***

“Stop giggling!” Jack complained. “She’ll hear.”

Danny said, “But that’s silly!”

“It’s true! My Granny told me, they really used to do this. The fairy folk’re always on the lookout for little boys, she said. They come an’ take you away when the grown-ups in’t watching an’ put their own sick kids in their place, and no-one would know any different ’cept you got sick and din’t get any better.”

“So they’d really dress ’em up in girls’ clothing?”

“Yeah!”

“Really?”

“That’s what my Granny said. An’ they give you a girl’s name, to fool the little people in case they was watching. So if you was a boy you’d have to wear skirts an’ stuff ’til you was like a teenager, when they reckoned you was too old to be taken.”

Danny giggled again.

“Shh!” Jack urged. “They’ll hear you.”

“It’s funny! I bet the other boys laughed at them.”

“Oh, yeah. Right up ’til they got taken and no-one ever saw ’em again, I bet. Anyway, boys used to wear dresses all the time. It was normal.”

“You’re having me on!”

“It’s true I swear! Granny said so. And anyway I seen pictures. You know, old family photos an’ stuff, like of me great-grandad when he was little. You go to any library and you can see for yourself. They even got a picture of Churchill in a dress.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“It’s true! Anyway, I bet that was why. It wasn’t ’cause they was mean. It was to keep ’em safe.”

“Why don’t they take girls then?”

“I don’t know. They just don’t. But anyway, I reckon they can’t tell very easy for some reason, an’ that’s how it fools ’em. Only no-one does it now ’cause no-one believes in that stuff any more.” He gave the younger boy a dead-serious look, and saw he was starting to actually worry. He lowered his voice, so Danny had to strain to hear him. “But they’re still out there, in’t they? They’re still takin’ kids more’n ever now, ’cause it’s easy for ’em ’cause they can see you’re a boy right off.” Danny looked really worried now. “So what you got to do–”

Light flooded in from the opening doorway. “Kathryn? Are you in here?”

Jack rolled his eyes at Danny, with an ‘I told you to be quiet’ kind of look. “Yes, Missus Brooks.”

“Telling fairy stories again? Come on, love, it’s late. Go to your own room. You’ve had a busy day.”

Jack sighed and bounced off Danny’s bed.

“Ni-night, Kath,” Danny called after him.

“’Bye, Danny,” Jack wished, at the door, and slipped past Mrs. Brooks.

“You can give Daniel more nightmares tomorrow night,” Mrs. Brooks promised, and ruffled his hair. “Run along now. Have you washed and brushed your teeth and hair?”

“Yes, Missus Brooks,” Jack said again, allowing just a touch of exasperation into his voice, and did a quick twirl, enough to lift his long brushed-out hair away from his neck. “Danny doesn’t have nightmares if I stay with him,” he added quietly.

Mrs. Brooks nodded. “I know, dear, but he hardly gets any sleep either, and neither do you, what with you telling stories all night. Go to bed.”

Jack didn’t think that was fair, given the times he’d sat up and watched Danny sleeping peacefully at last. But it was going to be a busy night, once everyone else was asleep, so he turned and thumped down the landing to his room.

***

Nathan looked up as the train slowed in the approach to the station, trying to see a passing platform sign. He was already half an hour late. It wasn’t his fault. It was just what you expected if you tried to get anywhere by train. He hoped that Mrs. Thompson understood this. He was supposed to be meeting her at the station, and that was as much as he knew.

The sign said ‘Cheltenham Spa’ as it flashed past and he relaxed. He’d dozed off looking out of the window earlier and wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t missed his stop. That would be his fault.

He collected his things and got up, then sat down again as a number of other people had the same idea and a queue formed in the aisle. He waited it out, then got up again and just caught up with the man in front as he stepped down onto the platform.

The man turned and was about to slam the door shut, and had to stop himself. “Sorry love, didn’t see you,” he said, actually standing and holding the door. Nathan scowled at him.

“Watch who you’re calling love, mate,” he growled, and took the door off the man to slam it himself. He did so with rather more vigour than was strictly necessary.

“Oh, hehe. My mistake.” Nathan pointedly ignored him until he walked off. The train engine noise rumbled up to a crescendo again and the train started to move, accelerating quickly. His hair blew across his face. He didn’t remember taking his ponytail out, but he must have done, so he fished in his jacket pockets for the band until he found it already around his wrist. He pulled it off over his hand and tied his hair back again, jammed his woollen hat back on, took a deep breath, and started down the platform towards the exit. With the train out of the way he was in sunshine, but it was still chilly. He zipped up his hooded jacket.

As he approached the sheltered part of the platform he looked for someone who might look like they were waiting for him. The likeliest candidate looked so like a costume portrayal of a Victorian governess that his eyes passed over her a couple of times before he noticed her young companion. The one in the pretty dress and cardigan and a wide-brimmed hat with a ribbon. She nodded in his direction and said something he was too far off to hear, and the older woman turned her attention on him as well. They looked, he thought, like they were on their way to Sunday school, which probably wasn’t a good sign.

The older woman spoke as he approached. “Excuse me, are you Jonathan Shaw?”

She had an American accent. That surprised him. Up close she looked middle-aged but carrying it well, if severely, with her autumnal hair tightly tamed into a bun. She stood perfectly erect, her features striking and timelessly elegant. He wondered if, by the styling of her hair and clothes she affected to look older than she was, or at least older than she had to look, which was unusual in itself.

The younger woman, in contrast, was younger-looking than he’d guessed at a greater distance; not much older than himself. Something about her posture, her stillness, the composed manner with which she carried herself, had fooled him into thinking she was more mature than that. She had the kind of perfect skin he’d always associated with a good upbringing. He thought she might be pretty if she smiled, but she just watched him impassively; maybe with some curiosity, if he flattered himself. Her eyes distracted him. Even in the shade of her hat-brim they were an intense, startling deep blue.

“Jonathan Henry Shaw?” the older woman pressed, her sharp voice dragging his attention away from the girl’s eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. People at school made fun of his middle name; he didn’t like hearing it. Harry would do in a crisis. He remembered something else and dug into a side-pocket on the holdall for his passport. He dropped the holdall. “Lindsey said to show you this.” He offered the passport forward. The girl took it and opened up the back to look at his picture.

“Remove your glasses please,” she said, her accent unplaceable. He’d forgotten he’d put them on. He took them off.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “I’m only supposed to use them for reading anyway.” He smiled at her, hoping for some kind of reaction.

“And your hat,” she said, unmoved. He pulled his hat off too, and saw a glance pass between the two women, then the younger one nodded minutely.

“Excellent. I am Jane Thompson,” the older woman said. He’d figured that much out himself by now. “And this is Valerie, my daughter. You are to be staying with us this summer.”

“Yeah, I know. Er, hi Miss Thompson,” he tried, and remembered to stick out his hand to be shaken, and was astonished when the girl laid hers in his gently and actually curtseyed. It was just a little curtsey, he supposed, over in an instant, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone actually do that in person before. She was so neat, so precise. “Yeah,” he said, a little distracted again. “Call me Nathan.”

She almost seemed amused by his discomfiture. “Hello Nathan,” she said, sounding a little warmer than before. He was right though; her face lit up when she smiled. He’d always thought that was a cliché, but it actually happened. ~Pupils must’ve dilated,~ he realised, embarrassed at himself, which only made things worse as he felt the capillaries in his cheeks do likewise.

“Look, um…” he looked away, back at the older woman, Mrs Thompson, desperate to find a distraction. “We’re not going to church are we?”

Miss Thompson seemed amused by that. She tried to cover it, looking down so her hat-brim hid her face. He felt a little angry about that, like she was making fun of him, and felt the heat in his face even more.

“I hadn’t planned to,” Mrs. Thompson replied evenly. “But if you feel it’s necessary–”

“God no,” he said quickly. “I just thought, you know…” She was looking at him again with barely concealed impatience. “I thought… I mean, this isn’t a religious school is it?” He couldn’t believe Lindsey would do that.

“It is not. Do you have any religious observances of which I should be aware?” He shook his head. “Very well. Is that all your luggage?”

“Er, yeah, this is it.” He just had his holdall, which he had dumped at his feet. “The letter said not to pack much.”

“Indeed. Very well, come along then.” Mrs. Thompson turned, almost her first body movement since he had first laid eyes on her. She moved regally, with precision. ~Is she wearing a corset?~ he wondered. It would fit with the rest of the costume.

He picked up his holdall and followed them both to the exit, enjoying the sight of the fall of Miss Thompson’s black hair swaying across her back with the long ribbon trailing off the back of her hat.

He almost expected to see a coach and horses waiting in the car park, complete with footmen in livery, or at least a Bentley and attendant chauffer, but in transport at least they seemed modern enough: A large new-looking Mercedes. Miss Thompson directed him silently to the front passenger seat, which surprised him. He always hated sitting in the back.

He’d never been in a Mercedes before. It was so big, and extremely comfortable, and he could hardly hear the engine at all, let alone anything going on outside. It was luxurious beyond his experience.

Neither of them spoke while Mrs. Thompson drove, except one short exchange after Mrs. Thompson just stopped herself from pulling out in front of someone on a roundabout, alerted from doing so at least as much by Nathan’s own hiss of anticipated disaster as from her own observation, he thought.

“You should have let me drive,” Miss Thompson said, a little acidly, from behind him.

“No, thank you Valerie,” Mrs. Thompson replied, her composure regained after a moment’s low muttering. “I need to get used to them. I can’t have you driving me everywhere forever.”

The car headed out of Cheltenham, away through the traffic and up a long hill into the countryside, soon turning off onto a B-road. It was twisty and before long he’d managed to lose all sense of direction. He gave up trying after a while and closed his eyes, feeling the sun through the trees on either side of the road flicker against his eyelids. He took a breath, trying to remember to relax. His shoulders and stomach kept trying to bunch up.

He was alerted to a change by the car slowing almost to a stop then turning sharply right. He opened his eyes, blinked and peered at the clock, nestled in the wood veneer dashboard. Only about half an hour since leaving Cheltenham. The car swept through an arched gateway into open parkland. On one side of the gateway a small house had been built as an extrusion from the fabric of the high perimeter wall. It looked empty; or unoccupied at least, as he caught a glimpse of some piled up junk in one of the windows. He sat back down in his seat and saw what they were driving towards.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed, winning a stern look from Mrs. Thompson.

It took another two or three minutes before the car reached the house at the end of the drive. It sat at the top of a low rise: a large Georgian manor house, or mansion, he wasn’t sure what the difference was. It was big anyway, and classically proportioned, and might have looked severe were it not for the bright display of climbing flowers that surrounded the tall paneled windows. Next to it stood a ten-foot high wall, also covered in climbing flowers. He wondered if it might be a walled garden. There was white blossom blowing out over the driveway from the other side of the wall.

He’d had no idea he was being sent somewhere so posh. He wondered who was paying for it. No way could Lindsey and David afford a boarding school like this, he thought. The Mercedes stopped. Mrs. and Miss Thompson got out, so he did likewise, slowly, looking around himself as he did so. There were no other cars in the driveway, and no incarcerated inmates banging warningly on the upstairs windows that he could see.

Miss Thompson hadn’t put her hat back on when she got out, so he saw for the first time how her dark hair was braided back with a simple hair roll and held by a black and silver filigree butterfly clasp at the nape of her neck. It looked very pretty, he thought; very feminine and effortlessly elegant. She spoke quietly to her mother for a moment then looked up at him. “If you’ll follow me I’ll show you up to your room,” she said, not unkindly.

“Okay.” He followed her into the house, through the large, heavy doors and the entrance hall and up the wide curved staircase. “God, look at this place.” His voice echoed.

“Jane will want to talk to you shortly about your stay here,” Miss Thompson said, making him pay attention to her rather than to the impressive neoclassical interior of the house. At the top of the stairs she doubled back and led him along a slightly dingy landing to a door. He still couldn’t quite place where she came from. If she was Mrs. Thompson’s daughter then she didn’t share her accent. Presumably she was American too, but maybe she’d been sent to an English school. Maybe her father was English, he wondered. “This is your room.” She opened the door.

Nathan walked in. There was a delicate floral fragrance. It was a large room, but the thing he noticed first was that it was pink, and everything in it was pink; the pale near-white pink of the wallpaper, the deep pink folds of the curtains, even the pink flowers in a vase on the windowsill, above the cosy window-seat with its pink cushions, drenched in the sunlight that splashed across the floor and part of the large, wooden-framed double bed. There were two large free-standing wardrobes and a free-standing full-length mirror with an ornate frame. There were more pink flowers on the bedside tables, the chest of drawers and the dressing table. The bed had a pink coverlet and turned-down white sheets with pink embroidered flowers. There was a teddy bear on the bed, leaning insouciantly against the pillows and wearing a pink bow.

It was obviously a girl’s room. There had to be some mistake. “Are you sure?” he asked aloud.

“Yes,” Miss Thompson replied, a little curtly, “she was very particular. Leave your things here, she’s waiting for you now.” She said that, he thought, as if keeping Mrs. Thompson waiting was a bad thing, and from what he’d already observed of her manner, it might very well be.

He looked around the room again, spotting the picture of a ballerina wearing a long pink tutu hanging on the wall opposite the bed. There was a second door out of the room. Maybe an en suite bathroom, he wondered.

He sighed. There didn’t look to be much point in arguing with Miss Thompson. She seemed to be watching him, studying him as if expecting him to do something. He’d mention the obvious mistake about the room to her mother. In the meantime he dropped his holdall and left his jacket on the bed. “Okay,” he said, turning back to her. “Where do I go?”

“Follow me.” She stood aside at the doorway to let him back out. He shrugged and went with her as she led the way back down to an ornate arched doorway at the bottom of the stairs and knocked twice, crisply, on the door.

“Come in,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice called from inside, and Miss Thompson pushed the door open, standing aside for him to enter. He went in and the door closed behind him. “Please, sit,” Mrs. Thompson said, not looking up. She was writing something in a file on the antique desk by the window. He walked gingerly through the parlour, not wanting to touch all the antique furniture. It looked like a set for a costume drama, Pride and Prejudice or something. The only anachronistic thing he could see, besides himself, was what had to be a brand new Powerbook G3, black and curvacious, sitting closed on the desk. There was a hard wooden chair opposite the desk. He took it.

“Um,” he began. “I think Miss Thompson might have taken me to the…” she was looking at him over her glasses. “The wrong, um…” She had the blank, hard look of someone who, having found an insect on her desk, was debating whether to squash it or spray it. “Room?” he finished, his voice reduced to a whisper.

Mrs. Thompson looked at him a few moments longer, then turned her attention back to whatever she was writing. ~Oh God, I’ve pissed her off already,~ he thought, and shut up. The seat was hard under his inadequately padded back-side. He tried for a moment to get comfortable, but she glanced up again warningly and he stopped moving. It felt like it would have been a futile effort anyway. Mrs. Thompson carried on writing, so he looked out of the window, seeing only the driveway and some tall poplar trees and, beyond, the open parkland of the estate. The nearer side window showed more parkland and, further off, some reddish-brown animals grazing. He thought they might be deer; they didn’t seem to move like cows, but they were a long way off.

“Well, Master Shaw,” Mrs. Thompson’s hard voice snapped his attention back to her. “I’ve been looking through the material your mother sent me–”

“She’s not my mother,” he retorted.

“Don’t interrupt me,” she replied. Her voice was scarily calm, with a slight stress on the ‘me,’ and accompanied by that look from her again. She obviously didn’t give a damn for the distinction. He looked down. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” she said. “Mrs. Shaw is keen to remind me of your academic prowess and the high expectations everyone seems to have of you in your educational endeavours. Indeed, that until recently you were expected to take your GCSE exams this year; a year early.” ~Oh, that’s what this is all about,~ Nathan thought. “But that in the last three months your schoolwork has suffered badly from a lack of application and failure of concentration.”

Nathan sighed. “It’s boring.” Her attitude was pissing him off already. He’d rather just get on with whatever they got on with at this school. If they thought he was going to be impressed by being hectored at they were going to be disappointed.

“You could fail, Jonathan–”

“No-one fails GCSEs. That’s the whole point. Don’t you know anything?” He heard the sourness in his own voice.

“So you think it is sufficient merely to coast through into habitual mediocrity? Is this the manner by which you intend to live your life? That will not do.” She dropped the papers and sighed. “Would that this was the worst of your problems. Look at me,” she said again. He forced himself to make eye contact. “The matter of your formal education is only of incidental interest to me. I merely bring it up so that you understand one thing, Jonathan Shaw: I am well apprised of your intelligence. In fact, I’ll make a deal with you before we go any further. I shan’t insult your intelligence if you do me the courtesy of not insulting mine. Is that understood?”

He shrugged. “’Kay.” Whatever.

“The correct response is ‘Yes, Mrs. Thompson.’”

He couldn’t help laughing. “What is this? Short Sharp Shock?”

“The correct response is ‘Yes, Mrs. Thompson,’” she said again, fixing him with that look.

~Jesus, she’s serious?~ he wondered. He wanted to say ‘you’re already insulting my intelligence,’ but thought better of it. She couldn’t really be running this place like a Victorian boarding school, he thought, starting to worry. It had to be an act. Places like that didn’t exist any more, did they?

He broke eye contact first. “Yes, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. Best to go along, figure out what this place was like. He hadn’t seen any other pupils yet, which he thought was odd. Maybe they were all in class, but he hadn’t heard any of the usual classroom sounds anywhere. Maybe they were out the back playing rugby or something equally unnecessarily violent. He shivered at the thought and hoped Lindsey had remembered to write that he was exempt from school sports. And that Mrs. Thompson would take any notice of that anyway. She didn’t look like the sort of person who believed in words like ‘exemption.’

“What this is, is your last and only chance to avoid a young offenders institution,” she laid it out. “Such places are not, I understand, rewarding of intellectual curiosity–”

“Hah!” He couldn’t help it. That was such an obvious understatement he thought it deserved it, even if it did win him that look again.

“Whereas what awaits you here may well be, if you’re up to it, and if you’re willing to apply yourself with a constructive attitude.” That sounded more interesting. “I don’t doubt your intelligence,” she reiterated. “In fact, I would go so far as to say that high intelligence is a prerequisite for someone who hopes to benefit from what I have to offer. Stupid people do not have the,” she paused, “flexibility to adapt to the circumstances in which they find themselves. This is a very specialised course, Jonathan.”

“How much are they paying you then?”

“That is none of your concern. Suffice to say Mrs. Shaw has explained to me that should you come to the attention of the authorities again, she fears that at the very least social services may feel compelled to take you back into care.” That gave Nathan a sick feeling all by itself. “She is at pains to point out how she doesn’t want this to happen, but frankly to prevent it now will require unusual remedies; which is where I come in. Now, you are, as I believe the saying goes, a ‘systems cracker,’ am I correct?”

He knew better than to admit anything, even by a change of expression. He just watched her warily. She knew about the raid. He knew that, because Lindsey would have told her. But they hadn’t found anything, which was why he wasn’t already in a prison somewhere. So they had no proof, but he was not going to give away anything. Let her say what she would.

“Lacuna,” Mrs. Thompson said quietly. “Also known as Context Switch, Threadsafe, TLM, or Thread Local Memory, Crimbols, Albedo Zero.” That was all of them. He forced his face to immobility, but the list itself scared him. No-one should have been able to put all of them together. “You’ve made it your business over the years to break into more and more sensitive and vital computer systems, belonging to commercial, public and military institutions, in order to steal sensitive data and cause many hundreds of thousands of pounds in wanton damage.”

~Too much.~ “That’s bullshit,” he blurted.

“Such obscenities will not be tolerated here, Jonathan.”

“Yes Mrs. Thompson,” he sing-songed, irritated now.

“With less attitude,” she directed, and looked at him again.

He sighed. “Yes Mrs. Thompson,” he tried, blankly.

“Better. Now, do you mean to say you deny you did those things?”

“I didn’t steal anything. Anyone says I did doesn’t understand what they’re talking about.”

“Oh really.” Her voice was perilous.

“Stealing is depriving the owner of possession. I never did that!” ~Shut up, shut up,~ he told himself. ~She’s goading you. Shut up before you say something stupid.~

“And the damage you caused?”

“I didn’t do no damage! I’m not a script kiddie!”

“Really? So you do deny it?” Her look and voice told him that was probably not a good idea. She obviously did know enough of it was true. But what she was accusing him of was an insult; the crude way in which people who don’t know a thing about computers try to map the concepts onto their narrow physical-world view.

“I did not damage anything,” he said firmly. “That’s not my style.”

“I have here a document that indicates you caused eight hundred and sixty five thousand dollars’ worth of damage to one company’s computer systems alone. You deny that?

“Yes.”

She sat back slowly. “The company in question chose not to press charges, no doubt to avoid adverse publicity. However there’s no question–”

“Look,” he said, in too far to back out. He had to try to explain now. “Look, they talk about damage because they want to claim on the insurance, don’t they? That figure… That figure includes the cost of completely replacing every system I touched with the newest model. They say ‘damage,’ like I did — like I could do — anything to physically damage anything! The most they’d have to do is reinstall and restore from backup, and not even that if they had any clue. I clean up after myself. It’s just an insurance scam. Jesus.”

“So you’re telling me that it’s their fault for being your victims?”

“There are no victims!” he protested. “I was just looking! To see if I could!”

“I’m really not very interested in listening to your self-justifying rationales, Jonathan. The fact is, you take inordinate pride in your assumed mastery over computers and networks– What did you say?”

He had been muttering under his breath. He looked at her sullenly. “Nothing.”

“No, out with it.”

“It was a self-justifying rationale,” he spat. “You wouldn’t be interested.”

She actually tapped the nail of her left little finger twice on the desk. Nathan was perversely delighted. He’d got to her. That was probably stupid, but just at that moment it felt good.

“Do you think I’m not giving you a fair hearing? I’m not sure where you got the impression that this was a hearing of any kind. It might interest you to know that you are far from the first ‘hacker’ I’ve had to deal with, and before you correct me I am aware of the derivation of that word. No doubt you want to regale me further on how information wants to be free, or how your… targets,” she made a show of selecting the word, “should even be grateful to you for exposing flaws in their security, or even what you like to think of as incompetence in their staff, before someone less scrupulous than yourself did so? Believe me when I say I really have heard them all before. You seem to be under the misapprehension that you are here for me to judge or interrogate you. You are not.” She regarded him coolly for another few seconds. “In fact you’re here to receive a unique opportunity for personal growth, but I don’t expect you to understand that yet, or even for some time to come.”

“Great. It is a fucking outward bound course.”

“You will not use such language,” Jane enunciated. What seemed odd to him was that the way she said it sounded like a simple statement of fact, rather than an order. A small smile seemed to play around her mouth for a moment. “I don’t believe you understand the seriousness of your situation, Jonathan. Yes, I’m aware of the police raid on your house earlier this year–”

“They weren’t the police,” he blurted.

The police don’t pin you to the floor with a rifle to your head and then take the house apart looking for evidence and put it back together exactly as it was before, which was scary in itself. He had never been so scared, his eyes inches from the carpet, close enough to see all the little bits of crumbs and hair that the hoover hadn’t picked up.

The police also don’t bundle you into the back of an unmarked van and question you, loudly, for another two solid hours. He kept expecting the engine to start and the van to drive off taking him God-knows-where, but he’d kept quiet. He didn’t mention the warning he’d got from Ground Effect. The least he could do after having the stupid lack of sense to have his contact details on file.

That was what was so unfair. He hadn’t even been caught out of his own incompetence, but because he was in someone else’s address book.

Ground Effect had paid for it though. He was already locked up, and he was serving a longer sentence than he had to because he wouldn’t drop Nathan any further in it by admitting or testifying that anyone else was involved in what they’d done, so Nathan could only think so much ill of him.

And he had got the warning in time, and he’d carefully taken everything he had that might incriminate him, including hard disks and a number of books that had been hard to get and possession of which alone would be enough to land him jail time. He had buried it all under the lawn, quietly in the middle of the night, and carefully, carefully, repaired the turf where he had done it. He was still sure the men in black suits searching the garden would find the stash, but if they didn’t, he’d sworn as soon as this was over he’d thermite the lot and throw the slag into the river. He did, too.

But that was later. They didn’t find anything, so they just made him sign the Official Secrets Act and, amazingly, let him go. He’d stood in a daze in the front garden for minutes after they’d left, shaking, and swore he’d never so much as sniff another packet. Then he threw up.

No, they weren’t the police, but he supposed they were legal enough to care that they didn’t have admissible evidence, when they knew, and he knew they knew, that he had done what they’d said he’d done. But they didn’t have anything, and he kept quiet and just did his private distance trick, so it all seemed to be happening to someone else a long way away, and they had to let him go.

Lindsey had believed him about not wanting to ever hack a computer again. He’d believed it himself for a while. Nearly two months.

“It is not with that raid that I am concerned,” Mrs. Thompson said calmly, “except that even that appears not to have proven a sufficient deterrent. Indeed, it’s become clear that deterrence alone will never be enough to restrain your behaviour. It’s a shame. You’re an inquisitive, talented boy, Jonathan, and you have a lot of potential, or so I am told. No-one wants to see that left to rot in incarceration, but if you cannot be turned from your present course this is surely the future that awaits you. You understand this, do you not? We shall have to resort to more radical measures.”

“Uh, I have given up,” he said. “I promised.”

“Yes, I know you promised. Therefore I know the worth of your promises. Do you think your resumption of hacking activities wasn’t noted, Jonathan? Were you foolish enough to think no-one was paying attention, or had you merely become so confident, so flush with the success of your narrow escape, that you thought yourself invincible?”

He blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t done anything since then.”

She didn’t answer him straight away, but leafed through the file on her desk until she came to another set of stapled-together pages. “In the spirit of not insulting each other’s intelligence, I won’t pretend to understand this in detail,” she said, handing it across, “but I am given to understand it represents, to those who do, damning and admissible evidence of your ongoing activities. I’m showing it to you so you may appreciate the gravity of your situation.”

He took the papers, cursing that his hand made them shake as he did so. He made a production of getting his glasses out again and putting them on, but eventually couldn’t put it off any longer. He looked. Annotated system logs, router logs, traceroute logs converted into a graphic superimposed on a world map of the systems he’d gone through, and presumably had been traced back through… There was more. In fact, it was frighteningly comprehensive. He recognised the target system by its IP address. He’d thought he’d got out of that scot-free; he’d cleaned the logs of his presence as he’d backed out, not leaving a signature or even a back-door as he hadn’t intended to return. He got that sick-stomach feeling all over again. It was a honeypot, and it had caught him. Like a fucking script kiddie.

Which would be embarrassing enough, had it not been for who that target machine belonged to. Suffice to say they weren’t known for their indulgent attitude to inquisitive outsiders, or their sense of humour.

His eyes stung and blurred. “This…” he began. “This… this could be faked.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?” Mrs. Thompson pressed. “Are you so confident you can prove otherwise?”

He almost had to rip the glasses from his face. He rubbed tears out of his eyes and tossed the pages back onto the desk. He tried to think. He had to think. He sought distance but it wouldn’t come. He just got a headache. What kind of trap had he walked into? Who was this woman, that she had this kind of information? That she had contacts like these? Or did she work for them? What kind of operation was this? The big country house and the way it was decorated and furnished spoke of money. A lot of money. And the papers he’d just looked at talked of deep connections, not just of money, but of power, and government. And not his government either. She had an American accent.

“What is this place?” he asked; for the first time genuinely curious. A momentary fantasy flashed through his mind of being forcefully inducted into a secret spy/hacker network. He dismissed it almost immediately. It was likely to be something far less pleasant. “What do you want?” These people — whoever Mrs. Thompson worked for — had him. They had him, and… “What’s going to happen to me?” And they could do whatever they liked with him, and he couldn’t complain, or he’d end up in prison, because of the systems he’d hit. Not some young offenders institution, not in a care home, not that that would be a lot of fun either; prison, and he’d be old before he got out. There wouldn’t even be a jury, because no jury could be allowed to see the sensitive information that would come out in any real trial. That had been explained to him clearly enough in the back of that van.

Mrs. Thompson smiled. It was unpleasantly reptilian. “What’s going to happen to you?” she replied rhetorically. “Why, nothing less than the reformation of your character. Yes,” she mused. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a technique known as ‘petticoat discipline?’”

He shook his head and looked at her. “No.” It didn’t sound good.

“Hmm, yes.” She seemed to be perusing him closely for a long while. He swallowed. “Yes,” Mrs. Thompson said again. “That could work very well for you.” She leaned forward and tapped a button on the intercom on her desk. “Marie, would you come to the parlour immediately please?”

After a pause there was an answering “Yes, ma’am.” Jane flicked the intercom off and leaned back, that satisfied smile still playing over her mouth. It repelled him, that she knew the power she had, and she enjoyed it, and she didn’t even trouble herself to pretend otherwise.

“What will happen to you, Jonathan,” Jane was saying to him, “is that you will obey me in every particular until I decide you are fit to return to civilised society. You will do so without hesitation or complaint, no matter how distasteful or disagreeable you may find my instructions. You know the alternative should I encounter the slightest resistance. Do you agree to these terms?”

Oh, that sounded bad. He had no choice, he supposed, so he nodded.

“Aloud, please.”

“Y-Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Good. Now, if you would be so good as to wait outside, Marie will call you to lunch soon.”

Dismissed, he got weakly to his feet and left.

~Distance, distance.~ Miss Thompson was in the entrance hall, seated on what looked like an old school bench next to the parlour door, reading a book. She looked up at him, but he couldn’t say anything, merely numbly made his way to the other end of the bench and sat slowly. ~Oh God, what have I got myself into?~

He sought distance, until his head hurt and his eyes filled with tears again. ~It’s not happening to me,~ he begged silently. ~Not to me. Let it happen to someone else.~ He was distracted by Eleanor joining him silently. She smiled shyly at Miss Thompson, who regarded her dispassionately for a few moments before turning her attention back to her book.

Another woman crossed the hall to where he was sitting. She looked a little younger than Mrs. Thompson and was dressed in what looked not exactly like, but was somehow reminiscent of, the attire of a Victorian housekeeper. She perhaps looked a little kinder than Mrs. Thompson, though he hardly dared hope from appearances. She knocked once on the parlour door and entered.

“I’m scared,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Eleanor replied. He felt more comfortable with her.

Maybe it was because she seemed a little scared as well.

“What is this place?” He didn’t want Miss Thompson to hear him.

“Shh.” She was close. She whispered, “It’s okay, Nathan. You’re not alone–”

The parlour door opened, admitting the second older woman he’d just seen entering. ‘Marie,’ he remembered, from Mrs. Thompson speaking into the intercom. “Jane will see you now, Valerie,” the woman told Miss Thompson, who silently closed her book and went in, closing the door. “So,” the woman said to him. “You must be Nathan.”

“Y-Yes,” he managed to say, and stood up. It seemed the right thing to do.

“Oh my dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did she scare you that much?”

~She? Oh.~ “Mrs. Thompson?” He trailed off, wanting to cry again, and trying hard to stop it happening.

The woman — Marie, he remembered again — smiled warmly and took his hand. “There now, it isn’t as bad as all that. Come along.” She released his hand and started to move off, stopping almost immediately to look back at him, hesitating by the bench. “Come along,” she said again.

He followed. “Where are you taking me?”

She looked at him, seeming amused. “Oh, she did scare you, didn’t she.” She smiled. “We’re just going into the dining room for lunch. Jane and Miss Valerie will be joining you in a few moments.” She led him through a doorway into what was obviously the dining room, with three place settings already laid on the large table. Glass-panelled doors opened onto a terrace, the stone like warm honey in the sunlight. “Now,” Marie started, and guided him to the table, “Jane has some very particular rules. One of them is that her students must wait for her at mealtimes before being seated. What you must do is to stand behind your chair, just there,” she guided him to a spot behind one of the high-backed dining chairs, “until she arrives. She will sit, then she will invite you to be seated. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “Er. Okay.” It seemed like a strange rule, but harmless enough, he supposed. Marie nodded back, satisfied, and departed through a different door, on the far side of the room.

He dreaded lunch; he knew he was going to have to try to eat and keep the food down and his stomach was already cramping with the tension. Eleanor stayed with him, though, which made him feel a little better.

Mrs. Thompson swept into the room through a different door. Nathan guessed that it led directly from the parlour. She was closely followed by her daughter, who didn’t come to the table, but went straight through the same door by which Marie had left. Mrs. Thompson took her seat and settled herself. “You may be seated,” she said crisply. He sat quickly, but she was already looking at him disapprovingly. “Really you have no grace at all, have you,” she said, and busied herself with her napkin, sighing irritably. “Sit up straight, do.”

“’M sorry,” he said, and tried to sit straighter.

“And don’t mumble. I cannot abide people mumbling. If you have something worth saying, say it clearly and distinctly, otherwise do not trouble to open your mouth.”

~Even to eat?~ he wondered hopefully, doubting that would be a wise remark to make. Instead he looked down at his place setting. Silver cutlery on a crisp white linen tablecloth with lace detailing. No less than three cut-crystal glasses for each place setting. Everything was so posh, he felt intimidated. A sound alerted him to Miss Thompson returning with plates. She went first to Jane, who thanked her, then came around and put a plate down in front of Nathan. It looked like a starter from a really posh restaurant; marinated salmon with a glaze and some dressing he couldn’t identify immediately, and a salad garnish. That was all right. He could at least eat the salad and maybe some of the salmon.

“You may begin,” Mrs. Thompson said. Miss Thompson took up a position in attendance a little to the side, just out of his direct line of sight, which he found a little disconcerting as well. He picked up the outermost knife and fork pair, remembering his mother saying something once about ‘if you ever get invited to a posh dinner, use the knives and forks from the outside in, you can’t go too wrong then.’ Eleanor seemed amused by this, but Mrs. Thompson didn’t make any comment. The cutlery was heavy and solid; real silver all the way through, obviously. He picked off a few pieces of salad and tried to eat them, and not to think of the way the leaves felt in his mouth. His knife clattered down as he held the back of his hand to his mouth.

“Are you quite all right?” Mrs. Thompson asked. He nodded, and with an effort of will made himself swallow. There was some kind of herby, vinegary stuff on the salad he hadn’t been expecting.

“Can I have some water?” he asked. There was a pitcher of it on the table he’d had his eye on before even sitting down, frosted on the outside of the crystal glass.

“The correct way to ask is to say ‘please may I have some water?’” Mrs. Thompson corrected him. “And yes, you may.”

“Th-Thank you,” he stammered, and picked up the largest of the glasses in front of him meaning to turn it back the right way up. The edge of it clipped the upturned base of one of the smaller ones and chimed clearly. The glass was deftly taken out of his hand and placed on the tablecloth the right way up. Miss Thompson then retrieved the pitcher of water and poured his glass, then retreated silently.

“You must learn to take more care, and not to lunge after anything you want with the delicacy of a caveman,” Mrs. Thompson commented. There didn’t seem to be an appropriate answer to that, so he got on with drinking his water with exaggerated care, trying not to make a noise.

He tried a piece of salmon next. It was good, but he didn’t want to eat too much. Maybe, he thought, if he ate really slowly they’d move on to the next course before he’d finished. Perhaps that was the way to do it. Or would she insist he finish everything for each course? He didn’t know what he’d do if that was the case.

“Mm,” Mrs. Thompson was saying. “I must say, Marie has excelled herself. This is delicious, is it not, Nathan?”

He nodded mutely and tried another piece. It was, he could agree, very very good. It was a shame he couldn’t finish it. He didn’t dare, the way his stomach was playing up. Mrs. Thompson went on about other matters; the weather, some recent item of news. Miss Thompson did indeed return and take his plate before he had half finished it, and he thought he saw her looking at it meaningly for a moment, then she was gone, to return shortly afterwards with a plate for her mother.

“Thank you, Valerie,” Mrs. Thompson said again. Nathan looked across at her plate, trying not to be obvious about it. Sliced potato in what appeared to be a creamy cheese sauce and some meat that was pink. A small side dish Miss Thompson had also brought contained brocolli, carrots, cauliflower. Miss Thompson returned with the same dishes for him. There was so much food. He took some more water to cover his rising panic.

“The dauphinoise is excellent. Valerie, would you be so good as to convey my appreciation to Marie, and congratulate her also on the duck.”

“Yes, Jane, I’ll tell her immediately,” Miss Thompson said, curtseyed and left.

“Do you see how Miss Valerie carries herself, Jonathan?” Mrs. Thompson addressed him. “Such unassuming grace, such neatness. Do you not find her a pleasure to watch?”

He nodded. He thought she was a pleasure to watch, but not for any reasons he’d want to admit to Mrs. Thompson. And besides, he was wondering what sort of woman this was that made her own daughter serve her at dinner rather than joining them, and what that meant for his own chances for reasonable treatment.

“She wasn’t always so, mark you,” Mrs. Thompson was continuing. “Indeed, when I first met her I daresay her manners were almost as uncouth as your own. So maybe there is hope for you as well. We shall see.”

Nathan was thinking again how Miss Thompson really did not look anything like her mother. ~She’s not her real daughter,~ he realised with a start, tracking Jane’s words carefully. ~And she treats her like that. Like a servant.~ He remembered meeting her waiting outside the parlour, waiting to be allowed in to talk to her about something, like a pupil seeing her headmistress. ~Is Mrs. Thompson her stepmother? Or is she adopted?~

~Like me?~

Lindsey and David had never shown any sign that they thought of him as anything other than their own child. They really were okay, he thought, when he thought about how they could have been. He almost wished he’d been adopted by them soon enough that he really could think of them as his parents… but that would have meant he wouldn’t have known his own real Mum and Dad, and it was hard enough anyway, holding on to their memory.

The moment of reflection gave him distance, and he let the meal pass, watching Eleanor eating slowly while Mrs Thompson continued. “I do believe refined manners are the cornerstone of a civilised society. It is simple courtesy, and consideration for your fellow man, and when people forget basic good manners what is left of society is held up only by fear and force and must surely fall to animal savagery. What do you think?”

He swallowed quickly to speak, but Eleanor answered first. “I think animals have manners too,” she said. “Many animals have rituals, don’t they? Like for courtship or to resolve territorial disputes. They don’t like to fight, so they have these rituals to try to work it out without anyone getting hurt. That’s a kind of manners isn’t it? I mean, you just have to look at a pride of lions and how they behave.”

Mrs. Thompson raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, you may have a point, but I find your logic flawed. Don’t forget that when a young mature lion takes over a pride from an old competitor, he does so because he is larger and stronger and more dangerous, not because he exceeds the older rival in wisdom or intelligence, and even if he and the old lion agree not to fight each other, which you may take for manners but which I maintain is still merely the threat of force, the young lion’s first act will be to kill all the cubs sired by the old one. No, I shan’t be taking any lessons in civilised behaviour from lions,” she smiled. Eleanor ducked her head, embarrassed. “But you do have a point,” Mrs. Thompson conceded, “you merely chose a poor example. You might find a study of the great apes to be of more relevance, or of certain bird species. For my part, I’ll amend my statement and say merely that a failure of manners presages a descent into savagery. How is that?”

Eleanor smiled weakly and had some more duck. She seemed to be enjoying it anyway, even if she, too, ate sparingly and slowly.

“Which is why I propose to begin your re-education with a thorough training in refined manners. For far too long you have behaved as if you believe you can simply take what you want, and amuse yourself as you may with no thought or consideration for how your actions affect others. Such intolerable behaviour would not even be indulged in a small child. It is of course the first thing we teach our children, is it not? Not to take what doesn’t belong to you; not because you might be caught, but because it is wrong to do so. After all, I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if someone hacked into your computers and looked at your private files.”

“They wouldn’t be able to,” Nathan said. “I’m not stupid. I don’t leave my system open to attack.”

“Oh, but Jonathan, that is no more than the reasoning of might. I don’t dispute that in your domain — the domain of computers and the internet — you have skills and strength I can barely comprehend, and that you are well able to defend yourself from others who would wish to take from you. I can even see how you might find that a captivating, seductive arena into which you may withdraw from a threatening world in which you are but a small and weak child, am I correct?” Nathan blushed, angry at that description, and didn’t answer. She shook her head sadly. “It’s not a question of whether you can defend yourself. In time you will learn there will always be someone better, quicker and cleverer than you. I think you know this already, or you would not have found yourself here. It’s a question of whether you think it right or fair that others should attack you? And if not, how can you fail to apply that standard to yourself? No. Good manners and the consideration for others they demonstrate remind us in their constant practice that there are other reasons to value people in our society than merely the power they have.”

She fell silent, to eat. He stared at his dinner for a few moments.

“I think,” he dared, “I think it’s easy to say that when you have the power.”

Mrs. Thompson looked at him curiously, waiting while she finished her mouthful. “On the contrary, Jonathan. Very much on the contrary. The need for manners increases with power. Have you never heard the saying ‘the manners of a king?’” Embarrassed again, he looked down, feeling the heat in his face. He could tell Mrs. Thompson was watching him, even as she continued to eat. “I believe I shall enjoy having you here, Jonathan,” she said eventually. “You have a lively mind. You are simmering with confusion and resentment and wild, adolescent impulses and ill-directed talents, but you do have a mind worthy of our effort to reclaim it, I believe. It needs only discipline and training to bring it out. Do eat, before your lunch gets cold.”

They ate in silence; or at least Mrs. Thompson ate, and Nathan picked at his food until Miss Thompson reappeared and took his plate away, to his great relief, even if, as he knew she would, she returned moments later with dessert. It was a lemon tart with double cream, and it really did look delicious. He thought he was going to faint just from the thought of the sugar. He really did feel full.

“It is my custom to have sherry with lunch,” Mrs. Thompson said. Her daughter was returning again with a silver tray bearing two small glasses, one red, one blue. She placed the red glass at Mrs. Thompson’s right hand. “Thank you, Valerie,” she said, and raised it for inspection. Miss Thompson came around and placed the matching-opposite blue glass in front of Nathan. It already had sherry in it. He could smell the fortified wine, cloying. He thought he had a memory somewhere, of his grandparents — his real grandparents, on Dad’s side — who would always have sherry for Sunday lunch. He’d been too young for it himself back then, but he was reminded of it now. The smell, the delicate long-stemmed glass, which itself was so thin, so fragile that it seemed as if a careless gesture could shatter it. He looked up at a movement in his peripheral vision, seeing Mrs. Thompson holding the glass up, briefly sniffing it, then making a gesture towards him. “I welcome you to my house,” she said, and drank. He smiled wanly and took a sip. “May you find it educational and ultimately rewarding,” Mrs. Thompson continued, and drank again. He drank again as well. Something about the way he did so seemed to have dissatisfied her though, going by her expression. “Well,” she merely added. “We have a long way to go.” He wondered what he’d done wrong.

“Thank you,” he said, having an instinct that might be what she wanted.

“Late gratitude is better than none I suppose,” Mrs. Thompson was saying, “although you should direct your thanks towards Miss Valerie. She has been prompt and attentive all through lunch and you haven’t thanked her once.”

~Oh God.~ He looked up at Miss Thompson, and caught the end of a defiant look towards her mother, her blue eyes seeming to flash even more intensely for that moment. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Thank you M-Miss Thompson.”

“Miss Valerie will suffice, Nathan,” Mrs. Thompson instructed him.

“Miss V-Valerie,” he managed. He felt dizzy with the shame of it, the embarrassment, and what he felt must be his face glowing crimson from the drink. “I thought, I thought…” He ran out of words, not being able to figure out what he thought.

Miss Thompson turned a more benevolent look towards him. “That’s all right, Nathan.”

Still feeling Mrs. Thompson’s eyes on him, he mimed eating some of the dessert, and hoped she didn’t notice him put the spoon back down still laden. He couldn’t eat it. Dessert passed excruciatingly slowly, punctuated by sips of the warm, smooth, sweet sherry.

He was tired. More tired than he’d realised, until he caught himself yawning at the table. He looked up at Jane regarding him sternly. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Indeed.” Mrs. Thompson’s voice was tight, disapproving. His cheeks burned.

He yawned. He couldn’t help it. Everything seemed to be catching up with him at once. He phased out for what seemed just a moment. When he came back the dessert dishes were gone and there was a vague sense of loss and loneliness that he couldn’t quite place. Mrs. Thompson was still talking about something, but he couldn’t track onto it. He stared at the sherry glass in stupefaction.

“’M sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sure if it was in response to something Mrs. Thompson had said. He couldn’t figure out what was missing.

“Jonathan,” she said, “you seem tired from your journey.” He nodded, feeling another yawn coming on. “Why don’t you go up to your room for a short nap, and we’ll continue later.”

~Meant to talk to her about the girl’s room,~ he thought fuzzily. “Mmm,” came out. He made a greater effort. “Than’ you Mizz’s Thoms’n;” he could hear his own voice slurring. So embarrassing. “I thin’…” He needed to lie down, that much was certain. He took a breath and stood, trying to individually control each muscle in his body as he did so. He saw the door he’d come in through, ~stairs that way,~ he reminded himself, and headed in that direction. He thought he was doing reasonably well until he pitched to the side and just caught himself on the door-frame. Then Miss Valerie was by his side, supporting him discreetly as she walked him out into the hallway and up the stairs. He could still co-operate. He didn’t want her to have to try to carry him after all. This was embarrassing enough. He wasn’t sure how much of that sherry he’d had. The glass had been nearly-empty when he left it, but he’d gone distant again for a moment back there, or at least he thought he had, and he hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t sure if he’d had a refill in that time.

He thought of Mum and Dad drinking sherry at lunchtime with Dad’s parents, then driving home. They must’ve been made of stern stuff, he thought. He remembered being small, lying in the back seat with Sara looking up through the car window at the phone lines sweeping up and down, up and down. They’d take it in turns to count. ~No,~ he decided suddenly. ~No. Sherry isn’t this strong.~ “Bin drugged,” he heard himself say. It seemed to take an age. “Where you takin’ me?”

“Bed, that’s all,” Miss Valerie replied. She sounded a little irritated. He guessed she had cause. “Come on, nearly there.”

“Scared,” he mumbled. “Don’ drug me.”

“It was just a glass of sherry.” His legs were going, and Miss Valerie was having to work harder to get him along. “You’re too skinny, you know? You can’t take your drink, is all.”

Nathan shook his head, and immediately regretted it as the landing pitched around him and wouldn’t stop. Miss Valerie was moving him along firmly, into the room he’d seen earlier. “Pink,” he muttered, seeing it. There was something vaguely obscene about it, but he couldn’t quite remember what, or why. “Fuck’n’ put me in a girl’s room,” he growled.

“Shush. Sit down.” She pushed him back onto the bed.

His head wouldn’t stop. He felt like he was being spun and twisted and stretched all at once. “Feel sick,” he said. He tried to get up.

“Oh no you don’t,” she admonished, and pushed him back down easily.

“Not drunk,” he insisted. “Drugged. Oh shit. Oh shit.”

“Shh.”

“What was it? What’re you gon’ do to me?” The fear returned. Of course he was being drugged. Of course he was. And then they could do… They could do… Anything.

“Nothing. I’m going to help you get into bed and you’re going to sleep it off. That’s all.”

“Don’ lie to me!” he cried out, more forcefully. ~Oh God. This is it then.~ “What was it? What’s going to happen to me?” ~Oh God. They’re going to operate on me, or ship me out, or… or…~ He felt tears sting his eyes again, and a moment of lucidity from his panic. ~Adrenaline.~

Miss Thompson’s hand was firm on his shoulder. She seemed to loom over him. He felt naked in front of those piercing blue eyes. But she didn’t look angry. Not really. She looked… He couldn’t figure it out.

“It’s just a light sedative,” she said, calmly and slowly. “That’s all it is, I swear it, just to help you take a nap. It hit you harder than it should have ’cause you’re underweight and you didn’t eat much, okay? You hearing me?” He nodded. She sounded really concerned. “You’ll wake up in a couple of hours and you’ll be right here.”

“Don’, don’ leave me?” he begged. He felt pathetic for doing so, but he felt pathetic anyway. He was really scared, and she seemed to be actually concerned. And she was adopted too, but Mrs. Thompson treated her like a servant. Maybe. Maybe. “Please?”

She sighed and looked at her watch. “All right.”

“Promise?”

She gave him a look. “Yeah, I promise. I’ll watch you. Arms up.” She was doing something bending over him, lifting his sweater. He’d got his arms up almost as an automatic response to her direction, but now he got scared.

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting some of these clothes off you. You’ll be more comfortable.”

His head was lost in the upturned sweater. “No!” he cried, feeling another wave of panic. “NO!” His head emerged from the neck of the sweater, his hair crackling down around him. He’d lost his ponytail band. He didn’t want her seeing him. Seeing his skinny body as his T-shirt rode up. “STOP!” He grabbed after the sweater and hugged it close. He didn’t want to let it go.

“Hey!” Miss Valerie’s voice was sharp, annoyed again, almost like Mrs. Thompson’s. “What do you think I’m going to do?” He looked at her. He didn’t want to think about what they were going to do. That was the problem. “You know what it’s like when you sleep with all your clothes on,” she continued. “You’ll be rank.”

He looked at her. He wanted to believe her. It seemed logical. He did need to sleep. He wanted to sleep, and she promised, didn’t she? She promised.

And saying anything just seemed too complicated now, like that part of his brain had shut down already.

“So are you going to help me take your pants off now, or am I going to have to do it myself when you’re asleep?” Miss Valerie asked. ~No!~ he rebelled, knowing for sure he really didn’t want her to take his underpants off. “Trousers!” Miss Valerie corrected herself. “Just your jeans, okay?” He stared at her stupidly. ~Pants? She is American!~ He congratulated himself that he could make an observation like that at a time like that. She looked slightly annoyed, as if she was aware of the mistake.

Okay then, he could cope with that. He could cope with taking his own jeans off, thank you. He tried anyway, fumbling at the fly and the zip until it went down and he could tug his jeans down over his hips. He wanted to lie down now. He really wanted to lie down. The dizziness was making him feel nauseous

“Shoes first,” Miss Valerie said and sat him up straight again so she could undo his shoelaces and pull his shoes and socks off, and then helped him to get the jeans down and off over his bare feet. “Man, I see what you mean,” she said, seeing his brightly patterned boxers. “Those boxers are bad for the eyes.”

He didn’t care. He pitched over, letting her navigate him in between the sheets, and oblivion.

***

Nathan felt warm and immensely comfortable. He didn’t want to open his eyes yet. The room was bright with sunlight, but it wasn’t shining directly on him. He was lying curled up on his side, which wasn’t how he normally slept, but he didn’t mind. There was a cool breeze from somewhere, and the distinctive sound of someone typing on a laptop keyboard. It was a comforting sound, like home. He opened his eyes.

Miss Valerie was sitting in the window-seat, her legs stretched out along its cushions, her attention on a small notebook computer on her lap. She’d tipped her head forwards a little to get her eyes out of the direct sunlight, but where the sun coming through the window struck her black hair he could see beautiful, iridescent glints of colour; green, blue, purple. She seemed so quiet and self-absorbed and romantic. “Cool,” he whispered. It hardly did justice to what he was seeing, and he immediately regretted it because her intense blue eyes were on him, instantly suspicious and alert.

“What?”

“Your hair,” he said. He didn’t want to move, he felt so nice and cosy.

Miss Valerie looked momentarily irritated by something, but she just swung her legs off the window seat and sat up, moving her head fully into the shade. It just looked like ordinary black hair again, which was a shame. Not that it wasn’t still nice, with the way it was rolled back from her face and the pretty butterfly-clasp. He smiled. He wanted to touch it, especially where it was braided over her ears. He imagined the feel of it beneath his fingertips. The sheets were smooth and cool, not ordinary cotton or linen. He stretched, and his legs slipped sensuously between them.

“See? Nothing happened,” she said.

He frowned, then remembered. “Oh, God. That was so embarrassing.” He felt ashamed; getting drunk at the table like that. “I’m really sorry.” He was fuzzy on the details, but he thought he remembered having to be helped up the stairs.

Miss Valerie smiled, after a moment’s hesitation. “Don’t worry about it.”

He rolled over onto his back for a few moments, then sat up and looked around himself, back at Miss Valerie, and inevitably at her notebook computer. It looked like a Libretto. “That a Model 50?” he hazarded. She gave him a look and closed the lid.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Cool. I saw the Powerbook downstairs. I guess she gets all the fancy new kit, right?” Comfortable ground.

“This suits me fine,” she said.

“Place is floodwired,” he said approvingly, which got him another suspicious glance from Miss Valerie. “Sockets everywhere,” he explained, pointing to where the ethernet patch cable ran from her Libretto down to the double-RJ45 skirting-board socket. He’d seen sockets like that everywhere he’d been so far, although that wasn’t far. “Did they hide all the computers ’cause they knew I was coming?” He grinned and stretched his arms over his head, and immediately dropped them again, deciding his T-shirt was a little the worse for having slept in it during a warm afternoon. He wanted to change, but he couldn’t see his holdall anywhere. He thought he’d put it down by the bed…

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Miss Valerie said. No, well, that figured.

Maybe someone had unpacked for him. It seemed that sort of place. He couldn’t see the clothes he had been wearing earlier either. He couldn’t remember taking them off. Nervously, he quickly dipped a hand back under the sheets to double-check he still had his boxers on. He did. He spotted his glasses resting on the bedside table, so whoever must have put his jacket away took the time to find and remove them.

“Where’s my stuff?” he asked aloud.

Miss Valerie didn’t answer him. Instead she busied herself with detaching her Libretto from the wall sockets. Odd, he thought, the easy familiary with which she did so, quickly looping the patch cable up into a neat ring with a tucked-through length to keep it stable so it could be hung up and wouldn’t tangle in storage.

“Jane will be coming to talk to you again soon,” Miss Valerie said, finishing with the cable. “I’d better go.” She gathered everything up, including a first aid kit he hadn’t realised she’d had, and started to leave. He worried suddenly, seeing the first aid. Had something happened while he was asleep?

“Wait–” he called. She stopped at the door. “Um,” he hesitated, now he had her attention. The simple truth was he didn’t want her to go and leave him alone, especially if Mrs. Thompson was coming back. “She’s coming back? Where are my clothes?” Valerie’s eyes darted to an article of clothing draped on the bed near his feet. It looked like a girl’s sheer dressing gown. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he’d hardly been in a state to. “Oh funny.”

She gave him a funny kind of half smile and then, to his surprise, executed a perfect Prisoner salute before turning from the doorway and pulling it closed behind her.

He leaned forwards and picked up the gown so he could look at it. It was pink, inevitably, and made of some satiny material. It slid over the back of his hand, making the small hairs stand up. ‘You see, it’s just totally frictionless,’ he imagined Zaphod saying. He got out of bed, deciding he had more urgent business, and hoping that second door led into a bathroom.

***

“Settling in, I see?”

“Ah!”

Mrs. Thompson’s voice had startled him, coming from behind. He hadn’t heard her come in. He backed quickly away from the wardrobe, feeling a little guilty.

“Sorry, I…” It hadn’t taken long to figure out that his own things weren’t in any of the wardrobes. Presumably whoever had taken them had put them in the room where he was supposed to be. Which meant he had no business looking in some unknown girl’s things. “I didn’t mean to look,” he said inadequately. He noticed some of the drawers in the large chest were still open, seemingly bursting with frills and lace. He gulped and looked back at Mrs. Thompson sheepishly. “Um…” He pulled the dressing gown closer around his waist, and not knowing where else to put his hands, hooked his thumbs over the belt.

“Don’t say ‘Um,’” Mrs. Thompson corrected him. “I won’t abide such sloppy habits of speech. And whatever do you mean you didn’t mean to look? Of course you meant to look. Why should you deny it.” He felt his face heat up with embarrassment. “Did you like them?” The tone of her voice had turned, becoming gentle and inquisitive.

“Wh-What?”

“Come now, Jonathan, don’t be shy.” She crossed quickly to where he was standing in front of the large, old-fashioned double-doored wardrobe. “They are beautiful, don’t you think?” She used the back of her hand to gently brush along the row of hanging dresses. She pushed open a gap and gently eased one forward so he could see it properly. She was smiling at him strangely. “I think this one is especially lovely, don’t you?” The dress she was showing him was midnight blue, and had a bodice top and a full, long skirt and no sleeves. “So feminine, so graceful.”

“It’s okay, I guess,” he muttered, not really caring. He felt flustered and confused. There was something odd about all the clothes in the wardrobes, he realised. There wasn’t anything ordinary. It all seemed to be posh frocks and costumes and lingerie and petticoats, and no jeans or T-shirts or shorts or trainers, or anything casual or plain at all. And Mrs. Thompson was looking at him curiously.

“Did Valerie tell you to wear that gown?” she asked casually.

“Gow–” He looked quickly down at it. “No, er…” His hair was still damp. “I had a shower,” he explained quickly. “Guess I nee– I mean, I needed it. Got kind of manky sleeping in the day like that–” He broke off as she approached him. “Only, I couldn’t find my own things, so–” He backed off. He didn’t like the way she was looking at him.

“Do you like wearing it? Does it feel nice?”

He took another step back, even though she hadn’t advanced further. “Um, it’s okay.” He hadn’t even thought about it. She was still looking at him, making him feel selfconscious. “It’s a bit cold, if you must know. Like I said, I couldn’t find my own things, so unless you wanted me to wear a dress this was all there wa–” He stopped, frozen by the look on Mrs. Thompson’s face. He wished he hadn’t said that. He had an instant, irrational fantasy that if he hadn’t said it, if he could unsay it, everything would be all right again and this would really be a school and not what he suddenly thought it might be. “I th-th– I think Va– I-I think Miss Valerie b-brought me to the wrong room by mistake,” he stammered hopefully. ~Let me be wrong, let me be wrong, he wished.~

“She did not.” The words were enough to confirm his fears. He felt physically sick. “This is your room, Jonathan, for as long as you are to stay with us.”

“But…” He had to be sure. “It’s a girl’s room,” he pointed out redundantly.

“Why, indeed it is,” Mrs. Thompson agreed, with all the appearance of congratulating him on a difficult observation. She smiled; again, that horrible, knowing smile. Nathan’s heart sank.

“It is for me, isn’t it?” he said, his voice shaking badly. He took another couple of steps back. “Oh God, you want me to…” He couldn’t say it. The backs of his legs bumped against something and he fled. Distance–

***

She was a rich and powerful woman, and rich and powerful people like their games, don’t they? The ones where people are the pieces.

It made perfect sense, in a way. No-one would miss him. He didn’t have any real friends at school, and the teachers, some of whom he got on with, all thought he was being transferred or something, so they wouldn’t ask questions. He didn’t have any family to miss him; not any real family anyway. He’d thought Lindsey and David were his family, but they’d sent him here, to this place, and Lindsey… He didn’t have words for how Lindsey had betrayed him.

It made perfect sense. No-one would miss him. No-one would ask what happened to him. He would be erased.

Even if he escaped, he couldn’t go back home. Even if he thought for a moment Lindsey and David wanted him back, Mrs. Thompson would get the spooks down on him, just because she could; and they’d bring him straight back here, or somewhere worse. So if he ran away he’d have to disappear. Never be found. He shuddered at the thought, but he was older now, and smarter, and he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

***

Nathan was having difficulty breathing. He staggered as Marie — Miss Marie, as he’d lately been corrected to say by Mrs. Thompson, tightened the laces of the corset a little further, and that was it for taking any more deep breaths in the near future. “That’s better now,” Miss Marie said, sounding satisfied. She turned him around to face her, so she could hitch the petticoat over the corset to his waist and tighten it there with a drawstring. “If you wear it too loosely it will slip and chafe, and believe me that will become painful.”

“What about,” he ran out of air and had to inhale, “my ribs?” Another inhale. “Won’t they,” breath, “get deformed?”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice came from behind him. Miss Marie’s light touch at his hip directed him to turn around, away from her, to face Mrs. Thompson. He discovered an odd rigidity in his lower vertebrae and pelvis, so when he turned, he had to actually step around, rather than just twisting his torso.

“I remember — seeing something — about it — on telly.” This was getting tiring. “They used to — have their bottom ribs — removed. You’re not going to–”

“I should think not,” Mrs. Thompson replied severely.

“Nathan, breathe up here,” Miss Marie told him, her hands illustrating her upper chest. “Don’t try to breathe down into your stomach. Bring it up into your shoulders.” She demonstrated with a breath of her own, showing him how it lifted her chest. Nathan tried to emulate her. It seemed to work. He still couldn’t take a really deep breath, but some of the lightheadedness went away. He had to keep remembering to do it though. Breathing became a conscious effort, and he was already feeling an aching in his lower back as he fought to keep it in a position of least discomfort. “Come along, I haven’t laced this nearly tightly enough to give you real breathing difficulties; you just need to learn to do it differently.”

She went aside and picked up the next petticoat from the others draped on the bed; while she did so, Mrs. Thompson continued, “Corsets are like many other things in life, Jonathan; perfectly safe in moderation. In your case I’m using it as a training aid, to correct your frankly execrable posture habits. Have you noticed how much taller you are?” He nodded. He seemed to have gained an extra couple of inches of height, which was interesting. He hadn’t been aware that he slouched.

The two women worked together to raise the second petticoat and lower it over his head so it could settle over the one already there.

Nathan shivered slightly. He wasn’t cold. It was just intense. The attentions of the two older women as they dressed him was confusing him. He tried to remember to be scared and angry, but after all they weren’t actually touching him anywhere bad, were they? Throughout the evening they had been completely assured and discreet about where they put their hands as they directed and turned him, and did things to his hair and face, and dressed him.

They were so gentle, and it occurred to him that he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been touched, save by a stray punch or kick at school. Lindsey would insist on a hug, sometimes, but he’d usually wriggle out of it. He couldn’t remember what his mother or father felt like at all. In a way it was nice being the centre of attention for once. He was so used to being unregarded; so used to using that to his advantage. He didn’t understand what he was feeling; he couldn’t properly connect to a feeling that wasn’t entirely his, but it was there all the same; stirring and dangerous and oddly frustrating, like he was about to start crying again.

The process was repeated with the third and fourth petticoats in an almost reverential silence. He found himself at once fascinated and repelled by the look on Mrs. Thompson’s face. Not saying anything; her face in perfect repose; he detected a little extra colour in her cheeks; her eyes wide and dark; she seemed visibly to both relax and become invigorated as each petticoat settled down over the one before. There was a growing, tense energy underneath her movements, and in the flicker and focus of her eyes, that stood in contrast to Miss Marie’s steady efficiency. He held his breath for a few moments, and the only sound was the susurrus of chiffon and lace, and the softly-whispered answer of Mrs. Thompson’s own silk skirts as she circled him, and the two women breathing.

The last petticoat went on, and the silence continued for a few more moments while Mrs. Thompson surveyed her handiwork and, finally, sighed in evident satisfaction.

“Marie, I have some other business to attend to downstairs, which I can’t put off any longer. Could you finish dressing him and send him down to me when he’s ready? I shall be in the parlour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Miss Marie said. She was coming out with more such occasional French phrases as the evening wore on.

“Now then, Jonathan, you are to do exactly as Miss Marie directs you, do you understand? In my absence you are to obey her precisely as you would me.”

He nodded, but her look told him she expected more. “Yes, Mrs. Thompson,” he said meekly.

“Good child. In that case I’ll leave you in her capable hands. I shall hear of it if you give her any trouble,” she warned. Then she departed, and he was left alone with Miss Marie.

“Let’s finish getting you dressed, dear, shall we?” Miss Marie said, all efficiency and professionalism, and moved aside to a wardrobe. Nathan sighed with relief that Mrs. Thompson had gone and took the opportunity to look down and see what had happened already. His first impression was that he seemed to rise at waist-level from a wide white undulating cone — practically a disc — of chiffon. It was almost as if he was sitting on a small, private cloud, except he could feel he was standing. He could also feel a constriction around his legs, which he put down to the stockings. He couldn’t actually see them past the rim of the petticoat-cloud.

The corset was worn over a sheer peach-coloured camisole. It hooked together down the front — the ‘busk,’ he’d heard Miss Marie say. There was no hope of opening it that way, now that the laces at the back had been tensioned. It was white and further embroidered with white and fitted under and accentuated his… bust? That gave him a little start, but he could see the padded bra, looking straight down the front of the camisole. This time he fought the panic distance, and the inevitable headache threatened as it did whenever he fought it, but it subsided again, remaining at a low, manageable level. He’d chosen to remain involved. For the moment. “God,” he only said, quietly to himself, having won that small victory, and watched amazed at how his bosom heaved.

“Here’s your dress,” Miss Marie said, returning from the wardrobe bearing another garment. “What do you think? It’s very pretty, isn’t it?” It was a bright green satiny dress with more white lace detailing.

“Yes Miss Marie, it’s beautiful, but it does not suit me.”

Miss Marie raised both eyebrows, and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He grinned wryly.

“Oh, you speak French! Marvellous!” Miss Marie crowed, apparently delighted. “But you’re talking nonsense, dear. You will be so beautiful in this dress.”

“I’m not–” he started to protest.

“In French, if you please.”

~Me and my big mouth. I had to show off.~ He sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” If he wasn’t going to win that argument in English, he didn’t fancy his chances in GCSE-standard French.

He let her get on with putting the dress on him, directing his arms through the sleeves. She turned him again so she could lace up the back of the dress, in the process pulling it close in to the corset-borrowed figure he seemed to have acquired. Her hands were nimble and efficient as she finished the lacing and briefly went around arranging the way the skirt lay across the petticoats, straightening the sleeves, and so on.

“There,” Miss Marie said brightly when she was finished. “Look at yourself in the mirror. Can you see the pretty little girl who is there?” He gave her a dirty look at that, but went. He had to admit he was curious about what he looked like now anyway, so he didn’t resist her light touch at his waist directing him to stand before the tall free-standing mirror. The petticoats rustled softly against each other and his legs as he moved.

He looked. “Oh my God,” he whispered. The girl in the mirror mouthed the words back as he spoke them. He saw his own eyes widen. The make-up made his eyes look even bigger than normal. Rouge on his cheeks, and pink lipstick. It looked overdone to him, maybe like party make-up for a small child, but it created an unmistakeably feminine impression all the same.

“Oh, perfect! You are very beautiful!” Marie exclaimed. “Madam will be delighted.”

~I look like kiddie-trade,~ Nathan thought dispiritedly. It was disturbing. They weren’t even being subtle about it. It was probably just as well he didn’t know the French for what he looked like.

“What happened to my hair?” he cried out loud, perversely upset by that out of all proportion to everything else that had happened to his appearance. It was almost a welcome distraction. His hair had gone from its normal darkish red to a light, sandy red. There must have been dye in the shampoo, he realised. Worse even than that, it seemed to have been curled and dressed back away from his face to fall in ringlets to his shoulders. “Oh bloody hell,” he moaned. The ringlets bobbed. It was nauseating.

“Oh yes, too bad it won’t last,” Miss Marie was saying, toying with one of his ringlets. “Alas, curling tongs are only good for a few hours; we shall have to see about a more, hmm,” she smiled at him via the mirror, “long term solution.” His heart sank further at that. “It’s so nice that your hair’s long though,” she continued. “Although it is shockingly neglected of course. When did you last have it cut?”

He was staring at the mirror still, at the small and frightened-looking figure staring back at him. Ringlets and a dress that looked more suitable for a four or five year old girl going to a birthday party; except that the padded bra and the corset lightly cinching his waist, and the petticoats flaring outwards from that narrow point, combined to give the startling illusion of a feminine figure. He had white stockings, visible to above the knee under the short but voluminous petticoats, and black, shiny, patent-leather shoes with silver buckles.

“Um, couple of years?” he hazarded, the memory of Miss Marie’s question filtering through his stunned reaction to his own reflection. That was about when Lindsey had given up trying to get him to have it cut anyway.

“Yes, I can believe that,” Miss Marie said. “Now, wouldn’t you like to go down and show Jane your nice pretty dress?”

He tore his eyes away from the mirror to give her a look, but he held his tongue. Somehow he couldn’t get rude to Miss Marie. She seemed so nice in comparison to Mrs. Thompson; like she actually cared how he felt about what was going on. “That’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it?” he said.

“I’m afraid it is. Do you remember where it is?” He nodded. It wasn’t hard to find: the door next to the old bench in the entrance hallway. “Always knock before entering,” she added.

***

He felt, curiously, even more exposed, even just out in the landing where someone might see him other than Mrs. Thompson and Miss Marie. Like Miss Valerie, for instance, although he hadn’t seen her since she’d left him after waking up earlier, and he still wasn’t sure he’d accounted for everyone in the house. He didn’t want Miss Valerie to see him like this, that was certain. It was embarrassing enough. Would she laugh? he wondered. She didn’t look like she laughed often. He thought how he’d like to see her laugh. But not at him, unless it was at something devastatingly witty he’d just said.

He was surprised to observe how these particular clothes affected his mobility. They seemed to be constructed in such a way as to physically govern his movements, and he hadn’t anticipated that at all, nor how different and alien he would feel to himself as a result. It was as if he was an interloper in his own body, again. The corset enforced his posture, physically upbraiding him if he started to slouch; the panel under the laces at the back pressing against and shaping his spine. It even made him breathe differently, more shallowly, up in his chest as Miss Marie had shown him.

