Dollhouse (23 page)

Philomena promptly climbed onto Missouri’s lap and fell asleep. Missouri dozed off soon afterwards.

My eyes were heavy—but I couldn’t allow myself to sleep. I was starting to realize the tea had a cumulative effect. As well as the bouts of heart palpitations, it made you drowsy and directionless.

Aisha rose and headed for the library. I watched from my peripheral vision, until I saw her slide out a book. I made my way over, taking care not to look as if I was walking up to Aisha. Jessamine thought we were enemies, and it was in our best interests to have her keep thinking this.

Aisha left a cracked and leather-bound book hanging out on a shelf. I slid the book free, and opened it. The pages were adorned with pictures of Greek Gods— heroic and terrible adventures of Poseidon and Zeus and Hera—and a raft of impossible Gods. I found Aeolus commanding the wind like a conductor, a storm swirling about his head. I flipped ahead in the book. I found the snake that looked like the one Prudence had drawn, except this one was a half-human woman kneeling before Poseidon—with long fiery hair and reptilian tail. Poseidon was taking away her eyes. Underneath, in darkened silver letters, the title, Granddaughter of Poseidon: Lamia.

This image of a snake was the one Prudence had chosen to depict the horror of her imprisonment.
But why
? Why a snake?

There were paragraphs on the next page about Lamia. According to this version of events, Lamia had an affair with Zeus, bearing him children. Zeus’s wife—Hera—found out, she killed Lamia’s children in a rage. In inconsolable grief and hatred, Lamia roamed the lands abducting and devouring children. In Jewish tradition, it said, she was also known as Lilith.

Lilith.
Lily. The Lily fair.

I clapped the book shut—not wanting to read more. Jagged thoughts pierced my mind—nothing of them making sense, none of them forming a full picture.

The shaking came again—and with it—the smell of wetness and plant matter.

I was here
.

Underground
.

I dragged myself out of sleep. Sophronia stared down at me, wraithlike in the dark light. Silently—she pointed towards Missouri’s bed.

Tossing off my blankets, I padded over to Missouri. Her breathing was shallow, ragged—her face burning like a radiator.

We needed to get her out of here—at least out to where the air quality was better.

Sophronia woke Aisha next. Aisha moved heavily out of sleep, rising to a half-sitting position.

I knew none of us were strong enough to carry her—and trying to do it together would be awkward.

“We could try the baby’s pram from the ballroom?” I suggested to Sophronia. “And get her out of here.”

Sophronia nodded and stepped towards the door. Raggedy Ann rose in her bed. Sophronia stared in alarm over at Jessamine.

“No one may leave the bed chamber at night.” Jessamine still rested supine in her bed, arms crossed over her chest.

“Missouri’s ill,” I told her. “Very, very ill.”

Jessamine left her bed and went to inspect Missouri. “She doesn’t look very much different.”

“She’s hot,” I told her. “And she’s not breathing right.”

“You are to return to your beds. Missouri will be better by morning. I’ll have Raggedy fetch a cold cloth for her head.”

The doll ambled heavily out of the room and Clown took up position by the exit.

“Jessamine, please,” I pressed. “She needs a doctor.”

“There are no doctors here. We’ll just have to make do.”

Aisha shook her dark locks of hair. “We can't just make do when someone's that ill.”

“I don’t like the insistence of you girls at this hour. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

Raggedy handed a dripping wet cloth to Jessamine. Jessamine laid it across Missouri’s face. Missouri spluttered but didn’t wake.

Sophronia hesitantly returned to her bed, drawing the covers up.

I tried to think what I could tell Jessamine that would appeal to her better nature—or at least to the side that wasn’t so cruel. But my head felt thick, clouded. I climbed back into the bed—guilty as sleep took me again.

I woke inside a dream of a screaming owl.

Last night seemed an eternity away, and I wondered how long I’d slept. Missouri’s breaths dragged through her chest.

Sophronia and Philomena stirred—Philly staring at Missouri with shock on her small face.

“Up,” came Jessamine's voice. “We have lots of games for today.”

