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  and then he exhales, long and whistling.

  “Oh Rose,” he sighs. “No books in the Masterson house, my sweet girl, not even a Bible.” His icy tongue laps at my earlobe. “And you do know this sewing is making you blind?”

  Forty-two. The rush of the world in my ears: whistling winds, cawing birds, the scuttling of rabbits and squirrels while the trees rustle and creak. I wipe and wipe at my eyes, flicking away clots of opaque muck. The wet patches on my breasts and backside are already drying; still I feel moisture on my face. It takes me a moment to realize I am weeping.

  ~*~

  At Mrs. Duggan’s we make clothes for a shop in the city. An older woman does the cutting and each girl does a different part, a main seam or a bit of finer work, say hemming or turning a collar. I sew buttonholes and Abigail sews buttons—she’s a clumsy girl, thick-fingered, but her father deals in lumber so she only works for her own pin money.

  Buttonholes are slow, difficult work. In the summer the light is good but the heat wrinkles the cloth and makes my palms sweaty; in the winter the light is so thin I find myself with my face in the cloth, squinting. My dreams now are of an accident: another girl nudges my chair, or Abigail leans in suddenly, and my hand slips; the last thing I see is the needle aimed for my eye. And then I awaken, sweating with terror, not at the pain but at the dark.

  “Your Tim not coming for the holidays?”

  I blink my eyes rapidly until they can focus on Abigail’s plump, rosy face, and shake my head. Not for my birthday, not for the holidays, perhaps not ever again.

  All his promises. I cannot even think about it.

  “Pity,” Abigail says. “But good on him, getting accepted to university. Your mother must be so proud.” She smiles at her button with its big, wide shank.

  Abigail has a good demeanor, Rose. You could do worse than to emulate her. So Mrs. Duggan tells me; so everyone tells me. She’s always so cheerful. And the greatest virtue of all: I’ve never heard her complain a day in my life.

  “It makes you wonder, though.” Abigail laughs. “How did he come up so bright? Look at us, a bunch of lumps to the one. You’d never think we’d produce someone with real learning.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I snap. The other girls pause in their stitching to watch us but I don’t care. “I got him accepted. I wrote his bloody essays, I did his proofs. It was all me. And as soon as he’s settled I’m going to join him and start my own studies.” I cannot see the shirt on my lap for my rising tears. “The only damn lump in this room is you,” I finish bitterly. “So speak for yourself, Abigail Fitzwilliam.”

  There is silence, then a muffled tittering. A voice says in a too-loud whisper, “I didn’t realize we were working with Lady Muck.”

  “Well,” Abigail says, as if we’re having a conversation, “I hear he’s courting a magistrate’s daughter, and he’s going abroad to work for a great lawyer. I’m sure he’ll look after you once he’s married.” She smiles at her needle. “Though of course by then Sam Masterson will be looking after you, so you won’t need to burden anyone.”

  Another rush of giggles and whispering. I feel like I might scream. Sam Masterson. They were my compositions, my proofs. Tim was always slow to understand, he mixed words up and he could never see geometry, he could never transpose the equations into shapes. Even now, a year out of school, I know at a glance when a merchant tries to rook Mother; I can do the addition in my head quicker than he can write up the bill, and then I tug her sleeve and she makes him review the prices and I am always right.

  I’ll send my books to you as I finish them. Tim on his last night home, pale and nervous, as well he should have been. That way you can keep up while I find out what schools there are for women, and a good boarding house.

  And then he went away.

  There were many letters at first, carefully addressed to all of us, never replying to my panicked missives. Tim please they’ve taken me out of school. At least if I was working in the city I could make more, enough to pay for my own lessons. Can I not come to you? Tell me what I should do.

  Tim, help me.

  Instead we learned about the latest fashions, his new friends. One was a magistrate’s son and there was a pretty sister and the father said he had great promise and did we have anything to spare for a better suit, so he would not feel ashamed at their table? Father beaming as he counted out our few saved coins. My boy, courting a magistrate’s daughter! Eating off silver, drinking wine with every meal!