In contrast to the constraint on his upper body, his legs actually had more freedom of movement than he associated with being clothed, so even though they were covered, and the petticoats and dress hid all — certainly more than a pair of shorts would — he felt exposed. As a result, and also because if he didn’t the petticoats would bunch up and tangle between his thighs, he found his stride shortening as he tried to keep his legs more together. The petticoats stuck out in such a way that he couldn’t just hang his arms by his sides without messing them up. He could at least occupy one of them on the banister rail as he descended the stairs, but the rest of the time he found he had to just hold his hands up above the petticoats, or hold them behind his back, otherwise it was a matter of dangling them in mid-air like an idiot if he couldn’t find some plausible way to occupy them.

He found himself outside the parlour door again and took a breath before knocking. After a few moments it opened and she was there, looking at him again. He could feel his heart beating faster.

“Oh, don’t you look pretty,” she crowed. “I’ll be with you in a minute, my dear.” She actually smiled, and it was a nice smile too, he thought. “So if you’re ready to behave, you sit there on that bench until I’m done.”

He looked at the bench next to the parlour door; the same bench he’d sat on earlier. He shrugged, finding the corset even made that difficult. “Okay.”

The door was already closing. More waiting. He plonked himself down on the bench, then immediately sat up straight as the corset punished him for that.

He sighed and let go. His headache had been becoming more insistent.

“It’s surprising how uncomfortable it is, isn’t it?” Eleanor commented, coming up to join him.

“Not really,” he muttered. “It’s almost exactly as uncomfortable as I imagined.” She laughed lightly at that. He shifted a bit to get more comfortable, so he wasn’t sitting on a bunched-up lump of petticoat-material any more.

“You know, women used to wear these things all the time. I suppose you can get used to anything. Have you noticed how all the chairs are tall and upright? Like the dining-room chairs?”

“No…” He thought about it. “Oh, yeah. I guess they’d actually be more comfortable if you were wearing one of these things. Not too far to lean back.” He leaned back slowly until he felt his shoulders meet the back of the bench. It was a little too far back; it was more comfortable to sit upright and support himself.

“And not too low to get up from,” she agreed. “You know, you were walking all wrong on the way down.” ~Oh, she saw that.~

“I could tell,” he apologised.

“Look, you do it like this.” She stood up and paced a little way across the hall. “See? I put one foot in front of the other, rather than parallel.”

“Oh yeah…”

She turned and walked back to the bench, her petticoats rustling as she walked, but there was an order to it, a rhythm. “It feels a bit strange, but I think you’ll get the hang of it. You try.”

He retraced her steps. “Like this?”

“Move your hips more–”

“What do you mean move them more? I’m moving them how they need to move–”

“No, silly, like this.” And she moved her hips as she walked, her petticoats picking up the movement and amplifying it. Swish, swish. “Try it.”

He tried it, returning to the bench. “Uh…”

“You need to relax. You don’t have to clench your thighs together you know.”

He almost laughed. “Yeah, not like it would help anyway.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, imagine Miss Valerie’s watching you.”

“Oh no, she–”

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

He blushed at the thought. “Yes,” he admitted.

“You fancy her,” Eleanor continued, slightly teasing him.

“Oh come on. It’s not like she’d be interested in me, especially dressed like–”

“There you are, you’re doing it,” Eleanor said happily. “You’ve got it.” Yes; distracted like that he’d found the cadence he needed, and he carried on across the hall again, nailing it.

“What am I supposed to do with my hands?” he wondered aloud, and then he nearly had a heart-attack as the front door opened. Miss Valerie stepped in and closed the door before noticing him standing there. She had changed into a smart skirt, blouse and jacket and her hair had been unbraided and unbound and simply brushed back and left. It gave her a powerful, professional look that seemed at odds with the demure image he’d had of her from earlier.

“I see Jane’s running late,” she said, seeing him standing there like an idiot. “Practicing?”

He nodded dumbly. He thought she’d laugh at him, but she seemed unfazed by his appearance. He supposed she must have seen this sort of thing before.

“Good evening, Miss Valerie,” Eleanor said solemnly, and curtseyed. Nathan thought she was making fun of him. Valerie stopped in surprise and stared.

“Okay…” Valerie said slowly. “Well, good evening to you too. Have you had dinner yet?” Eleanor shook her head. “Good, I haven’t missed it. Can you tell Jane I’m back and I’m just going upstairs to get ready?”

“Yes, Miss Valerie.”

“Just Valerie will do,” she said, “unless Jane’s around to hear you. See you at dinner.” She smiled and started up the stairs.

“Say something,” Eleanor nudged.

“Uh,” he stammered, “be seeing you.”

Valerie stopped a couple of steps up, looking down at him curiously again for a moment.

“That was pathetic,” Eleanor whispered to him. She seemed to think it was all very funny. He didn’t see the joke.

“You’ve crumpled your pettis,” Valerie said.

“What?”

“Your petticoats. Look behind you.”

He tried to twist to look, but the corset wouldn’t let him; he had to crane his neck around further than was comfortable. “Oh no,” Eleanor said.

“She told you to sit on the bench, right?” Valerie asked. He nodded. She was still looking at him. “She’ll chew you out about that.”

“But she told me to!” he protested.

“That’s right. Be seeing you.” She casually gave him another Prisoner salute and went quickly up the stairs in the direction her index finger had pointed at the end of the salute.

“Oh, God,” he said, sinking to his knees, “She was laughing at me! This is so embarrassing!” The petticoats sighed down around him, falling into an almost perfect circle around where he sat. “Oh,” he said, noticing the effect. He was still getting the hang of the structural dynamics of the things.

“It’s not fair if Mrs. Thompson tells you off,” Eleanor said. “She told you to sit there. You weren’t to know.”

“I know.” He sighed despondently, then belatedly wondered if he was going to have trouble getting back to his feet in the corset, at least without messing up the petticoats and the crumpled up skirt any further. Eleanor sighed too. “And I still don’t know what to do with my hands!”

Eleanor smiled at his attempt at humour, took his hands and laid them simply down in his lap, lightly, so as not to crumple the material of the skirt any further. He just stayed where he was for a while, his eyes closed, trying to calm down again. He felt Eleanor’s presence, close by. Comfortable and warm and content to be quiet with him. He sought stillness inside.

***

“She didn’t lock the front door when she came in,” Eleanor noted quietly. Nathan felt his heart quicken again. His eyes were open.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” She regarded him urgently.

He looked at the door and bit his tongue. “They’ve got electronic locks,” he said. “Whole place is networked. Maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe it’s automatic.”

“Only one way to find out,” Eleanor muttered impatiently. She got to her feet and crossed the few steps to the front door. She put a hand on the door-handle, took a breath, and turned it. It turned easily. She pulled gently and the door opened a few inches. The early evening breeze stirred her ringlets and petticoats. No alarms went off. “I guess not,” she said. She took another breath. Fresh, country air. “What do you think?”

“I think we wouldn’t get as far as the gate,” Nathan opined.

“You think they’re going to send a Rover after us?” She meant the big, white, round, bouncy kind. Nathan caught the meaning clearly enough, with a smile.

“I don’t know. It can’t be this easy.”

“We get to a village, get a bus to a town and get on a coach to London and that’s that. They’ll never find us. Nathe–”

“No money. Can’t get a bus.”

“You can beg some. You done it before.”

“Not in this get-up. It’s too posh.” Still, his breath came a little quicker. “An’ I never did it in a poxy village neither. Um…” He thought about it. “Guess we could say we was collecting for charity or something.”

“Come on then, let’s go…” She wanted to go, right there and then. He held back, his hand on the door-frame. He always held back. Always quick to point out why something couldn’t be done. “What’s the matter with you?”

“We’ll never get away from here.”

“You don’t know that!” Her impulse pulled at him. “You don’t know unless you try, Nathan!” Confusion. Frustration. Heartache.

“If they catch us…” The fear bit into his gut. “If she catches us…” He knew how craven he came across, but his imagination filled with what Mrs. Thompson might do if she didn’t want to play being nice any more; if he made her break out of the parameters of her sick little fantasy. Eleanor capitulated, and her sadness almost overwhelmed him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He felt wretched now.

“It’s all right.” She closed the door as carefully as she’d opened it.

“There’ll be a better chance,” he promised. “Later.” He hoped it was true. It had to be true.

“Not too late, I hope.”

“’S long as we’re breathing, it in’t too late.”

Eleanor shuddered. She didn’t like the sound of that. Well, he didn’t like it either.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to stay with us, Jonathan,” Mrs. Thompson said, behind him. He gasped and whirled around, finding her standing in the parlour doorway.

“How long was she there?”

“I don’t know…” It could have been the whole time. For all he knew, simply opening the door set off a silent alarm.

“Well? Come here, child. Let me have a good look at you.” She was holding both her hands forward, as if she actually expected him to run joyfully into her arms. He took a breath, feeling like a traitor, and walked towards her the way he’d been practicing. She was pleased by that, he could see. Surprised, he thought, but definitely pleased.

Despite the ache he knew he was right. It didn’t help him to feel any better about it. But he had to stay on Mrs. Thompson’s good side, and there would have been no chance of getting away ever if he’d tried to escape and been caught. He was glad she’d been watching. Maybe after this she’d trust him more, and he’d get that better opportunity.

He stopped in front of her and tried a curtsey, his eyes fixed on a point on the floor of the parlour behind her.

“Well, don’t you look darling,” she said. “And wherever did you learn to walk like that? Anyone would think you’ve been receiving coaching from someone,” she finished, a slight dark note in those last words.

“It — it just seemed the way to do it,” he extemporised.

“Indeed. Well, come into the parlour dear, let me look at you properly.” He managed a wan smile, made like a fly, and went in, as she directed, ahead of her. “Oh, Jonathan, what have you done to your lovely dress?” Jane exclaimed behind him. “You let it get so crumpled. Already!”

“I–” he began.

“No, don’t say anything. Honestly, you’re so clumsy.”

“But you said–”

“Don’t talk back,” she snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you this? It’s so elementary!” She touched her head, seeming to try to bring her temper under control. “I despair every time you open your mouth, I really do. You must learn to speak only when I make it plain I want an answer from you.” She sighed. “Really, Jonathan, there’s no excuse for such oafishness, such,” she hissed inwards in distaste, “male clumsiness. Turn around, turn around,” she ordered, “let me see what other damage you’ve done.” She turned him around, a little brusquely, so she could examine the back of the dress and rearrange things. “If you’ve torn something–”

“I haven’t!” he blurted.

“Shh!” She continued, tutting all the while. “Well, better, I suppose,” she said finally, patting down the back of the dress a final time. Through four petticoats and the dress’s skirt he only felt it distantly, but there was still something intimate enough about the gesture to make him blush. He wasn’t sure if it showed through all the rouge. “There. Turn around and look at me.” He turned. “Smile, dear. It’s unbecoming to go around with a sullen expression like that.” He smiled. He tried to, anyway. It didn’t manage to part his lips, nor, he knew, did it reach his eyes, but it seemed to mollify Mrs. Thompson. “That’s better,” she said. “Now, is there anything you want to ask me before we go on?”

He felt like she was giving him a test. He started to speak, but aborted it before the ‘um’ came out, which he supposed was one test passed. “How do I sit in this, then?” he asked, making a vague gesture downwards.

“In what?” Mrs. Thompson asked, apparently ignoring his gesture. “Your shoes? Be specific, child.”

He swallowed. “How do I sit while wearing petticoats?” he tried again.

Mrs. Thompson actually smiled, then led the way into the centre of the room and pulled out one of the antique, upright chairs, then positioned Nathan in front of it, facing away from it. “Now, what you must do, of course, is not actually sit on the petticoats. As you sit, you do a quick backwards thrust of your pelvis, to tip the skirts up at the back, and sit. You must sit on the edge of the seat, so you don’t still crush the skirts behind you. Understand?”

“I- I think so.”

“And remember to keep your legs together throughout. Don’t be tempted to cross them. Knees and ankles together. Try it.”

He got it wrong first time. “Um,” he said, standing again quickly. “You mean, sort of a bump-and-sit?”

“Yes, exactly. And don’t say ‘um.’” He didn’t think he’d get away with that.

He thought it sounded silly, but he got back into position, took a breath, “– and boomps-a-daisy,” he sang quietly, doing the motion and sitting quickly, feeling the tapestry-like texture of the chair cushion against the backs of his thighs and the parts of his buttocks the knickers didn’t cover. “What?”

Mrs. Thompson was laughing out loud, actually clutching her side where, presumably, the corset she was wearing made her laughter uncomfortable. She found her way back to a seat and sat, still chuckling.

“Wasn’t that right?” He looked around him at the pool the skirts had made around his waist.

“Jonathan–” Mrs. Thompson said, still trying to stop herself laughing. She brought herself under control. “That was exactly right. What was that you sang just then?”

He blinked. “Dunno, just a song.”

“Where did you learn it?”

He thought about it. He couldn’t remember. “I guess when I was little. It sounds like the sort of thing, I don’t know, like a party game or something? Oh, yeah,” he remembered. “It’s kind of a dance. ‘Hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy.’”

Mrs. Thompson produced a hankerchief from somewhere and dried her eyes. “Really? Could you show me?”

“Um–sorry,” he corrected himself before she would. She seemed genuinely interested, amused and, while that was the case, almost pleasant, as if she too had been under tension all day. That was the idea, of course. “Well, it’s supposed to be done in pairs. I mean, the words actually say how you do it–”

He stopped, realising how he could amuse her further, and stood up, side-on to Jane. “Okay, imagine I’ve got a partner, so it’s ‘hands,’ and you slap hands,” he mimed slapping both hands with the invisible dance-partner, “‘knees,’” he bent and slapped his knees, feeling the petticoats bounce up at the back. ~She’ll like that.~ “And then you both turn around ‘and boomps’” bottom-out “‘a-daisy,’” straighten up. “Only you wouldn’t in this ’cause, like, you’d squash the petticoats.” He tried an awkward smile. “That’s all I can remember.” Jane was chuckling quietly again, shaking her head in wonderment. “I think you add more body parts as the song goes on, so it’s like ‘hands and hips and knees and toes,’” he did the movements as he sang them, knowing full well how the last of them would have affected the petticoats. He’d done the routine turned just slightly away from her this time for that very purpose. Only slightly, so it was plausibly done in innocence. Turn, facing away from her, “‘and boomps-a-daisy,’” he finished, straightening again. “And so on.” He staggered slightly, his upper-chest heaving, still short of oxygen after performing those moves in a corset.

~Don’t over-egg it now,~ he told himself. ~That’ll do, unless she asks for more.~

She did not. But motioned him to sit again while she brought her laughter under full control. He felt a kind of warmth from her approval which surprised him despite everything; despite why he’d given her that little performance.

***

Miss Valerie — Just Valerie, he reminded himself — surprised him by joining them for dinner. He almost expected her to serve again. She waited behind a chair as well, but did so with the relaxed air of an old custom long worn-in beyond meaning, and chatted easily with Eleanor about nothing in particular. Nathan was feeling tired and rather overstimulated by the day’s events, and so was happy to drift. He was glad Eleanor seemed to have cheered up a little though.

Mrs. Thompson eventually joined them. “Please sit,” she said, this time as she was sitting herself. Nathan boompsed and perched, winning another approving smile from Mrs. Thompson. Valerie raised a shapely eyebrow but said nothing.

Dinner itself was the expected torture, but in time it passed, with Marie serving and Mrs. Thompson content to chat to Valerie about her schoolwork while he managed to get down a few token pieces of food from each course. There was so much food he wondered if they were trying to fatten him up. On the other hand the corset would have prevented him eating very much, he was sure, even if he had been inclined to do so. Mrs. Thompson mercifully made no comment on how little he was eating, although she did occasionally correct him on some minor-seeming point of manners, some nuance of posture or where he put his hands. Valerie looked at him curiously on several occasions throughout the meal.

But finally, finally the end came. “Jonathan dear,” Mrs. Thompson addressed him, “you’ve had a busy day and it’s past your bedtime.” A new knot of tension formed in his belly. “Now, I want you to say goodnight to Valerie and go up to your room. Marie is waiting for you there and she’ll help you get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a little while to tuck you in. Off you go.” That last part really made the cramp in his stomach grip harder, and he didn’t miss another quick glance from Valerie, but he managed to hide it and stand up.

“Good night Miss Valerie,” he said, just about stopping his voice from quavering.

“Good night, Nathan,” she said. He looked for some kind of signal from her, of what nature he didn’t know, but he saw none, so he smiled awkwardly and went upstairs.

***

Miss Marie had him sit down at the dressing table. “I see your lovely ringlets have faded already,” she said, “so I’m going to put your hair into rollers for tonight, and you’ll keep them a little longer.” Nathan didn’t have the energy to protest, and didn’t think there was much point anyway. There was a machine heating the rollers on the dressing table already. Miss Marie started putting the curlers into his hair, winding his hair around them so tightly it pulled at the roots, then the rollers were bound up against his skull with wide wire clips. They felt hot and knobbly.

Lindsey had something similar back home. It had the same smell when it was switched on. It reminded him sadly of home, and Lindsey and David. He didn’t know if he was ever going to see them again, or if he did, if he was going to be able to look them in the eye. They’d tried to be so good to him, and he’d just thrown it back at them and made them hate him. Driving to the railway station that morning Lindsey had tried to talk to him again about something and he’d just ignored her and sat sullenly the whole way there, looking out of the window at the passing houses. Maybe she was trying to say goodbye, he thought, feeling sick. Did she know what went on here? He couldn’t believe that of her, the betrayal was just too great; but how could she send him off somewhere without wanting to know what she was sending him into?

Because she didn’t care any more. She’d given up on him. Why should she care? It wasn’t as if she was his real mother.

Suddenly he started crying. Silently at first, and it was a minute or so before Miss Marie noticed; then he felt her hands stop, and saw her concerned look via the mirror on the dressing table. He sniffled and pinched his eyes shut with one hand, trying to stop. It wouldn’t stop. Now it had started the pressure just seemed to build. He couldn’t help sobbing audibly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. The tears just squeezed out through his fingers and wet his cheeks. He knew the make-up must be running horribly, and he was bound to get into trouble for it. He was so scared already. He knew she was going to turn up any minute, and if she saw him crying like this… It was bad enough when he’d cried a little in the parlour earlier, reading that damned report, but now it was just everything piling up and coming out at once.

He could feel Miss Marie’s hand land on his shoulder, perhaps an attempt at a comforting gesture. That was the last thing he wanted from any of them, he thought. He shrugged it off angrily. “Don’t touch me!” he snapped. He thought as soon as he said it that it was probably the worst thing he could say, but he didn’t care any more, and Miss Marie’s hand did lift.

Miss Marie was moving around him, and in another moment he felt a tissue being pushed into his hand. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He wiped his eyes and nose, seeing blearily where the make-up wiped off onto the tissue. It was sodden in a moment, but Miss Marie was ready with another. “Shit,” he said. “Shit shit shit. Fucking crybaby.”

“It’s all right to cry sometimes, Nathan,” Miss Marie said gently. He just looked at her. He wondered how someone could be that stupid. How could she pretend to be nice to him and still carry on being part of it?
He looked back at his reflection in the mirror. It reminded him of Louise. “Fuck, what a mess.” He heard his voice wavering horribly. He looked on the dressing table’s top surface for something that might be some kind of make-up remover. “How do I get this shit off?” He scraped at it roughly with the tissue.

“Jane will want you to still be wearing it when she comes,” Miss Marie said.

“Fuck Jane.” He found he was shaking. “Is this what she wants to see?” He got up to go to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” Miss Marie asked.

“Wash this stuff off,” he explained, not stopping. There was soap in the bathroom.

“Nathan, wait.”

He ignored her, went in and kicked the door shut. Hard, so it slammed, which had some satisfaction value. He ran the hot tap until he got hot water and put the plug in. He looked at the mirror while the tap ran. The streaky mess of his face under the bright light looked back at him fearfully, eyes made big and watery and red-rimmed by the blotched eyeliner and mascara. He thought of Louise again and started shaking. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t bear to think of ending up like her, after everything he’d done, after everything she’d given to get him away from that world before it would consume him.

He forced himself into action, to push through the fear. He turned the tap off when there was enough water and worked up a lather from the soap and wiped it all over his face and neck, not caring how much got onto the stupid nightgown. Then he used the facecloth hanging by the sink to scrape the make-up off as best as he could. The facecloth looked new, and started out white. He hoped it would stain permanently. Partway through he used it to smear soapy make-up over the mirror. There wasn’t enough make-up to do it properly, but it was satisfying anyway, and if there was a camera on the other side it would probably be having difficulty focusing now. He kept going, trying to get all the make-up off, but it seemed to be resisting him and his face was getting raw from all the scraping.

There was a sharp triple-knock on the door. “Jonathan, what are you doing in there?” Mrs. Thompson’s voice, as sharp as the knocks it followed. His breath came back in short, panicked pants. He dropped the facecloth into the sink and turned to face the door. He remembered suddenly he hadn’t locked it, so he dove forwards and did so, then he looked around him to see if he could wedge it shut with something. “Open this door at once,” Mrs. Thompson ordered. He backed up until the backs of his legs met the toilet. He quickly lowered the lid and sat.

He had to think. Everything was going too fast; he had to catch up. He’d been upset, thinking about Lindsey, then he’d been angry and he’d come in here… He hadn’t planned for a barricade, he just wanted to get the damn make-up off. Then he saw himself in the mirror and thought of Louise and then he’d started to panic, not without reason, he thought. Louise’s face that night when she’d come back to the squat bruised and crying, and like an idiot he’d said she should go to a hospital, and she’d said they’d only call the police, and she said she wanted someone to hold her, so he did. All morning, while she slept. She used to say she felt safe with his arms around her. It didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t protect her. He was only ten.

This was a bad place for a stand-off, he told himself. About the only thing it had going for it was the fresh running water, but they’d have the door down long before he starved. There was no other way out. In the stillness he realised he was getting cold again, so he yanked the towel off the heated rack and wrapped it around him. He had to think.

He took proper notice of the bathroom for the first time. The wall tiles had delicately-drawn floral borders, and here and there a reproduction of a Sarah Kay painting. Each one was different, but with a common theme: Pretty little girls in pretty dresses, petticoats and pinafores and bonnets and bows, playing with a teddy bear, or a doll, or kittens, picking flowers, carrying a basket of apples, and more, inhabiting some idyllic, innocent world that for all its extreme femininity seemed a long way removed from this place. He fought down the nausea.

“Jonathan, if you don’t come out of there in one minute you may consider our agreement to be at an end,” Mrs. Thompson said, outside the door.

“I’m on the loo!” he lied. Well, it was the literal truth, he supposed. He was going to walk out there again. He knew it already, he just needed a moment to deal with the fear. A moment to remind himself that nothing had actually changed in his situation from when he’d been sitting quietly while Miss Marie was putting in the rollers. He was just panicking, and forgetting that he was trying to get them to like him in the hope that if they liked him, maybe they might make it a little… easier. At least until he could find some way out. After all, he reminded himself, they hadn’t actually used physical force. Not yet.

~That’s because I’m such a fucking coward they don’t need to,~ he thought bitterly, and felt that he was going to start crying again if he just sat there any longer.

He stood up and flushed the toilet, for appearances’ sake, and pulled the plug on the water in the basin. Then he had to dry his hands anyway on the towel he’d wrapped around his shoulders. He kept the towel on, still cold, clutching it around him, and opened the door.

“So there you are,” Mrs. Thompson said dryly. “Have you quite finished your little temper tantrum?”

He bit back on what he wanted to say and just nodded.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Jonathan, I really am. You seemed to be doing so well this evening, but I distinctly remember telling you that you were to obey Miss Marie’s instructions as if they were my own, and instead I hear a report of abusive language and disobedience. This will not do. Will it?” She reached forward quickly and snatched the towel off him, exposing his bare shoulders again. He couldn’t help taking a step back, terrified. “Well?”

“N-No, Mrs. Thompson,” he managed.

“And you’ve tried to take your make-up off, and made a hash of it I see.” She sighed.

“It was a–”

“Did I tell you to speak?”

A new thought occurred to him. That Miss Marie had not told Mrs. Thompson that he had been crying, and had already ruined the make-up. ~Why wouldn’t she tell her?~ he wondered, glancing at Miss Marie past Mrs. Thompson’s shoulder. Was it to spare his embarrassment? ~Why would she do that?~

“Well?”

“No, Mrs. Thompson,” he said quietly.

“Indeed not. Now, I want you to say sorry to Miss Marie and promise that in future you’ll obey her without resistance.”

~Oh, bloody hell,~ he thought. Mrs. Thompson moved aside from between Miss Marie and himself, clearly meaning that he should actually do that. He restrained a sigh. “Sorry I shouted,” he said. “I’ll do what you say.”

“Promise,” Mrs. Thompson prompted from the side.

“I promise.”

“Now, because you took your make-up off without permission, we’re going to put it all on again. Normally, and in future, you will be expected to remove your make-up and do your skincare for bed, but tonight as punishment for your disobedience and bad manners you’re going to keep it on all night as you sleep. Sit down.” She indicated the dressing table again. Defeated, he went. “I still have some business to complete, but when I get back I don’t expect to find Miss Marie has had any problems with you in my absence.”

She left.

He sighed and looked up at Miss Marie as she arrived at his side. She was holding out a silk robe that matched his nightgown, ready for him to put his arm through. He obeyed, and she helped him put it on. “Thank you, Miss,” he said, remembering their exchange from earlier. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled and patted his shoulder. “You’re welcome. You don’t have to speak French to me, dear,” she said. “You’ve already had me speaking more French this evening than I have in a month. Which reminds me, I’m supposed to call my mother.” She sighed feelingly.

It seemed bizarre to Nathan how someone who was involved in what they were doing to him could still feel guilty about not calling her mother. It was surreal. But then, keeping up an ordinary family life would be how such people could operate without drawing attention to themselves.

She did seem to be trying to be nice to him, though, and didn’t give him funny looks like Mrs. Thompson. He didn’t get the feeling she’d try to hurt him. She didn’t seem interested that way.

~No, but she’ll stand by and let it happen,~ he thought darkly. ~She’ll get you ready, and clean you up afterwards in time for it to start all over again.~ He started to get a headache, a pressure behind his eyes like an immanent presence trying to burst through. He started shaking again, and tears burned his eyes. “Shit…” He bent over to hide his face. ~I can’t stop crying!~

“Oh dear, it’s hard, isn’t it?” He felt, rather than heard her lower herself to one knee beside him. She took his hand, forcing him to pay attention. “Tell me,” she lightened her tone. “Do you enjoy speaking French?”

He snuffled a little, then shrugged.

“Are you learning it at school?”

~I was,~ he thought bitterly, but only nodded. “And, er, on holiday, Miss.”

“Very good, and where did you go?”

He sat up straighter and took a clear breath. “We went to Limoux, Miss. Er… My adoptive mother has friends there.”

“And did you like it there?

“You’re just trying–”

“In French!”

He had to think about it. “You– er… You are distracting me, I think.”

“Naturally, dear. You need some distraction, no?” She smiled brightly. It was infectious. He surprised himself by producing a small smile in return. “I see a little smile!” He chuckled. “Let me remove your make-up before Madam returns.” She stood up.

“Maqui–?” Nathan clutched the dressing gown around him. “I don’t, er, I don’t understand ‘maquillage’, Miss.”

“It’s ‘make-up,’” Miss Marie explained.

“Oh.”

He sat still while she used a cream on his face. It felt cool and soothing, then as she wiped it away with cotton-wool pads he could see on them how much make-up had still been there after all that scraping he’d done with a face-cloth in the bathroom. She followed it with something she described as ‘toner.’ He didn’t think it would be much good in a laser printer, but it lifted even more gunk off his face, leaving it feeling fresh and more naked than ever. She used something else again to get the last of the make-up away from around his eyes. “There,” she said, finishing. “I’ll let that rest for a moment and finish your hair.” He nodded and let her get on with it. It didn’t seem to need much input from him anyway.

It seemed no time at all before Mrs. Thompson was back. He’d nearly been able to relax and exorcise the way it reminded him of Lindsey. The way the rollers pressed bumpily into his head was almost becoming a welcome distraction in its own right, but as soon as he saw Mrs. Thompson in the mirror he felt his heart rate pick up again.

“Has he been any more trouble?” she asked Miss Marie, coming fully into the room.

“None at all, Jane. He’s been quiet as a mouse.”

Mrs. Thompson came past him and leaned back slightly on the dressing table, regarding him silently. Nathan stared blankly away, at the things on the table, just wishing for it to be over. He was tired of being afraid. Tired of his own imagination.

The touch on his jawline, when it came, was gentle, but he couldn’t help a tiny gasp anyway. Mrs. Thompson was turning his head to face hers. She seemed to be studying him. “You didn’t put the new make-up on him as I directed,” she observed.

“I was about to. His hair took me longer than I expected.”

“No matter. I will do it.” Mrs. Thompson’s voice was quiet, and while she spoke to Miss Marie, her eyes never left his own. “Stay still,” she directed him, then she released his jaw and gazed quickly over the paraphernalia on the dressing table. Within another few moments she was applying swift, deft strokes over his face with a damp-feeling sponge.

He watched her face in return, only vaguely aware of Miss Marie moving about the room finishing several small tasks. His attention was fixed on Mrs. Thompson. She was beautiful. It scared him that he could think something like that, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her face was calm and reposed, like before. Her pupils dilated in quiet pleasure at her task, flicking here and there over his face as she worked. Her lips parted slightly. Nathan tried to hold still. This was worse than before, when they were putting those petticoats on him. She was so close. His cheeks tingled with a new blush. He’d never been this close to a woman, paying him this much attention, this way, and despite everything he was afraid of, and everything about her and what she was doing that repelled him, his traitor body responded. He wanted to shift in his seat, but he was transfixed. And the coward in him wondered how bad it could be to give her everything she would take anyway. She could be tender if he played the part she set out for him. He understood the meaning of her tenderness: It didn’t have to hurt. All he had to do — he swallowed — all he had to do was give himself up to her.

There were worse deals he could make, out on the streets, if he ran away again. ~I’m sorry, Eleanor,~ he wished. It was about survival now.

She was finishing applying something under his eyebrows. Eye-shadow, he thought. “Hold still,” she said, changing tools, then with her left hand at the back of his head to steady it, she put a pencil to his left eye. “Look up.” He tore his eyes away from hers to try to see the ceiling. His eyelids quavered at the cool touch of the pencil, drawing outwards to the corner of his eyes. “Look at me now.” He obeyed, suddenly meeting hers head-on, briefly before she executed a clean line along his top left eyelid. She smiled in anticipation. “Other side.” Her voice was the quietest, the gentlest he’d yet heard her use.

“Um,” he voiced, not at all sure what he’d meant to say.

“Ah-ah,” Mrs. Thompson immediately reprimanded him, but still using that gentle voice.

He swallowed, trying not to move his head while she marked his right eyelids. Then the pencil, and her other hand, was withdrawn. He heard it clatter faintly on the glass top of the dressing table that protected the lace underneath. A hand at his chin again, making him look back up at her, then she was using some kind of miniature brush on his eyelashes. He took a long, deeper breath.

“Nearly done now, Jonathan,” Mrs. Thompson said, putting aside the latest instrument. Mascara, he remembered. His eyelashes felt heavy. There seemed to be a rim around his vision. She was using a very, very soft brush on his cheeks now, under his cheekbones. “There. Now, what have I missed out?”

“Uh,” he began.

“No.”

“Sorry.” He swallowed again and tried to review what she had done, what she missed. He looked aside to the mirror, at the pretty, feminised face there, forcing himself to watch and not go distant. “Li-lipstick?”

“Lip colour,” Mrs. Thompson corrected him. “You’ll carry lipstick in your purse so that you may freshen your make-up when we’re out, but when you are here, and for original application, you will use a lip brush to apply your colour. I should like you to put it on yourself tonight. Here, I’ll make it easier for you.” She hunted for a moment on the dressing table.

“Ou-out?” his voice quavered.

“Oh yes.” She found what she was looking for. “Close your mouth. Normally, don’t purse your lips.” He obeyed, worried, and Mrs. Thompson leaned forward again and drew with lipliner along the outline of his lips. “I simply can’t wait,” she said while she drew, “to show you around. You’re such a pretty boy, it would be a shame to keep you all to myself, cooped up here where no-one can see you, don’t you think? There,” she finished.

“Oh God.”

“Now then, Nathan, this is lip gloss.” She was showing him a small glass bottle. As he looked, she drew out the lid, the underside of which had a long thin paintbrush. “I shall make a few strokes, so you see how to do it, then I want you to finish. You must stay within the lipliner. Open your mouth. That’s a good child.” She touched off the excess pink liquid on the rim of the tiny bottle, then leaned in and painted two down-strokes on his upper lip and two on his lower. Then she handed him the bottle and moved aside so he could get closer to the mirror.

His hands shook. He concentrated hard and breathed until he got them under some kind of control, then he began. He tried to emulate the simple, sure strokes Mrs. Thompson had used. Keeping within the lines Mrs. Thompson had drawn should have been simple, but his hand shook too much. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. He’d made a mess of it anyway, he may as well get it over with, he thought, so he opened them again and finished the rest quickly, not really trying, and was surprised to see that he actually seemed to do better. He dropped the brush back into the bottle and rattled the bottle down onto the dressing table.

“I know it’s a mess,” he muttered. Mrs. Thompson bent to look at it. “I just…” He trailed off. His lips felt unpleasantly sticky.

“Well now,” Mrs. Thompson said, “let’s just say there’s plenty of room for improvement, shall we? But it is an adequate first attempt, and you’re tired, dear, aren’t you.” He nodded. “Well then, stand up, let’s get you into bed where you belong.” His stomach tried to turn again, but it had turned too many times already. He really was just too tired now, too drained from nervous exhaustion. He just stood and let Mrs. Thompson guide him. “Marie, would you?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Miss Marie said. Nathan had almost forgotten she was still there, so quiet she had been, but now she stepped forward and drew down the sheets for him to get in.

“Oh, Marie, hand me that bear, would you?” Miss Marie reached over and picked up the pink-ribboned teddy bear from its place amongst the pillows and handed it to Mrs. Thompson, who in turn passed it into Nathan’s hands.

“What…?” he began, but his hands took over, and almost without his volition hugged the bear to his chest.

“I just want you to see yourself before you get into bed, Jonathan.” She had positioned him deftly in front of the full-length mirror. “This is to be you, for the future. Sweet, feminine, pretty little you.”

He looked. The reflection didn’t really look like Louise, he decided after all. She always tried to look older than she was, so she wore make-up and clothes like an adult, and she smoked, because she said it made her look more grown-up. Whereas Nathan was older now than Louise had been then, but Mrs. Thompson had made him up to look younger, like a child playing with make-up, with a rough, scratchy helmet of rollers binding his hair, and bright, artificially rosy cheeks.

“In time,” Mrs Thompson continued, “you will become proficient at this yourself, but there will always be occasions when you must submit to the gentle governance of a woman’s hand, to tame that coarse, rebellious masculine nature of yours.” She smiled again, via her reflection in the mirror next to his own, and led him aside to the bed. His breathing and pulse quickened again. “Now, in you get, dear.” And he climbed in, into the bed he’d already slept in once, and lay stiffly, clutching the bear close to him, finding comfort in that even knowing it was what she wanted to see. Miss Marie flattened out the bedclothes again and tucked them in. Mrs. Thompson sat on the edge of the bed and regarded him for a while. ~Now it comes, now it comes,~ he thought. He stared at the ceiling and tried to will himself into distance, but felt instead the light touch of the backs of Mrs. Thompson’s fingers brushing his cheek, just once, stopping his breath. “Now, you must get your beauty sleep, my dear. We have a busy day tomorrow. Your lessons will begin in earnest immediately after breakfast. You are to show yourself at the breakfast table at seven thirty precisely, do you understand?” He breathed again and nodded. Miss Marie was drawing the curtains against the deepening blue sky. “You are not to change, or wash, before coming down tomorrow, as part of your punishment for your earlier insubordination. Later in the day you will receive full instruction on your evening and morning ablutions for the rest of your stay, but tomorrow morning you are to come as you are.”

She nodded to herself, satisfied, and stood. Miss Marie was setting the alarm on the small analogue alarm clock on the bedside table.

Miss Marie then silently left the room. Mrs. Thompson followed after her, pausing again in the doorway to look back at Nathan; then she turned the light off and walked out, closing the door. After a few moments, Nathan heard the door lock snap shut.

***

The lazy double-beat of the train’s wheels ran over the joins in the tracks. Sara was sketching something quietly. Jack knew this moment. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothin’.”

“Okay.” He sat with her for a while and watched her draw. Sara was easy company; happy to get on and do her own thing. There wasn’t much of a view to look at, the carriage windows having been scratched to translucency long ago, but Sara seemed to be drawing something else anyway. Two figures: A little dark-haired girl looking up at a tall, elegant lady.

“That’s áine, the fairy queen,” Sara corrected him.

“Oh.”

“Remember what you said to Danny that time?” she said, still drawing. “’Bout the little people stealing boys, an’ how they used to disguise them as girls to hide them?”

“Elves got pointy ears,” Jack observed. “Everyone knows that.”

“Din’t say she was an elf. Said she was a fairy. See? She’s got wings an’ all.”

~Oh, they’re wings,~ Jack realised, thinking that had been the back of a throne or some ornate doorway in the background.

“Yeah, I’m not very good. See, they took him and shrunk him down to their size so no-one’s ever goin’ to find him. I’m goin’ to do a mushroom or flower or somefin’ to show how big they are.”

“Guess they saw through the disguise then,” Jack said.

“No. The queen wanted a girl. She wanted a daughter this time.” She drew. “’Cause the boys always leave her in the end.”

“What’s she going to do when she finds out?”

“She mustn’t. Not ever.” She carried on drawing.

“’Cause if she does she’ll turn him into a girl for real,” Jack suggested, and felt Sara grinning at the thought.

“I can’t draw horses. Need some pictures.”

“We’ll look for a book when we get home. What’s the horse for?”

“Not a real horse. A pooka. The queen sent him to find her a daughter an’ he come back with this boy. See, the pooka knows he made a mistake, but the queen’s goin’ to be even angrier at him if she ever finds out, so he has to help make sure she doesn’t.”

Jack remembered Granny’s story about a pooka. It was a boy who could take the shape of a fine black horse with blazing red eyes, who would entice his victims to get on his back, then run into the water and drown them. He didn’t know why the pooka should want to do this, but the idea of one being dispatched to bring someone into the fairy-realm appealed more.

“An’ even though it was him what took the boy from his mum and dad, they become best friends an’ go on lots of adventures an’ stuff.”

“Oh, so it’s not all bad.”

“No. ’Cept he can never go home and he has to pretend to be a girl and never ever be found out. ’Part from that it’s a laugh.”

“’Ere, you bin sar-car-stic?” Jack intoned out loud for effect, imitating Alexis Sayle, making Sara laugh and the older boy slouching on the opposite side of the carriage look at them oddly. “’Cause I ’ate it when people are sar-car-stic.” He grinned and stuck his tongue out at the older boy, who just looked away out of the window again.

“‘She has eyes like lapis lazuli and hair like a raven’s wing,’” Sara mused a little later, after some more drawing. She was detailing the pretty dress the little boy was wearing. Tiny flowers, every one drawn neatly with the sharp pencil. “That’s what the pooka tells the queen right at the start. And he says, ‘she always puts out a bowl of cream and some chocolate chip cookies for lonely travellers before she goes to bed.’”

“Double the chocolate,” Jack supplemented. “Triple for special occasions.” Like the ones the nice lady taught him to make when he was scared during the night.

“Yeah.”

The train was slowing down, passing factories and office blocks. Jack wanted to sit there forever and listen as Sara invented the story; and he could give her ideas and watch as she worked them in until they came back to him altered and new, so he could think ‘I thought of that,’ and still be surprised at what she had wrought with it.

“And the queen says, ‘Go and bring her to me before dawn. Tonight the veil will be lifted and she may come into our world. Such a night cannot come again in the span of her mortal life.’” Sara smiled, finding the portentiousness of her own words amusing.

The train slowed, pulling into the station. The older boy got up to leave. There was a poshly-dressed lady and her lonely daughter waiting on the platform, dimly seen through the sunlight on the scratched window.

Sara said, “The queen calls him Brenna, but we don’t know the boy’s name. He won’t ever tell, not even his friend the pooka, ’cause names are power an’ he thinks if he keeps his true name secret he’ll go home one day.”

“But he’s scared, if he don’t tell no-one, he might forget,” Jack suggested. Sara smiled broadly. She liked that idea.

“He’s never going home,” Sara said.

***

Nathan lay very still. He thought that if he moved, Valerie would have to do something, or go away like before. He just wanted to watch her as she typed on her laptop where she sat, cross-legged, on the other sofa. Narrow pillars of gold shone against the wall behind her. Dawn. He tried to keep his breathing light and slow, very slow, so as not to alert her that he was awake.

There was a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the coffee-table. Double the chocolate. He remembered the rich, sweet taste. Triple for special occasions.

His eyes fluttered closed. The broken rhythm of Valerie’s typing lulled him.

***

Sara showed him the fairy-queen’s splendid court amongst the woodland flowers, and she showed him how much the queen loved and doted upon the human child that had been brought to her. He saw how the boy thought she might love him anyway even if she knew the truth, but he was afraid of her, and his friend the pooka was even more afraid of her and of course he must know her better.

And magical creatures and people and scenes flickering, hard to pin down. Brenna riding the pooka’s horse-form bareback, in all the finery that befits the daughter of the queen of the fairies, surrounded by an escort of fairy warriors in armour glittering with dew and silver lustre, ducking under dew-laden nets of spidersilk in the grass at the edge of the forest.

Or the two of them, full-size but invisible to the real world, alone on some high promontory overlooking a human town; no, looking in through a window at his dad watching the football on television and his mum patiently spooning food into that thing’s mouth and wiping its chin when it dribbled and drooled.

“It looks nothing like me!” Brenna cries. It looks like a tiny withered old man with skin like old bark. “Why can’t she see that?”

“That’s the glamour working,” his pooka friend replies. “We’re immune. But look, Brenna, she’s not sad. áine in’t cruel like that.”

Then the scrawny wizened thing catches his gaze through the window and the veil between the worlds, and he can see in its eyes a look that is ancient, knowing and triumphant. And he catches sight of the reflection in the window, and sees just a scruffy little boy in a grubby T-shirt and jeans and dirty, matted hair, not at all like the fine silk and brocade dresses he had to wear at court.

Jack wasn’t sure if that was Sara’s idea or his own. He thought it was probably his own. Sara was more interested in the fairy-kingdom stuff, the magical horses, áine, the beautiful and kindly but terrifying queen, the way the fairies’ wings glistened in the morning sun.

***

“Jonathan,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice cut through the fog in his brain. “Where is the make-up you were wearing last night? I specifically told you not to remove it before coming down.”

“Um–” ~Don’t say that.~ “Sorry.”

Morning sunlight angled into the room. The pillars were brighter now, but thinner, slivers, almost gone. The rollers in his hair itched. He was on a big, comfortable, red linen-covered sofa. A quilt had fallen off him as he’d sat up. He was wearing a fluffy pink sweater over his nightgown. He felt a warning clench in his gut. This was not going to be a good day.

He stood. It seemed the thing to do. By the look on Mrs. Thompson’s face he was in a lot of trouble.

“My fault, Jane,” Valerie said, stepping between him and Mrs. Thompson. She was in a plain cotton sleeveless top and a long, light flowing patchwork skirt, with bare feet and unkempt hair. He looked around him at the comfortable living room. It almost didn’t look like it could belong in the same house as the parlour and dining room he’d seen the previous day. Modern and informal, the only clue that he hadn’t, in fact, been moved to another house was the same tall Georgian windows as he’d seen in the parlour and dining room. There was Valerie’s Libretto lying on the other sofa, and there was a memory of dozing off listening to her typing.

Valerie continued, “I cleaned it off. It was a mess and threatening to contaminate the mix. Marie, why don’t you take Nathan up to get ready for breakfast?” She seemed to be trying to stare down her mother. Adopted, Nathan remembered. There was something about Valerie’s manner that seemed suddenly explosive, but she was keeping it in check.

Miss Marie hesitated, until Mrs. Thompson glanced aside and nodded to her. “Let’s go, dear,” Miss Marie suggested. “Let’s make you beautiful.” He didn’t need to be told twice. The tension between Valerie and Mrs. Thompson was palpable. He was glad to leave it behind and follow Miss Marie up the stairs.

Valerie’s voice suddenly raised into a muffled shout below them. “OH FUCK YOU!” He stopped, frozen. There was a short pause, presumably while Mrs. Thompson said something, then, “I have! I’m not your fucking student! I don’t have to take this shit!”

“Valerie!” Mrs. Thompson’s voice punctured the air. A door slammed.

“Come with me, dear,” Miss Marie said gently. He agreed that was probably a good idea.

“I didn’t mean to get her into trouble,” he said aloud, following Miss Marie into his room.

“I know,” Miss Marie said. “Sit down, I’ll take these rollers out and we can see how your hair turned out.”

He sat. He heard footsteps outside the room, coming up the stairs and down the landing past his room, but Miss Marie closed the door on the sound. There was a nearby muffled door-slam.

“Is she in really bad trouble because of me?” Nathan asked.

“She’ll be fine, dear; don’t worry,” Miss Marie said. She was already quickly pulling out the pins and unravelling the rollers from his hair. When a lock was released from a roller it bounced up again springily, then sagged in a helix. “They both have a ferocious temper, that’s all. We shall give them a little time.”

“Okay.” Nathan sighed. He was distracted by the last of the rollers coming out. It looked strange and twisted, just having been let out of the rollers, but Miss Marie picked up a soft hairbrush and began brushing it out. It calmed him.

***

Nathan had been waiting behind his chair in the dining room for nearly five minutes before Mrs. Thompson arrived. She didn’t seem to notice him at first, merely walking into the room and seating herself, taking her time to settle. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot.

Finally she looked at him. “Good morning, Jonathan,” she said.

“Um–” damn, “morning.”

She gave him a stern look. “Good morning, Jonathan,” she stressed.

~Oh, she’s in such a bad mood.~ There was no sign of Valerie. He didn’t know what that meant. “G-good morning Ms-Mrs. Thompson,” he stammered.

“You may be seated.” He sat as quietly as he could, remembering how he’d done so before; the movement, then perching upright on the edge of the seat. For a few moments the loudest sounds in the room were the clinks of Jane stirring sugar into her coffee, and the rustling of his own petticoats. “I must concede you’re looking quite pretty this morning,” Mrs. Thompson continued when he had finished.

She fell silent, presumably demanding a response.

“Th-thank you Mrs. Thompson,” he managed. Miss Marie had dressed him in another outfit similar to that he’d worn the previous evening. This one was chequered blue, with a white lace pinafore, like the Sarah Kay pictures in the bathroom, even to the bow she’d put in his hair. He thought it looked as stupid as the one last night, but he wasn’t about to argue. At least the corset seemed a little less uncomfortable than it had the day before. He was sure that would change as the day progressed.

Mrs. Thompson sipped her coffee. “No doubt this is due to Miss Marie’s good graces. For future reference, I always expect my students to present themselves at the breakfast table punctually and well-presented, with a little colour on their faces. Miss Marie was good enough to do it for you this morning, but in future this will be your own responsibility, unless I direct otherwise.”

~Wasn’t I supposed to come down without getting ready?~ he wondered. He felt tired and sore. His legs were shaky from not enough sleep. And he’d missed something.

Miss Marie entered silently, bringing a plate of hot pastries, curtseyed and left.

“Do help yourself to breakfast,” Mrs. Thompson invited, helping herself to a croissant. Nathan tentatively reached for the jug of orange juice and poured himself a glass. Food was out of the question. “What do you say?”

“Um–”

“No, not ‘um.’”

“Th-Thank you.”

“That’s quite all right.”

Mrs. Thompson passed the plate of pastries in his direction. He didn’t want one, but it might be a bad idea to say so, so he took one and placed it on his plate. “Thank you,” he said again, not sure whether he was supposed to. It sat there, accusingly. The last thing he could imagine himself doing at that moment was eat a pastry.

“Miss Marie tells me you like speaking French,” Mrs. Thompson said suddenly.

“Er, yes ma’am.”

“Very well. You will speak it with Marie at all times. That will please me to hear you. Is it not a very beautiful and elegant language? Good morning, Valerie.”

Nathan struggled to keep up. Mrs. Thompson spoke a lot more rapidly than Miss Marie, making no allowance at all for his comparative lack of ability. He was still struggling to parse what she’d said when Valerie’s entrance distracted him.

Valerie made her way to her place and sat before replying. She looked nice in a simple skirt and sweater, her hair swept back under a hairband.

“Good morning, Jane. Good morning, Nathan.”

“Um–”

“Jonathan?” Mrs. Thompson queried sternly.

“Good morning, Miss Valerie.”

“There, we have been making some progress already.” Mrs. Thompson sounded insufferably pleased with herself. Valerie was looking at him with an unspoken question on her face. ~What?~ he wondered. He didn’t know what she meant, so he shrugged in apology. “Don’t shrug,” Mrs. Thompson said. “It shows you to be unkempt and careless in your manners and thoughts.” ~I can’t shrug now?~ “Did you understand what I said earlier?”

“Pardon me, Ma’am: No. I do not understand.

“No. Say: ‘I did not understand.’ You did not understand.”

“I did not understand.”

“How is this so? Marie told me your French is very good.”

“Slowly, please, Madam. Er… I learn, I mean, I learned in an English school.”

Mrs. Thompson looked at him for a long moment, then laughed out loud.

“Where I come from,” Valerie’s voice cut in from the other end of the table, “I was taught that private conversations are conducted in private.” She was giving Mrs. Thompson a hard stare, and getting it back in full measure.

“I-I’m sorry, Valer– Miss Valerie,” he stammered.

“That’s okay, Nathan. You weren’t to know.”

“Indeed not,” Mrs. Thompson agreed. “Nor that punctuality at all times is considered a cherished virtue in this household, yet he seems already to have mastered it. Jonathan and I were concluding a conversation begun in your absence.” Nathan kept his eyes on his plate, and his untouched pastry. Whatever was going on between these two he didn’t want a part of it. “Jonathan is learning French as part of his school studies. I was just telling him that when he is with Marie, he is to speak only French. It will be excellent practice for him.” ~Oh God,~ Nathan thought. That had been the part he’d not been able to keep up for. “That is,” Mrs. Thompson continued, with an air of condescension, “when you are not also present.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” Valerie answered tightly.

“Now,” Mrs. Thompson addressed Nathan again, “today we shall begin your training in earnest. You will be learning about the proper application and removal of make-up and attire under Marie’s expert tuition, and you will present yourself to me for inspection every half hour. I expect you to continue to prove as adept a study at the skills you will be learning today and in the days and weeks to come. It shall not go well for you if I suspect you of being sluggardly. Do you have any plans for today, Valerie?” Mrs. Thompson asked, almost as an afterthought.

Valerie was a fraction long in replying. “I thought I’d go and see Mary and Lizbeth,” she said with equal coldness. “She’s stuck in and her parents are driving her nuts. I was wondering if I might take a car and take them for a day out.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Thompson’s voice matched Valerie’s in frostiness. “You may take mine. That sounds like an excellent idea.”

“I thought it might.”

Nathan caught the tension behind their words and tried to make himself invisible. He thought neither of them were very interested in him right then anyway.

“Do you have anywhere special in mind?” Mrs. Thompson asked. All pleasantries.

“Yes.” For a moment, Nathan thought she wasn’t going to say any more than that. Nathan didn’t have to go to a school for manners to know how rude that would be. He glanced up at her involuntarily, the movement pulling Valerie’s attention briefly onto him. She hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Mary mentioned the beach at a place called Weston Super Mare. She says it’s time I experienced the British seaside town meme.”

“Bring us back a stick of rock.”

Nathan felt himself grinning, then looked up to see both Valerie and Mrs. Thompson staring at him.

“A what?” Valerie asked.

“Sorry. Nothing.”

Mrs. Thompson’s glare was actually directed at Valerie, he noticed, surprised; but if Valerie was even aware of it she made no sign. Blushing, Nathan picked at his pastry. Anything to look like he was minding his own business eating without having to actually ingest any more than a few flakes.

“She means candy. It’s a little like a candy cane, but with no handle,” Mrs. Thompson explained to Valerie.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Valerie smiled at Nathan, illuminating her face again, her voice softer than when she had been addressing Mrs. Thompson. Nathan felt his own involuntary smile in return.

~You’re dressed like a little girl, you idiot,~ he castigated himself and looked away, ashamed. ~You look like kiddie trade. If you’re lucky she just pities you.~ He was well aware what he looked like. The fear bit into his gut again. Mrs. Thompson had said ‘she,’ meaning himself. It made him feel even more nauseous.

“What time shall we expect your return?” Mrs. Thompson was asking Valerie. “Will you be here for dinner?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so, but I have college tomorrow so I’ll be back tonight before too late.”

“Indeed.”

***

“We must work quickly,” Marie said as they walked back to his bedroom. “Madame wants to see you in half an hour. And you must do it all yourself.”

“Half an–”

“Quickly! Quickly!” She hustled him into his room. “Sit down and start to remove your make-up. While you’re occupied with that, I’ll choose your next ensemble.” She bustled across to the wardrobes, leaving him standing trying to figure out what she’d just said.

~Quick. Sit. Remove. Make-up,~ which he remembered from the previous night.

“I’m not feeling very well,” he said. All clenched up and tense and his back was starting to ache again.

“Now, dear, or you will be late!” Marie scolded. “Sit down and get started. Hurry.” He went and boompsed and sat at the dressing table.

He tried to remember what Miss Marie had used the night before to take his make-up off properly. “What do I…” he started. “I mean, What to employ me?” That didn’t sound right, but Marie was busy. He picked up bottles in turn. Toner. He remembered that. But that was last, he thought. Cleanser. “Aha.” He noticed suddenly that a lot of the product labels were bilingual. “Aha again. Again.” He scanned the instructions on the back. It more or less tallied with what he remembered Miss Marie doing the night before, so he undid the top and poured a glob of the stuff out onto his hand and slopped it over his face.

***

“How– I mean, How is that, Miss?”

Marie came back to the dressing table. Nathan stood to meet her so she could better inspect his make-up. “Hm. Sufficient.”

“No, it’s bad,” he said.

“It’s nothing.” Marie said, with a small time. “It’s your first attempt. Now,” she continued, “I’ve chosen a dress for you, but you must first change your undergarments.”

He looked at the dress suspiciously. “Why?”

“Why? Because I tell you to.” For the first time she seemed slightly impatient. “And because your petticoats will show.”

He looked at her, knowing his face had a stupid expression. “Er, I don’t understand ‘petticoats.’”

“Petticoats.”

He blinked. “But they’re to show-er-showing already,” he protested.

“They are not supposed to show with this dress,” Marie said irritably. “Hurry. You will run out of time.”

He snatched up the clothes from the bed and retreated to the bathroom.

***

“Thirty-eight minutes,” Mrs. Thompson snapped, as soon as she’d opened the parlour door. “This is unacceptable. Go straight upstairs and change again.”

“Wha– But–”

“The clock is running, Natasha.”

The door shut in his face. She hadn’t even looked at him.

“Well fuck you too,” he said to the door. The door opened again on Mrs. Thompson wearing an expression of contained fury.

“That little outburst has cost you ten minutes. You now have twenty minutes. I suggest you run.”

The door closed again.

***

“Twenty-five minutes. Better, but you have a ten minute penalty for swearing. Go and do it again. Thirty minutes this time.”

The door closed.

Nathan’s headache wasn’t getting any better. Great. Today was obviously just going to get worse and worse. He turned stiffly back towards the stairs.

***

“… And finished. Go! Quickly!”

Nathan went. Quickly. His head was pounding and his stomach was churning and his back was aching worse than ever, but he veered out of his bedroom and scrambled along the landing towards the stairs.

***

Nathan knocked and waited, still panting.

“Enter.”

That was an improvement, at least. She might actually look this time. Nathan turned the handle and went into the parlour.

“Well, close the door behind you and come here,” Mrs. Thompson directed. He obeyed, moving stiffly. “Now, come here and stand before me. Don’t dawdle. We haven’t got all day.”

~Haven’t we?~ he wondered. ~What else is happening today then?~

He made his way to the centre of the room and tried to stand still.

“Feet together. Stand straight. Look at me.”

He really didn’t feel very well.

“Yes, there are some quite basic deficiencies. I can see some streaks in your foundation and your eyeliner is shoddy and ill-defined. Stay still.” She moved around behind him, her hand alighting momentarily on his shoulder, before lifting off and correcting something about the way his hair had fallen. “You must take more care of the way you dress. Ensure the fabric lies properly. This is sloppy.” She tugged at the dress he was wearing a few times, straightening things out. He hadn’t had time to check in the mirror. “Again. Thirty minutes. Off you go.” She left him, walking back to the desk. He started to turn. “Curtsey,” she directed, not even bothering to turn and look. She probably had a little mirror set up somewhere, he thought, not seeing it, so he curtseyed to her back and left.

He had to stop on the stairs. It hurt too much. He felt dizzy and sick. He found himself doubled over, wondering if he was actually going to throw up–

***

–Knocking on the parlour door. ~Already?~

“Enter!”

He looked down quickly. Yellow dress. ~Yellow?~ he thought distastefully. It would have to do. He went in and stood on the same spot as before.

“Yes, I think I discern some improvement; however, you’re still being too heavy-handed with your make-up, and there’s some…” she knelt to fiddle with the skirts, “… inattention given to the manner of your dress. It should not wrinkle up like this.” She straightened it out, her hands on him again. “What’s this?”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s what?”

“You’ve gotten foundation on the front of your dress. Oh, Nathan, that’s unpardonable.”

“Where?” He tried to look down, but it was too high up under his chin.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know you did it, I can see where you tried to wipe it off. Honestly.” She sighed and stepped back. “Again. And this time I want to see you do something pretty with your hair. Thirty minutes. Go.”

He turned to go.

“You’ve forgotten something,” she reminded him. He thought furiously. ~Oh yeah.~ He turned back and curtseyed. Mrs. Thompson nodded and he went.

***

This time he double-checked in the mirror. “Oh my God.” There was a fine sheen of sweat threatening to ruin his make up. He could feel himself starting to go a little nonlinear.

He liked the hair though. Eleanor called it a French Plait. He grabbed the hand-mirror and positioned it behind his head so he could see. “Oh right. Thank you for the hair, Miss.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Marie said. “It’s lovely. Very elegant.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Tired. He was clearly having trouble concentrating on who exactly was doing what. He started to put more powder on, hoping to blot out the sheen on his skin, and took a moment to brush the excess away off the front of his dress. Blue, this time. Someone else had chosen it.

He stood up to look in the full-length mirror again. He tugged on the dress, trying to straighten it, and sighed. Apparently this was another combination which required visible petticoatage. He hoped so anyway, or Mrs. Thompson would be bound to tell him off about it.

“Charlie is dead.”

He turned around and looked over his shoulder to try to see the back. Everything looked straight this time. And no more spilled make-up.

“What did you say?” Marie lapsed suddenly into English, her voice sounding a little shaken.

“Charlie’s dead,” he translated. “Means yer petticoat’s showing.”

“Does it now?” Marie looked interested at that, and oddly relieved about something. “Where did you learn a thing like that?”

“Er,” he shifted. “I’d better go. I’m going to be late.” That wouldn’t do, he knew as he headed for the door, so when he reached it he turned back to her. “I think my Granny used to say it. When… Whenever someone’s petticoat showed. Like on telly, I expect.”

He went.

***

Nathan had already sweated through the face powder by the time he’d been able to present himself. So of course, Mrs. Thompson lectured him about the amount of powder he’d put on, before moving on to tear apart the rest of his appearance. It was like she expected him to be instantly perfect at all this. Her voice just went on and on.

He’d really tried this time, too. Even though Miss Marie wasn’t even teaching him properly, but just making him get on with it himself while she picked out dresses. He’d really tried this time, despite the pain and the aching and the nausea, and she was just picking, picking, picking at it just like before. His head pounded, and pieces of memory from the night kept dropping unexpectedly into place. Babbling his mouth off to Valerie in the kitchen like a kid being allowed to stay up late; almost burning his tongue on a hot cookie; Valerie listening, being nice, looking a little sad when she didn’t realise he was watching.

“I can’t!” he heard himself protest suddenly; for the first time that day daring to oppose her. He hadn’t even registered what Mrs. Thompson had said. “It’s not fair! You’re not giving me enough time! I can’t do it that fast! I can’t do it!” He had to fight himself to not cry at the sheer frustration of it all.

He didn’t hear Mrs. Thompson’s reply, although the tone of the lecture was plain enough; disparaging, belittling, humiliating him.

“I tried but you din’t give me enough time ’cause you want me to mess it up don’t you?” His voice ran ahead of him; he was so tired he couldn’t even find the energy to stop himself. ~Shut up, shut up.~ “You’re just doing it so you can tell me off! I tried! It’s not FAIR! I HATE YOU!” ~Fair?~ He marvelled distantly at that part of himself that could be concerned about fairness. ~What do you think you’re doing here, kid?~

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, wishing he could recall that outburst. That was stupid of him, and careless. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Oh, I rather think you did,” Mrs. Thompson observed acerbically.

He was weeping; suddenly, without apparent transition. He felt himself sitting, or rather slumping into the nearest chair, not caring that he didn’t have permission to do so. He was tired and his belly was cramped from that corset and his back hurt and he had a headache and he felt sick and he just hated it. All of it. He wasn’t even crying aloud, but the tears wouldn’t stop, as if they were being squeezed out of him by the huge hand slowly, inexorably, crushing his body–

***

–Throwing up into the toilet. ~Well, that didn’t sound very ladylike,~ he thought distantly, then he was all the way inside the moment. There hadn’t been much of anything to throw up, so it hurt, and he was suddenly covered completely in sweat. He blindly reached for the toilet roll and wiped off the vomity spittle. His hands shook.

Eventually he could sit shivery back on his heels, after checking that he wasn’t scrunching the precious petticoats; then he lowered the seat and the lid of the toilet and reached up to the handle to flush it, then folded his arms on the lid and just rested his head there for a little while, to stop things spinning around. He was conscious that he was probably getting make-up on the sleeve of the dress.

He got unsteadily to his feet and made it to the sink. There was still a little blood in the bottom of the sink. “Shit,” he gasped, and clamped his eyes shut and turned the tap on full. He couldn’t look at that. It wasn’t his–

***

–“For future reference,” Mrs. Thompson said, surprisingly mildly, “you do not walk away from me until you are given leave to do so, and you do not run away from me under any circumstances whatsoever. Is that understood?”

He swayed. He really needed to sit down. “Yes Mrs. Thompson.”

“Are you feeling unwell?” Professional. Dispassionate.

“You’re not exactly seeing–” He swallowed the rest. “Yes,” he admitted.

“What seems to be the problem?”

He looked at her swimmingly for a moment, wondering if she could really be that dense. “I have a headache,” he understated tightly. “I feel sick.”

“Would you like something for it?”

He nodded. “Have you got any Nurofen?”

“That’s ibuprofen, isn’t it?” Nathan nodded again. “I’m sure we have some ibuprofen. Marie, would you see to that please?”

“Yes, ma’am,” The glance Mrs. Thompson gave over his shoulder towards Miss Marie said ‘at once,’ so Miss Marie left.

“I’m not displeased with your efforts this morning–”

“You could have fooled–”

“Don’t interrupt.” She sighed, then continued more gently. “Sit down, dear, before you fall down.” ~I must look almost as bad as I feel,~ he realised. He made the few steps to his bed and sat carefully. He still felt pretty shaky, conscious of a sheen of sweat on his forehead, cooled by the breeze from the window. “I can see you’ve worked hard and made reasonable progress under difficult circumstances.” High praise from Mrs. Thompson, he guessed. “In future you are to inform me if you are suffering from an ailment that would affect your studies.”

“It’s only a headache–” It didn’t even convince him.

“I wish to be kept informed of your physical condition. I will make determination as to whether you are too unwell to proceed with any planned activities. I’m making that determination now, do you understand?”

“Yes Mrs. Thompson.” He sighed, feeling sick.

“Are you sure there are no allergies or other adverse reactions about which I haven’t been warned?” she said.

“No. I mean, yes, I’m sure. No allergies.”

“I can’t believe Marie’s cooking has done this. Besides, you’ve hardly eaten enough…” She seemed to be only half talking to him, and half to herself.

“No, it’s– I mean, I’ve been feeling off for a couple of days; it just got worse today ’cause I din’t get enough sleep and I pushed too hard. It’s probably just a little stomach bug or something. You know, school dinners.” He held off miming a vomit action. In his current state it might turn true. “I’ll feel better in a day or two, I– I expect.”

Mrs. Thompson crossed to the window and looked out. She seemed tense and preoccupied, Nathan thought. He waited, hoping she wasn’t going to start criticising him again, or start quizzing him more about how he was feeling. She only sighed.

Miss Marie returned with a glass of water, paused at the doorway with a glance to Mrs. Thompson, then crossed silently to Nathan. She gave him a whole blister pack of ibuprofen and he popped three tablets out into his palm. She gave him the glass. “Thank you very much,” he said quietly, and downed the pills.

“Thank you, Marie,” Mrs. Thompson said crisply, not looking around from the window. Miss Marie looked at her, then curtseyed to her back and left silently, taking the glass and the rest of the pills away with her.

“I suggest you take a short nap,” Mrs. Thompson said. His attention snapped back to her; she had turned away from the window at last. “I will send Marie later to help you get ready for lunch.” She turned to the windows again and pulled the curtains closed, dimming the room in that strange half-lit way of a darkened room with sunlight beyond. “Do you need assistance in undressing for bed?” He shook his head vehemently. One benefit of the morning’s exercises, he decided, was that he knew how to get out of these clothes by himself now, so if she was going to give him the choice, he’d take it. “Very well, but mind you hang up your clothes in the wardrobe properly and remove all traces of your make-up before you get into bed.”

A response seemed called for, so he said “Yes Mrs. Thompson” again.

“We shall continue with your lessons this afternoon. Something a little less physically taxing until you are fully recovered.”

She left, finally.

***

“Jack, I’m hungry.”

There was no wind even in the park. The sun hurt his eyes. He wished Sara hadn’t said that. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was getting.

“I know. Lea’ me alone, I’m tryin’ to find somefink, in’ I.”

“You said that before! I want to go home!” She was only little then. She couldn’t understand. He tried to comfort her so she wouldn’t start crying again. She’d been crying a lot ever since he lost the notebook containing her drawings. It wasn’t his fault. It had been in the backpack when that older kid with the knife took it. He still felt ashamed of how he’d just handed it over without a fight. He had been so afraid.

He watched a teenaged girl sitting in the shade of a large oak tree reading NME. “She looks nice,” Sara said. “You goin’ to ask her?”

“Yeah.” Begging got easier the longer you had to do it. The first time he’d tried it he’d felt so humiliated to have to ask a stranger for money so he could eat. The humiliation passed. It was easier to handle than being invisible.

“You goin’ to go like that?”

He looked down. The dress he was wearing must have been pretty once, but it was tired and grubby and the hem was getting threadbare and the petticoats were all torn and crumpled. Mrs. Thompson would be furious.

“Oh shit!” Nathan yelled. Water sloshed over the side of the bath. “Shit, that was fucked up,” he said. The ache in his back had subsided, at least, and his headache had almost gone. Naked in the water. He held back the panic. There were lots of bubbles. He was intruding. He wasn’t supposed to be here–

***

–Cosy in bed. His legs slipped sensuously between the satin sheets. Soft. His skin was soft and smooth after the bath and felt nice. “Mm, thank you,” he murmured.

“Shh, sleep my love.”

He slept.

***

She wouldn’t give him any money for food, but she did something else utterly unexpected. She took him to a café and bought him a full slap-up dinner.

And do they have to know? (Do they have to know?)
About my goodnight girl…

“I’m Louise, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Sheo,” Jack said around a mouthful of burger.

“Sheo? Tha’s a funny name.”

He shrugged.

“Yeah, Louise in’t my real name neitha.” She smiled broadly. Her mouth seemed a little too wide for her face, but not in an unattractive way. She had spots though, which she covered with make-up, and obviously-dyed black hair. She lit up a fag. “How long you been outside, Sheo?”

He shrugged again. “Couple weeks.”

“You stayn’ anywhere?”

He shook his head. “Can’t find nowhere what takes kids.”

“What, shel’ers?” He nodded. “Nah, don’t bother luv. None of ’em will ’til you’re sixteen. If they lets you in an’ someone ’urts you, it’s their fault, innit?”

“That’s stupid.”

Louise gestured with her cigarette and lounged back, propping a foot on the double seat he was sitting on, balancing her chair on its back legs. She wore purple Doctor Martens with painted-on flowers, black tights and a short denim skirt, a tight red top that showed off her navel-ring, and a denim jacket. She’d tied up her hair in a red lace scrunchie. “You run away?”

Jack nodded, still too busy wrapping himself around the burger. He made sure to eat all the salad.

“Yeah, me too.” He thought she didn’t look like it. Her clothes looked new, apart from her DMs, which just looked normally worn-in rather than worn-out. She sang along quietly to the end of the song.

