Page 8 of Inkpot Gods

Then she’s being guided up the stairs to the landing on the second floor, and down another hall to a closed door, which Deborah opens, revealing a bedroom almost as large as the entire house where Floretta has lived up until this point. She holds the door, waving the room’s new occupant inside. Floretta looks to her for confirmation, eyes wide, then steps over the threshold, staring at everything around her with rapture.

Any other girl raised to her new social status would see the marks on the walls where pictures have been removed, would notice that the furniture is large and heavy, made of dark wood, designed for adult guests rather than a child. Floretta sees none of those things. She sees only the space to dress without twisting or bending uncomfortably, the bed large enough for her to sprawl and stretch her limbs out as far as they will go, never touching the sides of the mattress. For the first time since her uncle appeared in her parlor, she looks around and understands why someone might want for Boston, might wish for more than their fair share of everything.

“It isn’t much of a view, I’m afraid,” says Deborah, gesturing to the room’s single window. “But you can see the moon at night when it passes overhead, and the light it casts will help to give you sweet dreams. Your clothing’s in the wardrobe, and I’ve added a few things from the household stores. It’s been some time since there was a child living here. I hope you’ll find them to your liking. Is there anything else I can do for you, miss?”

Floretta turns to her, and blinks in sudden confusion. The housemaid is almost glowing in the darkness that pools around the room, glowing a pale, lambent silver, like swamp fire in the deep forest. Like moonlight.

“Your skin—” she says, and stops herself, swallowing the next words before they can come. If the master of the house decides she’s lost her senses, she’s more likely to be bound for an asylum than she is to be returned to her village. To win her freedom, she must seem perfect. So perfect that he can deny her nothing, and will grant her clear desire to go home.

“My skin?”

Floretta shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I was … I’m very tired, I was seeing things.”

“Your nightclothes are in the top drawer of the wardrobe. We can draw you a bath in the morning. For now, you should change, and sleep. The household had dinner several hours ago. The master may call for something light before he turns in, but understands that you’ll not be up to dining with him until you’ve had time to rest and recover your senses.”

“Thank you,” says Floretta, with deep and obvious relief. “I am not trying to be … that is to say, I would rather not … but I’m not accustomed to…”

“I understand,” says Deborah. “He will too, once he’s had time to reflect on the events of the day. He’s a powerful man, and a willful one, but he means you no ill, and he loved his sister. He asked your mother to come here and live with him when she was scarcely older than you are now, and he always regretted the fact that he was unable to convince her, unable to save her. He’ll save you if you let him. He’ll be an anchor you can use to hold yourself to ground when the storms blow through, and he’ll never ask for more than you can offer.”

Floretta is young and scared and very far from the only home she’s ever known; she’s been fighting to be brave since the afternoon. Words desert her, and she bursts into tears.

Deborah is there almost immediately, gathering her close, making soothing noises that aren’t motherly, but more like what Floretta imagines an older sister might do, a loving relative. Her skin is still glowing a faint silver, but Floretta doesn’t comment again, only closes her eyes, leans close, and cries until she feels wrung out, as dry as a dishrag after the last plate has been put up and the water has been tossed out the back door to soak into the ground.

Deborah releases her then, guiding her first to the drawer where her nightclothes have been folded neatly away, then to the bed. She draws the curtains as Floretta sinks into the pillows, and calls a soft “Goodnight” before leaving the room.

Floretta swears to herself that she won’t go to sleep in this strange place, that she’ll stay awake and plan her escape until morning.

She doesn’t even notice her eyes closing, and then there is sunlight streaming around the edges of the curtains, and the distant song of birds, and her war is lost before she could begin to fight it. Everything that comes after will come, whether she wills it so or not.

Education

TIMELINE: 8:25 A.M. ET, JULY 22, 1872.

