Page 43 of If Looks Could Kill
I slid my arm underneath her and hoisted her onto her feet. Her head flopped against my shoulder, her bonnet lolling down her back. The crown of her head burned hot against my cheek.
I began to be truly frightened. Pearl’s temperature felt unearthly. Fevers could be deadly. Could this be the onset of influenza? Cholera? Typhus? Smallpox?
We made our way downstairs to the exit. Ushers gave us vague looks of disapproval. I got her outside, set her upon the stone steps of the church, then went to the street to hail a cab.
One soon stopped, and I hurried back to pull Pearl up and steer her into the carriage. The driver, seeing my struggle, jumped off his perch and came to my assistance, but Pearl recoiled from him, almost with a snarl.
“She’s ill,” I apologized. “I’m sorry.”
It took all my strength to boost her up the steps and onto the cracked leather seat.
She lay down and tucked her legs up beside her, and threw an arm overher face. While the cab rattled over stone and brick streets, she lay as limp as a rag doll.
My mind raced. I would send a message to Captain Jessop to summon a doctor immediately. I would mobilize Emma and Carrie to fetch wet facecloths to keep Pearl cool.
Was Pearldying?
Don’t be so dramatic, I scolded myself.
“Pearl?” I said softly. “Are you all right?”
She groaned, I thought. I hoped.
Traffic was slow, slower than it ought to have been on a Sunday afternoon. When we finally reached our barracks, the streets were dark. I tried to lift Pearl gently.
“We’re home, Pearl,” I told her. “Let’s go inside so you can rest.”
She sat up, stronger than I would have guessed, and pulled her arm away from her face.
I could not see myself, so I can’t say whose face showed more horror, or more despair.
The image still haunts me, even now.
She wasn’t Pearl. She wasn’t herself. She wasn’t even human.
She was a fanged woman, a hissing face with blazing eyes, a lizard’s tongue, and instead of yellow curls, a writhing nest of golden snakes.
Part Two
Tabitha—Shock(Sunday, December 2, 1888)
I scrambled out of the cab and stumbled back away from it, bloodless, spineless, helpless. Dissolving. Unsure of the ground beneath my feet. I could not have seen what I had seen.
Nor could I unsee it.
Pretty Pearl, withsnakes for hair. A monster out of legend and myth. Out of nightmare.
“Twelve cents,” the cabbie told me, reaching down from atop the wagon for his payment.
My legs trembled, and my vision wavered.
“What’s the matter?” The driver, a short man slightly built, pulled the brake and jumped down. He took in my appearance, probably ashen and pale.
“Hey!” he called out. “This here young lady needs help! Somebody get smelling salts!”
Then he turned toward the cab. I wanted to stop him, to warn him, but I couldn’t move.
He looked into the dark void of the carriage. He slumped forward and fell in. Helpless legs slid out from underneath him. His trunk landed with a thud on the carriage floor.