Caught up in your wishin’ well
Your hopes and sadness
Take your love’n’promises
And make them last

She had a nice voice. She tipped forward briefly to steal a chip, grinning. He reckoned she had the right, seeing as she paid for it and all.

***

Nathan stopped in the doorway of the parlour. Mrs. Thompson was alone in there, half-reclining on a chaise-longue, reading some papers and apparently unaware of his presence. A plate of cookies rested on a small table before her. He knocked twice on the open door.

Mrs. Thompson’s gaze switched up to him. She watched him in silence for a moment. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked eventually.

“Yeah. Sorry I flipped out a bit earlier–”

“That is not an acceptable choice of words, Natasha,” she stopped him curtly.

“Sor–”

“Stop saying sorry and take some instruction. In answer to my question you might respond, ‘Yes thank you, Mrs. Thompson,’ and ‘I apologise for my earlier conduct.’”

“Okay. I mean–” ~Wait, what did she call me?~

“So say it.”

He swallowed. Maybe he imagined it. “Yes thank you, Mrs. Thompson. I apologise for my earlier conduct.”

“Apology accepted. I’m glad you’re feeling better, although I must say you do still seem a little fragile.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, come in, Natasha; let me look at you.” ~There! She did it again!~ He definitely wasn’t imagining it. ~Did I miss something else?~ It had been a horrible, scrappy morning, but he was solid from the time he woke up, as far as he could tell. The hot bath and a few hours of sleep had settled him down a lot.

He took a breath and went in.

“Oh dear. You seem to have forgotten what you learned already about walking, I see. No, don’t sit.” Mrs. Thompson sat up herself, as if dragging herself to a tiresome task. “Did you choose that dress by yourself?”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Do you like it?”

He nodded.

“Speak up, Natasha.” He didn’t flinch.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly.

“Why do you think that’s so?”

He shrugged, and too late remembered:

“Don’t shrug like that. It’s untidy.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Thom–”

“If you were more attentive there would be no need for apologies. I’m sure it’s at least as tiresome for you to make them as it is for me to hear them.” Nathan bowed his head. Mrs. Thompson sighed. “In any case, a shrug is not an answer. Why did you choose that dress?”

“It’s more grown-up I guess.”

“You guess?”

He started to shrug again, and stopped himself before it progressed beyond a twitch. It seemed nothing he did was right. He saw Mrs. Thompson smile at his discomfiture.

“It seemed more grown-up,” he tried again.

“Indeed it is. Too much so for you, I fear.” ~Here it comes then,~ he thought. “The clothes Marie and I selected for you earlier were chosen for a reason, Natasha. They are constructed in such a fashion as to encourage a proper posture and gait. This dress does nothing of the kind, you must provide your own posture-discipline if you are to graduate to more adult garments that don’t enforce it. See, you’re slouching again already.” He tried to straighten further. “Oh dear, not like that! This isn’t a parade ground!”

“Sorry Mrs–”

She rose to her feet, a single graceful movement, and came to him. He backed off a step instinctively. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she remonstrated. “Stand still.” She went behind him. “Put your feet together.” He obeyed. “Now, raise your arms and reach for the ceiling. Try to touch the ceiling.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

He raised his hands.

“Stretch. Up on tip-toes.” He tried to go up onto his toes, but tottered and nearly lost his balance, until he felt her hands at his waist. Firm. He gasped, his heart thumping harder. “I have you. You won’t fall. Stretch, Natasha.”

Her presence so close distracted him. He could smell her perfume. He stretched. Something popped. “Ah!”

“Oh dear, you’re not very limber, are you?” Mrs. Thompson commented. “I don’t doubt your being excused from school sports has something to do with that.” ~Don’t go there. Don’t go there,~ he wished. “Now I want you to lower your arms to your sides until they are horizontal. Slowly. There.” He stood in a cruciform. “Now slowly, lower your hands to your sides, still keeping your arms straight. At the same time lower your feet as well, until you’re standing normally… That’s it.” He stood at the end of the sequence. “That’s your posture. Doesn’t that feel better?”

“Yeah. I mean yes Mrs. Thompson.” He had to admit it was true; even if her hands were still on his waist. The stretch had eased the residual dull ache in his back somewhat. Slowly, her hands slipped away and she came around in front of him.

“Yes, that’s much better. We shall have to see what we can do about loosening you up, however.” She went to sit down. “Did you do your own make-up, or did Marie help you?”

“I did it myself, Mrs. Thompson.” He’d tried to replicate what he’d been practicing at high speed all morning, only this time he had some time to get it right and he thought he’d done a better job.

“Well, come here and sit by me so I can see. Maintain your posture as you sit.”

Nathan felt tense and short of breath again, but he forced himself not to show it as he stepped closer and sat next to Mrs. Thompson. He felt her gaze over him, and even managed not to flinch when she corrected some stray tendrils of his hair, her fingers brushing momentarily against his cheek. That was what all this was about, he knew: Getting him used to having her touch him. She was playing a long game, that was all. She wanted to believe he liked it. She wanted to believe she was giving him a lesson he’d thank her for later. He pasted a smile on, and felt it fade after a moment. He remembered consciously to sit more upright, not to lean back, seeking the same set to his back as she’d shown him standing.

“Yes, that’s adequate. I’m glad to see you applying what you’ve learned already. I was told you are a quick study.” There didn’t seem to be an answer to that, so he sat still, turning his gaze to the floor in front of him. “I’m afraid you missed lunch. Marie looked in on you but you were so soundly asleep she thought it better to leave you.”

He’d slept longer than he thought then. “W–What time is it?” he asked. He didn’t have a watch, and hadn’t thought to look at the clock in his bedroom.

“Nearly four. Are you hungry? We appear to have plenty of cookies.” She sounded wryly amused about that. He glanced at the cookies on the table. “I’m sure Marie would be glad to bring you a glass of milk.”

“No. Thank you,” he remembered to add, just in time. He’d probably only drop crumbs on the furniture and so get into trouble, he knew, but food was quite impossible in any case; his stomach was clenched painfully tight with tension.

“All right.” Approval. And that was that, it seemed. Mrs. Thompson picked up the thing she was reading when he came down and resumed. Neither dismissed nor further engaged, Nathan sat still, not knowing what he was supposed to do. ~Nothing, I suppose,~ he thought. ~Just sit here and look pretty or whatever.~ He tried to glance sidelong at what Mrs. Thompson was reading.

Mrs. Thompson cleared her throat without looking up.

“Sorry.”

Then she looked over her glasses at him.

“Sorry, Mrs. Thompson,” he amended.

“Curiosity is a virtue, Natasha, but spying on what other people are reading is not. If you’re looking for something to read, you may choose a book from the bookshelves.”

Relieved at the excuse to get off the chaise-longue, he stood and wandered across the room to the bookshelves. Even as he tried to focus on the books in front of him, and figure out the layout (if any) of the bookshelves, he felt her gaze on his back, and consciously tried to keep it straight, as it was before. It made his sides ache slightly.

There seemed to be a lot of romantic fiction at eye-level, he noticed quickly, and stepped back to get a clearer view of the higher and lower shelves. The top two rows turned out to comprise classic and modern literature. The larger bottom shelves held mostly larger-format books and encyclopá¦dias; coffee-table fare, it seemed at a glance. Many, he couldn’t help noticing, seemed devoted to what he supposed were feminine arts: costume history, cookery, flower-arranging, dressmaking, music and dance, and some looked to be more serious reference material, and well-used. Some of the books were very old. He bent to try to read the title of one, eroded gold-leaf lettering stamped on a leather spine–

“I’ve just remembered,” Mrs. Thompson said behind him. He turned in trepidation. “Don’t you have glasses you’re supposed to wear for reading?”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Go and fetch them then, and return immediately. Have you chosen something yet?”

“No.” Pause. He remembered to add, “Mrs. Thompson.”

“Very well. I will select something suitable.” His heart sank. So much for stretching that out. “I should like to hear you read aloud. Go and get your glasses.”

He went. He didn’t exactly dawdle on the way, but he did take the opportunity to practice walking the way he’d had to walk in the petticoats and corset earlier in the day, which just happened to slow him down.

His back was threatening again by the time he came downstairs, so he stopped outside the parlour door and repeated the stretching exercise. It helped a little, and corrected his posture before going in to see her again.

Mrs. Thompson seemed unconcerned at the time he took to return. “Come here,” she directed. “Sit by me again.”

He sighed and obeyed.

“Put them on, let me see what they look like on you now.”

He put his glasses on, then endured her gaze for a few long moments.

“Hmm.” A tone of dissatisfaction. “They’ll serve, at a pinch. Do you remember when you last had your eyes tested?” He shook his head. “Speak up.”

“No, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Maybe we shall see to that, then. Do you only need them for close-work?”

He nodded again, looking down. “I’m slightly long-sighted. Bit of astigmatism. I can see all right, but I get eyestrain.” He shrugged. “Be easier to remember if I couldn’t actually see without them.”

There was a sharp tap on his shoulder, making him look up quickly. “Don’t shrug,” Mrs. Thompson reminded him.

“Oh, yeah. I mean yes. Sorry, um–” That put him off completely.

“Never mind.” She said it with a long-suffering sigh and handed him a book. “Read to me.”

“R–” he began, scanning the cover. It was a Jane Austen novel, he saw immediately; and shockingly not Pride and Prejudice. He’d sat through that on television at home a couple of years ago as Lindsey, in common with a large part of the female population of the country, hung on every tiny thing Mr. Darcy did. It was tiresome for a good year or so after the series finished, although less so than Lindsey teasing him for somehow always having nowhere else to go on the evenings it was on, as if he had anywhere else to go any other evening except up to his room. If she hadn’t kept teasing him about it, and if he didn’t know she’d tease him so much worse if he did so, he would have admitted long ago that, yes, he’d enjoyed watching it, albeit not for the same reasons.

“You can read, can’t you?” Mrs. Thompson said rhetorically.

He gave her a look.

He hadn’t heard of this book: Northanger Abbey. “Where do you want me to go from?”

“Start at the beginning, naturally.”

He leafed through the first few pages — there was an editor’s preface, which he didn’t think she meant by ‘the beginning,’ and a short author’s preface which he didn’t think counted either — until he found the start of Chapter 1.

He felt her fingers on his wrist suddenly, bearing down, lowering the book. “Can you read comfortably at that distance?”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Then do so. Remember your posture.” Pressure from a hand in the small of his back. “And relax your shoulders. Now read.”

Her touch was so assured.

He started reading. “‘No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine,’” he began. Mrs. Thompson let him read a few sentences before interrupting him.

“How would you describe the tone she’s using?” She had shifted her position to make herself more comfortable as she listened; she was half-turned towards him, her legs curled up onto the chaise-longue, and one arm casually lying along the back. He could sense her hand behind his left shoulder.

“Tone? Um–”

“Oh, Natasha, you were doing so well. Never mind. Answer the question, when you’re ready.”

“I think she’s taking the pi– she’s being satirical?”

“Satirical would be the preferred term,” Mrs. Thompson agreed dryly. “Why do you think so? What is it in the writing that’s telling you she’s being satirical?”

He shrugged and immediately felt another answering tap on his shoulder. He swallowed. “It’s just the way she puts things. Like she says the father’s a very respectful man, even though his name was Richard,” he stressed. That was the most obvious example to hand.

“Very well. Continue, and this time try to let that satire find expression in your voice.”

“I was being deadpan.” The joke slipped out.

“A little less morbidity then, if you will,” Mrs. Thompson riposted. He grinned despite himself. “Read now. Immediately.”

“‘She was fond of all boy’s plays,’” he got out, before the smile-impulse had faded. ~Oh!~ “‘and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the–’ dead again,” he admitted.

“You have a tendency to gravitate to a monotone,” Mrs. Thompson agreed. “Pay attention to the words, and apply stress where appropriate. ‘She was fond of all boy’s plays, and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls.’ Do you hear?” He nodded. “Try that sentence again.

“‘She was fond of all boys plays,’” he stressed, “‘and greatly preferred crick–’” Mrs. Thompson was raising a hand for him to stop again.

“Can you hear what you’re doing wrong?” An ‘um’ hovered on the brink. He shook his head. “I asked you to stress and what you did was to punch the word out. I want you to try applying stress to syllables by raising pitch, not volume. In fact, try to keep the volume constant throughout and only vary the pitch. Listen carefully: ‘She was fond of all boy’s plays,’” She paused, then softly hummed a seven-note phrase that matched what she’d just said, the highest note on the ‘all’. Her hand, not the one behind him, lifted from her lap and seemed to play the notes upon an air-keyboard as she spoke. ~Ahh.~ “Speech is musical. It offers so much more nuance and flavour than merely quiet versus loud. Be alert to it.”

He nodded. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Now,” her hand, the one that had rested behind him, landed softly on his shoulder. “Relax your shoulders. Don’t hunch. Don’t stiffen, or I’ll feel it.” She waited until he forced his shoulders to relax by main willpower. It was almost impossible with her hand right there, on him. But she was patient. She waited. “There, that will allow you to breathe and speak more easily. Continue.” He took a breath. “… Without rushing. Take the time to understand what you’re about to say.”

Still her hand remained, for the most part just resting lightly against his back, her long fingers just lying passively over the top of his shoulder, not gripping in any way. She would be able to feel instantly if he tensed or stiffened. All he could think to do was just to carry on reading and try to bury himself in that and try not to think about what she was doing. She let him do so largely uninterrupted; only giving him an occasional verbal nudge when his voice was starting to drop to the ground state again, or a pressure on his shoulder when he did, inevitably, tense up.

It was tiring to read in this fashion. He wasn’t in the best of health anyway, he reminded himself, and it was only in consideration of that that Mrs. Thompson was foregoing some more strenuous activity like the morning’s rapid changes of costume; but the slightly archaic prose, with its long, multi-claused sentences, had to be read and understood; then he had to remember to say it out loud the way to Mrs. Thompson’s specifications, and she was quick to correct him if he let himself slip and just start spooling the words. On the other hand, she didn’t seem to mind at all when he misread the structure of a sentence or fluffed a line; she’d just wait patiently for him to sort it out, and sometimes make a small suggestion of how to read a phrase.

After a while she did withdraw her hand, without comment, as she shifted her own position to listen more comfortably. He took one slow breath, but managed to control any further reaction. He honestly wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he was restraining. She confused him. Even just her physical presence confused him; the gentle assurance she displayed towards him; the attention she was giving him — all her attention, he had no sense that she wanted to be anywhere else in the world than with him, listening to him read Jane Austen — was flattering; the subtle encouragements; the fact that everything she told him to do made things better, not worse, if he did them. There was an implied promise in that: something negotiated.

For the first time in over a day he was almost feeling all right.

***

Valerie, true to her estimation that morning, had not returned in time for dinner, and the food was laid out in serving-dishes for each person to take what they wished. He couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for it, so he was content to sit back, figuratively, and listen to Mrs. Thompson talking to Eleanor. “Yes, I’d like that,” Eleanor said, when Mrs. Thompson had suggested she read further. So after dinner they returned to the parlour and Eleanor read to Mrs. Thompson for a further hour or two, until Mrs. Thompson congratulated her on the improvement she had shown and declared that it was bedtime, and that the reading would resume tomorrow. Nathan was in no mood to object, being tired, but he had a thought, which might make the next day’s reading less tiring.

“Can I take the book?” he asked Mrs. Thompson. “So I can read over it before tomorrow?”

Mrs. Thompson smiled for a moment. “You should say ‘please may I borrow the book,’” she explained.

“Oh, yeah. Please may I borrow the book?”

“Of course you may. You may avail yourself of any book in my collection for the duration of your stay. Mind only that you take care of them. Some of them are very old and require gentle handling.”

He stood, holding the book in front of him. He asked tentatively, “Do you have a French/English dictionary? I’m a bit short on nouns.” He smiled awkwardly. He’d perforce picked up a number of new ones during the morning, but it had all been so hectic he didn’t think he’d retain them.

“Oh…” Mrs. Thompson hesitated. “That’s a good question.” She looked like she was trying to remember, then she rose elegantly to her feet and crossed to the bookshelves. “Somewhere I must have,” she mused. “Ah!” Her hands plucked it from a high shelf and handed it to him.

“Thank you.”

“Now, say goodnight and curtsey. Then you may go.”

“Good night, Mrs. Thompson,” he said, and managed a small smile as he curtseyed.

“Good night, Natasha dear. And don’t sit up reading too late. You must get your beauty sleep.”

She had to say that, of course.

***

There was a knock on his door. Nathan froze for a moment, looking up from the book, then relaxed. Mrs. Thompson wouldn’t knock. “Wh–Who is it?” he asked aloud.

“Valerie,” the voice came back. “Are you decent?”

He nodded, and caught himself in the absurdity of the act. “Yeah.”

The lock shot back and the door opened. “Catch.” Something was flying towards him. He reached for it and missed. It clattered against the headboard and slid between the pillows. He rummaged to retrieve it. Long, hard, with a red and white helical stripe, wrapped in cellophane.

He laughed quietly, picking up the stick of rock and holding it to his chest. “Thanks.”

“De nada,” she smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

“Eh?”

“Nothing.” She sounded tired, but in a happy way. Her face was edged in the light spilling in from the landing.

“D–Did you have fun?” he asked. He thought it sounded stupid and pathetic, but he didn’t want her to go just yet. Which, when he thought about it, was stupid and pathetic.

But Valerie was nodding, leaning back against the door frame. “Yes, I did.” She sounded slightly surprised by it herself, replaced quickly with a smile, remembering something. “Thank you for asking.” He shrugged. “Actually made sandcastles. Watched the sunset over the ocean.” That sad look aside again. “Have you been there? Do you know the place?”

He shook his head. “Used to go to Southend a lot. When I was little.” Summer holidays with Granny.

“The seafront at Southend?” Valerie prompted. He nodded. “You noticed how the sea stays steady as a rock–?”

“And the buildings move up and down.” Nathan found a real smile on his face. “Yeah, it really does that. Sarf-end, innit,” he enunciated, to demonstrate the accent properly. She was looking at him, head cocked slightly to one side, the attention making him blush. “What?” he asked eventually.

“Lacuna, huh?”

“Er… yeah?” It wasn’t like there was any point in denying it. “Oh no wait. Apparently it’s Natasha now.”

Valerie chuckled. “Yeah, I heard about that.” She came into the room and closed the door. “You okay with it?”

He shrugged. “‘Least it matches the dress code.” He pondered. “I’m going to have to go out in public like this, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. Well, not in your nightgown.”

“I’ll take that as reassurance.”

Valerie laughed quietly. “So what do you do, then? When you hack computers?”

“Er, all sorts of things. It’s a bit technical. I mean, if you really want me to geek at you…”

“I saw Hackers once. You know, the movie?”

“Oh yeah?” He smiled at the memory.

“I had a friend who was really into computers and stuff like that, and he said it was really dumb how they were supposed to be hacking and there’s all these swirly graphics and stuff going on.”

“Oh, I really liked that.”

“You did?” She looked genuinely surprised.

“Well it helped seeing it in the cinema,” he conceded.

“You didn’t think that was unrealistic?”

“What about the music?”

That seemed to confuse her. “What about the music?”

“That’s not very realistic,” he prompted.

She looked at him.

“The graphics come from the same place as the music,” he explained. “It’s like, that’s what it feels like, when you’re in deep hack. Specially that bit when they’re tag-teaming the garbage file. It’s not really on the computer screens. That’s what’s in their heads. You know, when you just zone in on a problem and before you know it it’s morning.”

“Mh. I don’t buy it.”

“Guess you have to have done it. It’s like, you know, you get into this Zone and you can see the shape of what you’re doing. It’s just there, you know? And your brain’s whizzing on it, keeping track of all the variables an’ stuff but you’ve got it under control and you’re just in this amazing space.” He shrugged, feeling his description lacked something. “Beats trying to sleep, some nights.”

Valerie gave him a curious, suddenly vulnerable look, but didn’t say anything. Instead she crossed to the window seat and sat, where he had seen her upon waking up the previous afternoon. He couldn’t work out what she was doing in here, talking to him. He doubted she was that interested in the Zone.

“So, what are you reading, there?” Valerie asked, diffidently.

He wished he could work her out.

“Oh. Words.”

“Words? That’s it?”

He raised the French/English dictionary for a moment so she could see the title. “Pretty much. She’s got me talking French to Miss Marie all the time. I need more words. My vocab’s a bit lacking when it comes to all this girl stuff. The petticoat, the stockings, the pinafore, the night-shirt. Words.” He sighed. “Um, I’m sorry about what happened at breakfast, you know, about speaking French. I didn’t know you didn’t understand it.”

She made a little wave. “De nada.”

“What does that mean? You’ve said that before.”

“Oh, ‘it’s nothing.’ As in, ‘you’re welcome; don’t worry about it.’”

“Oh, right. It’s nothing,” he translated.

“Whatever.”

“So, um,” he wondered, openendedly. Not that he minded talking to Valerie, although he’d like it better if she wasn’t trying to appear less intelligent than she was. He wished girls didn’t do that. He couldn’t understand why they felt they had to. At least he was pretty sure Valerie wasn’t doing it for the usual reasons, which at school seemed to pretty much revolve around getting a date with the biggest moron available. “Admit it: You want your computer fixed but you don’t want to have to talk to the BOFH?”

Valerie laughed. It lit up her face, just as he knew it would. He felt proud that he’d done that, although she did seem to find it disproportionately funny. It wasn’t that good a joke, even if you knew what a BOFH was. She hadn’t asked. “No, it’s fine,” she said eventually. “And anyway I’m not even supposed to let you near it.”

He shrugged.

“I wanted to see if you were doing okay,” Valerie continued.

“For very small values of.” He gave her a small, wan smile.

“Yeah.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. There was something specific troubling her, he was sure of it. “So… She’s got you all dressed up and wearing make-up and stuff.” She was using that voice as if to make light of it all. He shrugged. “Has she done anything else?”

“Um. Making me speak French to Miss Marie. Oh, and reading. I got sick earlier and she got me to read aloud to her instead of all that running around and quick-changes.”

“You were sick?”

“It was nothing,” he said quickly. “Just a headache, and… stuff. Something disagreed with me.”

“You’re okay now?”

“Yeah. Ish.”

Valerie hesitated. “She hasn’t done anything else?”

“What, apart from making me dress up and act like a girl?”

She smiled wryly. “Yeah. Apart from that.” Her eyes glittered in the dim light. She had a tight, suspenseful energy about her.

~If you have to ask…~ It was something, at least, to know he wasn’t just overreacting.

~But still…~

“No, nothing,” he said.

“You sure?”

His eyes met hers. He made himself look firmly at her. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He managed a smile. “Thanks.”

She kept looking at him for a few moments longer.

“Okay,” she said eventually, the word turning into a long, relieved exhale. She smiled wryly. “Don’t mind me. I just… Someone said something… random, but it got me thinking weird shit. I know Jane. She wouldn’t…” She trailed off.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay, well,” she said, and got to her feet. “I’m going to hit the sack. You going to sleep okay tonight, do you think?”

He made half a smile. “Hope so.”

“Me too. Well, goodnight Nathan.”

“Natasha,” he corrected her.

“Argh, yeah.” She grinned and let herself out. The lock slammed home after her.

***

~Why did I lie to her?~

He was still sitting, unmoving, exactly as he had been when Valerie left. Still clutching the stick of rock to his chest.

~She looks at me like she owns me.~ ‘She’ being Mrs. Thompson. ~For all I know she does, now.~

~She puts her hands on me like she has the right to do that. And I let her.~

He drew up his knees to his chest and hugged them. The stick of rock Valerie gave him still held in his hand.

~Because it’s nice.~

***

“I don’t know if I should–”

“She didn’t mind yesterday, did she?” Eleanor retorted.

He wasn’t sure what she’d done to one of the padded bras, but it was more comfortable now. He tried not to pay it any attention.

“She said– She said I should still wear a corset an’ shit, ’cause of my posture. She said it was too grown-up an’ I in’ earned it yet.”

“Don’t talk like that in front of her, Jack. She’ll have a fit. Come on, let’s find a nice dress.” A short laugh, then she was moving, shuffling through the dresses hanging in one of the wardrobes. He wished she wouldn’t call him that. That wasn’t who he was any more. He’d left that name in London. “Then we’ve got to do make-up.”

“I want to do it!”

He’d said that?

***

Waiting behind a chair again.

“What?” Valerie asked. Eleanor had been looking at her.

“Isn’t she going to tell you off for dressing like that?” Eleanor ventured. Valerie was wearing casual clothes; new-ish black jeans and a chenille sweater and entirely sensible lace-up boots, with a slight heel. She’d simply tied her hair back, and Nathan couldn’t even be sure she’d put make-up on. She still managed to look effortlessly elegant and poised.

Valerie rolled her eyes. “Motorbike,” she’d said, by way of explanation. “I’ll be damn– darned if I’m going to get dressed twice before I even get out the door on college days. So either I come to breakfast in what I can wear under my leathers, or I skip it. And Jane’s hell on skipping meals.” Half a grin, hinting, he supposed, at an earlier battle of wills.

~I skipped lunch yesterday,~ Nathan thought. It was a small triumph. And: ~She rides a motorbike! How cool is that?~ Now he was staring at her too, and imagining her in leather. Happy thoughts.

“What?” she asked again. He couldn’t help the grin on his face, and concentrated on trying not to make it seem too much like a leer. Her eyes rolled upwards again and she shook her head in apparent wonderment. Or it might have been despair.

“Good morning girls,” Mrs. Thompson said, entering the dining room.

“Good morning, Jane,” Valerie said, flicking Nathan a knowing ‘let’s humour her’ look.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thompson,” Eleanor said quickly, beating him to it.

“Do be seated,” Mrs. Thompson said, before even reaching the table. He was definitely noticing a pattern there; a useful early indicator of Mrs. Thompson’s mood in how long she made them wait before inviting them to sit.

He took a moment to pay attention to how Valerie did it. There was an elegant precision to her movements; smart, minimal. He tried to emulate the manner as he took his own seat.

He looked at the plate of croissants in front of him near the centre of the table. “They look delicious,” Eleanor remarked, taking one.

“Going to get fat,” Nathan remarked privately.

“Are you feeling any better today, Natasha?” Mrs. Thompson enquired, pleasantly enough.

“Yes thank you, Mrs. Thompson.”

It was true enough, he supposed. At least, his guts weren’t still trying to wrench themselves into knots. He felt a lot steadier in himself, the croissant looked deliciously light and flaky, and there was something about a bright morning that seemed to dispel his worst fears, for the moment. The sunlight was flooding in through the tall windows. The white linen shone brilliantly. The silverware and crystal glassware danced in light.

“I’m pleased to hear it, as I am to observe the effort you’ve made with your appearance this morning. An honest effort does not go unnoticed.” That sounded like a compliment, so he smiled. “Although in future you might show a little restraint with your make-up. For breakfast only a light touch is required.”

“It is a little dazzling for seven-thirty,” Valerie agreed. Her smile took any hurt from her words.

Eleanor was insufferable. She’d said it was too much. “I’m sure Marie would be pleased to instruct you further should you ask her,” Mrs. Thompson continued, “or you may choose to further experiment on your own initiative.”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

Satisfied, Mrs. Thompson turned to Valerie and talked about other things; her college work, from which Nathan surmised that Valerie was into music. For some reason that didn’t surprise him. There was something about the sound of her voice, when she wasn’t being angry like the previous morning, that was musical. Remembering his attempts at reading aloud, and Mrs. Thompson’s comments, he made a point to listen and try to analyze how she was doing it. It sounded so natural and unforced.

The croissants were delicious.

***

“I want you to help Marie clean away the breakfast things,” Mrs. Thompson said, “and afterwards come and find me in the music room. I’ll put off the more strenuous activities until tomorrow. Today we shall make a start on learning how to use your voice properly.”

And that was breakfast. Mrs. Thompson departed and Nathan breathed easier, which was a relative concept while wearing that corset. Valerie took her leave, declaring she was going to take some of the cookies with her into college. “We’re never going to get through them otherwise,” she observed, directing a wry smile at Nathan. Under orders, he carried things down the stairs into the kitchen for Marie.

“Put an apron and some gloves on, dear. You can start on the washing up.” She departed in the direction of the dining room, leaving Nathan to translate in her wake. He had to think about that one.

“Apron!” he caught up. “So I can start washing something…” His eyes fell on the growing pile of dirty breakfast things. “Oh joy. All this and I get to do the washing up too.” He hesitated, looking around the huge kitchen for where an apron might be hiding. Bizarrely, to him, the sink seemed to be embedded in a central, free-standing worktop. It seemed too small, and there wasn’t a draining-board. The back of the door didn’t have an apron, which is where it hung at home.

“Third drawer,” Eleanor reminded him. “By the sink.”

“Oh, right.” He looked. “I don’t see…” he trailed off, not finding drawers near the small worktop sink; although there were cupboards in that unit.

“The other sink.”

He cast about himself, and found a normal-sized kitchen twin-sink. Right next to the pile of dishes, of course.

“That one’s just for washing veg, I think,” Eleanor explained, meaning the one on the central worktop.

He found an apron in the drawer and started putting it on, Marie returned, bearing more dishes. “Don’t you have a dishwasher here?” he asked her.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh come on, she’s not watching now…” He couldn’t believe they were really going to hold him to this. The previous day, while he’d been changing in and out of costumes all morning, had been bad enough. “It’s going to take forever…”

“I don’t understand,” Marie lied.

“Where is the ‘dishwasheur’” he asked sarcastically. He had no idea what a dishwasher was in French.

“I don’t know ‘the dishwasheur,’” Marie replied in an identical tone, clearly enjoying her part in the game. Nathan thought it was getting a little old.

“Er. God. I’d point to it but I can’t see it. I can’t believe you guys don’t have a dishwasher. Er… The machine for, er, to wash the plates? Where is it? It, I mean.”

“Ah, a dishwasher!” She chuckled lightly and walked back out of the room, saying, “Do the dishes, Natasha. Start now and you’ll finish in no time.”

“It’s not like you can’t afford one!” he called after her. “What’s the matter, don’t you have dishwashers in the colonies?”

“Nathan, shut up!” Eleanor warned, giggling. “Natasha, I mean.” Nathan groaned aloud. “Valerie says Mrs. Thompson thinks washing up is character forming,” Eleanor explained, rather primly, he thought.

“You want to do it then?”

“Sod off. I did it last time.” She lounged back comfortably.

Nathan sighed and got on with it, muttering aloud, “To do the washing up. To do the washing up. Dishwasher. Dishwasher. Right.” He sighed again, feelingly. “They’ve probably got a scrubbing board and mangle out the back to do the laundry too,” he continued, having a gallery to play to.

“Maybe they leave out a saucer of milk and a plate of cookies and let the brownies do it all overnight?” Eleanor suggested whimsically.

“Would explain why we needed to make so many… Anyway, that’s got to be against child labour laws,” Nathan replied, and was immediately arrested by the mad image of semi-feral little girls in those brown Hitler-youth uniforms and yellow neckties roaming the countryside doing favours in return for Valerie’s chocolate chip cookies and cream. And those little sew-on badges, presumably.

“You’re nuts, you know that?”

“Well, duh.” He grinned and turned his attention fully to the washing up for a moment, being careful not to smash the delicate glassware. “Hey, do they have a badge for washing up?”

“It’s part of the Home Skills badge, I think.”

“Oh yeah. Guess you couldn’t put this stuff in a dishwasher anyway,” he murmured aloud. He started singing in a fit of gallows humour, dancing to the beat with his hips as he washed up. The petticoats bounced.

I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world,
Life in plastic,
It’s fantastic.
You can brush my hair,
Undress me everywhere–

“How’s it going, Natasha?” Marie queried, coming back into the room.

Nathan blushed. He hadn’t realised she was coming back so soon. “Er, well, Miss.”

“You seem happier today. Jane said you were feeling better.”

“Yes.” He thought she was saying he looked better anyway. He felt the release from all the tension and sickness of the last few days. He knew it was illogical, given his situation, but he felt almost elated.

Marie got a clean tea-towel out of a drawer and started drying plates and putting them away. “How often do you do the dishes at home?” she asked casually.

“Er… Almost never? I think. He threw a grin at her. ”We have a dishwasher,“ he said pointedly.

“Not everything can go in a dishwasher.”

“Lies! Propa– Hey, what’s– I mean What is ‘lies’?”

“Natasha,” she stopped him, her hand on his arm. “You are being a lazy-girl now. Say: How does one say ‘something’ in French. Repeat!”

“Lazy?” he asked.

“Lazy. Repeat: How does one say…”

“Er. How does one say ‘lie’ in French? Er, like not-truth?”

“One says: ‘a lie,’ or ‘lies.’ The verb is ‘to lie.’”

“And… how does one say ‘propaganda?’”

“Ah. ‘Propaganda.’” She gave him a wry smile.

“That’s cheating!”

“It’s Latin.”

“Anyway: Lies! Propaganda! All mmmay enters in a dishwasher!” He looked at her. She looked at him. “It’s not funny any more.” He sighed and turned back to the washing up.

***

Mrs. Thompson sent him upstairs in Marie’s company to change for lunch. She had him change out of his dress and sit at the dressing table so she could actually teach him some things about doing make-up properly, rather than just pushing him on to do it any old way in a rush like the day before, only to get yelled at by Mrs. Thompson for not doing it right. The result was a much lighter application that didn’t feel so heavy on his skin and didn’t look like a joke.

That might have been what made his reflection all the more disturbing. It didn’t look like a caricature, or a bad drag queen, or a kid who’d got into his mother’s make-up drawer. It was just his own face, only now unmistakably feminine. It wasn’t even obvious at a first glance that he was wearing make-up at all; merely that his lips were pink and his eyes seemed to be bigger, and somehow his face seemed to have more shape. It reminded him of Gray, which wasn’t happy.

“Your skin is so clear,” Marie commented, more than once. After the third time he had to ask her to translate it. “We hardly need to do a thing. We only need to bring up certain features a little.” He let her rattle on, understanding barely half of what she said. He learnt some more nouns though: foundation, lip colour, eye-shadow, face-powder, kohl, mascara, cold cream.

“Cold cream?” He paused in the middle of doing his own eyeliner. He could do that himself without flinching now.

“Yes, cold cream.”

“Not cold cream?”

“No, that’s just a cream which is cold. Like milk.”

“That’s absurd.”

Marie shrugged.

“That’s like ‘the weekend,’” he insisted. “It’s not real.”

“No, that’s ‘the weekend.’”

“No! Weekend is le weekend, I know this!”

Marie gave him a look.

“‘The weekend’ is correctly!”

“Not in Quebec.” He looked up at her. She was grinning.

“Que– You’re from Quebec?”

“Yes, I was born there.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Marie looked at him again, then burst out laughing. “It’s not an disease!”

“Oh. I didn’t mean–”

“Finish putting your eyeliner on,” she directed, still smiling. He got to it again. “You are so cute,” she said, so quietly he wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it.

“Huh.” He finished with the eyeliner while he thought about it. “There: A bloody cute little girl.”

It was a few seconds before Marie got it, then she slapped him lightly on his bare shoulder, chuckling. He grinned. “Cheeky,” she said, getting up. “I will find you a pretty dress.”

He watched her go, then back at the mirror, taking another look at his face. It was done. He looked more like a girl than ever, and this time he’d done it himself.

~Breathe.~

And he realised something else. He’d been sitting in his — worse, in girl’s underwear in Marie’s company for nearly an hour and hadn’t even given it a moment’s thought. She’d kept him so busy speaking French and doing make-up, each of which on their own needed all his attention, that he’d hardly noticed. ~All part of the conditioning,~ he thought darkly, not for the first time.

***

The child’s play-room was directly above the music room; although smaller, and with lower ceilings, in common with the rest of the first floor. Like the music room it had a wide bay window overlooking the garden to the south. There was a thick, plush carpet and pastel coloured walls, radiant in the afternoon sun. Here and there colour danced where it reflected off a gently chiming mobile hanging above the bay, a little way from the large, open sash windows. An old kitchen dresser had been moved up here and was laden with board games and stuffed toys. The window-seats had lids that lifted to reveal hidden chests of dolls and their accoutrements, and it was these to which Marie had taken him. There were bookshelves, with children’s books, two large, squarish sofas, hanging pictures, and a large classically-framed mirror on the chimney-breast.

He had been looking at that, and not at what Marie was taking out of the window seats. When he looked down, he gasped aloud in shock.

“Sit down here with me, dear,” Marie said. “Shall we play a nice little game?” She showed him a doll in a dress not dissimilar to what he had been wearing the last few days. “Look!” Marie said, smiling, “Isn’t she pretty?”

“I-I don’t want–” He backed away. “I don’t want to.” He was sweating.

Marie ignored him. “Guess what her name is.”

“I don’t know.” He’d learned he had to answer in French or Marie would simply ignore him. “I don’t want to play.”

“You can sit with me anyway can’t you?” Marie said, with no edge of duplicity detectable in her voice. He wasn’t fooled. “We can talk and you can keep me company. What’s the harm in that?” She smiled again. “Tasha, dear, don’t be so silly. They are only dolls.”

He sat on a window-seat; not yet on the floor with Marie. He hadn’t been taught how to do that elegantly yet.

He glanced up at the mirror opposite. It was a trap. Whatever he did, they’d be watching and analyzing, trying to catch him out, saying it meant this or that. He wasn’t going to fall for that again.

“Little girls like playing with their pretty dolls,” Marie explained. “They like to dress them, and do their make-up, and they like to act scenes.” She had undressed another doll and was putting some different clothes on her. At least, he saw before he averted his eyes, these ones weren’t anatomical. “And practice the art of conversation,” Marie continued. “It’s good practice.” She smiled.

“I don’t want to play,” he said again. ~The only way to win is not to play,~ he quoted to himself.

“It is necessary that you learn,” Marie said quietly.

“This is what she said?”

“Yes, dear.” That was that then. Failure to comply would get him into trouble. So much for ‘play.’ He glared back up at the mirror. “But it can be amusing. Maybe you’ll like it when you try?”

He looked back, to see she had manipulated a doll into the same seated pose he was in, sat on the edge of the window seat and looking at him, head cocked insouciantly.

He sighed. “Come on Barbie, let’s go party,” he said flatly. Marie didn’t get it, which might have been just as well. He lowered himself to kneel, and sit on his knees, opposite Marie, and forced a smile. Maybe, he thought, if he just did exactly what she told him to do, they couldn’t read anything into it. “What do you want me to do?” Just play it dumb.

“Oh, shall we dress them? We have lots of little dresses we can try on them.”

“If you want.”

“Can you see a doll you like?”

Three days earlier he might have shrugged. “It’s all the same to me,” he said. He was trying to be dull.

“Take her.” Marie handed the first doll into his hands. “Her name’s Amelie. Do you like her?”

“Her name is Amelie,” he repeated. That was safe. The material on her dress was the same as his own.

“Oh Amelie, you are so pretty! Your dress is adorable!”

She waited for him to respond. He looked at her, holding the doll limp in his hand.

“You’re talking to a doll,” he pointed out.

Her eyes met his, a little sternly. “And you are not stupid, Natasha. Play the game.”

He sighed. This was all stupid.

“Try, Natasha, for me?”

“What do I have to say, Miss?”

“Say what you think Amelie would say,” Marie explained. “Amelie, your dress is adorable!” she repeated. He had to admit, she had patience to spare.

“What do you think Amelie would say?”

She gave him another look. “Maybe she’d say ‘Thank you. You are pretty too.”

“Thank you. You are pretty too,” he murmured.

Marie smiled as if he was playing the game. “Let’s play dress-up,” Marie suggested. “I have lots of pretty clothes for you. Look.” She started laying out a number of miniature dresses, blouses, skirts, shoes.

“If you want,” he said quietly.

“What would you like to try first?” Marie asked.

“It’s all the same to me,” he said.

“What about this one?” Marie suggested, pointing one out. It was similar to the one the doll was already wearing, but in a different colour. “I think she’ll look so pretty in that, don’t you?”

“If you want,” he said, keeping his voice flat and dull. He didn’t want to do this, but if he balked, she was bound to want to know why, and so was Mrs. Thompson, doubtless watching through that mirror. He glanced at it again, worriedly, as if he could see her through it.

The doll lay stiffly across his hands. ~Don’t be stupid,~ he thought. ~It’s just plastic, wrapped in a bit of cloth. Just unwrap it, and wrap it in a different bit of cloth. Simple.~ His hands wouldn’t move. ~Move!~ he willed at them, because she would surely see his hesitation, and see something in that, too.

Finally his hands did move, in palsied jerks, to turn the doll over and pull apart the tiny poppers down the back of its dress. Its hands got caught up in the sleeves of the dress and his fingers shook as he tried to unsnag it. A moment longer and its tiny, sexless body lay in his hands. He kept it shielded from Marie’s sight and immediately grabbed the other dress and fought it onto the doll in spite of recalcitrant plastic limbs getting in the way. He pushed the poppers closed and tied the little waist-bow at her back in something like a shoelace knot, which he knew was probably not right. He pulled it in so at least the ends draped down the back of the dress and the loops weren’t too big. A little bonnet went with the dress, so he got that on too before setting her down on the floor so Marie could see.

“There,” he said curtly. He wished his hands would stop shaking. And his voice.

***

It went on, excruciatingly, although no worse than that as Marie, without comment, didn’t try to get him to dress any more dolls and instead moved the play on to other things; namely a tea party with more dolls and props. It was still hard, avoiding assigning the dolls, Amélie and another, Georgia, personalities or thoughts or stories, when that was clearly what Marie wanted him to do. She said things as if trying to provoke a response out of them. But he knew he had to keep everything dull, making Marie do all the work and only doing exactly what she told him to do; not giving her anything to interpret.

The afternoon wore on and the playroom got warmer. The large bay window acted a little like a greenhouse, even though the windows were open, as was the door opposite, allowing a through-draft via the open door into Mrs. Thompson’s upstairs office to the North-facing front of the house.

“Would you like to sleep? Are you feeling tired?” Marie asked.

He nodded, admitting it. “It’s hot.”

“I know what you need, dear,” Marie said, and stood up. She went to one of the wooden chests and took from it a muslin coverlet and two soft lace-trimmed pillows. “You need a nice little nap.”

“I’m not that tired,” he protested. Marie ignored his English, of course, and settled the coverlet over the flat seat of the sofa opposite the mirror. “I’m not tired,” he translated. “I am not a little child. I do not need, er, twelve hours sleep of the day.” As if to prove him a liar his body forced a yawn from him. He supposed he had slept at, or after, lunch on the previous two days. Funny how quickly the body could get used to that.

“‘Per day,’ not ‘of the day,’” Marie corrected him, coming to him and ushering him up and towards the bed.

“I not to sleep this night,” he protested. It was obviously no use. “I must?” he asked, resigned. “She said?” One more thing. One more fantasy to learn how to feed.

“Yes, dear.” She smiled sympathetically. “Remove your shoes and socks first,” she suggested. He sighed, sat and did so. At least the little white ankle-socks he’d had to wear weren’t such a fuss to get off as the stockings. “And lie down, like a good little girl.”

He thought of another objection. “What about my– I mean, my petticoats?” After all, he didn’t want to get into trouble for getting them scrunched up, again.

Marie looked surprised at the question for a moment. “You’re a good girl for remembering.” He grimaced at that but there wasn’t any point in objecting. “Very well. Remove them, and your dress.” Nathan could have kicked himself for walking into that trap. “I’ll fetch you a glass of milk,” she said. “I will return soon. Will you be in bed by then?”

“Er, yes,” Nathan replied. Marie smiled sweetly and left, closing the door behind her.

***

He glared balefully at the mirror. If he couldn’t stop her watching, he wasn’t going to let her get away with thinking there was anything innocent about this. Feeling angry and reckless, he kept his gaze on his own face in the mirror, and reached behind him to start unbuttoning the dress. He had to lift the dress over his head to get rid of it, then he unlaced the drawstrings on the petticoats and let them fall around his feet. Still keeping his eyes on his reflection, he reached behind his back again and loosened the corset lace enough that he could unhook it down the front. He opened it, and let it fall behind him onto the petticoats and stepped forward right up to the mirror, wearing only the stupid lace knickers he had to wear, and rapped his knuckles on the mirror.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asked aloud. “You seen enough, or d’you still want more?” He hated that his voice shook.

He heard only the intermittent chime of the mobile hanging near the open window; then, distantly, he heard a food blender spinning up. The sound must have carried the two floors up the chimney shaft, he realised. It stopped.

“Get it over with,” he whispered to the mirror. Then he retreated to the daybed and got in under the light coverlet to wait for footsteps coming up the stairs. He wished he hadn’t done that now, that reckless thing. If she got angry at him–

Marie re-entered, making him sigh out in relief. She was carrying the expected glass in one hand and a basket in the other. A dark blue dress lay draped over her arm. “Here you are, dear,” she said, coming across to him. She paused for a moment, seeing the pile of clothes on the floor. “Drink this, it’ll help you to relax.”

He sat up, holding the coverlet up to his collarbone. He wished now he’d kept something on his top half. “What is it?” He took it anyway. It smelled faintly spicy.

“Milk,” Marie replied, setting the basket on the floor nearby and draping the dress over the arm of the daybed. “With half an apple, vanilla ice-cream and cinnamon. And a little valerian and clary sage to help you relax. Try it.”

He didn’t understand all of that, but it smelled nice anyway. He sipped it. It was creamy and fresh-tasting, and a little spicy and complicated.

“Do you like it?” Marie asked. She stepped away to pick up his discarded clothes and put them neatly to one side.

“Mm. Yeah. Um,” he grinned at her. “Yes.”

“Good.” She sounded satisfied. She pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat, making herself comfortable with the dress over her lap. He didn’t expect her to do that. He didn’t expect her to stay. He was glad she was staying. He could hear his own breathing, coming a little easier now. Nathan sat back and drank more of the — he supposed it counted as a milkshake. Marie was settling in, pulling scissors and needles and thread out of the basket she’d put down by the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, after watching her for a few moments. “Er, the dress, um, torn is?”

“No. Madam wants you to wear this tomorrow evening,” Marie explained. “I am altering it for you. It’s too big.”

“Er, don’t you need to try it me?”

“What a good idea! Thank you for offering,” Marie agreed brightly.

“Argh!” He realised too late what he’d done. Marie started chuckling wryly. He had to join in. “I am an idiot,” he said.

“An idiot,” she corrected. “You may help me later,” she said. “This evening, before you go to bed, if Madam allows it.”

At the mention of Mrs. Thompson Nathan glanced across involuntarily at the mirror. Marie followed his glance for a moment, then back to him, with a quizzical look.

“Your French is becoming much better, Natasha,” Marie observed quietly. “Can you tell?”

He nodded. “You speak slowly, Miss, er, not like a true Frenchwoman person. The French are more difficult to understand.”

“Yes, it’s my American accent. My mother tells me I speak like a retard.” There was something a little tense about the conversation; stilted, more than just because he was slow at speaking the language. He started to reach over to put the empty glass on the floor next to the sofa-bed.

“Let me take that,” Marie said, leaning forward. He handed it to her.

“Thank you, Miss,” he said automatically. “That tired me,” he admitted.

“Speaking French?”

He nodded.

“But you’re finding that you like it?”

He had to think about that. It was certainly true that he felt better when he was with Marie, speaking French with her, than at any other time since his arrival. It was deeply frustrating, literally not having the words to say anything in more than the most simplistic terms. It was hard work, all the time. He didn’t have the hang of thinking in French: Almost everything had to be parsed, translated, and his answer translated back again. He knew he must be the one sounding like a retard.

But the effort took most of his attention. It was a welcome distraction, so he didn’t have leisure to think too much all the time about what was going to happen to him.

He only smiled, close-mouthed, and nodded, and found himself looking askance at the mirror again. He was feeling tired after all, he realised, catching himself yawning. He knew better than to fight it, the lassitude. It was easier just to drift and let things take their course as they would.

“Now, lie down quietly, and let me get on with my sewing,” Marie directed, and settled in to her work.

Nathan didn’t feel like lying down, so he curled up in the corner of the daybed and laid his head on his arms. He could sleep like this, he felt, watching Marie work. A little tendril of awareness kept a hand still holding the coverlet close to his body. A warm breeze curled over his naked back, and he wondered that he didn’t mind that she could see him, not that she was paying any attention. Maybe that was it, he wondered. When Mrs. Thompson looked at him he felt like she was deciding whether to add him to her butterfly collection. Her attention flayed him. Marie was easy to be with, in comparison. He watched her hands working the needle and thread, and her expression, passive yet focussed. The mobile chimed lazily and the long, white curtains swayed and billowed at zephyrs.

Slow blink.

“The dress is pretty,” he heard his voice say distantly. It seemed as if golden motes of light fell like snow all around him, making Marie’s blonde hair glow as she glanced up and smiled at him. She lifted the dress up and out so he could see it all. It danced like a butterfly in her hands. He didn’t need to move. He just gazed. Behind Marie, the broad bay window wasted away, and the walls of the room seemed to dissolve, or become insubstantial, and he was floating above the green rolling parkland of the estate. “Oh wow,” he whispered, his voice like thunder. He sighed.

Marie looked up at him again, and smiled again. “Lie down, dear,” she said, bright as sunlight. This time he didn’t resist, but snuggled down so he could lie flat.

He thought he might sleep then, but there was too much to look at to close his eyes. Cotton-wool clouds drifted under the ceiling. Ding, faintly, from the mobile. Ding. And birds, outside. His arm rose, without volition, as if it might reach them. After a while it had to fall, and it fell gently to the pillow as if settling on a cloud. He sighed, deeply, and snuggled in further. He blinked slowly. “Lovely,” he whispered.

“My lovely boy.” Fingers brushed the hair from his cheek. He opened his eyes. Mrs. Thompson smiled down at him, then held one finger to her lips. “Shh.”

“Oh, you’ve come,” he whispered. His voice still shook.

“Yes.”

“Where’s Marie?” His voice was a long way away from him. All he could remember was how safe he’d felt, with her there.

“I sent her away. She won’t disturb us for hours.” The sunlight etched out a line of fire in her red hair.

He wanted to sit up. He was too heavy to move. His limbs lay flaccid and useless.

“It’s time for your next lesson,” Mrs. Thompson said gently. He shook his head. Time was slow. “No, don’t get up. You’re not going to be difficult, are you?” Mrs. Thompson warned. Then she softened it with a smile and placed her finger across his own lips. “No-one can hear you anyway, but you don’t have to make this unpleasant.” Her finger traced back to his temple, and around his ear, and down his throat onto his chest. “Do you want this to be unpleasant?”

He couldn’t breathe any faster. He couldn’t get the oxygen to move in this gravity.

“No,” his voice said, without him.

“No, what?”

The voice took a long time to answer. “No, Mrs. Thompson.”

~It had to be the drink,~ he thought sluggishly. ~The milkshake. Like the sherry on Sunday–~ He blinked. It took an age. He’d forgotten about the sherry. A loose memory of Valerie undressing him, sudden and vivid, and then nothing. He’d assumed he’d just fallen asleep. ~Will I forget this time too?~ he wondered. ~Will I think this is a dream?~ And: ~I hope so.~

Mrs Thompson smiled beneficently and touched his cheek with her left hand, now, while her right stroked down to his waist, over the swell of his hip, and down his thigh. He gasped at the intense sensation, and heard distantly as it escaped his mouth sounding almost like a moan.

“That’s right, Jonathan,” Mrs. Thompson approved. “You’re being a very good student.” Her fingers stroked lightly up the inside of the thigh. “And there’s so much I have to teach you.” She took her time, but there was no hint of hesitation or even a moment’s doubt as her hand met the already-swelling flesh. He heard his voice moan again.

“You shouldn’t,” his voice said, after a while. Her hand was cold at first, like the doctor’s. “Oh,” as another wave of sensation flooded over him. He could only see the clouds and the stars and the ceiling, vast and immanent, and crysanthemums blooming in the silvered snow. “You shouldn’t touch her there,” his voice said from the other end of the universe. Tears fell back from his eyes into his hair. He was faint and short of breath. He couldn’t breathe fast enough. His fingers stretched and clutched yearning at the viscous air.

Blink.

“Jonathan,” Mrs. Thompson said. She stroked his hair fondly, while keeping up the rhythm below. “You’re doing very well, but I think that’s as far as we need to go today, don’t you?” Her hand withdrew and the body stretched treacherously for it to return: A small moan of frustration, and his hand reached blindly for his groin, but Mrs. Thompson gave it a quick, light smack. “Ah-ah. You know that doesn’t belong to you,” she reminded him. “Now don’t fret, my dear; I won’t let you misbehave. Look.”

Ordered to, he was able to look, and saw only the body encased in rigid plastic; flesh-coloured, cold and sexless. He could only look back up at her with gratitude as she pushed the poppers of his dress back together over him; and still, sealed safely inside the plastic shell, the traitor body yearned for fulfilment.

Blink. Slow, languorous.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

He was alone. The golden motes still drifted down around him, and over him. The mobile still chimed delicately in the light breeze, and the white curtains still billowed and dived. The walls were slowly regaining their substance and the ceiling no longer encompassed the sky.

Time was real again. Sound came back in a rush, like it had been pent-up and released all at once. A whumph that sounded right through his head. He was awake and panting hard, like he’d run a mile. He scrambled back and drew his knees to his chest and hugged them. Marie was not there. The basket and the dress she had been working on were gone too, as was the glass, and the clothes he had removed. Instead the silk gown from his bedroom lay over the arm of the daybed nearest his head. That hadn’t been there before.

He felt wetness inside his knickers. It was horrible and wrong. “Oh fuck–” He couldn’t help it, and he tried: He clenched his teeth, and squeezed his eyes shut and covered them with a hand, but he couldn’t stop his shoulders shaking, and he couldn’t stop a sodden sniffle, when it came. Belatedly he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said through it all, to nobody. “I can’t stop.” He wanted distance more than anything, but it wouldn’t come. It wouldn’t come. He had to do this alone.

He yanked the gown off the daybed’s arm and put it on, still sitting up. Then he threw himself off the bed and bolted for the door, out onto the landing and across to his bedroom.

He couldn’t lock his bedroom door, but he could lock the bathroom, for whatever that was worth, so he threw himself in there and locked it. He needed a shower. He needed to get clean. And the knickers. He needed to wash them, or rinse them out at least, before Marie took them to be washed. It disgusted him. He turned the shower on. The temperature had already been set right by someone at least, so he threw the robe off and left the knickers on as he climbed into the shower. He would take them off once he, and they, were under soaking, numbing hot water. But first, lost in the heat and the deluge and the noise, he let himself sink to the floor of the shower-unit and cry.

***

Nathan knocked on the parlour door. No response. There was a piano playing somewhere. Something sad. He opened the door and looked into the parlour. It was empty, but for all the old furniture and the bookshelves. He didn’t know what he should do. The music stopped, reminding him that it was there. It started up again after a moment, repeating the last phrase played. He followed the sound through the other parlour door, by the fireplace, that led into the dining room, and then to the other dining room door, leading into the music room where Mrs. Thompson had been teaching him vocal exercises in the morning. He knocked, tentatively, and opened the door.

Valerie was sitting at the full-size grand piano, her back towards him as she played. Mrs. Thompson was standing at her side. “Yes, that’s better now, isn’t it?” she said to Valerie.

“Uh-h– Yes. Thank you.” She played on. “There’s a bit later on as well. I can’t seem to get it…”

Nathan started to back out and pull the door closed, but Mrs. Thompson turned suddenly and smiled at him. “Well, come in, dear, don’t dawdle in the doorway. If you promise to sit quietly you may stay and listen. Do you mind, Valerie?”

“No, that’s fine.” The playing paused while Valerie twisted her upper body around to see him. “Good evening, Natasha. Did you have a nice day?” She flashed him a quick leering grin.

He almost smiled at her expression, but instead he glanced at Mrs. Thompson momentarily, then down. “Yes thank you, Miss Valerie,” he said quietly.

“Of course you have,” Mrs. Thompson said, sounding satisfied. “You’ve had a nice afternoon nap, haven’t you?” The long fingers of her right hand idly stroked the gleaming black finish of the piano. He shivered at the sight, as if feeling those fingers drawing across his skin. “Close the door and come here.” Her other hand extended towards him.

He nearly bolted then; but he had to go through with it, of course, or she’d make things much worse. He closed the door and stepped further into the oval room. The wide bay window, rising from near the floor to the high ceiling, cast long diagonal shadows across the room and against the wall behind him.

“Is that the dress Marie put out for you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“It’s very pretty, dear. And so are you.” She smiled. Next to her, he caught Valerie rolling her eyes ceilingwards as she turned back to the music. It surprised a giggle out of him. Valerie started playing again and Mrs. Thompson turned and put a hand to his back to direct him. “Now, why don’t you go and sit yourself down by the window there,” she moved him towards the sweeping window-seat — more of a wide window-sill, in fact, at the base of the bay windows; already laid out with cushions and throws. “I should like to see you in the light of the fading sun. I think it’ll really bring out the colour in your hair.”

~If you wanted to see the colour in my hair, why did you put that dye in the shampoo?~ he wanted to snap, but he kept his mouth shut and went meekly, aware of her gaze on his back as she released him and sent him on. Where she had indicated was exactly where she could see him best from where she was returning by the piano.

“It’s this bit,” Valerie warned, launching into a phrase in the music. He sat, feeling fragile and alone. The music sounded all right to him, he thought.

“I’m sorry, Valerie. Play it again.”

Valerie switched suddenly into the first bars of that song from Casablanca. Mrs. Thompson laughed. Valerie just looked up at her and grinned.

“All right, you’ve got my attention,” Mrs. Thompson said. “What do you think you’re doing wrong?”

“Something,” Valerie said. “I don’t know exactly.” She started the troublesome passage again. It still sounded fine to Nathan.

With Mrs. Thompson’s attention away from him, he looked around the room, but soon found his eyes drawn to the scene outside; to the terrace that ran along the South side of the house, the sweeping stone staircase leading down from that outside the bay window where he sat, down to a wide lawn that stretched into open, rolling parkland: trees, some still with blossom, and a small lake in the distance with a picturesque Arcadian stone bridge. Further off to the right, almost looking into the sun, he could see a small herd of deer grazing in the long grass at the edge of the woods.

“How can it be so beautiful here?” he asked; only a whisper, so no-one would hear him. It wasn’t fair.

***

“Nathan, it was a dream.”

He couldn’t stop crying, so she shut up and just held him close for a while. Enfolded, like a child just out of the bath, wrapped in a big warm towel. He sat on the bed, in darkness, and cried.

“You were right, I’m sorry,” he said. “Should have run–”

“No, you were right. It wouldn’t have worked. We’d only be in worse trouble.”

He could almost laugh at that. He heard a quiet knocking on the door. It was a long way away and nothing worth reacting to.

“Stop that,” she said. He stopped rocking. ~Wouldn’t want to look like a crazy person. Haha.~ “It was a dream,” Eleanor insisted again.

“I know.” He wasn’t even sure if that mattered any more.

There was someone else in the room. Not that it mattered, until the figure in the darkness moved in front of him and bent to turn the bedside lamp on. It was a long way away. He didn’t want to come back. He felt the weight of another person settle on the side of the bed next to him.

“We don’t have to play with the dolls any more,” Marie said. For some reason he hadn’t expected it to be her.

He shrugged and looked at his fingernails. How smooth they were. It was bizarre, how much difference even a little attention over the last few days had made. His hands, too. The skin liked the moisturisers and the exfoliation. So smooth, so pristine.

“Tell me, what’s the matter?”

He thought about telling her. Eventually he just said, “Nothing.”

Marie seemed to be thinking about what to say to him. He didn’t give her any help.

“Would you like to help me with your dress for tomorrow evening?”

~It must be some occasion,~ he thought numbly. He shrugged. ~Is that all she has to say?~

“I’ll go and get it,” Marie said, and got up to leave.

“I am her boydoll.” The words came out of his mouth unbidden.

“Her doll,” Marie corrected him. It must have just been habit for her, but it was more than he could bear. With a sudden wordless howl, he lunged and hurled the bedside lamp towards the window. Tethered by its power cord it only flew a couple of feet before it was checked and slammed down to the carpet, hard. The light fitting lolled brokenly loose from the base, throwing shadows and light across the ceiling. The alarm clock and a couple of ornaments were knocked down onto the floor nearby. He stood amidst the ruin, trembling and breathing hard.

After what felt like a long time, he heard Marie speaking, a long way off, but bringing him back, “You are her student, Natasha,” she stressed. He just sagged to the floor and hugged his knees. Then Marie was kneeling in front of him, making him look at her for the first time since she entered the room as she tried to take his hand. “Tasha, dear, what’s–” He shoved her hand away, twice, and buried his head in his arms. “You’re not a doll. Don’t think that!”

He ignored her, until she started picking fallen things off the floor around him. She picked up the broken lamp and turned it off, the loss of light visible even with his face pushed into his arms.

“Leave it,” he said.

“It’s broken,” Marie replied redundantly.

“Get me some Superglue and I’ll fix it.”

“I’ll take it downstairs–”

“I’ll fix it!” he insisted, looking up at her. It was dark without the lamp on. “I just need some glue. She doesn’t have to know about it, does she?”

She looked like she was thinking about it. Finally she nodded. “No, she doesn’t.” She smiled. “We’ll fix this.” She braced a hand on the bed and got back to her feet and quietly left the room.

***

It was a small plastic stick, with a flattened teardrop-shaped blob of spongy material at each end. One end was still white, pristine; the other had been stained or smudged in some tan colour. He tried to remember what it was called.

As he looked closely he could see tiny, tiny specks that shone like fine powdered glitter. ~Fairy-dust.~ It was a real shame, he thought, about the thousands of fairies who lived out their lives in those horrible little steel cages in Revlon’s factories. The way the dust was extracted was particularly cruel, but they didn’t even have room to fly. People always said someone should do something, but no-one ever did. Or not enough people at any rate.

“Eye-shadow,” he remembered, and leaned closer to the mirror to put it on.

***

~What day is it?~ he wondered; not that it mattered. ~Wednesday I think. Fourth day. Third morning.~ The stomach, back and headache were gone, and with them the chaos and the… other stuff, that he was supposed to have grown out of. The lie that he didn’t have to be alone.

He didn’t know if he could stand another day of this. The clothes– The clothes didn’t matter, they were only clothes, it was her; she kept knocking him off balance. The way she looked at him. The little soft touches, as she straightened the lie of his dress, or moved back some hair off his face, or applied some correction to his posture; there was always a pretext, something that made it seem unreasonable for him to object, in so many words, at the particular time it happened. And besides, it wasn’t even unpleasant unless he stopped to think about it, and to think about what he was getting used to. It was flattering to have so much attention paid to him; to be told he looked good, or that he was doing well, even just that someone wanted to spend time with him. “Fuck-up,” he said quietly to himself. He didn’t know what that was in French. Mrs. Thompson’s old French/English dictionary didn’t include such words.

***

Nathan realised he was sitting on the bed, not at the dressing-table. The curtains were open and the sun was high. It shone across the pale blue material of his skirts, making an interesting pattern with the light through the lace on the pinafore that caught his eye for a few moments. His feet and lower legs were bare and warmed by the sunlight. He stretched his toes and listened to the cooing of a pigeon somewhere nearby outside.

He stood, and nearly tripped over the discarded high-heeled shoes on the floor by the bed. The stockings lay nearby like shrivelled, shed snake-skins. His feet hurt. Actually… He enumerated, his toes, his soles, his ankles, his calves, his thighs, his lower back and pelvis, his shoulders, his neck, all aching and stiff. He had a bruise on his thigh just above the knee, and two on an upper arm and he couldn’t remember how they happened. And he had a headache. One side of his face felt tender and hot.

He stretched uncomfortably. It wasn’t like before, though. The tense pressure, like he was being pressed in on all sides, the nausea, the dizziness. This was okay in comparison. This was just exertion: doing something for the first time. He looked at the high-heeled shoes again, and experimentally slid one foot into the one that had happened to land upright. Yes, he could feel it; that was what had done it. He kicked the shoe away and went to the window to kneel on the cushioned window-seat.

The light faded quickly as a large cloud stole the sun. It was windy outside, and even through the window, as the sunlight dimmed, he felt a chill. It raised goose-pimples on his arms. There were more clouds coming. A weather-front. He wondered if it might rain.

~Am I supposed to be doing something?~ he wondered. He twisted to see the clock ticking on the bedside table. Just gone midday. He was feeling a little drowsy. ~Have another nap?~ That was plausible. Or, ~Getting changed for lunch? No. I have to wait here until I’m called for,~ he remembered, vaguely. ~She’s… She’s angry with me?~ He raised a hand towards his cheek, reaching for the memory–

A knock, then the door opening. That meant Marie. “Tasha? How are you, dear?” ~Stupid question.~ But he sat on his heels and shifted around until he was sitting on the window-seat facing her. She looked worried. Shaken, even, but trying to hide it. ~Something has happened then. Was it something I did?~ He flashed to Mrs. Thompson looking angry with him. Furious. ~What did I do?~ She’d sent him upstairs. She was in a rage.

“Okay,” he said cautiously.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Marie asked, still trying to sound cheerful, but the look in her eyes was something else. Awkwardness, doubt. Pity?

He shrugged. “Do I have to wear these?” he asked back, pointing at the discarded high-heeled shoes. ~Why is she speaking English suddenly?~ he wondered. ~What’s this about?~

Marie smiled then, as if grateful for a small humorous moment. “No, dear. We’ll find you some outdoor shoes that’ll fit.” He didn’t think it was worth suggesting his own shoes, the ones he came with. “You’ll find some thicker pairs of tights in the drawer,” she said, then paused and looked out of the window. “It looks cold outside,” she commented, a little fretfully. He went to look for the tights. He found the ones he thought she meant, made of white wool and ribbed. He sat down to get them on. They were much easier to get on than the stockings he’d worn so far. He stood facing the window while he worked the garment up under his skirts to his waist. Marie didn’t say anything about the way he shuffled up the petticoats to do it, but he took care to get them settled again reasonably well. Meanwhile, Marie found a couple of pairs of ankle-boots. They had a slight heel on them but nothing nearly as bad as the shoes he’d been wearing that morning. “Try these on,” Marie suggested. “You haven’t been here long enough to get new things that fit properly, but maybe one of these will fit you well enough.” Nathan sat down again to try on the first pair. “If neither of them fit we’ll have to raid the storage room.” Another awkward smile.

The second pair were wearable, Nathan decided, after walking in them a few steps. The wide, two-inch heels still felt high but not so much as to be difficult, and at least they had a bit of grip on the underside. Marie led him down the service stairs and paused by the small cloakroom to pull two coats out. A plain grey one for herself, which she hurriedly put on as she shepherded him into the kitchen, and a bright blue one, which Nathan realised with a sinking heart had to be for him. She started helping him into it. “Put your arm through here, dear,” she said, holding out the side of the coat so he could get his second arm in.

“Where are we going?”

“No-where in particular. I thought we’d go for a walk in the garden to get some air. You haven’t been out of this stuffy old house since you arrived, have you? It’s not good for you.”

Nathan got his hand through the sleeve. Marie started buttoning the coat’s double-breasted front. “I can do it,” he protested.

“I know, dear, but let me?” That funny, awkward smile again, like she was really sad but trying to hide it. Nathan just sighed and let her get on with it. “Oh, very beautiful.” She signalled for him to turn and he went all the way around, so she could see. It fitted close to his waist and flared out over the hips and the petticoated dress underneath in a nice way. Even he thought so. “It’s lovely on you,” Marie said. She stopped him with a touch and put a matching hat on his head. “Oh yes. Very smart.” ~What is this all about?~ he wanted to know.

“Why aren’t you speaking French?” he asked suddenly. This was all wrong. Something was happening, and he was being taken outside, suddenly…

“Because.” Marie smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret. I haven’t spoken this much French since before you were born. It’s giving me a headache, I’ve become so rusty.”

And Mrs. Thompson was angry with him, and Marie was sad… He remembered what he was thinking earlier about their investment. If they decided he wasn’t worth the trouble– ~Oh no!~ “We don’t have to!” he protested. “I’ll be good I promise I’ll be good! I’ll…” He cast about looking for something, some thing he could do to please her. “Wh-What about that dress? You wanted me to try on that dress for tonight! I could do that, and then… and then…” He stopped. She was looking at him oddly.

“Tasha, we did that last night, don’t you remember? After you fixed the lamp. And I didn’t tell her about that, I promise.”

~Oh shit no!~ He held his breath, staring at her wild-eyed. “Y-Y-Y–” He stammered.

“Tasha, it’s all right. Try to relax–”

“Are you taking me out to kill me?” he challenged, directly. He meant it to sound stronger, but it came out almost a whisper, and shaking horribly. And in a moment, he saw he was wrong, in Marie’s look of shock and surprised dismay.

“Oh, No, no, my dearling!” He didn’t understand that word, but he didn’t have time to try to translate it before he was hauled into a quick hug. “No no no. Where did you get such ideas?”

