‘But why do you ask?’ I said, almost snapping at her.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she said, arching an eyebrow. ‘I see. So sorry.’
I gazed over her head. Light continued to stream through the window even though the sky seemed to have grown impenetrably sullen. Feeling sullen myself, I focused on Christ Church and the oeil-de-boeuf windows that lined its upper gallery.
‘Be careful when the Duenna talks to you about Minotaurs,’ said Cliticia. She put her index finger to her temple and rotated it, clockwise, then anti-clockwise, as if she were attempting to bore a hole into her head with the long, red drill bit of her fingernail. ‘They weed out the ones who’re, like, a bit wonky.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m not like that.’
‘Oh, yes you a-re,’ she chanted, ‘oh, yes you a-re.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Madeleine Fell’s crazy. That’s why they call her Madeleine.’ She exploded into laughter, infinitely pleased at having discovered in herself a hitherto neglected talent for word play.
‘I’m not crazy like some girls are,’ I said, as her laughter abated. We both grew quiet. Cliticia fiddled with her doll, and I continued to stare out at those circular windows that dotted the upper portion of Christ Church, so like the portholes of some ocean liner bound for the shores of oblivion, they seemed, and I a would-be passenger somewhat too eager, perhaps, to play the role of a stowaway. ‘Aren’t you frightened of... what might happen?’ I said at last.
‘I think about it a lot,’ she said, softly. ‘You can’t ’elp but think about it, can you?’
The silence closed in. Christ Church loomed above us, as it did over all Spitalfields, a great temple consecrated to some dark mystery of the blood. Its weight seemed ready to press me through the floor and basement,
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