Page 9 of The Phoenix Bride
She shakes her head. “Do you remember,” she says, “how you got that scar?”
She means the silver line drawn upon my lower lip: a childhood injury from when I had bitten so hard into it I had bled. It had been caused by a night terror, one so violently frightening Ihad injured myself and screamed myself awake from the pain. Margaret, sleeping beside me, had awoken to find me with blood dripping down my jaw, and my hair torn and wild. She had wiped me clean and fetched me warm milk and honey. After, she had held my hand until I fell asleep again.
Margaret herself never had nightmares while we slept in the same room, except once, the night before she married Robert. I fetched her warm milk and honey then, as she had so often done for me. I will never forget the way she clutched the cup and began to cry into it. She is a very quiet and pretty crier, unlike me. Her face remains mostly blank, but her eyes go red and small. She said,I do not know if I will please him,and I hadn’t known how to reply.
But that was the past. Now Margaret is determined, grim faced, and I know there is nothing I can say. “Let me help you,” she begs of me. “As I always have. A new life awaits you. It is time you seize it.”
She doesn’t give me time to reply. She turns around and sweeps out of the room. I haven’t the energy to give chase. Instead, I fist my hands in the bedspread, feeling the silk run like water beneath my fingers. I breathe a rattling, shuddering breath, attempting to calm myself down. I must forgive my sister her rudeness. She works so hard to make me well. I could tell her that her efforts are pointless, but she would never understand. Margaret can’t comprehend what I have lost, for she hasn’t loved as I have, and perhaps she never will. Shedoeslove Robert, but it is in her curious, measured way; I think she must portion out the love each day, so it doesn’t run out too fast.
I slip out of bed and stand on shaky legs. My book of poems is on my desk, and I go to retrieve it. The afternoon sun casts a glowing square through the window. I pause to bask in itswarmth. Outside, the street is quiet and empty; in this area, there are few walkers, only the gilt carriages of the homeowners as they return from Whitehall. I peer down at the cobblestones, watching the furtive movements of a pigeon by the iron fencing. Glancing toward the house opposite—a building near identical to the Edens’—I notice that someone is standing in the window directly opposite mine. It is difficult to make out any features, considering the distance and the glare of the sun, but the figure is certainly looking back at me. It appears to be a man, in breeches and a coat, the curling shape of his wig visible even as a silhouette.
The man waves. Bemused—fascinated,for the first time in months—I wave back at him.
Someone knocks at the door; it is likely food. I take a step back from the desk, book in hand. My stomach churns, queasy, in anticipation of the effort of eating. Still, it has been a relatively good day, unplagued by dreams. So I will have three bites. I will see this doctor, hear his useless recommendations, and watch him leave. I will stitch and go to the library. I will play the spinet and I will eat dinner. Tomorrow, I will do it all again.
I have been in London for 134 days.
Perhaps, eventually, I shall lose count.
—
After my meal—attempting to avoid my sister and her doctor—I go to the courtyard. The linden tree is heavy with spring blossoms. It reaches devotedly toward me, greeting me like an old friend, its scent sweet and heady. When I breathe, its perfume clings to the back of my tongue. I make loops of the tree, over and over, faster and faster, until the rise and fall of my chest becomes labored, and the movement of air in my lungs feels likethe opening of a wound. I lean against the trunk and attempt recovery, rolling my fingers against the bark in a mockery of a harpsichord piece.
Minutes pass, perhaps hours—I cannot tell. Then the door to the house opens. It is Margaret. For no cause except instinct, I duck behind the tree so she can’t see me.
It is a ridiculous gambit. If she takes even a single step into the courtyard, she will notice me. But she doesn’t come further inside. She calls, “Cecilia?”
I don’t respond.
Margaret makes a noise of vexation. “Pardon,” she says, and for a moment I think she is apologizing to me; then I realize someone is accompanying her. “She must be in her room,” she says. “I’ll fetch her. Take a seat, I shan’t be long.”
I hear no reply. But Margaret walks away—I hear the harsh clip of her heeled shoes, like nails being hammered into the floor—and someone else walks into the courtyard. Their footsteps are softer, more measured. They sit in one of the iron chairs beside the fountain, and it rattles.
Silence. The fountain trickles. The wind rustles the linden tree. A bird trills above us. Very slowly, I inch sideways and peek past the tree, toward the stranger.
It is a man: olive skinned and short bearded, with dark, curly hair tied back with ribbon. His face looks like none I have ever seen before. I didn’t know that someone’s features could be so brazen. His nose begins at a steep angle and changes its mind halfway through; his neck is broad; his eyebrows are anvil heavy, the eyes beneath so dark they have no pupil, just circles of empty space. The physician, no doubt. I don’t know what I imagined he would look like, but it wasn’t this.
His gaze meets mine directly. Aghast, I lurch back behind the tree, spinning on my foot so I am turned toward the wall.
For an intensely awkward moment, neither of us speak. Then the man says, “Mistress Thorowgood, I presume.”
I expect some hint of insult or confusion in his tone, but he mostly sounds concerned; he has a deep voice and a warm, rolling accent. The cadence of it is songlike, and entirely foreign.
“Are you in distress?” he asks.
A short, bitter laugh rises in my throat. It emerges before I can stop it. “Constantly.”
“Do you require assistance?”
“Not for the moment. I would rather remain behind this tree.”
“Very well,” he replies.
He goes quiet, looking away from me, staring ponderously at the fountain. I peer out again to watch him. He has a notebook and pen in his pocket, and he wears simple, utilitarian clothing: a vest, jacket, and long breeches. “You are the physician,” I say.
“Yes. My name is David Mendes.”
“I am Cecilia Thorowgood,” I tell him. “Which you are already aware of, evidently.”
