The thin November light is spreading its fingers across the room when Ivy pads in carrying a kettle of hot water.
"Good morning, Miss." She pours the water into the basin on the washstand. " Shall Ihelp you dress?"
I lift myself up on my elbows. " No, thank you. I'll be fine."
"Very well." She leaves the room, empty kettle in hand.
I threw back the covers and make my way to the washstand swirling a hand in the basin to cool the water before I wash. When I am Finished, I dry my cheeks and my forhead, peering into the glass. My green Eyes are bottomless, empty, and I wonder if it is possible to change from the inside out, If sadness can radiate outward, through the veins and organs and skin for all to see. I shake my head at the morbid notion, unbound, brush my shoulders in the looking glass.
I take off my nightdress and pull a petticoat and stockingfrom thr bureau, beginning to dress. I am smoothing the second stocking up my thigh when Rosalie sweeps in without knocking.
"Good morning." she drops heavily onto the bed, looking up at me with the breathless charm that is uniquely Rosalie.
It surprises me still, her effortless swing from barely concealaled bitterness to sorrow to carefree calm. It should not, for Rosalie's moods have always been mercurial. But her face bears no trace of sadness, no trace of last night's melancholy. In truth, other than her simple gown and lack of jewelry, she looks no different than she ever has. Perhaps I am the only one to change from the inside out after all.
"Good morning." I hurry and fasten the stocking, feeling guilty that I've lazed in my room for so long when my sister is already up and about. I move to the cupboard, both to find a gown and to avoid the eyes that always seem to look too deeply into mine.
"You should see the house, Elsie. The entire staff is in mourning clothes, on Aunt Amy's orders."
I turn to look at her, noticing the flush on her cheeks and something like excitment in her eyes. I push down my annoyance. " Many households observe the mourning period, Rosalie. Everyone loved Father. I am sure they don't mind paying their respects."
" Yes, well, now we shall be stuck inside for an interminable time, and it is so very dull here. Do you suppose Aunt Amy will allow us to attend class next week?" She continues without waiting for an answer. "of course, you don't even care! You would be perfectly happy to never see Wycliffe again."
I do not bother arguing. It is well-known that Rosalie yearns for the most civilized life of the girls at Wycliffe, the school where we attend classes twice a week, while I always feel like an exotic animal under glass. I steal glimpses of her at school, glittering under the niceties and polite society, and imagine her like our mother. It must be true, for it is I who finds pleasure in the stillness of Father's library and Rosalie alone who can conjure the gleam of our mother's eyes.
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We spent the day in the almost-silence of the cracklingfire. We are accustomed to the isolation of Birchwood and have learned to occupy ourselves within its somber walls. It is like any other rainy day save for the lack of Father's big voice booming from the library or the smell of his pipe. We don't speak of him or his strang death.
I avoid looking at the clock, fearing the slow passing of time that will only seem slowerif I watch its progress. It works' in a manner of speaking. The day passes more quickly than i expect, the small interruptions for lunch and dinner easy me toward the time when i can escape to the nothingness of sleep.
This time I don't look at my wrist before climbing into bed.I don't want to know if the mark is still there. If it has changed. If it is deeper or darker. I slip into bed,sinking toward darkness without further thought.
