Godspeed

Chapter 11

The creak of the door and plaintive squeals of floorboards announced Schuyler’s arrival before he spoke a word. “Good day, Miss. Would you like to feel human again?”

I tried to sit up to greet him but found the wires too taut and my energy too low to complete the motion.

“I would, sir.” My tone was melancholy, and revealed to him that I doubted anything he could do for me today would accomplish that impossible task.

“Well, at least we can clean you up. Come now.” He knelt down beside me and began to disconnect wires from terminals upon the brick-like box: the anchor which now weighted my soul to this world. "I've drawn the bath, everything is set."

He folded the blankets back and, seeing I was still clothed in the sheet alone, did what he could to acknowledge my modesty and honor my dignity. "I've brought this ancient dressing gown. It closes in front, so we should be able to slide it over you, just so... " He elevated his eyes to the ceiling as he tilted my unsteady form forward against his waiting shoulder, and then in one amazing slight of hand trick, swept the sheet away and the robe along my arms and up over me. I tried to help as he pulled it together at the waist, but my fingers only seemed in the way. I was grateful, though embarrassed, and hoped one day I might have the opportunity to show him how appreciative I was for his kindness, and his discretion.

After we both seemed satisfied with the placement of the garment, he lifted me with care and caution and carried me down the hall. We entered the bath through a doorway recessed into the paneling I'd not noticed on the way up to my new room. Once we'd cleared the threshold, he pushed the door shut with the tip of his boot.

The window was fogged from the steam he'd created, and warmth rose to greet me from the still, bubble filled surface of the water. Taking in the scent of it, I sighed with a joy so pure that I felt new tears fill my eyes. "Rosewater," I whispered, "it's my favorite. How did you—"

"I know a thing or two about the tastes of young women." He smiled at me, his cheeks already mottled and glowing from the heat as beads of perspiration began to appear on his upper lip. "I will see to it that you get a bottle for your dressing table and—"

"Wait!" I cried, as he lowered me, still dressed, into the water. "The gown. It's silk. It'll be ruined."

"Worry not. It's an ancient thing. It is but a small, noble act to sacrifice it to spare the feelings of a lady."

"Thank you, sir."

I shuddered as the heat of the water met my skin, but quickly sank into it, almost too far.

"Careful," he warned. "If we get those wires wet, it will cause serious damage."

I was puzzled by his tone. He spoke as if he knew this was a certainty.

His every motion as he cared for me (gathered up a pitcher and bowl with which to wash my hair, fussed around as my arms hung slack over the edges of the large tub) indicated that he had a great deal of experience at tending an invalid's needs. Through whose care, I wondered, had he gathered such hard-won experience?

The soothing scent and soap in the bath seemed to draw the sadness from my body in waves. I tried to ignore the sound of his sighs as he shampooed my hair, but I knew that more of it was breaking off in his hands than was staying where it belonged.

The time went by all too quickly, peacefully, without conversation. Every so often I'd open my eyes and watch as he tended some part of me with skill and speed: trimming fingernails, applying suds-laden cloth in small, intricate circles to cleanse the skin around the incisions.

When finally all was done, he drained the tub and rinsed me with seemingly endless pitchers of fresh warm water for good measure. At the end, he held a towel up before me and I managed to free myself of the wringing wet dressing gown, shedding my second skin and leaving it at the bottom of the tub.

He averted his eyes from my body as much as he could as he handed me the towel. He waited patiently for my weakened arms to do the best they could with raising it to dry myself before finally he helped me slide into a much warmer, heavier robe.

He cracked the window to allow the steam to escape just enough that he could wipe its residue from the mirror. He helped me into a chair beside it, and after he was certain I was truly dried off, he fetched the box and reattached me to it.

I shuddered as the energy first spiked back through the wires into my heart. I could feel my strength dwindling in the time it had been gone from me, and I wondered if I would ever be able to live again a life free of the pain that it caused.

I stared blankly at my expression in the mirror. Schuyler stood behind me, brush and comb at the ready but additionally, there was something else in his hand — a pair of shining, silver scissors.

"Before I take this away," he said, indicating the towel he'd wound around my head, "be prepared. You know that the treatments have exacted a price."

I nodded. My determination to deny any trace of vanity melted away in a river of tears the moment I saw what he meant.

My skin of course took the worst of the damage but it became abundantly clear just how much my hair had also suffered the wrath of the energy's course through my body.

The strands had broken off at his slightest touch, especially at longer lengths. It appeared charred beyond redemption well above the level of my shoulders—at varying points even as high as the lobes of my ears.

Even more curiously, I had developed a wide streak that shone an almost eerie golden blonde in the light, a stark contrast from the deep brown shade I had inherited from my father. This alteration cut a swath through my hair across my forehead in a fashion that made Schuyler shake his head and then tilt it in curiosity at the same time.

"Remarkable. You look as though the very hand of God itself came down to gild you with light. The effect is quite striking."

I was convinced he was only trying to be kind, to distract me from the shears in his hands as he prepared to take them to my faltering locks and cut their life and suffering short.

It was unheard of for women in our polite society to be seen that way, to wear their hair cropped nearly as short as a man’s, and in my case, shorter than Schuyler's was. I knew though, that there was little choice.

As he began to cut away, I closed my eyes. A tear trailed down my cheek, but not for the reason he assumed.

"Your eyes are enormous. You're going to look lovely with this most innovative style. Very modern."

"Thank you," I whispered. I brushed the moist tracks from my cheek but was not so easily able to dispel the thoughts that had prompted them.

I became transfixed; staring at my reflection in the glass as I watched one section after another of burned and broken hair fall to the floor, and wondered what my father would say now if he could see what I had become.