Aisha dragged her head off her pillow.

Philly shook her head. “I can’t play. Missy’s sick.”

Jessamine’s smooth brow furrowed. “She just needs some more rest.”

“She needs a doctor,” I said evenly “Tell Henry.”

She waved me away with a slim hand. “He’s gone abroad. On a world trip. He can’t be contacted now.”

Barreling past Jessamine, I raced out to my desk and tore off a piece of paper.

Henry Fiveash
, I wrote,
Missouri is very sick. You must send a doctor down here!

I shoved the note in the dumb waiter and pulled the ropes to take the waiter to the top.

Jessamine stood behind me in the kitchen.

“She’s sick,” I yelled at her. “She could die if she doesn’t get help. And Philly will hate you and no one will play with you!”

She shook with anger.

“It’s poor manners to allow a member of your household suffer like this,” I told her in a lower tone, grasping for words she’d understand.

The doll and bear left the table and moved towards me.

“You are perfectly beastly, Calliope. Go and tend Missy.”

It was the first time I’d ever heard her refer to Missouri as Missy. She always insisted upon proper names. I poured a cup of water from the sink with trembling hands and left quickly.

In the bed chamber, Missouri sat slumped against the headboard. I gave her water, holding the cup while she sipped.

Sophronia, Aisha and Philomena eyed me with terrified expressions.

“Jessamine has instructed us to care for Missouri. Philly, if you'll get the pram, we’ll take her to the ballroom.”

Philomena was off and running before I finished my words.

We wheeled Missouri down to the ballroom daybed. She whispered that her chest hurt. I thought of a time I’d had a chest infection and my mother had raised the head of my bed—something about letting the gunk run out. But I didn’t know how to go about raising the daybed—and there was only a single cushion to prop Missouri up on. And I didn't want to use any of the musty-smelling stuff from the bed chamber.

Aisha had the idea of using books, and we lifted one end of the daybed while Philomena inserted the books underneath. Gently I asked Missouri to try and sit up a little. She winced as she pulled herself to a half-sitting position.

Sophronia got the fire started.

Behind us, the clock hands spun around from two in the morning to seven.

Jessamine brought Philomena out to the ballroom. Philomena sat for a while by Missouri’s side—then crept away to play with toys.

Falling back into sleep, Missouri’s breaths started to come a little easier—although still rough and hoarse.

Jessamine observed us from her chair in a corner of the room. She stared at Philomena—then turned away with an expression that seemed both of doubt and distaste. She then looked around again at all of us as though seeing us for the first time. Her hands grew agitated, clasping and unclasping.

Sophronia pointed at herself, making small circles on each of her cheeks.

Of course—our faces were practically free of the red paint. We hadn't bothered when all we'd been thinking of was Missouri. The sight of us
bare-faced
seemed to disturb Jessamine.

Taking Philomena by the hand, I left the room—following after Sophronia. We washed our faces in the freezing water—and carefully reapplied the greasy makeup. As I brushed Philomena's hair into a high ponytail, she pressed her tiny body against mine, burying her face in my stomach.

We stepped straight down to the kitchen. Jessamine hadn’t specifically told us we couldn’t have breakfast. We heated up some tinned spam and spaghetti. Aisha and I brought Ethan breakfast.

He gripped the bars of the cell. “What happened? I heard Cassie yelling her head off at Jessamine.”

“Missouri’s really sick. She needs a doctor—I'm scared for her,” Aisha told him.

He nodded in reply. “They'd rather all of us die than bring a doc down here.”

Aisha stared at him intently. “You're not good either. Your lungs sound awful. You're getting asthma attacks, aren't you?”

“Yeah. Haven't had those since I was eleven. But I'll beat it down.” He touched his forehead to the bars. “Did you find out anything—about those drawings or Prudence?”

“Kind of,” Aisha told him “The snake is from Greek mythology. She's half snake, half woman. And her name is Lamia. The legend tells she...  she abducts and eats children.”

Ethan studied her face.

“Lamia is also called Lilith,” I said. “In Jewish lore. I think we know now who the Lily of the poem refers to.”

