From the Ashes of Victory: The Complete Series, page 20
part #0 of From the Ashes of Victory Series
Through the hiss of the water the sound of the metal door to the bath house creaking open echoed in the depths of her morass.
"November?" Gretchen called from the other side of the partition.
November continued to look down. "Be careful. Here there be monsters."
"Are you all right? You missed dinner."
The thud of November's head against the tiled wall reverberated through the steam. "No. I'm not."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"I wouldn't even know what to ask for at this point," November said with the small, mirthless laugh of one resigned to her damnation. "But I appreciate your desire to help."
"You're starting to frighten me. Come out of there so we can talk." A hand poked out from behind the partition and made a beckoning gesture, but shot back behind it in a blink. "Lord, that's hot! Come out of there!"
"I can't. Not yet."
"Why ever not?"
November scooped up a palmful of ice and hurled it out of the shower to splatter across the floor at Gretchen's feet. "That's why!"
"Why do you have ice in there? How do you have ice in there?"
More ice exploded across the tiles. "Because I'm making it."
This finally summoned the face of Gretchen, who peeked around the edge of the partition, squinting against the heat.
November gathered a small amount of water into her palm and held it up. In a few moments it was limned with frost and she turned her hand over to let it fall and shatter on the shower floor.
"What in the name of the Holy Father…?"
"Perhaps he has an answer," November said.
Gretchen disappeared again and November's heart sank. She'd chosen poorly. Of course, how could she have been so stupid to reveal something like that? Especially to someone she barely knew. But she barely knew anyone!
"November, please come out of there. I will not discuss this with you under these conditions," Gretchen said, and produced a towel.
"Are you going to help me?" November allowed some amount of hope to creep into her voice.
"I don't know what I saw, so I don't know that I can. But until you are decent, we won't know either way. Now please come out and dress yourself."
Getting unsteadily to her feet, November shut off the water and did as Gretchen asked, the harsh fabric of the gown even harsher on her ablated skin. She stood with the towel partly obscuring her face, awaiting Gretchen's determination.
When she was fully clothed, Gretchen allowed herself to turn around.
"I don't know what I saw in there," she said.
"Nor do I," November admitted. "It came with the amnesia."
"How is it done?"
"I don't know. Showing you with my hand was the first time I've ever done it on purpose."
"How can you not know and still manage to do it?"
November shrugged. "I don't know. I just… wanted it to. You were as surprised as me."
"Why were you out here all by yourself?"
"I wanted to be alone. Alone and in discomfort."
"Why?"
"I wanted to provoke myself, to stimulate my body into reacting. I thought I could trigger a memory like I did when we were doing the washing together." While it didn't have quite the same level of honesty as saying she was pitying herself, it did have some matter of truth to it.
"November 23rd?"
November nodded. "Yes. The hot water hurt, and soon after I had that memory."
"Did it work?"
"No. I must have let it turn into self-flagellation at some point," November said. "I didn't want to get out. But my body reacted."
"By making ice?"
"When I had that memory, do you remember me sticking my hand in the hot water barrel?"
Gretchen nodded.
"I didn't tell you doing so made the water cold."
"Was that the first time?"
"To make something cold, yes. I can heat things up, as well."
"How— of course, you don't know."
November shook her head. "No. I don't. I'm afraid I'm going to hurt someone if I can't learn to control this, but I don't even know what 'this' is!"
"I don't know what I can do to help you. I want to, but I can't believe what I saw. What do you need?"
November thought a long moment. "A friend."
Gretchen smiled. "That I can be."
"Tell me I'm not crazy then, please. I'm in here because I have amnesia, not because I'm insane. This is actually happening, isn't it?"
"In as much as I am not also insane, yes. But why did you choose to confide in me?"
"Because I thought I could trust you."
Gretchen's laugh was one that November could tell had the sole purpose of masking pain. "You would be the first person in a long time to say that."
"Why?"
"The only reason I'm in here is because people don't trust me," Gretchen explained. "Has that not occurred to you?"
"Why would it? You seem perfectly functional, and not at all dangerous to me."
"That's very kind."
"Gretchen, please. I've had a great whack on the side of the head, could you just tell me in simple terms?"
"November, I'm here because I'm German."
"What?" The accent suddenly made sense. Of course it was German, November knew that. Or she thought she did. But she'd forgotten it. She looked at Gretchen anew, and the implications twisted November's stomach into knots.
"A few reports from the neighbours, and I was put here to keep the home front safe," Gretchen said matter-of-factly.
"You were a saboteur?"
"Of course not. I have no love for the Kaiser, and truth be told, part of me is glad Germany lost. But people knew I was German, they knew my son went back at Wilhelm's call, the fool, and they feared I might have… divided loyalties."
"But there was no proof?" It was beyond comprehension. This was a hospital, not a prison.
"No. So the police couldn't do anything. But if enough people say you're crazy, well, the bar is much lower in that case. I'm not the only one, either."
