Page 47 of Winterset
“I think that will do,” Mrs. Owensby said, startling me.
Realizing Mr. Jennings’s cheeks and forehead were clean and had likelybeenclean for some time, I withdrew my hand.
Mrs. Owensby handed me the needle and thread, then stood directly behind me to assist.
Thankfully, Mr. Jennings’s skin was split straight and should be easy enough to sew closed. I would be as gentle as possible, but no matter how careful I was, it would likely leave a scar.
Only half a dozen stitches were all that would be needed, and then I could retreat back to the attic. My hands shook as I gripped the needle. Despite all my pretended confidence, I was afraid.
Mrs. Owensby whispered some basic instructions and made a display of how and where to sew the flesh. “Quickly now,” Mrs. Owensby whispered, “before he wakes.”
With a nod, I focused on the task.
I could do this.
Ihadto do this.
Bracing my elbow on the chair’s left wing, I touched the needle to his forehead.
He shifted in his sleep but did not wake.
I concentrated on making tight, even stitches, and little by little, I closed the wound.
“Not a ghost,” Mr. Jennings murmured.
I froze, my face mere inches from his. His eyes were open, though only just, and he studied my face. My heart hammered in my chest. He would haul me to the authorities now and—
“Anangel.” He lifted his hand and brushed the back of it to my cheek. He touched me softly, but his skin was rough, likely from work and lye soap. I felt a pang of remorse. He dropped his hand back onto his lap like it was too heavy to hold up. A straight scar stretched across his knuckles. It was thin and faded. He’d likely received it when he was a boy. What had happened to him? I wondered. “Do you see her, Mrs. Owensby?” His eyes locked on mine, and I dared not move an inch.
“S-seewho, Mr. Jennings?” Mrs. Owensby said.
“Miss Lockwood’s ghost,” he said.
“I see no ghost,” she said, and his brow furrowed. “Do not move! You must relax your forehead, or you will pull out your stitches.”
“You truly cannot see her?” He reached out to touch my cheek again, but Mrs. Owensby swatted away his hand.
“Eyes closed!” she ordered.
“Le plus bel ange,” he murmured, then closed his eyes, complying.
I quickly made the last stitch and tied the knot, then looked up at Mrs. Owensby. She motioned for me to hide behind the curtains.
Once I was safely out of view, she said, “There. Good as new.”
Mr. Jennings’s eyes fluttered open, and he blinked several times at the spot where I’d stood. “Where has she gone?”
“Where haswhogone, sir?”
“Miss Lockwood. I could have sworn she was—” Mr. Jennings’s sentence stretched thin as if he were attempting to make sense of what he’d seen—me—and what he’d heard—Mrs. Owensby. When he couldn’t, he shook his head. “I fear I am going mad, Mrs. Owensby.”
I felt bad for my behavior. I’d not meant to cause Mr. Jennings any real pain, physical or mental.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Owensby said and helped him stand. “You are only drunk as a fish. You will feel better after a good night’s rest.”
He huffed a laugh, though it held no amusement. “Miss Lockwood would never allow it,” he said. “I’ve not had a decent sleep since stepping foot in this wretched manor.”
Wretched manor?
