Adrift: A Little Mermaid Retelling

15: Agnes

I did not dare bathe again. I did not wash my hair, nor my face, nor even my hands; I avoided every drop of water that was not for drinking. The thought of what had happened to me—what I thought had happened to me—and the fear that it would happen again produced such a terror in me that I refused every suggestion that I might benefit from a good washing-up.

Finally, though, Sybill had had enough.

"You're a lady, Miss Agnes, not an urchin!" cried the old housekeeper. She had just come up to my room with my breakfast tray. From the way her shoulders were set, I could tell she was prepared for a battle. She had come up with a purpose: not to bring me breakfast, but to give me a piece of her mind on the matter of my personal hygiene. "You're apt to get bugs. Look at your hands, child. They're filthy! You must have a bath. It's been a month! I've told Daniel to bring up the water."

I knew she was right; I must have been a sight. But my fear far outweighed any vanity, if indeed I ever had any at all. "No," I said firmly. "I won't."

"You will," she insisted. She set a teacup down with uncommon force and reached for the pot. "Master Wylliam has trouble enough, child, shouldering the burdens of this place. You needn't try him with willfulness and ill manners as well. You're nigh on fourteen years of age and you're far too old to be carrying on with such behavior. You'll act like the lady you are and you will have a bath."

She had left the door standing open. I saw Dannie pause on the threshold, looking nervous. He was lugging a heavy bucket of steaming water with both hands. "Ma'am?" he asked—of Sybill, not of me, I noted.

"Go on, Daniel," she said. At her command, Dannie crossed the room and poured the hot water into my tub. He cast me a glance as he did so, but I refused to meet his eye. He took the empty bucket away again.

"Now sit and eat, although I shouldn't permit you to touch a morsel with those hands," Sybill said.

I sat down at my place, but my stomach was churning with anxiety and I had no appetite. She slid my morning tea toward me, but I did not touch it. "I do not want to take a bath, Sybill. Please."

"What is this, Miss Agnes?" Sybill asked. She sat down in the chair across from me. Her old face was creased with worry. "I've never seen anyone take on so in grief. A lack of appetite and some distraction is to be expected, Agnes, but nothing like this terrible neglect. You're unwell, girl. You must see reason. You'll feel much better, all clean and in fresh clothes. I promise you that."

I couldn't think what to say. How could I tell her why the prospect of a bath was so frightening to me? Looking back on the terrifying thing that had happened the morning of Father's funeral, I still only half-believed my memories. But half a belief was enough. I had no wish to risk it ever happening to me again. I stared down at my hands—my perfectly normal, human hands—and said nothing.

Sybill didn't press me. She drank her own tea, and we sat in silence, waiting as Dannie brought up several more buckets from the boiling vat in the kitchen. He crossed silently in and out of the room. As the time passed, I ignored the food Sybill had brought me and considered what I might do to escape. I might run, but I could not go far; I would eventually need to come back home, and then there would be the bath. I could try to overturn the tub—but that would only wet the whole floor, and what if I slipped and I fell in it? I was certain that the water had been my undoing before. I mustn't touch it.

For want of a better option, I settled for a fight.

"Ma'am," Dannie said, having poured the final bucket, "is there anything else?"

"No, Daniel, thank you," said Sybill.

Dannie waited for a moment on the threshold. I could feel him looking at me. But then he went away, closing the door behind him.