Chapter 12 #4
“That must have been horrific.” Kate steeples her fingers, studying me with her fathomless eyes.
“I’ve heard of this phenomenon. What you’ve described.
I used to read my father’s medical journals.
There’s something called catalepsy, in which the subject becomes paralyzed and senseless.
The heartbeat becomes so faint and shallow it can’t be heard or the pulse felt.
Breathing so faint it can hardly be detected.
The person could easily be mistaken for dead.
It’s said that Saint Teresa of ávila suffered from this condition when she experienced her ecstasies. ”
“And you think this might be what I have? This catalepsy?”
“I’m not certain. But it’s a possibility.”
I ponder her words. How strange to think that my body came so close to death that I resembled a corpse—that no attending doctor, nor the coroner, had detected the life still coursing through my veins.
I think of my desperate prayers on the morning of my execution.
Did God grant me a reprieve for a reason?
Have I been called to a higher purpose, like Saint Teresa?
That last part seems preposterous. As good as I’ve always tried to be, I’m hardly a saint.
After I finish my tea, Kate takes my cup, turns it over on the saucer, then turns it right side up again. She studies the leaves clinging to the sides of the cup, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “There’s a serpent in your cup.”
“What does it mean?”
“Luck. Or a betrayal.”
“That doesn’t sound promising,” I say.
“Could be that you’re the betrayer.” That same wicked smile again, sending a lash of longing through me. “There’s also a coffin.”
“No surprises there. My whole life it’s been one coffin after another.” I shudder. I don’t like this game. “Is there anything hopeful at all?”
“A fox. Next to an angel. Which is a symbol for good news. And a new lover in the near future, as it’s along the bottom of the cup.” She smiles at me. “It’s not a bad fortune, Lillian. Don’t look so glum.”
“I was hoping for better.” A cramp runs through my calf muscle, making me wince.
“You’re in pain, aren’t you?” Kate puts my teacup down and scoots her chair closer to mine. “Here, give me your leg.”
“What?”
She sighs. “I should rub it, before your bath. To loosen the muscles.”
I raise my skirts above my knee and extend my leg, a frisson of unsettling excitement running through my belly as she takes my foot in her hand to unlace my boot.
I’ve never felt these kinds of feelings.
Not for anyone else. And I think somehow, Kate knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
When she reaches up my thigh and unties the garter holding my stocking in place, my heart gallops.
Her hands are warm, but goose bumps rise all the same as she eases the fabric down my leg and off my foot.
Though she massaged my injury with the camphor and menthol salve during my recovery, this feels different.
Her eyes meet mine for a moment, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
She runs her open palms from my knee to my calf, and begins to rub, slowly and deeply.
I can’t help the sigh that escapes my lips.
Can’t help the want that throbs at my core.
“You have beautiful legs,” Kate says, and I nearly come undone. “Firm, strong calves. Slender ankles.”
“D-dancing,” I stammer, utterly flummoxed by the way she’s looking at me. Touching me. “I took dancing lessons, as a girl.”
“Of course. As most gently bred girls do. How on earth were you getting by on your own?” Kate asks. “Surviving in the marsh?”
“I fished. Foraged.”
“And before you came to the marsh?” That same calculating look. She bends my knee, her fingers working the arch of my foot now, her thumbs strong and sure.
“After I escaped the mausoleum, I went to my family’s house. Took some food. Gathered some of my jewelry, too. I tried to pawn it, but the brokers thought it was stolen, or they only offered me pennies for its worth.”
“I see.”
“I learned to pick pockets, on the streets. I stole from the rich. On the Battery Promenade. And I’d wait outside the slave markets and steal from those awaiting the auctions. My father was an abolitionist. He hated those men. They hated him, just as much.”
Another smile quirks at the corners of Kate’s mouth. Her hands run back up my leg, kneading the puckered skin around the healed suture marks. “So, you’re a thief.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. But I’m no murderer, Kate, I promise you that.”
Her hands go still, warm and soft on my skin. “How did it feel, when you stole from those rich men?”
I interrogate myself as she studies me. How did it feel?
I remember the rush of excitement when I dipped my fingers into Patrick Calhoun’s pocket and claimed his coins.
I felt guilty at first, when I stole from the drunk man, but stealing from the rich was exhilarating.
Perhaps a better person would feel ashamed.
But these men sit in their great houses, unbothered by the fact that they made their riches by exploiting the enslaved, the fingerprints of their human chattel in every brick that built their lofty kingdoms. They shunned my family in society and wanted my father dead.
No. I don’t feel guilty. Or ashamed. I only feel justified.
I raise my eyes to Kate’s. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. “It felt good. Really good.”
She glides her hands up my leg, above the hem of my drawers, her fingers brushing the soft skin of my inner thigh, briefly, before returning to my calf. My belly tightens, wondering if she’ll dare to touch me in a more intimate way. Hoping. But she doesn’t. She lowers my foot onto the floor.
“And my massage? How did that feel?”
“Even better,” I say, bashful.
“Good.” She smiles, slowly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”