He couldn’t answer right away; off-balance, and pressed against her in the hug. Then words babbled out, in relief. “I-I thought, ’cause-’cause I really made her angry an’ you’re all upset an’ all an’ I thought she wanted… she wanted to get rid of me…”

“No!” Marie protested. She pushed him back slightly, hands on his shoulders, so he could see her eyes, and repeated, “No, Tasha, we’d never do something like that. That’s not–” She had to stop. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at him. Somehow that shocked him more than anything. “What did you think was going on here?” She fiddled with some hair that had dropped out from under the beret he was wearing, putting it back in place.

“Why are you upset?” he asked.

Marie shook her head sadly. “It’s not your fault. It’s nothing you’ve done. I’ve just received some bad news about a friend, that’s all.” She smiled, and raised her hand as if to fix his hair again, but there must have been nothing to fix because she just lowered it again. She sighed. “It was never your fault. Do you believe me?”

“I… I suppose…” ~What does she mean by that?~

“I need some air and I could use the company,” Marie admitted. “I’m sorry, I know it’s selfish of me, but Madame is very busy and Valerie won’t be back for hours. Do you mind?”

He decided in that case he didn’t, and shook his head. “It’s okay.” It was all confusing. Something had happened, and maybe it wasn’t anything to do with him after all. Marie had said it wasn’t his fault. Maybe he’d just happened to be there, and for once it wasn’t one of their little set-up scenes.

Marie smiled and opened the outer door and led the way outside. Nathan looked out across the walled garden nervously, as if almost expecting a football team or, worse, a pack of schoolkids, to suddenly appear from behind a tree as soon as he dared to put a foot down on the ground outside the house.

Not to mention that the breeze coming through the doorway was curling around his thighs in an extremely distracting fashion. The way the skirt and petticoats moved in the light wind and brushed his legs was driving him quietly nuts. His skin prickled into goose-bumps even under the woollen tights. It made him feel exposed all over again, like the first time he’d gone out on the landing. ~This is nuts,~ he thought. ~I’ve been dying to get out of this place.~

Marie, ahead of him, seemed to notice he wasn’t with her and came back, offering her hand. “Take my hand. It’s quite safe.” She smiled sympathetically. “No-one’s going to see you but me.”

He looked around one more time; one last superstitious check for sudden spectators. Marie’s hand was still waiting, outstretched towards him. He took it and stepped carefully out onto the patio. “See?” Marie asked.

Once away from the doorway it was less draughty. The walled garden, of which the plots of herbs nearest the kitchen were a part, opened out from the side of the house and split into two levels; the upper tier towards the front of the house where the ground was higher, and the lower tier, where Marie took him, went further down from the back of the house and gradually seemed to become less garden and more overgrown orchard. It was sheltered and warm. Old apple trees tangled their extremities above his head, still heavy with blossom. Below, any number of flowers and shrubs he couldn’t begin to name competed for light and attention. Climbing plants twisted and twined everywhere. Marie had said they were roses as they passed, and showed him the unopened buds. She was looking forward, she said, to seeing the display later in the summer. Pale blossom streamed from the top branches in the wind, and swirled above his head.

He looked back over his shoulder. The house seemed even bigger from the back. The kitchen was on the ground floor here, and the dining and music rooms opened onto a low-walled terrace that, at this end anyway, also served as part of the kitchen’s roof. He looked up. The corner of the house loomed high overhead.

“Let’s go down to the pond,” Marie offered.

“Okay.”

Marie let them out through a small arched side-door set into the wall. It was windier outside the walled garden, and he decided he was glad of the coat after all as they traipsed down the winding path away from the house. “I suppose I should call it a lake,” Marie was saying as they walked. “It’s not very big. I’m never sure whether to call it a lake or a pond. What’s the difference, do you know?”

“I don’t know.”

Marie seemed still to be distracted by something. Almost absently her hand found Nathan’s and held it. It surprised him, but he didn’t pull away. He just looked at her, not looking at him; looking like she might cry.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she sighed. “I’m sorry.” He felt her squeeze his hand a little tighter and thought he wouldn’t push it, whatever it was that had upset her.

They walked around the small lake. It wasn’t far, and there were things to look at: the wooden jetty without any boats, the faded old summer house, the water, patterned with ripples tugged up by the wind, the pretty little bridge at one end, after which the path plunged into woodland.

Marie didn’t volunteer anything further about whatever was upsetting her, except maybe once, she just said, “It’s too soon.” He didn’t think she’d intended him to hear it, so he didn’t quiz her on what she meant.

They came upon a little stone naiad by the water’s edge among the trees. Life-sized, he thought; he reckoned she’d be almost as tall as him if she stood, but she sat in her small ruined temple and looked out thoughtfully across the quiet water. “This sort of thing was all the rage in the eighteenth century,” Marie murmured. “There are a few other follies like this, here and there in the grounds. They landscaped the whole area to make it look more like how they thought nature should look, about the time the new house was built. They were looking for something I suppose; some memory of paradise.” Marie sighed and sat on the low wall that just happened to serve as a bench in just the right place to give a view of the naiad and the lake and the bridge and the house on the rise. It was built from the start as a fake ruin, Nathan could see that now. Time had aged it well. Grass and moss and lichen had taken the fake and made it real. “Everyone was doing it,” Marie continued.

“Capability Brown?” Nathan asked. He’d seen a programme about him.

“We don’t think so,” Marie said. “Apparently this place was a little after his time. But it’s definitely the same style, isn’t it?”

He sat on the fallen section of wall next to the naiad and looked where she was looking. Of course, he realised, even the broken piece of wall had probably been deliberately placed just there as well. He wondered if it mattered that it was artificial. It was lovely here, with the blossom-heavy branches lowering over the water, and the tiny delicate petals on the ground.

“Valerie comes down here too, sometimes,” Marie said. “Especially after she’s had a row with Jane about something.” He nodded. “She does it less now she’s got her bike on the road.”

***

Finally she led him back to the house and sent him upstairs to shower and change. By the time he came down and found her in the kitchen, her mood had lightened considerably. “Would you like to help me make lunch?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “Thanks.”

She looked at him tartly. “I didn’t ask you if you were hungry. I asked if you’d like to help me make lunch.”

He chuckled. “You mean I don’t have to eat it?”

“I didn’t say that either.” She smiled wryly. He sighed. “Madame won’t be joining us, but I have my orders too, Natasha. You must eat something.”

“I had a big breakfast,” he protested. It was even true this time. “There’s too much food here, I’m not used to it. Don’t let me stop you having lunch though. I’m just really not hungry.” He stopped, recognising the look she gave him. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not,” he said. He recognised that look, too. Disbelief, mixed with concern. “I don’t think I look fat,” he expounded. “And my weight’s stable. You can ask Lindsey.” Because she hadn’t believed him either, and neither did Dr. Balham, so he promised not to drop below a certain BMI, and Lindsey read the scales and kept the chart; which was a weekly ritual that in his view could almost have been designed to make one obsessed with gaining or losing weight; only he found it utterly tedious. “I don’t want to lose weight, okay? I just don’t want to put any on either. I want to stay where I am.”

“You’re growing up. You’re supposed to put weight on.” Another look. “All right. You can still help me make lunch.” Nathan shrugged. “And don’t shrug.”

“Aargh!”

Marie laughed.

“What’s that all about anyway? Why can’t I shrug?”

“Well-bred young ladies do not shrug.”

“But I’m not–” Marie looked at him quizzicially. “Well-bred,” he finished, grinning. “I’m a total mongrel. I’m at least half-Irish for a start.”

“Oh are you? I suppose you have something of the colouring…”

But Nathan had shut up. That was more than he’d meant to say. Not even Lindsey knew that.

“Well,” Marie continued, thankfully not pursuing that topic, “in the first place, as a mannerism it lacks grace and elegance, but Jane also wants you to get used to properly articulating whatever it is you want to say.”

He thought about that. “Well, yeah I guess, but…” he trailed off, not having a complete thought there after all. Which kind of was the point, he supposed.

“And she would say that if something isn’t worth saying properly, then everyone would benefit by your keeping it to yourself.”

***

Marie took Nathan out into the garden again to pick fresh herbs, although he put his foot in it again by giggling at the way she pronounced it, “’erbs,” or more like “yrbs.”

“The herbs” Marie said stiffly. “I suppose it comes from that.” She bent to pick a couple of leaves off one of the bushes. She straightened and crushed the leaves in the palm of her hand. “Mm. Smell this, Tasha,” she said, passing her hand towards him. He inhaled–

***

–“Smell this, Sheo.” Granny said, in her little patio garden. “Tell me what this is.” Bees hummed among the flowers.

“It’s basil,” he replied–

***

–“That’s right,” Marie said, jolting him into the present. The intense aroma of the herbs curled in the air around him. She quickly picked and handed him a few more intact sprigs to hold on to. “I’m going to make a pasta sauce. Or rather you are, so I want you to recognise what the ingredients look and smell like.” She moved a few steps, obliging Nathan to follow. “Pick some of that and crush it. See what you think.”

He obeyed. The oil from the leaves stained his hand, the smell hitting him again. “Oregano?” he wasn’t quite sure; it might be marjoram.

“Ah– Yes, oregano.” Marie pronounced it differently, the stress on the second syllable. “Pick some more, we’ll have some of that too.” He picked more, getting a hit of tactile memory. Stuffing herbs into an apron pocket… The same action now put the herbs into the pocket on the front of the pinafore Marie had wanted him to wear for working in the garden. “And what about this?” Marie was holding out some other herb.

“That’s marjoram,” he pronounced confidently.

“Very good. Let’s go back inside, we already have everything else we need.”

***

Inside she soon had him chopping the herbs up into tiny pieces. Then he had to eviscerate and chop some peppers, peel and chop some garlic and onions, which did nothing good for his make-up, and chop up some tomatoes. The knives Marie gave him to use for all this were frighteningly sharp, much sharper than the ones at home, and he went slowly for fear of losing a digit or two, but he was surprised how much easier it made doing the chopping. Meanwhile Marie, in-between showing him how to use the kitchen knives safely, sliced up some chicken breasts. “This smells amazing,” he admitted to Marie.

“Doesn’t it just?” Marie smiled. “Bring that sauté pan over here and we’ll get it going.”

He looked around. There was a range of copper pans hanging over the centre worktop. “Which one’s that?” he had to ask.

“It looks like a shallow saucepan with a very long handle.”

He looked again. “Oh right.”

He had to stretch for it. Under Marie’s direction he poured a large quantity of viscous dark green olive oil into the pan and started it heating. “Can you smell the oil?” Marie directed.

“Mmm.”

Marie smiled and went to sort something else out. “Just let it warm a little, so it’s a little runny, then put the onions and garlic in and sauté.”

“What’s ‘sauté?’” He thought he knew.

“Just keep moving it as you’re cooking.” He was right.

She talked him through adding the rest of the ingredients, including passata and tomato purée and a surprising quantity of cayenne pepper she seemed to decide upon at the last minute, “just to give it a kick,” she said. Then it was time to cover it and let it simmer, after which she sent him upstairs to refresh his make-up.

By the time he returned there was another saucepan simmering on the hob and a frying pan, in which Marie was frying the strips of chicken she’d sliced earlier with some butter and herbs. She beckoned him over. “Let me see your make-up,” she said, so he stayed still for inspection. “Yes, that’s much better, don’t you think, Tasha?”

He nodded. The smells in the kitchen were graduating from amazing into being truly astonishing. Marie lifted the lid on the sauce and the aroma just bathed him. “Oh wow.”

“You did that.”

“What’s that?” He indicated the other saucepan.

“Penne. Pasta,” she elucidated. “That’s very easy. You just boil some water and put the pasta in, then let it simmer for about ten minutes. Or a little less. I prefer it a little al dente.”

“It’s an awful lot of food,” he commented. Marie shrugged. “Aha! Don’t shrug!” he crowed, and burst out laughing at the expression on her face.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Marie said, around a laugh she couldn’t quite restrain. “I don’t have to entertain guests and go out to posh functions.”

“Can’t I stay and cook with you instead?” The words were out before he’d thought them through, but it sounded good to him compared to the other possibilities.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Jane has other plans for you.”

“I’m sure she has too,” he said darkly. “I like this better.”

“Here, try an olive,” Marie invited, presenting a plate she had by her side. Dark and green olives and some olive oil and some torn-up crusty bread.

“Um…”

“Just one. They hardly have any calories at all, I promise. Then I can tell Jane I got you to eat something.”

He gave her a look and took one of the green ones. Biting down on it released a strong flavour, slightly bitter; not quite as much like olive oil as he expected, and an odd, slippery texture.

“What do you think?”

“Mm,” he said, still eating. He swallowed. “Mm. Not sure. Tastes a bit funny. Bitter?”

“Have a piece of bread.” He hesitated and took a piece. It had a little olive oil drizzled over it already, and the crust crunched and flaked in his mouth. “In answer to your question, yes, it is a lot, but we can put some in the fridge or freezer and have it later, or Valerie can take some in to college. I think they have a microwave in the cafeteria students can use. Now, this is nearly ready, so we’ll just make a quick side salad to go with it…”

***

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” Marie asked. They had brought the dishes to the big rustic table in the lower part of the kitchen by the patio door and Marie was serving herself.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” His stomach rumbled treacherously. Marie gave him an ‘are you really sure’ look and started chuckling. He joined in, blushing.

“Get yourself a plate and some cutlery,” she directed. He went.

***

It was delicious. Every part, but especially his sauce. His. Lindsey didn’t cook like this. Everything, every step of the process, played on his senses. The smell of the oil being warmed, the sshk of the knife slicing through fresh herbs on the wooden cutting-board, the smell of that, lingering on his hands, the bright colour of the peppers, the sizzle of the chicken in the pan, even the solid weight of the pan itself.

“So what conclusions do you draw from your experiment, Mam’selle Marie?” he asked.

She chuckled again. “That you have an aptitude for cooking, Mam’selle Natasha.”

“I just did what you told me to.”

“Yes; you listened, you paid attention, you made the effort to understand what you were doing and you applied yourself wholeheartedly to doing it well. You’d be surprised how many people your age seem to find that difficult. I’m pleased with you, and I’ll tell Jane so.” He shrugged, blushing, unused to the compliment, and she reached over and slapped the offending shoulder playfully. “And, I can tell aptitude when I see it, and you have it. Valerie was right. You have the feel for it.”

“And what else?” he teased.

“And you like good food,” she said, smiling knowingly. “Especially if you can prepare it yourself. And not just sweet snacks like cookies.”

“See? I’m not anorexic. I like food.”

“Well, you give a very good impression of it most of the time. Why do you do that?”

This time he stopped the shrug before it started. “I don’t want to get fat, that’s all. I’m okay the way I am.” In relative terms.

“You don’t want to lose any more weight?”

“No. I don’t want to get ill.” Getting ill would mean getting doctors on his case, and he wanted more than anything to avoid that.

“You could stand to put a little more on, still,” Marie observed. “I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better for it. You’ll have more energy.”

He shook his head. Thankfully Marie didn’t look like she was going to pursue that.

“You’re not going to go and throw all this up again are you?” Marie asked outright.

“No,” he promised truthfully. “I don’t do that. Unless I’m ill.”

“So, what would you like for dinner tonight?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I really am full now.” He shifted uncomfortably, the corset starting to dig in more. “Miss Marie? Can I– I mean may I loosen this corset a bit?”

“Of course. Would you like me to help?”

He thought quickly. From Marie, he thought, that was probably a genuine offer. And it would be a lot easier. “Yes please.” So she had him stand beside her chair, his back turned, while she quickly loosened the laces; not as much as he would have liked, but enough that he could breathe easier and didn’t feel so pinched at the stomach. “Am I going to have to wear this all the time?” he asked.

“Just until Jane’s satisfied you can keep your posture without it,” Marie replied.

“How long’s that going to be?”

“Well, that’s up to you. And there’ll be occasions after that where it’s simply a part of an outfit she wants you to wear. There, done.” He sat down.

***

“Ah, there you are.”

Mrs. Thompson’s voice startled him from behind. He was sitting at the kitchen table again, peeling potatoes for Marie for dinner, but he’d happened to have his back to the door. There seemed to be a lot, but he didn’t say anything. It was almost pleasant to just sit there and get on with it after helping Marie with the cleaning all afternoon. They’d been chatting, mostly about school and stuff, and for a few hours he’d almost been able to forget where he was, what he was wearing, and what was going to happen to him, sooner or later.

The fear was back, instantly. Marie put her hand on his, wordlessly, and stood. He stayed seated, feeling paralysed.

“Natasha is supposed to be practicing her French, but instead I find you here speaking English.” Mrs. Thompson said curtly. She sounded annoyed, and not covering it very well. “This is unacceptable.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I needed to explain something complicated, and afterwards I forgot–”

“You will not forget again,” Mrs. Thompson replied, cutting her off.

“No, my Lady.” Another little curtsey.

~She’s covering for me again,~ Nathan realised. He still couldn’t move. He couldn’t figure out if Marie was actually afraid of Mrs. Thompson. Sometimes she behaved a little like it, and deferred to her so formally, and sometimes she spoke of her with such easy informality.

“And you,” Mrs. Thompson continued, and he knew even though he couldn’t see her that she was addressing him. “Natasha! Turn and face me!”

He swallowed air, feeling like he wanted to throw up his lunch, and somehow managed to stand and face her.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tremulously.

“Should Marie forget in future, you will remind her. Understand?” Her French-speaking voice was fast, but it was crisp and precise.

He nodded and stuttered, “W-Yes, ma’am.”

“Marie, I want Natasha changed for the evening. I will see to it myself. Where is the dress I said she should wear?”

“It’s in the wardrobe nearest the window, ma’am,” Marie said. Her hand found his shoulder and gripped tight, almost painfully.

“All right. Natasha, come with me at once.”

“Is-Isn’t Marie going to help then? She usually–”

“Marie will be busy with dinner. Come here.” She extended her hand towards him.

Her voice demanded obedience. It was so absolute he actually found he’d taken a few steps forward before he’d realised what happened. “I- I’ve… I mean, I’d better take my apron off,” he explained.

“Well, do it then, and come with me. Come along. Don’t waste my time, child.”

He bit his lip, hesitantly, then untied the apron and lifted it off over his head and handed it to Marie, who had put her hand out for it. Then he had run out of delays. He had to go to Mrs. Thompson, and take her outstretched hand.

She immediately started out of the kitchen, almost pulling him behind her. “What did you think you were doing, sitting with your back to me, hmm?” she demanded as she pulled him through the connecting passageway leading to the strange little circular room where the hall and the music room met and crossed the passageway from the kitchen to the dining room. “It shows execrable manners. Intolerable. You are to stand and curtsey and greet me with ‘good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson,’ or whatever is appropriate to the time of day the moment I arrive. I will not have this insolence.” She started up the stairs.

~She’s still really angry with me,~ he thought, shaken. Only now she was angry at Marie as well. He’d got her into trouble as well.

Coming down the landing. “I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. He couldn’t keep the shaking out of his voice. Mrs. Thompson pushed his bedroom door open and pulled him inside. Then she released him.

“Take your make-up off,” she ordered. “Hurry, there’s little time.”

~Time for what?~ he wondered. That made him even more nervous, but he got control of himself enough to sit and start removing his own make-up. Behind him, he could see in the mirror, Mrs. Thompson was busying herself taking clothes from the wardrobes and the chest of drawers and putting them on the bed.

She was finished with that too quickly, and coming back towards the dressing table. She took the cotton-wool pad out of his hand preremptorially and threw it in the waste basket.

“I can do it myself!” he protested.

“Don’t be contentious,” she said irritably. She pulled out another cotton-wool pad and started wiping the remaining goop off his face herself. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your continual hesitations and delays. It won’t do. Hold still,” she directed as he flinched. She’d been a little rough too close to his eye, her wiping almost in time to her words.

“W-What’s happening?” he stammered. “Why isn’t there time?”

She seemed to ignore his question, and merely worked with brisk efficiency, using the toner to lift the last of the make-up off his face. There was none of her earlier languor. She applied eye-make-up remover over his eyes, both of them, effectively blinding him for some long moments before she wiped them clean.

“I told you,” she said eventually, “that there would be times when you must submit to a woman’s hand. This is one such occasion. I see now that given too much leniency and time, you are too apt to let your attention wander and to make unwarranted assumptions and take unwarranted liberties. There.” She finished with the make-up removal. “Now, go change into the clothes I’ve put out for you. Wait!” she stopped him, as he started to move. “You’ve been working in the kitchen. Show me your hands.”

He put his hands out for inspection. She took each one in turn. As he flinched when she took his left hand, she grasped his elbow with her other hand firmly. “Hold steady,” she said. “All right. Wash your hands first, then change. Be sure to scrub under your nails. I will return in five minutes to finish you off. If you’re not at least changed by then I will do it for you, do I make myself clear?”

He nodded, terrified.

“Do I make myself clear?” she said again. Her voice seemed to overwhelm all his volition.

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“We are going to receive a guest this afternoon,” she said, finally. “A dear friend of mine, in fact. I want you to be on your best behaviour, he’s very much looking forward to meeting you. It’s important that you make a good first impression. You don’t want him to find out your little secret, do you?” The smile she gave him was horrible.

“H-Him?” The word thundered in his head. He felt faint, as if the air was being sucked from the room. “A-A man?”

***

“Five minutes, Natasha,” Mrs. Thompson said as he came back out of the bathroom. Then she left him alone. She had laid out an entire new outfit for him, from the skin outwards. He stared for a moment, his head swimming, at the sheer, delicate lingerie. His fingertips still tingled from where he had been scrubbing at his fingernails.

He counted to ten.

~I thought I had more time. It’s too soon.~

He remembered suddenly: Marie had said that, to herself, while they were down by the lake. ~She knew,~ he realised, feeling sick. ~Of course she knew. But she was upset.~

“She’ll be back any minute,” his voice said. Something warned him that he shouldn’t let Mrs. Thompson see him. Even now, her little fantasy required that he have a chance to do this himself, so when she came back, too soon, he would feel it was his fault for being so slow.

He started taking the dress off, quickly. He didn’t know how much time he had left.

***

“Rich pervs in denial,” Gray said. “Pay through the nose for you to keep your mouth shut. Real family men, y’know? Wife an’ kids back home. ’Cept the ones what turn fucking psycho on you. Then you just get out, y’hear? You don’t fuck around tryin’ to get your money.”

“Leave it out, Gray,” Louise remonstrated.

Gray was so pretty. On the steps outside the squat, taking in the sun where they all used to gather and pass round a spliff. Louise wouldn’t let him try it, but the smoke in the air sometimes made him feel a little dreamy anyway. He could still see Gray’s eyes. He had such beautiful blue eyes.

“Least you get a ride in a nice car,” Gray continued. He sucked on the spliff, then gave it to Jack, to pass on round. “Two if he wants to act like a gentleman an’ bring you back. Nice quiet ride ’cause they don’t want to get nothing on the seats.” He lay back to look at the gold-edged clouds. Jack passed the spliff on to Karen and lay back next to him. “Merc. Jag. Beemer convertible. Even got a ride in an Aston once. Oh wow.” Gray sighed and reached his hand out towards the clouds, as if only he could grasp one it would carry him away.

***

Mrs. Thompson came back too soon. The door opened without even a warning knock. He quickly turned his back to the door. “I’m doing it, I’m doing it!” he protested, still clipping together the busk of the corset, down the front. The stockings had taken too long: Flustered, the fine mesh had kept catching and dragging across his clammy skin and he had been terrified he might tear them in the rush. Finally he’d got them on, attached to the garter straps fixed to the bottom of the corset. He finished with the busk and reached behind him to tension the laces.

Mrs. Thompson didn’t say anything, but he could hear her coming up behind him. He froze. But all she did was take the laces and continue tensioning them herself, with brisk and expert efficiency. He felt the constriction increase, evenly, his breath shortening. “Lean into it now,” she directed, and by now he knew what she meant; what muscles he had to relax, to let the corset do its work. He felt his breathing shift up to his chest again. “Like so,” she said, her hands at his back, just above his hips, gently but firmly shaping his posture. “Good.” Her hands lingered a moment at his waist, then adjusted the laces a little more. At least she didn’t seem angry any more.

It was as if, he realised with a shock, the act of handling him soothed her, and calmed her. That was worth remembering. That could be useful.

Then she helped him into the petticoats, and finally into the rich dark blue dress Marie had taken in for him. It was shimmering, and sleeveless, with a stiff, self-supporting bodice. And yes, it felt familiar now he had it on. There had been pins last time. Mrs. Thompson laced up the bodice and turned him around with a hand on his bare shoulder.

“Very beautiful,” she said. “Now, sit down dear.” He obeyed numbly, remembering to boomps as he sat, and Mrs Thompson started brushing out his hair in strong, brisk strokes.

“I’m scared,” he admitted at last.

“Nonsense. You’ll be fine, just as long as you remember your lessons and apply what I have taught you already.” She started gathering up his hair. “You shan’t be expected to say more than a few words. Stay close to me and follow my lead.”

His hair was being bound up into a braid of some sort. “The curls faded,” he observed.

“Yes. There’s no time to rectify that now, and besides, this will show the shape of your face to good advantage.” She put the last, decorative clasp into the hair at the back of his head. “There.” She came around to his front.

“Mrs. Thompson…” he started.

“Yes?” She was busy at the table, choosing which make-up she was going to apply.

It came to something that he found he would prefer to stay just with her. She had, at least, never hurt him.

“What is it, Natasha?” Mrs. Thompson asked, turning to face him.

He couldn’t speak. Instead of pressing him, Mrs. Thompson merely started applying foundation to his face.

***

He could hear a car’s engine. Throaty, growling, like a predator. His breath caught, then he was on his feet, running. “Natasha!” Mrs. Thompson called after him, for once, maybe, taken by surprise. He used a hand to slingshot through the doorway and down to the top of the stairs. There, at the tall sash window, he could see down onto the driveway. He saw the car pull up. It was sporty, but surprisingly large, with a long bonnet and a distinctive downturned grille. It gleamed dark green.

“Aston Martin,” he whispered, his breath coming fast now. The engine died and the driver’s door opened. His own breathing was the only sound, rushing in his ears. He felt a warning twitch, below, as if he might lose control of his bladder, but he clamped down on it. That might, he supposed grimly, get him out of what was to come for an evening, but the punishment–

“Natasha,” Mrs. Thompson said, behind him. He glanced around at her, then back down to the driver. Middle-aged, but tall and very fit-looking, as if he might have been an athlete when he was young. He moved like that too; with strength and elegance– “Natasha,” Mrs. Thompson said, more firmly. He glanced around again. “I’m not given to repeating myself. Don’t make me do it again.”

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice shaking. His legs wanted to crumple rather than carry him any further.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We have a guest, and it’s our pleasure to entertain him for dinner. Now, come back and allow me to finish your make-up.” Downstairs, the doorbell rang. “Marie will answer it and show him into the parlour. Now, Natasha.”

***

The old image, again, of the little body, naked and pallid and broken, lying lonely and cold amongst the discarded carrier bags and the decaying wet cardboard boxes in the bushes behind the recycling bins. He hadn’t seen it himself: It had all been cleared away by the time he got there; there was just that blue and white police tape whipping in the wind; but his imagination had furnished the image anyway.

***

He looked at Mrs. Thompson, feeling broken. “Will there be sherry at dinner?” he asked quietly.

“I should think not, for an evening meal. We may have a glass of wine. You may have some if you promise to behave and not make any scenes.”

That could hardly be any clearer. “I won’t,” he promised, and went with her.

***

The cops never found who did it. No-one expected them to try very hard for a street kid, let alone a ‘mixed up little freak’ like Gray.

Those were Gray’s own words. One day Jack asked why he called himself that, and Gray took him into the bathroom and showed him. The impossible. The rare thing the men in the sports cars desired.

***

“Mark, how lovely to see you,” Mrs. Thompson said, all warmth and cheerfulness, crossing the parlour to where the man was rising too his feet.

“Jane,” he said, smiling. They kissed cheeks. “Are you sure you don’t mind me dropping in on such short notice? I hope I haven’t put you out of your routine?” English accent, like the BBC.

“Not in the slightest. Oh, allow me to introduce my protégée, Natasha.” She turned to Nathan. “Come forward, dear.”

Nathan knew better than to delay, but as he approached his heart quailed. He wished the skirts didn’t rustle so loudly. ~Oh God, he’s big.~ He had to be at least a clear foot taller than Nathan, and powerfully built. He seemed huge. Dark hair, greying at the temples.

“Natasha, this is Mr. Kingsley,” Mrs. Thompson explained, like that was a real name.

“I’m delighted to meet you Miss…” He trailed off. Perhaps, Nathan thought unexpectedly, a little hesitant there. He expected to use a surname and Mrs. Thompson hadn’t supplied it.

“Shaw,” he heard himself say quietly. His throat felt dry.

“Miss Shaw,” he took up. “It’s a pleasure.” His hand. Nathan stared at it for a fraction too long, then remembered, and placed his own hand in Mr. Kingsley’s palm. It almost disappeared inside the man’s much larger hand. Again, almost too late, he remembered to curtsey. “And I must say, you look quite charming, doesn’t she, Jane?” He released Nathan’s hand, finally.

“She shows some promise,” Mrs. Thompson allowed. “Do be seated, Mark. Or if you prefer, we could step out onto the terrace. It looks like being a pleasant evening.”

“I’m afraid appearances are deceptive,” Mr. Kingsley said. “It’s quite chilly. Certainly too chilly for Miss Shaw’s current attire, I fear.”

“In that case, do sit. Natasha.” She took Nathan’s hand and led him to a two-seater settee. A turn in the way she held his hand meant he had to sit with her, close next to her. Mr. Kingsley massively occupied a chair opposite.

“I brought the final papers for Valerie to sign, as we discussed” Mr. Kingsley said. “Is she here?”

“She’s at college,” Mrs. Thompson explained. “I think she’s doing something after school with this drama group to which her friend belongs. But she is expected home before too late. She knows you’re coming.”

“Ah. Well, there’s no rush. I’m glad she’s making friends at last. I know it’s been difficult for her to adjust.”

“Indeed. For a long time I did question the wisdom of bringing her here with me. Part of me still feels she would have been better off back in the States with Art and Darryl.” She sighed. “But, this was her choice. I’m glad she’s settling in, finally. Were there any problems with the plan as we left it?”

“None whatsoever. It’s all drawn up and the funds have cleared; I just need her signature and it’s done.”

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to do that when she gets in.”

They talked, apparently forgetting Nathan’s presence, although he couldn’t help but feel Mr. Kingsley’s eyes rest on him from time to time, occasionally catching him in a curious, interested look. He blushed and occupied some time imagining whatever nefarious plan for Valerie those two were cooking up, into which she was going to unwittingly sign herself, and whether he should try to warn her. It was diverting in a grim sort of way, given he didn’t actually wish harm to Valerie, but it soon became apparent they were talking mostly about money. Large sums of money. Funds and portfolios and stuff. ~Maybe she’s the heiress, and Mrs. Thompson’s the wicked stepmother, trying to swindle her out of her inheritance…~ After all, he had heard no word of a Mr. Thompson.

***

He couldn’t take his eyes off the porcelain figurine. It was on the mantlepiece, a little off to the side and unregarded. It looked old. A girl in a pink Victorian dress with an exaggeratedly wide skirt billowing around her. Her shoulders were left bare by the wide neckline. She was holding a fan, her eyes demurely downcast, caught in the moment of curtseying. Or maybe, he thought, she was just sitting, like he was forcing himself not to, tired and resigned.

~There are worse things. If I don’t co-operate.~ Fluttering blue and white tape, and a small, cold, broken body.

He longed, irrationally, for Valerie. For some lead. For a look that might say ‘I know. It’s all right.’ Something.

~You coward, Nathan.~

~I don’t want to die. Not like Gray.~

***

Valerie was in the doorway, apparently freshly showered and blowdried and changed into an elegant evening dress. As she turned Nathan glimpsed the pretty butterfly clasp she’d worn on the day he arrived. “Hello, Mark. I’m sorry I’m so late. The rehearsal overran.” She seemed a little breathless. Mark was already on his feet, to greet her. She shook hands, with that little curtsey Nathan had last seen on the railway platform, and sat. “Good evening, Jane. Natasha.”

“Rehearsal?” Mark asked.

“Would you believe, I’ve been drafted as some kind of fight director for a play some friends are doing.”

“You? A fight director?”

“It’s not as surprising as you’d think,” Valerie protested, managing to sound a little hurt. Nathan was astonished enough to be distracted from his own worries. Valerie seemed so gentle. “You should have seen the way they were holding those knives. I had to do something. Someone was going to lose an eye.”

“Valerie, Mark’s brought those forms for you to sign,” Mrs. Thompson quickly interrupted that line of conversation.

“Oh, yes.” She looked like she was visibly shifting gears. “Which one is this again?”

“This is the covenant.”

Valerie’s mouth opened in a silent ’Oh.’

“Why don’t you two go and finish that in the private living room. Mark, you’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?” she asked, as if it hadn’t already been set up. Valerie had stood again already. Mark was following.

“With pleasure, if you’ll have me,” Mark replied.

“You’re welcome any time, you know that.”

The two of them left.

***

“You’re doing very well, Natasha, given I haven’t had time to instruct you as thoroughly as I might have wished.” Nathan fought to keep his eyes dry. He was thinking of Valerie. She was with him right now. “Now, when we go in to dinner I shall suggest that you accompany Mr. Kingsley.” Nathan’s breath came faster. “This is what you’re to do.” She stood up. “He will offer his hand like so. Place your right hand in his…” She waited for him to obey, “and stand, that’s right.” He felt dizzy. “Now, put your right arm through there.” He tried. “All right, try that again. It should flow naturally– Just take my elbow– That’s right. Then all you have to do is follow his lead. He’ll direct you where you need to go. Show me how you walk. I want to see if you’ve remembered your lesson this morning.” And they walked, and he found the muscle-memory. “He won’t go too fast, because I’ll be in front with Valerie setting the pace. Yes, that’ll have to suffice,” she added, commenting on his walking. “Remember to keep your head up and your eyes level.” It wasn’t as if he could see his feet anyway. “Try to be graceful, and if you have to speak, keep it to a minimum and remember to keep your voice light and musical, the way you’ve been practicing.”

“I haven’t done this before,” he said, his voice quavering.

“I should think not. But you’re doing very well. Just continue as you are.”

“I don’t want to do this.” He could feel the panic rising. “I don’t want to do this.” He heard the desperation in his own voice, now it was coming to it. Now it was becoming real and close.

“Natasha.” Mrs. Thompson spoke firmly. “It is common courtesy to entertain one’s dinner guests. Now, we’ll have no more of this nonsense. Go sit down and remember what I told you.”

He lingered for a few seconds longer, trying to get up the courage to say something more. Anything. In the end all he could come up with was, “Can I– may I go to the toi– May I go to the lavatory please?” He was shaking, and he really did need to go.

Mrs. Thompson looked at him for several seconds, as if weighing up whether to believe him, then she nodded. “Return straight away. Do not dawdle. If you make me come and get you…” She left the rest unsaid. Nathan nodded desperately and just about remembered to curtsey before fleeing the room.

***

He really wasn’t dawdling, it just took a while to sort out the petticoats and knickers and everything without scrunching things up or getting them wet. It kept him busy anyway. He flushed and washed his hands and went back out into his bedroom and checked that the skirts had fallen back down all right in the full-length mirror. It was the look in his eyes that stopped him.

“Gray always said I’d end up some rich cunt’s fucktoy,” he said aloud, as if there was anyone there to hear him. Gray had been liberal with the swear-words; always a shock coming out of that too-pretty face. “Not sure this is what he had in mind.”

It would do.

***

He saw Gray’s face in the mirror. All made up like a china doll. Gray grinned back at Jack. His pupils were dilated, inky and restless. Eye-shadow like bruises.

“You look pretty,” Jack said. He was just a stupid kid. He didn’t know what was going on.

“Aw, sweetums,” Gray said, and pulled him close and kissed his cheek bumpily. Perfume.

“Ur yuck, get off me, you sissy,” Jack protested, wriggling free. Giggling as Gray snatched a tickle on his ribs as he went.

“You be alright Sheo?” Louise said from the door; dressed, like Gray and Karen, for a party or something. Louise wouldn’t say what kind of party, just ‘no, you can’t come.’

“Yeah, s’pose,” he said. Then he had to giggle again, because Gray was posing. Wiggling his narrow hips and taking the piss as he left the room.

“Fuck, Gray, what you on?” Louise yelled after him, then looked back at Jack. “Stay ’ere, right?” He nodded. “Don’t go nowhere and don’t answer the door to no-one, you ’ear me?” Before he could answer she disappeared down the dank hallway after Gray, still shouting at him. Karen looked in on him too, and smiled faintly, then followed without a word. Karen didn’t speak much. The front door slammed and it was quiet.

***

“You do look pretty,” Nathan said quietly to his own reflection, years later. He’d never thought of himself that way before, but it was true, he could see now. He could see it, and say it, without flinching. “Time to earn your keep, Sheo,” he said. He caught himself biting his lip and swore, and diverted briefly to the dressing table to fix his lip colour, took one more deep breath and headed out briskly, letting his door slam shut behind him.

On the way down he was surprised by Valerie bursting out of the private living room’s door and hurrying toward the stairs. She passed close to him, without looking at him, and he could see she had been crying. He stopped to watch her go up the stairs, his heart banging in his chest. When he turned back to carry on down, he gasped in surprise, seeing Mr. Kingsley standing in the hall, regarding him curiously.

“Are you all right, Miss Shaw?” he asked her. He realised then he was breathing hard. He tried to swallow with a dry throat and slow his breathing. He nodded and came down the last few steps to the floor of the hall. ~What am I supposed to do?~ he wondered. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do something or just wait for Mr. Kingsley to– “I’m afraid I upset Valerie a little. I didn’t mean to.” He sounded genuinely concerned, the bastard. “I think she’ll be all right. She’s just a little emotional about something.” Nathan made himself look at him, and forced himself to smile.

“M–” He hated stammering just then. “Mrs. Thompson says you’re a g-gentle man,” he forced out. He deliberately made it two words.

“Far be it from me to disappoint her,” Mr. Kingsley replied wryly, and smiled. “Or to keep her waiting,” he added, and started ushering Nathan back towards the parlour. Not the direction Nathan had expected, but obviously they were playing out some kind of scene, with all the old-fashioned clothes and manners, and it had its own pace. Mr. Kingsley opened the door and held it open over Nathan’s head for Nathan to walk through.

He was astonished at the relief he felt on seeing Mrs. Thompson again, and it was all he could do to walk to her side, rather than run there. He sat close next to her, wishing he could stop shaking. He knew it was only a reprieve. He was hardly aware of Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Kingsley talking, and jumped when he felt Mrs. Thompson’s hand on his shoulder, but it felt like she was only trying to steady and reassure him.

“Calm,” he whispered, and felt a slight answering squeeze on his shoulder, while Mrs. Thompson kept up the conversation she was having with Mr. Kingsley. Nathan watched him warily, and still caught him glancing curiously back from time to time. He gathered from the conversation that Mr. Kingsley had a wife and two daughters, both into horses, although the elder girl had just discovered Backstreet Boys. ~Yeah. Real family man,~ Nathan thought sourly.

Valerie re-entered. Nathan watched her. She still looked a little fragile, like she’d cried some more, but she smiled and crossed to Mrs. Thompson and surprised Nathan by bending to hug her around the neck for a moment. It seemed uncharacteristic somehow, and certainly seemed to surprise Mrs. Thompson. He heard Valerie’s quiet “Thank you,” in her ear.

“One less thing for you to worry about, I hope,” Mrs. Thompson whispered back.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“It’s my business to know. Now go sit down before you embarrass our guest.”

Valerie disengaged her arms and backed off, still smiling, and went to sit down. She seemed lighter, somehow.

Nathan was now completely confused. He wondered for a moment if he’d got it all wrong. Something was going on here and maybe it wasn’t what he thought it was after all. Only… no other explanation made sense.

Marie returned to announce dinner.

***

“Mark, why don’t you escort Natasha in to dinner?” Mrs. Thompson suggested, just as she said she would. “I’ll go with Valerie.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Kingsley replied, and was on his feet again, in front of Nathan smiling and extending his hand, just as Mrs. Thompson had shown him. “Miss Shaw, would you do me the honour?” Nathan froze for a moment; then glancing to his side saw Mrs. Thompson’s nod of confirmation. Valerie was, for the moment, out of sight behind the mass of Mr. Kingsley’s body.

He laid his hand in Mr. Kingsley’s, just as Mrs. Thompson had shown him. Then he was being guided to his feet. Then there was some movement of bodies he didn’t quite understand, but it included a discreet guiding hand at the small of his back from Mrs. Thompson for a moment to hurry him into position. Then his hand slid under Mr. Kingsley’s arm. Then they were walking, through the door by the side of the fireplace into the dining room. No volition, all clockwork, just like Mrs. Thompson had said. He tried to recall the muscle-memory of the practice he’d done in the morning. He discovered that if he just gave himself over to Mr. Kingsley’s direction everything went smoothly. Maybe that would stay true, he hoped, feeling unreal as he did so. Mr. Kingsley seemed to know what he was doing anyway. They followed Mrs. Thompson and Valerie, who were walking slowly, their heads close together, talking quietly, into the dining room. Mr. Kingsley guided him to a chair — not his normal place — and seated him.

“What do you say, Natasha?” Mrs. Thompson prompted.

“Um–” Damn. “Th-Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Mr. Kingsley said, taking his own seat opposite. Mrs. Thompson went to the head of the table. Valerie went through the other door towards the service stairs to kitchen. “And may I say again how pretty you’re looking this evening.”

Nathan felt the heat in his cheeks. Was he supposed to say something?

“Do you really think so, Mark?” Mrs. Thompson asked. Marie came with the first of the starter dishes.

“Absolutely, Jane. I think she looks charming,” he added, with a smile directed at Nathan. He ducked his head. The blush in his cheeks had to be visible surely, even through all the make-up. He bet his ears were almost incandescent. He wanted to cover his face, or preferably just not be here.

“Natasha, kindly share with us what is so interesting about your place setting?” Mrs. Thompson queried.

Nathan looked up, trying to avoid Mr. Kingsley’s eyes.

“That’s better dear. There’s no need to hide your pretty face.” He was distracted for a moment by Marie, at his side, serving his starter. She surreptitiously squeezed his hand in reassurance as she finished and moved on. “Of course, she’s quite shy, and still desperately untutored, poor thing, but we’ll soon have that gaucheness driven forth.” She seemed to savour that word: Driven.

“Well, I hope you won’t be too hard on the girl this evening,” Mr. Kingsley said, almost sounding kind. “She looks nervous enough.” No, that was just it, he did sound kind. Nathan clamped down on that errant thought. “I only wish my own girls were so well-mannered when we have guests for dinner.”

Valerie had returned with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. She did the wine-waiter thing, uncorking it and pouring a small amount for Mrs. Thompson to taste. When Mrs. Thompson approved, Valerie poured her a full glass, then Mr. Kingsley, before coming around behind Nathan’s place setting. Finally, she poured for herself, put the bottle down on the table and sat.

“Thank you, Valerie,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Would you like to propose?”

Valerie looked up at her, startled. “Me?”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Thompson said warmly.

Valerie’s eyes sparkled. “I’m sorry, Mark, I couldn’t possibly marry you.” She sighed deeply. “My heart belongs to another.”

Nathan laughed out loud suddenly, surprising himself. Mr. Kingsley chuckled as well.

“Come on, dear, do it properly now,” Mrs. Thompson said sternly, but she had a little smile to show she wasn’t really angry.

“Oh all right,” Valerie conceded. She looked like she was thinking about something. “To Einstein and Rosen?” she suggested.

Mrs. Thompson raised her glass. “Einstein and Rosen,” she said, with a smile for Valerie.

“Wherever they may be,” Valerie finished.

“Einstein and Rosen,” Mr. Kingsley agreed, and they all drank. The wine was smooth, Nathan thought. Smoky. “Although I don’t understand the significance,” Mr. Kingsley admitted. “I’ve heard of Einstein of course, but…”

“Physics joke,” Valerie explained, setting her glass down. “Don’t worry, normal humans aren’t supposed to get it.”

“I see.”

Nathan stared at his glass of wine. There wouldn’t be sherry this time, she’d said, but there’d be wine. If he was good.

“Valerie’s hoping to go to Cambridge next year,” Mrs. Thompson said.

And he’d been good, hadn’t he?

“Oh? To study physics?”

So she could be kind, and give him something to help him through this.

Valerie nodded. “I’m going to sit the entrance exam in the Fall,” she explained.

“I’m sure you’ll excel,” Mr. Kingsley replied.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” Nathan said aloud, to Mrs. Thompson, and smiled at her. She looked at him oddly, but he turned and said “Thank you, Miss Valerie,” to Valerie as well, and raised his glass. “Cheers everyone,” he said brightly, and drained the glass in two big gulps.

“Natasha!” Mrs. Thompson scolded. He grinned and put the glass down, feeling the alcohol hit his head. ~Wow, that’s strong wine,~ he realised belatedly. Mrs. Thompson actually seemed a little lost for words, for a few moments. She soon rallied. “What did you think you were doing? That’s no way to behave at the dinner table. If you can’t be trusted to…” He tuned her out. His face had flushed red to his ears, and down his throat, he could feel it. He felt warm and reckless. He tried not to giggle. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done that, he thought — finishing the drink in one go. He didn’t want Mrs. Thompson to be angry with him.

***

Dinner wore on, and thankfully no-one upbraided him on hardly eating anything. He was sorry to disappoint Marie, but putting food in his stomach was simply impossible. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mr. Kingsley eating with every appearance of hearty relish.

Conversation flowed around him, like he was a rock in a stream. He imagined himself drifting, going nicely distant, where nothing had to touch him. It was out of his hands now. He just had to wait, and there was no need to feel that anything that happened from now on was his fault or had anything to do with him at all.

He watched Mr. Kingsley, willing drowsiness into his eyelids, feeling a half-smile forming on his lips, which he got by imagining Valerie on her motorcycle, even though he’d never seen it.

~Any minute now. Distance.~

***

~How long is it supposed to take anyway?~

***

~Am I supposed to take the initiative?~ he wondered, and looked at his dessert, so far untouched. It looked like some kind of fruit pie with double cream. He tried to imagine what it would taste like; the hot fruit, the crumbling pastry, the coolness of the cream, then remembered stupidly that he didn’t have to imagine it. He picked up his spoon and navigated a spoonload of cream-drenched pie into his mouth. ~You’re not responsible. Go with the flow. Don’t resist.~ “Mmm,” he heard himself vocalise. An explosion of peach, and sweet shortcrust pastry, and cream like silk. Marie was a goddess– ~No, wait. I made the pastry!~ Marie should have her own restaurant, or TV show, he thought. Instead she was here. He couldn’t guess what that was about, what hold Mrs. Thompson must have over her to keep her here.

“So what do you do, Mark?” he asked boldly. ~Out of control,~ he reminded himself. ~I’m not here. This isn’t happening to me.~ He willed it to be so, this once. It would be easier if he still felt drunk, but the alcohol had been wearing off. It had only been one glass, and since then Mrs. Thompson had insisted he only drink water. That was probably a good idea anyway, he thought. He remembered something about that. Something Gray said once. He took another mouthful of the peach pie, slowly, languorously taking in the taste.

“Ah–” Mr. Kingsley seemed to hesitate, looking at him. Nathan smiled; cream still on his tongue, fresh and luxurious. “Well, I’m a financial planner, mostly. I advise Jane on her UK portfolio and on the trust funds she’s set up on Valerie’s behalf.”

“Really? That sounds very tedious.”

“Natasha!” from Mrs. Thompson. It was too late; Mr. Kingsley was already laughing.

“You have no idea,” Mr. Kingsley replied, leaning forward to address him alone, as if letting him into a confidence.

“You two still haven’t convinced me it’s not a black art,” Valerie observed.

“Would that it were,” Mrs. Thompson remarked dryly. “You might have been a more apt student.”

“Meow.” She grinned. Mrs. Thompson returned the smile.

“I would have thought you’d have few problems grasping the subject, Valerie,” Mr. Kingsley said. “Given your background in Maths?”

“They’re nothing alike,” Valerie put down her fork. “Math is fundamentally rational, even if some of the actual numbers aren’t,” her mouth twisted into a smile. “But everything can be worked up from first principles. Every theorem is true because that’s how the axioms fit together. There’s no choice. Because this is true, therefore this, this and this must also be true. All this investments stuff… It might as well be Voodoo. It’s all law and custom and tradition, and you don’t really know why one thing’s a good investment and another thing isn’t, you just guess. Happen to guess right more than the other guy and suddenly you’re rich and everyone’s calling you a guru, but it’s just… it’s just intuition! Doesn’t that even worry you?”

“I understand there is much interest in stock markets from mathematicians investigating chaos theory,” Mrs. Thompson observed.

“Yes, and what they’re finding is that markets are chaotic systems. So specific predictions are impossible!”

While Valerie held forth, Nathan scooped up a small amount of cream with his finger and licked it off, his eyes fixed on Mr. Kingsley’s. He saw Mr. Kingsley’s eyes widen slightly, and a blush come to the older man’s cheeks. Nathan winked, then he had to pretend nothing was happening, as Mrs. Thompson was about to look his way again. ~I can’t believe I just did that!~ he wondered at himself. ~That just happened. Is that how it works then? You just start doing things?~

Louise taught Jack that one in a coffee-shop just off Oxford Circus. It was a Saturday afternoon in August, and it was hot. It was going to be a busy night, she said. She had one of those posh coffees with whipped cream on top, and she bought him a milk shake. She’d taken him along to buy clothes. Bags of them sat clumped around their feet. New outfits for him too, so he didn’t look so much like a street kid. Look like someone’s looking after you. Look like someone’s kid the cops would actually get off their lardy arses for, or have the reporters and TV crews around asking why not. Besides, it was nice having clean clothes to put on again. He couldn’t believe how much money he’d seen her hand over. But it wasn’t as if she could put it in a bank and it would only get nicked if she tried to hide it somewhere, “So why not just spend it an’ ’ave a good time?” she’d asked, rhetorically.

She fingered up another blob of cream and deposited it on the end of his nose. “Can you reach it with your tongue?”

He couldn’t, but the sight of him trying made her laugh, so that was good.

Picking up a song being played out of a shop as they passed, afterwards. Walking hand in hand on the way back to the squat, singing it together.

Deeply dippy ’bout the curves you got.
Deeply hot, hot for the curves you got.
Deeply dippy ’bout the fun we had.
Deeply mad, mad for the fun we had–
Oh my love, I can’t make head nor tail of passion
Oh my love, let’s set sail for seas of passion now…

“May I say, you don’t look like someone who sits behind a desk all day. You look very fit, if I may be so bold, sir.” Flattery. Yeah. Jane Austen style. That seems to be what she wants.

“Thank you, although I’m afraid it’s one part good fortune to two parts down to my daughters’ ponies.”

“What have they got to do with it?”

“Someone has to catch them and bring them back to the stables.”

“What, your daughters?” he asked, deadpan.

Mr. Kingsley looked at him for a blank moment, stunned. To his side, he could hear Valerie trying to suppress a laugh. It came out as a surprisingly ungenteel snort. “No, their ponies,” Mr. Kingsley said slowly. Valerie gave up the struggle and laughed out loud.

“Valerie,” Mrs. Thompson remonstrated. It was no use. Valerie was lost to it.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Nathan said, grinning. “You must think me very stupid, I’m sure.”

“Well, you say that, but it can be the devil’s job getting the girls in in time for dinner as well. I’m sure they would sometimes rather become bedouins and let their ponies sleep with them in their own tents.”

Valerie had more or less recovered.

“That is, should they ever deign to set foot inside a tent that didn’t have a phone or a television installed,” Mr. Kingsley continued. “I’d thought letting them join the Brownies when they were younger might inure them to such privations in advance, but… evidently not.”

“How now, Brown Owl,” Nathan muttered.

“Were you in the Brownies when you were younger, Natasha?” Mr. Kingsley asked. Nathan froze, staring at him. There was a moment’s stunned silence around the table. Mrs. Thompson’s face was a mask.

~What has he been told?~ Nathan wondered. ~Is that what you want, family man? Is there a little brown costume waiting for me upstairs?~ “Dib dib dib,” he said dryly, and tried to down the remainder of his water, finding his glass already empty. He reached for the water jug.

“What? Oh, yes. Dib dib dib. How foolish of me, I almost forgot.” Mr. Kingsley said. He at least had the grace to sound embarrassed at his mistake. Perhaps even a little flustered. ~Well, that answers that,~ Nathan thought, and just pressed his lips together and poured some more water.

“You should ask Valerie to take the girls on one of her hiking expeditions,” Mrs. Thompson offered brightly.

“Wh– I mean, pardon?” Valerie asked, looking apprehensively across at Mrs. Thompson.

“That sounds an excellent idea, Jane,” Mr. Kingsley joined in enthusiastically, possibly meaning it, or possibly just grateful for the conversation moving on. “Although I suspect it would be easier to get them to agree to a pony trekking holiday.”

“Ah, sadly Valerie doesn’t ride.”

“Oh?”

“Allergies,” Valerie explained, then more quietly, and urgently, “Jane…”

“Oh, that’s a shame. Is that why you haven’t got horses again since the move?”

“Oh dear me no,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I simply haven’t found the time to arrange the stabling and other facilities they require yet.”

“I thought the original stable-house was still here…”

“Oh yes, it is, but it looks like it hasn’t been used in forty years. It needs a great deal of renovation work.”

“Ah. Well, I hope you get around to it before too long. Certainly by the autumn, I hope. It’s beautiful in this area around then. Miss Shaw, do you ride?”

“Um–sorry Mrs. Thompson,” he stumbled. “Not, like, since I was little.”

“The word ‘like’ was superfluous in that sentence, Natasha,” Mrs. Thompson rebuked. “You rode as a child?” she asked more gently.

“Only once a week.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Mr. Kingsley asked.

He nearly shrugged, but he caught it in time. “It was all right. It was more Sar–” He stopped himself roughly. ~Shit. Shut up, idiot.~ He blushed and concentrated on not eating his dessert.

“Well, if Jane is amenable I’m sure we could arrange a few days for you to ride one of our horses during your stay,” Mr. Kingsley offered. “We don’t live so far away, after all.”

“Mark, that’s…” Mrs. Thompson seemed genuinely taken aback by the offer. “That’s extraordinarily generous of you,” she finished. “Are you sure?”

“If it doesn’t interfere with your plans, of course,” he added.

“Natasha, thank Mr. Kingsley for his kind offer,” Mrs. Thompson said, but she already had a distant look in her eyes, as if she was planning something, or visualising it.

“Th-Thank you Mr. Kingsley.”

Louise rated clients. She awarded them ‘Perv-points’ according to what they’d wanted to do. Some of them just wanted the control, the power, and the young flesh. They might hit you around a bit if that was their thing, if that’s what they needed to prove they were boss, but they understood it was business. Mostly. Louise always made out like she was really in control. She had rules, she said. She was in charge, she said. Nathan remembered holding her that morning while she cried.

Then some of them kidded themselves about what they were doing. They’d want to do weird shit like take you to the zoo or a restaurant or want you to wear their kids’ clothes and to stay until breakfast and sometimes they didn’t even want to fuck you. They paid better than the other sort, but they were the ones who’d kill you in the end, she said. Safer not to go there, but the money was good, which Louise said might be a guilt thing, and then might be just ’cause most of the foreign kids couldn’t do those jobs ’cause they couldn’t talk proper, meaning they didn’t sound English, so the prices stayed high, and clothes were expensive, and so was smack.

Nathan couldn’t work out which sort Mr. Kingsley was. He’d thought, maybe he was one of the first sort, until that offer to go… well, to his stables, but possibly to his house as well? What was going to happen there?

And where was Mrs. Kingsley? Was he divorced? Did he only see his own children at weekends? Or ever? ~Is he going to want me to wear their riding clothes? Ride their ponies? Wear a brownie outfit and bake him cookies? Do I get a fucking badge for that?~

He almost laughed aloud bitterly at the unintentional pun. He was shaking again. ~If only the bloody roofie would take over so I can stop thinking about it.~ He just wanted it done, so he didn’t have to be afraid of it being still to come any more. The second time, he told himself, would be easier.

The others were finishing their desserts. Nathan had only managed some of his, but they expected that of him, and besides, he didn’t want any more bulk in there to work against the drug.

“That was excellent,” Mrs. Thompson said, to murmured agreement from the others. “Mark and I have some business to discuss now. Valerie, can we leave you two to clean up? I don’t want to leave all this to Marie.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Natasha, after you’ve finished helping Valerie, you may go upstairs and get ready for bed.”

~And then…~

He swallowed dryly. “Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

~And then what? Do I come back down, like a kid being allowed to stay up late? Is that what they want?~ He wished someone would just tell him. ~Would they think it was cute if I was holding the teddy bear?~

A fly landed on the remains of his peach pie. He wondered irrelevantly how that had got inside. One of the sash windows was slightly open. The fly took a few steps around, then stopped to suck on a slice of peach.

There was another movement of chairs, and Nathan found himself suddenly the only person still sitting, but Mr. Kingsley had already come around the table to help him out of his chair, so he stood too. Disturbed, the fly took off and swung up towards the ceiling. Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Kingsley withdrew out of the dining room; not back to the parlour, but through the door that led into the music room.

“You did pretty well for a first time,” Valerie told him, gathering up the dessert bowls. “You want to get the glasses?”

“Er, yeah.” He started picking them up, carefully. He’d misread the pace again. He should have known, the way Mrs. Thompson insisted on perfect manners all the time. Everything had to be according to the same rules of decorum, to fit into their little role-play. “I just wish he’d get on with it,” he muttered quietly.

“Excuse me?”

Nathan didn’t feel in the slightest bit woozy or unsteady like he had the first time. He didn’t even feel tired; no more than usual anyway, and it had to be almost an hour since he’d drunk the wine. “Oh God,” he breathed in realisation.

“What?” Valerie queried.

“There wasn’t anything in the wine, was there?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Stop fucking about!” He cast a nervous glance across at the dining room door through which Mr. Kingsley had left with Mrs. Thompson. “I ain’t done this before, okay? I just… I just don’t want to care, you know? When he does it.”

“Does wh–” She stopped and stared at him. “What exactly do you think Mark’s going to do?” she asked, very slowly.

~She’s going to make me come out and say it,~ he thought. “Fuck me. What do you think?” There, he’d said it. “That’s what this is all about, in’t it? I’m not here to go fuckin’ horse riding, am I? Mrs. Thompson said if I was good… if I was good… An’ I’ve tried. I really have! Please. I ain’t done this before. I need something to do this, like what you put in that sherry the first day.” Valerie’s eyes widened in alarm. “I don’t care. Roofies, Special K, whatever you got–” Valerie looked stricken for several long moments, then her jaw set into something Nathan thought might be anger. “Please! I’ll pay you back. I’ll owe you. Whatever you want just don’t make me do this straight. Not the first time–”

He stopped at the look on Valerie’s face. She put the plates she was carrying back down on the table with exaggerated care, as if they might explode. Or as if she might explode. But she only held out her left hand to Nathan. “Put those down. Come with me.”

He realised he was still holding the wine glasses. He complied as quickly as he could and put them down. He took Valerie’s offered hand and she immediately pulled him out of the dining room and down the service stairs into the kitchen, then surprised him by going all the way through it to the patio door. She unlocked and opened it in a single fast move Nathan didn’t quite catch, and dragged him out into the deepening evening. His hand hurt, she was gripping it so hard. He had to run a little to keep up, abandoning everything he’d practiced earlier, and scared of twisting an ankle on the flagstones with the heels he was wearing.

Valerie led him straight up the old stone steps along the upper-tier path that led along the garden wall at the front of the house. “Where are we going?” he asked her, starting to worry again. She didn’t answer him straight away. “Where–”

“Safe place,” Valerie said curtly. He looked back at the house, dark and looming, apart from the lights from the private living room.

“Oh God, you’re taking me to him,” he realised suddenly, and stopped. His sudden stop yanked his hand out from Valerie’s grip. ~He’s waiting for me in the car. He’s going to take me now–~ He knew at least the ride would be quiet. He wouldn’t want to make a mess on the seats of his nice sports car.

“What? We’re going in the other direction–”

“His car!” He blurted out.

She got the idea. “No! No, I’m not.” Valerie grabbed for his hand again, but he held it close to his body. “Look, we’re going over there.” She pointed, but he couldn’t see anything, just the garden wall, and a small locked doorway. “It’s just the garage,” she explained, pronouncing it like an American — sometimes he almost forgot she was, because her accent was kind of intermediate, then she’d say a word wrong like that and remind him. “That’s the back door, okay?” He still hesitated. “Natasha– Nathan,” she amended. “Nathan. Listen carefully. Whatever you think is going on here, you’re wrong. Oh man are you ever wrong!”

~I’m wrong?~ “But–”

“I can’t believe they let you believe that!” Valerie hissed, really angry. He backed away from her one step. “Listen.” With a fast movement she grabbed both his hands at once and held them tight. Her grip hurt his fingers. “You’re wrong. Listen to me. On my life. On my oath. You got the wrong idea. No-one, no-one is going to fuck you. That’s not what’s going on here.”

“But he–”

“I swear to you, if Mark so much as lays a bad finger on you, the only reason Jane won’t kill him herself is ’cause she’s slower than I am.” There was a deep anger in her voice. It frightened him. “And it wouldn’t happen anyway, ’cause Mark’s not that kind of guy. Mark’s good people.”

“But you… You went off with him!”

Valerie stared at him, not understanding for a few seconds. “You thought I–” She dropped his hands. “You thought he was fucking me?”

“Y-You were crying. I thought–”

“Oh God! No! He’s not here to fuck me, or you, or anyone, okay? I was crying because… Well…” She looked at him intently. “It’s kind of personal. But it’s not… It’s not what you were thinking, okay?”

She was still scaring him, so he just said “O-Okay.”

“I had forms to sign. Really. Stuff about trust funds Jane’s setting up in my name. That’s all.” She smiled suddenly. “He may be an accountant but I don’t think even he gets a kick out of that.”

Nathan almost found a laugh. Not quite.

“Do you believe me?”

He hesitated. He wanted to. He started shivering. Badly.

“Do you?” Valerie asked again, insistently. He backed off another pace, instinctively, still shivering. “What?”

“You’re scaring me. A bit,” he admitted. It was an understatement and he guessed his face showed it.

He watched the quick passage of expressions on her face for a few moments. “I’m scaring you?” she asked, quietly now, just to be sure. He nodded and she slumped her shoulders, suddenly seeming small and sad again. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said in a small voice. “Touched a nerve I guess.” And a quick smile, her manner utterly changed from before. “Look, I thought, I thought I’d just get you away from the house for a while and we can hang in the garage until Mark goes home. I can put some music on and we can talk about it.” Her gaze into his eyes was intense again, reflecting deep violet from the house lights behind him. “Get you calmed down. You okay with that?”

He nodded.

***

The fluorescent light flickered a few times, then came on. The door in the garden wall led directly into the back of a garage. The Mercedes in which he’d been driven from the station was there, as was a Peugeot hatchback, and a motorcycle, leaning on its side-stand near the Mercedes. Valerie went ahead of him to the workbench behind the motorcycle and pulled out an electric heater from underneath it. He spotted a grubby-looking PC on the workbench. “Come here. Heat.” She plugged it in and turned it on. The fan rattled quietly. Nathan moved closer, edging around the motorbike, to avoid getting oil on the dress.

“Here, put this on,” Valerie offered, passing him a leather jacket. He obeyed. It smelled of her, faintly, and of leather and wind. He felt the stiffness of the armour across the shoulders and back, and at the elbows and felt very protected. “Feeling a bit better?” she asked.

He nodded, still shivering. “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I’m not the one coming off an adrenaline high.” Smile.

“Oh God.” He found a quiet laugh lurking in the corner and used it. He felt himself starting to shake even more and tried to control it and damp it down. “I feel like such an idiot.” His voice shook.

Valerie was shaking her head. “Don’t. It’s not your fault.”

“I’ve been so scared.”

Valerie looked like she was stopping herself from saying more, but Nathan could tell she was still angry. He understood now, she wasn’t angry at him.

She had produced a mobile phone, and now leaned back against the workbench and started tapping something into it. Nathan took the opportunity to look around. His eyes returned to the grubby PC on the workbench behind Valerie, a single power LED was lit. Some computer speakers.

Valerie’s phone beeped, twice, and she put it down on the workbench.

“You get a signal out here?” he asked, needing to hear conversation.

“Barely. There’s a mast covering the village down the road. We’re just about on the edge.” She picked up the phone and showed the display to him. One pip on the signal meter. “We lose it in bad weather.”

“Who were you messaging?”

“Marie. Just bringing her up to date.”

“Oh God, did you have to?”

“Would you rather have everyone panic when they find we’re missing and come looking for us?” Valerie pointed out. He just glared back. “It’s okay.”

He sighed.

She turned to the old PC, hitting a key to bring it back to life. It asked her for a password on an otherwise empty VGA console screen. Her fingers hovered over the keys, but she paused and turned her head to Nathan.

“Step over there, please,” she directed him with a nod to a space next to the workbench by the wall.

“Why?”

“Because. I haven’t forgotten why you’re here. I want you where I can see you.”

He understood. She was worried he might scope her password. He shrugged and moved into the space she indicated.

“Turn your back,” she said. He obeyed, then heard a rapid crunch of keys; a well-practiced password sequence. “Okay.” He came out of the space, unable to resist a look at the screen. Valerie was still entering commands, quickly, expertly, at a bash prompt.

“Oh cool, you’re running Linux.” ~Could be BSD,~ he amended quickly, but Valerie nodded.

“Uh-huh. So don’t get any ideas.”

“I wouldn’t–” The screen layout turned into a music playlist. It started playing instantly, and loudly, making him jump, until Valerie turned the volume down. Something by Manic Street Preachers.

“What distro is it?” he pursued.

“Deestro? Deestro? Wee don’t need no steenking deestro!” Valerie proclaimed proudly.

“You built it yourself from scratch?” Valerie grinned, then laughed at the expression that must have been on his face at that time. “How come?”

“Only way I can be sure it’s mine.”

“Cool.” He nodded. She moved away from the workbench. “I knew you had to be a hacker or something,” he said, wishing his voice would stop shaking, trying to sound normal.

“How? I mean, before now. I kind of get the idea I just blew my cover on that one.” Half a grin.

“Er…” Now he thought about it, he wasn’t sure. “Okay, I guessed. But it fits. Kindof. Stuff you knew.”

“Such as?”

“You’re too good at looping up Cat5,” he explained. She looked at him for a long moment, then chuckled.

“I, guess I am at that,” she admitted.

“So… What are you called?”

“Me? Valerie,” she answered, deadpan.

“Come on, you know what I mean. Online.”

She looked at him coolly. “That’s classified.”

That made him laugh a little.

“What?”

“Nothing. I know someone else who says that a lot.”

“Where? At home?”

He shook his head. “Online. That and ‘you are not cleared for that information,’” he intoned. “You know, like out of Paranoia.”

“Oh really?” She looked genuinely interested. “So who is she?”

He grinned. “That’s classified,” he said, enjoying it.

Her phone went off. Incoming message. “All right, smart-ass,” Valerie said, opening the phone and reading the SMS.

~How did she know Jester’s a she?~ Nathan wondered belatedly. Assumption usually went the other way. He reviewed what he’d said in case he’d actually said it, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t.

Valerie looked back up from the phone at him. “Did Mark do anything to you? Anything inappropriate, I mean?”

He was back in the nightmare. Mr. Kingsley looking at him. Complimenting him. Taking his arm to go in to dinner. “Um–” He scanned through his memory of the evening, trying to see if anything fell into the gaps. He was alone with him in the hall, after Valerie ran upstairs. Was there anything missing there? He probed the memory, one moment to the next, reliving the fear, looking for a discontinuity, a memory of going distant. ~Did I miss something?~ Mr. Kingsley had just showed him straight to the parlour door. It was over in a few seconds. He was sure of it.

“We need to know, Nathan.”

He shook his head.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, and took a deep breath. “He kept looking at me though.”

Valerie nodded and started texting again. “You’re a lot better looking than he expected,” she explained. “He told me, while I was signing those forms.”

“Yeah?” Actually he’d said something like that at dinner too.

Valerie waited until she’d finished sending her response. “How do you feel about that anyway?” Valerie asked.

“What?”

“Oh you know. People saying you look good as a girl.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Dunno.” She looked like she was expecting more of an answer than that, so he thought about it for a few moments. “I thought everyone was just saying it, you know, to wind me up. Not like they meant it or nothing.”

“What did you think when you looked in the mirror?”

He thought about that too, and finally just shrugged again. “It reminded me of someone else,” he said.

“Who?” Valerie wanted to know.

He looked back at her. “No-one,” he said, eventually. “Long time ago.”

“In a galaxy far far away,” Valerie finished. He could smile at that.

The song ended, leaving them with a moment’s quiet. He felt the heat from the fan heater on his legs. He was starting to warm up now. He still felt shivery anyway.

The next song started.

“You were going to do it, weren’t you?” Valerie said quietly. “You were going to go through with it. With him.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He thought he’d start shaking again if he did.

Valerie nodded.

