The Special Ones by Em Bailey

the ground and smeared the contents everywhere. Any sense of triumph or relief I had at this girl’s arrival here has long vanished. I feel her glaring at me as I silently clean up the disgusting mess.
    I fetch a basin of hot water and hand her a sponge and some soap. She eyes these with displeasure. ‘I want a shower.’
    ‘Sorry,’ I tell her. ‘This will have to do.’
    ‘Where do you get this horrible soap from?’ she says, examining it with a frown.
    ‘It’s homemade. From fat and lavender.’
    Lucille drops the soap like it’s crawling with maggots. ‘I’m not washing myself with fat! ’
    ‘That’s up to you,’ I say mildly. Given the state of her hands, I’m confident she’ll change her mind. She does, eventually, and when she’s finished I pass her a cloth to dry herself with.
    ‘Are you going to bring me my clothes now?’ she says. ‘My real clothes I mean, not that stupid costume.’
    I stand up and sigh dramatically. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘You win.’
    I leave the room, locking it behind me, and go to the kitchen stove, where I scrape a little of the soot into a bowl. I bring it back to Lucille. ‘This is what’s left of them,’ I tell her.
    The Lucille clenches her jaw like she’s trying not to scream. I’m surprised. Up until now she hasn’t held back on anything.
    ‘Please just let your soul settle, Lucille,’ I tell her. ‘The Special Ones and our followers are eagerly anticipating your return, but your soul needs to fit comfortably beneath your skin first.’
    I leave her standing there and lock the door behind me. I’m growing tired of her childish behaviour, and I’m also getting worried. What if we never transform this girl? What then?

    When I walk in the next day, I’m astonished to find Lucille wearing her pantaloons and petticoat, the corset in her hands.
    ‘How do you put this thing on?’ she asks, holding it out to me.
    ‘I’ll show you,’ I say, hoping she can’t see how relieved I am she’s given in, how close I was to despair.
    ‘It’s so uncomfortable,’ she complains as I tighten the laces.
    ‘You get used to it,’ I say, cheerfully. I’m pleased. The clothes fit perfectly. Harry has judged her size well.
    ‘What were you like when you first came here?’ she asks me, curiously. ‘I’ve been trying to imagine it – you at high school, or at the movies with friends – but I just can’t. How long were you locked up in this room for? Did it take long for you to – you know – accept it?’
    I turn away, so she can’t see the tremble in my hands. ‘I have always been here,’ I say, as calmly as I can.
    Luckily Lucille has already lost interest in the question and turned her attention back to herself. ‘Can I see myself in a mirror?’ she asks.
    ‘We don’t need mirrors here,’ I tell her.
    She gapes at me.
    ‘The Special Ones watch only their inner selves,’ I explain. ‘The outer self – the glass – is irrelevant. Don’t you remember that from when you were here before?’ Lucille shakes her head. ‘Well, you will. And you’ll soon find that life is much more meaningful and rewarding when you’re not obsessed with trivialities like physical appearance.’
    This is a classic Esther line. It’s also a lie. Lucille stands utterly still and silent as I help her into another petticoat and then her skirt and blouse.
    I step back to evaluate my work. ‘You’re already looking a lot more like yourself, Lucille,’ I tell her.
    Lucille snorts under her breath. ‘I bet I still look like me,’ she mutters.
    Unfortunately, she’s right. There are many other changes required yet. Her hair, for instance. And her eye colour. Until the new Lucille looks just like the one in the photograph, I can see it’ll be hard for her to fully accept her new situation.
    The queue of followers wanting to speak to Lucille grows every night. I keep assuring them it won’t be much longer now, hoping that it will be true. And then one evening I log on to