But Helen’s lurid imaginings were not to be found. It was an ordinary attic, dim and crowded with the history of generations. The air was hot and close, as attics seem to be even in April.
Martha gestured at a grouping of wardrobes, trunks, and hatboxes, covered in dust. “Years of things,” she said, in her usual succinct fashion. She tapped a chewed-on hatbox with her foot. “Got to set more mousetraps.”
“A two-syllable word,” Jane said absently.
Martha looked at her suspiciously. “You look while I sweep. Cook says don’t snoop.”
Jane ignored this and immediately opened the nearest hatbox, the one that had been chewed on. She couldn’t very well find gloves without snooping, could she? But inside was the tattered folds of what might have once been pillowcases, or anything at all, and the remains of a mouse nest. Another hatbox was better equipped, with mothballs and what looked like a fancy pair of men’s breeches, a hundred years out of date. A third hatbox actually held a hat, but no gloves.
“Do you think Grace’s clothing is really still here?” said Jane. “Maybe her family took it.” No particular reason why they would—Jane was probing.
“She just had a da,” said Martha, who was attacking great swathes of cobwebs with her broom. “No need for her things.”
“Poor man,” Jane said, thinking of her mother’s grief over Charlie. “Was he from town?”
“One town up,” said Martha. “They had a shop. Don’t think he has it no more.” Her prods at the spiders dislodged a great pile of dust from the rafters, sending Martha into a coughing fit as it settled to the floor.
Jane had her eye on the large wardrobe against the far wall, and she used the distraction to make a beeline for it, in case Martha would have stopped her. The wardrobe was dark walnut, old and burled. A heavy, old-fashioned piece, massive against the plaster wall. The brass key hung loosely in the lock, and Jane turned it with a click and opened the door.
Inside were rows and rows of gowns. Jane gasped softly at the sight.
They tended toward the cool colors—silvers, blues, and greens, with some gold thrown in for good measure. Jane pulled the nearest one out and found it to be a sapphire blue silk in a corseted style from a hundred years ago. The next one was a cream muslin with green flowers and an empire waist—that style was probably a hundred and fifty years old, or more. Dress after dress, myriad different periods. But the dresses appeared to all be new, or at least stored so immaculately that no fading or yellowing had occurred, and not a single moth or insect had invaded them.
She studied the beautiful dresses, puzzling over them. The obvious answer was that they really were a hundred and two hundred years old—dresses collected from generation after generation of the ladies of the household. Their condition amazed her, but perhaps some fey technology she had never heard of kept the wardrobe sealed and insect-free.
If they did all belong to the former Mrs. Rochart, then she had had odd tastes. Beautiful, but odd. Jane wished Helen were here to see the dresses and give her opinion on their age. She could probably deduce other clues that Jane could not; find the tiny details that hinted at the wearer’s status, or know what kind of outing the dress was for.
Jane’s fingers lingered on the dress she was studying. It was beautiful—the color of a golden flame. She pulled it all the way out. It was one of the most modern ones—pre-war styling, shapeless with layers of golden chiffon floating from the shoulders and dropped waist. Glass beading trimmed the handkerchief hem. It must have been expensive. She held it up to herself, smoothing the gauzy fabric against her plain day dress, wondering if it would fit.
The wardrobe doors had rows of drawers along the inside. Still holding the golden dress, Jane opened them one by one and found plenty of gloves, along with gilded fans, satin ribbons, paste jewels, square shoe buckles. She found a beautiful cream-colored pair of gloves in poor condition that would work perfectly for Dorie. The left glove was marred by a dark red wine stain that splashed up the forearm like blood. Jane held it up to the golden dress, imagining how it would all fit together, the gown, the gloves, the night.…
Martha whistled and Jane looked up, guiltily dropping the folds of the golden dress. The maid leaned on her broom, studying the ball gown with an oddly wistful expression, and Jane suddenly remembered that despite Martha’s sternness and angularity, she was younger than Jane herself. “I saw her once,” Martha said. “I was eight, and she came to town. I thought she was so fair. Wore deep blue silk like a queen. Saw her just once—no more.”
“And then she was gone,” breathed Jane, recalling the horror that Edward had described to her. Pregnant with Dorie—killed and taken over by the fey.
Martha shook her head, seeming to recall herself to her purpose. “You got your gloves,” she said. “I think you’re done here.”
“I need some linen I can cut into child-sized gloves,” said Jane.
“That box, if the rats ain’t et it.” Martha stared down at Jane with folded arms till Jane and her booty were on the way out of the attic.
Dorie was still under the bed when Jane got back. Jane’s heart leapt to her throat in the first instant of seeing those legs stick out from under the bed, for all the world like a rag doll, like something dead. What if the iron was poison after all?
Heart thumping, Jane kneeled down and lifted the bed skirt, looked under the bed.
The girl’s eyes were open. Dorie was staring blankly at the underside of the bed, tar-smeared hands flat on the floor.
“Dorie?” said Jane. “Are you all right?” Carefully she pulled the little girl out from under the bed, out into the room. “Do you want to eat lunch?”
A hint of a shrug.
“You must be hungry,” Jane said. She levered Dorie to a sitting position, surprised that the girl offered no resistance. “Let’s check your arms and eat our lunch.” With her rag she made sure that the flecks of iron covered every bit of Dorie’s fingers and up her arms. Then she wiggled Dorie’s fingers into the long cream gloves from the attic, smoothing the bloodred stain of the left one up and along the arm. Dorie sat passively and watched.
Jane brought the tray in from the hall. In accordance with her request yesterday, it was mostly simple finger foods—the first spring peas in their shells, cut in half. A bun, that Jane tore into bite-sized pieces. A small bowl of applesauce—Jane cringed.
She pushed the tray toward Dorie. “Let’s eat the bread and peas,” she said gently.
Dorie sighed, slumped. One gloved hand came out and grabbed a piece of the roll, ate it. Then the next bite. Then the next. Not looking at Jane, she ate everything on her plate, then looked at the applesauce.
A waver—a flicker of blue. The light in Dorie’s eyes flickered up in response … and then died away.
Sighing, Dorie held out her hand, and Jane placed the spoon in it. Spoonful after difficult spoonful Dorie went through the applesauce until it was all gone.
Jane looked down at the silent girl in astonishment.
This was victory, sure enough.
So why didn’t it feel like it?
Jane felt unsettled by her odd triumph with Dorie. Uneasy from her encounter with Mr. Rochart. The nightmares came again—sometimes she was Jane, sometimes she was her brother, stiff on the battlefield. They were coming every night now, coalescing on a scene she wrenched away from, knew she didn’t want to see. But when she pulled away from the vision of the battlefield, the terror came sliding in through her cheek, poured itself through her like water, until she woke up panting.