“If you were to pick,” Elle continued slowly, “which would you rather spend your time with? Ladies or gentlemen?”
No question. “The first,” I whispered.
“And to be clear, by time I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” I hissed between clenched teeth.
“Who has you wondering this?”
I couldn’t stop thinking about a girl my tutor had brought with her to lessons for the last week. Her home was being renovated, and she neededanother space to study. She was so clever and flushed with excitement at spending time with another girl her age. I was smitten in minutes. But how do you talk to the most interesting girl you’ve ever met when your own week consisted of only resting, eating, reading, and resting again?
This realization had also come from years of glances across church pews at the few girls my small world allowed. The way they spoke, their soft smiles, the prickle at the back of my neck when they leaned in to whisper a secret. I gravitated toward them. Clumsily complimented the ribbons in their hair and listened to their every word.
“I can’t imagine a life with the boys I’ve met. But with some girls, it feels right, even with all we’ve been taught. I notice so much more about them. I’m excited to see them again.” I almost said what our parents or the priest would want;I know it’s wrongorbut of course I want to be a wife and mother. But in this one chance with my big sister, all I wanted was to be honest. “Does that make sense?”
Elle was silent for too long. A twist in my stomach tightened, and I prepared to lie if necessary, no matter the crack it would form in my heart.I see them as close friends. A bitter taste formed on my tongue.
Finally, Elle smiled. “You’re lucky you’re the youngest. What’s she like?”
As I basked in relief, Elle formed a plan. She’d marry Thomas. She promised that while she understood my attraction, she had no leaning toward any gender in particular, so it might as well be men. She swore she’d shield me from marital pressure with her status as a wedded woman. I’d live with her and Thomas, away from our parents’ meddling.
How could the only person I trust so wholly, who accepts me absolutely, be a threat?
It’s too much to explain, so here, lying waterlogged, I only nod.
“I’m Bridget,” the girl says. A name is too precious to have hoped for. I shift to sit up and try to talk, but a jolt pulls her from my view. She disappears somewhere behind the chesterfield.
I can’t lift myself to look. I can barely move enough to rid my earsof water. Elle’s instinct is to separate everything and understand each part individually. She must be just as surprised at a visitor as I. I should thank her for saving us both.
“I told you,” Bridget says behind me, her voice calm. “I found her in the water. Then I collapsed.”
I try to haul myself around to see them both, but my head keeps lolling back instead. There’s a newly stoked fire beside me. The warmth prickles my skin.
Is Elle saying something back? I wish I could concentrate. I need to remember the girl’s name. Bridget. Pretty. Like her. She wanted me to be safe. Is she safe? I stare into the dancing fire and lose the moment to its twisting flames and the churn of ocean in my head.
Protest, footsteps, sharp words that teeter on the edge of my hearing. Then the thud and click of the door. Did Elle kick her out? She saved me. Elle must misunderstand. I need to explain.
Elle stoops beside me, taking my coat off and removing my boots. Her gaze is glued to each task, never finding mine. This works, since the only noises that come from my mouth are painful groans.
Was this girl—Bridget—real? Chamomile was a vivid illusion, a poltergeist, a forerunner. Yet I felt her in our final moments together. Her hands pressed the life out of my throat. I gently touch the skin and suck in a breath at the tenderness that will surely bruise.Thatwas real, even if she wasn’t. Is it so absurd to worry that the girl who saved me might not be flesh and blood either?
Elle sets to her next task: warming me. Her hand sears me when she presses it against my forehead. I grit my teeth. She doesn’t notice. She builds up the fire and towels me down, removing my wet clothes. She sets them to dry and helps me into the thickest clothes we own: a tightly knit sweater twice my size, three pairs of stockings under thick wool pants, and a hat that covers half my face. She’s not done until she’s added another four blankets on top of me. I’m more lump than woman.
“Can you speak?” Elle asks, admiring her work.
I try. Only rasping coughs come out.
“Can you sit tight for a few minutes?”
I nod stiffly through my half-dozen layers. The heat doesn’t help my hazy presence of mind.
Elle closes her eyes, leaning her head back. Her body sags, shoulders to chest to knees. I never noticed how upright she always is.
“Shhh, I’ll be right back.”
She straightens, breathes in, and walks past me. I’m reminded of one year ago, when I lay shivering in a rowboat instead of the lighthouse. Elle tugged us onto the island by herself after hours of rowing. The stars twinkled while she told me she’d go check if the lighthouse was ready. It might take a while. I should bundle up and stay quiet as a mouse.
She returned hours later. She was different. Harsher. Quicker to anger. Scared.