  Tim, help me!

  And then, two months ago, the package arrived. There was a long letter, explaining he was going abroad for a term: Sophie’s father had arranged for him to clerk for a solicitor. The experience would help him go straight into the best firm once he had his degree. Oh, and Sophie had suggested a present for Rose, a belated birthday gift.

  I had recognized the shape at once, that firm, solid rectangle. I had all but snatched it from Father, had ripped the paper wrapping to shreds in my excitement. What could it be? Latin, perhaps, or natural philosophy? Breathlessly I turned it over and read the spine:

  The Frugal Housewife

  ~*~

  My boy, courting a magistrate’s daughter! My boy, eating off silver! My boy, touring Europe!

  My boy my boy my boy

  ~*~

  I eat dinner alone that day, all the girls shunning me, huddling around Abigail instead. I weep all afternoon, quietly, my tears pattering onto the cloth. Two months and it still hurts so much. The Frugal Housewife. Abroad for a term, he would not be back until midsummer at the earliest, he could not say just when he might visit.

  Did he throw my letters away? Did he burn them?

  I hold my hand up to my face, move it a distance away, then close again, watching my fingers slide in and out of focus. I have no more time.

  The Frugal Housewife.

  Perhaps I’ll have to make my own economies now.

  ~*~

  “Rose,” the each-uisge says, his clammy arm draped around my shoulders. “Sweet Rose, I’m so very lonely without you.”

  I am counting my steps, trying to think. Eight, nine. There is another way to and from the Duggans’, but it is long and winding, down to the village road and around. It would mean rising earlier, the whole journey in darkness, it would mean coming back to cold suppers and still the chores to do. All that precious sleep, lost.

  And for once, I want to see him.

  “Why did you come back?” I ask.

  “Why, to see you, of course.” He nuzzles at my ear, smearing his face against my hair. “How has my poor Rose fared all these years, with her family of numbskulls and Sam Masterson ogling her tits? Do any of them even see her, really see her?”

  “‘All these years’?” I whisper.

  “Such long, long years. But I knew from the moment I saw you: you were a girl worth waiting for.” He pulls at my coat, peering down at my chest, then laughs as I shove his hand away. “My darling Rose. What does a smart girl like you say to those idiots? All they know is to count the days until some farmboy sticks them full of cock and makes their bellies swell. What does a girl like you say to girls like them?”

  Nothing, nothing. Their turned backs almost a relief today, to be spared their teasing: they’ve started calling me Missus Masterson, they tell me how lucky I am, he’s sown his oats so he’ll be ready to settle down.

  I’m never sure which phrase makes me more ill, Missus Masterson or settle down. I am Rose. And I haven’t even begun.

  “You were never meant for this,” he says, his fingers trailing slime down my cheek. “I knew it the moment I saw you. You were meant to be a great woman. You were meant to be a queen—my queen.”

  “A king,” I blurt out. King Rose. I have not thought of those story-dreams in so long. Now they rush through me, quick and hot, quicker and hotter than his hands that are everywhere and nowhere, doing strange things to the layers of my clothes. And on the heels of the rush comes a last burst of miserable sorrow, as I see Ti
m in my mind’s eye, poncing about his college in the suit I bought him, the qualifications I gave him.

  “Why not a queen? There are queens who have ruled, Rose. Did no one teach you this? I have whole books about such queens.” His hand encircles my wrist. “Come with me and see, Rose. Come with me and I will sit at your feet while you read, and then I will take the book from your hands and undo your dress, button by button.”

  “The better for you to kill me,” I cry, wrenching my hand free.

  He steps before me, stopping us.

  I have never stopped before. I have never truly seen him before. A thick cloudy liquid covers him from head to toe; his skin beneath is a greenish-grey. His face bony and long-jawed, framed by a tangle of dark hair and water-weeds. Still he looks like a man, he wears the clothes of a man. But his eyes are a flat, solid black and the teeth flashing in his lipless mouth are small and sharp and crowded together.