“I didn’t think I had a choice!” he protested, belying what he’d just said. “I thought, you know, it was either that or I was going to go to prison. I can’t go to prison, Valerie, I’ll die! I thought… I thought I’ve got to or I’m going to end up dead in a pile of rubbish somewhere, like Gray–” He stopped himself going further in that direction. “I thought… if I co-operated, like, she’d make it easier, you know, than it had to be.”

He was right. He was shaking again. He tried to cover it by turning away to look at something else. Her motorcycle was in his way. That would do for something to look at.

“Who’s Gray?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said again. “Doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”

“Is that who you were reminded of?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” he snapped, then belatedly realised he’d answered her question anyway. ~Shit.~

“Oh man,” Valerie whispered to herself, behind him. And, mercifully, she didn’t press him further.

“Wasn’t just him anyway,” he admitted, after a moment. “God. Haven’t thought much about any of ’em for years ’til I came here.”

“I’m sorry,” Valerie said to his back.

He shrugged and looked at her bike. It was something to look at.

“Did you want to talk about it?” Valerie tried.

“I said I didn’t.” ~Three times already.~

“Okay.”

The music played.

You’ll never live like common people
You’ll never do what common people do

“Nice looking bike,” he said.

“Out of this world,” she said quietly.

“Does it go fast?”

“Oh yes. You want to get on?”

“Can I? I mean may I? Oh God…” Even he had to laugh.

Valerie just snickered and came forward and round to the side towards which it was leaning. She put a key into the ignition and turned it one one stop to unlock the steering; then, with a practiced action, she pushed the bike back upright, kicked up the sidestand, then turned down the centre-stand with her delicately-shod foot and heaved the bike up onto it. She looked quite incongruous doing that in such a practiced way while in her evening dress. The front suspension forks stretched, but both wheels stayed on the ground.

“Okay, climb aboard. Don’t mess up your pettis.”

That took a little thought, but he managed it, standing on the footpeg, one hand on the nearest handlebar, and swinging his other leg over the back of the bike, like mounting a very small horse, then sitting with a kind of modified boomps-a-daisy, which was surprisingly difficult with his legs astride the bike. It gave Valerie a giggle anyway, but it did the job. The skirts settled around his thighs and the petrol tank and the pillion seat. Valerie gave him a little round of applause. The seat was cold on the backs of his thighs, and through his knickers.

“Thank you, thank you, you’re a wonderful audience,” he said, his other hand automatically landing on the opposite handlebar. “Cool.”

“Okay. Twist this, it goes fast.” Right handlebar. “Pull this,” right handlebar lever, “it slows down. Front brake. Step on this,” pedal just forward of the right footrest, “it slows down. Rear brake. Okay,” she moved around the front of the bike to the other side. Nathan was paying close attention. “Clutch,” left handlebar lever. “You know what a clutch does?” He nodded. “Okay. And gears,” the pedal-thing in front of the left footrest. “Click down to change up, put your foot under and push up to change down. Indicators, lights, speedometer, rev counter. That’s it. Easy.”

“Easy,” Nathan agreed in irony.

“Ohhh…” she said, looking at him.

“What?”

“Stay right there!” she directed, and headed towards the rear door again.

“What? Where you going?”

“Just getting some–” She stopped and diverted to the workbench and entered a short keystroke sequence to lock the screen. “Just getting something from the kitchen,” she finished and made for the door again. “Wait right there.” She let herself out.

Nathan heard her shoes tapping away and sat upright and stuck his hands in the jacket pockets. It was more comfortable with the corset on than leaning on the handlebars. He let his knee bounce in time to Blur playing on the speakers.

Street’s like a jungle
So call the police
Following the herd
Down to Greece — on holiday

“Oh I don’t believe it,” he muttered aloud, remembering the chorus. He chuckled and hitched up the pettis far enough out of the way to drum on his thighs and sang along when it came.

Girls who are boys
who like boys to be girls
who do boys like they’re girls
who do girls like they’re boys.
Always should be someone you really looooo–

Flash! “Augh, you cow!” he protested, seeing Valerie at the door with a camera to her eye. She’d caught him in full voice, God knew what kind of a dork he looked like. Or worse, sounded like. Valerie just cackled and made another flash. “Hey!”

***

“Listen,” Valerie said. She went to the workbench and turned the volume down to nothing. Nathan was still astride the motorbike.

“I don’t–” Yes, he did, he realised. Faint voices outside. Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Kingsley. Despite everything Valerie had said, he still felt the knot in his stomach again. The fear that they would come this way and open the door and find him there, with no-where to go, and that Valerie had set it all up and was just keeping him occupied until it was time. Then there was the sound of some last goodnights and a car door closing, followed almost immediately by a deep-throated growl of an engine being started. Light from the headlamps shone in briefly under the old wooden garage door, then the sound receded.

“You see?” Valerie said.

Nathan nodded and let out his breath. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding it. He stuffed his hands in the jacket’s pockets, using them to hold the jacket closed around him.

“I hope Jane didn’t tell him what you were thinking,” Valerie mused. “Poor Mark, it would kill him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” she said firmly.

“But I–”

“You were put into a completely unfamiliar setting, that’s the point. You made the best sense out of it that you could. It’s Not. Your. Fault. They should have explained it to you. They should have made sure you knew you were safe here.”

Nathan looked at the dials on the handlebar. He tried to stop himself shaking. ~Safe here,~ rattled in his brain. He tried to catch it and nail it down. ~Safe here. Valerie said so.~

“We don’t have to go back to the house right away if you don’t want to. I imagine Jane will want to talk to you when we do.”

He shook his head. Not yet. The shaking was getting worse and he couldn’t stop it. Like a pressure wave rising up his throat, like he was going to be sick. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and tried to stop.

And felt her arms coming around him, or trying to, and her leg against his, holding him awkwardly. He tried to shove her off. “No,” she said, very close to his ear as he struggled. “You need to. Come on, off the bike.”

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled, not trusting his voice.

“Oh don’t be such a boy,” she accused.

“Oh f-funny,” he muttered, but it did make him chuckle a little. Then he was laughing and he couldn’t stop. It was horrible and hysterical.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh,” Valerie said, still keeping an arm around his shoulders. He could only feel it remotely through the leather and armour. “Come on. Left leg over the tank.”

He sniffed wetly. “I’m such a fuckin’ crybaby,” he complained. Sometimes it felt like he’d done nothing else except cry and try not to cry since he’d arrived here. But he started to obey, bringing his leg up over the tank. Still wearing those white stockings.

“You’re allowed,” Valerie said. “Think of it as a perk of the school uniform. Got to be something it’s good for, right?”

“Heh. Boys don’t cry.” He sniffled again.

“Which is bullshit, by the way.” Valerie actually hooked her arms under his and pulled him the rest of the way off the bike and into her arms. Once there it was the most natural thing in the world to just hang on tight and cry, hard. His chest hurt with it. “You know there’s an old saying,” Valerie said into his ear. “‘Only men laugh, only men cry, only men dance.’ I’m not sure if it’s in that order,” she admitted. “Boys get such a lot of shit about that growing up, don’t they?”

He nodded against her shoulder. He couldn’t answer her any better than that. All the fear and confusion of the last few days blocked his throat. He hadn’t been so out of control for a long time. “I was so afraid!” he cried. He didn’t want to hurt her by gripping too tight but he couldn’t stop now. “I was so afraid!”

“I know,” she said into his ear. “I know.” She was holding him too tight as well.

“I was trying to be good. I was trying to do what she wanted. I thought… I thought…” ~I thought she wanted me.~ Her eyes on him. Her hands. Her attention. And him liking it, flattered by it.

“Shh.” Valerie rocked him slightly as he cried. It was almost like dancing.

***

“Guess what?” Valerie said.

“What?”

“Your make-up’s a mess.”

He snorted derisively.

“You feel up to going back inside yet?”

He glanced automatically towards the door. He shook his head.

“Okay,” Valerie said, nodding. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then returned to the workbench and retrieved her keyring and pressed the button that unlocked the Mercedes. Nathan jumped slightly at the chirp and the flashing lights.

“Where–?” he began.

“No-where. Just getting…” She opened the passenger door and reached into the glove compartment. “… This,” she finished, backing out again clutching a pack of cleansing wipes. “I thought you might want to get most of the goop off.”

She offered him the pack and he took three or four wipes and started scraping the muck off his face, just remembering to say “Thanks.” There was always more of the stuff than seemed plausible, when it came to trying to get rid of it. His face felt smeary and greasy for a while, but eventually he got it feeling fresh, and he couldn’t see much more colour on the wipes after he used them.

“You done?” Valerie asked.

“Think so.”

“Let me see?”

“Um…” He looked up as she came close again. She used a finger at his shoulder to turn him slightly towards the light and his heart pounded, remembering Mrs. Thompson doing the same thing.

“You okay?” Valerie asked.

“Um…” He shrugged. Valerie examined his face and got a fresh wipe and started on the bits he must have missed, and used her other hand to hold his head still. What she was doing was suddenly very familiar. ~She’s done this to me before,~ he realised, and made himself not jerk in startlement.

“You okay there?” she asked again.

He nodded.

“Still a bit jumpy, huh?”

He shook his head. “I just remembered something.”

She stopped and looked at him. “You left your machine at home dialled into a BBS in Japan?”

“Hah!” It made him grin.

“I gotta tell you, I think there’s a cute-looking fella under all that goop.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

She looked at him seriously. “I wasn’t.” She smiled and pulled him into another hug. He didn’t have a problem with that at all. Hugging girls was nice, he decided.

***

Do you remember the time I knew a girl from Mars?
I don’t know if you knew that.

“But…”

“What?”

“Uh… that’s it?”

“That’s pretty much it, yeah.”

“But…”

Valerie’s laughter was the only sound, apart from the quiet music. She had pulled some blankets out of the boot of the Mercedes and laid them down on the concrete floor so they could sit down; Nathan cross-legged, Valerie more elegantly, supporting herself with one hand.

“No come on, be serious,” he pleaded.

“Sorry.” Grin.

“I mean, that’s stupid,” he protested. “She actually believes making me dress up like a girl is going to stop me being a hacker?”

“More to the point, the guy who caught you trying to get into that defence network and persuaded Mr. and Mrs. Shaw to send you here knows she can do it. Now, how do you think he knows that?”

He thought about that for all of three seconds.

“Holy shit!”

Valerie laughed again.

“You’re kidding?”

Valerie shook her head, still grinning. Then she turned serious. “I’m telling you this because I think you need to know. You don’t need to know anything that could identify him, so don’t waste time asking. He’s betting his career on Jane making it okay after the fact that he’s covering your ass, because he thinks you’ve got a lot of potential and he doesn’t want to see you go to jail, ’cause you’re going to be a reformed character, right? And he can think like that because of the times Jane’s done it before.”

~Oh.~ He felt his mouth almost form the word.

“And now it’s all gone horribly wrong and it’s not your fault. It’s just the perfect storm. If the stakes weren’t so high for you, or if I thought Jane was bluffing, I’d be taking you home right now and not sitting here trying to convince you you’re safe to go back in there. You understand?” He nodded. “You need to do the big thing here, Nathan. You’ve got every right to freak out and do the victim thing and no-one would think badly of you, but it’s not going to get you what you need. You need to stay and make this work.”

He nodded. “I-I guess.”

“You were supposed to be afraid,” she explained. “Not like this. It’s too much, and it’s all wrong. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of that.” He was shaking slightly again, but she shifted around suddenly to sit on her heels in front of him and took both his hands in hers. “It’s okay. Things aren’t always what they look like, okay? Sometimes in a good way.” He nodded, trying to stop the panic coming up again. “Oh…” she said sympathetically, and started to move to pull him into a hug again.

“No I’m okay,” he said, and sucked in air a couple of times. “I’m okay.” Much as it was nice to get hugs from pretty girls, it was kind of undignified in the state he was in. He wondered if thinking like that meant he was feeling better.

Valerie sat back again and nodded approvingly.

***

Valerie quietly led him back into the house and up the service stairs to his room. She went to get something from her own room, she said, and while she was gone, Nathan stood near the foot of his bed for a few moments, just trying to still his breathing again. Then he went to open the window. He noticed again how quiet the night was in the country. A moth came in and — well — moth-lined to the light, he supposed; which meant of course flitting around and bouncing off the furniture and the ceiling and the lightshade in pure mothish frenzy. “I’ll turn it off in a bit,” he promised quietly. ~And leave a little gap in the curtains so it can find the moonlight, when the moon rises.~

“I have here,” Valerie announced, coming back in through the open doorway, “the latest in organic-fibre home intrusion prevention technology.”

“Wha–?” She grinned and held up a wedge-shaped piece of wood. “Oh.”

“It’s a door-stop.”

“Yeah.” He reached for it. She tilted it up quickly out of the way.

“You gotta promise me,” she said, dead-serious now, “You’re not going to hurt yourself or do anything stupid.”

“Wh–? No of course not! I mean, no I won’t. I promise.”

She still held it back. “I’m trusting you. If you do something that means we need to get in here and we can’t, no more cookies.” He laughed at that, and her little wry smile. She was still serious.

“I’m okay,” he promised. “I don’t do that stuff anyway. Really. Never have.”

“You know what I’m talking about though,” she said. A statement, not a question.

He nodded. “My friend. He-He cuts.” He saw Valerie’s mouth twitch. “It’s horrible. I feel sick when I know he’s doing it. I’ll never do that.”

She looked hard at him for a long while, her intense blue-eyed gaze holding him transfixed. Finally she handed him the wedge. “Sleep well,” she wished him and turned to go.

“Do you think I really need this then?” he asked, to her back.

Valerie stopped. “If you mean do I think someone’s going to come in here and ravish you in your sleep, no.” She looked at him. “No, not a chance. But we haven’t earned that much trust from you yet. Clearly.” Her eyes showed a little of the same anger she’d shown earlier in the evening. “I want you to get a full night’s sleep. Things are always better when you’ve had enough sleep.”

“O-Okay.”

Her face softened again, one more smile. “Goodnight then, Natasha.”

***

They were still arguing when he came out of the bathroom and climbed into bed. He sat up in the dark and listened, his knees drawn up to his chest inside the nightdress. He couldn’t make out the words. Sometimes it would even fall silent for a while, and then he would hear their voices raised again. Gradually the silences stretched longer. He imagined they were just talking more quietly then, too quietly to hear anything.

Finally the silence lasted until he heard Valerie’s footsteps pass by his door towards her own bedroom, and the sound of her door closing quietly. He shuffled himself down under the sheets and let the weight of them press him down comfortingly. And he slept.

***

“Jane?” Marie’s voice cut through Jane’s reverie. How long had she been watching her coffee? She looked up at the two concerned faces across the table. Iridescent midnight blue and purple glints danced off Valerie’s black hair where the sunlight fell across it. Jane schooled herself to meet the girl’s eyes; intense deep blue and no less striking than her hair.

Marie, a comfortable long-accustomed presence, sipped her black coffee quietly. They were sitting at the simple rustic table in the large slate-floored kitchen.

Jane suddenly realised this would be her last breakfast in this lovely cosy kitchen for a good long while. As long as there were students in the house meals would have to be taken in the formal dining room. She sighed regretfully. The table sat in the leaded glass bay window, offering a view of the garden. The trees in the overgrown orchard were laden with apple blossom. Where the morning sun shone through the petals one could see a faint tint of green in the brilliant white. ~It will be glorious here in the summer,~ Jane thought, distracted for a moment by the sight.

“Nervous?” Valerie offered. Jane nodded. No-one had to ask why. She was about to take on her first new student since the disaster the previous year. ~Nearly a whole year,~ the thought looped in her head. ~Ten months. When was the last time I went so long between students?~ She had meant to take a break for Darryl’s sake, until he went to college. Something always seemed to come up, some confluence of circumstances which sent another wayward child into her care with another good reason why she shouldn’t decline; just as it was happening now.

But this time she was thinking, ~I’m not ready for this.~

“You should have done this sooner,” Marie answered, as if hearing her thoughts.

“Not possible,” Valerie countered. “It couldn’t happen at the last place, and we’ve barely finished settling in here. It’s pushing it as it is.”

Jane sighed. It was going to be hard. Without Caro, without Sandra, without Betty Franson. There just hadn’t been the time to sound out all the nearby establishments and find enough suitable potential co-conspirators. The network in Westbury had been years in the making. Indeed, most of the recruits had been accidental, or opportunistic. It would have to be the housebound course, regardless of how the new boy might look. There just wasn’t the availability of known-safe opportunities to terrorise her charge outside. Of course, there’s no reason for him to know that. Let the fear that she might actually carry out veiled threats to take him out in public eat at him a little.

More than everything else, there was no-one to be the ‘big-sister’ to the new student this time. No peer mentor. No spy on the inside. Marie would have to substitute as best she could. What a shame Valerie wouldn’t countenance it.

“We should have waited another year,” she murmured. “It’s too soon.”

“It’s too late to back out now,” Marie said gently. “He’ll be on his way.” Jane nodded; she could feel a headache coming on. “And Reggie said this boy needed us,” Marie continued, and rested her hand on Jane’s for a moment. “We will manage, Jane. By the seat of our pants if we must.” She grinned. “We’ve done it before.”

It was true enough, Jane thought. ~In twenty-oh-how-many years? I must have taken everything these mons– children could throw at me, and sometimes in harder conditions than this. I’m just nervous because…~

She sighed, seeing the two youngsters in the police lights again, and the slick of blood, the cloying smell of it, and the mess of the exit wound across Julia’s face. She looked up at the two pencil portraits drawn by Eugenia, hanging framed on the wall near the table, and shook her head slowly. ~This is against my better judgement,~ she reminded herself, but Reggie had been so insistent. ~Dear man; of course he’d turned to me, and had been quite clear about what would happen to the boy if I refused. It wasn’t fair of him, and he knew it, but one can be excused a little unfairness to turn around a young life.~

She missed Art terribly. He’d come instantly if she called, of course, but like a fool she had insisted he stay and serve out the summer semester rather than let down his students. But then he’d come. Then he’d come, and maybe stay at last. So too would Diana. She wanted Art in her bed (this minute, for preference!) but she had to admit Diana was more fun to spend time with, easier with the children; even Valerie seemed to relax more easily around her.

She realised she had just been spoken to. “Sorry Valerie, I was–”

“Woolgathering?”

She smiled apologetically. “What were you saying?”

“I said, if you like, I could come to the station with you. I’m not doing anything else today.”

“Oh, would you? I’d take Marie but she needs to finish getting the house ready.”

Valerie grinned. “I’ll even dress up nice.” Jane recognised the gesture, and forgave the grammatical shortcoming. Valerie was still in the leggings, baggy overshirt and thick socks that seemed to have become her usual breakfast attire when she didn’t have to go in to college first thing. Her black hair was still curled and damp from a shower. That, too, would have to change while there was a student present. Standards had to be maintained, and Valerie had already agreed as much.

“Aren’t you seeing Mary today?” Marie teased.

“No, They’re going to Sunday dinner at her grandparents.” Valerie replied. Then she belatedly noticed the amused look in Marie’s eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“We’re not–” Valerie started to protest, then gave up and concentrated on her breakfast. Jane saw a blush forming on the girl’s cheeks.

~Oh-ho? That was sharp of you, Marie,~ Jane thought. She’d been so preoccupied with the impending new arrival that she clearly hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on with her adopted daughter lately.

Valerie changed the subject. “Besides, I sorta wanna see this guy first, before you start taking him apart.” Valerie’s ambivalent feelings regarding Jane’s techniques were well known to her. “I’m kinda hoping he’s an asshole so I can feel good about it.”

“Valerie,” Jane remonstrated, letting her other voice in, “I hope you don’t intend to take that tone of voice around my students. I know you can speak with proper grace and decorum, is it too much to ask that you do so? And take your elbows off the table.”

“Attagirl,” Marie whispered into her coffee, not quite quietly enough.

“Yes, Jane,” Valerie answered contritely, placing her hands demurely in her lap. Then she ruined it by passing a wink to Marie.

~Damn the child,~ Jane thought fondly, ~she still underestimates my powers of observation.~ “And bless you both,” she added, aloud.

***

Valerie sat with Jane on the northbound platform of Cheltenham station. They were surrounded by the neglected beauty of Victorian ironmongery and worn creamy-white painted brickwork. It was surprisingly dingy under the canopy; the sun having to fight through years of ingrained dust on the skylights. A large faux-LED clock clacked away the seconds. An inactive information monitor stared blankly down at them. Everything was just a little run-down.

She felt a little of the old self-consciousness, sitting there in her notional ‘Sunday Best,’ seeing girls her age in jeans and sweaters, as she would have been normally were she to go out in this weather. She had a feeling they were watching her behind her back. She noticed her fingers absently tracing the relief pattern of the blue flowers embroidered on her dress, and forced her hands to instead lie still in her lap. It wasn’t a feeling she was used to any more.

In all fairness, Jane was no less conspicuous, once again back in governess mode. ~They probably think we’re God-Botherers,~ Valerie thought, remembering her own first impressions upon first seeing Jane and Charlene on the platform in Westbury. They had looked quaint and churchy even by American standards. Here, Valerie realised, in this far more secular country, their choice of clothing stood out even more like a costume. She wondered if Jane noticed it too.

She took out her Palm and started making notes. It had been a present from Art, and it fit in her smart handbag, unlike the Libretto, but in truth she hardly ever used it; only at times like this when her backpack wasn’t really appropriate attire. She was thinking about the paper file on the new student she’d scanned during the drive. It turned out he was a hacker. She wished Jane had warned her about that earlier. She was already making notes about the network security audit she now had to do when they got back home. Just in case. She reckoned her systems secure, but with what Nathan had been caught doing, she knew he was no script kiddie, and certainly not the kind of Neanderthal she had been expecting. She was prepared for an external attack, should one squeeze through the puny dialup connection, but she wanted to make sure that if he got his fingers on a keyboard inside the network, it wouldn’t get him anything. She’d already lectured Jane twice on not leaving her Powerbook unguarded and unlocked. Ever.

The train was late. This, to go by the faces of the passengers waiting to join it, was only to be expected. A machine had already apologised for the delay twice.

“So what’s with the train thing anyway?” Valerie asked. “It made some sense back home when you had to get halfway across a continent, but this kid’s folks could have driven him straight to the house and be back home for dinner.”

Jane smiled. “It accentuates their separation from home, and gives them some time to think on things on the way, such as why they’ve been sent to me. It encourages a level of introspection, as well as anticipatory fear, that would not be present if they were brought to my door by their parents in air-conditioned automotive comfort. It starts their symbolic journey with a literal one. There’s an added benefit in that it’s unfamiliar and tiring, especially as I make sure their parents don’t buy them first class tickets. It would work well enough if they arrived by air, but there’s a certain old-world charm about arriving someplace by train.”

“Or should be,” Valerie agreed. “This place is a dump. Admit it.”

Jane sighed, looking around again. “It’s such a shame. It really could be quite lovely, if they just took a little care. Even a few hanging flowers–”

“I think I hear it–”

“The train now arriving at platform two,” the loudspeaker blared suddenly, “is the eleven twenty-three Virgin Trains service for Glasgow Central, calling at Birmingham New Street, Stafford, Crewe…” Valerie found she was holding her fingers to her ears. The noise was intrusive, the announcement obviously assembled from pre-recorded parts, with slight pauses between each variable component. The train thundered into the station with a rush of air, blanking out the remainder of the announcement, and stopped. The engine noise subsided to a basso rumble. “I apologise for the late running of this service,” the recorded announcement finished. ~They made a machine to feel guilty for them,~ Valerie thought caustically, and stood to join Jane. They scanned the passengers as they disembarked.

“Well–” she began.

“Cheltenham Spa. This is Cheltenham Spa. The train now standing at platform two is the eleven twenty-three…” Valerie gave up and put her fingers back in her ears, to wait for it to finish. It didn’t look like anyone else was listening to it anyway. She watched the passengers on the platform politely waiting for those leaving the train to finish doing so, before they attempted to get on. The passenger-exchange complete, a platform guard checked along its length for any open doors, then raised a paddle where someone else could presumably see it, and blew hard on a whistle. The engine noise built up strongly again and the train started to move off; slowly, but rapidly picking up speed.

“Where is he?” Jane fretted as the disembarking passengers bunched around the exit. “Can you see him yet?” The train’s rear engine passed them, already moving quite fast, in a deafening howl of wind and a stench of diesel. Valerie grabbed the wide-brimmed sun-hat she was wearing to prevent it sailing away. ~I am failing to see the old-world charm in this experience,~ she griped silently to herself.

“There,” Valerie nodded in the direction she meant. Jane would think it unladylike to point, and now the new kid was in sight, she had to be an example. Right down the far end of the platform, a lone figure ambled slowly towards them, wearing a loose-fitting drawstring jacket with the hood down and baggy jeans and a woollen hat, with a carryall bag slung over his shoulder. ~He must have been in the frontmost carriage of the train.~ She caught the glint of glass or metal. “Dammit,” she swore, “he’s got glasses. That’s not in the file.”

“Details,” Jane muttered.

“Okay,” Valerie sighed. “Guess we’re on.” She noticed Jane seemed to be steeling herself. “Show no fear,” she added as they walked to meet the oncoming teenager. He looked even more underweight to Valerie than the photograph had implied; a little gangling and fragile. Her earlier rough conversion was right; he was, she reckoned when they came level, about her own height; maybe more if you accounted for his poor posture. Jane would make short work of that, she thought wryly.

The glasses suited him, she decided. Silver, round, thin-framed; they made him look studious rather than just nerdy as she would have expected. His hair, if anything, was even longer than it had been in the photograph in his file, scraped back into a ponytail tied at the nape of his neck. He eyed them approaching and stopped, warily.

“Excuse me,” Jane began, “are you Jonathan Shaw?”

He nodded, suspicion all over his face. Valerie found he was looking at her suddenly. Maybe interested, or just curious. She returned his gaze evenly.

“Jonathan Henry Shaw?” Jane asked carefully. Valerie was pleased Jane had remembered her exhortation to verify the kid’s full name.

“Uh, yeah.” He fumbled in a jacket pocket and produced a small dark red booklet. “Lindsey said to show you this.” He passed it across to Valerie.

“Remove your glasses please,” Valerie directed, looking at the picture in the passport. Nathan complied.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m only supposed to use them for reading anyway.” He smiled at her.

“And your hat.” It was cool, she thought, but not that cold. He complied with that too.

Valerie decided the picture was a match, and a match with the one she’d seen in the file. She nodded at Jane and handed it back to him.

“Excellent,” Right on cue, Valerie noted, Jane’s voice had stepped into a more authoritative tone. “I’m Jane Thompson, and this is Valerie, my daughter. You are to be staying with us this summer.”

“Yeah, I know. Er, hi, Miss Thompson” he said awkwardly, then stuck out his hand as if it was an afterthought. Valerie remembered to curtsey as she laid her hand in his. He was watching her, she realised, a little too intently for her liking. “Yeah, call me Nathan.”

~Not for long,~ Valerie thought, and tried to hide the grin. “Hello, Nathan,” she said aloud, nicely as she could manage.

“Look, um,” he started hesitantly, looking between them, “we’re not going to church are we?”

Valerie dipped her head so the hat brim would cover the sudden grin she couldn’t stop. She almost had to like him for that.

“I hadn’t planned to,” Jane replied, just as Valerie expected, giving her a slight jolt of déjá  vu. “But if you feel it necessary–”

“God no,” Nathan exhaled with relief. “I just thought, you know…” He visibly quailed under Jane’s cool regard. It was that look she had, that supernaturally steady ‘thought what, my dear boy, what other possible apparel would be appropriate?’ look that needed no utterance. Valerie forced her face under some sort of control and tried to match Jane’s expression. “I thought,” he struggled on, “I mean, this isn’t a religious school is it?”

“It is not,” Jane confirmed. “Do you have any religious observances of which I should be aware?” Nathan shook his head. “Is that all your luggage?”

“Er, yeah, this is it. The letter said not to pack much,” he added uncertainly.

“Indeed,” Jane said. “Very well, come along then,” She turned peremptorily to lead the way back to the exit. There were no porters to be seen, Valerie noted. Another black mark against the British railway system. Naturally, in Jane’s world, a girl would not carry a boy’s luggage, so she left Nathan to carry his own. He didn’t seem at all put out by it. He grinned at her behind Jane’s back as he hoisted up his bag again. Valerie chose to ignore it.

***

“I’ll show him up to his room if you like, Jane?” Valerie offered, coming round to Jane’s side of the car.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Sooner you get to the sherry the better,” she added softly, then brightened her expression as Nathan stood up out of the car, still looking up at the second — ~no, zero-based indexing,~ she reminded herself — first floor windows. “If you’ll follow me,” she offered. “I’ll show you up to your room.”

They headed in through the large oak doors. “Jane will want to talk to you shortly about your stay here,” Valerie continued. They went through the entrance hall and up the wide staircase. She noticed he was only half paying attention to her, and mostly looking around at the fine Classical hallway. She led him down the landing and stopped, opening a door. “This is your room.”

Nathan walked slowly into the room and looked around. Valerie followed him in discreetly, getting a first look at the room herself since it had been redecorated. Marie had certainly done a job on it, she now saw. It made her want to run screaming, but then she knew what was coming. The walls were now a soft off-white pink; the tied-back curtains a rich, satiny pink with white lace detailing, a motif repeated on the double bed, its bedside tables, the dressing-table, the chest of drawers and wardrobes, and pretty much everywhere else that Valerie could see. A vase of sweet-peas sat sun-drenched on the wide windowsill, and a pastel of a ballerina in a long pink tutu looked down from the wall opposite the bed. The turned-down sheets on the bed had embroidered pink flowers on the hem. There was a teddy-bear on the pillow. With a bow.

Valerie waited for it.

“Are you sure?” Nathan finally asked.

“Yes, she was very particular. Leave your things here, she’s waiting for you now.”

Nathan took a few more moments to gaze around the room, his expression unreadable, then he unshouldered his holdall and let it drop by the side of the bed, unzipped his jacket and twisted out of it, draping it carelessly on the bed itself before turning back to her. Underneath the jacket he had a baggy dark grey sweater. “Okay. Where do I go?”

“Follow me.” She stood aside to indicate he should leave the room, and he did so. And that was it. He’d made no attempt to stow the bag, no pretext to get her out of the way so he could do so. Not that she would have left him unattended, but he hadn’t even attempted it. Either he wasn’t as smart as his reputation, she thought, or he simply wasn’t trying. The latter was more worrying: it probably meant that whatever kit he needed or wanted to keep wasn’t in the bag, but about his person already. ~And I bet Jane won’t let me search him properly,~ she thought. ~Where’s Marie? Making lunch, of course. Jane, you haven’t thought this through! If this kid’s half the hacker I was, you can’t leave him alone for a second.~

***

Marie crossed the open entrance hall and smiled briefly at the worried-looking boy sitting on the bench next to Valerie and knocked on the parlour door, waited a moment, then entered and closed the door behind her.

“Well,” Jane started, “he took the ultimatum.”

“They always do,” Marie answered smugly, taking one of the comfortable seats. It was almost true. “Lunch is all prepared,” she continued. “Valerie offered to serve and I accepted. It will be a great help. I’d forgotten how many more places one has to be at once with no big sister around to help.”

Jane nodded. “Indeed. I wonder what brought this on though. She was so adamant she wanted nothing to do with the new student.”

“Oh, Valerie believes he should not be left unattended for a moment. She’s outside now, standing guard over him in the hallway.” Jane’s eyebrow rose at that news. “She says, and I quote, ‘I want him out cold and out of those clothes a.s.a.p. so we can neutralise the threat potential.’” Marie rolled her eyes and returned to her normal accent. “Anyone would think we haven’t done this before.”

“Quite,” Jane nodded again, sharing a smile full of memories with Marie. “Valerie has yet to learn the art of finesse, it seems. However, I think I see her point. The boy is an expert with computers and electronics. I believe she sees something of herself in him, and of course she knows what she would do in his situation.”

“Or did do.”

“I’m probably better off not knowing,” Jane agreed. “So, I’m prepared to take her counsel on this — short of taking such extreme measures as to defeat the purpose of having him here. Very well, you had better bring Nathan into lunch and keep an eye on him. If you would show Valerie in as well; I sense she’s itching to tell me something.”

Marie smiled and got up.

***

Valerie looked up as the door opened again. “Jane will see you now,” Marie informed Valerie, apparently catching on to the appointment fiction. “So,” she addressed Nathan directly for the first time, as Valerie rose from the bench, “you must be Nathan.”

“Yes,” Nathan assayed, bobbing his head. Valerie knocked once and entered, shutting the door on the conversation behind her.

“Marie will keep a close eye on him,” Jane reassured her before she could speak, and indicated the comfortable chair Marie had just vacated. Valerie sat. “Need I remind you that she and I have been doing this since before you were born,” she added gently.

Valerie bridled at that and was about to retort vociferously, but remembered in time who she was talking to. She composed herself and counted off on her fingers: “One: ATM card. Two: Fake ID. Three: Big pile of Vivarin. Four: Cosmetics and a blonde wig. Five: Key-making kit. Six: Telephone linesman’s kit. Seven: Modem. Eight: Laptop computer. Nine: Various networking cables and adapters and tools. Ten: Security chain. I could go on, but I’d have to start counting toes.”

Jane looked at her, aghast. “Good Lord! He brought all that with him?”

“No. I did, last year, and you never found any of it. By the end of the first night I had a key to my own room. By the end of the third I’d emailed home. By the end of the fifth I was on the loose and listening to your phone conversations.” Jane looked appalled, giving Valerie a bad moment of déjá  vu. “So please don’t patronise me, Jane.”

“So,” Jane said calmly. “What did you find in his bag?”

“Nothing,” Valerie admitted unhappily. “Clothes, basic toiletries, letter from a girlfriend, I think. Nothing. That’s what scares me.”

“Oh?”

“The security I put in was meant to stop the kind of kid you’re supposed to get here normally, not a serious hacker,” Valerie explained. She had taken charge of the physical security arrangements since the move. The doors had proper locks these days, tied into an integrated house security network. “Luckily I believe in overengineering, but anyone can design a system they can’t break themselves.” She still wanted to get downstairs into the server room in the basement and check everything over again. Just in case. And maybe pull all the dark cable out of the patch panel while she was at it. “I don’t think I could defeat my own security now, and I know me-a-year-ago couldn’t have gotten away with it. I should have found something. I should have caught him out already. There’s something I’ve missed that he’s going to find because he thinks differently to me.”

“Perhaps not,” Jane said gently. “It’s entirely possible he’s brought nothing at all.”

“No,” Valerie shook her head. “It’s still on him. Either that or he stowed it in the car on the way back. I’ll check that later.”

“Valerie,” Jane pressed, “consider. Just consider, that he might not have brought any hacking equipment at all.” Valerie just sighed impatiently. “You said yourself he’ll think differently to you. Just consider the possibility that this extends to not coming prepared for an escape. Think about this: You thought you were going to a boot camp.”

“So did my parents.”

“Yes, but the point is, I’m sure you felt that would be a very hostile environment, so you came prepared for that. There’s not such a tradition here of sending one’s children away for the summer. I’m certain boot camps or anything like them are almost unheard of, except as the sort of crazy thing ‘Yanks’ get up to.” She smiled wryly. “If anything, I think Nathan is expecting this to be no more than a specialist school; an impression no doubt reinforced by this still being term-time, as you know.” Valerie nodded at that. The British three-term system took some getting used to.

“So?”

“So, without knowing what he’s getting into, or expecting worse than classroom boredom, why would he go to such lengths as you? Not to mention that he lacks your rather singular upbringing.”

“You mean my parents were nuts?” Valerie challenged.

“I would never say such a thing,” Jane protested. A smile teased at the corner of her mouth. Valerie couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m asking you just to consider the possibility he came with nothing, before this becomes an obsession with you. For my part, I hear what you’re saying, and Marie and I will take every reasonable precaution. Do we have an agreement?”

Valerie thought about it, and nodded finally.

“Very well then. Shall we go through?” She stood. Valerie matched her, starting for the door.

“Did Marie say? I’ll serve lunch. I know how busy Marie would be otherwise.”

“Yes, she said, and that it was much appreciated, thank you.”

“Just don’t use me as an example, okay? I’m not doing the Big Sister thing. This is just ’til you get him separated from his stuff.”

“All right,” Jane conceded. “I’ll try to remember.” Valerie opened the door. “Oh, and Valerie,” Jane called lightly, “don’t forget: the blue glass.”

Valerie frowned. “Oh, didn’t I ever tell you? I’m red-blue colourblind.”

With that she dived through the door before Jane could answer.

***

Jane sniffed at the sherry in the red glass Valerie had placed before her. She hoped the gesture looked appreciative rather than suspicious. “Thank you, Valerie,” she remembered to say. ~Red-blue colourblind indeed,~ she tried to reassure herself. ~No such thing, I think. Even if it did exist, colourblindness only affects males, doesn’t it?~ She watched as Valerie placed the blue glass by Nathan’s right hand. ~Anything is possible with that one,~ she had to concede. ~And did she notice that time I pointed something out about her behaviour to Nathan? It was just old habit…~ “I welcome you to my house,” she continued, forcing herself to calm. ~She wouldn’t. Surely. Not really.~

~Would she?~

She took a sip. It tasted excellent, as usual. She waited until Nathan, too, had taken a sip, trying to tell herself her more mature, experienced palate would be able to tell the difference. ~Onwards, then.~ “May you find it educational, and ultimately rewarding,” she added, and drank again. He took another sip, and still didn’t thank either Valerie or herself. Well then, it was time for a short lecture. Already her thoughts were moving ahead, with delicious anticipation, to the moment of putting him in petticoats for the first time.

She talked on, having extracted a word of gratitude on Valerie’s behalf, gradually flattening her voice as she did so towards a soporific monotone pitched just so to help the youngster across the table drift towards sleepfulness. He didn’t look like he needed much help. On about Nathan’s third yawn, she caught herself attempting to stifle a yawn of her own. ~She did it, the little monster,~ Jane thought suddenly. ~She doped both glasses.~ “Jonathan, you seem tired from your journey,” she said, fighting back another yawn. “Why don’t you go up to your room for a short nap, and we’ll continue later?”

Nathan yawned again and mumbled. She thought — wonder! — that it might have been a thank you. Then he stood, unsteadily, and tried to leave the room. When he actually staggered at the doorway Valerie dashed forward to help him, and disappeared with him.

“He hardly touched his food, you know,” from Marie, surprising her. She was collecting up the dishes already. She came back down the table, showing Jane the cheesecake in Nathan’s dish. It looked almost untouched.

“Yes,” Jane answered, frowning. “I did notice–” She had to interrupt herself with a yawn. Marie looked at her curiously.

***

By the time they reached the top of the stairs Valerie was almost carrying Nathan. She was glad she’d decided against exceeding the sedative dose that Marie had specified. If the normal dose was hitting him this hard, that could have been a serious mistake. His weight was surprisingly easy to support. He was dopey and still trying to make his own way, rather than actually out cold, so she lost no time steering him to his room.

“Bin drugged,” he slurred. “Where you takin’ me?”

“Bed, that’s all. Come on, nearly there.”

“Scared. Don’ drug me.”

“It was just a glass of sherry. You’re too skinny, you know? You can’t take your drink, is all.”

Nathan shook his head violently, and would have fallen over without Valerie to stop him. She guided him into his room and straight to his bed. “Pink,” he muttered in apparent disgust. “Fuckin’ put me in a girl’s room.”

“Shush. Sit down.” She had him by the bed. He sat heavily.

“Feel sick.” He tried to get away from her.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said, catching him.

“Not drunk,” he insisted. “Drugged. Oh shit. Oh shit.” She tried to shush him. “What was it?” he demanded. “What’re you gon’ do to me?”

“Nothing. I’m going to help you get into bed and you’re going to sleep it off. That’s all.”

“Don’ lie to me! What was it?” He was edging into real panic.

Valerie made a decision.

“It’s just a light sedative. That’s all it is, I swear it, just to help you take a nap. It hit you harder than it should have ’cause you’re underweight and you didn’t eat much, okay? You hearing me?” She waited until he nodded. “You’ll wake up in a couple of hours and you’ll be right here.”

“Don’, don’ leave me?”

Valerie sighed. She didn’t need this.

“Please?” He was fighting it, hard.

“All right.”

“Promise.” Like a child.

“Yeah, I promise. Arms up,” she directed. She was trying to get his sweater off. Nathan obeyed sluggishly.

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting some of these clothes off you. You’ll be more comfortable.” It was true, Valerie told herself, even if it also gave her a chance to frisk him lightly and get the clothes with the most potential for concealed stuff away from him. His fingers were clenched, she found, nails digging deeply into his palms.

“No!” he wailed, slightly belatedly. His head was in the upturned sweater, the T-shirt he had on underneath riding up. She could see ribs and a narrow waist. His belt was loose about his hips. He tried to resist, yanking his arms down, but Valerie had babysat seven-year-olds, and Nathan didn’t have her strength. “NO!” he managed again, more forcefully as his head came clear. Pulling his head backwards through the sweater’s neck had dislodged his ponytail. “STOP!” His hair clouded down around his face, crackling with static. As soon as his hands were free, he grabbed the sweater and hugged it to his chest, like a teddy-bear. ~Such thin arms…~

“Hey!” she got his attention, “what do you think I’m going to do?” He didn’t reply, but his look told her he expected it to be bad. “You know what it’s like when you sleep with all your clothes on; you’ll be rank.”

Nathan wavered, adrenaline starting to lose the battle with the sedative and the alcohol and Valerie’s logic.

“So are you going to help me take your pants off now, or am I going to have to do it myself when you’re asleep?” He gave her another panicked look. “Trousers!” Valerie corrected, remembering where she was. “Just your jeans, okay?” She thought she might be on to something. He seemed really not keen to let these clothes out of his sight. ~Told you, Jane. He’s got stuff on him.~

But Nathan fumbled at his belt, undid the button and zip, then tried to get up, turning away from her, supporting himself on the side of the bed as he ineffectually pulled at the sheets. Valerie turned him back to sit him down again. “Shoes first,” she muttered, and pulled his trainers and socks off, then helped him get the jeans down his legs and away. He turned immediately to the bed again, and tried to crawl under the covers. “Man, I see what you mean,” Valerie quipped, seeing his garishly patterned underwear. “Those boxers are hurting my eyes.” The tie-dye T-shirt wasn’t much better but was at least in a more muted clash of colours. Nathan ignored her, curling up on his side into a ball, his back towards her.

Asleep.

Valerie dropped the jeans on the floor and watched him for a few moments, then reached over him and rearranged his limbs into a proper recovery position, tugging his sweater free and by the way taking a moment to finger the elasticated belt of the boxer shorts for anything concealed. His skin was smooth and cool to the back of her hand. ~Really out,~ she decided. The way he’d been panicking a minute ago, she was sure he’d have objected to her doing that otherwise. Then she pulled the covers up over him and tucked him in.

Once that was done, her attention could turn to the clothes on the floor. “Right,” she said grimly. “Got you.” But the jeans only held his passport, a creased up train ticket, and his wallet, and that didn’t contain anything it shouldn’t. The sweater was, on inspection, just a sweater, and the trainers, similarly, didn’t appear to have been modified by anything other than time and use. She almost threw the whole lot at him in disgust and frustration.

He was deeply asleep, snoring lightly. She watched him for a few more moments, then went to her room and returned quickly with her Libretto and a first aid kit. She didn’t like how hard he’d gone down to the sedative and the epinephrine that were supposed to be for her gave her the option of bringing him up again in a hurry if she decided he needed it. She plugged into the RJ45 under the window-seat and settled in to do that network audit.

***

Marie appeared in the doorway. “Oh, Valerie, you’re here. Jane was wondering.” She carried a sheer satin gown draped over one arm. “She thought you might have drugged her sherry too.”

Valerie pretended indignation. “Would I do such a thing?” Marie just chuckled. Valerie nodded towards the bed. “He went down too hard. I thought I’d better keep watch.” She raised the first aid kit and waved it. “Got Eppys, in case.”

“Is he all right?”

“Just sleeping. I don’t think he’s waking up any time soon.”

“Hmm.” Marie deposited the gown on the bed and bent to pick up Nathan’s discarded clothes. She watched Nathan’s sleeping face for a few moments. He had turned in his sleep a couple of times, which was a good sign, Valerie supposed. He seemed so small and delicate amidst the bed linens. One thin arm rested outside the covers, pale almost to blueness. “He’s so thin. We might have problems finding things to fit.” She touched the back of her hand to his shoulder for a moment, then quietly lifted the covers and eased his arm under.

“Have you and Jane had an anorexic before?”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, Valerie. There’s more than one explanation for a child being underweight.”

“Yes, I know. But have you?”

Marie nodded, still watching at Nathan sleeping. “In retrospect,” she elucidated. “Back then most people didn’t believe it happened to boys, ourselves included.” She sighed. “But all’s well that ends well, and it did. Don’t worry, Valerie, we know better than to try bullying him into eating.” Valerie nodded doubtfully. Marie must have seen her hesitation, because she sat down on the bed, clutching Nathan’s clothing in front of her. Nathan reacted slightly to the shift in weight-disposition in the bed, but didn’t wake. “I’ll admit it was difficult for a while. We didn’t really know what we were dealing with, and if it hadn’t been for Antonia we might have done some real harm. You know how Jane can be when she thinks her student is just being stubborn and wilful.” Valerie smiled ruefully.

“Antonia?”

“The big sister.”

“Ah.”

“She stood up to Jane and won, believe it or not.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

Marie smiled. “Well, yes. In this case it was agreed Jane would stop pressuring Annabel to eat more than she was able to, but simply to accept that and go on with the programme.” Valerie nodded. “It would be nice to say that Annabel started eating more from that day on. Of course it wasn’t that simple. But I think overall we did some good there.”

“The patented J. Thompson miracle Anorexia cure,” Valerie said waspishly. “She’d make a mil– Oh wait, she doesn’t need to.”

Marie smiled. “Oh, it wasn’t a cure. As I said, it wasn’t until later that I think we understood what had been the matter. But if Anders left us feeling he could take control of his own life, and wanting to get better, then maybe it was a start.” She shrugged.

“So you don’t think he shouldn’t have been there at all?”

“Well, we’ve had a number of students who probably shouldn’t have been sent to us. Somehow it always seems to turn out that they were exactly where they needed to be, doesn’t it, Valerie?” She smiled knowingly and stood to go. “Could you let Jane know when he’s awake?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you. And don’t worry. Jane won’t continue the programme if she doesn’t feel it can do any good.”

***

Jane leaned back in her old, comfortable leatherbound chair and looked across the desk at Nathan. He didn’t meet her eyes. It would be uncomfortable for him to do so anyway, she knew: The large palladian window behind her chair would see to that. She had chosen the upper-storey room for her study for that specific reason. It looked out from the front of the house, over the front door, to the line of poplars that marked the start of the old, now overgrown, straight driveway to the front gate; a relic of a more classical sensibility.

“It is time we began your lessons,” she began, steepling her fingers in a manner that came easily from familiarity. The gesture helped to steady her against the surge of anticipation rising inside her, like a vibration she could almost feel through her fingertips. ~It’s been too long,~ she thought, warningly. “You have had an opportunity to think about our earlier conversation. I might add I found your behaviour at lunch quite unmannerly, but that merely confirmed my earlier impressions.”

She would have said that almost regardless of his actual behaviour, of course. It would be almost impossible to not appear unmannerly in comparison to the standards of behaviour she would soon be demanding. At least he hadn’t wolfed his food down at the table. Rather too much the opposite.

“But,” she continued, “I am convinced we will have it out of you by Tuesday. Two days hence,” she reminded him. “That is the last day I will tolerate poor conduct from you. After that it is, as I said, out of my hands.”

He just sat there, silently, seemingly subdued already by having been made to wear that robe. He still, maddeningly, would not look at her, glancing down and to the side. She wanted to upbraid him on that, but, for now, that would be a sign of weakness. He was listening, she knew, and she would have his undivided attention in a very short time now.

Her heart almost skipped at the thought.

“Now, I am going to give you a brief overview of the routine, Jonathan, and you will hear me out. That promise of compliance I exacted from you earlier is decisive and final.” The words flowed out automatically, almost without her needing to think about it, so rehearsed it had become over the years. She could give almost her whole attention to watching Nathan’s reactions. “After you have heard me you will choose either to comply, utterly and without fail, or you may leave now. As you are.”

Nathan sighed then, and looked at her briefly, then nodded. He was shivering.

“First of all, that garment you are wearing: You didn’t like putting it on, did you?” He shook his head, still mute. ~I can’t have subdued him that much already,~ Jane wondered, almost disappointed. ~It’s almost too easy.~ “Tell me, how does it feel, wearing that gown? It feels nice, does it not?”

He looked at her again, hard and bitter. “No. I want my own clothes back.”

“They have been put away until such time as I decide you may have them,” Jane said with practiced certainty.

“Why?”

“Because I wish it,” Jane said shortly. “Describe to me how you are feeling, wearing that gown.”

He just stared at her, mouth working for a few moments as if he would object more forcefully. “I’m cold,” he said, eventually. She could see his shivering in the shimmer of the sheer fabric, although he seemed to be trying to hide it, hugging himself tightly, as he had since putting the gown on. She experienced a moment of hesitation. He was so clearly underweight, and May afternoons here weren’t as warm as she was used to. His physical discomfort would be pushing out other considerations right now– “Look, what’s going on?” he started up, belatedly. “First you, you take my stuff, and you put me in that girl’s room and you say that’s my room, but it’s full of girls’ stuff, and girls’ clothes, and you make me wear this stupid thing and I’m freezing!” Now, at last, she was seeing a proper reaction.

“That is your room,” Jane said carefully and deliberately, “and those clothes are all for you.”

He went very still. He even stopped shivering, then he looked up at her; pure hate in his eyes.

Jane regarded him coolly. “Well,” she said, “here we are at the heart of the matter. You heard me mention petticoat discipline before lunch; I have decided this is the approach I am to take with you. While you are here you will be wearing those clothes, and such other feminine attire as Marie or I select for you, and you will learn to comport yourself in all respects as a young lady of my household.”

Nathan’s eyes had widened as she spoke, staring at her with growing dread. Jane smiled pleasantly and waited.

“You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I am entirely in earnest.” Jane held in a slight feeling of disappointment. She had expected more of a protest than that. “In fact, less than an hour from now, you won’t recognise–”

Nathan propelled himself to his feet with such violence that the chair toppled sideways. By the time it clattered to the floor he was at the door, struggling with it for a moment before opening it and escaping through.

“Tally-ho,” Jane said to herself quietly. “That’s more like it.” She heard his bare feet receding across the landing and down the stairs. She swivelled in her chair to put herself in reach of the security console and, quite unhurriedly, opened the facia panel and locked down the internal doors. The front door she left unlocked. Then she got up and followed Nathan out of the study.

She found Nathan sitting at the bottom of the stairs, staring morosely at the front door. “That was an extremely poor show of manners, Jonathan,” she called down calmly as she descended. “I did not dismiss you.”

He stood to face her. She paused a quarter of the way up. “I want my things back.”

“You won’t be needing them here.”

“I’m not staying here!” he protested. “You said I could leave. You said I could leave!”

“And so you may. By all means attempt to make your way home, but you will have to do so dressed as you are. I will courier your ‘things’ home to your mother on Tuesday.” Monday being a bank holiday.

“She’s not my mother!” he screamed back. “Are you fucking insane? It’s freezing out there! I haven’t got any money!”

“Well then, this is the choice you have before–”

“What’s she told you about me?”

~Interesting…~ Jane thought. Aloud she only said “Enough, Nathan.”

“What did she say about me?! Did she put you up to this?”

“I assure you, Mrs. Shaw and I discussed your needs at great length.” ~Carefully, Jane,~ she told herself. ~There’s something here you don’t know.~

“I don’t need nuffink!”

“Among them an improvement in your spoken grammer,” Jane snapped rather tartly. “You write well enough–”

“Fuck off, you cunt!”

~Oh, you’ll have to try harder than that to shock me, young man,~ she thought. “Really, Jonathan, is that the best you can do? I had hoped someone with your grades in English would be capable of a little more invective flair.”

He looked at her, nonplussed for a moment. “Plough thine own dusty furrough,” he said after a little thought.

Jane blinked once, then she had to laugh out loud. She turned it into an applause. “Very good, Nathan, that’s much better. Do you have any more?”

He stared hate at her. “Yes.”

“Then please go on. I’d like to hear them.” He stayed silent. Exactly as she’d intended. “Well, much as I’ve enjoyed our petite plaisanterie sur l’escalier we really must get on.” She sighed dramatically. “Very well,” she said, as if making a concession, “if you wish, I shall have your things brought down and you may change into your own clothes. I shall have to report that you have refused my programme. On your first day here, I shall add. The rest will, I suppose, be up to law enforcement.” As she spoke she had watched the expression on his face shift through relief to stark fear. “Come to think of it,” she pressed, “we might as well drop you off at the station.” She held his gaze. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have some phone calls to make.” She turned to go back up the remaining stairs to her study.

“Wait!” he called. She ignored him. “You can’t do this!” His voice raised to a nervous shout. “It’s not fair!”

She stopped and turned back to him, surprised to find him halfway up the stairs between her position and the bottom, still clutching the gown around him.

“I have been doing this for many years, Nathan. I have a long and successful record of bringing order and discipline to confused, chaotic young minds. I have — indeed I insist upon — a great deal of latitude in the techniques I may employ.” The remaining colour drained out of Nathan’s face at her words. “I have decided on the technique I shall use with you. This is not a matter for negotiation. You will either submit to my instruction in every detail, or you will be in police custody before the day’s end. Now, I will hear your decision shortly in my study.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but continued up to the study, closing the door and leaving it unlocked.

***

There was a quiet knock on the study door. Jane smiled to herself and waited a full fifteen seconds. It would seem a lot longer to the child on the other side of the door. “Come in, Jonathan,” she called.

The door opened only enough to admit Nathan. He stopped just inside, his hand still on the door, as if keeping the option to run away again.

“Have you decided?” she asked.

“I’m… I’m not chaotic,” he said.

“Really?” ~Odd that he should object to that in particular,~ she thought. “And what do you have to say to the behaviour that resulted in your being sent here?”

“I…” He swallowed. “I don’t deserve to die,” he whispered.

“Of course you don’t.” ~He’s afraid of going to jail then,~ Jane thought. ~Well, that’s not so surprising.~

“You want me to dress up like a girl,” he accused.

“That is what I said, yes.”

“You’re going to… You’re going to make me be a girl?”

~Ah,~ Jane thought. “Is that what you’re afraid of?” She chuckled aloud.

“It’s not funny!” he protested.

“Jonathan,” she said, almost kindly, “you give me too much credit. That is not within my power. No, you, dear young man, are going to be a delightful and winsome little boy in skirts. You are going to learn to make yourself pretty for me, and to comport yourself with grace and decorum as would befit a young lady of my household.”

He blinked at her. “That’s it?”

Jane arched an eyebrow. “I’m sorry if it’s a comedown from whatever murderous fantasy you were entertaining, Jonathan, but I assure you it will be quite challenging.”

“But…” he stammered, “but that’s stupid. What’s that supposed to achieve?”

“Your rehabilitation into society. Complete this course to my satisfaction and your slate will be wiped clean. You already know the only alternative open to you. And I frankly don’t care if you think that it’s stupid or pointless, or if you believe me or not. All I require from you at this time is your obedience.” During her speech she had gradually moved up to join Nathan at the doorway. Now she was standing immediately in front of him. He hadn’t run. With deliberate presumption she brought his head up with a finger under his chin, to make him look at her. “You agreed to as much before lunch, if you recall. I’ve been more than patient with you. It’s time to begin.”

“N-Now?”

“Now.” She took control of the door. “Come with me.” She placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and began to direct him back out towards his room.

***

When Jane knocked once and opened the en-suite bathroom door, Marie was already inside, changed into a white uniform and running a hot bubble bath. Nathan baulked and backed up against Jane. If she hadn’t been barring his exit, she thought, he might have bolted again. “Now then, Jonathan,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder to stop him trying to run, “before we begin you will bathe. I want you spotless for your first lesson. Cleanliness is the rule in my house. Now–”

“I had a shower this morning,” Nathan began.

“Don’t interrupt me.”

“Is she going to stay in here?” he demanded.

“I should certainly think not. Although if you fail to finish in the time allotted, or if I find you have been less than thorough, we will finish the job properly.”

“Like hell.”

“The best way to prevent it is to do the job properly yourself. Now, as I was going to say before you rudely interrupted me,” she started leading him to the bath, just as Marie leaned over the other side and turned the taps off. “I want you to scrub thoroughly from head to toe, including under your finger and toe nails.” She grabbed his hand and raised it, to point out the small amount of grime that had found its way under his fingernails. “This is entirely unacceptable. I also want you to shave closely…” She dropped his hand, to catch his chin again. “Hmm.” She turned his face to the side briefly, and stroked his cheek, seeing him blush under the scrutiny, but he wasn’t bolting. ~A fine, delicate bone structure,~ she was thinking, ~under not enough flesh.~ But she was already picturing how its potential could be brought out by make-up, especially once those too-strong eyebrows were dealt with, and something done with his hair, which was long, but straight and lay flat against his scalp, pushed carelessly behind his ears. “You haven’t started shaving yet,” she observed, matter-of-factly. He shook his head angrily, using the movement to break free of her hand at his chin. ~Yes,~ Jane was thinking to herself, ~quite underdeveloped; which on a practical level makes things easier for us, of course, but can indicate other problems for which we need to be alert.~ She had not missed his curt, angry reaction to what she’d said. Narrow shoulders; thin arms and legs and neck. “Very well. However, your legs are suffering some unsightly hirsutism,” she exaggerated. “This is not acceptable. You are to shave them carefully, and any other exposed hair on your body. There is a razor and shaving gel provided. Do you need instruction on how to use them?”

“No.” Just that, curt and defiant still.

~Well, he’ll be able to figure it out,~ Jane thought, unconcerned. “All right, then I’ll assume you won’t need any more time. Furthermore, you will wash your hair using this shampoo,” she pointed to one of the two plastic bottles on the bath shelf, along with the paraphernalia of shaving, “and this conditioner. I want you to be quite clear: you wash first with this,” she pointed at the shampoo again, “then rinse, then with this.” Nathan sighed impatiently. “You have thirty minutes. If you dally, I assure you, Marie and I will be coming in here to finish the job. Now,” she turned him slightly to face the heated towel rack. “You see on the towel rack there is a pair of panties. After you finish bathing you are to put those panties on before returning to your room. I don’t really care if you don’t put that gown back on, but you will wear the panties, am I understood?”

Nathan looked at the delicate-looking feminine underwear draped on the towel rack next to a large fluffy towel. His expression told her he understood all too well. Nevertheless, she could not have him ignoring her. “Am I understood?” she asked again, firmly. He nodded and tutted angrily. “The response is ‘yes Mrs. Thompson,” she reminded him.

“God, can’t we just get this over with?”

“‘Yes, Mrs. Thompson,’” she insisted. “And your half-hour starts now.” She noted Marie checking her watch, but made no move to leave the room, not until he said it. He soon got the idea.

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson,” he singsonged rebelliously.

“Not like that,” Jane said. “I will not tolerate your sarcasm, Jonathan. It’s a deeply unpleasant, unbecoming trait of which I mean to cure you quickly. Your thirty minutes are ticking by, but I’m not leaving until you say it properly, without that nasty whining tone in your voice. It’s your choice, if you prefer that we remain here while you bathe rather than answer me in a civilised manner, I’m quite prepared to oblige.”

He was almost shaking with fury. ~Good,~ she thought. But it had been the second time he’d tried to fight her with sarcasm and that wouldn’t do. ~Just don’t let him be an exhibitionist now…~

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson,” he said again, his voice flat and quiet.

Jane nodded, affecting disappointment. “Indeed. I suppose that will have to suffice for now. Come along, Marie.” She swept out, knowing Marie would be at her back.

“I thought for a moment he was going to call your bluff,” Marie said quietly after the door was closed.

“What bluff?” Jane murmured, and smiled her most predatory smile. “Now, time’s pressing on.”

***

“Nearly thirty minutes, Jane,” Marie observed. “He’s cutting it fine.”

Jane nodded. She was starting to think Nathan might become the second student to test her threat to come in and finish bathing him when she heard the heavy gulp of the plug being pulled and the sloshing of someone getting out of a bath. Any further sounds from within were drowned by those of the Victorian retrofitted plumbing moving the used bathwater. “All right,” Jane said. “Two minutes grace.”

Marie nodded.

Nathan only needed one more minute. The door opened and he was standing there, back in the same gown, which was clinging to his still-damp body in places, looking in startlement at seeing her waiting for him outside the bathroom. His long hair was slicked-back and darkened by water, but it looked as if the lightener in the shampoo had done its work and it would be a softer, lighter red once it had dried out.

“Oh, you waited for me. How nice,” he said snidely. “If I’d known I’d have given you a– holy shit!” He stood agog in the doorway, staring at the transformation of his room. Jane smiled to herself. If the room was excessively feminine before, it was almost laughably so now. That was almost the point; if the boy laughed at being faced with this sight, instead of being horrified…

Nathan didn’t laugh. He stared with something approaching shock. There was lace everywhere. The effect was that of some extraordinarily organised lace bomb having been detonated in the room. There was lace covering the now-lit dressing table, lace on the chest of drawers, on the wardrobes, even the legs of the bedframe. The bed itself had been re-made with laceworked sheets and the teddy-bear once again placed on the pillows.

“Well, you seem to have recovered your sunny disposition, I see,” Jane retorted. “Show me your hands.” He tutted and held his hands up at her. “Stop that,” she said.

“What?” Aggrieved.

“You know very well what. Need I remind you of your agreement not to insult my intelligence?” She inspected his fingernails quickly. “Hmm.”

“Hmm what? There isn’t any dirt there! God!”

~The sooner I move on the better,~ Jane thought, sustained by the prospect of the transformation to come. “Come with me,” she merely said, and took hold of his upper arm to lead him to the dressing table.

“Ow, that hurts!” But he came.

“No it doesn’t. Don’t overdramatise.”

“It does! You’re going to bruise me. I get bruised easily.”

“Sit here.” She indicated the dressing table. In addition to the lace, its top surface was now also covered with the paraphenalia of make-up. Nathan swallowed and approached, looking askance at the make-up itself. “Come along,” Jane said, letting a little impatience show.

Nathan sat, and sighed. He stared at the arrayed cosmetics with barely-veiled horror. Jane smiled.

***

By the time Jane completed Nathan’s make-up, Marie was ready. She had already laid out a pretty pastel green dress on the bed, a pair of lacy white stockings and a white Court Royal overbust corset, laced back in a Victorian style. Jane stood Nathan up and deposited him where she wanted him and turned to find Marie already holding one petticoat towards her. She took it. “Thank you, Marie. Now then, Jonathan,” she turned back to address the youth, approving the appalled expression on his face. “You heard me mention petticoat discipline earlier. It is from this garment that the term derives.” She was aware of Marie behind her placing the others on the bed and lifting another one free. “There are few articles of lingerie that are more juvenile.” She turned it for him, seeing how his eyes followed it. “Don’t you think it’s pretty?”

“Um…”

“This charming, girlish article is also a symbol of your newfound status in my household, Jonathan. I shall greatly enjoy putting you into it. In fact you are to be favoured with four layers of these tonight. Now, remove that gown so we may begin.” She found the hem and prepared for him to step into it.

“No.”

“That isn’t a word I like to hear, Jonathan,” she said warningly, looking across at him. He was clutching the gown close in his folded arms. “Did you put those panties on after your bath as I instructed?

He tutted. “Yes,” he said.

“Well then, what have you got to be concerned about?”

“You said I’d have to wear girl’s clothing, right?”

“Yes, Nathan, that’s right. But we can’t begin if you stay in that gown all evening, can we?”

The logic of that statement crashed across Nathan’s face. “I’ll…” he began.

“Come along, Jonathan. Do you think you have anything under there we haven’t seen before?” She advanced on him.

“No wait, look,” he said, a little panicky. “No. I’ll… I’ll do it myself, all right? I’ll do it!”

“Oh nonsense–”

“I’ll do it!” he said, louder. “Leave me alone! I’ll do it myself!”

She laughed at him. “You are not competent to dress yourself, Jonathan,” she started back at him, almost snarling in disdain. “Not even as a male, judging by your slovenly appearance at our first meeting, and certainly not in the manner I require.”

“Then I’ll learn!” Nathan snapped back, the anger failing to conceal the tremor in his voice. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

“Be quiet!” She put enough force into her voice to make him flinch. “You will not address me in that tone, young man, is that clear?” Nathan opened his mouth to retort, so she continued. “In fact, you are not to speak at all, unless you are explicitly invited to do so. I am frankly becoming tired of your voice!”

“Jane,” Marie said behind her, a conspiratorial rise in her voice, “maybe he wants to show us how he can get dressed all by himself like a big girl. Isn’t that right, chá¨rie?” Nathan’s wide eyes glanced past Jane’s shoulder momentarily, and he nodded.

Marie’s instincts were not to be lightly ignored. She had been Jane’s companion and assistant on this programme almost from the beginning. The first day or so was a process of quick calibration: The course necessarily involved crossing certain lines of propriety. It was important to quickly identify which lines were not to be crossed with each student. Marie thought they’d found one, and was warning her back.

And besides, it would be an opportunity to demonstrate to him his own incompetence in such matters. “Very well, Jonathan,” she said, allowing her amusement at that thought to enter her voice, “if you insist, then yes, you may dress yourself tonight in these garments.” She turned away from him to drape the petticoat she held over the side of his bed. “Mind you,” she said as she did so, “I shan’t tolerate any sign of slovenliness or carelessness. I will inspect you when you are done, and if I’m not satisfied we will be starting again, and this time Marie and I will do it correctly. Is that understood?”

“Uh…” He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then you have fifteen minutes. You may begin.”

“Fif–” He looked at her, back at the clothes, back at her again. “You have to leave me alone. Or…” he hesitated. “At least turn your backs or something. Give me some privacy.”

She regarded him.

“Please,” he tried.

“All right,” she conceded, as he’d said the magic word, and went to sit at the dressing table, aware of Marie following with her. The dressing table mirror afforded an excellent view of the room behind her. She watched Nathan gingerly picking up the corset and turning it around, trying to figure out what to do.

“Oh wait, I got it,” he said quietly to himself, identifying the clasps that would hold the busk together. He started to shrug off the robe, then looked up at her suddenly through the mirror and froze. Jane nodded, accepting the small defeat, and pushed the mirror above its pivot point so it was pointing at the ceiling.

After a few moments she heard the quiet swish of satin as, presumably, the robe fell to the floor, followed quickly by the light swish of clothing, then a different sound. After that there were faint sounds of a struggle going on, and laboured breathing. This went on for some time. She glanced at the bedside clock. Four minutes already.

“How’m I supposed to…” she heard him mutter.

“Anything I can help you with, Jonathan?” Jane asked archly. She would have preferred to have seen what was going on behind her, but the sounds plus her imagination were supplying an amusing enough picture.

“How do I get the other, um, petticoats on over the first one?”

“Why, Nathan, I thought you knew!” She grinned at Marie.

“Didn’t say I knew, just wanted some fucking privacy,” she heard him mutter quietly. Evidently, she hoped, less quietly than he’d intended.

“What was that?” she asked aloud.

“Nothing,” he sighed. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jane lied.

“Aha! I know…” Nathan muttered again behind her, followed by a sound of a lot of swishing chiffon. “Er, you wanted me to wear all four of these, right?”

“Yes, Jonathan, that’s correct. What seems to be the problem.”

“Uh… what?”

“Don’t say ‘what,’ say ‘pardon me,’” Jane instructed. “I asked, what seems to be the problem?”

There was no reply, except for Nathan’s shallow, laboured breathing, and no sounds of clothing being moved.

“Jonathan?” Marie asked suddenly, sounding concerned. Jane looked around, sensing that Marie had already done so. Nathan was standing by the bed looking down at himself in apparent horror. Left to himself, he’d work himself up into a genuine panic attack, Jane recognised. She had her own role to play, however.

“Marie, would you bring him back around here. We shall complete the ensemble.”

“Oui, Madame,” Marie replied, and went to join Nathan. She said something to him, too soft for Jane to hear. He nodded, then followed her meekly back to where Jane was standing to meet them.

He had managed just a single petticoat and the corset, worn loosely over a simple camisole top that if anything accentuated his thin frame and narrow bony shoulders.

“Well, I think you made your point,” she began, almost gently. “It’s not necessary to belabour it. You’re not expected to know how to don these clothes immediately. Indeed, you need to learn by example the proper manner for doing so. Are you ready to co-operate now?”

He looked up at her momentarily, his eyes wide with trepidation, then down again, and he nodded.

“Aloud, please,” she reminded him.

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Excellent.”

“Marie said–”

“You will address her as Miss Marie,” Jane corrected him. “Is that understood?”

He started to nod again, then stopped. “Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Good. Now, what did she say?”

“She– Miss Marie said I’d be doing this by myself, normally?”

“Yes, that’s correct. However, there are many garments here with which you won’t be familiar. You must learn to accept, by instruction or demonstration, their proper handling and care, as well as how to wear them. For instance, how did you intend to put on your stockings after your petticoats?”

