Chapter 34
THE POISONER
The pain in the back of my skull was like a needle, undoubtedly from falling asleep on the sofa of the flat.
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 a wet 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.
The small note desk was uncovered, papers scattered like a map. I sat in the small chair, the dry wood creaking and settling much like I did. I pulled the cigarette, my nail burning on the dry match before pushing the smoke through my nose, though it didn’t do much to help the stuffiness.
The collection of papers on his desk looked something like a mix of invoices, transcriptions, things of a business nature. All addressed to NEW YORK, NEW YORK. I propped my elbow up and shifted through the papers with my free hand, picking up a small square of paper.
Fifth Avenue—Chimera. Scrawled across the bottom, presumably in Silas’s handwriting.
It was a small, muddied photograph of a tall corner building. It looked like it could be some sort of expensive hotel.
His handwriting scrawled across most of the documents, small notes in the corners, sometimes some mathematics in the margins. His spellings were odd, with an excessive number of vowels or strange variations of the consonants. He wasn’t illiterate, but his writing habits aged him.
I allowed myself a quiet laugh and leaned back in the chair, remembering the sharp pain in my head.
“Something funny?”
I nearly dropped my cigarette, hitting my knee under the desk when I flinched.
Silas leaned on the doorway, head tipped against the frame as he watched.
“Just looking.” I relaxed into the chair again, a bit dizzy from the fright. “You’re under my roof after all.”
“The devil loves holding idle hands.” He stalked over to the desk, glancing at the papers and then to me. “Hopefully it wasn’t my number work making you laugh.”
I shook my head and smirked. “Two hundred.”
“Pardon?” His brow creased, and he leaned over the desk to glance at the papers again for the correction.
“Two hundred years old.”
A small smirk teased as he looked over to me. “I beg again, pardon?”
“When we spoke those years ago, you spoke of a plague.” I shook my head laughing. “I assumed the first Black Death of 1300, not the Great Plague of 1665, since you never specified.”
“What of it?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged, putting out the cigarette on the ashtray. “I just thought you were older.”
“Older?” He laughed. “How old did you assume I was?”
“I don’t know, but your spelling tells me about two hundred. I was a couple hundred off.”
“You have an odd compulsion to be right. I don’t know how this information serves you.” He rolled his eyes.
“Entertainment. That is all.”
“Are you?” He tilted his head at me. “Entertained, that is?”
I shrugged, thinly veiling a laugh.
“Is this how you tell me I’m too young for you?” he joked, sitting on the edge of the desk.
“Practically a boy.” I shook my head, picking up the small square photograph. I pinched it between my fingers and held it up to him. “Is this it? Your Nest?”
He squinted and plucked it from between my fingers, “It looks less impressive on this tiny piece of paper, but yes.”
“This won’t work you know,” I exhaled, nearly a mumble. “Not if you can’t learn to roll over.”
“Roll over?” He raised a brow, tossing the photo gently onto the pile of papers. “I thought that’s what this was.” He gestured around to the abode we resided in.
“I still have a hard time believing that when this is all over, we will be equals,” I began, standing from my seat slowly to prevent vertigo. “The more I think about it, equality is not what we need. It’s equity.”
“Elaborate.” He crossed his arms.
“While we could maybe kill each other almost as easily, there are things you can do that I cannot. Which is why I need to know what is protecting me and my girls from the likes of you.” I stopped in front of him.
“How do I know I won’t be locked in a dull gray room again with nothing but a collar and clean sheets?
” I traced a finger over the edge of the desk and down to his leg, leaning close as if to tell a secret.
“How do I know I won’t be like every other Host promised a good life? ”
He didn’t answer, didn’t lift his eyes to meet mine, nothing.
“Something to think about.” I left him there to let my words marinate.
Just the interaction had me drained, needing to recover from nothing at all.
I could smell food cooking in the kitchen; it was well into lunchtime, though I’m sure some of the dinner prep was starting while the fire was hot.
Even the venture up the stairs was a chore, having to stop at the last flight before reaching the top. As I entered my own room, I knew my day was about to get longer and longer.
Phoebe and Edith were in the living area. Edith was clutching her skirts with white knuckles; Phoebe was stiff-browed with arms crossed. Both of them let go of their tension when I walked in, the two of them immediately standing.
“I didn’t want to bother you today—” Phoebe started.
“Phoebe thinks it’s her night to feed, but I’m pretty sure it’s mine this time,” Edith talked over her.
“No, you missed your feeding night, so you don’t get one. Tough luck when you can’t keep a schedule,” she snapped.
All I could hear was the jaw snaps of hungry dogs. The throbbing in my head made me falter against the sofa, sitting down on the cushions and clenching my eyes shut.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“We can just do one today, one tomorrow?”
“Just do it now.” I took a deep breath. “Both of you. No need to fight.”