  “Never you, Rose. Never you.” His voice, his teeth. His eyes. “I saw your face that day. I saw you. The way you looked at that beastly boy’s body, while they wrung their hands and averted their eyes. A queen amongst the rabble.”

  And I see it: the boy’s body on the mossy ground, grey and bloated, the flesh bitten and ravaged. I had felt no fear or shame, just an overwhelming need to touch him, to understand what had happened, what mouth made such injuries, what that boy-flesh had tasted like—

  I shove the each-uisge aside and run.

  “Rose,” he calls after me. “I can free you, don’t you see?”

  It was I who told Abigail about the boy’s body, describing the great tears and gouges. Breathless with excitement, fired with my own courage. How had I forgotten? She had burst into tears and told her father who told mine. I had been whipped for it, and I had hated my Father and Abigail both.

  “Don’t be afraid, Rose.” His plaintive voice was becoming small and distant. “Let me free you. Let me free—”

  And then he is cut off, and I am in the world once more.

  I stop again, trying to calm my racing heart. My head spins with memories: Father whipping me, the long hot strokes on my thighs. His tears, his shouting: to stay home, to do what I’m told to do, to never misbehave, to know my place. How had I forgotten? Too sore to sit at school the next day, all their eyes on me as I stood in the corner. Abigail wide-eyed with her own solemn righteousness, as if she hadn’t betrayed me.

  With a last, deep breath I straighten my clothes, smooth my hair.

  Rose!

  The voice makes me jump. Never have I heard him here, in the world. My mind is playing tricks on me, I’m so very tired…

  I look back towards the lake.

  There is a small, squarish shape sitting on the path, just where it levels out. A dark package, tied with plain string.

  I whirl around completely, trying to remain calm, trying to scour the trees without appearing to. What might he be plotting, what kind of ambush? The last sane part of my mind says leave it be, think on the price you will pay.

  Never you, Rose. Never you.

  I dash forward, seizing the parcel as I spin about and race back up the rise, nearly tripping in my haste, cursing my heavy clogs, my thick skirts. Even after I have crossed back I keep running, clasping that solid weight to myself. Not until our gate comes into view do I slow, steadying my breath once more, and look at it. That weight, that shape. Only this time it’s wrapped in a still-damp oilcloth, the twine soggy with lake water.

  It smells of him.

  I hide the parcel in the barn, then go in for supper.

  ~*~

  I use the sounds of my parents’ snoring to slip outside and run shivering to the barn. Once back in my room I light my candle and tuck it in a corner, shading it behind my bed. Only then do I undo the wrapping.

  Not one but two volumes: Great Queens of Europe, and First Latin Primer.

  I thought myself done with tears, but I start crying again. The books are older, but the words are crisp on the page. There are even pictures in Great Queens of Europe, pictures of women riding horses, leading armies, standing on balconies before a sea of kneeling subjects.

  I knew it the moment I saw you.

  Why did no one tell me that a queen could rule?

  I spread the books open on my bed, angling them towards the candlelight. The house quiet now, the window shuttered against the cold winds. For a moment I am small again, Tim sprawling beside me, our heads pressed together as we read from the same book. I never knew how happy I was. And if I had known I would lose it all, what might I have done?

  I start turning the pages, but I cannot focus on the words. The black marks swim and double; when I move the page close to my face they straighten into letters but my eyes start to throb, the pain spreading swiftly through my temples.

  And you do know this sewing is making you blind?

  My stomach heaves. I can feel the scream rising and I jam my fist in my mouth to smother it, howling against my cold knuckles as I have not done since I was small.

  ~*~

  At dinnertime Abigail wiggles close to me. She’s so bright-eyed she’s almost shining, even here in our dingy workroom. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says.

  I shrug, keeping my eyes on my little bowl. What does it matter now? Besides, I have other things to think on: he was not there this morning. Something is changing. I must not let him get the better of me.

  “So who is he?” Abigail whispers loudly in my ear.

  “Who is who?” For a moment I cannot think who she means. The only he I see on a regular basis is Father. Even Sam Masterson is only a face I greet on Sundays.

  “Your fellow. The one you see on the way home.”

