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With only the small globe of light from the gas lamp to guide me beyond the firelight, I fumbled around and busied myself with unpacking. I tested the drawers of the bureau, needing only one for my stockings and underthings, then slid back the heavy panel door of the closet to find a spacious affair with room enough for a king’s wardrobe. My meager items—a day dress, three skirts, a pullover, and four blouses—looked silly and sad hanging on the rack inside. My clothes handled, I drew out a night slip and explored the bathroom. Luckily, a larger candelabra stood proudly on the vanity top with brand-new white tapers ready for use. I lit all eight and took in my new surroundings. Similar to the bedroom, the light didn’t touch the ceiling, and shadows thick as smog filled the space above my head, making it seem I was staring into a starless night sky. Discomfiture crawled along the back of my neck like a centipede, its many legs tickling every nerve. I shone the candlelight around, enough to be assured the room was as opulent as my bedroom appointments: marble floors, white wood panels, and elegant gas sconces. I tried the knob of the nearest lamp to test the gas, hopeful the lines were still connected, but there was no telltale hiss.
No electric lights, no gas lights. I had a distinct feeling I’d been sucked back in time. I shook a little to dislodge the idea and tested the bath taps. They were not only working, the hot water was nearly instant—a true luxury. While the bath filled, I admired the polished chestnut vanity, faceted mirror, and an array of glass bottles glinting in the candlelight. I’d been given free use of these items but decided to be as simple as possible. Regardless of what Ms. Dillard had said, these things weren’t mine. A small cake of new rose soap was sitting in a dainty porcelain tray by the tub. That would be enough. I picked it up to remove the delicate paper cover to find that the name “Hughes” was printed on the front, surrounded by florets of pink blossoms and the angelic face of a golden-haired child. This soap had come from the professor’s company. I raised it to my nose, and it was like holding a fresh summer rose in my hand.
The hot bath temperature and the soft scent of the soap relaxed some of the tension in my bones. I submerged myself to the neck, only my head and the white caps of my knees above the surface. If I hadn’t come to Willowfield, I’d be in my little bed in the attic room of the shop. It had been fitted with electric lights at the turn of the century, and my table side lamp would be on, its faded blue shade and scraggly tassels illuminated. I’d be reading whatever I’d managed to get my hands on. I compared the scenario in my head to my current one but couldn’t determine which was better.
There was a sound in the murkiest part of the room where the pink rococo wallpaper receded into a smoky gray before becoming a waxy, impenetrable dark. Why was the darkness so profound here? Like sable paint on a dirty canvas. My head began to empty as I stared up into the murk, a hollowness spreading from behind my eyes, like my soul was seeping out of myself and into the water, leaving only a void.
The noise occurred again, a long scraping like a heavy door on unbalanced hinges moving across the floor. I imagined an entry I’d missed in the corner, someone opening it, slipping in to watch me from the shadows.
I sat up, heart pounding, sloshing a bit of water onto the floor, willing my eyes to translate the gloom. My sudden movements made me light-headed, my surroundings spinning slightly. The water was too hot, and the fresh rush of adrenaline tipped me into vertigo. I clung to the side of the tub, fighting the sensation of being upside down while simultaneously trying to keep my eyes focused in case someone advanced. I had no way of defending myself against an intruder. I was naked, the only things in reach a slippery bar of soap and a white cotton towel.
And the candelabra.
Fear overriding my modesty, I surged out of the water and grabbed the heavy brass candle holder, thrusting it forward. Several of the flames extinguished in the chaotic motion. If someone was revealed sneaking in the shadows, I could always use the thing as a weapon. I had no qualms about bludgeoning a person to death if my life was in danger. The light touched enough to prove there was no door, merely an ornate bench and a dainty white cabinet where more towels were folded.
I was trembling, trying to catch my breath, still dizzy, but there was no threat to me but my own imagination. My ridiculous reaction exasperated me. I climbed carefully out of the tub, still steaming, and wrapped in the soft towel, taking deep breaths to dispel my vapors. I gingerly approached the vanity, where I’d left my night slip. I rested on the tufted stool to unpin my hair and wait for the queerness to pass. My ears buzzed. Maybe I’d caught something. I rejected the idea as though I had the power to turn away sickness and examined myself in the mirror. I was paler than usual, the typical rosy hue of my lips ashy and purple. My hair, the color of old copper wire, rested on the tops of my shoulders, long and out of fashion. I touched the damp, curling tips with my fingers. I’d been tempted to cut it short and sport the sharp bob that was all the rage these days, but I was too self-conscious. It was a hairstyle for carefree youth, which I wasn’t.
I wondered if I’d ever been.
I lingered in the bathroom to inspect the bottles littering the vanity, well-dusted and sparkling in the flickering light, many with the name “Hughes” etched into them: expensive perfumes, lotions, and skin-softening elixirs meant to keep the lines of age away. There were also gold lipstick tubes, half a dozen, and a silver-handled powder brush resting by a tin container, images of gold lavender blooms embossed on the screw-top lid.