“Er–”

“Don’t mumble. Speak, or hold your peace. Marie, you had better put them on him.”

“Oui, Madame.” Marie quickly retrieved the hold-up stockings. Jane worried for a moment that they would be too small — indeed, she wondered where Marie had kept such a small pair — before noticing how thin his legs were beneath the short, stiff petticoat he was wearing.

“Take my hand, dear,” Jane invited, as Marie knelt at Nathan’s feet. He got the idea and, after a worried hesitation, took Jane’s hand for support and stood on one leg to allow Marie to put the first stocking on. Marie herself guided his foot back down once she was past the ankles and efficiently fed the stocking out up his leg and under the petticoat. Nathan blushed and glanced at Jane and, seeing she was already looking at him, looked quickly away. “Pay attention to what she’s doing,” Jane instructed him. A movement of her hand, holding his, directed him to lift the other foot, and this time he tried to look down to see what Marie was doing. Naturally the petticoat obscured his view, and he nearly overbalanced, trying to see, and had to lean more of his weight onto Jane’s hand than he probably meant, or fall over. Marie worked the stocking up and stood.

Nathan took his hand back, diffidently.

“What do you say?” Jane prodded.

“Th-Thank you Mrs. Thompson.” He didn’t sound very grateful.

“Not me.”

“Thank you, Miss Marie,” he said, with a little more enthusiasm. It was a start.

“Marie, would you see to his corset, please,” Jane instructed. “It’s too loose at the moment. He will be chafed.”

“Oui, bien sá»r.” Marie curtseyed and moved around to the boy’s back and began re-lacing the corset. Nathan just stared away into the space in front of him, as if he was simply beyond caring what happened. Marie soon brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings, as she tensioned the corset laces once, then a second time, making him stagger slightly. “That’s better now,” she said, sounding satisfied. She turned him to face her, with a gentle hand at his shoulder. Jane marvelled at how easily he turned at such a touch. “If you wear it too loosely it will slip and chafe, and believe me that will became painful.”

He nodded, attentive now. “What about — my ribs?” he asked, his breath short. “Won’t they — get deformed?”

“Certainly not,” Jane said. Marie turned him again — another featherlight touch, this time just below his waist. ~Fascinating,~ Jane thought. ~He offers practically no resistance to her at all. It’s almost as if it’s beneath his notice. Whereas when I tell him to do something, he balks and panics and objects.~

“I remember — seeing something — about it — on telly,” he said, practically gasping. “They used to — have their bottom ribs — removed. You’re not going to–”

“I should think not,” Jane answered. That practice almost certainly only ever existed in the popular imagination in any case, she knew; tales encouraged by doctored photographs and exaggerated illustrations and, presumably, a few excessively tight lacers; but she didn’t need to tell him that.

“Nathan, breathe up here,” Marie was saying. She’d stepped around in front of him, almost next to Jane now. “Don’t try to breathe down into your stomach. Bring it up into your chest.” She breathed, to show him. He emulated her without question, until the expression on his face showed he was getting it. “Come along,” she enjoined. “I haven’t laced this nearly tightly enough to give you real breathing difficulties; you just need to learn to do it differently.”

~That’s the point. To do everything differently. No automatic behaviour. No bad old habits. Think about everything you’re doing. Re-learn everything.~

~Even how to breathe.~

Marie went to the bed and picked up the second petticoat Nathan was to wear. Jane felt her excitement building; with everyone’s attention focussed for a moment on Nathan’s breathing, she became aware of her own, how it came quicker now, matching his. ~Oh, it’s been a long time,~ she agreed. “Corsets are like many other things in life, Jonathan,” she explained. “Perfectly safe in moderation. In your case I’m using it as a training aid, to correct your frankly execrable posture habits. Have you noticed how much taller you are?”

Marie was ready with the petticoat. If there was a ritual which, for Jane, marked the true start of the programme, this was it: The literal petticoating of the new arrival.

For modesty’s sake she usually let a new student put the first petticoat on themselves, if they wished, as Nathan had done. She’d make a show of relenting under duress, but she enjoyed watching them deal with choosing between standing before her in lacy girl’s panties or voluntarily donning such a feminine garment as a petticoat to cover themselves. They usually chose the petticoat. The sheer sensuality of the panties would, by itself, often produce a certain physical response of which a macho young man would be entirely embarrassed to have in front of two older women.

But the second, third and more petticoats were for Jane and Marie. By this time the new arrival had expended his first flush of angry rebellion and was resigned. Oh, he’d tell himself it was just for now, just until he could get his bearings, regroup, and do something devastating; but it was already too late. She had him now. If he let them do this, and they always did, he was hers.

She felt herself growing silent, which is a different state from merely not speaking at a given moment. Settling into a space where words were irrelevant. Marie held the petticoat out to her, and she took her side of it, feeling the diaphanous ripples and folds of fabric against her skin. A moment for their eyes to meet, then they lifted it together in front of Nathan, and up over his head. His eyes followed its path curiously. ~Will he need to be told to raise his arms?~ Jane wondered; then, ~No!~ as his hands ascended. ~Like a prayer. Oh, the darling boy.~ And, ~He didn’t forget to shave under his arms.~ His hands came down after it, clasped together in front as the petticoat settled lightly over the first, and he watched it do so with placid curiosity. Jane, wanting to experiment, lightly turned him towards her with a finger at his waist, so Marie could tie the drawstring at the small of his back. He was being so good she actually graced him with a real smile, but his eyes were averted, still curiously watching the play of chiffon.

In the meantime, Marie had finished with the tie and had fetched the third petticoat. The slightest directional touch, and he turned again, so he was facing the petticoat as she and Marie lifted it over his head, and again, let the ruffled loop almost seem to float down around him like a cloud. She could hear him breathing, as if he, too, had caught the beauty of the moment. She could not keep her eyes off him. He waited, motionless, while Marie tied the back, and Jane moved around him, just here and there lifting the material with the back of her hand to let it fall a little differently, where it should be, or indeed, simply because she wanted to. The corset was already shaping his posture, lending his back a pleasant, feminine shape, so preferable to that slope-shouldered slouch he’d employed at their meeting. She put a hand to the back of his shoulder and just applied a light pressure as she stepped around, so he turned on the spot. He glanced around at her, and at Marie, a note of concern on his face, but he didn’t resist. Marie looked on impassively. A full circle he turned, under her guiding hand. There was no purpose to it, other than to see if he would, and to enjoy his almost-unknowing compliancy. There would be time enough to provoke, and thus overcome, his resistance later. This was sweet.

As she brought him to a stop, pausing her hand just a moment on the top of his shoulder, Marie was ready with the fourth and, tonight, the last petticoat. She joined Marie in lifting it over, and let it down. ~Nearly done,~ she told herself, with just a little regret. It settled perfectly. Marie tied the small bow at the back and it was done. Jane stood back to admire the result. The petticoats had had the desired effect, of course, in making him look even smaller, and ever more childish, and a little sad. It was an effective enough illusion even when used on larger boys.

Marie, standing at his shoulder, caught her gaze suddenly and held it. A warning gaze. Jane became aware of her own breathing, the heat in her cheeks, and the deeper pulse of her desire pushing at her body from the inside, so strong she wondered that Nathan couldn’t see it. The warring impulses of guilt and power, the dark place, and the leashed monstrosity.

She nodded minutely, took one last big inhale and let it out in a sigh, knowing what she must do. “Marie,” she started, aloud, “I have some other business to attend to downstairs, which I can’t put off any longer.” Another breath, to calm herself. “Could you finish dressing him and send him down to me when he’s ready? I shall be in the parlour.”

“Oui, Madame,” Marie replied demurely, the image of obedience, as ever.

Jane got through the departing admonishments and removed herself as quickly as she could to the parlour. ~Oh, I shouldn’t have left it this long,~ she thought, sitting by the window. For the first time in years she felt real fear.

***

There was so much blood. The smell of it, hot, metallic and cloying, filled her head as her footing slipped. She’d been too late. Too late, but in time to see Mike go down. After that she hadn’t been able to stop. Something had broken inside her. How easily a sharp blade slips through the skin. Would she never tire of it? Someone was screaming. She thought it was Teresa, but Teresa’s face stared unmoving back at her from next to Mike’s body. Something had broken inside her. Someone was screaming. Someone was crying. And somewhere mixed in with it was the singing of a nightingale. She couldn’t open her eyes properly; something was trying to keep them shut so she wouldn’t see; her feet were tangling and slipping in something she didn’t want to look at–

~Eyes Open,~ Valerie commanded, gasping with the effort, but her eyes opened. She was in bed. ~Dream!~ she told herself. “Didn’t happen didn’t happen didn’t happen,” she found herself saying, gasping, like a mantra. She could hear her own voice hoarse from screaming. “Oh God. Oh God.” The only thing she could see was a sliver of indigo through the gap in the curtains and the grey outline of her room. Then she had to reach down and pull the old chamber pot out from underneath the bed so she could throw up into it, halfway hanging over the side of the bed. ~That’s more like it,~ she thought bitterly. ~Blistering return to form there, Tucker.~ Shivering, fumbling for a tissue, some other sense prodded her for attention. She held her breath. Someone was still crying. It wasn’t quiet, sad crying either; this was someone who was desperate and panicking and banging on a door–

~Nathan!~ she realised suddenly. ~Kid must be having a problem. Where’s Jane? Get up, Valerie.~

She willed herself to move, and rolled herself out of bed, forcing her body to decide how awake it was going to be. She landed on her feet rather than her face, so she guessed it was awake enough. She stumbled to the door and out onto the landing, quickly checking that her boxers and camisole were at least on straight and not showing bits they shouldn’t. They, and she, were sweaty and stinking, but there wasn’t time to do anything about that. The banging was definitely coming from Nathan’s door, the crying she could hear was breathless with panic. She ducked back into her own room, remembering the keycard, and returned to swipe it through Nathan’s lock and tap the code into the panel. The bolt snapped open and she turned the handle.

“What–” she started testily as the door opened, and stopped at the sight of Nathan’s face. He was clearly distraught; the make-up had run horribly under tears.

“There was so much blood,” Nathan cried, his voice tight and horrified. Valerie felt every hair on her body try to stand on end. “I couldn’t get out.” Valerie still wasn’t properly awake. That must have been why she let him run into her arms. Or that’s what she chose to tell herself. Nathan was just hanging on. She let her arms wrap around his shoulders, to calm him. “I heard you screaming,” he was continuing. “I couldn’t get to you. The door was locked.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “It was just a bad dream.” ~Jesus.~ Her cheek was prickled for a moment by one of the curlers in his hair. She shifted position, got a hand to the back of his head, where she could direct where it went better. She was going to get make-up on her top.

“It’s coming under the door,” he was still in the horror of it, his voice coming in a whispered scream. “It’s coming under the door.”

“Shhhhh.” She rocked him slightly, where they were standing in his doorway.

“You’re all right,” he gasped.

“Yes, I’m all right. I just had a bad dream too.”

“I heard you screaming.” He was still shaking. She wanted to snap at him for repeating the obvious, but she knew too well what this felt like. He was switching over to normal crying now anyway, so she guided him back into his room, elbowing the light-switch on as she passed, and sat with him on the edge of his bed for a few minutes while he cried, unselfconsciously, like a child, and wouldn’t let go of her.

***

“Guess that was a bad one, eh?” she said awkwardly, as he was crying himself to a stop. He nodded.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Haven’t had that one… for a while.”

“Me neither,” Valerie agreed, meaning her own dream. It won a chuckle out of Nathan.

Nathan separated himself from Valerie at last, curling himself up into a ball on the bed. He was still shaking.

“You going to be all right?” Valerie asked. He didn’t say anything for a while; long enough that she thought he’d fallen asleep. She stood up carefully.

“Are you going to lock the door?” he asked, without having moved. His eyes were open.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t lock me in.”

She looked at him, trying to read if this was — had all been — a ploy to give him the run of the place. She didn’t think so, but that couldn’t change her answer. “It’s not my call. I’m sorry.”

“I won’t go anywhere, I promise,” Nathan said, sitting up.

“If you were good at keeping promises, you wouldn’t have ended up here,” Valerie observed. She saw it hit home.

“It wasn’t me! I–” He stopped, upset, and sagged.

“You’re denying you’re Lacuna?” Valerie asked. Nathan took a breath as if to speak, but only shook his head. “You understand why I can’t just let you go nosing around?” He nodded, dejected.

“What if you stay with me?”

“I’m not your babysitter, Nathan. I have to sleep too.” ~Who am I kidding?~ she thought harshly. This wasn’t one of those nights where she’d be getting any more sleep. Besides, her sheets were rank from the sweating she’d done earlier, and not very tempting. His looked as bad. Nathan just curled up again, hugging his knees and looking at the floor.

Dammit.

“If this is a trick there will be hell to pay, you realise that?”

“It’s not a trick. Honest.”

All she was getting off him were scared-kid vibes. Still she hesitated. “Okay,” she said eventually, getting another hit of that cute-as-kittens smile off him that she’d seen earlier, in the main hall. ~Could get used to that smile,~ she admitted to herself. She kept herself focused. “One night only, you understand? You’re going to have to talk to Jane in the morning about it.” He nodded slowly. “So, this is how it’s going to happen. I need to have a shower and change. I have to lock your door while I do that, okay? Ten minutes tops.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Guaranteed. Can you handle that?” He nodded. “You take the time to sort yourself out and change into something clean and dry.”

He nodded. “Okay. I’ll find something, I guess.” A crooked smile.

“When you’ve done that, start pulling the sheets off the bed. I’ll help you put clean ones on.” ~That should keep him busy,~ she was thinking. ~Too bad I can’t get him to help me change my sheets. Don’t want Lacuna getting a look at the toys in my room.~ There would be too much temptation for nimble fingers, she was sure.

“All right. Thanks.”

“Clock’s ticking,” she said, and left, locking the door behind her.

***

Ten minutes later, having showered the nightmare-juice off her body, she was back outside his door carrying a spare set of bedclothes over an arm. She’d taken her time, not wanting to return earlier than her promise. Enough time to give consideration to what to change into. In the end she’d decided on actually getting dressed into a flowing gypsy skirt she’d bought in a weak moment with Mary, who seemed to have a thing for them, and a plain top. She grabbed a sweater and went.

She unlocked the door and knocked, waiting three clear seconds before opening the door. She would knock, she decided, because Jane would not. Nathan was waiting, sitting hugging his knees on the bare mattress. He’d found another nightgown and a pink chenille cardigan.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

“Let’s make this bed.”

They made short work of it. Nathan admitted to only having used duvets before, but he paid attention as she showed him what to do with the sheets, and picked it up quickly. It seemed to cheer him up, oddly. When it was done he clambered aboard triumphantly. Valerie couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re such a kid, you know that?”

He just grinned. “I’m not sleepy,” he declared. “Hey, you want to play a game?”

“Er…” ~This better not be some kind of come-on,~ Valerie thought. “What did you have in mind.”

“I don’t know. What you got?”

“What, like board games?”

“Well yeah, ’course.” All innocence.

Valerie thought. Jane had a good selection of board games, as it happened. For bored kids at boreding school. Ha ha. There’d be time enough for Nathan to play all of them, and other Approved Gentle Pursuits, after looking decorous to Jane’s specifications had become automatic. “Come on,” she said. “I’ve got a better idea.”

He bounced off the bed.

“You’d better put something on your feet,” she suggested. “The floors get cold. There should be some slippers around here.”

He made a face. “I found them. They’re fluffy.”

Valerie gave him her best ‘Jane’ look until he humphed and went off to recover them.

***

Valerie found the right light switch. The concealed lights over the kitchen work surfaces flickered on. It gave them enough light to see by while keeping the overall ambient level low, for the benefit of her tired eyes. “Go sit down,” she indicated the kitchen table with one hand while the other groped in the fridge for the cream. “I’ll make you a hot toddy.”

“A what?”

“Oh you know, a hot toddy.” She found the cinnamon and cocoa, but– “Where has Marie hidden the nutmeg–”

“Oh,” Nathan giggled quietly from the table. “Not so hot toddy. I get it now.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just something I read as a kid, I didn’t get it ’til now. Duh.” He slapped the side of his head and grinned.

“Er, okay.” Valerie shrugged, then regarded Nathan for a while. ~Idle hands,~ she was thinking. ~I know how to keep ’em busy.~ “Hey, I got a better idea.” She leaned on the counter separating the cooking area from the table. “Have you ever had real home-made American chocolate-chip cookies fresh from the oven?”

“Um. Well, they have American cookies in Sainsbury’s, Lin gets ’em sometimes.”

Valerie made a rude noise. “Right, Get up here, you’re making ’em.” She had a thought that she might learn something about how he felt about food. Like whether he really was anorexic, or if he just didn’t trust what was being put in front of him, like a certain someone she remembered.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You want Jane in a good mood when you talk to her about that lock?” Nathan nodded earnestly. “Tip: She’s got a big soft spot for my cookies. It’s one thing I can actually do better than Marie, though she’d never admit it. So you bring her some you made yourself, maybe it’ll sweeten her up before you ask, right?” Nathan nodded slowly, understanding. “Hang on though,” she added, “lemme just check we got the stuff. Otherwise we revert to plan A.”

A quick flurry through the cupboards later and she had assembled the ingredients untidily on the counter. “Okay, we’re good to go. Get up here, raccoon-face.”

“Hey, not my fault,” Nathan protested, coming back round into the cooking-area. “Mrs. Thompson said–”

“Mrs. Thompson said she wanted you to fall asleep wearing it, right?”

“Yeah something like that.”

“And you did?”

“Yyyeah…” Uncertainly.

“Well then.” Valerie reached into an overhead sundries cupboard and got out some facial cleansing wipes. “Let’s get this off or it’ll end up everywhere, and mascara in the cookie mix doesn’t appeal.”

“Won’t I get in trouble?” Nevertheless, Nathan stood still while Valerie wiped brusquely at his face.

“You can tell her I did it. That’s why I am doing it, so you don’t have to lie.” She grinned. “Better leave the curlers in though.”

“God knows what that’s going to turn out like,” Nathan replied. “Probably end up with an Afro.” He giggled.

“Nah, curlers aren’t that strong. Wait’ll you get that perm though–”

“What perm?”

~Oops!~ “You’ll see. Stand still, I’m nearly done.”

“God that feels better. What perm?”

“Shush. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“I don’t want a… perm,” he trailed off, probably remembering how much what he wanted would have to do with it.

“Can you cook at all?”

Nathan shrugged. “Oven chips and burgers type stuff–”

“‘No,’ in other words. Go put on an apron and wash your hands while I get this lot organised.”

“Apron?”

“Third drawer.” She pointed to the drawers near the main sink.

***

“Eww…”

“What?” Valerie looked over. Nathan was holding the packet of chocolate morsels as if he’d found a decomposing rodent.

“Nestlé. Do you know what they get up to in third-world countries?”

“Oh God, you sound like…” Valerie sighed.

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just put the damn chocolate in.”

“Made from the bitter tears of malnourished babies’ mothers!”

“Look, you didn’t buy it, you’re not to blame. If it matters to you that much you can help with the shopping in future.”

Nathan poured the chocolate pieces into a measuring jug. “You sure this is right? Seems like an awful lot…”

“Trust me. It’s my secret ingredient.”

Nathan stopped pouring and looked at her, deadpan. “Your secret ingredient is double the chocolate.”

Valerie grinned. “Triple for special occasions.”

Nathan just looked at her. “There was me thinking you were going to use a — herbal additive, if you know what I mean…”

“Huh?” Valerie returned the look blankly for a moment.

“You know, ‘wow man,’” he imitated the stereotypical stoner, “‘these cookies are really mellowing me out!’”

“Oh God no,” Valerie protested. “Gotta stay alert, you know?”

“Country needs lerts,” Nathan finished automatically. “Can’t have you getting stoned with an ’ardened crim like me around, right?”

“Ri-ight,” Valerie agreed.

“I’m pretty dangerous with a wooden spoon you know.”

“Oh shush, and start beating that mix.”

“What’s it ever done to me?” Nathan grinned and started mixing. “This, my friends,” he assumed the stoner voice again, “is a Camberwell Cookie.” He grinned at her. “Why trust one cookie, and not another?” He giggled. “Ah well, chocolate’s not so innocent. Nature’s prozac, innit? Got serotonin in it. And other things. Really addictive stuff when you look at it.”

“Shut up and work, perp.”

“Yes Boss.”

***

“Oh wow, this is bringing back memories.”

“Huh?” Valerie looked across at Nathan stirring the cookie mixture. He’d slowed, looking into space. “Hey, keep up the rhythm.”

“Oh, sorry.” He started up again. “Just, I suddenly remembered when Granny used to let me cook. You know, make cakes and stuff. I can’t believe I forgot that!” He grinned at Valerie. She noticed he’d got a smudge of flour on his forehead, and another, God-knows-how, on the end of his nose. ~Aw, that’s so cute,~ she almost said aloud. What she did do was wander to the main set of drawers and open the third one, where she knew Marie kept a small compact camera. “’Course, in those days I had to stand on the stool to reach the sideboard…” He carried on stirring for a while, lost in memories. Valerie, sensing there would be more, waited. “I miss her,” he said eventually, more to himself than to Valerie. “I think she almost understood us.” He stirred the mix.

Valerie shrugged. “Could be worse.” She was thinking of her own grandparents, on her father’s side. She had never met them. This, as far as her father had been concerned, was no accident. He’d had a hard enough time escaping from them, and the cult group of which they were part and in which he had grown up. In the end his only escape had been into the Marines, and he’d had to lie about his age to manage that. She had a good idea what he would do if any of them showed up looking for his children.

~Oh God, what if he thinks they kidnapped me?~ Valerie thought suddenly. ~If he got that into his head, that they’d taken me to brainwash me and fix me…~ It was too plausible for comfort. ~Dad would never stop,~ she realised with a shudder, ~until he found me. But they didn’t take me, so he won’t find me, so… he’ll never stop.~

She pulled her mind away from the images that evoked, knowing she’d get enough of them next time she slept, and forced herself to focus back on the moment. Nathan had just said something. “Pardon me? I didn’t hear you.”

“Mrs. Thompson,” Nathan repeated, “she’s not your real Mum, is she?” It wasn’t a question. She knew she bore little physical resemblance to Jane.

“No.” She met his eyes for a few moments. “It’s a long story,” she said, finally. “And you’re so not cleared for it,” she added, with a grin to soften it.

“Ooh, Mystery Girl,” Nathan teased, and gave her that gorgeous smile again. This time she was ready.

Flash!

***

The oven door closed.

“Now what?”

“Now we clean up this mess before Marie comes down and crucifies us.”

***

The only noises came from the appliances. The fridge, the freezer, the louder sound of the oven. Nathan was standing on the bench looking at the pictures by the window. “Who’s this?” he asked quietly. “She looks a bit like you, but she’s not, is she?”

“That’s Eugenia. One of Jane’s former students.”

“Eugenia,” Nathan said softly. “And?” He indicated the picture next to it.

“Teres– um, Julia. And that one’s Charlene.”

“Who drew them?”

Valerie pointed back at the first picture. Nathan studied it again.

“They’re girls’ names.”

“Uh-huh.”

Nathan traced Julia’s brow carefully, down to the line of her jaw. Eugenia had drawn her idealised, but still you could, if you were watchful, see the young man Julio would never now grow to be. Not here. Valerie turned away, pointlessly checking the clock on the oven.

“I’m going to get given a girl’s name, aren’t I?”

Valerie took a few moments to decide whether to answer. “Yes.”

She turned back in time to see Nathan balancing on the edge of the bench, as if he was tightrope walking. He jumped off. “I s’pose it makes sense.”

“Don’t you mind?”

He shrugged. “Never liked Nathan. It’s a stupid name.”

“It is only temporary,” she reminded him.

“Well, duh, I know that.” He grinned. “Do I get a say in it?”

“If you’re quick. Why? Did you have something in mind?”

“No.” His attention was already starting to wander, to the books on the shelves on that side of the jutting sideboard. He got up to look at them.

***

A hand snaked towards the hot baking trays. Valerie slapped it away reflexively.

“Ow!”

“Wait!”

“But–”

“But nothing. Wait.”

“But I’m hungry!” Nathan protested.

~Hello,~ Valerie thought. ~Pay attention, Tucker.~ “Well, I’m not surprised,” she said aloud, as if it was no significance. “You hardly ate anything all day.”

That got a guilty look. “I… I wasn’t hungry then.”

“No?”

“I had a big breakfast. I was tense.”

~Yeah, right.~ He looked hungry now. His eyes were practically tracking on the baking tray. “Well, they’re not ready yet,” she said.

“They smell ready.”

“Well they’re not,” she said, more firmly. “They’re still cooking inside. You’d burn yourself.”

“Duh, I’m not a child!”

“Stop behaving like one then. Go and sit down like a good little girl,” she teased, “and I’ll bring them over. When they’re ready.”

Nathan made a noise that was not in Jane’s book of delicate feminine behaviour, but he went, like it was a big imposition.

With his back turned, Valerie took a kitchen tissue and folded it a couple of times and picked up a hot cookie with it. “Nathan,” she called, as if changing her mind. He turned. “Here,” She handed him the wrapped-up cookie. He gave her that smile again, like she had a friend for life. She was going to lose a saving throw sooner or later, she thought, if she hadn’t already. “And be careful,” she said to his back. “It really is hot.”

She watched him surreptitiously while she busied herself with pouring out a couple of glasses of milk. Nathan gingerly took a bite, immediately sucking air in around where he held it with his teeth, then he ate it with every appearance of relish. She brought the glasses of milk to the table. As soon as she put his down, he grabbed it and gulped at it.

“You like?” she asked.

“Hnn!” His mouth was already occupied again.

“Hey, easy. No-one’s going to take it away.” ~Now to keep an eye on him, see if he keeps it down.~ Nathan just chuckled and popped the remainder of the cookie in his mouth.

He’d managed to get a streak of chocolate on his cheek, the cookie having been hot enough that the chocolate chips were still a little molten. Valerie resisted an urge to wipe it off, contenting herself with pointing it out and “You’ve got a bit–”

“Oh, sorry.” He wiped it up himself with the tissue the cookie had been wrapped in. “That was nice. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Valerie replied. “You made them, remember?”

“Heh.”

“Would you like another one?” At least he hadn’t scalded himself.

“Yeah.” So she went to get one.

“Yeah, what?” she said on the way.

“Yeah I wan’ anuvver one.”

She gave him a look, and he giggled.

“I can see Jane’s going to have fun with you.”

“I was joking!” He huffed.

“I know.” The cookies were cool enough to handle bare-handed now. Just about. She put a few onto a plate with quick, snatching movements of her hand and brought it back to the table, hoisting up the kitchen roll on the way.

“You going to have any?” He picked one up and started on it immediately the plate was down.

“When they’re a little cooler. They’ll keep for days, you know. You don’t have to stuff yourself with them now.”

He didn’t slow down. “I like ’em, see,” he said around a mouthful (~Jane is going to have such a lot of fun…~) “but I don’t know what they’re supposed to taste like so they might be shit.” He hadn’t seemed too bad at dinner, but he’d hardly eaten anything then, only some of the salad, so perhaps it just didn’t show what his eating-manners were like.

“Well, they smell right.”

“OIP?” he belched suddenly, caught out in the middle of forming a grin, then he snorted with surprised laughter at the sound he’d made. “Eww.” Valerie passed him another tissue silently. “Thanks.”

He started on another cookie.

This time Valerie took one too, using a pair of tissues folded over as an impromptu plate. Not that he was really watching, but she demonstrated the ladylike way to eat a cookie that was still more like the proverbial hot cake, and thought that she should probably stop him eating many more or he’d have a legitimate reason to go and throw up, which would ruin the experiment. They ate in silence for a few moments. Nathan grinned past his milk at her and drained his glass. He reached for another cookie.

“I’d better stop,” he said quietly, and pulled his hand back. “I’ll be sick if I don’t.”

Valerie was going to let him have one more, but she’d go with that “There’s loads, you can have some more later.”

“Maybe,” he said a little sadly. “Hey, you din’t tell me they really are addictive!”

She toasted with her milk glass. “First hit’s always free.”

***

Nathan yawned, trying to fight it.

“Come on, admit it,” Valerie said.

“It’s all lies!” He smiled groggily. In the silences between, Valerie could hear birdsong. The sky through the window was a dark shade of blue shot through with pink streaks where the sun was finding high-level clouds. “You’d have to lock me in again wouldn’t you.”

She nodded. He sat in silence, biting his lip.

“Talk about it?” she prodded. He shook his head. “Okay.”

“D’you really think if I asked her nicely she’d not lock the door?”

“Honestly I don’t know.”

He rubbed his eyes. His hand was shaking slightly as he did so, Valerie noted, possibly presaging another panic attack.

“Listen,” she continued, “it wouldn’t stay locked the whole time you were here anyway. That’s just until she knows she can trust you.”

“Yeah, well, how long’s that going to take?”

“Depends on you.”

“Not any time soon, I bet.” He took a palsied breath. “I wasn’t warned about this. Lin and David weren’t either or they’d have said something. I know they would.”

“Well, you should say that to Jane and she can talk to them about it.” He swallowed and nodded. “And think about what you can do to make her trust you. Bearing in mind the main reason you’re here is to learn how to be trustworthy.”

He chuckled. “By wearing girls’ clothes.”

“Yes.”

He drew his legs up onto the bench and hugged his knees, burying his face against them. The sheer fabric of the nightgown tried to slip up to his hips but he caught it and kept hold of it without looking. “I don’t see the connection,” he said, his face still buried, but then he looked up again.

“You’re not meant to yet.” She sighed. “And I’m not meant to be talking to you about it either.”

“Okay. Sorry. Forget it.” He sank his face against his knees again. “God, this is so weird.”

Valerie smiled. “Okay. What if we just grab you a duvet and you can crash in the living room for toni– the rest of the night.” There wasn’t much of it left.

He looked up at her and smiled that damnable cute smile again.

***

Marie rounded the corner on the landing and stopped short at the sight of Nathan’s door hanging open. It took her only a moment to collect herself and run into the boy’s bedroom, finding it empty. The bed didn’t even look slept-in. “Oh no,” she whispered, fighting a swell of panic. She did not want to have to tell Jane about this. She left the room, turning the light off as she went, and walked quickly to Valerie’s door. It was still locked. She knocked on it; five quick raps that she hoped would convey some of her urgency. There was no answer. Jane’s strange foundling had an all-too-normal teenager’s aversion to mornings. She looked at the keypad by her door, considering hitting the master alarm. ~Now, now,~ she admonished herself, ~not to panic. We haven’t run this school for over twenty years by panicking every time a boy isn’t found where he is expected.~ “Valerie?” she called softly, knocking again, then again louder: “Valerie?”

“What is it Marie?” The voice didn’t come from behind the door but downstairs; in the main hall, by the sound of the echo. She went to the top of the stairs, seeing Valerie near the bottom, in a loose skirt and top, and bare feet, clutching her laptop by her side.

“Nathan’s gone,” she said simply, trying to project a whisper down the stairs. Valerie shook her head and beckoned her down.

“It’s okay, come see.” Valerie seemed almost pleased with herself as she put her finger to her lips to indicate quiet, and headed back towards the private living room. Marie hurried to catch up, was practically caught by Valerie as she dashed into the living room. “Look,” Valerie whispered, and pointed towards the long sofa, and Nathan’s curler-laden head protruding from a duvet, an expression of utter peace on his sleeping face.

“Oh,” Marie almost sighed with relief.

“There was a crisis during the night,” Valerie explained, keeping her voice low. “Everything’s fine, he didn’t try to run or anything. I was with him the whole time.” Marie nodded, understanding. The first night was often hard on the new boys; generally the plan was that they should be left to stew. She wasn’t sure how Jane was going to react to Valerie’s intervention. “Hey,” Valerie was continuing, a grin on her face, “go look in the fridge.”

Intrigued, Marie went downstairs to the kitchen. The fridge contained some Tupperware boxes that hadn’t been there the previous evening. Opening one, she found it full of chocolate cookies, the kind Valerie was so fond of making, when she needed something from Jane, or sometimes just when she was in one of her domestic moods. Almost reflexively, she tasted one. It was good, as usual, so she carried it back up to the living room. Valerie had seated herself on the couch watching Nathan. Marie joined her there and offered Valerie the open box.

“Oh, no, no more,” Valerie protested. “He made them.”

“Really? They’re very good.”

“Under my supervision of course.” Valerie grinned. “Thought it best to keep him busy. He ate a whole bunch of them too.”

“Ah, did he?”

They watched the sleeping youngster for a few moments. “It’s funny,” Valerie began, then hesitated and fell silent.

“Mmm?” Marie queried through a mouthful of cookie.

“Nothing. I’m just tired, I guess.”

Marie swallowed. “No, go on,” she enjoined. “What were you going to say?”

Valerie didn’t reply immediately. “The house,” she said eventually. “I don’t know. Feels different?”

“The kitchen smells of baking cookies for a start,” Marie commented wryly. Valerie smiled at that. “Yes, of course it’s different. It’s different every time. How do you think it doesn’t get boring, doing this year after year?” She smiled. “Every one of them…” She gave a little sigh of satisfaction. “Every one of them brings their own stamp to the house. It’s… a renewal. Constant renewal. Nathan’s hardly begun to make it different, I assure you.” She smiled. Valerie nodded.

“I suppose… I don’t know what I was expecting really. An extra face at dinner– Oh, good morning Jane.” Valerie said suddenly, her voice changing.

Marie turned to the doorway, guiltily. She was supposed to be in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

“What is going on here?” Jane asked, her voice chilly.

“Last night–” Valerie began.

“Jonathan, where is the make-up you were wearing last night? I specifically told you not to remove it before coming down.”

Marie saw with surprise that Jonathan had woken up. He was scrambling to sit upright. “Um–” he began, and immediately corrected himself with a “Sorry.” He stood up. He was in a different night-gown from the one she had chosen for him the previous evening — a fuller, more Victorian one, and a pink chenille cardigan over the top.

Valerie stepped between him and Jane. “My fault, Jane,” she said. “I cleaned it off. It was a mess and threatening to contaminate the mix. Marie, why don’t you take Nathan up to get ready for breakfast?” she added, not taking her eyes off Jane. Marie could well see the signs of an impending row between them. She hesitated, but Jane turned her head and nodded curtly, releasing her to get herself and the boy out of the conflict.

“Allons-y, chérie,” she addressed Nathan. “Nous allons te faire belle.”

Nathan got the idea immediately, and didn’t hesitate to follow her.

***

“Valerie, if it’s your intention to undermine me at every turn–”

“No, that’s not–”

“–I may as well send Nathan home this morning. I’m not going to compete with you–”

“Jane, listen!” Valerie let some of the exasperation show through. “That’s not what’s going on here.”

“Nevertheless, that will have been the perception. I cannot have my authority undermined in this way. This is delicate enough as it is.” She stopped herself, hearing her own voice louder and more snappish than she had intended. She was already tense and missing her first morning coffee, and the last thing she needed was Valerie acting up again.

Even so, she did not miss the dark shadows under Valerie’s eyes.

“Valerie,” she tried in a calmer tone. “I’m sorry. I suppose you had reasons that seemed valid at the time. The truth is, I’d be delighted if you’d agree to big-sister Nathan–”

“I’m not–”

“But it has to be under my direction or not at all. You’re the one who said how dangerous this could be, and you’re right. Too far one way and he could suffer real trauma, of exactly the kind you’re worried about, or worse. Too far the other, let him get too comfortable, and it may as well just be a fancy dress party for all the good that would come of it. That’s why it has to be managed carefully. It’s hard enough to get the balance right without a big sister to help. I can’t have you going behind my back–”

“I’m not trying to go behind your back–”

“I can’t have you setting yourself up as an appellate court Nathan can turn to whenever he doesn’t like what’s happening!”

“He had a nightmare, Jane. A bad one.”

“I’m glad to hear it! I should expect nothing less.”

That made Valerie pause. “Yeah, well, you didn’t see him. I know a panic attack when I see one, okay?”

“Will you please not speak in that common tone!” She saw that land like a slap on Valerie’s face as well. “You’ll make a counter-example of yourself and you’re better than that.”

“Oh fuck you,” Valerie exclaimed, and stomped for the door.

“Valerie, I haven’t finished–”

“I have! I’m not your fucking student! I don’t have to take this shit!” She flung the doorway open.

“Valerie!” The tone of her voice stopped Valerie in the doorway. She slammed the door shut again, and turned angrily back to Jane.

“What?”

“You agreed to abide by appropriate standards of behaviour while I have a student here.” A tight exhalation from Valerie; acknowledgement of that, she supposed. “It was your choice not to be otherwise involved. I want to respect that, but if you won’t even stand by it, what am I supposed to do? Look at you, dressed like that in front of my student. Where do you think you are?”

“Home,” Valerie said simply. “You said this was my home.”

In the silence that followed, Valerie quietly opened the door and left.

Marie had left the Tupperware with the cookies on the table, so Jane picked it up, meaning to return it to the kitchen, and found herself taking a bite out of one. It really was very good.

She sighed. Valerie had acted out of kindness, of course. Jane hated to castigate her for that; it was by far the Valerie she preferred to see, under normal circumstances. But in so doing she’d shown herself to Jonathan as a more powerful potential ally than he should have, at this stage. She’d shown him that her, Jane’s, authority was not above question or challenge, and she could hardly prove otherwise without demanding more of Valerie than she would be prepared to give, to restore the correct seeming balance of power.

She sighed again. ~I never had this problem with Darla,~ she thought sadly.

***

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Valerie swore, slamming her bedroom door. “Should’ve let the brat scream. Obviously.” she muttered bitterly, and sat tiredly on her bed.

Up again in an instant. ~It’s not fair! What the fuck was I supposed to do? Why does she always have to do this?~

“Authority,” Mike would say. A guilty pleasure to imagine him doing so, so clearly. “There has to be a clear chain of command.” His steady voice. She missed him so much. She was still shaking. She wanted to hit Jane; the anger filling her, threatening to consume her, to make her forget all limits. She hit the wall instead, by the window, and immediately regretted it, hoping she hadn’t damaged her wrist. “You’re becoming more like your Mom every day.”

“Fuck off.” ~No, wait–~

She sat down on the bed again, the feeling of desolation washing over her. Not at all convinced it was preferable to murderous rage. ~Well, no-one gets killed this way. That’s a good thing, right? Tell me it’s a good thing.~

She looked around her room. It was starting to get messy again, but then, who was there to tidy it for? The day stretched ahead. Empty. She could go out for a bike ride… but she didn’t feel like it. It needed too much concentration.

~I’ll call Mary,~ she thought suddenly, and picked up her phone. Maybe that would suggest something. Maybe the group were having an extra rehearsal and she could hang out for the day. She paused over the speed-dial and checked the time. ~Will she be awake? What am I thinking? She has a four-year-old-kid. Of course she’s awake.~ She hit the last button.

“Heya, Vee.” She sounded tired already.

“Hey, are you guys doing anything today?”

“I wish. Dad’s gone to the boot sale. He’s going to come back with more junk than he left with, I can tell. Mum’s decided today’s the day she has to catch up on the housework, but she needs the car to go shopping later, so I’m stuck here.” She sounded exasperated. Bizarrely, Valerie enjoyed listening to her tirade. “They’re driving me nuts,” she confided quietly. “Lizbeth’s doing her part too. Five o’clock she was in here this morning.” A breath. “Why? Did you have anything in mind?”

“Just to get out,” Valerie admitted. “No ideas beyond that. I was wondering if you had a rehearsal with the group.”

“No. We were going to, but Jo’s off with her boyfriend somewhere being made up to, and Aid’s… Being a prick, to be honest,” she muttered.

“Same boyfriend as before?” Valerie asked, regarding Jo.

“Yeah. She took him back. Again.”

~Gah.~ “Something Must Be Done,” Valerie declared. “Makes me almost miss social work,” she added.

“What social work?”

“Nothing.” Valerie flopped back on the bed. “It’s badness, that’s all.”

“There’s only so much you can help people,” Mary said sadly. “Well, anyway.” Pause. “Yeah, I could really go for getting out of here for the day, if you’re up for it.”

“Sure–”

“But I don’t have a car today. Reasons already stated. I suppose I could leave Lizbeth with Mum, but…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll borrow Marie’s and come to you, and we’ll go somewhere.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. I know for a fact she’s not going anywhere today. It’ll be fine.”

“You know, you should get a sidecar for that bike,” Mary suggested, non-seriously. “Then you could take me and Lizbeth on that together–”

“God, you have to be kidding!” Valerie tried to picture it.

“What? A bit Two Fat Ladies for you?”

“Somewhat.” She couldn’t help grinning at the thought.

“Hm. You know, we could go to the seaside, if you like,” Mary suggested. “Let little one run off this energy.”

“Sounds good,” Valerie agreed. “Did you have anywhere in mind?”

“I thought Weston-Super-Mare’s nice, and good for kids. It doesn’t take an hour to get to from my house, and it’s better than bloody Severn Beach anyway.”

“Okay.” The names meant almost nothing to Valerie.

“Besides, I don’t think you’ve been exposed to the British seaside town meme yet, have you?”

“What, sunbathing in the rain? I’ve heard of it. Talking of which, I’d better check the weather…”

“Okay. You do that and come anyway. If it’s going to turn grotty, we can do something else.”

“Sure.”

***

~… Sunblock, baby-wipes, sunglasses, my hat, Lizbeth’s hat…~ Mary had got as far as the kitchen. The doorbell rang, surprising her. Of course, she had been expecting to hear Valerie’s bike pull up, which was stupid. She heard her daughter run out of the living room into the hall.

“Lizbeth wait!” Mary ran after her, to be met by Valerie walking in with Elizabeth bundled over her shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

“Hi, I found this running loose. Is it yours?” There were small sounds of a struggle behind her back, and Elizabeth’s feet kicked ineffectually.

“It is, I can’t find the leash,” Mary quipped back. “Hi Vee. You look beachy.”

Valerie grinned under her wide ribboned straw hat, her eyes hidden behind stylish black sunglasses. “I think that was the idea. Are you ready?” She was already wearing her black swimsuit, under a large unbuttoned white linen shirt and khaki shorts. Pale white legs which looked like they could do with a bit of sunlight, Mary thought, and hiking boots.

“Nearly. I can’t find her sandals anywhere.”

“Bah, who needs ’em.” She turned to walk back outside, still carrying the barefoot child.

“Mummy!” Elizabeth protested, when she could see her.

“Oh, you mean these ones?” Valerie asked, pointing down by the side of the front door.

“Yes, I mean those ones.” Mary growled and dove for them. “I must be stupid. While you’ve got her, turn around and I can get them on her.”

“Nooo!” Elizabeth wailed. “I don’t want to!”

Valerie agreed, treacherously, “Yeah, we’re going to be in the car then on sand aren’t we? What’s the point?”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth added. Then a quieter, “let me… down…” She struggled.

“Because…” Mary realised she wasn’t going to win this one. “Okay, I’ll put them in the bag for now. I think I’ve got everything.” She went back into the kitchen and stuffed the sandals in the backpack, closed it up and came back out into the hall.

“You’ve got to be carried out to the car if you won’t wear your sandals,” Valerie was saying as Mary came back into earshot. She had at least manhandled the child off her shoulder to her hip, which was probably more comfortable for both of them.

“And they’re packed now, so I’m not getting them out again–”

“Mummy, can Abbie come too?”

“I don’t know, dear; you’d better ask Auntie Vee.” She rolled her eyes at Valerie. “Let’s get out of here before Mum decides she has to be Hospitable.”

“Auntie Vee, can Abbie come with us?”

“Sure she can,” Valerie said indulgently. “Hey, I’ve got something for you in the car.”

“What?”

“Are you planning to corrupt my daughter’s mind with more of those comics?” Mary accused.

“Yep–”

“Comics!”

Valerie wheeled around and headed back outside.

Mary tousled her daughter’s head as she went, and, at the last minute, grabbed Dad’s huge Norwich Union umbrella. Just in case. “We’re leaving now!” she yelled upstairs, and manhandled the umbrella and backpack outside. “I’ve just got to get the booster seat out of Mum’s– Christ, are we going in that?” A huge, gleaming, brand-new-looking dark blue Mercedes seemed to almost fill the small driveway.

“Er, yes. Is there a problem?”

Mary recovered quickly. “Nah. I don’t mind travelling in style.” She grinned and went to get the child seat from out of her mother’s Fiesta. She knew Valerie’s adopted mother was wealthy. Valerie hardly ever talked about it of course, but it stood to reason she’d have a posh car. She just hoped Elizabeth wouldn’t damage it, or be sick in it, or something. Behind her she heard Valerie open a door and tumble Elizabeth in.

***

Valerie drove carefully. Mary looked at her in wonderment.

“What?” Valerie asked.

“Nothing. I’ve just seen the way you ride.” Mary grinned and looked back out at the motorway gliding past silently. Valerie had turned on the cruise control as soon as they reached the motorway, so they were travelling at a rock-steady 68mph.

“Are we nearly there yet?”

Mary looked over her shoulder. Her daughter was unconcernedly looking out of the side window behind Valerie, the somewhat worn-looking comic-book she had been reading lying forgotten on her lap for the moment. Mary caught a glimpse of a cartoon moose. Elizabeth realised her mother was watching and looked back, smiled and waved.

Well, it was a long way across to the other side of the car. Especially when you’re small. Mary waved back.

***

“I think you take this next junction.”

“Got it.” Valerie started signalling. “That was quick.” She grinned across at Mary. “Guess I really am on an island.”

“Haven’t you been to the seaside at all since you got here?”

“Just never got around to it.”

“What about back home? In America, I mean? Which part are you from?”

“Mm.” Mary felt the slight lurch as the cruise control disengaged and Valerie took control to navigate the car up the slip-road to the roundabout that straddled the junction.

“Don’t tell me: That’s classified?”

Valerie chuckled. “No. Deep Midwest. Ohio, Tristate area.” Then she intoned, suddenly, in a different voice, like an American TV announcer, “There are two ways of dying in Ohio. One was just living there.”

“That bad?”

She chuckled again, and didn’t elaborate.

“So where is that? Near Colorado?” The suggestion seemed to make Valerie splutter in shock. “I’m sorry, my geography is crap.”

“Ah, you know where the Great Lakes is? Are?”

“Um, like Niagara Falls?”

Valerie hesitated. “Yeah. South-west of there a ways.”

“What was it like?” Mary ventured. This was already as much as she’d ever got out of Valerie before.

Valerie drove on in silence for a while. “Actually, can we talk about something else?” she said, and turned her full attention to the next roundabout.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“It’s okay, it’s just…” Signal, turn off onto the main approach road into Weston-Super-Mare. It was a dual-carriageway, so she put the car back on cruise control at a lower speed. “Middle-class suburban,” she said, finally. “A bit like this, you know, strip malls and stuff.” She waved a hand at the retail parks on either side of the road. “Could be anywhere.”

“Feels like nowhere,” Mary agreed. Valerie nodded.

“There’s just… not much to say about it. Really.”

***

“Left, then right, I think,” Mary said. The car swung around the two mini-roundabouts.

“Oh, there it is.”

“Can you see the sea, Lizbeth?” Mary asked.

Elizabeth tried to crane her neck around Valerie’s shoulder. “No…”

“Well, we’re very nearly there now. We have a choice,” she continued to Valerie as they stopped at some traffic lights. “We can find somewhere to park on the promenade, or we can go into one of these multistoreys, or we can go down to the beach car park. That’s cheapest, and easiest to find a space, but it’s a long way from everything.”

“Lots of bikers,” Valerie noted quietly.

“Oh yeah. That’s normal.” The lights changed and Valerie turned left onto the promenade’s one-way system. “Just keep going down here, the turn-off’s on the right.”

Valerie drove, eventually turning right to approach the promenade itself.

“Oh, there’s loads of space,” Mary commented. “I didn’t need to worry. Well, we can find somewhere to park a bit further along if you like. Then it won’t be as far to go to laugh at all the cheesy British seaside stuff.” She cast an evil grin across to Valerie.

“I didn’t come to laugh at your quaint native customs,” Valerie countered.

“Oh, that’s no fun,” Mary replied, but Valerie glanced back, grinning, letting her know she’d been slightly had. She turned right again, so they were driving along the one-way promenade itself, the sea wall, and the sea to their left, across an expanse of sand.

“Sea!” Elizabeth identified, excitedly. She was on the wrong side of the car to see much though.

“Lots of bikers,” Valerie said again. There were motorcycles parked for some way along the promenade, shining in the sun, and clumps of riders gathered here and there, hundreds of them, some drinking, and beyond the low wall, sea. Something about Valerie’s voice as she said it made Mary look over at her.

“Valerie?”

“Is this… normal?”

“Yes. You need to turn just up here.” Valerie turned, thoughtfully. “And left at the end.”

“I see…” She still seemed perturbed by the motorbikes. “You ride a bike. What are you so nervous about?”

“You don’t think there’s going to be any trouble?” Valerie stopped at the corner into the car park, leaving herself the option of going the other way.

“Why should there be trouble? What happened, did you watch The Wild One a hundred times? Come on, park the bloody car.”

“Park the bloody car!” Elizabeth concurred from the rear.

“See what you made me do?” Mary said to Valerie. Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Here. We can go down onto the beach.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll park the bloody car.” Valerie grinned and swung the car left.

***

“Don’t run off and get lost,” Mary told her daughter while she dove back into the car for her backpack and the umbrella.

“Too late,” Valerie reported, then she was gone too, trying, not too hard, to catch a weaving, squealing Elizabeth. Mary chuckled and looked around her. There were few enough cars moving on the beach car park that she didn’t have to worry about an accident. The sea was quite a long way out. It didn’t look too busy for a bank holiday, she thought. Of course, it was still early in the season. She’d noticed while Valerie was buying the parking ticket that this was the first weekend of the year they were even bothering to charge for parking.

Elizabeth ducked around and back towards the car, where Mary caught her. She suspected she’d been allowed to. Valerie followed, smiling, and opened the boot of the car. She hauled out a medium-sized army-green rucksack. “Christ, what’ve you got in there?” Mary asked.

“Hm? This?” Valerie eased herself into the arms of the rucksack. “Just a few things. You know, a beach is one of the most hostile environments on Earth.”

“I’m not expecting Lord of the Flies. What have you got in there?” she asked again.

“Groundsheet, tarp, some poles, so I can put up a shade, um,” she shrugged evasively. “Water, supplies, few other things.”

“Anything you couldn’t stand to lose?”

Valerie looked at her hesitantly. “We expecting to lose stuff?”

“No, but if that’s valuable you’re going to want to sit over it like an old mother hen, aren’t you?” Valerie shifted her weight to her other foot. “And I thought it’d be nice if we could all go down to the sea to muck about, like, at the same time. You don’t want to be stuck up the beach all day keeping watch on your stuff do you? You didn’t bring your laptop as well, did you?” she pressed, suddenly suspecting.

“No. No laptop.” She thought a moment longer, then shucked off the rucksack and dumped it back into the boot. With it there, she opened it and started pulling things out and moving things around.

“Mummy did you bring the bucket and spade?”

“Yes, I did. Where’s your hat, dear?”

She had to think about that. “I left it in the car.”

“Go and get it then.”

Valerie emerged from the boot holding a large rolled-up towel that almost certainly had other things rolled up inside it. She had a second thought, then, and bent to remove her hiking boots and socks and dump those in the boot as well. “Better?”

“Much.”

Valerie locked up, and they started walking. Mary kept hold of Elizabeth’s hand to make sure she didn’t run off again at least until they were settled somewhere.

***

“This’ll do, won’t it?” Mary suggested a randomly-chosen patch of bare sand. They’d left the car some distance behind. Valerie looked around. The tide had turned, but it was still quite a long way out, and the spot Mary had chosen was a little up from the high tide mark. “We’ll just settle in, and get some gloop on the child,” she directed at Elizabeth meaningfully, “and we can go down for a swim, can’t we?” She unrolled a towel and laid it down, knelt and started unpacking things.

“Sun-gloop?”

“Yeah.”

“Factor fifty,” Elizabeth recited.

Valerie stood for a while longer, just staring down the long, even slope to the sea. Mary thought she seemed a little nervous about something.

***

“Come on, Valerie, you said!” Elizabeth pleaded.

“She’s right you know, I remember,” Mary added wickedly. She and her daughter were already down to their swimming costumes. Valerie was wavering. “You might as well have brought your expensive camping stuff if you’re just going to sit up here like an old granny. Would you like a blanket and a thermos of hot cocoa?”

“Argh!” Valerie fell backwards under the onslaught.

“Come on, show me that body!”

“You don’t want to see that body,” Valerie muttered, flat on her back.

“Show me that body!” Elizabeth echoed, then laughed and ran off.

“She’s going to be a menace when she’s older,” Mary said under her breath. “Lizbeth!” she called. “Don’t go too far!”

“Anyway, I thought you weren’t that way inclined,” Valerie said, sitting up again.

“What can I say? I have a secret passion for girls with boyish good looks.”

“Oh God.”

Mary cackled. “Come on, sexy. Last chance. I need to catch the Creature.”

“Go and catch her then. I’m coming. Promise.” She smiled, urgingly. Mary got the message and set off in pursuit of her daughter, who naturally saw it as a reason to run away faster.

As expected, by the time Mary had tackled Elizabeth to the ground and tickled her into submission, they were able to look back and see that Valerie had shed her overshirt and shorts and was standing diffidently by the towels waiting for them. Mary set Elizabeth pointing in the right direction. “Go get ’er,” she directed, and Elizabeth ran towards Valerie, yelling. Mary followed at a walk and watched.

“I don’t see what you’re so nervous about,” Mary said, approaching. Valerie was slim and athletic, rather than curvy, which was how Mary would describe herself on a good day (‘lumpy’ on the other days). A little long-limbed for her height, maybe, but she carried it well, her every movement a study in elegance and poise. “And anyway, you’ve got a nice bum,” she added aloud, just to be mischievous.

“Come on, let’s get this child wet,” Valerie said, changing the subject.

***

~Okay, Val, I believe you,~ Valerie decided at last, and relaxed another notch. It was nice to be wearing a swimsuit that didn’t look faintly (or totally) ridiculous, even if it did mean guys were checking her out down by the water’s edge. In a way she was glad she was with Mary and Elizabeth. She wasn’t in the mood for fending.

Picnic lunch, which meant Valerie had to stop reading out the dialogue in the Rocky and Bullwinkle comic-book she’d given Elizabeth. She’d protested she couldn’t really do the voices very well, but Elizabeth disagreed and insisted she carry on. But what did she know?

“Mmm! You made these?” Mary asked around a chocolate chip cookie.

“My recipe,” Valerie agreed. “The new girl had a nightmare. I ended up babysitting.”

“Oh? So you didn’t get any sleep last night?”

“Some.” Smile. “I’m okay. Coffee is a wonderful thing.”

“So, what, is she having problems settling in?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“So what’s she like?”

“I don’t know yet. She only arrived yesterday.”

“Is she pretty?”

Valerie looked at her sternly. “Are you jealous?” She cracked a grin to show she got the joke too.

“I’m not jealous, I’m just curious. What’s her name?” Valerie had no answer for that, of course. Nathan hadn’t been Named yet. She didn’t even know how they were going to do it. “Oh come on, you can’t tell me her first name? Am I supposed to just call her ‘the new kid’ forever?”

“Student data is confidential,” Valerie reminded her. “You’re pumping me again.”

“Uh-huh. Want me to get Lizbeth to help?” Elizabeth was off in a world of her own, again. “Come on, Vee, I’m going to meet her anyway, aren’t I? When you invite me round to your place. Your stately country pile.” She grinned evilly.

“You don’t want to see my pile,” Valerie warned.

“I’ll settle for your house then.” She rolled onto her stomach and rocked her feet in the air behind her. The sun was warm. “Come on, Vee. We’re eating her cookies, it doesn’t feel right not even knowing her name.” It didn’t stop her grabbing another one.

“Do you know the name of the guy who bakes the bread you have at home?”

“Who, Ken? Of course. Fat balding bloke with three podgy kids. Big Elvis fan, married Marge in Las Vegas in an Elvis-themed wedding.” She took a bite and looked at Valerie smugly.

“Liar,” Valerie challenged. “You made that up.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause you go to the Tesco next to Ikea. You said.”

Mary stuck her tongue out at her. “Still. Thing is, I buy bread. These were free. That means I want to know who did them. Tell me!”

“Why do you want to know so much?”

“Because. Mmm–” She popped the remainder of the cookie into her mouth. “It doesn’t matter,” she said through the mouthful, “and you’re being silly and secretive anyway and because it doesn’t matter I’m going to win this one.” She licked her fingers, her eyes on Valerie.

“Oh, God.”

Mary cackled. “Just her first name, so I know what to call her. C’mon. Is that such a national secret?”

“Uh…” Her eyes alighted on the comic-book Elizabeth had forgotten at her side.

***

Marie knocked softly and opened Nathan’s bedroom door. He was still asleep. She crossed to the bed, meaning to shake him gently awake. He was lying curled up, facing away from her, and the sheets had slipped, exposing his shoulder and upper arm, and part of his narrow back. He hadn’t put a night-gown on then; he was either naked or in his panties.

She touched his arm, at the elbow, through the bed-linen. “Jenny?” It had been a long while since she’d had to perform a Naming for a housebound student. The combination didn’t happen very often. This task was usually left to the big sister, to engineer a chance encounter with the groundsman at Jane’s old house; but dear old Tom had retired after the disaster the previous year — it had been past time for him to do so anyway — and the new groundkeepers were as yet an unknown quantity. Jane had professed herself unwilling to take that chance. So Marie was trying something new.

Getting no response, she shook a little harder. “Jennifer, ma choupinette.”

“Mmm.” Groggy. He turned over towards her. Marie automatically guided the sheets higher as he turned, to protect his modesty as she would a girl’s. She was surprised to see him wearing a sleep-mask; she’d always put one in the students’ bedside drawer, but only to complete the excessively feminine setting, without a real expectation of their actually using it. Naturally it was sufficiently pink and lacy to be offensive even to her, but, she supposed, that didn’t matter to the wearer.

“Jennifer, c’est le temps du déjeuner.”

“Mmm.” His hair was damp, Marie saw; and she smelled pink peony talc. He must have had a bath after Jane had left him. “’Kay.”

“Je nettoierai ta salle de bains,” Marie said, and left him to do so.

In the event, he had hung up the towels over the rack by himself. Everything seemed to be in good order. She spotted a pair of panties hanging directly over the towel heater. They were still a little damp when she picked them up, and smelled strongly of the soap on the washbasin, as if they’d been scrubbed carefully. “Hm,” she commented to herself, and brought them with her back into the bedroom. The washing basket already held enough to be worth a wash, together with Valerie’s whites; so she dropped the panties in there and brought the basket just outside the bedroom door and came back out into the bedroom.

“Es-tu réveillée, Jennifer?” she asked Nathan. Evidently not. He was deeply, deeply asleep again, already, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His hair had fallen across his face. Marie sighed and sat on the bed next to him, where she could gently brush the hair away. He didn’t even stir. “Je demanderai á  Jane si tu peux dormir plus longtemps,” she said, giving up. She was never strong enough, that was the problem, she reminded herself. That’s what Jane was for. She took her leave, remembering the washing basket on the way.

She was in the middle of loading the washing machine in the utility room when she heard the phone ring and had to dash for the extension in the kitchen.

“Thompson residence.”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Valerie? What’s the matter?”

“Have you given him a name yet?”

Marie hesitated.

“Oh, shit,” Valerie muttered. That could only mean one thing.

“What happened?” Marie asked, putting on a faux-weariness.

“I, uh… I got boxed in.”

“Oh, Valerie.”

“I know!” There was a chuckle from the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry, okay? I ran out of reasons not to.”

“Okay.” Marie couldn’t help the smile that shaped the sound she made. “I don’t think he was awake anyway. I’m too soft-hearted for his own good.”

“Awake?”

“Just tell me.”

A heartfelt sigh. “Natasha.”

“Oh that’s not so bad. Nathan/Natasha, that works.”

“Uh, that’s not how I thought of it. Heh. I’m really sorry. What did you have?”

Marie hesitated. “I shall keep that a secret between myself and a sleeping boy,” she decided romantically. “In any case, I think I like Natasha better. It’s more French.”

“Oh, I was thinking Russian,” Valerie admitted.

“That works too.”

“He must never know,” Valerie said. “Don’t tell him it came from me. Please?”

“All right, Valerie. I won’t tell Jane either, unless I have to.”

“Thanks. She’d only be more smug than I can stand today.”

Marie chuckled. “Where are you? Aren’t you still with your friend and her daughter?”

“She took Lizbeth to the bathroom. They’ll be a few minutes longer.” There was a sound as if Valerie was settling, relaxing a little more, then a lot more ruffling. “Sorry, hat malfunction. So, how’s it going where you are?”

“Taking an interest in your protégée?” Marie teased. Valerie made a rude noise. “He’s still asleep. I couldn’t bear to wake him.”

“What’s he doing asleep? I didn’t think that was part of the first-day fun and games.”

“Oh, he got sick during the speed drills. We put him to bed with some ibuprofen–”

“Oh no–”

“We think he might have a stomach bug. Jane’s going to go a little more gently on him until he’s recovered.”

“What was it?”

“Well, we’re not sure. Stomach pains, headache. He looked like he might pass out at one point, and he was actually sick in the bathroom.” She suddenly thought that maybe the presumed ‘accident’ he must have had in his panties might have been digestive in nature rather than sexual. “How many of those cookies did he eat last night anyway?”

“Uh, three or four… Or five…”

“That’s all? Hmm.”

“You’re sure he’s not faking?” Valerie asked.

“Yes.”

Pause. “There speaks the voice of experience, I guess.” Valerie chuckled.

“Yes.” Marie smiled again.

“All right, all right.”

“So how are you enjoying the seaside?”

“It’s…” Pause. “It’s nice. Very retro. There are donkeys going up and down, and a little horse-drawn cart that’s painted to look like Thomas the Tank Engine, and there’s a kind of road-train thing on the promenade. Lizbeth’s having a great time.”

“And so are you?”

“Mmm, yeah.” The sound of Valerie thinking. “Yeah, I am.” Her voice was coming through a smile. “Let’s see, we just had a picnic, with cookies, which is how this happened, and I promised to help Lizbeth make a sandcastle when they get back. Then I think we plan on wandering up to the pier and looking at the tacky stuff. Probably when the tide comes in. The sea looks like it’s about a half mile away at the moment.”

“So are you wearing your new swimsuit?”

“I am wearing my new swimsuit.”

“And you went swimming too?”

“Uh-huh.” Again, through a smile.

“See? I told you.” The woman wasn’t born who wasn’t self-conscious in a swimming costume, Marie thought. In that respect Valerie was no different at all.

“Yeah, yeah. So did Val, but she’s a tart. There’s this guy hovering around? He keeps looking at me like he wants to chat me up, so I’m trying to stay on the phone until Mary gets back. Aloof, unattainable ice-maiden.”

Marie laughed. She hadn’t known Valerie had read that. “Is he terribly ugly?”

“Nah, he’s cute, I guess. If you’re into that kind of thing.”

“You could flirt,” Marie suggested.

“Why, Miss Marie, that would be terribly unmannerly, don’t you think? When I’ve come with a friend, to leave her and go in the company of some strange gentleman?”

Marie laughed again. “Jane would never approve.”

“Stop tempting me. Hey, I think I can see them coming back. I better get a book and look cultured or something.”

Marie could have passed comment on Valerie’s apparent, and growing, efforts to impress Mary, but she didn’t. And it wasn’t as if Valerie didn’t read for real anyway. Perhaps she had simply not found someone whom it would impress before. “I’d better leave you to your flirting then,” Marie said, cattily. Valerie made another rude noise and hung up.

“Valerie?” Jane asked from the door, making Marie jump slightly.

“Yes, just calling in. She’s enjoying herself.”

“Good. I snapped at her this morning. I should not have done that.”

“Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”

“Tea, thank you.”

Marie bobbed slightly and set about making it.

“I shouldn’t let her get to me,” Jane fretted. “She reminds me so much of Chris sometimes.”

“She did disobey you,” Marie observed.

“She isn’t required to be obedient,” Jane said. “But sometimes…”

“It would help,” Marie agreed. Jane only nodded and dropped the matter with a small wave of her hand. “I thought you were getting Jonathan up for lunch.”

“I’m sorry, Jane. He was so soundly asleep I couldn’t bear to do it. When I remembered he’d been up all night as well–”

“What is it about this child that inspires you both to these — these random acts of wanton kindness?”

Marie smiled at that. “He can be very sweet sometimes. Hadn’t you noticed?”

Jane sighed. “I had, actually; and of course we can hardly fail to reward that, when we see it, but it won’t do. He’s not here to be sweet–”

“Yes he is,” Marie challenged, grinning.

Jane blinked. “Yes, of course he is,” she chuckled, “but not yet, and on our terms, not his. He has a touch of ragamuffin charm about him, I grant you, but it’s not consistent, so it’s very probably just a ruse. We mustn’t allow ourselves to be seduced and lulled into making things too easy for him. He must be challenged and provoked into displaying his more negative traits before we can achieve anything.”

“Yes, Jane.” Everything else being ready, she turned the kettle on.

“How was he upstairs this morning? How’s the French going?”

“Trá¨s bien,” Marie replied automatically. “He finds it frustrating, of course.”

“Good. But he lacks the vocabulary to give full expression to his frustration?”

“Oh yes.”

“Excellent. This was providential, but I like some of the possibilities it opens up. Is he objecting to the use of the feminine when you speak to him?”

“No, but of course he misses a lot when it’s spoken. Perhaps some written exercises…”

Jane nodded. “Any other observations from the morning?”

“Yes,” Marie replied, then she was interrupted by the kettle boiling. She lifted it off its base and poured immediately over the teabags in the teapot and, satisfied, left it to infuse. “He has some breast enlargement, I saw while he was changing yesterday, and just now when I went up. Of course he tried to hide it earlier. I forget what it’s called…”

“Gynecomastia,” Jane affirmed. “I thought so too. Not uncommon in pubescent boys, of course; and he’s not the first we’ve had with that ‘problem.’ It does make some things easier. It’s almost a shame we have to keep him on the housebound course. He’s a delicate little thing, and prettier than his photographs promised. If he were to put on a few pounds…” she added wistfully.

“I was wondering if it might be why he hardly eats,” Marie ventured, “if he thinks that will make them disappear.”

Jane nodded. “And why he’s so body-shy, yes, very likely.” She fell silent, thoughtful, while Marie finished making the tea and poured for Jane and handed her the china cup and saucer wordlessly. Jane smiled thanks and sipped, and nodded her approval, all as a matter of automatic behaviour while she was thinking. Marie was content to wait.

“All right,” Jane said eventually. “Let him sleep on over lunch. I don’t want to pressure him with respect to food.” Marie nodded. “Wake him at four at the latest, if he doesn’t get up by himself before then. For the future, we may as well make use of what Valerie found out in the night. See if you can enlist his willing aid here in the kitchen; involve him in the preparation of food as much as is practical. Feed his senses. Follow that where your instinct leads you.” Marie nodded again, smiling broadly. “Naturally I shall keep him too busy for you to have every day, and snatch him away from you peremptorily from time to time, to maintain my villainous image.” She smiled wryly. “Helping you will be a reward I can bestow or withold, especially later, when he has schoolwork to complete.”

“Before breakfast could be a good bonding time,” Marie suggested. “He could help me then without fear that you would take him away.”

“Indeed. But let that evolve in response to my interruptions. Maybe he will come up with it himself. You’re going to Name him when you get him up?”

“Yes. I thought I’d call his new name to wake him.” Again.

“Oh, that should be interesting,” Jane smiled. “Let me know how that goes. Have you decided on a name?”

“Yes.”

Jane looked at her for a moment. “All right,” she said, chuckling. “As usual I’ll be the last to know.”

***

“Oh wait a minute,” Valerie said suddenly, and darted away to one of the little gift shops inside the entrance to the pier.

“Wha–?” Mary started, but she was talking to air.

“Where did she go?” Elizabeth said clearly, voicing her own thoughts.

“I don’t know,” Mary replied, and steered them both in the same direction.

They had dumped most of the stuff back in the car and got ready to set off relatively unencumbered down the promenade. Valerie had pulled out a spare floaty blue skirt and put it on, but left her top half clothed only in her black swimsuit. Mary thought she just looked so elegant; even with trainers on her feet and a small backpack slung over her shoulder. And the sun went crazy in her hair until she put her hat back on and smiled and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

She still seemed a little twitchy about all the motorcycles parked up and the clusters of bikers wandering around with fish and chips or drinking beer outside one of the pubs near the sea-front, but they were clearly just having a day out. There were a few younger teenagers — they had to be at least Valerie’s age, she realised suddenly, but they didn’t seem like it — on scooters making more of a noise every now and then, but nothing that couldn’t be ignored. It made her wonder. Mary had an excuse for getting grown-up fast. Having a child does that. It has to, in fact. She wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to Valerie to bring her to this place, away from her real family and friends, and everything she knew, and made her grow up so fast.

“Thank you,” Valerie was saying to the girl behind the counter as they caught up. “Oh, there you are.” She unslung her backpack.

