must fall to the floor ahead of her. She attempted to rise to clear away her plate, but the widow reached across and took it from her, scarred fingers gripping the crockery at an odd, claw-like angle. Perhaps she did need a girl’s help, but just then she must have seen how little use Alice would be to her.
She said, “Go to your bed, child. We’ll talk on the morrow.”
Alice climbed the stairs with the last of her will, crossed the attics to the bed nearest the window, dropped her shoes, stockings, and skirt on the floor, drew back the coverlet and stretched out between the wash-worn linens. Daylight hadn’t quite finished with the room; Alice lay on her back, staring up at the silvered rafters, thinking sleep would find her even with her eyes open, but when it didn’t come she closed her eyes, and still it escaped her. She could feel the spot where Nabby’s poker had come down; she could feel the sting of the widow’s salve on her cheek and the continued throbbing in her hand; under it all ran the soreness in the new place Verley had entered. Oh, for a new body! A new Alice! She imagined the old bruised shell of herself lying behind in the sail locker, the man Freeman lifting a new, untarnished girl into the fresh, clean air of Satucket. She breathed in and out, tasting the unfamiliar bold salt air. She wondered how far she’d come, how far she’d left Verley behind her.
At the thought of Verley Alice began to tremble. She tried to push him away and start over, but he was like a fallen horse that had pinned her underneath him. She tried to cast herself back to the ship’s locker—the old body left behind, the new one gentled into life by Freeman—but then what? Oddly, the next image Alice drew was one of her lying in a meadow of soft young grass, next to a glistening ocean, the meadow spotted all over with shining new chaises, laughing brides, smiling babies that all looked alike, and most odd of all, herring, flipping like green and silver waves all over the grass. One of the brides drew near and Alice saw that it was Nabby. She said, “Why haven’t you spitted these fish for our dinner?” And there a horse broke loose from one of the chaises, charged over the grass, trampled the fish, and turned into Verley.
EIGHT
A lice woke with the first sense of light against her eyelids, but she didn’t open her eyes. She felt worn out, as if she’d spent the night slogging through a marsh full of soft peat and spiky grasses, but the only dream that she remembered in all its shape and form was the dream—or nightmare—of the meadow. Alice could trace the path of the dream, of course, piecing it together from Freeman’s talk of chaises, triplets, herring. Alice could make sense as well of how the presence of a Verley had turned dream to nightmare. As Alice lay, however, she realized that such a nightmare wasn’t her worst fear; her worst fear was that this was the dream, this supposed waking in the widow’s attics. This was why she couldn’t bear to open her eyes; what if she opened them and saw not the widow’s arching, sunlit rafters, but Verley’s flat, plastered ceiling? Alice opened her eyes. Rafters. Her heart swelled inside her chest as if someone else’s blood pumped through it, but still she didn’t dare believe. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
The sky hung low and gray and sunless, the road below it empty and still, but beyond the road, even without the sun to decorate it or the wind to rile it, the surface of the sea expanded and shrank as if it breathed. Alice couldn’t look away from it. After a time she forced herself to turn to the washstand and splash water on her cut cheek, taking care to keep her poulticed hand dry; both wounds felt better, she decided. She dressed herself and believed her shoulder too had loosened. She sat on the bed and waited. For what? A sound. A sign.
Footsteps. The rise and fall of a latch. More footsteps. Another rattle of latch and a pair of
She said, “Go to your bed, child. We’ll talk on the morrow.”
Alice climbed the stairs with the last of her will, crossed the attics to the bed nearest the window, dropped her shoes, stockings, and skirt on the floor, drew back the coverlet and stretched out between the wash-worn linens. Daylight hadn’t quite finished with the room; Alice lay on her back, staring up at the silvered rafters, thinking sleep would find her even with her eyes open, but when it didn’t come she closed her eyes, and still it escaped her. She could feel the spot where Nabby’s poker had come down; she could feel the sting of the widow’s salve on her cheek and the continued throbbing in her hand; under it all ran the soreness in the new place Verley had entered. Oh, for a new body! A new Alice! She imagined the old bruised shell of herself lying behind in the sail locker, the man Freeman lifting a new, untarnished girl into the fresh, clean air of Satucket. She breathed in and out, tasting the unfamiliar bold salt air. She wondered how far she’d come, how far she’d left Verley behind her.
At the thought of Verley Alice began to tremble. She tried to push him away and start over, but he was like a fallen horse that had pinned her underneath him. She tried to cast herself back to the ship’s locker—the old body left behind, the new one gentled into life by Freeman—but then what? Oddly, the next image Alice drew was one of her lying in a meadow of soft young grass, next to a glistening ocean, the meadow spotted all over with shining new chaises, laughing brides, smiling babies that all looked alike, and most odd of all, herring, flipping like green and silver waves all over the grass. One of the brides drew near and Alice saw that it was Nabby. She said, “Why haven’t you spitted these fish for our dinner?” And there a horse broke loose from one of the chaises, charged over the grass, trampled the fish, and turned into Verley.
EIGHT
A lice woke with the first sense of light against her eyelids, but she didn’t open her eyes. She felt worn out, as if she’d spent the night slogging through a marsh full of soft peat and spiky grasses, but the only dream that she remembered in all its shape and form was the dream—or nightmare—of the meadow. Alice could trace the path of the dream, of course, piecing it together from Freeman’s talk of chaises, triplets, herring. Alice could make sense as well of how the presence of a Verley had turned dream to nightmare. As Alice lay, however, she realized that such a nightmare wasn’t her worst fear; her worst fear was that this was the dream, this supposed waking in the widow’s attics. This was why she couldn’t bear to open her eyes; what if she opened them and saw not the widow’s arching, sunlit rafters, but Verley’s flat, plastered ceiling? Alice opened her eyes. Rafters. Her heart swelled inside her chest as if someone else’s blood pumped through it, but still she didn’t dare believe. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
The sky hung low and gray and sunless, the road below it empty and still, but beyond the road, even without the sun to decorate it or the wind to rile it, the surface of the sea expanded and shrank as if it breathed. Alice couldn’t look away from it. After a time she forced herself to turn to the washstand and splash water on her cut cheek, taking care to keep her poulticed hand dry; both wounds felt better, she decided. She dressed herself and believed her shoulder too had loosened. She sat on the bed and waited. For what? A sound. A sign.
Footsteps. The rise and fall of a latch. More footsteps. Another rattle of latch and a pair of
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