The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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He is coming. The letter announcing his visit arrived yesterday. It ended up in Sister Florence's hands instead of mine and so I was last to know about any of it. They had accepted his request for me. How very generous and thoughtful of them.
Now I sit in the parlor, a room I'm rarely permitted to enter, and wait for him. It is impeccably clean and ornately decorated. It has navy blue wallpaper and sheer white lace curtains. I sit stiffly on a couch and to my left and right there are matching floral armchairs that look too lumpy to be truly comfortable. The window, which sits directly in front of me, looks out onto a busy street.
I don't know the full address, no one has ever bothered to tell and I have never bothered to ask. I haven't left this home since I first arrived here, in the cloak of darkness, three years ago. I do know that St. Agatha's in located Manchester and that it is quite a ways from my previous home in Bolton. The city beyond this room, this window, is like a totally separate universe from my own. Those people have choices. They can go where they please, say what they feel—even the women who can be terribly misunderstood or ignored altogether, have more of a voice then I do. When I came here, was accused of what they say I did, I lost what little power I had. No one cares what a murderess wants.
Except for this man, this doctor who has requested that I meet with him. He asked me, didn't tell me. I have a choice. Earlier this morning Hanny had told me to say no.
"You don't have to meet with him. You are being given a choice. Think on it."
I'd been sitting on my bed, staring down at the folded dress she'd just given me. It is new to me but still old enough to smell of someone else's sweat. She had been the one to bring me the news, to ask if I would be willing to meet with Dr. Abaddon. She was right, I didn't have to meet with him, but I wanted to. I was intrigued, both by this man and his interest in me.
"I want to."
"But why?" She sat next to me on the bed and took my hand in hers. "What can a meeting with a doctor, one you don't even know, do to help you now? I will not outright dissuade you from it, but I think you should pray about the choice. Don't be hasty."
"Why should I not meet with him? I'm locked in this place without any help or hope of escape—" I winced as her serene expression faltered. She took my frustration at being trapped at St. Agatha's personally, as if I equated our friendship with my internment here.
"Do go on." She whispered.
I ran my fingers over the fabric of the dress in my lap; it was blue cotton with alabaster buttons and dainty flowery stitching along the collar and hem. I imagined Hanny digging through the pile of donations until she came across this for me. She was thoughtful in small ways and I knew without a doubt that she must have seen the pink roses embroider along the sleeve cuffs and remembered that the flower was my favorite. I hated that I could never repay her for her kindness.
"Merritt?" Her grip on my hand tightened, she was waiting expectantly for an answer.
"I just need something to happen. What if I am stuck here until I die?"