“What did you get?”

Valerie held up a stick of rock. “I said I’d get some ‘rock’ for the new– for Natasha. This is the right stuff, isn’t it?”

“Aw, that’s nice of you.” Mary shoved her companionably. Valerie grinned and dropped it into her backpack and slung it back on over her shoulders.

“Can I have some?”

“No,” Mary said automatically. She liked her daughter with teeth, and not hyper. Definitely not hyper.

“But I want–” Elizabeth began, using a tone of voice that promised a scene.

“Hey, I got you something even better,” Valerie said quickly, dropping to Elizabeth’s side.

“I wan–” She thought about it. “What?”

“Valerie, are you bribing my daughter?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Well, that’s no way to ask, is it?” Valerie retorted. Elizabeth just laughed. “It’s a secret. I’ll give it to you at the end of the pier. If you’re good.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Okay,” she said, in a tone of voice that said whatever it was would have to be good to beat rock.

“Come on then. Look! What’s that?” She pointed up the pier. There was a little land-train pulling around in an arc ahead of them. “Let’s go on the train!”

And they were off. Mary followed behind, glad to leave Elizabeth to Valerie’s attention for a while. ~She’s so good with her,~ Mary thought. ~So easy. Like she doesn’t have to think about what is the right thing to say to a child–~

“Come on Mary, we’re waiting for you!” Valerie called, and she picked up speed to catch up.

“What have you got her then?” Mary asked, sitting next to her.

“It’s a secret.” She grinned. “I don’t believe they’re playing canned music!” The music wasn’t on the train, it was coming from speakers above the central division running down most of the length of the pier.

“Isn’t it awful?” she said, as if saying ‘isn’t it wonderful?’ They were playing the theme tune to The Onedin Line.

“Is this part of the meme?”

***

The pier widened towards the end around a large games arcade. Valerie looked in as if she might be interested in that, but Mary wasn’t, and Elizabeth took a couple of steps in and clearly found it too loud for comfort. So Valerie came back out with them and they went around to the very end of the pier, which was occupied by some open-air games for small children. Elizabeth insisted on having a go on them, to the extent that Mary wondered if she’d forgotten about Valerie’s promised present.

Not a chance.

So Elizabeth was enthralled with her new pair of binoculars (they weren’t expensive-looking, Mary could see to her relief), and put them to immediate use inspecting the view from the pier towards the old part of town, where prettily-coloured buildings rose in uneven layers up the steep hillside and glowed in the afternoon sun.

***

“Natasha,” Marie called softly. ~I hope she wasn’t awake enough earlier to remember.~ “Natasha, chérie. Réveille-toi.”

There was just a long, resigned-sounding breath from the bed.

“Tu dois te lever, Natasha,” Marie said.

“I’m awake,” the girl said irritably. Another sigh and she rolled over and sat up, clutching the sheets up to her throat. “What the fuck?” She pulled the sleeping mask off and blinked at it for a moment, curiously. Then she looked at Marie; suddenly a calm, direct gaze. “I wondered when that was going to happen,” she said dryly. She didn’t seem at all put out by it. “Natasha,” she enunciated. “Hmm.” She stretched the sleeping mask out by its elasticated headband and fired it at the ballerina picture opposite.

Marie gave her a stern look, but didn’t comment, merely going across and picking it up. “N’est-ce pas un joli nom? Je pense qu’il te convient.” Marie smiled sweetly, bringing the mask back to put into the bedside drawers. Natasha just shrugged. “Maintenant, lá¨ves-toi. Madame veut te voir.”

“Can I have some privacy, maybe?”

“En français, s’il te plaá®t,” Marie felt it necessary to remind her.

Natasha just stuck two fingers up towards her, knuckles forward. “Agincourt,” she said, in case Marie missed the reference, and flopped back down.

~So much for ragamuffin charm,~ Marie thought. “Tu ferais mieux de surveiller tes maniá¨res, mon enfant. Tu ne veux pas que Madame soit fá¢chée aprá¨s toi.”

“Fuck off and die.” Marie was at a loss to respond for a few moments. It seemed so wrong compared to how he had been that morning: Tired and ill, as it later proved, but he had been trying nonetheless.

“Trá¨s bien, si tu ne veux pas de mon aide,” Marie said coldly, “Je m’en vais.” She turned to go.

“Thank you,” Natasha said to her back, with obvious sarcasm.

As Marie left to report the infraction to Jane, she couldn’t help but imagine wistfully that Jennifer would have reacted with more grace. But then, she wouldn’t need to be here, would she? she reminded herself, and felt better. Jane was right, as always. And she will mend her ways. It wouldn’t be satisfying if it was easy. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs she was smiling her own approximation of an evil smile.

***

“Tide’s coming in fast now,” Valerie commented.

“Mmm.”

They were walking on up the promenade. The sea advanced to their left under a silvery lowering sun, and the pier fell away behind them as they continued around the wide bay. Up close, the picturesque buildings they had seen from the pier looked faded and neglected, but some charm lingered on them still. They were getting further and further away from the car, Mary noted. “I’m tired,” Elizabeth protested, as if to illustrate why this might become a problem. “I want to go back.”

“We’ll go back soon,” Mary promised.

“I don’t want to.” Elizabeth humphed and turned to Valerie, arms raised.

“Up you come!” Valerie managed, lifting the child aloft and supporting her astride her hip. “You’re really getting a bit big for this, you know,” she observed. Elizabeth did the sweet thing and hugged her.

“What do you want, little thing?” Mary asked.

“Mmm.” Elizabeth thought. “Chips.”

“Ooh, good call,” Valerie agreed.

“She means fries,” Mary said, just to be sure.

“I know.” Grin. “I say, I do live here, old bean,” Valerie declared in a comically English accent. Elizabeth laughed at it. Mary knew that Valerie could do a much more realistic accent if she wanted to; normally she didn’t. She said once she’d rather let it do its own thing than get caught out faking at a bad time. “What do you think? Chips okay for her?”

“Chips!”

“A few,” Mary negotiated. “Or shall we make this proper dinner?” she asked Valerie.

“Proper dinner!” Elizabeth voted. “I want fish and chips.”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Please may I have fish and chips,’” Valerie admonished.

“You’re so posh.”

“Watch out, or I’ll set Aunt Jane onto you.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Go on, say it properly,” Valerie insisted.

She humphed again. “Please may I have fish and chips please right now!”

Valerie gazed to the heavens for a moment.

“Yes all right,” Mary relented. “When we find a place that does it.”

“Which we could get to quicker if I didn’t have to carry you,” Valerie pointed out.

“Abbie wants some too.”

“Well, you and Abbie can share, can’t you?” Mary pointed out. At least since Elizabeth had made that concession they didn’t have to set out an extra place at mealtimes any more.

“Yeah. I want to get down.”

Valerie sighed and swung her down to the ground again, and straightened with a sigh of relief. Elizabeth ran on ahead.

“Don’t go too far ahead,” Mary warned.

“You should get one of those harness things,” Valerie suggested.

“Oh God, no. I hate those, don’t you?” They walked. “I probably shouldn’t be encouraging her.”

“What?”

“Oh, this whole ‘Abbie’ thing.”

“I don’t know. It’s kinda cute.”

“I suppose. Sometimes I wish she had more real friends though. Having said that, I think Kim’s a worse influence on her than Abbie is.” She grinned. “And I like that I can leave her to play by herself if I’m busy. She’s not like some of the other playgroup kids, it’s just attention attention attention all the time or they turn into monsters, like they’re blackmailing you, and people seem to think that’s normal, and the supervisor comes to me and says ‘your daughter is always playing by herself,’ like that’s a bad thing and I’m doing something terribly wrong.”

“I think she’s fine. A little weird, but okay.”

“You’re saying my daughter’s weird?” Mary asked archly.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Valerie pointed out, echoing her own words. “I like weird. I like you, don’t I?”

“Yes, but you’re weird.”

Valerie cackled. “You have no idea.”

“No, but you’ll tell me one day.” Mary slid her arm casually through under Valerie’s and leant slightly against her as they walked. She felt a slight twitch of Valerie’s startlement, and felt rather than saw Valerie’s quick, curious glance across. She didn’t pull away, though. Progress, of a sort. She was usually so touch-shy. “Mum says if she’s anything like me she’ll grow out of it soon enough,” she said aloud.

“You had an imaginary friend too?” Valerie said.

“Shh. Don’t say the ‘I’ word,” she warned nodding ahead towards Elizabeth. “Thing is, it was all the wrong way round. I was the naughty one, and she used to tell me to be good and sensible when I didn’t want to be. I just wanted to have fun.” She chuckled lightly. “‘Girls just wanna have fu-un,’” she sang.

“Augh! Get thee hence!” Valerie made a warding gesture with her free hand.

Mary laughed. “Oh, God. Of course, I still blamed her when I got into trouble.”

“That’s moderately evil,” Valerie observed. “Did she have a name?”

“Donna. And she had bright red hair, I mean, really red, like glowing crimson, and when we used to drive somewhere she’d run alongside the car and keep up.” She chuckled. “Don’t ask me to explain how that works.”

“How old were you when you stopped believing in her?”

Mary sighed. “I don’t know. Five? Six? I can’t really remember.”

They walked on, following Elizabeth, off in her private world as she wandered.

“Bitch, you’ve got that song stuck in my head now,” Valerie muttered.

“Quick, sing something else.”

“Aah! Can’t think of anything!”

“Errr… ‘Teletubbies, Tele–’”

“Augh!”

“Well, you–”

“‘Meeting you, with a view to a kill,’” Valerie began.

“Oh you’re kidding!” Mary objected.

“‘First crystal tears / Fall as snowflakes on your body,’” Valerie continued, speaking, not singing, in a quieter voice, and suddenly very serious. “‘First time in years / To drench your skin with lover’s rosy stain.’” She stepped aside lightly, taking Mary’s hand and turning towards her in one smooth, dancerly motion. “‘A chance to find a phoenix for the flame,’” she sang softly and stepped in close, close, “‘A chance to die…’” She let it fade on her lips. Mary found herself looking into those arresting blue eyes.

“What are you doing?” Elizabeth demanded. They both dissolved into laughter together. “What’s funny?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

***

“Bonjour, Mam’selle,” Natasha said, behind her. Marie turned to see the youth in the doorway to the kitchen. “Oá¹ est Madame s’il vous plaá®t?”

Marie blinked. There she was, looking innocently at her as if the earlier altercation had never happened.

“Er, je l’ai choisie,” Natasha said, with a loose gesture at the dress she was wearing; clearly misinterpreting Marie’s stare. “Est-il correctement?”

“Oui, oui. Tiens-toi droite,” Marie said. “Elle est dans le salon.”

“Merci, Mam’selle.” She managed a rough curtsey — ~Jane must have showed her earlier in the day,~ Marie thought — and left.

***

~What am I doing?~ Mary asked herself. ~Are we flirting? Is something happening?~

The setting sun made Valerie’s skin seem to glow. Her hair shimmered. Mary couldn’t take her eyes off her.

They had found an undisturbed spot on the seaward side of a small headland with some old, abandoned buildings. The decaying walls shone in muted reds and golds in the dying light. They could see the pier’s lights come on, halfway around the bay, and a distant sound of dance music from the sea-front clubs. Mary felt oddly divorced from that world. Clubbing, getting drunk, getting pulled. The usual definition of ‘having fun.’ It astonished her that she used to be so into that sort of thing with the friends she had back then. Making themselves up to look older to get into the proper clubs past the proper bouncers. It was as if it happened to a different person.

Sometimes she missed it.

It was nice being with Valerie, she decided. Just being with her. Like this. Especially when Valerie forgot to be so wary of people. She could be funny about serious things. Mary had always heard Americans were supposed to be bad at that. And sometimes Valerie was a little wistful and lost in a way that made Mary want to hold her and make it better. And always that smooth elegant carriage, that delicacy of movement that was captivating to watch, the careful, modulated voice, and eyes you could fall into–

~I’ve got a crush on her?~

“I’m not gay,” she said aloud.

“Pardon?” Valerie asked, turning her head to face her.

“Nothing. Ignore me.” She blushed and paid attention to her daughter. Elizabeth had finally had enough and had fallen asleep, half-sprawled across her lap. Valerie had produced what she called a ‘space blanket’ from her backpack and draped it loosely over the child. It was silvery and sparkled in the gold light.

She stroked her daughter’s hair.

“Have you ever kissed a girl?” Valerie said. She had a humoured look about her.

“Yes,” Mary replied. ~She did hear then.~ “Once.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “It was nice.”

“Uh-huh.” She seemed to be enjoying a private joke.

“What? We were twelve. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What about the first time you kissed a guy?”

“Ugh.”

Valerie laughed.

“We didn’t know what we were doing. He was all over me.”

“So let me get this straight–”

“I thought that was exactly what you didn’t want–”

Valerie chuckled and went ahead anyway. “You kissed a girl, and liked it so much you never did it again, and you kissed a guy, hated it, and thought ‘I’ll get me some more of that.’ Have I got that right?”

“No! It’s not like that–”

Valerie grinned widely. She was teasing.

“All right then,” Mary said. “Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Go on, kiss me. Convert me. Or what do you call it? Recruit me.” She grinned and closed her eyes. “I’m waiting.”

She waited. After a few moments she felt the heat from Valerie’s face, very close to hers. Then it pulled away. “No.”

“No?” Mary spluttered, opening her eyes. Valerie was sitting back again, next to her.

“No.”

Mary flushed, embarrassed. She wasn’t sure if it was more because it was her idea, or because Valerie had chosen not to.

“I haven’t got a chance. You’re all scrunched up determined to hate it.” She grinned evilly. “I’ll ambush you later.”

“You–” Mary was lost for words. She settled for a scowl and shifted round to lean against Valerie, carefully so as to not disturb Elizabeth. The movement obliged Valerie to lift her arm over Mary’s shoulder and let it rest at her waist, next to Elizabeth’s head. It was nice. “Hah. Can’t reach me now, yer perv,” she crowed.

She felt a pressure through her hair near the top of her head for a moment, then it was gone. Mary felt as if a wave of heat tingled down her whole body from that point.

“So,” she said, trying to change the subject, but not too much, “have you ever been kissed by a guy?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And?”

“It was nice,” Valerie echoed.

“So you never did it again.”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean, yes, I did do it again.”

“So…?”

“So what?”

“So who was he?”

“No-one you know.”

“Oh come on, Vee–”

“Travis. His name was Travis,” Valerie admitted. “And I was only seeing him as a favour to a friend.” Mary twisted to look at her. “Don’t ask. It was just a few times.”

“But you liked it.”

“Uh… Actually I freaked, the first time. It just… happened, before I could stop it. It was… intense.”

“Heh, yeah,” Mary agreed.

“Not as nice as kissing Debbie.”

“Who was that? Your girlfriend?”

Valerie nodded. “One and only.” A small smile.

“What happened? How come you split up?”

“We didn’t.” A shift in Valerie’s body warned her to sit up, and Valerie stood and walked the few steps to the parapet. She stood still, her gaze following where the sun had now set.

~Something must have happened to her,~ Mary thought. “I’m sorry. You must miss her.” Every time she was with Valerie, Mary felt it: A shadow of some unnamed cataclysm in her history, separating her from everyone and everything she’d grown up with.

“Mummy?” Elizabeth said, waking up.

“It’s all right, love,” Mary reassured her, her attention divided.

“When are we going home?” Elizabeth asked drowsily.

The moment was gone. Mary felt unutterably sad. “Soon, dear. Valerie? It’s getting late. I think–”

“Yes, of course,” Valerie said distantly. Then she turned back to face them both.

“I’m really sorry, Vee,” Mary started again.

“I know. It’s okay. You couldn’t know.” She essayed a smile. “I’m just being weird.” Deep breath. “And not really okay. Uh, look, it’s a long walk back to the car. Why don’t you two wait near here while I go get it?”

“No, we’ll walk back–”

“No,” Valerie said, a little too firmly. “It’s too far for Lizbeth. She’s too tired.” It was transparently a pretext, but Mary read the message clearly enough: Valerie wanted to be alone. She looked like she wanted to cry.

“Oh, Vee, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, I feel really rotten now.”

“It’s okay, I’m not upset,” Valerie lied. Seagulls skittered across the darkening sky, and the deep rhythm of the music came from somewhere along the sea front. More lights were coming on, decorating the promenade and the pier as if in fairy-lanterns.

“I don’t want you to leave us,” she said. She didn’t like having to ask. It sounded pathetic even to her own ears, but she had Elizabeth, and couldn’t afford to be proud. “I don’t like the idea of sitting here alone with Lizbeth. She’ll be okay to walk, won’t you, dear?”

Elizabeth just nodded, bless her. She could read the tension well enough.

Valerie frowned thoughtfully and glanced at Elizabeth. “Of course,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself.

“Let’s go home, then,” Mary said. “Up you get, little one.”

***

The tide had come all the way in. Waves sloshed and broke against the sea wall to their right. “Oh shit, the car,” Valerie said suddenly.

“It’s okay. They don’t let you park below high-tide. The sea comes up higher at this end of the beach.”

It was getting darker, but the sky to the west was still pale, and the lights along the pier glittered off the black sea. The pier was still in front of them, and somewhere ahead dance music boomed. Occasionally there was still the high-pitched whine of a motor scooter being thrashed. She was glad she’d made Valerie stay and not go ahead to fetch the car. If anything she’d have felt safer closer to all the music and clubbers and where the lights were bright, than where they had been at the quiet far end of the beach.

Something about being in Valerie’s company made her feel safe. It wasn’t really logical. There wasn’t anything going on that would worry Mary if she had been on her own, but she had to worry more, because of Elizabeth. And in any case, if anything happened, what could Valerie do, with her slight frame and delicate manners?

She took Valerie’s hand, without comment. Something like it had worked before. And again, Valerie shot her a curious look, but didn’t pull away. ~Maybe I didn’t completely make her hate me then,~ Mary hoped. Her other hand was already taken up holding on to Elizabeth, who was being blessedly quiet and contemplative, occasionally breaking off with a “Look,” and a point if they passed something interesting.

“I’m sorry,” Valerie said quietly.

“You don’t have to be.”

Another moment of silence.

“It takes a long time for me to really trust someone.” Mary felt a squeeze on her hand. “Longer than I’d like. It’s just the way I was…” Valerie didn’t complete that thought.

“That’s okay,” Mary said.

“No, it’s not because I want to get to know you better and I know that means you get to know me better and that scares the hell out of me.” It came out quickly, in a rush.

“Why?”

“There’s a lot of stuff that’s really… really hard to talk about.” Mary looked across again. Valerie was actually sweating, as if saying as much as she was was a real struggle. “I left behind a lot of weird sh– stuff. But I did leave it behind. I’m here now. And, uh, when you push me about stuff that happened… before I came here. I can get a little weird, I guess.”

“Okay. I won’t ask.”

“Ask.” Quick, worried smile. “Just don’t push. I’ll get there. It doesn’t all hurt. There’s a lot that doesn’t hurt.”

“Like kissing guys.”

She smiled easier. “Yeah, that just itches.” Another quick, uncertain smile, as if asking ‘was that funny?’

They walked on in silence for a while.

“You probably think I’m crazy now,” Valerie said quietly.

“I’ve thought you were crazy from the day I met you,” Mary pointed out.

Valerie looked at her oddly again for a moment. Then she grinned widely. After that her step lightened.

“But in a cute way,” Mary explained.

“I’m not cute.”

“Yes you are. When you’re not trying to be all buttoned-down and normal. You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

“Never did,” Valerie said quietly. Then she did a turn, almost dance-like, and then she was kissing her, full on the lips. In her surprise Mary could only gasp inward through her nose.

A thread of vigilance remained: her hand, holding Elizabeth’s. Her other hand was still in Valerie’s.

Valerie’s other hand was cupping the back of her head. ~Oh, what is she doing? Right here on the promenade with people all around?~

~In front of Elizabeth!~

It was delicious though, and not at all what she was expecting.

Then she was released. She took a step back, blushing, and a scattered applause went up from some of the nearby club-goers that had been treated to the unexpected spectacle. Valerie, next to her, dipped into a dainty curtsey directed at the audience, and the applause faded into laughter. Valerie straightened. She was blushing deeply, Mary saw, but she had a huge grin on her face.

“Mummy, Auntie Vee kissed you!”

“You still think I’m cute?” Valerie said aside to her. Their impromptu audience dispersed into the flow of people passing around them. She leaned close to Mary’s ear. “Tell me you hated it and I’ll never do it again.”

Mary started to speak, but her own grin got in the way.

“God,” she managed eventually, then she burst into giggles. She let go of Valerie’s hand to cover her mouth. “Cow. That’s not fair.”

“Tell me you hated it, and I’ll never do it again,” Valerie repeated.

Mary had to settle for thumping Valerie’s shoulder. Valerie snickered

“Mummy, Auntie Vee kissed you!” Elizabeth repeated, more forcefully.

Mary was recovering some wits. “Did she? When?”

“Just now!”

“Are you sure?” Mary teased. “I didn’t notice.”

“Yes! She kissed you! Abbie saw it too!”

“Oh well, in that case it must be true,” Mary conceded.

“RAAR!” Valerie roared, and swung Elizabeth, squealing, up into the air.

***

Mary glanced behind her. Elizabeth had fallen asleep in the back seat. Worn out. Mary turned back to face front again. Almost. She settled slightly sideways in the comfortable seat, so she could watch Valerie drive.

“Valerie,” she said softly, “are you dating me?”

There was no answer, immediately.

“’Cause if you are you should tell me in advance,” Mary continued quickly, finding the silence unbearable. “So’s I can ditch the sproglet at home and get all dolled up.”

Valerie chuckled. “I’d take you somewhere nicer than a fish and chip stand,” she said lightly. “Besides, I like the sproglet.”

Silence again.

“Would you hate it?” Valerie asked.

Mary looked at that thought for a while. Turned it over.

“No,” she decided. “God.” She laughed nervously, then fell silent.“I don’t know if I can… do the sex thing. Um. With a girl.”

Valerie laughed. “I should hope not on a first date.”

Mary couldn’t help grinning at that. ~This is crazy. This isn’t me.~ “What about the second date?” she asked cheekily.

“The second date is where I turn up at your place driving a U-Haul. I’m told it’s traditional.”

Mary laughed aloud that time. “Actually that part sounds really attractive right now.” She sighed and snuggled in her seat.

“What?”

“Oh, Mum and Dad.” She fell silent. “God, I need to move out.”

“Mmm,” Valerie agreed.

“How can I?” She sighed. “I’m stuck, aren’t I? I’m nineteen, and I’m stuck with a child, and I’m stuck living with my parents ’cause I’m not bringing her up in a bed-and-breakfast and I can’t see an end to it for years, and what am I doing messing about with Drama anyway? That’s like, guaranteeing I’ll never be able to support her on my own, isn’t it? I should be getting a proper job.” ~At least Mum and Dad never say that.~ “But…” She shook her head. “I just feel like I’m on the shelf already. People see I’ve got a kid and they run a mile.”

“Not me,” Valerie said quietly, but Mary was on a roll.

“They think I’m out to trap them or something. Can’t I just be horny?” Valerie chuckled. “Can’t I just be lonely?” came out before she could recall it. “Bugger. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Not really,” Mary said, fighting back a sniffle. “Saw something on telly,” she said. “Someone was saying how a lot of teenage girls get pregnant just ’cause they’re lonely. Just so they can have someone who’ll love them. God. I thought, is that what I did? Is that how stupid I was? I mean. I wasn’t stupid. I knew about contraception. Sometimes I think I just…”

“Wanted a child,” Valerie said.

Mary nodded.

“What about your folks? Your mom and dad? They love you don’t they?”

“Yeah, but…” She sighed. “They still think I’m that stupid slag who got herself pregnant, you know?”

Valerie nodded.

“What about you? You’ll move out when you go to university, I bet?”

Valerie nodded again. “I guess.” She sighed.

“What’s it like, though? Living there? Are you itching to get out too?”

“I can’t stop feeling…” Valerie started, but then stopped herself, as if still unsure she wanted to say it. Mary waited. “She’s capricious. That’s a SAT word,” she added, in a wry aside.

“Who, your mu– your adopted mum I mean?”

Valerie nodded. “I can’t help feeling that I’m just her latest public good works project. She’ll get bored of me or… or mad at me, which is frankly more likely.” Tiny smile. It faded. “She’s done so much for me. I just get scared she can take it all away if I don’t…” She trailed off.

“Do what she wants?” Mary asked.

“Be who she wants. She’s got some pretty… particular ideas about how ‘young ladies’ should behave.”

“And dating girls doesn’t feature, I bet?” Mary supplied.

“Actually I think she’d be okay about that.”

“Yeah? God, I can’t imagine what Mum would say if she found out about this.” ~That was stupid, kissing in front of Elizabeth,~ she realised suddenly.

“She’ll be fine. Your mom’s cool. Just don’t wait too long to tell her. You guys are close. Leave it too long, the fact you didn’t tell her is going to be worse than what you didn’t tell her.”

Mary sighed, fretting. “I can’t believe…” she began. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Talking about this.” She shook her head, and felt aware of Valerie being very quiet as she drove.

“If you don’t like it, don’t do it,” Valerie said eventually.

“Oh,” ~That’s not what I meant.~ “I like it. I just don’t believe it. I’m really surprising myself today.” ~Am I just jumping on the first person in five years to show an interest? Am I just that desperate?~ She watched Valerie drive. She thought about the increasing amount of time they’d spent together in the last month. ~It hasn’t all happened today,~ she realised. She thought about how Valerie paid attention to her when they were together. She thought about how special she felt in Valerie’s company; how witty and interesting she must be for someone as cool and elegant and smart like Valerie to want to spend time with her.

***

Singing to a gold disc, driving alone at night:

I kissed a girl, her lips were sweet
She was just like kissing me

~Actually that’s a testable postulate…~

Mike snickered. Valerie batted the empty air above the passenger seat as if he was physically there, and just sang louder and drove.

I kissed a girl, won’t change the world
But I’m so glad
I kissed a girl
For the first time…

~Not like Debbie.~ And a little of the old, habitual, ~If she ever finds out she’ll kill me…~ If she could reach across an ocean and… a wider gulf than that. “Testing the universe,” Mike would say. “You’re daring it to stand in her way.”

It was a silly, childish, superstitious faith to have in someone. Debbie had been like an extraordinary force of nature. Charismatic, troubled, energetic, alarmingly precocious, with a fiendishly clever sense of humour, she stole into Valerie’s life like Coyote and everything changed, utterly and beyond recall. But she wasn’t Coyote, and she wasn’t a force of nature, she was a high school student, and she could no more follow after Valerie than Valerie could find a way to return to her.

It was almost comical how unlike her Mary was, but perhaps it had to be that way. Anyone anything like Debbie would be a painful disappointment. And besides, Valerie wasn’t sure she could survive another Debbie.

Indeed, she’d passed up the offer to try.

But if anyone at home had heard she was embarking on a relationship with a single mother two years older than herself… There’d probably be an Intervention. But that was okay because they’d all get their socks charmed off by little Elizabeth. Mike would grumble that she wasn’t thinking again, but that’s just what he did.

“Hey!”

It would be okay. Valerie chuckled. She turned the car through the gates and started along the winding driveway up to the house.

And stopped.

She put the car into reverse and drove backwards the short distance to where the drive widened inside the gates, turned the car around and put the handbrake on and put it out of gear. The headlamps were already on full-beam, and they illuminated the front of the small gatehouse. Out in the country there was almost nothing visible beyond the reach of the headlamps except the ever-present distant orange glow from some town far over the horizon.

Valerie got out of the car and looked at the gatehouse in the pale halogen light.

“Are you serious about this?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

She reached back into the car and turned the engine off so she could retrieve the keys. She had a key to the gatehouse, but she’d only been inside once before, when she was first scoping the whole place. She crossed to the front door and unlocked it and shoved it open, against resistance. The door was warped with age and rain and sun and didn’t really fit the doorway any more. Well, that was fixable. The car’s headlamps flooded in through the open doorway and windows, and reflected enough for her to see the light switch just inside. “Aziz! Light!” she murmured, and pushed it. There was light, from a naked and dusty bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. “Cool.” The rear wall of the ground floor was actually part of the outer perimeter wall of the grounds, and had no windows. Dusty, worn-looking wooden floor, old-fashioned faded wallpaper, and boxes of junk. She’d been through them already on her first visit and stripped out anything of interest; and there hadn’t been much.

“You think she’ll go for it?”

“It’s worth a try. She might. It’ll get me out of the way so she can play with her new toy in peace.” She hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but it came out that way anyway.

“Not Jane. Mary.”

Valerie looked carefully along the walls. It was neglected, but it didn’t seem too bad. There was no sign of damp, at any rate. Presumably Jane would have a surveyor’s report on the place somewhere at home. “Got to be better than leaving it standing empty anyway,” she said. “Even if it’s just me.”

She wandered across into the back room. The kitchen, as it turned out, although it was rather rudimentary; a back door leading into a small yard fenced off from the open parkland of the estate, and bizarrely, another door leading from the kitchen into a small bathroom, apparently in an extension built more recently than the rest of the gatehouse. She remembered the shape of it from outside. The bathroom extension was on the ground floor only, and entirely hidden from the road.

She backed out of the kitchen and went up the stairs, carefully; but they seemed sturdy, which matched with her memory. At the top, the small landing led only into two rooms, each looking out both over the road and the fields beyond, and inwards onto the estate, although at the moment just at the headlamps of the Mercedes. She could just make out the lights of the main house in the distance. The smaller room had a window overlooking the gate itself, and the larger one had had the side wall knocked through to make a patio-style door onto the roof of the bathroom extension. She stepped around the junk boxes to get to it, but could see nothing outside the window in the darkness.

“You know, this could be nice.”

“What are you going to tell her?” She didn’t have any answer for that. Not yet. “This isn’t something you can put off.”

***

Valerie locked up the garage and cut through the walled garden to the back of the house. The kitchen lights were on, and she could smell the blossom and other early-blooming flowers, and Marie’s herb garden. Spring was here, and summer coming. She couldn’t keep from smiling.

Marie and Jane were in the kitchen, seated at the table, chatting. “Bonsoir, Valérie,” Marie greeted her.

“I’m back.” She grinned. “And to prove it, I’m here.”

“I take it you had a nice day,” Jane inquired.

“I did.” Valerie dumped her backpack by the table and fell happily into her accustomed chair. “I definitely did. Nathan gone to bed, I presume?”

“Natasha,” Jane informed her.

A look from Marie, and a small nod, then Marie got up and went to the working area of the kitchen.

“Oh, you got that done, then,” Valerie said. “Mm, Tasha. That works.”

“Would you like something, Valerie? Hot milk toddy?”

Valerie hesitated, then decided, “Ooh, yes please.” She flashed Jane a grin. “That reminds me,” she turned back to Marie, “I couldn’t find the nutmeg last night.”

“Oh, no, it’s here.” Marie retrieved it from the wrong cupboard. “My fault. I remember doing it now.”

“And yes, she went up about an hour ago,” Jane continued, as Valerie turned back. “We were just comparing observations. In view of what happened last night, I’m going to keep watch on him tonight.” Valerie didn’t comment on the mixed use of pronouns. It would take a few days for everyone to settle down.

“So…” Marie cajoled, returning to the table, “you’re looking far too pleased with yourself. What have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” Valerie said, automatically. She couldn’t keep the grin off her face.

“You look like the cat that got the cream,” Jane remarked.

“I might have…” Valerie drew it out for effect, “kissed a girl.”

Marie gasped. “Your friend Mary?” Like she was really surprised. Haha. Mike was convinced Marie was some kind of witch. She’d put a spell on Valerie; it was the only sane explanation.

“Uh-huh.” She sounded smug. She couldn’t help it. “I think I may have just earned enough points that we can finally get a dishwasher.” Grin. It was an old complaint.

“Oh, Valerie,” Marie said, and leaned over to hug her. “I’m happy for you.”

“Is she the one with the four-year-old daughter?” Jane asked.

“Yes.”

“So when do we get to meet them?” Marie remonstrated, heading back to the cooking area.

“I only kissed her!” Valerie protested. “She’s probably going to be all ‘I didn’t know what I was thinking, can we just be friends,’ tomorrow,” she added, a little despondenly. “If I’m lucky,” she admitted.

“So, when do we get to meet them?” Marie repeated, ignoring her protestations.

“Well,” Valerie sighed dramatically and cast a meaningful look at Jane.

“It depends,” Jane said carefully. “What do you plan on telling her?”

“About Nathan? Nothing if I can help it. Is he going to stand up to that?”

Jane looked thoughtful. “It may be a little soon, then. Maybe next week, if she maintains her current attitude. I was only saying to Marie earlier that it’s a shame we have to keep her on the housebound course.”

“The what? What’s that?”

“Did you think all our students have been able to pass in public?” Marie called from across the kitchen.

~Ah. He’s not going outside then?~ For some reason she felt a little sad about that.

“I long suspected there was some cherry-picking involved on the part of my referrers in the States,” Jane admitted. “It was obvious my students included a statistically improbable number of boys who were, perhaps, relatively unravaged by puberty–” Valerie snickered. “–But I assure you it wasn’t a policy on my part. And yes, there have been students for whom the mountain had to come to Mohammed; we couldn’t realistically present them in public.”

“Even Edith White would have seen what was going on,” Marie remarked. Valerie flashed to a memory. Some day Jane was going to enjoy the story of Edith White’s reaction to one of Jane’s young ladies crashing through the hall on inline skates.

“But Nathan looked okay, I thought. Skinny, but…”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure Nathan would have been fine. I don’t doubt that Reggie has cherry-picked again. But this is a new country, and I don’t know enough people I can trust. I simply feel it’s… too rash a step to take, at this stage.”

“Too rash?” Valerie crowed. “That does it. Now I know you’re not the same as the other one!”

Marie chuckled and returned to the table with a steaming mug. “There you go, dear.

“Marie, you’re a star.” ~What an odd thing to say,~ she thought suddenly, trying to remember who she must have got that phrase from.

“Be in bed an hour after you finish.”

“Your secret ingredient?”

“Of course.” Marie sat, self-satisfied.

There. Right there, was a real Difference. She sipped and said nothing. Last year’s Marie didn’t do this whole herbalism, aromatherapy stuff. Not as far as Valerie had found out, anyway. The house had always smelled nice, but she’d put that down to flowers and, of course, Marie’s superlative cooking. Then there were the perfumes as well. But there was a difference. It reminded her of a dream. The house smelled different.

It was, to be fair, a different house. She wanted that to be a sufficient explanation. She wasn’t sure that that other Marie hadn’t used oils and herbs this way as well; she’d just never been made aware of it. It had implications.

~If Marie is different…~ She glanced at Jane. ~Can I trust Jane to be the same?~

“It makes things harder,” Jane was continuing. “Without any excursions into areas where there’s even the possibility of uncontrolled contact, it’s easy for the student to become too comfortable and complacent. I can only do so much by bringing outsiders for him to encounter here before he realises he’s safe from exposure. I have to compensate with more demands, more perfectionism, and more seeming caprice on my part, and I usually have to keep them here longer.”

Valerie still didn’t really understand why the kid had to feel unsafe. She had been so afraid, and all it did was make her worse, until something had to give. But she let it go. She wasn’t supposed to be involved. She sipped her hot toddy and felt herself relax and drift a little while Marie and Jane went on discussing Natasha around her, and their plans for the next day.

She yawned.

“Go to bed, Valerie,” Marie said, gently.

She nodded. She’d finished the hot toddy anyway. She was only staring into space. “What’s in this stuff anyway?”

“Just some herbs.”

~Deadly nightshade is a herb,~ she thought to herself. ~Should pay more attention.~ But she’d had this before, the last time her nightmares got bad. It helped a little. And she knew Jane sometimes took it as well.

She’d ask tomorrow. For now, bed beckoned. She remembered something and opened the top of her backpack, leaning against the table by her side. She pulled out the cellophane-wrapped candy. “I said I’d get him one,” she said, holding it up.

“What is it?” Marie asked.

Jane was chuckling. “‘A stick of rock,’” she informed Marie. “Valerie, you didn’t have to to that,” Jane said.

“See, the writing goes all the way through,” Valerie explained, showing Marie the ‘WESTON-S-MARE’ visible in cross-section at the end. She got up. “I’ll give it him now, if he’s still awake.” She still needed that shower. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Valerie,” Jane said.

“Sweet dreams,” Marie wished.

“Thanks. Now I’ll get the sugar monster,” Valerie retorted, and left the room to go upstairs. “Aargh, the Pilsbury Doughboy!”

“Go to bed!” Jane called behind her.

***

Jane curled up with the phone receiver between her head and the pillow. The CCTV monitor was the only illumination now, showing the grainy image of a bed and a sleeping form under the covers. She knew she ought to either turn it off and get some sleep or get up and stay awake properly.

“Well, that’s wonderful news.” Her husband’s voice was lagged from the distance. “I’m so glad she feels able to do this. Have you met this girl yet?”

“No. We were just discussing earlier when it would be prudent to arrange a visit, now we have Natasha here.”

“Oh, I’d have thought if Valerie was to be in a relationship with this girl, she’d have to know the truth.”

“Yes, in time. Valerie has her own bombshell to drop, of course. We don’t know if this new relationship will even survive that.”

“Oh dear, yes of course. The poor girl, it must be very hard.”

“I think she’s very brave.”

“Hmm,” Art murmured thoughtfully.

“So how’s my other little waif and stray and when is he going to come visit his dear Momma-Jane?” Jane amused herself with her emulation of motherly behaviour.

“Didn’t he tell you? He’s going on vacation with Angie once the semester ends–”

“Oh yes, he did say.” She researched her memory. “Angela. Isn’t she the one who keeps threatening to get him to dress up as a girl?”

Art chuckled. “And made good on the ‘threat’ on several occasions, I’m told. Apparently now she’s daring him to dress for the entire vacation. He’s making a big show of being reluctant and having to think about it.”

“And winning no end of incentives in return, I’m sure.” Jane laughed aloud. “It sounds like Darla’s going to have a lovely–” she started, then broke off as she caught sight of the CCTV monitor again. “Oh my goodness!”

“Jane?”

“Art, I’ll call you back.” She was already getting up, awkwardly, still holding the phone to her ear. “We’ve got a situation.” Her feet found her slippers by reflex as she sat up out of bed. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, she reminded herself; that was why she had been staying awake watching the monitors in the first place. She hung up and grabbed her dressing gown off the back of her bedroom door.

She picked up the keycard and pulled her own door open, hurrying along the long landing while still tying the waist-band of her gown. She heard the racket as she approached, slapping the light switch for the landing without stopping. Natasha was crying or shouting something in desperation, banging on the other side of her door, making the door-frame shake with the impact.

She saw a strip of illumination appear underneath the door of Valerie’s room. Natasha’s room was in darkness. She rapped hard on the door. “Natasha,” she called. The banging stopped.

“It’s coming!” his voice came back through the door strained by fear. It sounded like the voice of someone who didn’t dare scream. “It’s coming under the door!”

Valerie’s door opened and she was standing there, looking at her accusingly, her own eyes red-rimmed and her face tracked with tears. Her camisole and boxers were sodden with sweat. Without a word, she went past Jane and down the landing towards the bathroom.

It sounded like Natasha was hyperventilating, so Jane had to ignore Valerie and swipe the card through the lock and tap in the code. She pushed the door open.

Natasha got a sight of her and backed away towards the bed, her fingers tangling in the front of his nightdress. “Oh no. Oh no.”

“Natasha, calm down. Look at me!” She took his face in both her hands and turned it to look into her own. “Look at me! You’re having a bad dream. Wake up now.”

“I could hear her crying! I could hear her crying! I couldn’t reach her!” She took a deep breath between each phrase. “I couldn’t–” She retched. Jane thought for a moment Natasha might throw up over her arm, but — unsurprisingly perhaps — there wasn’t anything for her to throw up anyway, but a thin string of spittle as she retched again and doubled over. She sank to her knees and Jane followed her down and supported her while she retched again.

“Who’s crying, Jonathan?” she asked, relenting on the name, but he was crying himself now; proper crying instead of hysterics. ~Valerie?~ she wondered suddenly.

“I’m sorry, Missus Thompson,” he burbled.

“It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Shush, dear, it’s all right. I know you didn’t mean anything.” She held his shoulders awkwardly as he lay, hunched over from his last attempt to retch. She was busy thinking anyway. ~Valerie had a nightmare last night as well, and it looks like she’s just woken from another. Is he being set off by her nightmares?~ she wondered.

Valerie herself was a sudden presence, kneeling at her side and pushing a glass of water into Jonathan’s hand. She gave Jane another look, as if to say ‘you see now?’

Jane nodded. “Thank you Valerie.”

“Thank you Valerie,” Jonathan echoed, and raised the glass trembling to his lips, using both hands. “’M sorry.”

“It’s all right. Can you get up now?” Valerie asked when he’d drunk a little. He nodded. “’Kay, let’s sort out your bed again. Jane, could you get some spare sheets please?”

Jane nodded and went. ~Gracious, he’s not a bedwetter, is he?~ she thought, worriedly. But apparently not; there had been no smell of that, nor sight of it on his nightgown or on the sheets. Nathan had merely sweated heavily into them during his nightmare. It was no pleasure getting back into a clammy, sweat-drenched bed, she reflected. By the time she returned the two young people had stripped the bed ready. She contented herself with watching Valerie and Jonathan re-making the bed.

Nathan seemed already to be a lot brighter, and did his full share of that small chore. “We must stop meeting like this,” he joked as they worked. His voice was still a little shaky.

“Funny,” Valerie merely said, but she flashed a smile across at him.

“Well, at least I’m getting lots of practice making beds the old-fashioned way, if I ever wanted to be a nurse.”

They finished making the bed. “Why don’t you go and have a shower,” Valerie suggested, and passed Jane a look. Jonathan followed the glance.

“You want to talk about me,” he said, sounding worried.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Go on.” Valerie touched his shoulder to direct him and gave him a quick pat on the bottom to send him on his way, and he went, pausing only to pull his bathrobe off the door on the way through.

That motherly pat had been so quick Jane almost missed it. She had shied off such a presumptively maternal gesture in Jonathan’s case. Sometimes it was an effective tool against machismo. Sometimes, she sensed, it would be beyond effective. Much of that negotiation was subconscious on both sides; one merely sometimes recognised after the fact that it had taken place at all, as now: it had simply not come to her attention that she wasn’t going to use such a gesture with Jonathan until she saw Valerie do it. And Valerie’s action had been so casual, so unmarked by either of them, that it was in a different class of behaviour entirely. She wondered, if challenged, if either of them would even remember it having happened.

“So you see,” Valerie said, sitting wearily on the bed.

“Yes. I misjudged you this morning, and I’m sorry.” She heard the now-familiar sound of the old house plumbing wrenching itself into activity. “I suppose I’ve been so anxious about starting again,” she said. The excuse sounded weak, spoken aloud.

Valerie shrugged. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I’m supposed to have learned better.” She gave a little wry smile. Not for the first time, Jane wondered what Valerie must have been like before.

“Well, I certainly do know better,” Jane admitted. “Isn’t it funny how old patterns of behaviour can re-assert themselves in an instant, given certain stimuli?”

Valerie pulled her foot up onto the bed and hugged her knee, thoughtfully. “The cookies were my idea,” she explained. “I told him they’d soften you up so he could ask you nicely about not locking him in at night and you might consider it. But then we argued, and I guess after that he couldn’t find a good time to ask.” Jane sighed and nodded, accepting the point. “He’s obviously got a real problem there. He said if Mr. and Mrs. Shaw had known about the door-locks they’d have warned you themselves. You may want to check that out with them.”

“I will.” She also noted that Valerie didn’t seem to make the connection with her own nightmares.

They listened in silence for a few moments. Jane thought suddenly how tired Valerie looked.

“I’m in the way.”

“No you’re not–” Jane countered.

“You said that too quickly. You’re not thinking.” She looked away. “I am. As long as I’m here I can’t not be involved. I thought I could, but I was wrong. I’m not stupid, I can see what’s happening.”

“Have you considered letting it happen?” Jane asked, a tacit admission.

“I can’t be the big sister,” Valerie replied firmly. “You want me to be his friend, fine, he seems a nice kid, I’ll be his friend, but I can’t be your agent as well.” She held Jane’s gaze for a long moment. “I won’t set him up for your games, and I won’t report what he tells me in confidence. I don’t think that’s the kind of friend you need him to have right now, is it?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Because you’re right. I’d make it too comfortable for him. I have too much power here.”

It was devastating, and being delivered in Valerie’s low, sad voice made it all the more so. If she’d been angry, or hectoring, the way she could be sometimes, her words would have been easier to dismiss. Those compelling blue eyes were looking at her again.

“I should leave,” Valerie said simply.

“Oh, Valerie, absolutely not!”

“No, hear me out. I don’t mean leave as in leave, I just need to get out of the way for a while. Because otherwise this is just going to go on and you’d have to send him home–”

“Then I’ll send him home.”

“No you won’t. You said if he flunks this course he’s going to end up in jail. Were you bluffing?”

Jane hesitated, then shook her head. “For once, no. If he’s lucky it might only be youth custody but…” She shook her head again.

“Look what happens when he’s locked up for a few hours, Jane! And look at him. Look at his face! It would be a death sentence. You’re not doing that just because I’m a problem.” She took a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this, and… I think I should move into the gatehouse for a while, at least until things have settled down. Tell me I’m wrong, Jane,” she added quickly, forestalling Jane’s objection. “Convince me.”

Jane didn’t have a reply.

“It already has plumbing and power, and it’s dry. It just needs to be swept out and stuff moved in. In the meantime I can camp.”

“I don’t like the thought of you out there by yourself.”

Valerie actually chuckled. “God, you sound like Mom.” She smiled. “No, it’ll be fine. Mary might be moving in anyway.”

“Mary?” Jane heard her own voice, surprised.

“We haven’t talked about it exactly. I only thought about the gatehouse after I got back this evening, but she’s been talking about wanting to move out, too. There’d be a lot to work out, but…” She sighed. “I know, like what I’m going to tell her about… Oh God… Anything. But I think it could be the best thing for all of us.”

“At least wait a few days,” Jane negotiated. “And I can arrange to get the place fixed up properly. You’re at college all the rest of this week anyway, and I won’t work him into the evenings.”

“Except tomorrow.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?” Jane went blank for a moment.

“Mrs. Lawrence and Mark are coming for dinner, you said?”

“Oh, of course.” Jane nodded. “I haven’t slept yet; it’s still yesterday.” Valerie chuckled. “All right, Wednesday, because that was already arranged; but after that it should settle down, as–”

She stopped, as Valerie raised her hand. “He’s finished,” Valerie said. The sound of the shower had stopped. “I’ll sit up with him again tonight–”

“You’ll do no such thing. You need to get some sleep. I will–”

“That’s not in keeping with your role,” Valerie pointed out, dropping her voice almost to a hiss.

“What do you think my role is?” Jane asked back, surprised. Valerie looked away awkwardly. “Was I so heartless toward you?”

“No.” Valerie’s turn to answer too quickly. She wouldn’t meet Jane’s gaze. “I’ll stand watch tonight. I’m not getting any more sleep anyway. So much for Marie’s herbs.”

“Oh, Valerie–”

The bathroom door opened. Jonathan was at the door looking in with trepidation. His water-darkened hair was slicked back from his forehead behind his ears, his face still a little flushed from the shower. The scent of pink peony talc billowed before him invisibly and reached them, and Jane smiled almost reflexively.

“You’re all clean now?” Valerie asked brightly. Nathan nodded. “What’s up?”

“Um–sorry,” he corrected himself immediately, looking guiltily at Jane. “You know how women wrap their hair up in a towel?” he asked Valerie.

“Uh-huh?”

“How do you do that? It keeps falling off.”

Valerie sneezed.

***

“They seem to be playing a board game,” Jane related to Art, back in her bedroom. “I can’t see what it is.” Valerie must have left Jonathan long enough to fetch it from the dresser in the playroom. Now that the light in his bedroom was on, the picture on the CCTV was much clearer, and from a different viewpoint. Jonathan was lying on his front across his bed, his feet swinging idly in the air. Valerie sat decorously across the board from her. “She’s right,” Jane said, unhappily. “With her around, Jonathan’s too comfortable for such an early stage.”

“She claims she wants nothing to do with him, but she keeps finding reasons to spend time with him?” Art mused.

“Indeed. I do wonder how much she sees of herself in him. She seems quite protective.” She sighed. “She would be an ideal Big Sister for him, if only she would do it. I’d almost forgotten just how much I depend on someone in that role. Someone who can get close and truly understand his fears and speak to them in a voice he can trust. Darla filled it so well the last few years. Marie’s doing her best, but–”

“There’s a generational gap, of course,” Art supplied.

“He speaks a little French already. I’m having them converse between themselves only in French, as an aid to bonding; although I fear he’ll be taking his oral exam with a Quebecois accent.” She smiled at the thought, and heard Art chuckle lightly at the other end. “Dear Marie. Her French is terribly rusty, but it’s lovely to hear her really using it again. That reminds me. She’s noticed he has a little gynecomastia.”

“Ahh.”

“It would explain his body-shyness, certainly. It’s nothing we haven’t encountered before. I’ve emailed Mrs. Shaw about it this afternoon, asking if they’ve already taken it up with their doctor. Just in case.” There had only been the Shaws’ answering machine when she’d tried phoning, and this hadn’t been a message she felt comfortable leaving on a machine.

“Good. Assuming she already knows about it, of course.”

“I have a letter from her exempting him from school sporting activities. I suspect this may be what’s behind it, as she carefully didn’t mention a specific health concern that would justify missing out on physical education. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had problems at school. Marie thinks it might be why he under-eats as well.”

“He’s restricting?” Art asked, to be sure.

“Apparently, yes.” She listened to Art’s silence. “I seem to recall it’s not uncommon in boys with the condition.”

“No, you’re quite right.”

She sighed. “Anyway, I’m not going to point it out to Valerie.”

“No, I think that’s wise. You’re right, most boys will just grow out of it; a very few will need reduction mammoplasty, but there’s no need to risk an upset with Valerie unless we learn differently. In the meantime it must make things easier for you.”

“You’d think so, but actually it’s quite delicate. Marie’s going to have to modify the dress I’ve got for him to wear when Harriet and Mark come. And we can look forward to dealing with his reaction when he finds out he actually has a bra size.”

“Oh dear, yes of course,” Art said. “Yes, I can see that would require some delicacy.”

“It does, and in these cases I prefer to leave it to Marie to talk to him in private about it. Later, as he becomes used to it… yes, then it’s easier, and more comfortable for him than wearing forms and padding.”

“It sounds like you have it well in hand,” Art offered.

“I don’t know. I can’t help feeling some sense of… I suppose it’s foreboding. I feel like I’m stumbling towards disaster again.”

“I think those feelings were inevitable after last year,” Art said. “That’s why you needed to do this. You need finally to lay those ghosts to rest.”

“The first thing one must do after a fall is get back in the saddle. It’s axiomatic, I know.” She sighed. “I wish I was sure that’s all this feeling is.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of these feelings. To borrow your analogy, it was a bad fall, Janie.”

Jane’s chest tightened at the memory. “It was a bad fall,” she agreed, almost down to a whisper. “Nevertheless, some… instinct is gnawing at me. I’m missing something.”

***

Valerie’s head jerked upright at the sound of a pigeon cooing in the eaves above Nathan’s window. She had been about to drop off. A quick check of her surroundings confirmed Natasha was still asleep. No change. She glanced the other way, at the curtained window. It was backlit in blue. ~How long have I been watching him sleep?~ She yawned and went to the window, pushing the curtain aside slightly with the back of her hand.

It was no longer possible to deny that it was morning. ~I must have slept then,~ she thought, angry with herself for allowing it to happen. However long it had been, it hadn’t been enough. She felt the deep tremulous fragility in her body, the slight crawling in her peripheral vision. She was running another sleep deficit. The sun was going to be too bright today. She wanted a shower. She was clean, she just wanted a shower to get the ants off.

***

“Good morning, girls,” Jane said on her way into the dining room. Valerie and Natasha had clearly been talking about something Valerie found amusing.

“Good morning, Jane,” Valerie replied, apparently in good enough humour to play along. Jane didn’t miss the sardonic look Valerie passed to the other girl. Nor did she miss a certain fragility about Valerie’s demeanour. She was covering a lack of sleep.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thompson,” Natasha echoed, a beat behind.

“Do be seated,” Jane invited, and took her own seat. She watched Natasha observing Valerie, then copying her in the way she sat. ~Good. I was told Jonathan was a quick study.~

“Are you feeling any better today, Natasha?” Jane asked, interrupting as she took one of the pastries.

“Yes thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” Natasha replied, and even returned with a smile. ~Perhaps too quick a study,~ Jane mused. ~He can’t be getting too comfortable already, surely?~

~She must have put on her own make-up.~ It was a passable effort, given the short time she had been using make-up; but it was far too much for breakfast, of course. Marie wouldn’t have left it like that. Jane raised brief thanks that she could find something to criticise, and did so. Not too harshly; she calibrated. She needed to keep it light. Natasha had made the effort, and Jane wanted to see what she would do with that pastry, and raising the tension at mealtimes was something she wanted to avoid more than usual with this particular student. There’d be ample opportunity for that away from the dinner table.

“It is a little dazzling for seven-thirty,” Valerie joined in, bless her, taking any remaining sting away. Natasha even flashed a wry little smile.

“I’m sure Marie would be pleased to instruct you further should you ask her,” Jane said. “Or you may choose to further experiment on your own initiative.”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

Jane nodded, satisfied, and let breakfast continue by itself for a few moments. “How are you progressing with that solo performance assignment?”

“It’s good. It’s… slow,” Valerie admitted. Jane was aware that Valerie was struggling with Music at college, but at least it was something with which Jane could be of some help, if Valerie would have it. Jane’s knowledge of Mathematics and Physics was so far outstripped by Valerie’s that she could only offer encouragement at best.

“Have you chosen a piece?” Jane queried.

“Oh yes. Debussy, Sarabande Pour le Piano. I’ve been practicing at college.”

“Oh!” ~That is ambitious for her,~ Jane thought. “How lovely.”

“It is when Mary plays it.”

“Ahh.” They shared a smile. “Did she put you up to it?”

“She said I could do it, if that’s what you mean,” Valerie returned. She caught Jane’s eye and flicked hers sideways momentarily at Natasha. Jane followed the glance, seeing that Natasha, having finished her first pastry, was reaching for another. ~Well. Today she has an appetite. Maybe she was simply ill before.~ “She seems to be under the impression I have talent,” Valerie continued.

“Perhaps you should listen to her. She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.”

“Or she’s just as deluded as you are,” Valerie quipped. “I’m not talented. I just try harder.”

“I’ll heed my own counsel on that,” Jane said. “Of course, if you need some help with it–” Jane started.

“I do. Thank you.” Valerie smiled again, admitting the humour of the situation.

“–You only need to ask,” Jane finished, wryly. She enjoyed working with Valerie on her music. She’d come to it late, but she was already a sensitive instrumentalist, and a ferociously quick study herself. “All right.” Natasha was clearly enjoying her second pastry, and apparently oblivious to their conversation. “Perhaps you might also like to reconsider having regular individual lessons. To be frank, you’re approaching the limits of my own ability to teach you. I think you would benefit from some more specialist tuition if you mean to take this further. Someone who can correct all the bad habits I’m sure I’ve taught you.”

Valerie nodded. “Mary was saying. Not… about the bad habits.” Smile. “She said I should get proper piano lessons again.” A surreptitious look told Jane that Natasha was paying attention to their conversation again.

“She sounds like a very sensible young woman,” Jane said, and let Valerie take what meaning from that she wished. Valerie had the grace to blush slightly. Jane had difficulty keeping her face straight. “I look forward to meeting her soon. Natasha, dear, do help yourself if you’d like some more.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, but I’m full.”

“Would you like some pink grapefruit juice?”

“I-I’ll try it.”

“You’ve never had it before?”

Natasha shook her head. Jane intensified her look to Natasha for a moment. “No, Mrs. Thompson,” she amended.

~Good at taking nonverbal cues, as I thought.~ “Valerie, would you pass it to Natasha?”

“Of course.”

So it went.

***

Valerie pulled shut the door of the garage. Behind her, her bike chugged and coughed on its side-stand, trying to warm up.

Two nights sitting up with Nathan after nightmares. This was not sustainable. There was going to come a time when caffeine wasn’t sufficient; and for riding a bike, that time was going to come sooner than she used to be able to count on.

“Yes all right, I’ll ride carefully,” she muttered, and mounted up. Pulse on the throttle. Upright, kick-stand back. Check, check, check, check, check. And rolling. ~Seeing Mary at lunch,~ she reminded herself, and found a smile, then a flutter of nervousness. ~She’ll have thought things through and decided she was just being silly yesterday. Still, yesterday was nice. I have that.~ She looked at the gatehouse again as she passed. In the daylight it looked a little shabby. Doubts, like the ants in her peripheral vision. She shook her head, hard, and turned out onto the road. ~Put it together, Tucker. You need to focus now.~

***

Marie, still carrying an arm-load of dishes, opened the side-door into the music room, the one closest to the kitchen stairs, making Jane look up. “Listen to that,” she said. Jane could hear Natasha singing some pop song as she washed dishes.

“Well, she sounds quite at ease,” Jane observed. “That won’t do at all.” Marie grinned. “Nevertheless, I intend to go easily today, and give her stomach a good chance to recover fully from whatever bug she might have. She won’t be able to use it as an excuse, then.”

“Do you think she would?”

“I think we’re seeing a lot of little delaying tactics, don’t you?” She smiled. “Go on, and see that she comes directly to me when she’s done.”

Marie curtseyed habitually and left. ~Sweet Marie. Always seeing the best in people. Even Valerie seems quite taken with Natasha, in as big-sisterly a way as I could have hoped for.~ The singing stopped. Jane paused, listening to the conversation resuming in French. ~I suppose she’s right. She has to get some distance.~ She felt the disappointment keenly. Valerie was sometimes a prickly presence in the house, but it was more than made up for when she was in her more companionable mode. ~I was just starting to get to know her,~ Jane thought. ~I know she’ll only be in the gatehouse, but it won’t be the same.~

~My fault. For taking a student.~ She sighed, and set her mind back to preparing for Natasha’s first voice lesson.

***

Jane played a G major chord on the piano, followed immediately by the arpeggio. The same notes as the chord, but played in turn, from the bottom to the top and back again. “Now, I heard you singing earlier, so I know you can.” Natasha looked embarrassed at the memory. “So I want you to sing the notes after I’ve played them, and we can find your range. Are you ready?”

“I-I’m not very good.” Natasha stood by the side of the piano, where Jane had placed her to the right of the keyboard.

“That’s all right, we’re here to learn. Now,” she played the chord again, and the arpeggio. “And…” She looked to Natasha. “Try it.” Natasha tried to sing it. Her voice was weak and reedy and she ran out of air before reaching the end.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson.” Breath. “It’s the corset.”

“Here, let me see.” Jane stood and came around the side of the piano. “Turn around.” She tested the tension at the sides of Natasha’s waist, and at the top of the corset, through the over-dress. “Yes, this is too tight. Did you put it on yourself this morning?”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Just as with your make-up, I commend your initiative, but you’ve been a little over-zealous. It’s a wonder you were able to eat anything at all at breakfast.” She made quick work of opening the buttons down the back of the dress and loosening the stays a little. “In time you’ll develop a sense for what is appropriate. Is that better now?”

“Y-Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Good.” She re-fastened the buttons and returned to her place on the piano stool and played the G major chord again, then “Aaaa,” she sang to the G, to start off. Natasha sang the arpeggio. “Better,” Jane granted. “That was easier, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

“A properly worn corset is no impediment to most day-to-day activities. Now.” She played the G major chord again, then moved up a tone, to A. Then the arpeggio.

Natasha sang it without needing to be told. ~Good. But weak at the bottom. And cracking at the top through excessive constriction. Too inhibited to sing it properly.~ She stopped for a moment, resting her hands in her lap. “Natasha, at school, do your classmates make fun of you because your voice hasn’t broken?” Natasha’s eyes widened in alarm. ~Goodness, did she think I hadn’t noticed?~ “Do they?” She kept her voice gentle. Natasha nodded and swallowed. “Are you the only boy in your class whose voice hasn’t broken?” Head-shake. “Speak up.”

“No. Um, no, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Indeed not. It’s not so unusual at your age. It will happen in its own time. Now, that said, for reasons I hardly need enumerate this works to our advantage should it hold for the duration of your stay. There is certainly no call to be shy about using the full range of your voice for me, is there?”

A faint smile for a moment. “I suppose not,” Natasha admitted.

“Very well then. Let’s see what it can do.” She skipped a tone and started from middle-C. Again, first the chord, then the arpeggio. Natasha sang the arpeggio. “Good. But you’re still inhibited at the top, and you don’t have enough breath to come all the way down the other side. I think this is a question of breath control more than anything. Again.” She played the arpeggio, and Natasha sang it again, this time hitting the top note with a little more boldness. “Do you hear what you’re doing?”

“I-I’m not sure.”

“You do the same thing when you speak. You punch out the first few syllables with such force that most of the air is gone from your lungs almost immediately. I want you to be conscious of keeping an even note for the duration of the exercise.” She played E. “We know how long we have to budget our air for:” She played the arpeggio. “One two three four five six seven,” she sang along, then played E again. Natasha took a breath and sang the E. “No, you’re still attacking the front of the note too hard. Again. Just let the sound come.” She played, and sang “Aaaaa.” Then the chord, to signal the arpeggio. “One two three four five six seven,” Jane recited. Natasha had still run out by the end of the note, but there was a measurable improvement. “Better. Again, and,” as Natasha sang, “one two three four five six seven. Much better. Did you feel how much better that was?”

Natasha nodded. “Yes.” Her breathing was a little elevated.

“Good. You’re learning quickly.” She played the C major chord once more, then up to D major, and the arpeggio. Natasha followed. E was better still, as Natasha relaxed and let her voice work unimpeded, then Jane skipped to G. The top note was a little desperate.

“Sorry,” Natasha said.

“That’s all right. We’ll do that again, but this time, when you sing the top note, I want you to sing ‘air’ instead of ‘aah’, and sing it…” She turned to look over her other shoulder. “Yes, sing it to that picture behind me over there, you see?”

“Yes.”

“The lower notes to me still, then throw the top note up. All right.” Chord, then arpeggio. Natasha sang it, and the top ‘air’ note rang clearly around the room. In surprise, Natasha stopped singing. The piano hummed its own sympathetic resonance of the top note as it faded.

“What was that?”

“That, my dear, was your true singing voice,” Jane said warmly. “What a shame nobody discovered it sooner. Had there been time to develop it…” She sighed, and shifted to speak to the youngster more comfortably. “It’s said that a boy’s voice reaches its finest peak of refinement just before he loses it. In days gone past, if a boy with a particularly beautiful voice was approaching puberty, they might castrate him in order that he might keep that voice into adulthood. The voice was seen to be a gift from God, of course, and as such the sacrifice required to keep it was considered a worthwhile one. Perhaps even holy.”

Natasha stared at her, wide-eyed.

“Of course, in these enlightened days, such a practice is wholly unethical, and is banned everywhere, so very few people alive today have heard a such a voice in its prime, but in their day castrati were féted and adored for their performances, especially by young women.” She smiled at the look on Natasha’s face. “Which strikes me as fascinating. Does it you?”

“Um…”

“Um?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Thompson.”

Jane chuckled gently. “Oh don’t put on so. I merely bring it up for historical interest. History is replete with examples of extraordinary sacrifices being made in the pursuit of artistic excellence. Sacrifices that are unacceptable by any modern standards including my own.” From her face it looked like Natasha needed that reassurance. “These days castrato parts are generally sung by a contralto. One can only speculate upon what unique sounds might have been lost.”

She turned back to the piano. “Do it again.” She played the chord, and Natasha tried the arpeggio. Her voice had cooled a little during Jane’s lecture, for which Jane silently berated herself. It took a couple more iterations until Natasha hit it again. This time she wasn’t surprised, and came down the other side. “Very good, Natasha. Now, when you hit that top note, you’re using what’s called your ‘head voice.’ Do you know what I mean by that?”

“No…”

Jane went up a tone. A major. She played the chord and, unbidden, Natasha sang the arpeggio. “What do you know about how the voice works?”

“Um–sorry. Not much. I know there’s vocal chords.”

B major. Natasha was coming off the arpeggio breathlessly. “Do you know why you feel so exerted afterwards?”

“No.” Breathing.

“One more.” C major, starting an octave above middle C. “This time use ‘air’ from the third note.”

Natasha did it, and came off the bottom, panting slightly. “You just hit a top C, Natasha. Well done.” She played the note on its own. “All right, now the science bit.” Natasha chuckled at that. “Go bring a chair over from the side of the room and sit down next to me.” Natasha went to obey.

~Top C. Oh my,~ Jane thought while Natasha returned with the chair. She couldn’t quite restrain a soft chuckle. ~I wonder how long it will last.~

“All right,” Jane said. “First of all, I take it you know how sound is produced?”

Natasha nodded. “Yeah we did that in physics–”

“‘Yeah?’”

“I mean, yes.” Quick, apologetic smile. “It’s when something oscillates it creates vibrations in the air. It’s… changes in air pressure, isn’t it?”

“Yes. So when I play a note on the piano,” she pressed the A above middle C and held her finger down. “The hammer strikes the strings, and they’re tuned to oscillate, in this case, four hundred forty times a second.”

“That’s Hertz, right?”

“Yes. Now, sing the note.” Jane played it again, and Natasha ‘aaah’d it. “When you do that, what you’re doing is pushing air past your vocal chords, which the muscles in your larynx have tightened to vibrate at…” She stopped for Natasha to finish the statement.

“F-Four hundred and forty Hertz?”

“Exactly. Why did you doubt it?”

“Um– Sorry.” Another apologetic smile. “It seemed almost too easy.”

“Sometimes it is.” Jane smiled back. “Now, you hit the second C above middle C a moment ago.” Jane played the note.

“Y-you don’t want me to do it again, do you?”

“Not for now, dear. But can you guess what frequency that is?” Natasha shook her head. Jane waited.

“No, Mrs. Thompson.”

“That’s over a thousand vibrations a second. Let me check a moment…” Jane plucked her notepad from the top of the piano and consulted her notes. “Yes, one thousand forty-six point five Hertz, given a perfectly tuned piano, and this one’s close enough.” She looked at Natasha. “To get your vocal chords vibrating at that frequency you had to pull them so tight, and push so much air past them to make enough sound, that it’s no wonder you found it tiring.” She smiled, and meant it. “Now, it’s not just about your vocal chords, of course. Your voice needs a resonating chamber, and you have several in your own body…”

***

‘One-on-one he’s a delight to teach,’ Jane wrote in her journal. Valerie would nag at her for doing so on paper in the first instance, but there was no help for it. The laptop computer rested by her side for when she was ready to type it up.

She was sitting comfortably in the private living room. Marie had taken Natasha upstairs, after a successful conclusion to the morning. ~Perhaps too successful.~ ‘He is attentive, curious, and extremely quick on the uptake. I don’t need to tell him anything twice, nor to cajole or insist upon his attention. It would be easy, very easy, to allow this uncomplicated teacher-student relationship to develop and quite forget the reasons why he has been sent to me.’

She put down her pen. “And why not, after all?” she asked the empty room. ~Why not just be a teacher, this once? I don’t need to be so hard on him as I am with most of my protegées in these early days. He’s well enough behaved already that I can afford to take this slowly.~ The boy seemed to have adapted already to the feminine attire, and the feminine name, and modes of address with only a few brief moments of worry and panic. ~The nightmares certainly seem unrelated. I suspect if I had put him in the room next to Valerie, and locked his door, and otherwise left him with his own clothing, the outcome would have been the same.~

~I shan’t lock his door tonight,~ she decided. ~Let’s see where that takes us.~ Valerie had assured her already that sensitive areas of the house could still be locked away from inquisitive eyes. ~His behaviour justifies the show of trust at any rate.~

‘Were I back home, I would’ Jane stopped writing and struck through that thought, firmly, three times with her pen. ‘Were I back in Westbury I would not hesitate in bringing him to Caro’s at the earliest possible opportunity. Today! Tomorrow at the latest, and maybe Betty too. Let them fuss over him and prettify him, and engender mortification and indignation in him in precise measures.’ ~I miss them.~ ‘Tomorrow Harriet and Mark are coming. Mark has been schooled in how to compliment and embarrass our charge. Harriet need merely be Harriet. We will make it work. I can afford to allow him to be comfortable today.’

The door from the kitchen opened. Marie. “I’ve put Natasha down for her nap, Jane.”

“Very good. How did the dolls go down?”

Marie looked thoughtful. “Not well, I’m afraid–”

“Sit down, dear.”

Marie shook her head. “I need to go to the farmers’ market. I meant to go earlier, and if I don’t go now, I’ll have to go all the way into town to get some decent groceries.”

“All right. You can tell me what happened with the dolls later.”