He left the bars, going to sit in the center of the cell.

I didn’t know if he’d hoped for more, or like me—now had dark thoughts worming their way into his mind.

* * * *

Jessamine sat still in her chair. She had the faraway expression of someone deep in thought.

Sophronia, Aisha and I took books from the library and read quietly.

Philomena tiptoed silently to my side. Perhaps my caring for Missouri had warmed her to me. She produced a tattered book from behind her back. The faded cover bore the illustration of a child walking the mountains. And in elaborate font, the title,
Heidi
.

I drew Philomena onto my lap, where she ducked her head onto my shoulder. The poor little kid. Missouri had been her only mother figure since she’d been in this horrible place, and now she’d lost her too.

“Is my Missy going to get better?”

“I don’t know,” I replied pensively.

I immediately felt bad. You were supposed to stay positive with small children. Missouri certainly tried to shield the others from the worst of their imprisonment, especially Philomena. I didn’t have much practice with kids.

“Yes, of course she will,” I asserted. “Missouri is made of strong stuff.”

Sophronia cast dark looks in my direction from time to time. She was impossible to figure out.

After an hour, Philomena slipped from my lap. She gathered up her headless bear from her pinafore pocket, and sang softly to it.

Jessamine read a book—seemingly absorbed in it.

Stretching, I stepped over to Missouri. Her forehead still burned.

 I lifted a cup of water to her, and she drank a little. “Do you want something to eat? I’ll fetch something from the kitchen.”

“Not hungry. But the food... is running out.”

“We just have to wait for Henry to bring more.”

“He's not bringing more. Something is different.”

I hung my head.

Her blue eyes took on a glazed quality. “I'm sorry...  about how I was the other day. None of this is your fault.”

“If I could, I'd go back in time. Change things. Change everything.”

“You can't...."

“I just wish—”

“All our wishes are gone.” Her tone dried, like clay under the hot sun.

Her eyelids drifted shut. “Often,” she said softly, “I've wondered how all this will end. And sometimes...  I've wondered if we should dose ourselves on so much tea, we'll just keep on sleeping...  and never wake.”

Jessamine rose from her chair. I thought she was going to reprimand me for speaking to Missouri, but she kept walking—her face drawn.

Clown and Raggedy came to stand sentinel at the entrance to the hall. I guessed Jessamine had retired to the bed chamber.

Missouri fell into a heavy sleep.

Sophronia seated herself at her desk and began to draw. I knew sketching was one of her least favorite activities—unusual she’d choose to do that on her own. Philomena looked over with interest, skipping over to sit at her desk too. She called me over to draw her something.

I drew Philomena a beach, with children in the water playing with a beach ball. She leant over and drew starfish all over the beach and up in the sky. She hadn’t seen much of the world before she was taken away from it. You could tell her anything existed out there and she’d believe it—even that the skies filled with starfish sometimes. The thought was sobering.

She leaned her head down on her desk, smiling up at me. Her honey-colored eyes fluttered and she suddenly looked tired. She went wandering—curling up on the floor beside Missouri. A few times, I'd seen small children seek odd places when they napped. They were like cats, seeking a spot to sleep that often made little sense to an observer.

As I stared into nothingness, my pencil moved aimlessly in black lines across the page. A moment passed before I realized I’d written my own name.
CASSANDRA
.

I screwed the page up and threw it in the bin.

Whoever I used to be was gone.

Sophronia caught my attention and indicated I look at her page.

Who do you serve?
she’d written.

I frowned at the careful lettering—searching her face for a clue to what the words meant, but her expression remained resolute.

“I serve no one,” I whispered.

She wrote again on her page—her pencil moving quickly. She wrote, c
an I trust you
?

I stole a glance towards Clown and Raggedy. If I kept talking to Sophronia, they’d surely notice and come and stop me. I decided to write any further replies to Sophronia. It was much safer.

Me: Yes. But can I trust YOU?

Sophronia:
Perhaps.

Me: Tell me who you are.

Sophronia:
I am the eyes and ears and shadows.

Me: Then you must know many things about this place.