I wiped the side of my face, scratching the deep impressions left by the embroidery of the pillow slip.
Smoothing my hair back, I picked at the crust of leftover blood. Rolling the filth between my fingers, I groaned in defeat and wiped it on my clothes from last night.
Speaking of which—they were soaked.
I had sweated through them from the night before; that was apparent as the wool collected in a pile on the washroom floor. I had to peel off my undergarments and petticoat. Even with all the sweat, I was as cold as a brass knob.
I used a sponge to clean myself in the small hip bath in the corner. For some reason, the mere activity was a labor of endurance. I was nowhere near lame; there was no reason for me to be hard of breathing from holding awet sponge.
I breathed in hard, but my nose barely let anything through. I pressed the hot sponge into my face, reveling in the melting sensation of my sinuses.
’Tis the season.
I was starting to think I had overdone it the night before. Everything had to be perfect, to reset the expectations.
But I didn’t think that was the cause of my dreary health today.
I dressed and wrapped myself in a wool shawl draped on the end of my bed. The light from the windows throughout the tenement was warm and delightful—if only it wasn’t making the pain in my skull drum like a hare’s foot.
I could hear the morning chatter of breakfast, lighthearted humming, a bickering or two about some irrelevant gossip. It was like a birdsong to my ears. My recurring nightmares were of waking up and the house being silent. I had spent enough time alone that my outlook changed the minute I allowed myself to be surrounded by company.
I stepped down to the bottom floor. I don’t really remember how I got there, but I saw Phoebe’s silhouette sweeping the dust from the carpets out the front door, a cool breeze licking my face, my breath hitching at the sudden bite of fresh air.
Her voice was a bit muffled, and she slowly grew nearer, until I could make out a concerned face in the blinding backlight.
“Are you well?” she asked gently, the back of her hand tapping my cheek, then forehead, only to cup the side of my head. “You look like death.”
All I could manage was a sigh and a slight head shake.
“Go back to bed, I can bring you something. You need water at the very least.”
“No, I’m already behind on chores.”
“I’ve got them,” she insisted.
“Where are they?”
Phoebe raised a brow. “The boys are out.” She started to sweep at my feet, herding me back toward the steps.
“I haven’t much to do for you to take on my chores,” I complained.
“I’ll help,” Rebecca chirped from around the corner.
“We did most of it the other day, anyway,” Mary muttered, taking a break from a journal to chime in.
“See? We’ve got it.” Phoebe slapped my back end with the broom. “Back upstairs you go. Take a day, we don’t need you on the decline.”
Reluctantly, I went back up the stairs, but I wasn’t ready to return to my room.
Along the hallways, I realized I hadn’t really gotten familiar with this new home. The photograph of the small group hung proudly at the end of the hall. Phoebe, Rebecca, Adeline, Mary, Edith, and finally myself, sitting on the very end with my grim attire, noticeably stark against the white tea gowns around me. John had taken the photograph, and I remember how excited he was to receive it as a gift. Having one around was important, or maybe an indulgence. But it made them all happy, that’s all that mattered.
Other mementos lined the wall: dried flowers, embroidered squares of cloth, and whatever else we wanted to save from the last home. It looked every bit familiar, yet strange at the same time. Maybe it was the rushed move, or the unfamiliarity of the space itself. It was hard to settle into place.
I stopped at one door, this one bearing no decor like the rest of them. Just a plain wooden door and a brass patinaed knob.
The door hinges wailed, unprepared for the sudden use.
Silas’s room was mainly storage. There was not much evidence he even used the room, aside from some clothing half unpacked off to the side. The bedsheets were crisp and tucked into place, collecting a thin layer of dust on the linen. I inspected the bag thrown on the cloth-covered chair. Just small, unimportant things. Some cash, some shirts, half a pack of cigarettes, to which I helped myself to. I dug for a lighter, just to find some old matches at the bottom.