This was not a Hughes brand, but the same type of lavender powder my mother had used.
The wooziness returned at the thought of my mother, who had precise rules regarding what I was allowed to touch on her vanity, which had been nothing.
But I remembered her now and again, letting me sit in silence nearby while she applied her makeup for a party. This was the only maternal memory I had of a woman who hadn’t had the temperament to raise me. She would tell me what she was using, where it had come from, and how much it cost. The scent of the powder lingered on my skin even after my mother left for her social events. I’d breathe it in and dream she loved me. It had been my favorite scent until the morning I’d gotten too curious and opened the tin without permission, dropping it and powdering the vanity and expensive rug in thin white dust.
The hairs on my arms rose, and I pulled my fingers away. But my mother was gone. Long gone.
I opened the lid.
The familiar smell of crushed lavender buds and talcum rose first, followed by something sour, old. The more pungent, rancid notes clung stubbornly, and I brought my hand to my nose. There was something gray sticking from the otherwise undisturbed pressed top of the powder and I took hold of it, expecting to discover a small powder brush, but as I pulled, the white surface of the makeup bulged, discolored, and the body of a long-dead mouse, mummified in talc, rose from its chalky grave.
Yelping, I tossed the little corpse away. It hit the wall with a soft thud, falling to the floor and leaving a white residue in its trail. Disgusted and frightened, I reached frantically for the candelabra, not paying enough attention to the direction of my grasp. My hand struck one of the ornate arms, sending a jolt of pain through my already aching wrist and knocking the thing to the floor. The remainder of the candles extinguished, leaving me in pitch black. In the absolute quiet of the darkness that settled over me, I heard a laugh, trembling, soft, and feminine, from the other side of the bathroom door. I held my breath, listening. Movement, a soft rustling of steps on carpets.
Someone was in my room.
My pulsing fear and the fresh pain in my hand metamorphosed into anger. With furious intention, I rushed out of the bathroom and directly into a wall of stifling heat. The fire roared angrily in the grate, too big and too bright. The air was stale and heavy. My skin prickled, and while frantically casting my eyes around for the prowler, I hurried to the window, attempting to unlatch it and relieve the worst of the heat, but my fingers fumbled. I was panicking. I needed to calm down, take several breaths, and let my mind rest, but I might as well have asked my body to fly.
The hinges of my bedroom door creaked, and I twisted around in time to see it click shut. The acrid punch of new outrage helped clear my mind. Someone had been in my room, invading my privacy. I could cower here, giving them reason to think I was too meek to protest, or I could face them now and make sure it never happened again. I ran to the door, threw it open, and lunged out into the bitter-cold hallway.
Chapter 5
I emerged, having no idea what to do if someone was waiting for me, but there was only a soft pad of retreating footsteps. In the chill of the corridor, I trembled, more from the remnants of my panic than the cold. Even if this was a prank to haze me as a new staff member, I wouldn’t abide being the butt of anyone’s jokes. My mind made up, I raced through the unlit hall in pursuit, my heart pounding in my ears. I’d already made several turns before I thought about how ludicrous this was. I couldn’t even hear the footsteps anymore. Slowing, I allowed myself to reason away my experiences. It had been a long day. The mouse had given me a shock. I wasn’t feeling well. I should go back, go to sleep, and in the morning everything would be more sensible. But as I turned on my heel, a murmuring rose from a mere room away. No light shone from the seams of the doorframe. Someone was talking to themselves in the dark.
In a few rabid bounds, I’d barged in, finding a sizable oval room filled to the brim with furniture and assortments of rectangle-shaped pieces, all covered in dust cloths. Nothing moved or made a sound. On the opposite wall was another door open to the milky illumination of moonlight. I hurried past lumpish, blanketed figures, sure that someone or something would soon jump out and assault me, but I made it safely and emerged into a new wing. The apprehension building with every turn and twist of this chase was working me into a nervous state, and my belly knotted, nauseating me. This property was a maze. I was the mouse. My thoughts filled with the corpse of the mummified creature I’d discovered in the talc, and I recoiled from my own mind.
Millicent.
My name was spoken like a lover’s sigh, and I startled, unable to determine the direction it had come from. In a fit of savage apprehension, I looked up, expecting to find a figure clinging to the ceiling like a spider, their neck twisting round to catch me in an ember glare before dropping onto me from above.
There were only the decaying cornices.
My fear and anger were fading into acute anxiety. I’d let my outrage and paranoia get the better of my common sense. I had no evidence of foul intentions. The noises were an old foundation making its usual sounds, the firewood collapsing and shifting in the grate. The poor mouse had unwittingly burrowed into the powder at the factory and been sealed inside. And the bedroom door, well, I wasn’t positive it hadn’t already been shut. I’d been in a panic.
The whispers.
That I could explain away as a mingling of my tired mind, uncanny circumstances, and the night. I’d arrived here expecting something strange and unusual, and my fancy fulfilled those expectations. A similar thing had happened before, when my disturbing thoughts got carried away, rattling and confusing me.
