it's not!" She clapped her hands to her mouth, retching, and staggered to her feet, knocking the chair over with the heavy sideways sweep of her skirts. She managed to get to the basin before she threw up.
Eustacia closed her eyes, but the noise and smell made her stomach churn in terrible sympathy. She kept her gorge down with great effort. "I'm sorry," she said, when Lydia's crisis seemed to have passed. "I know it must be a shock to see your baby--"
"No! That's not my baby! How can you?"
Eustacia struggled to rise, reaching for her sister.
Lydia shrieked. "Don't touch me! You monster!"
"But -- but you were so happy when Mr. Elphinstone did it -- this is the same -- don't you see? I can do the same thing--"
"It's not the same! It's not the same!" Lydia glared at her, and this look was much worse than the look Mildred had given her, for there was not merely horror in it, but hate. "How could you . . . what are you trying to do, make me miscarry?"
Eustacia's mouth hung open. "I didn't know. . . ."
"Monster! Monster!"
The door opened then -- Mildred, attracted by the noise. Weeping, Lydia rushed to the safety of her older sister's embrace. They went out of the room together and the door closed, shutting Eustacia in alone with the thing she had made.
She looked at her creation, the baby bobbing and floating in the air like something unborn. Like something dead. But it had never been alive. It wasn't real, not a real baby. But neither was the thing Mr. Elphinstone had made, although, in the dim and flickering firelight, it had seemed real enough to eyes that wanted it to be. She understood that the situation was different here and now. But she hadn't meant any harm. She thought of getting up and going downstairs, going after Lydia and explaining, making her understand. But she had not the energy for it. It was impossible. She could scarcely even think. All she could do was fall back in her chair and fall asleep.
When she woke, with a throbbing head competing for attention against a painfully empty stomach, it was much later in the day and the room was thick with shadows. The baby had vanished back into the nothing from which it had been conjured. She rose from her chair and stretched aching muscles, feeling as if she had become an old woman while she slept. Certainly she felt like a different person from the hopeful girl who had waited impatiently for her sister that morning. She hoped that the passing of the hours had calmed Lydia. Maybe she would be ready to listen now, and surely if she listened she would understand. She still felt Lydia was the one person in the world who could understand.
But when she reached the door she could not open it. She thought at first it was her own weakness, and continued twisting the handle to no avail. Her wits were still so slow after her sleep that it took her some time to realize that the door to her room had been locked from the outside.
They had locked her in.
It had to be a mistake. She went back to her chair, turned it so she could look out the window, and sat down. She did not want to find out that it had not been a mistake, so she would not pound on the door and make demands that could be refused. Mildred would come up and unlock it later. It must have been locked on account of Lydia's fright. Once she was allowed to explain there would be no more need for locked doors.
By the time Mildred came up with her dinner on a tray Eustacia was almost ready to weep with hunger and worry.
"Mildred, I have to see Lydia, I have to explain--"
"She's gone home."
"I didn't mean to upset her; I have to tell her--"
"Oh, I know. It's not your fault." A sneer was not Mildred's usual expression. She would not meet her sister's eye as she spoke.
"It's not my fault -- I can't help it -- I didn't mean it -- oh, please--"
" I know. You're ill." She snorted. "I saw the doctor. I rode with Lydia into town, and I had a consultation with him. Do you know what he said? There's nothing
Eustacia closed her eyes, but the noise and smell made her stomach churn in terrible sympathy. She kept her gorge down with great effort. "I'm sorry," she said, when Lydia's crisis seemed to have passed. "I know it must be a shock to see your baby--"
"No! That's not my baby! How can you?"
Eustacia struggled to rise, reaching for her sister.
Lydia shrieked. "Don't touch me! You monster!"
"But -- but you were so happy when Mr. Elphinstone did it -- this is the same -- don't you see? I can do the same thing--"
"It's not the same! It's not the same!" Lydia glared at her, and this look was much worse than the look Mildred had given her, for there was not merely horror in it, but hate. "How could you . . . what are you trying to do, make me miscarry?"
Eustacia's mouth hung open. "I didn't know. . . ."
"Monster! Monster!"
The door opened then -- Mildred, attracted by the noise. Weeping, Lydia rushed to the safety of her older sister's embrace. They went out of the room together and the door closed, shutting Eustacia in alone with the thing she had made.
She looked at her creation, the baby bobbing and floating in the air like something unborn. Like something dead. But it had never been alive. It wasn't real, not a real baby. But neither was the thing Mr. Elphinstone had made, although, in the dim and flickering firelight, it had seemed real enough to eyes that wanted it to be. She understood that the situation was different here and now. But she hadn't meant any harm. She thought of getting up and going downstairs, going after Lydia and explaining, making her understand. But she had not the energy for it. It was impossible. She could scarcely even think. All she could do was fall back in her chair and fall asleep.
When she woke, with a throbbing head competing for attention against a painfully empty stomach, it was much later in the day and the room was thick with shadows. The baby had vanished back into the nothing from which it had been conjured. She rose from her chair and stretched aching muscles, feeling as if she had become an old woman while she slept. Certainly she felt like a different person from the hopeful girl who had waited impatiently for her sister that morning. She hoped that the passing of the hours had calmed Lydia. Maybe she would be ready to listen now, and surely if she listened she would understand. She still felt Lydia was the one person in the world who could understand.
But when she reached the door she could not open it. She thought at first it was her own weakness, and continued twisting the handle to no avail. Her wits were still so slow after her sleep that it took her some time to realize that the door to her room had been locked from the outside.
They had locked her in.
It had to be a mistake. She went back to her chair, turned it so she could look out the window, and sat down. She did not want to find out that it had not been a mistake, so she would not pound on the door and make demands that could be refused. Mildred would come up and unlock it later. It must have been locked on account of Lydia's fright. Once she was allowed to explain there would be no more need for locked doors.
By the time Mildred came up with her dinner on a tray Eustacia was almost ready to weep with hunger and worry.
"Mildred, I have to see Lydia, I have to explain--"
"She's gone home."
"I didn't mean to upset her; I have to tell her--"
"Oh, I know. It's not your fault." A sneer was not Mildred's usual expression. She would not meet her sister's eye as she spoke.
"It's not my fault -- I can't help it -- I didn't mean it -- oh, please--"
" I know. You're ill." She snorted. "I saw the doctor. I rode with Lydia into town, and I had a consultation with him. Do you know what he said? There's nothing
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