The Resurrections of Rosalind Mull

Out of the Flames

The last thing she remembers is heat. Her muddled brain starts to think and images of people she knew, of ships sailing on the water, of country houses and of flames pour into her mind. Her eyes hurt as if she'd been crying or as if she'd stared at the sun for too long.

Slowly, she blinks them open and the first thing she sees is a woman leaning over her. She jerks up, but the woman's hand is on her chest, holding her down. The woman purses her lips, laying a wet cloth on Rosalind's forehead.

"How are you feeling, lovey?" the woman asks in a motherly tone.

Rosalind opens her mouth, tries to speak, but her tongue is dry. Her lips feel cracked and sore. Parched as she is, she manages to get the word she wants out.

"Water."

The peasant woman, for she isn't dressed in fancy clothing, reaches over and dips a clean cloth into the bucket next to her. Rosalind opens her mouth, letting the woman squeeze water into it.

"Thank you."

The woman smiles and pats Rosalind's cheek. "You're a lucky girl. Whatever were you doing, laying unclothed in the road? You looked as if you've been had, are you sore?"

Rosalind blinks, trying to understand the woman's meaning. Was she raped? Is that what happened? Has she blocked the memory out? Rosalind strains herself, drawing out as many memories as possible.

She remembers screaming, burning, fire, but no man on top of her. As she considers everything, the memories start to flood back, slowly, like rain, and then all at once, like a tidal wave.

"I was dead," Rosalind whispers.

The peasant woman stares at her, startled. "Pardon?"

"What year is it?" Rosalind questions, voice shaking.

The look she gets in response makes her feel as if she's insane.

"1774." The woman purses her lips. "You must have hit your head on something. You are sick with fever, after all."

The woman changes the cloth on Rosalind's head and goes into another part of the house, by a cooking pot, and comes back with a little vial of something.

"I wrote the doctor in the city and he said inducing vomiting should cure fever." The woman pops the cork out of the vial. "I made this tonic myself. Smells something awful, but it should do the trick."

Rosalind takes the bottle and drinks its contents, unsure that vomiting will make her feel any better. She pukes regardless, hurling into the bucket on the side of the bed while the woman pets her hair and calls her 'deary'. All that comes up is bile and blood. She thinks that she'd probably have thrown up without the help of the tonic, for she was already feeling horrible.

The woman hands her a little wooden cup of water once she's done emptying her stomach. Rosalind thanks her, letting the woman wrap her up in blankets and place cool cloths on her head.

"I never did get your name," the woman says, emptying the bucket out the window.

"Rosalind Mull."

"Mull? I haven't heard of there being any Mulls in this town. Do you come from abroad then?"

Rosalind bites her lip. "Yes."

"Ah," the woman hums. "I'm Molly Hankridge."

"A pleasure to meet you, Molly," Rosalind says, remembering her manners.