Vassa in the Night by Sarah Porter Page A

look like bacteria creeping in a petri dish. “Not nearly that much. He pointed at you, after all. It’s part of his job to defend my property, and I trust his word over yours. No, you won’t be … leaving immediately.”
    The hand flings itself petulantly off the shelf and starts corralling spilled cereal with little sideways swipes. It’s funny that something with no face can look so mad.
    I’d like to tell her she’s wrong. But that whatever-it-is still has an iron grip on my hair—I can’t see it, but it must be the other hand. My scalp is stretched and stinging and I can barely twitch my head. Even if I could shake the hand off we’re far enough above the ground that I’d at least break a leg if I jumped. And then there’s the guy on the black motorcycle, ready to run me down as I try to hobble away. My odds of escape are notably poor. I’m trying to think of some alternative to screaming insults when she lets out a dreamy hiss.
    â€œEnough doubt, I’d say, for a chance. I’ll give you an opportunity to demonstrate your virtuous character. Show me that I should believe you instead of an old and dear subordinate. A chance to work off your debt to me, shall we say.”
    â€œThis is insane!” I manage. My voice sounds garbled. “What do you think I owe you?”
    When she stares at me it’s her veiled eye, the one with no pupil, which seems to zoom in on my face. “More than you owe yourself. More than to mother or father. A possibility of life repossessed from the muck you’ve made of it. You should be grateful.” She tilts her head and that web in her eye seems to drape itself over me, gummy threads feeling the shape of what it can’t see. “You’re pretty. Having you here will be good for business.”
    Erg is stroking my hip through the layers of fabric. It’s clear what the gesture means: Calm down, Vassa. Just be cool and play along. We’ll figure something out. It almost makes me angrier, but since Erg did just save my life—at least for now—I throttle my impulse to tell this old ghoul to go drink bleach. “What do you have in mind, then?”
    â€œThree nights. Three. Do what you’re told, show yourself mature and responsible … Why did you come here tonight?”
    Her voice rasps through my head. The same song is still playing, sprinkling mournful piano notes over the air. “I was just picking up lightbulbs.”
    She starts nodding. “I’ll throw those in. A commitment of three nights; your pay will be your survival. And a package of lightbulbs. Two packages, if you like.” She isn’t even looking at me anymore; she could almost be dreaming on her feet, her words coming out half song and half wind. “Three nights. You can work the register. Then I can sleep. I never get to sleep.”
    â€œYou were sleeping when I came in,” I point out. I don’t think it will do any good to mention that three nights could be an extremely long time.
    â€œI was not. I was working. There is always the minor maintenance to be done, the repairs to the twiddly bits at the fringes. If I were only less fastidious.…” She’s already turning away, shuffling back the way she came. “I don’t think you deserve a name. I don’t see how a callow little vixen like you could have earned a name. But I suppose your foolish parents disregarded that and gave you one anyway?”
    It’s wrong to slap old ladies sideways, and then this one commands a pair of evil hands that are just dying to lop my head off. The hand behind me drops down, still dangling in my hair like some gross prehensile starfish, and shoves me between my shoulder blades to make me follow her. It’s hard to believe a hand could be so strong with no body attached, but I still stagger from the impact. “I’m Vassa.”
    â€œVassa,” she whispers