The Virgin Cure by Ami McKay

her wrist and tapped it on the arm of her chair. After gaining my attention, she touched the tip of the fan to her cheek. I thought she meant to show me a drop of tea that was lingering there, so I quickly reached for a napkin and moved to wipe her face.
    Waving the napkin away as I came near, she shook her head with disapproval. “You’re to kiss me, not clean me,” she scolded.
    “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, giving a short bow before bending to bring my lips to her cheek. It was a kiss given in haste, and far less gentle than the one I’d placed on her cheek that morning.
    Grabbing me by the arm she held me fast and said, “You should’ve known what I wanted.”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wentworth,” I whimpered, hoping she’d soon let go.
    She did not.
    My awkward and tardy show of affection had caused her to lose all patience and she meant to punish me for it.
    “Kneel down and bare your wrists,” she ordered, her eyes narrow with anger.
    Frightened by this change in her, I pushed the sleeves of my dress past my elbows, knelt and held my arms out.
    “It’s the soft of them I want,” she complained, circling her fan in the air to show she wished for me to turn them over. “And you’re to keep your hands open, no fists.”
    Unsure of what might happen if I refused, I did as I was told.
    “That’s better,” she said, as she raised her hand, the fan tight in her grip. Then she brought the thick of the fan’s guard down on my arms, so hard I couldn’t help but cry out. I knew she didn’t mean to stop.
    “Please,” I said, wincing from the pain the blow had left behind. “I’ll do better, I promise—”
    But she paid no attention to my pleas. Five, six, seven stripes appeared as she continued to smack the tender part of my wrists, red lines burning in a row. Mr. Wentworth and his dog looked out from the portrait, eyes blind to the cruelty that was being heaped upon me and the tears coming down my cheeks.
    Mrs. Wentworth had chosen the fan that morning out of a drawer filled with gloves and garters. It was a beautiful thing, the sticks and guard made of bone, the image of a dragon painted on its silk—tail snaking around, eyes wide, tongue lashing out.
    The look on the dragon’s face had reminded me of a dead horse I’d once seen on the side of the street when I was small. Two men had been arguing over the animal—one grousing over who should have to dispose of it, the other muttering of secret poisonings and evil deeds. A gang of guttersnipes soon gathered, pushing and shoving, daring one another to touch it, take its eyes, even piss in its mouth. The horse’s head was nearly larger than the whole of me, but I walked right past the bickering men and sat down next to the poor creature. Curling up in the curve of its neck, I shooed away the flies so I could marvel at its eyelashes and stroke its velvety nose. My bare knee touched its skin, rubbing against the wormy scars that had been left behind by its master’s whip. “Sleep well,” I said to the horse thinking it deserved at least a bit of kindness.
    When she was done, Mrs. Wentworth ran her hand along the length of my arm, fingers gliding over my stinging flesh. She clasped her hand around my wrist and pushed her thumb into one of the marks she’d made. “Now you’ll know better,” she said, as she tightened her grip and watched me flinch.
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said, salty tears on my lips.
    The imprint of her fingers blossomed white after she let go, then faded away.
    “I’d like some shortbread now,” she said, straightening her shoulders and picking up her teacup.
    Afraid to stop to wipe my eyes, I stood up, the room blurry before me. I fumbled to place the plate of biscuits in front of her so she wouldn’t have to reach for them.
    Rather than taking one of the squares, she folded her hands in her lap and stared up at me. “From your hand,” she ordered, making it clear she intended for me to feed her. “I don’t like getting