Page 9 of The Narrow

“I don’t know,” she said. It was all there was to say. We picked up our pace, as if it would matter at all.

Back at the dorms, we climbed through the window into the back hall we had used to sneak out.

Delphine was there.

She stood in the center of the hall, still in her pajamas. She was soaked through. There was mud on her feet and bits of rotting leaves in her hair, and her top had torn at the neckline. She stood there, shivering, staring at us without a hint of comprehension in her eyes.

I almost screamed. I clamped down on the sound and rushed forward instead, even as Veronica staggered back in shock. Delphine’s skin was cold, but she was alive. Alive and unharmed, as far as I could tell—not a bruise or a scratch on her.

We should have called for help then, of course. But we were thinking of how much trouble we would be in. They would send us home. We would lose Atwood. We would lose each other.

And Delphine was fine.

So we stayed quiet. Together, we led her back to the room. With fumbling fingers, I undid the buttons of her pajamas and slipped the sodden shirt off her shoulders. When I pulled down her pants and underwear, she stepped out of them; when Veronica handed me dry clothes, she moved with rote obedience to let me dress her.

We plucked the bits of detritus from her hair and walked her to her bed, and she never made a sound or put up any resistance. I pulled the blankets up under her chin.

“There,” I whispered. “Everything’s okay now.” I wasn’t sure which of the three of us I was trying to convince.

Veronica went back to her room. I could tell she wanted me to come with her, but instead I remained in my bed. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I lay there staring at her back, and the gentle rise and fall of the covers.

The next day I went down for breakfast with Delphine still asleep in her bed. Veronica sat next to me, tense. We mumbled to each other and didn’t say a word about what had happened.

Delphine Fournier eventually walked in. She got eggs and toast and a cup of tea and sat down at an empty table.

Veronica and I just sat there staring at her, not touching our food. Veronica’s nails dug little crescents into my palm, she was gripping my hand so tightly. We must have imagined it, I thought. Except we hadn’t. We’d both seen it.

Veronica turned toward me. Her lips parted as if to speak.

And Delphine collapsed.

5

DELPHINE NEVER CAMEback to our dorm. It was the hospital and then Abigail House instead. Veronica and I never spoke about Delphine or what happened that night again.

And now I’m living in Abigail House.

I force away the memories of that night. The big welcome dinner to mark the beginning of the year is starting in only a few minutes, and I have nothing to wear.

A place as old as Atwood has endless rules and traditions that no one thinks to explain to you, but failing to follow them will mark you out immediately as someone who doesn’t belong. For instance: No one tells you that the Tuesday dinner before courses start is semiformal. No jeans, no sweatpants, no—God forbid—pajamas. The girls wear skirts, the boys wear suit jackets, but no one wears uniforms.

I don’t have anything to wear except the clothes I came in:jeans and a simple blue top. Nothing suitable for the welcome dinner. And there’s no sign of my luggage. At least I still have my messenger bag, with my laptop and sketchbook.

In desperation, I open the closet in the bedroom. It’s still full of Aubrey’s clothes. Her school uniforms are hung on the right—jackets, skirts, slacks folded over hangers. There’s a set of hanging shelves with socks and stockings, and a neat line of shoes along the floor. On the left are casual jackets, along with a few dresses. I run my hands over a wool skirt. It looks expensive.

It seems wrong to wear them, but I can’t go to dinner like this. I’d be sent back to change. And worse, my name would be on the list that never gets written down but is tracked precisely nonetheless. The ones who don’t belong.

I’m the same size as Aubrey. I pull on a knee-length brown wool skirt, fitted at the hips with a bit of flare. I grab a crisp white button-up blouse hanging conveniently beside it and throw on a soft cardigan that smells faintly of lavender at the collar. I pull my long hair free from the collar and turn to face the floor-length mirror that stands in the corner of the room. The fit isn’t exact. My hips are a touch narrower than Aubrey’s, my breasts large enough to make the buttons gap slightly. But it’ll do. And I’ll write Aubrey a note, I think, to let her know I’m borrowing her clothes. Apologizing for not having the chance to ask. Thanking her.

So it won’t be too strange that I’m slipping on her ankle-high boots, which fit me perfectly. That I’m slipping into the hall with her clothes against my skin.

“Aubrey?” a voice behind me says, confusion cracking the syllables apart.

I freeze. Turn slowly.

The door at the top of the stairs is open, visible through the glass of the lower door. A slim figure looks down at me from the top step. The light is behind her; I can barely make her out.

“No, I’m...” I trail off. “I’m Eden White. I’m your new—I’m staying here.”

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