Page 19 of The Narrow

I think of water stains on floorboards, obscured ink on rippled pages, phantom rain against the windows. “I was wondering about my luggage?” I ask, my voice lifting up at the end in that way my father hates. It makes me sound like a teenage girl, he’d say, smirking.

“Oh dear. Is it still not in your rooms? I did confirm it was picked up. I’ll have to chase it up myself. You’re in uniform, so I assume you have enough clothes for the day, at least?”

“I borrowed some of Aubrey’s things,” I say.

Her face freezes, and an uneasy expression flickers over it before she clears her throat. “I see. Well, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. It’s not as if she needs the uniforms, anyway.”

“You’re sure she’s not coming back?” I ask. “Was the accident that bad?”

She fiddles with her reading glasses. “She’s recovering well. But after a scare like that, you can imagine that she wants to be with her family—and they want her close by as well.”

I can imagine it, sure. Envy it a little. But home has never been my refuge.

“If you have the time, perhaps I can take you to meet Delphine now,” Mrs.Clarke says. “And I can clear out Aubrey’s things while I’m there.”

Mrs.Clarke explains the procedures for visiting Delphine as we walk. It’s pretty much the same as the entrance to Abigail House, except that you have to change into specially provided scrubs and put your hair up in a plastic shower cap, and first you have to towel yourself down completely, even if you’re totally dry already.

“Make sure you get the soles of your feet,” Mrs.Clarke reminds me.

The scrubs are, perhaps predictably, Atwood maroon. They turn us shapeless and blocky, and the booties we have to wear make our steps unbearably loud, rasping and crinkling as we walk.

The door at the top of the stairs stays shut the whole time we’re changing. Mrs.Clarke knocks twice before entering the code and pushing open the door.

The first thing I notice isn’t the expensive furniture or the lush, soft rug beneath my feet. It’s the air. The air inside Abigail House is dry, but upstairs it’s stripped of any hint of moisture. The faint whirring I took for air conditioning is, I realize, acombination of AC and built-in dehumidifiers and air purifiers, bulky appliances with complex digital displays.

Delphine is at a desk in the main room, her back to us as she types on a laptop.

“Delphine, dear. Can we say hello?” Mrs.Clarke calls.

Delphine keeps writing for several seconds without responding. Then she pushes her laptop back an inch, stands, and walks out to us. She’s wearing an Atwood uniform, which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me. She’s a student, after all. But I didn’t expect the dress code to apply, given that she never leaves her rooms.

She folds her hands behind her. Her hair is in a single braid, tied with a maroon ribbon to match her jacket. She stands with one ankle crossed behind the other, her head tilted slightly—everything about her clothes and her stance and her appearance makes her seem much younger than she actually is. But I can see the sharp and canny edge to her gaze.

“Hello,” Delphine says shyly, looking up at me through her lashes. “I’m Delphine.”

She’s pretending, and the secret between us feels like sugar dissolving on my tongue, sweet and insubstantial. I’m not supposed to lie to Delphine, but apparently Mrs.Clarke is fair game. “My name’s Eden. Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.

“We try to avoid physical contact unless it’s strictly necessary,” Mrs.Clarke says. I drop my hand. “Better safe than sorry.”

“When infant monkeys are deprived of touch, they become completely psychotic,” Delphine says mildly. “They don’t even do those experiments anymore. Too unethical.”

Mrs.Clarke doesn’t seem to know how to respond. “Well,” she says, putting her hands together. “Why don’t I let the two of you get to know each other a bit? I’ll go gather up Aubrey’s things. And I’ll make sure to send over a couple of spare uniforms in your size and whatever else I can scrounge up, until we find your luggage.”

She heads downstairs, leaving us alone. Delphine’s stance changes subtly as soon as she’s gone. Her shoulders relax, her gaze grows more direct.

“So,” I say awkwardly. “How’s the first day of classes going?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Delphine says. Her voice still has a softness, like morning fog, but with Mrs.Clarke gone, it takes on a quality that makes you wonder what might be hiding in the mist.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Small talk. I told you, we don’t have to be friends.”

“Small talk isn’t for friends, it’s for everyone else,” I say. “Besides, I like small talk. It’s an easy way to get people talking about themselves. And when people are answering questions, they’re not asking them.”

“You don’t like answering questions?” she asks. She leans back against the doorframe, her fingertips hooked around the edges of the trim.

“I don’t like lying,” I say. “Answering questions means I have to do more of it.” I told her I would tell her the truth, and now I am. It’s a heady feeling. I feel almost drunk.

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