Floretta awakes in such softness that for a moment, she questions whether she might still be dreaming. It feels like she’s sinking into a cloud. She stretches languidly, feeling the delicious clench of the muscles in her back and legs, then rolls onto her side, eyes fluttering shut again. It would be so easy to go back to sleep, and for a moment, she considers it. There is no rooster crowing in the distance, no hand hammering at the door and demanding she rise for her chores—

And just like that, her eyes are open and she’s sitting up in the middle of her confectionary snarl of blankets and pillows, staring at the wall, which is covered in a dusty blue wallpaper patterned with small white flowers like stars. She’s in Boston. She’s in Boston, and home is so far away that she can only think about the distance if she measures it in hours rather than miles, and Father Clemence must be sick with worry for her. He’s never liked her to be out of his sight for more than a few hours. What will he do without her?

She slides from the bed, digging her toes into the soft plush of the rug, and wonders what she’s supposed to do now. Uncle John and Miss Cottingsly both mentioned new clothes, which seems to imply that they don’t like the dress she was wearing when she arrived here: would one of her other dresses be more suitable? She has three, which is an embarrassment of riches none of the other girls in her village can boast. One was her mother’s, and the other two were provided by Father Clemence, who said that she had to meet certain standards if she was going to be seen in public with him. All three are patched and worn, tattered at the hems and stained on the bodices, but they’re the finest things she’s ever needed.

She looks down at the nightdress she was coaxed into the night before, and understands that her definition of finery will have to change while she’s living here. The sleeping gown is purest white, unstained, and there are no signs that any part of it has been torn or mended. Looking at it makes her feel grubby, like she has no right to be touching something so fine. She tugs the sleeves down, covering the scratched and scabbed backs of her hands, and moves toward the wardrobe. Even if nothing she owns can be good enough for this house, she can’t wear this nightgown any longer. She’ll dirty it with her presence, and that feels like a sin. She’s always struggled not to be a sinner. It seems unfair to subject the nightgown to her failure.

The cleanest of her dresses is hanging in the wardrobe, front and center like an offering. Floretta would be happier if she could bathe before putting it on, but she doesn’t know how to go about asking for a bath, and she doesn’t want to leave the room so immodestly dressed. She pulls the nightgown off over her head and pulls the dress on the same way, doing up the buttons on the back with quick, practiced fingers. It’s been years since she needed to see in order to get dressed. Father Clemence always said it was inappropriate for him to help her with her bows or buttons, or anything that might show more of her skin than her dresses themselves exposed. The thought of him sends a spike of sorrow through her heart, and she finishes getting dressed with grief slowing her fingers, moving through it like she’s swimming through molasses.

There is a knock at the door as she fastens the final button, and she turns, struck silent by surprise. Seconds tick by, and the knock is repeated. Floretta swallows, mouth gone dry, and finally calls a hesitant “C-come in?”

The door opens, and Deborah is there, looking perplexed. “Did I wake you?” she asks, stepping inside. “No: I see you’re dressed. Miss Cottingsly won’t like that dress, but until we have something newer for you to wear, it’ll have to do. Did you rest well?”

Floretta cannot speak. Her mouth is a bone lost in the desert: her heart is the vulture come to carry it away.

Deborah sees her silence for the terror that it is, and sighs. “This is all too much for you, isn’t it? Poor child. Your uncle has breakfast set out in the parlor downstairs; he’s asking for you to come and join him. I don’t recommend making him wait. He’s not a very patient man, your uncle.”

“I don’t know anything about him,” protests Floretta. “How am I supposed to know what kind of man he is when I don’t know anything? I don’t know what he does, or how he paid for this house, or why he wanted me, or anything!”

Her last word is barely shy of a wail. Deborah nods, slowly.

“I can tell you he doesn’t like it when people fuss or yell or carry on,” she says. “You won’t be doing yourself any favors if you lose your composure. I know you’re only a child. I know you should be focused on childish things. But that isn’t how things happen here, and if you want to do well in your uncle’s household, you’ll need to adapt quickly.”

Floretta composes herself, sniffling as she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Tell me about him,” she says, almost a command.