  I stare at her, the food nearly falling out of my gaping mouth. I have never thought of him in any context other than my walk; that he can be seen by the likes of Abigail Fitzwilliam—I have a sudden urge to slap her.

  “Ah-ha! There is one!” She claps her hands. “So who is it? I couldn’t see his face. Not from the village… a woodcutter’s son?”

  “Abigail,” I say, in a low growl that seems to come from another Rose.

  “Rose, you must tell me, or I shall simply die!” She almost pushes me off the chair, she’s leaning in so.

  “Abigail, don’t.”

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even Sam… if you’ll do something for me.” She giggles. “I’ll keep mum if you introduce me. Today. After all, he might have a brother, all big and strapping, eh?”

  I feel it then: something inside me, something new and hard and cold, as cold as his touch. A shape just starting to form. I cannot see it but I can feel it, sense it like the blind woman I am becoming.

  “Why not?” And for the first time in ages I smile.

  ~*~

  Abigail twitches with impatience. Excitement is making her cheeks flush; she looks almost pretty. That afternoon I had carefully kicked my glove far away, under the hutch that holds the spools of thread, the cushions bristling with small fine needles. Now I stand in mock bewilderment, shaking my head.

  “Oh leave your stupid glove,” Abigail says. “You shouldn’t keep a boy waiting.”

  I bite my lip, trying to appear on the verge of tears. “Go on ahead,” I say. “Tell him I’m coming. You can walk slowly and I’ll catch you up.”

  She hesitates. “I don’t know if I should…”

  “Please, Abigail. I don’t want to keep him waiting, but Mother will be furious if I lose my glove.”

  And that’s all it takes: she’s off, nearly falling down the path in her ardor. Every boy in the village has already been a victim of her fawning interest, and her mother is equally scheming. A new prospect, who might not have heard of her? It’s a wonder she lingered as long as she did.

  Slowly I gather up my glove and begin walking home, my steps measured, trying to make as little noise as possible. Like it was fated. Every other choice boxed off, until there was only this path, this inevitable moment.

  I walk. The sun
has nearly set, the last thin band of light like a smudge of fire on the horizon. Overhead the stars are coming out, the rising moon a white sickle. There are the cries of night birds, the higher-pitched whistling of the first bats.

  I reach the curve, and the world falls silent.

  Does Abigail still hear noises? Or did it fall silent for her as well, only she was so taken with her foolish hope that she just kept barreling towards him?

  As I pass the lake I can just glimpse them between the trees, their two dark shapes silhouetted. I slow but I do not stop. Not like Abigail; she is rock-still by the lake’s edge, looking up at him. Her coat hangs open, her bare hands resting on his arms.

  He is not that tall when he walks with me. Tall and yet somehow on all fours—? My vision doubles, making his dark shape seem to blur and swell.

  She puts her leg back, trying to move away, but she cannot. I see now that she is stuck to him, her torso fused against his broadening chest. He rears back, growing in size; she is pulled along with him as if strapped to him. For a moment they are a towering mass, his dark animal’s rearing form and her small body glued to him.

  He leaps up and into the water, arcing high in the air and diving in headfirst. Though there is a tremendous spray at their impact, rising up nearly to the tops of the trees, it makes no sound. No water seems to splatter outward, no waves form; the spray merely rises up and vanishes.

  The last thing I see are Abigail’s small clogs and his dark, elongated feet, the toes rounded and fused together, looking for all the world like hooves.

  I start striding now, my head down as if against a strong wind though there is no wind.

  “That’s my girl,” he whispers in my ear.

  I step forward into the long somber cry of an owl, into safety, my heart hammering in my chest.

  ~*~

  They find Abigail’s body at first light. The knock comes just as I am reaching for my coat, and before Mother can get the door open all the way Bart Masterson is inside, bellowing for Father. In the confusion no one notices when I follow them to the lake. There are several men, filling the silence with their voices, angry and shouting, and between them all the little heap of Abigail’s body. She is twisted and bitten, so much so she resembles some animal’s carcass, not the girl I knew.