Cold water dripped from November's hair to slide down her spine, and she shivered. "That's horrible."
"Thank you for saying so. But now you can imagine my surprise at your choice of words?"
"Yes."
"Well, it seems we're both in need of a friend, then."
November let herself be led out into the cold night and back to the main building. Her levity warred with her confusion to just about mask the pain that began to throb in her head.
The next day dawned chill and bright, the same as Millie. Her realisation from the night before had left her with a sense of purpose and focus she hadn't had before, and hadn't understood she'd needed. Niamh's arrival and Colette's absence should have felt disruptive or unbalancing, but instead it had come to be the opposite. Millie felt the ground under her feet firmer than it had before, and her only question was why it had taken so long. But that was a question for another time.
Re-tying her housecoat after stepping out of the toilet, she glanced out of an upstairs window to see a shiny, black, expensive-looking motorcar in the drive out front. Trimmed with gold accents, it had a fabric roof and wheels so far apart it might as well have been a bus. On its gleaming golden nose was a woman with what looked like wings, her head thrust forward into the wind.
Two women were being helped to clamber over the running boards through the rear doors. From her vantage point, Millie couldn't see their faces for the size of the hats they wore, and everything else was obscured by heavy winter coats trimmed with dead animals of some kind. She could recall hearing mink being mentioned in connection with fancy coats, but she could have been seeing ex-rabbits for all she knew.
Millie whistled quietly to herself at finding such ostentation first thing in the morning and hurtled down the stairs in a thunder of footsteps to find out who would be getting into a Roll-Royce at the crack of dawn after departing a place that was supposed to be a secret.
By the time she got her boots on and out the front door, the long car was already rumbling away, gravel crunching under the huge black wheels.
Millie was so fixated on the car she didn't notice Selene was standing right beside her until she spoke. "You're up early."
"Who were they?" Millie asked. It was bizarre seeing Selene with sunlight on her face, but Millie already had too many things on her mind that were even more so to bother saying anything about it.
"People with money and an interest in gifted war orphans," Selene said.
Bap, bap, bapbapbapbapbapbap, said the Rolls-Royce as it pulled into the street and trundled away, only the silhouettes of a pair of expensive hats visible in the back seat over the front wall.
"Aren't we a government program? And a secret?"
"Appearances must be kept up, Millicent. This is still a house for war-orphaned girls, remember."
That was true whether it was a cover story or not. So much had happened in so short a time, it was getting difficult to remember what was true and what wasn't. ADAM had been around long enough that the neighbourhood 'knew' what they were, and Millie hadn't had to think about the official story in a long time.
They both stood there until the car was gone from sight completely before turning to go back inside. Selene's movements were slow and deliberate, and her breath puffed out from her hooded face in great clouds as she ascended the stairs. Though she was hundreds of years old, she had never seemed 'old' to Millie, not in the elderly sense. But watching her climb the stairs in the winter air, she moved like she was, and it was unsettling in light of Niamh's story. Was it because of Selene's age, or because of what had been done to her? Millie was no longer sure she was ever going to be able to separate the two from now on.
"Could you put the kettle on please, Millicent? It's a bit chilly," Selene said as she headed towards the dining room.
"Yes, Mistress," Millie replied, and split off towards the kitchen. Pushing open the door, she saw Elise already there, her back turned to the entrance as she glided between the counter and the sink. The sun slanted in through the window and caught her hair at just the right angle to give her a glowing crown.
Or a halo, Millie thought as she stepped into the kitchen proper, her knees less reliable than they had been a moment before—more so because it made her very aware of the fact that she hadn't seen Elise in two days.
"Good morning," Millie said as a kind of warning. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of what had happened the last time they were alone in the kitchen together.
"Good morning," Elise said with a brightness that was as artificial as the bulb over their heads. "Did you sleep well?"
"Eventually." Millie put the water on to boil and leaned against the counter to wait. "And you?"
"Yes, of course," Elise answered oddly.
Leaning over to get a better look at her face, Millie could tell that wasn't true. Elise's bright blue eyes should have been gleaming like amethysts in the sun, but they were flat, dull and sunken. Lines hung under them like nets straining to hold their weight. Though her hair still glowed like always when hit by sunlight, there were far more strands out of place than usual, and it was pulled back in a simple ponytail rather than in any of her usual more elaborate styles. It all combined to make her look diminished.
"Liar," Millie said, suddenly concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," Elise said as she reduced a large hunk of cheese down to a more manageable size under her flashing knife. She didn't look up.
"Liar," Millie repeated, but this time from much closer.
"Do not call me that," Elise snapped. Her knife flashed faster, wedges becoming slices.
"Then tell me the truth. You look different. Your eyes, your hair."
"Do you not approve? Do I always have to be perfect?"
"That's not what I mean! Have you not been sleeping?" The closer Millie got, the better she could see. Elise's eyes were bloodshot and raw, limned with pink like she'd been rubbing them endlessly, but thankfully not from crying.
"Why? Am I not beautiful to you?" Slices were becoming something more akin to dust.
"That's not fair! I'm asking because I'm worried about you! I care about how you look because you don't look like you. Tell me what's wrong." Millie placed a hand gently on Elise's shoulder. "Please."
The knife clattered to the cutting board and Elise let out a short, sharp exhale before her mouth snapped shut, as if she were trying to catch something before it escaped.
Millie looked down at Elise's hands and placed her own over them to stop them from trembling. She squeezed gently, giving Elise time to gather the words she needed.
"My mind," she started, "it… it does not stop." She looked up at Millie with plaintive eyes. "You are right. I cannot sleep. I close my eyes, but I only see my books. I only see… parts."
"Parts?"
"Oui, parts. Body parts? Is that not correct?"
"No, it's correct. Go on," Millie said.
"Body parts. Where they are, how to put them back together. Ingredients for remedies; potions, salves, elixirs." Elise shook her head as if trying to shake the very concepts out of her mind. "Plants. Herbs, flowers, roots, what they look like, how I should put them together. How to put people back together… I cannot stop thinking about them. I know I need to sleep. Sleep heals, sharpens the mind. But I am not sharp. I am blunt. How can I be a true witch if I am blunt? I must be sharp!"
"You are sharp. Sharper than me. I don't understand anything of what you're studying," Millie said, giving Elise a tiny, tentative squeeze.
"I do not think I do, either," Elise whispered.
"That's not true. Look at my finger, all healed already," Millie said, wiggling it for proof.
"I am glad. But why do I not Manifest? Victoria's studies are far more difficult."
"You saw them, too?"
Elise nodded. "Mistress Ivy showed me. She wanted me to be more confident, but I feel the opposite."
"I know how you feel," Millie admitted.
"I want to do good," Elise said, her voice breaking on the last word. "Witchcraft must be for a noble reason. I know this. What is more noble than healing? Why I am I denied what I seek so strongly?"
Millie's lips flattened into a tight, straight smile, and she settled her head onto Elise's shoulder. "People are complicated." Her lips curved upwards into a genuine smile when she felt Elise's head against hers. "Witches especially."
"Ma chérie, that is true."
Though Millie didn't know enough French to know what that meant, the way it sounded when it rolled off of Elise's tongue was enough for her to not want a translation.
"Your heart is in the right place. You just have to give your mind time enough to catch up," Millie said, the warmth of Elise's shoulder drawing from her a truth that didn't only apply to her.
"I want to believe that too."
"Elise," Millie said, lifting her head to look Elise in the eye, "you're the best of us. If you can't, then what hope is there for me?"
They held each other's eyes for what felt like an eternity, and Millie allowed things that she had been denying since the day they'd met to take a few hesitant, halting steps into daylight—things she'd known but never allowed herself to truly feel for fear of what they would mean. For a moment, she felt them, and there was nothing in the world outside of those two brilliant rings of blue.
Somewhere far away, a tea kettle was screaming.
Now that November knew about Gretchen, the world around her changed. Every walk through the halls, every stroll across the airing court made it more and more apparent that the words 'And Prison' should have been amended to the name carved into the stone facade out front.
She began to note how many of the women around her were being looked at askance, kept at a distance or otherwise marginalised, and it was a bigger number than she had been prepared for.
It explained why she had gotten so many suspicious looks when she had arrived—only after they had learned she was British had anyone started warming up to her.
It didn't make her feel any better.
If any of the Germans had done anything wrong, they'd be in prison, proper prison, not an asylum.
Even sweet little Mary's reaction made more sense now that November understood the reality of what was happening. That first morning had been so confusing, but now she knew why Mary acted the way she did around Gretchen, and why that woman called Bea had come up with no interest beyond a single question.
Like someone had moved all the furniture while she was out, November felt that her home was all out of sorts compared to what it had been when she left. However, it also had the slimy, viscous texture of a secret, and just like her own, it was one she had already determined to keep for fear of the response if she didn't.
"What I don't understand is how you didn't know," Gretchen said as she clipped a bed sheet to the drying line.
"It does seem preposterous. My amnesia has only been in connection with personal things up to now. This does not seem to fit that particular description," November said, wanting desperately for it to be true.
"And I doubt very much it's simple ignorance. Everyone in Britain knows what a German sounds like, or at least thinks they do. You would have, at the very least, been suspicious, one would think."
"One would. The fact I didn't concerns me." November absently scratched her left arm. "Especially considering…" she snapped her lips shut before she could finish her sentence.
"Considering what?" Gretchen said, handing her a pair of garters from the top of the 'to wash' pile.
"I'd rather not talk about it." The water in the washing barrel was still scalding hot when she plunged them in, and this time November was grateful.
"Do you want my help or not? You called me friend," Gretchen said.
"I know." November savaged the garters against the washboard, silently apologising to whoever they belonged to. But no amount of scrubbing could wash away the truth of the words, "Apparently, I was a white feather girl."