Marie nodded. “Anyway, it left her anxious and she wasn’t going to go down like that, so I gave her the usual sleep blend.” Jane nodded at that. Marie always had some prepared, for when any one of them had difficulty sleeping. She’d given the same to Valerie only the previous evening. It wasn’t the certain knock-out that was used on the students’ first day; just something to reduce anxiety levels and help one to relax. “She accidentally offered to help me fit tomorrow’s dress, so I want to take her tonight to do that.”

“Before bed?”

Marie nodded. “Hopefully I can get some better measurements as well.”

“Good. All right. You’d better get going.”

“I’ll be back in, oh, an hour and a half at most.”

“Valerie’s home early anyway on Tuesdays,” Jane reminded her.

Marie left.

Jane turned the last full stop into an ellipsis. Then, ‘but to allow him to be too comfortable too soon would preclude the necessary challenge to his way of thinking. Gina’s Geekettes.’ Jane chuckled. Reggie had coined the term himself, a number of years ago. ‘Why can’t even one of them be straightforward?’ That had started with Reggie himself, of course. Jane could still see that freckled, slightly pudgy boy wearing the Return of the Jedi T-shirt, and giving not the slightest hint of the uproar and confusion that was going to ensue. She had underestimated him badly, and had nearly lost him as a result. Her ‘Academy’ had only been running a few years, and he had been Jane’s first serious test; the first real puzzle she had to solve. ~And now Valerie has read his books.~ Jane allowed herself a momentary glow of pride. Valerie would have been a baby when Gina was her student. ~Time.~ A flutter in her gut when she allowed herself to think about it.

She heard Marie’s car outside faintly, on the far side of the walled garden, idling while Marie got out and closed the garage door. Then the slam of a car door, and the receding sound of the car.

‘He’ Jane started writing, and stopped, distracted, thinking of Jonathan– Natasha upstairs, asleep in the playroom. She shook her head and returned her attention to the page in front of her.

‘waits’

“He waits,” she murmured. Then she crossed out the words, and kept crossing them until the ballpoint had worn a hole in the paper. “Where was I?” ~Too comfortable. He needs a shake-up.~ But she wrote, ‘He has a fine unbroken voice, and some genuine musicality, I suspect, although I don’t know if it’s ever been recognised by another, let alone encouraged. There can surely be mere months before his voice breaks. Not enough time to develop it to the potential it might have achieved had he started sooner.’

Her pen hovered over the paper, unable to find anything to add to the verbiage. She felt her glance turn upwards, towards the ceiling, as if she could see through it to the playroom and the sleeping boy. She became aware of holding her own breath, and let it go, deliberately.

She returned her gaze to the notepad. ‘He waits for his lesson, wondering what I am going to do next. Curious, yet unafraid.’

“Perhaps a little afraid,” she whispered aloud.

‘Perhaps a little afraid, but trusting. He knows whatever I do will be for the best.’

Jane could hear nothing but her own breath. She pinched the bridge of her nose and massaged under her brow, against the headache that was coming on. ~I should phone Marie and tell her to return immediately,~ she thought. ~She has a cellphone now. She would do so. She wouldn’t ask for an explanation. None would be needed.~

~I’ve made a terrible mistake.~ She put the notepad down, closed, and rested the pen on it. Her hand was shaking a little. ~I wasn’t ready. I’m not strong enough.~ She ran her hands through her hair, unbinding it as she went. ~Such vanity to keep my hair so long at my age,~ she thought, irrelevantly, trying to distract herself. Her long hair fell forwards. She combed it back again with her fingers and found, at the end of the movement, she was looking at the ceiling again, imagining it transparent.

~I should go check on him.~

She shook her head. ~He doesn’t need checking up on every five minutes.~

~Just a quick look, to make sure he’s all right.~

***

“I don’t know, Valerie. It’s awfully sudden.” Mary stood with Valerie outside the Drama block. Everyone else had gone ahead. “I mean… I thought you were joking about the second date!” She tried to make light of it. The attempt was echoed in Valerie’s smile. She looked really tired, Mary thought, but when she’d said so earlier Valerie had just brushed it aside.

“I don’t mean to pressure you, really,” Valerie said. “I was joking. I only just thought of this last night. I thought it might solve both our problems.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…” Mary ran a hand through her hair. ~This is happening too fast.~ A day ago she hadn’t even kissed a girl since she was twelve, and now she was being asked if she wanted to move in? “Well, it’s right out in the country, and I don’t have my own car, remember? And Lizbeth has her friends in the playgroup too…” She trailed off doubtfully. ~And what about rent?~ Valerie didn’t mention that.

“I know. There’s a lot of stuff needs to be worked out. I know that. There’s a lot of stuff on my end too. I just wondered if, you know, assuming everything can be worked out…” Valerie smiled. She was charming when she did that, in that raffish, sardonic way of hers. “Do you want to do it? That way we know if it’s worth even trying to work everything out.”

Mary hesitated. She was late for Drama workshop as it was. Everyone else had gone ahead and would be started. “I don’t know,” she said eventually. “It’s awfully sudden,” she said again. And, seeing Valerie’s face, “That’s not a no. It’s an ‘I don’t know,’ okay? I can’t… I have to think about it. I have Lizabeth to think of.”

“Okay, I guess.” Valerie nodded. “Yeah.” She brightened. “I’m moving in first anyway. Maybe you can come visit? See what you think?”

“Yeah, okay.”

And Valerie was kissing her again. Just for a moment. It still felt like being plugged into the mains, but in a good way. A very good way.

“Dammit…” she managed, when they broke.

“Tell me you hated it,” Valerie began, so Mary hit her shoulder again.

“People are going to see!”

“Let ’em. ’Sides, there’s no-one here.”

“What happened to Little Miss Secretive all of a sudden?”

She grinned. “Guess there’s no room for this secret.”

“That’s supposed to be reassuring?” Mary said sarcastically. Then, “I’ve got to go in.”

“Go on then.”

“I can’t go into Workshop in this state.”

“What state?”

“You know.” She leaned against the side of the door and sighed. “Distracted. Frustrated.” She smiled at Valerie. “Grinning like an idiot. Dammit, where did you learn to kiss like that anyway?”

“I had excellent teachers.”

Then Valerie leant in and kissed her again, more slowly. No ambush. Just her attention, like feeling there was nothing else in the world for Valerie at that moment but herself. Mary’s hand rested on the leather-covered kevlar of Valerie’s shoulder, then they parted, and Valerie, deliberately, took Mary’s hand and moved it inside her open bike jacket, and onto her breast. Mary tried to remind herself how touching another girl’s breast like this was supposed to feel strange; but it didn’t feel strange. It felt right. Her hand played Valerie’s small breast, through her T-shirt and bra, and Valerie’s breathing quickened, and this time Mary put her hand behind Valerie’s head and pulled her in for a kiss, and then Valerie kissed her cheek, her brow, the top of her ear, her neck…

~Oh God this is new…~

~I haven’t been seduced before,~ Mary thought as they parted. The feeling was delirious. She still hadn’t caught her breath. ~I’ve been ‘pulled.’ I’ve ‘got off with’ someone. Fucked a riceboy in the back of a Vauxhall Nova like–~ She was struck by the epiphany. ~Like I was trying to prove a point.~ Then the pregnancy, and knowing, deciding, she couldn’t be that person any more. She was going to be a mother, so she was going to be that. ~Oh, but not only that, after all. Not only that.~

Mary watched Valerie walk away: A little boyish, but you’d never mistake her for a boy. Slim and athletic in leather, she walked like she might take it into her head to dance at any moment, like she was in a musical. The way her hips moved… ~Who would have thought I would find that sexy?~

***

~This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.~

Jane approached the open playroom door. She could see the muslin curtains billowing in the breeze from the window, and she could hear the ting … ting of the mobile, like a clock forgetting the purpose of time.

~Is it such a terrible thing to take pleasure in the sight of a sleeping child?~

~No, monster, it is not. So be satisfied.~

With one hand she grasped the door-frame. ~There he is.~ His head was turned away to the window. ~Such darling abandon in the way his hand rests on the pillow. His pale wrist upturned, his smallest finger curled in his hair. Oh Jane, this is sweet.~

She watched his breath move the muslin coverlet, and found herself matching her own breathing to it. It made her feel faint; not enough oxygen to be awake and standing.

~Yes. Oh yes, monster. It is sweet.~ Her fingers dug painfully into the unyeilding door-frame. Blood rushed by her ears.

She missed her horses. She missed their mass, their warmth, their muscular power, ready at her command. She could ride, and ride, and ride, and return feeling exhausted and smelly but, somewhere inside, clean, purged and safe. Loose-limbed and satisfied.

~When was I last without my horses?~ She had to think about it. ~Paris. It must have been Paris. Oh, has it been that long?~

A memory shook loose. Turning her back on the door; turning into the apartment; clutching the telegram. There was Marie, standing by the open window, lovelier than she would ever believe, her long blonde hair shining as if she had caught the sun itself. ~I thought that summer would never end.~

“Il est mort,” she’d heard her own voice say, a long way away.

“Qui, Mam’selle?”

“Mon frá¨re. Chris.”

~I’m sorry, Chris.~ But now she could take one step into the playroom, not letting go of the door-frame, to grasp the porcelain handle, and silently and carefully pull the panelled door closed.

And now she could breathe.

***

“Oh yes, life is good today,” Valerie breezed, coming into the kitchen from the patio door.

“Oh, do tell?” Jane asked brightly from behind the Powerbook’s screen. That meant she had to have plugged it into the network wall-socket herself, and it didn’t look like she was typing from written notes this time. Wonder of wonders. Valerie could smell fresh coffee, and tracked in on the source, dumping her helmet on the counter.

“How about if I bring Mary here next week sometime?” Valerie asked.

“That should be ample time,” Jane agreed. Valerie poured herself a coffee. “If today’s voice lesson was anything to go by, even this weekend may not be too soon.”

“Really?” Valerie brightened even more.

“And in case I neglected to say so before, I’m happy for you.”

Valerie grinned.

“Did you still want some help with that Debussy?” Jane asked further.

“Oh, yes please. I need to shower first, though. Where’s…” She looked around curiously. “Where are the others?”

“Marie’s still at the farmers’ market. Natasha’s upstairs having a nap.”

“Again? Doesn’t that kid do anything but sleep in the day? Ahh, caffeine.” She felt it enter her bloodstream and came to join Jane at the table. At the same time, she thought sleeping in the day may not be such a bad idea, if doing so at night was being a problem again.

Jane chuckled. “I’ll have you know we had a very productive morning, but she’s still recuperating from that stomach bug or whatever she had.”

“Mmm.” Valerie sat back, her eyes closed. “Sorry, just zoning in from that ride.” It had been a little quick.

“We need to discuss your moving to the gatehouse,” Jane said. Valerie opened her eyes and met her gaze. “Are you still set on it?”

“I think so. Are you going to try to talk me out of it?”

“I only wish you didn’t feel it was necessary. I had no idea you felt this strongly about my taking a new student.”

“I didn’t.”

Jane only looked a little sad. “I’m sorry you’re finding it hard to feel more at home here. I had thought with a little more time… and Natasha will be settled in better soon. I don’t need you to be out of the way for her sake, and I hold that to be false reasoning. Please, let me finish,” Jane asked, as Valerie was about to interrupt. “I remember when I was your age how much I wanted to get out of my mother’s house and have a place of my own, with my own tastes, and able to keep my own times, and be able to have friends come and go without needing to run the gauntlet, as it were, as well as those that were more than friends.” She smiled. “Believe me when I say my mother was neither as informal nor as flexible in the running of her household as I.” She smiled at Valerie’s incredulous stare, acknowledging the irony in that. “Well, yes, she was an inspiration to me, but I hope you understand by now that the show we put on for the new students is a show.”

“It’s not easy to live in a show,” Valerie said. ~And that’s the first time I ever heard her talk about her mother,~ she thought.

“I know, but it does settle down. And you’re of an age now, Valerie. You’re fledging, my dear. You want to try your wings out. I do understand. I had merely hoped you might stay in this house another year until you go to university.”

Valerie flashed momentarily to Luke Skywalker being implored, ‘It’s only one more season. You can go to the Academy next year.’ She promised herself she wouldn’t be the whiny bitch in this scene.

“I don’t want this to be a point of conflict between us. I’ve stated that I would — strongly — prefer you to stay, but I’m not going to stop you.”

“It’s only to the gatehouse,” Valerie reminded her.

“Indeed. And this is as good a reason as any to get the place fixed up sooner rather than later. I’ve spoken to George, and he can have someone come and start clearing it tomorrow. Then even if you change your mind, it will be available as guest accommodation. Or indeed as a comfortable bolt-hole any time you feel you need to get away from the ‘show’ for a few days. I suppose what I’m saying is, we don’t need to be talking about you ‘moving out’ in any absolute sense, for you to have access to the gatehouse as a resource.”

Valerie sighed tiredly. She had been expecting a huge fight, but it was hard to be angry with Jane when she was trying so hard to be reasonable about this. Valerie wished she could understand why. Everything depended on it. Jane had done no less than give Valerie her life back after she had been taken from everything she ever knew. She’d given her a home, a school to go to, a future, but without being able to understand — deeply — why she was doing it, it felt fragile. Jane could take it all away on a whim.

So she nodded and said “All right, Jane.”

Jane regarded her patiently, looking like she wanted to say something more. “You will remember to be back tomorrow before dinner, won’t you?” she only asked. Valerie nodded. “Mark needs you to sign the Covenant papers.”

“Yes yes, I’ll remember.” She sighed again. “I’m sorry Jane. I’m tired.” The lift she’d got from kissing Mary, and from the ride back home, was dissipating.

“When did you last get a full night’s sleep?”

She thought back, and got lost.

“I thought so,” Jane said. “You’ve been having nightmares again.”

“It’s all right. I’ll sleep when I’m tired enough.”

“I’m worried about your being too tired to ride safely. Marie can give you a ride to college tomorrow if you–”

“I’m fine!” Valerie snapped. “I know when I’m too tired to ride. I’ll be okay. I…” She stopped and forced herself to her feet. “I need that shower,” she excused herself, and took her leave.

***

“Tu es trá¨s silencieuse ce soir,” Marie observed as she and Natasha tidied the last of the dinner things away in the kitchen.

“Oui, Mam’selle.”

“Tu vas bien, chérie?”

“Oui, Mam’selle.”

It was more than that. Natasha wasn’t meeting her eyes any more. It was as if some spark had left her. ~I wonder if the dolls upset her more than I realised,~ Marie worried. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jane about that yet, either. Natasha’s reaction had certainly been unusual. She had been expecting indignation, affronted male pride, but instead–

“Hey you two,” Valerie said from the door. “Need a hand?”

“With perfect timing,” Marie said lightly. “We’re about done, thank you Valerie.”

“Sorry. Jane wanted to talk Money Stuff.” That sardonic smile of hers. Natasha was lurking by the dresser as if hoping not to be noticed. “Tasha, you’ve been quiet all evening. Are you okay?” ~She noticed it too,~ Marie thought.

“I’m fine, Miss Valerie,” Natasha’s voice came back quietly. “Thank you for asking.”

“Look, if there’s anything–”

“I’m fine! Okay? Leave me alone.” She hesitated, then fled the kitchen, almost shoving past Valerie to do so.

“Hey, wait–”

“Valerie,” Marie said, stopping her at the door. “I’ll go to her.” She heard Natasha’s footsteps thumping up the back stairs, and saw Valerie’s impulse to follow. It also meant Valerie was blocking her way out. “If you wanted to be the one who’s there for her…”

She didn’t have to finish the thought. Valerie’s gaze turned on her. Those intense blue eyes glittered with restraint. “Tell me everything’s fine,” she said. When she was like this, Marie found her if anything scarier than Jane. She knew Jane’s limits. “Tell me you two have this all under control.”

“Everything’s fine, Valerie,” Marie said, meeting her gaze. “We have it all under control. She had an anomalous reaction to the dolls this afternoon,” she explained. “I have some concerns I want to discuss with Jane before we proceed in that direction.”

“And he’s still upset about that?”

“I think so, yes. Everything’s under control,” she said again. Valerie pursed her lips in thought. “No student is entirely standard. It’s very early days with Natasha. We’re still learning about each other. She’s still learning that she’s safe here.”

“Hasn’t anyone explained that to him?”

“I’m sure Jane has. She’ll have told him what’s going to happen on the first day, remember? He won’t believe it from us until he finds out for himself. Normally the big sister can reassure…” She stopped herself with a sigh. If she continued it would only come out like an accusation. Valerie just looked doubtful. “I need to go to her,” Marie pointed out.

Valerie made a gesture. ‘Whatever.’ Marie moved past her and left, relieved to be away from that inquisition. ~Is this what it’s going to be like, now?~ Marie wondered as she quickly ascended the staircase. ~Do I have to justify everything to her? What happened to her anyway, to make her so suspicious? She should know us better.~

She had to let the irritation go, or Natasha would pick up on it, like she seemed to be picking up on everything. She sighed, pausing for breath at the top of the stairs. She would talk to Jane about it later. Jane would know what to do.

She had hidden it from Valerie, but behind her irritation she was worried about Natasha. She knocked on the girl’s bedroom door. There was no answer, so after a few moments she opened the door anyway. The room was in near darkness. Natasha sat on the edge of her bed, her back to the door, facing the window. She didn’t move or speak to acknowledge Marie’s presence.

Marie moved around the bed and turned on the bedside lamp next to Natasha and, not gaining a reaction from that, seated herself next to the girl on the bed. The view through the window was still impressive, even in the twilight. The lawn and the grassy parkland were in shadow now, and the trees were mere silhouettes, becoming hard to make out against the reflection of the inside of the room. There was a yellow-orange glow in the distance, over the horizon, from some town. ~Is that the right direction for Malmsbury?~ she wondered. ~Or is that a bigger city further off? Bath?~ Her own bedroom faced to the north of the house, and when she was up she rarely had time to stop and look. The sky was still light high above, darkening towards the horizon and slashed almost in two by the contrails of an airliner at high altitude shining gold in the last of the sun.

Marie’s focus shifted closer, suddenly, and she saw what she thought Natasha was looking at. The reflection, now of the both of them, as ghostly half-lit figures against a dark background.

Still not a word, or a look.

“Nous ne sommes pas obligées de continuer de jouer aux poupées,” Marie said, taking that decision upon herself. Jane wouldn’t countermand her on that, she was sure, once Marie had explained.

Maybe the tiniest of shrugs. Then a movement as Natasha seemed to inspect her fingernails.

“Dis-moi,” Marie said quietly. “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”

Natasha became completely still again. “Rien,” she whispered.

~Nothing she wants to talk to me about,~ Marie thought sadly. ~Perhaps Valerie could–~ The thought died. “Veux-tu m’aider avec ta robe pour demain soir?” Marie asked aloud.

Nothing for a while, then another tiny shrug.

“Je vais aller la chercher,” Marie said, rising.

“boydoll,">Je suis son poupé,” Natasha said behind her.

“Sa poupée,” Marie corrected without thinking. Then, ~No!~

It was too late. Natasha howled and threw the bedside lamp to the floor, knocking the clock and some ornaments with it, and stood trembling in the mess. Shocked by the sudden violence, Marie had to sit for a moment to calm herself.

“Tu es son étudiante, Natasha,” Marie said calmly. Natasha seemed to crumple in place, until she was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Marie followed her down, dropping to her knees in front of Natasha and tried to take her hand. “Tasha, chérie, qu’est-ce–” Natasha batted her hand away irritably. “Tu n’es pas une poupée. Ne le pense pas!”

Natasha just rested her forehead on her arms folded over her knees and ignored her. Marie sighed and started picking up the fallen lamp. The plastic of the light fitting had cracked, and it dangled by its wires. She switched it off. The room was dark without it, darker than it appeared when Marie had first entered.

“Leave. It.” Natasha murmured, without moving.

“It’s broken,” Marie said.

“Get me some Superglue and I’ll fix it.”

“I’ll take it downstairs–”

“I’ll fix it!” Natasha insisted, raising her head just enough to glare at her. “I just need some glue. She doesn’t have to know about it, does she?”

Marie nodded slowly. “No, she doesn’t. We’ll fix this.”

***

“Did I hear a noise?” Jane asked, emerging from the living room as Marie came to the bottom of the stairs. “What happened?”

“Rien, Madame,” Marie replied, not stopping on the way to the kitchen. “Un petit accident.” She was aware of Jane following her down the stairs. “Oh,” Marie sighed, entering the kitchen. “Listen to me.”

“Taking his side?”

“What side? There’s no side.” Marie went straight to the drawers to find glue. “It’s nothing important. He’s just frustrated and…” ~And a little afraid.~

“Well,” Jane said thoughtfully, then decided to accept that, nodding. “All right. I think I shall turn in. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, and I’ve had a headache all afternoon.”

“Would you like me to get you something?”

“No thank you. I’ll get myself some aspirin. You’ll see to Natasha this evening?”

“Oui, Madame, after the dress-fitting. I’ll take her into the sewing room to do that.”

“Oh yes.” Jane nodded approvingly and went to the cupboard to get a glass. “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about, from this afternoon?”

“It can wait until tomorrow if you’re tired,” Marie decided.

“All right, but remind me then. I’m still waiting for a reply to the email I sent Mrs. Shaw. Oh, and…” She paused, turning from the cupboard to the sink. “I remember. I’ve decided in view of the last two nights’ drama to experiment with leaving her door unlocked tonight.” Marie raised her eyebrows. “Would you see to it, and make sure she understands what a privilege she’s receiving, and so forth? You know the speech, it’s just a little early.” She filled the glass from the tap. “I’ve discussed it with Valerie, and you just need to give the system your usual nightly lock-down code when you go to bed. She’s doing the settings now.”

“Oui, Madame,”

“I’ll bid thee goodnight, then,” Jane said fondly, and departed with her glass of water.

***

Marie brought the glue back to Natasha’s room and left her with it to fetch a little paraphenalia from her stillroom. By the time she returned Natasha was finishing the repair, using a couple of ponytail bands to lash the fitting together while the glue dried. The room was bright, with the other bedside lamp, the dressing table lights and the ceiling light all having been switched on. It signalled, she supposed, a change of mood, or failing that, at least a desire to change the mood on Natasha’s part. Either way, it was welcome. She smiled encouragement and crossed the room to draw the curtains. That alone made the room seem so much cosier and warmer. She started setting up the vaporiser and a tea-light on the dressing table.

“What is that?” Natasha asked.

Marie ignored her and added the base oil and a blend to the ceramic bowl and lit the tea-light.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“Un peu d’huile essentielle, pour que ça sente bon,” Marie replied. “Viens-t’en,” she invited. Natasha came and leaned over the vaporiser to smell the fumes being given off. “Tu aimes?”

Natasha nodded. “What, I mean, qu’est-ce que ce faire?”

“Rien,” Marie answered truthfully. “Juste pour donner une senteur agréable.” She got out of the way to let Natasha sit for a moment at the dressing table, and seated herself on the side of the bed nearest her. “I just spoke with Jane,” she said, deliberately switching to English. She wanted to be sure she was being understood. Natasha glanced quickly at her, nervousness in her eyes again. “Concerning your nightmares, Jane’s decided to take you at your word and leave your bedroom door unlocked tonight.”

“Oh,” Natasha said, as if there was nothing remarkable or interesting about that at all.

“She asked me to make sure you understand this is a privilege and it depends on your good behaviour. You’ve been very good so far, for the most part, that’s why she’s giving you this chance.”

Natasha nodded. “Enough rope to hang myself, eh?”

Marie smiled, glad that she’d picked up on that. “Something like that. This isn’t an excuse to run riot over the house, making a noise or breaking things. You’re still expected to remain in your room until morning unless you have a genuine reason to be elsewhere. You’re just being trusted to do that by yourself.”

Natasha nodded again.

“Trá¨s bien,” Marie concluded. “Tu m’aides avec la robe maintenent?” Natasha didn’t look enthusiastic. “You promised, remember?”

Natasha sighed. “Okay.”

“It’s in the sewing room– Actually,” Marie interrupted herself, changing her mind. “I’ll bring what I need in here, shall I?” she decided. Natasha seemed fragile enough, and with the fitting and the measurements she wanted to take, things were going to be delicate enough. At least her own room would be familiar now, and the aroma from the vaporiser would be doing its gentle work. The ambience was vastly improved already from how it had been when she’d first come up.

Natasha just shrugged.

***

“I needed you these last few days.” There, she had said it.

“Janie, Janie, you know I would have come.”

“Yes, dear, I know.”

“Which is why you weren’t going to call me tonight, I presume?”

“Didn’t Diana have something to go to tonight?”

“Nothing that couldn’t have been cancelled. Really, Jane.” They fell silent for a while. “I’m sure he was just trying to negotiate some boundaries,” he went on. “It’s quite normal.”

“I suppose so. In any case, I’m more concerned about Valerie right now.”

“The nightmares?”

She nodded, in defiance of the thousands of miles separating them. “Not that she’ll talk about it, of course. Oh, and this whole business about wanting to move out to the gatehouse. It’s curious that it should coincide with Jonathan’s arrival.”

“Not really. He’s a competitor for your time and attention.”

“Oh Art, that’s such a cliché.”

Art chuckled, overrunning her next words with the lag.

“If she wanted to spend more time with me she could spend a little less time riding that death-machine at God-knows-what speeds around the countryside or locked up in her room playing with those computers.”

“That’s called ‘being seventeen.’ My dear, you were really quite spoilt with Darryl.”

“That was being spoilt?”

“Yes, it was,” Art replied. “In fact the normality of Valerie’s behaviour is almost reassuring, given what she’s gone through. Of course all children that age are trying to find and understand their place in the world, but few have such an extreme set of difficulties in that regard as she does. If I were her I think I’d be struggling not to feel… well, not to feel surplus. No one likes to be a burden, Jane.”

“She’s not a burden,” Jane protested. “I need her.”

“No you don’t. You wanted a surrogate Eugenia.” Only Art could say such a thing to her. She felt like she’d been slapped. “And lo, the universe hiccuped and you got one, literally out of nowhere. Deus ex machina and all that, ready-trained to your specifications and having no other home to go to, and before you’d even talked to me you’d made a life-commitment to this poor girl.”

“I stand by what I did. I don’t have any regrets.”

“No, of course not; and nor do I, for what it’s worth; but Jane, you don’t need her. You don’t need her for who she is, only for who she reminds you of, and that’s not only Eugenia, is it?”

There was a bitter silence.

“Why do you think she wanted to put in all that security equipment? You know how she feels about what you do, but she really wanted to do that for you. And I’m glad you let her.”

“She wore me down, Art,” she admitted. “It’s not as if that would have made any difference last year.”

“If you hadn’t gone to the dance, they would have come to the house,” Art pointed out. “Yes, maybe she’s fighting the last war, but she’s not the only one, Jane.”

Jane clutched the phone to her ear and listened to it, her chest hurting with memory. She watched Natasha in the grainy low-light CCTV picture shifting fretfully in her bed.

“Not to mention there’s another matter that you two haven’t talked much about, I’m sure,” Art went on, eventually, “because it’s been pushed out of the way by everything else that’s happened.” He paused. Jane shut her eyes and rolled onto her back. She knew what he was going to say. “We’ve only known her as Valerie, but only eight months ago that wasn’t her name.”

It was true, Jane agreed silently: no-one had talked about it if it could be avoided. Valerie’s very lack of legal existence when she arrived even helped everyone avoid the subject, in the end. There was no old paperwork to replace. Everything could be set up from scratch, with some favours called in from the Witness Protection Service — one very large favour in fact.

“No-one, no-one is going to tell me that there aren’t outstanding issues relating to her transition. They’ve just been submerged while she’s been in crisis mode. How could your having a new student fail to affect her?”

Another silence.

“And now she’s getting into a relationship with this girl at college,” Art continued. “Which I think on balance is a good thing, by the way, but it’s terribly risky. Did you think that was a coincidence too, that she’d wait until now to take a risk like that?”

Jane sighed. She hadn’t thought about it in those terms at all. “She’ll need me when it falls through,” she said sadly, understanding.

“It may not. We don’t know anything about this girl; she might surprise us all. But yes, if it does, Valerie will need you. And you’ll be there for her of course.”

“Of course.” Jane felt a yawning pang in her abdomen, for Valerie, for what lay ahead for her. ~Am I really so distant, so obsessed, that she has to go to such lengths?~ Still she doubted. Still she wanted to believe Valerie was stronger than that, smarter than that, and more complex than to set herself up like that.

“We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming,” Art said. She could hear his smile. “Rant over.”

“No, dear, you’re quite right. It needed to be said.” Dr. Art Philips, her husband, was a recognised authority on gender identity issues in adolescents (which was not entirely a coincidence), so Jane had no difficulty in paying attention to what he had to say on such matters, nor indeed on many others. Even had she not fallen in love with the man, she would have valued his patience, his generosity of spirit, his calm intelligence. Indeed, she would probably have fallen in love with them.

~I feel safe when he’s around,~ she thought. ~Safe from doing harm. If my discipline should fail…~ The fear clenched her belly.

“I think I should come sooner rather than later,” Art continued.

“Oh, no dear, you should see out the semester. You don’t want to let down your students.” She opened her eyes. It had cost her to say that. She wanted him back so badly.

“They’ll be fine. The finals have started, so it’s too late now even if they’re not fine. I’m mostly just marking course papers, and I can do that just as well there as I can here. I’ll need Valerie’s help to set up something so I can connect to the university network.”

They fell silent again.

“Janie?”

“I think you should come,” she admitted. She tried hard not to think of it as an admission of failure, and didn’t entirely succeed. “You don’t have to drop everything and book a flight on Concorde,” she qualified. “There’s no immediate rush.”

“No,” Art agreed.

“Come when you can. I need to enlarge Natasha’s world anyway. It’s difficult with a housebound student, but where can I take him where I know he’ll be safe?”

***

Sound came back in a rush. The road was still passing under the wheels. The bike’s engine noise was still there; the course constant and easy, winding slowly out of a bend. “Fuck!” Valerie exclaimed into her helmet. She needed to pull over, but she was still on the country lanes, with high enough banks rising directly out of the road that she couldn’t park anywhere. She blinked and shook her head and kept going to the next lay-by, and there she pulled in onto the uneven, pitted gravel behind a small grass verge. “Oh fuck,” she said again, struggling to pull the helmet off. ~It can’t have been more than a second!~ Her breathing came fast and panicky and she couldn’t stop shivering.

She pulled herself off the bike and, leaving it on its side-stand, went to look up and down the road. She recognised where she was, which was worse, because it meant she had no memory of the last five or six miles, at least.

She tried to slow her breathing. At least the adrenaline of realising what had happened had given her a bit of a kick, but it wouldn’t last. ~Must have been on autopilot.~ The back-brain, the zombie brain that did most of the riding anyway, just getting on with it and not piping the logs to backing store. In a way she wished she could depend on that. She imagined being able to hand over to a perfect robot rider and just sit pillion and snooze against its broad back, safe in the care of a gentle positronic mind.

***

She hadn’t slept at all in the night. In desperation she’d switched on the surveillance monitor, telling herself it was for security reasons, because Jane had decided not to lock Natasha in her room for the night. Really she was hoping she might drop off watching Natasha sleeping, the way she’d almost done by accident the previous night. She suspected she had actually fallen asleep then for a short while, which was worrying in itself. Natasha was still such an unknown quantity.

She’d been watching a few minutes when she realised the curled-up figure on the bed wasn’t sleeping, but crying. She’d sighed and listened for the crying, even making a trip to the bathroom she didn’t really need so she could pause outside Natasha’s door to listen; but she couldn’t hear anything, which meant there was no pretext to go in and find out if Natasha was all right. It bothered her that she had wanted to.

Eventually, Natasha had got up and gone to the dressing table. Their lights flared out the high-gain camera, so Valerie had to switch to one of the standard ones. She’d watched Natasha put on make-up. The whole works. Then wiped it off and did it again. And again. Valerie had half-smiled, understanding. ~How else do you get to Carnegie Hall?~ The picture wasn’t good enough to tell how well Natasha was doing, or what progress she was making. Valerie watched anyway, hoping it would send her to sleep, but it didn’t, and the sun finally dragged into the sky.

***

She had to think what to do. ~Logically, call Marie, ask her to bring me into college. I’ll pick the bike up this evening.~ She didn’t want to do that, especially with the tension between them right now because… ~Because of Natasha,~ she remembered. ~Because I’d dared to ask if he was all right.~ It was obvious he was having a bad time, in turns panicking and depressed, but she’d said she didn’t want to be involved, so any time she tried to raise any concern for the kid they just threw that back in her face. They were so sure they were in control, and their ‘we were doing this before you were born’ bullshit.

A lorry thundered past, too big for the small lane, followed by a frustrated line of cars.

“Something’s not right,” she said aloud.

***

Jane sighed, allowing her frustration to show. It was obvious the girl hadn’t slept a wink. If she had been openly rebellious it would have been something, but this morose acquiescence was harder to deal with. She was obedient enough, and attentive enough, but Jane had sought in vain a repeat of the feeling she’d had in the previous day’s voice lesson, of the student’s own excitement and enjoyment at learning something new, and the joy she, as the teacher, gained from making that happen. Today Natasha was being dull and unengaging. Jane honestly wasn’t sure if it was mere lack of sleep, or if it was a rebellion of its own.

~Well,~ she decided, ~if I can’t engage the mind today, I can at least train the body.~ She brought the voice lesson to a premature close and started Natasha on Walking. Two-inch heels were as high as she dared go for this first lesson, and only so high because she had tried to provoke a complaint out of Natasha. She had not complained, despite obviously finding the shoes difficult and uncomfortable, leaving Jane with nothing to do but show her how to walk and start the drill.

She opened the two sets of double-doors that separated the main entrance hall from the music room, allowing an unimpeded straight-line run from the front door all the way through to the wide rear bay, and the doors to the terrace. “Go to the parlour,” she commanded, “to the bookcase. There, on the left side, the second shelf from the bottom, you will find a volume of the Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle. Fetch it for me. I shall wait here.” She sat on the window-seat next to the terrace door.

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.” Natasha started to go.

“Curtsey,” Jane corrected sharply. Natasha turned back, quickly curtseyed, and went. She got some satisfaction from watching the ungainly manner of her going — ~all knees and elbows, like a gawky boy, oddly enough,~ she thought with an ironic smile — and rehearsing in her mind how she would begin to remedy that.

She waited, just long enough to wonder why Natasha was taking so long, then the parlour door opened — Jane could see from the music room — and Natasha came, awkwardly. ~Oh, but she’s trying though,~ Jane noticed. Feet one in front of the other, and that turn of the hip that made it work, but the movement was stiff and a little precarious from the unfamiliar heel. ~All right, so she has been paying attention.~

She rose as Natasha approached, bearing the battered old volume. “Very good, dear. Now, stand straight.” She took the book out of Natasha’s hand and inspected her stance. “Feet together,” she commanded, then raised Natasha’s chin with a finger and moved around to the side. “It’s not a moment too soon. I’m not sure how you’re managing it, but somehow you’re learning to slouch even in a corset. No, not like that,” she remonstrated, as Natasha pushed her shoulders back. “Arms out in front… and now raise them above your head, and stretch.” Natasha obeyed. “And now drop them slowly so they’re held out to your sides. That’s right, and down all the way. That is your correct posture.” She put a hand to the small of his back. “Do you feel the shape of your back like that?”

“Y-Yes Mrs. Thompson.”

“Naturally I don’t expect you to be waving your arms around every time you have to correct your posture, so remember what this is like, and practice, and learn not to slip out of posture in the first place. Now…” She had entirely circled Natasha, and stood once again in front of her. Now she raised the book and lowered it gently onto the top of Natasha’s head.

“Oh, right,” Natasha murmured, suddenly understanding what the book was for.

“Mm-hmm. We will be developing an elegant carriage. I noticed you’ve been trying to get it right already, and I’d only held off commencement of this part of your training in view of your being not well. This is tedious, but drill and repetition is the only way your body will learn. It will become automatic and comfortable quite quickly if you apply yourself. Now,” a light hand on Natasha’s shoulder, to turn her back to facing into the house, towards the front door. “Off you go.” And a moment later, “Elbows in!”

“Sorry–” The book fell.

“Pick it up, replace it and carry on,” Jane said. “It’s not necessary to apologise during this exercise. I want you to maintain a rhythm, so I will call out corrections and you are simply to apply them and continue.”

“Yes Mrs. Thompson.”

“Now, again. I want you to pretend you’re walking on a tightrope. Imagine it stretching away in front of you to your destination, in this case the front door. Take your time.”

“What, like in Drama class?”

“Yes, if you wish. Do you like doing Drama class?”

Natasha shrugged. “It was all right– Argh, I shrugged!” She doubled over in mock anguish for a moment. “Sorree.” She straightened and gave Jane a quick, shy, wry smile, the first of the day. ~Odd that I had missed it,~ Jane thought. “Okay…” She put the book back on her head and slowly drew her hands away, stretching them out to her sides until they pointed about forty-five degrees downwards. “I dropped it for GCSE though. I wasn’t good at it or nothing.”

She placed one foot directly in front of the other, slightly turned-outwards like a tightrope-walker, and shifted as if finding a good grip, then transferred her weight onto it, and began the process again with the other foot. ~This was going to take all day,~ Jane realised, but she had said she could take her time, and it did introduce the right kind of movement, even in exaggerated form. She contented herself with saying, “The words ‘or nothing’ were not merely redundant in that sentence, Natasha, but actually incorrect. Don’t apologise,” she reminded. “Keep going.”

Another step. The book stayed on. “’Course, I bet real tightrope walkers don’t have to do it in high heels,” Natasha observed.

“Nor with books on their heads, normally,” Jane agreed. “And that’s ‘of course,’” she pointed out.

“Of course,” Natasha said. Jane couldn’t be sure if she was being sarcastic. Another foot.

“However, considering that you are at little risk of plummeting to your death from that height, I think you might try pretending to be a good tightrope walker, and speeding up a little.”

Natasha grinned quickly, turning her face to Jane’s, as if about to say something, then as the book fell, “Oh f–” Thud. She bent to pick it up.

“No, bend at the knees and keep your back straight. You should find it easier that way while wearing a corset, in any case.”

“Oh, right.” She complied. “I was just going to say, I was already pretending to be a good’n, ’cause a crap one would’ve fallen off by now.” She stood, with another wry smile on her face. “Then I fell off.”

“Well, get back on, then,” Jane said. “And refrain from uttering more obscenities, if you please.” She held off from a further critique of Natasha’s use of language. There was so much to do, there, that if she pressed every correction when the fault arose nothing else could get done. It would have to wait for the dedicated speech and elocution lessons.

“What? Oh, ‘cra–’ Right. A-And I’ll try to go faster this time.”

“Just go as fast as you can go without dropping the book.”

“Gotcha.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Thompson. Yes, I’ll try.”

“Better. Resume, then.” Jane paced alongside, and a little behind, so she could watch her progress. “Take smaller steps. You don’t have to bestride the world.”

~He seems to be recovering his spirits, then,~ she observed as the session progressed. ~Good-humoured. It makes him very resilient, of course, quite unlike the brittle, easily-shattered machismo of my usual intake.~ “Elbows in!” she called again. “And your knees should go forwards, not to the sides. You look as if you want to go in two directions at once.” Natasha chuckled at that, and modified her gait, without losing the book. “Well done,” she said. ~Is it cultural?~ she wondered. ~The famous British self-deprecating sense of humour? Or is it just him?~

Natasha came through the sets of double doors into the entrance hall. “You’re doing well. Remember, toes point forward.”

“Toes–” Natasha nodded, which of course was a mistake. This time she tried to catch the book as it fell. A corner of the hard cover jabbed her forearm as it fell, making her yelp from the pain and snatch her hand back, further putting her off-balance. A heel skittered out from under her on the tile floor of the entrance hall, and she started to fall backwards with another yelp. Jane darted forwards a step and caught her against her own shoulder, her hands at the girl’s waist to steady her as she got her feet back underneath her. ~So light!~ The book had landed awkwardly, open and pages down, some of them folded under. Nothing worse than the treatment it usually received at the hands of a new student.

“Less impulsiveness. Remember what you’re doing,” Jane said into Natasha’s ear, and set her back on her feet again. “Retrieve the book and continue.”

“Y-Yes Mrs. Thompson.” She started to bend from the waist, then almost immediately checked herself and dipped her knees to retrieve the book.

“Good, you remembered,” Jane said, then as Natasha straighened. “Barely. How is your arm?”

“It’s okay, I think–”

“Let me see.”

Natasha hesitated, then proffered her arm. The dress she was wearing had short sleeves, so the arm had been entirely unprotected. The skin hadn’t broken, at least. “I’m going to get a bruise,” Natasha commented. Jane took her wrist gently and probed the area.

“Is it painful when I do this?”

Natasha shook her head dumbly until Jane’s eyes flicked up to meet her own. “No,” she said. “Just a bit. Like I’m going to have a bruise.”

“All right.” Jane released her. “Carry on.”

Natasha took a breath and turned back towards the front door, then carefully replaced the book on her head and sighed. “Onwards.”

“Come along, we’ve barely started.”

“I know,” Natasha said feelingly. She started forwards.

“Elbows! And shoulders back!”

***

She saw Natasha consciously straighten her back, then another thing: almost experimentally she stretched an arm down, fully extended; only her wrist flexed so her palm faced downwards and swept back in a horizontal arc. The movement was answered by a greater swing of the hips. ~Good!~ Jane thought, but in the next step Natasha, unsure of the movement herself, abandoned it. “Why did you stop?”

“I–” Natasha collected her thoughts and managed to keep the book on her head and keep walking. ~Very good.~ “It seemed too campy?” she said, uncertainly.

A good fraction of her students’ petty rebellions had been in the form of an exaggerated, sarcastic campness in their speech and mannerisms; little knowing that even as they did so, they walked — literally — into Jane’s trap. “Exaggeration has its uses,” she explained to Natasha. “By all means overdo it now, and let it feel camp. It will help you find the correct rhythm, the swing, if you like. We can tone it down to a more realistic level later.”

“O-Okay.” She tried the action again, hesitantly, with both hands.

“Hmm.”

“It’s not–” Natasha began.

“I have an idea. Keep walking. I shall hear if your footfalls stop.” She broke away and hastened up the stairs to Natasha’s bedroom, picked out a small handbag from the large chest of drawers and came back out. She paused at the top of the stairs, listening. The monotonic clack of Natasha’s heels still reached her. Jane descended the stairs. “Stop when you reach the door,” she directed, and went to meet her there.

“All right, put this over your left shoulder, like so.” Natasha did so, and Jane paused to undo the buckle and pull it in a couple of notches. “There, so that it’s comfortable at your hip.” Natasha watched the process impassionately, and only flinched slightly when Jane caught up her hand and placed it on the handbag, to steady it there. “A little introduced assymetry. Let’s see if this helps.” She stepped backwards to give Natasha room. “Let your right arm swing more to compensate, but keep it straight as it goes behind you. Go.” Natasha started back towards the music room. “You may lengthen your stride a little now if it helps.”

Natasha tried that too. There were a couple of mis-steps, and the book fell. She knelt quickly to pick it up, and lost the handbag from her shoulder as she stood, so she had to go down again to retrieve it and fumble for a moment putting it back on her shoulder. Then carefully she put the book on her head again and set off. She was stiff for a few steps, then she lengthened her stride slightly, as Jane had told her, and suddenly found her pace. “There it is!” Jane called after her, immediately recognising it. She’d got the swing of her hips, and that flowed down her legs to put her feet where they should be. Her upper-body posture was good, her shoulders back, her right hand sweeping back and forth comfortably and naturally, her head, perforce, level.

“That’s it?” Natasha called back. There was a little excitement in her voice, and disbelief.

“That’s it,” Jane agreed. “It’s not hard, you see?”

“Oh…”

“The hard part is the days and weeks ahead as you practice this over and over again until you can do it without even thinking, whether or not you have a handbag on your shoulder, or a book on your head, or heeled shoes on your feet, and most importantly, whether or not I’m here to watch that you do it properly. Turn around at the window and return.” She watched Natasha execute the turn. “So needless to say, the best way to be finished with these dull exercises is to quickly progress to the stage where you can convince me you no longer require them.”

Natasha concentrated on her walk, and completed two straight lengths without dropping the book at all. By then, Jane had seated herself in the bay window to watch, and only needed to call out the occasional correction. ~Quick study,~ she thought. It was already becoming a refrain. She had a lot to think about. The girl was intelligent. Jane had already known it, but she was still adjusting to it. It was clear Natasha had never done this before; but she picked it up, like everything else, so quickly.

She was showing a little fatigue as she returned to the bay. ~She’ll be sore from the unfamiliar action,~ Jane knew. “All right, well done, Natasha. Come and sit here with me.”

Natasha approached the rest of the short distance and then dropped to her knees and sat on her heels in front of Jane. ~That’s not what I meant at all!~ Jane thought, but she was so taken by the gesture she didn’t object. ~Interesting.~

“May I ask a question, please?” Natasha asked.

~Oh my.~ “By all means.” She couldn’t keep the smile off her face put there by the last syllable.

“It’s not just anatomy, is it? The way women walk like that. All exaggerated. I mean, they don’t all the time, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Men and women aren’t that much different, really.” She paused, as if she had more to say, so Jane waited. There was silence for a few moments. “I mean, I know their hips are different, but it’s not that different, is it? Why do they walk like that?”

“That’s a good question. Do you have your own theory?”

Natasha looked off to the side, outside the glass-panelled doors to the terrace for a moment. “Yes.”

“Do share it.”

“It’s a mating signal,” Natasha said flatly, as if in a biology lesson. “It says, ‘I’m female, I’m fertile, I’m available.’” She gazed at Jane quizzically, as if looking for confirmation. “Even when it’s fake, it works, doesn’t it? People are hard-wired. When I was walking like that… When I got it right. It felt… sexy.” She looked back out of the window. A little smile curved Natasha’s mouth.

Jane was a little taken aback for a moment. “Did you enjoy feeling that way?”

“Yes,” Natasha mused. Her hand rose idly to her breast and she sighed, still looking out of the window. Then both hands, slowly, down and around her corseted waist, to her hips. She stretched, arching her back a little, and relaxed.

Jane was captivated. “What are you thinking, my dear?” she asked quietly. Always the most interesting question.

Natasha took a breath, as if to speak, then hesitated, then spoke finally, “If I do everything you want, I can go home,” she said. Not a question. “Clean slate. You can do that.”

~Back to that?~ “Yes,” she said. It wasn’t entirely true, of course, but it was true enough. Reggie would trust her to effect a true reformation of character. He’d stake his own career on it. Again.

“All right.” Natasha shifted off her heels to sit on the floor, her legs curled beside her. She supported herself with her left hand, her right casually stroked her thigh, pushing up amidst the folds of her petticoats. Jane was transfixed; her breath stopped. Natasha’s eyes met hers, and they were knowing, and inviting, and afraid at the same time. “I’ll do anything you want me to do, Jane.” A smile, trying to be seductive, but uncertain.

~Why the little slut–~ Jane’s first rush of anger was followed hard by a queasy fear. ~She sees me!~ She fought to cover any outward show of her emotions. ~Jane you idiot, he’s playing you!~ Her gut wrenched, and through all her control she felt the corner of her mouth twitch, once.

~No. Anger is right. Be angry!~ Her hand, almost unbidden, flicked out and slapped Natasha hard across the cheek. “What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped. “How dare you be so familiar with me?” Natasha’s eyes widened in shock, a hand rising to the side of her face where she’d been slapped. Jane found herself on her feet, without entirely recalling when she had risen. “What did you think you’re doing here?”

“I-I-I–” Natasha stammered, shrinking away from her. Her eyes were wet, stung with pain and shock.

“You’re here to learn good manners and self control and that is all! There is no place here for that kind of behaviour. Go to your room immediately and do not emerge until you are called for.”

“I-I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! I thought–”

“You thought wrongly. Now get out of my sight!”

Natasha staggered to her feet and fled for the door at a run.

Jane stood trembling in the music room for a full minute, then she threw open the terrace door and went outside for air. She flung the door shut again behind her. In the split moment between doing so and the slam she feared the glass in the door might shatter, but it held. It was a solid old house, she reminded herself, sucking in the cool Spring air. This wouldn’t be the first rage it had seen. She braced herself on the stone balustrade at the top of the steps and looked out across her land. ~Not enough.~ She descended a couple of steps and sat and covered her face with her hands, carelessly pushing her glasses aside as she did so, and just sat, for a moment, as if tears would come. But they didn’t. Her head screamed in pain, and she barely noticed the breeze stirring her hair.

By the time she raised her head out of her hands, she knew what she had to do. She stood, stiffly, and went inside, upstairs to her own bedroom suite, her own bathroom, and washed up and re-made her make-up.

And then the half-expected knock on her door. Marie entered. The look on her face confirmed she had heard at least some part of the altercation.

“Madame?”

“Marie.” She sighed. “I need you to fetch Jonathan’s belongings down from storage and return them to him.” Marie’s face fell. “I’m sending him home today.”

“But…” Marie stared appalled at her, then she turned quickly and closed the bedroom door, without leaving. “Might I ask why?”

“Art was wrong. Jonathan wasn’t negotiating boundaries. He was–” Her voice caught. “He was negotiating a price.” ~And so was I.~ “And so was I,” Jane reported aloud, just to complete her shame. “He tried to play me, Marie. Where do you suppose he learnt to do that?” She shook her head. ~He probably thought he was being subtle, too,~ she thought. ~In fact he was being clumsy and obvious. Thank God.~ “I knew this was a mistake,” she said quietly. “I knew it was too soon–”

“Jane–”

“It felt wrong from the start. I kept trying to tell myself it was just me, my nerves after everything that happened last year.” Jane mastered herself. “I’m sorry. You were trying to tell me what happened yesterday with the dolls? I’m sorry, I was too distracted to listen.”

“Yesterday? Oh.” Marie had to put her mind to it for a moment. She sat on the edge of the bed opposite Jane. “It was distressing for him, and not in the usual way. He didn’t want to play with them, but he didn’t say anything about it being girly or sissy or embarrassing. What he did do,” Marie remembered, “I got him to change the clothes on one of the dolls. And he did it, but his hands were shaking. He was sweating like it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.” Jane found her mouth had gone dry. “And he tried to hide her from me. It was as if he was shielding her from my eyes, while he was undressing her. And he kept… He kept looking at the mirror.”

“Which mirror?”

“The one on the wall in the playroom.”

“Looking at himself?”

Marie shook her head. “No. Not from that angle. We were down on the floor by the toy chests. He wouldn’t have been able to see anything except the ceiling. I don’t know what he was looking at.”

~Oh, this is not a happy picture,~ Jane thought. “I think I do,” she said aloud. And now, finally, a tear escaped her eye. She swore and produced her handkerchief and dabbed it away. “We have not been told nearly enough about Jonathan’s history, it appears.” She could hear her voice shaking, and she couldn’t even determine whether it was sorrow or anger, or even rage at her own hypocrisy. At times like these she felt she was an emotional illiterate.

“I don’t understand.”

“Unless I miss my guess, he probably thought he was being watched through a one-way mirror. They do that, when they’re trying to determine whether a child has been sexually abused, or how. Often the child doesn’t have the language skills to explain what happened, so they use dolls. Anatomically complete dolls; and they let the child play, or ask him to re-enact what happened, using the dolls, and they… observe. And Jonathan being as smart as he is naturally realised that’s what they were doing.” She looked at Marie long and steadily. “And we — accidentally — recreated the scene. I wish you’d told me this sooner. It’s my fault,” she added quickly. “I should have made myself more available to be told.”

Marie sat quietly for a moment, subdued entirely. “I knew something was wrong,” she admitted, eventually. “I stopped the game right away. Last night I told him he wouldn’t have to play with the dolls again.”

Jane nodded. “No, he won’t. Because he’s going home.” She sighed. “Give him his own clothes.”

Marie stood and started towards the door. Then she stopped. “And then what?” she asked quietly, turning back to Jane. “What happens after he’s gone home?”

“Nothing that wouldn’t have happened had he never set eyes on me,” Jane replied, her voice low and dead. “That’s the best I can do.”

“He’ll be arrested,” Marie said. “He’ll be put on trial, if he’s lucky, and he’ll be locked away.”

“I know.” She had no more than a whisper.

“I don’t think he’ll survive. You were his last hope–”

“I can’t do anything for this child!” Jane protested. “He shouldn’t be here! I must send him home before I can do any more damage.”

“And he’ll go to prison and you can see what that’s going to do to him, Jane.”

“I can’t help him,” Jane insisted. “He has problems I’m not equipped–”

“What if you’d sent Darryl home? What if you’d send Kendr– Kenneth home? To that ‘mother’ of his?” Jane thought it remarkable that even in fury Marie could enunciate the quotation marks around that word. “What would have happened to them if you’d just thrown your hands up and said ‘something bad happened to them once, so they don’t belong here?’”

“What if I had sent Eugene home?” Jane replied quietly.

“Ohhh,” Marie drew it out. “That’s what this is about.”

“No it isn’t,” Jane snapped, “and don’t you dare patronise me, Marie. You of all people.”

“I’m not patronising you. I’m… I’m horrified at you. I’ve served you from the beginning, and I have never seen you just give up on a boy so easily. Not even when you were bluffing about his alternatives.” Tears glistened on Marie’s face. “You always worked it out. You always found a way.” She ran out of air on the last word, and gasped in a breath. “Jane, you give up on this boy, there might as well have been three bullets fired that night.”

“I am not safe!” Jane hissed back urgently. “I’m not safe around him!” she pressed, struggling for a normal voice. There it was. Aloud. She couldn’t bear to look at Marie now, and broke away to the window, to look out at the quiet countryside. “Marie, he’s lovely,” she said. Her voice wavered, but she made herself say the rest of it. Barely a whisper. “I want him.”

“Well so what? You can’t have him.”

~Such certainty.~ Jane clung to it like a raft. ~Oh Marie, it would have been so easy. I had only to reach out my hand and take what he was offering.~ An image, inescapable: A hand on a silk-stockinged thigh, losing itself in rippling petticoat folds. The slick material sliding under her fingertips giving way to the pretty lace detail of a garter-belt strap, and smooth flesh, trembling slightly in apprehension, but unresisting, wanting, yearning for the quickening touch.

“Do you remember what Valerie said,” she began, and had to clear her throat to continue, “about the quantum nature of the universe? How every decision we make represents a cusp; a parting of the ways.” Valerie hadn’t used those words. “Every road not travelled somewhere is,” she breathed. “Every potential is somewhere fulfilled. Everything I might have been, somewhere I became.” The litany ended in a whisper as she held her hands to her face, almost as if in prayer. Her hands shook slightly. She felt Marie come up close beside her. “It’s horrible to contemplate. My imagination seeks them out, those… others, and I…” She took a breath. “I know them, Marie. I know their reasons. I can hear what they tell themselves.” Soft, deceiving words. Pretty words, drawing a counterfeit likeness of love.

“I know this,” Marie said. “You have been given a grace–”

“Oh spare me such superstitious nonsense!”

Marie just waited for Jane to be ready to listen. Finally, Jane sighed and nodded.

Marie began again. “By what agency, if any, I don’t know, but you have been given a grace to see this work done, and a gift with which to do it. Your genius, your insight, and your energy; and yes, your love for these boys.”

“It’s not love that…” She sucked in another breath, but she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“No it isn’t,” Marie agreed after the silence. “And because you know the difference, you won’t fail, and you won’t fall. Your love is the stronger part of you.”

Jane looked at her, understanding the words but unable to comprehend.

“Positing such a thing as a state of grace,” she said, forcing an analytical cast onto her voice, “how would one know it had been lost? Perhaps… one would perceive it in the deaths of innocents in one’s care, don’t you think? You see, Eugá¨nia was so very lovely.”

~Doubt me, Marie. For one second of your life, doubt me. Then you would not ask me to keep Jonathan here, within my reach. Your faith is such a weight to bear.~

“And she was happy,” Marie answered. “I remember the happiness she found. I remember how alive she became; how funny she was; her ideas. Her art was like an explosion; it was like springtime. It was like for the first time she’d been allowed to draw a real breath and see that the world is lovely.” Marie’s eyes were full of tears. “This is how I know she came to no harm by your hand. How dare you even try to insinuate… just because you’re… you’re afraid and you want me to be afraid too!”

“Marie–” Jane began. She was sorry now, knowing after all, this was the worst mistake she had made, the worst hurt she had given. She might as well have struck Marie through the heart.

“Do you think you’re the only one of us that was wounded? Do you think I don’t miss them both every day too?” Marie’s hand was pressed over her lower belly, over her womb, as if in pain. “What happened was not your fault! What do you think it was like watching you… wall yourself up inside like that? And you wondered why I had to leave.” Marie’s tears ran freely now. She broke herself away from Jane abruptly and ripped a handkerchief out of a pocket to dry her face. “Valerie brought you back to us, but don’t you see? Natasha’s going to heal us both, and Valerie too. It’s so obvious! You have to see that!”

***

~Such a lot of hope to lay on a boy with troubles enough of his own.~ Jane stood at her window watching the two small figures by the lake. Natasha was a little splash of blue from this distance. ~Such a lot of faith to lay on a dangerous, selfish old woman.~

~She’s become so fond of him. Well, I have too. Too fond, perhaps. Too timorous, after Eugenia and Julia. Too gentle, and he took it for interest of a different sort.~

~Not without reason, Jane. Don’t forget that. He sees you. He knows what you are, the apotheosis you’ve always denied yourself.~

~He knows nothing! He guessed. He presupposes. And he has his own reasons for doing so. (Oh, the poor child.)~

~I should have been more remote. I should have exercised a more professional demeanour.~ She recalled the success of Natasha’s first singing lesson; the sessions of reading-practice. ~What am I going to do with him?~

She wanted, more than anything, to call Art. ~He’ll drop everything and come. Now, perhaps, asking him to do just that would be less than selfish. Or Eric,~ she thought, suddenly, ~precisely because he’s not family– But I can’t tell him about this. I can’t tell him my part in it. I can’t tell him why I’m afraid. He was my student, once.~

~I’ve never doubted your wisdom before, Marie.~ All this talk of grace and there being a purpose, even a kindness in random events disturbed Jane greatly. It was not rational to think in such terms, and she never could understand people who did.

~Oh but then why deny yourself, Jane? Why go to your grave with a desire unfulfilled?~

~For shame, monster; you can do better than that. I am no primitive to need the fear of retribution in the afterlife to make me behave in a moral fashion.~

The phone rang suddenly, making her jump. She took a moment to settle herself and went to her bedside table to pick it up. “Thompson residence, Jane Thompson speaking.”

“Mrs. Thompson? This is Lindsey Shaw. I’ve just got that email you sent yesterday.”

“Oh yes.” ~Oh no. What do I say to her?~

“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. We went away for the weekend to visit my mother. I thought I gave you my mobile number?”

Jane picked up the threads of thought she needed. “Yes, you did. I felt this was a subject that was best discussed in private, and it wasn’t completely urgent.”

“I understand. And yes, we knew about the problem he’s having with that little bit of breast growth. He’s seen Dr. Balham about it, and he said don’t worry, Nathan should grow out of it in time.”

“All right,” Jane said. “I wanted to be sure that if the subject came up here and I needed to reassure him, I wouldn’t be contradicting anything else you might already know.”

“No, that’s fine. If you can avoid drawing his attention to it unnecessarily… Talking about it is one quick way to make him ratty.”

Jane allowed herself a tense, ironic smile. “I take it this is why he’s excused school sports?”

Pause.

“Yes, it is.” Another pause. ~There’s something you’re still not telling me,~ Jane thought. “We go out cycling a lot, and we go walking, so he does get some exercise.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Shaw, I believe there’s something you’re not telling me,” Jane said, repeating her thought aloud.

There was another pause from the line. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” the voice came back, tightly.

“How much do you know about his past, Mrs. Shaw?” she asked, as evenly as she could manage.

She heard Lindsey Shaw sigh at the other end. “Not very much, and if you don’t mind, most of what little I do know is private.”

“How long was he living on the streets before you adopted him?” Jane asked suddenly. She hadn’t even known in advance she would say that. From Lindsey Shaw, there was only a stony silence. “Intuition and experience, Mrs. Shaw,” Jane answered the unspoken question truthfully. “He wouldn’t be the first of my students to have such a background.”

Still there was only silence, for a few more moments. “I don’t know,” Lindsey Shaw finally admitted. “He says not long, a few months. He was only nine…” ~Nine!~ Jane had to sit down on the edge of her bed. “He said his father threw him out of the house. Can you imagine that? Only nine years old…”

“Yes,” Jane said quietly. “Yes, I can. Is there anything you can tell me about what happened during that time?”

“No.” This time the answer was quick and unequivocal, but then she seemed to pause.

Jane waited.

“Just what I was told when he came to us: he was found in a building being used by squatters. Someone had phoned for an ambulance because a girl had been stabbed in the hallway. When they got there they found her body slumped against a door, and him locked inside the room and screaming. The blood–”

“The blood was running under the door,” Jane completed. ~Well, that closes that circle,~ she thought to herself sadly.

“How did you know that?” Lindsey asked. “You haven’t locked him in anywhere have you?”

Jane was ready for this. “To do so at night is standard policy in the first weeks,” she said smoothly. “Much of our intake has a history of violent or destructive behaviour. That doesn’t apply in Jonathan’s case; and in view of what happened the first two nights, and his good behaviour the rest of the time, we’ve already relaxed that policy. His door wasn’t locked yesterday evening and we all had a quiet night.” Not a very sleepful one, Jane reminded herself, but quiet nonetheless. “The first two nights my daughter Valerie was quickly on hand to help him and keep him company.” For a moment she enjoyed the feeling of those words falling so easily from her tongue, ‘my daughter’. Then she remembered her failure: Valerie wanting to move out to the gatehouse. She continued, “In fact, we’re still getting through the cookies they baked together Sunday night.”

“Cookies?” Lindsey queried, surprised. If she was distracted from being angry about Jonathan being locked in, Jane could only be glad.

“A very large quantity of cookies, with far, far too much chocolate, which is something of a speciality of Valerie’s.” Jane described. She needed to pull the conversation back to where information could flow to her, not from her. “Anyway, the ambulance arrived and they found him there…”

“And he went with them in the ambulance, to stay with the girl, but she died. She’d lost too much blood. Anyway, that’s when social services caught up with him, at the hospital. He told them his name but they’ve never been able to find his family and I’m glad of that.” Pause. “That’s all I know. The girl was twelve or thirteen I think. He said she’d been looking after him.”

She fell silent. Jane nodded. “Thank you. As you can see, we inadvertently awoke some old memories, which is why I really need to know anything else you can tell me.”

“He’s never told me anything himself, All I know is what I was told by the social worker when she brought him round. We took him to the girl’s funeral. It was so sad, he was the only one there who knew her.”

“I see, yes. So you were his foster parents in the first instance?”

“Yes, it was an emergency placement.” Lindsey allowed herself a little chuckle. “Phone call at three o’clock in the morning, ‘Hello? Can you take this child for a few nights if I bring him round now…’”

“Ah, I see.”

“Then a few nights turned into a few weeks… It wasn’t until later that we applied to adopt him.”

~And I do wonder what prompted that decision,~ Jane thought to herself. ~Ragamuffin charm, perhaps?~ Whatever the reason, it had been a stroke of good fortune for Jonathan. She knew the damage that could be done by the turmoil and indifference of life in the care of the state; she had met the results on a train platform on many occasions. Her own decision to adopt Darryl had come from knowing that, had she not, he would have been sent into such a life, so she felt she understood Lindsey Shaw well enough.

“We’ve done our best to provide a stable and loving home, and he’s done so well, when you think about it. He’s still so young, and he’s so resilient,” Lindsey continued. “If he can forget whatever happened to him out there, if he can heal, don’t you think he should be allowed to?”

It was Jane’s turn to be silent. From her bed she looked out of the window. She could still just see the blue of Natasha’s coat, with Marie’s darker form almost lost in shadow, near the little bridge over the stream that fed the lake. ~Going to see the naíad,~ Jane recognised the route.

“I don’t know,” Jane admitted, finally. “I’m not qualified to offer an opinion on that. In fact, I have to consider whether my methods are appropriate to his needs.” ~Release me from this.~

“Oh,” Lindsey sounded crestfallen for a moment. “I don’t… Whatever happened all those years ago, what’s it got to do with his computer hacking? Has he been any trouble?”

“No,” Jane said. “No, he’s been good. As good as can be expected.”

“We’d be so disappointed,” Lindsey continued. “After everything Mr. Waters said about you.” She sighed. Jane knew Mr. and Mrs. Shaw hadn’t been told about the full seriousness of the trouble he was in, and the consequences of his not coming. It would have sounded too much like blackmail, and proved unnecessary in the end. “You know, everyone has a past, Mrs. Thompson. I’m sure you do. I certainly do. And I’m sure you know that not everything you do and everything you are today has to be all bound up with something that happened to you when you were nine. He’s moved on. He’s not the one who’s obsessed by this. You can’t just reduce him to one awful thing that happened — that might have happened, because we don’t know — and say that’s who he is, forever, this victim, and he can never be anything that isn’t defined by that. I think that’s the worst thing anyone can do. You should give him a little credit for inventing himself.”

~Interesting turn of phrase,~ Jane thought. She was beginning to wish she had met Lindsey Shaw in person. She was gaining an entirely new perspective on the woman.

And on her adopted son.

Lindsey continued, “I mean, I thought we were sending him to you to learn something about how to make his own decisions and not always follow what other people want him to do.”

~Oh?~ Jane thought. She could practically feel her antennae perk up. “What do you mean?” She reached reflexively for the notebook she kept by the phone.

“Well, that’s something Mr. Waters said,” Lindsey replied, sounding curious about having to explain something she obviously thought was already understood. “He talked so much about how much self-confidence he gained from his time with you; how he learned to think for himself and be himself and not always having to worry about what others thought about him.”

~Oh, that was the hook he used,~ Jane thought, scribbling notes, angry at herself for being caught unprepared; after all the material Mrs. Shaw and Reggie had sent, this was new. She had to think. Her brain was already starting. “Would you say he’s more comfortable letting others take the lead in most situations?”

“Yes, definitely,” Lindsey replied.

“He doesn’t need to feel that he’s in charge all the time,” Jane observed. It wasn’t a question.

“That’s right–”

“Does he help in the house?” Jane asked suddenly, following another hunch. “Does he do household chores for you?”

Pause. “Yes he does.” Lindsey sounded faintly surprised. “Well, I mean, if I ask him to do something I know it’ll get done. Sometimes he’ll take it into his head… When he was younger he’d…” She chuckled at a memory. “I’d come home from work and everything would be done already, and I mean everything; in the time between him coming in from school and me getting home from work; the washing-up, the laundry, the hoovering and dusting would all be done and I’d usually find him in the living room doing the ironing.”

“Really?”

“It was very nice, but I didn’t want him to feel he was there to work for us, you know? I did feel a bit uncomfortable about that.”

“No one likes to be a burden,” Jane echoed.

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

“Did you praise him for it, when he did that work?”

“Well, of course. How could you not?”

“Indeed. How did you resolve that, then, so he didn’t feel he needed to do that all the time?” Jane asked, not merely curious for Jonathan’s sake.

“I don’t know that we did anything in particular,” Lindsey responded. “I think he just grew out of it in the end. Became a teenager, I think that was the end of it.” Jane chuckled. “He started to take us for granted a little, which was the whole point I suppose.”

“Of course.”

“It’s possible getting the dishwasher helped a bit. But still, he’s so eager to please, and show off how good he is at something.”

“So, you’d say he transferred that eagerness to please onto his peers? People he came into contact with online. He was a quick study, and learned the tricks they wanted to teach him, and thrived on the praise and the kudos. Yes, of course.”

“Yes, that’s what Mr. Waters said too. He lets himself be led too easily.”

~Even by the light touch of a finger on his shoulder,~ Jane reminded herself. ~He didn’t flinch at that. Perhaps if he had I might have been more careful, but he’s not twitchy about being touched the way Valerie can be.~ Thinking about that would lead her back to unhappy thoughts about Valerie’s own secretive past. She needed to focus. ~Well, that’s another puzzle.~

“Is there anyone in particular whose lead he tends to follow?” she asked.

“I suppose there’s still his friend from school, Simon. He got him into computers in the first place, back when they were in first year, and they’re still friends, though I suppose they’ve grown apart a bit since then. And there’s that other hacker, the one who was caught first. He called himself ‘Ground Effect,’ I think it was. I don’t know his real name, but apparently he led Jonathan on, and got him to do those things.”

“Hmm.” ~How old–~ “How old is he, do you know?”

“Oh, not very. The police said he was, oh… Sixteen? Seventeen? Something like that. A little older than Jonathan, but not… Not like an older man, or anything like that.” Jane nodded, relieved. At least that wasn’t the story. “Quite charismatic though, apparently; but since he’s out of the picture now, Jonathan’s made friends with this new hacker called ‘Jester,’ and we only know about that because we try to watch him on the computer most of the time now.” ~And he still managed to do some hacking under your noses,~ Jane thought privately. “And I can just see it all happening all over again. He’s so eager to please and impress.”

“Do you know anything more about him? This Jester?” Jane asked, adding the name to the list.

“Well, for a start it’s not a him, it’s a her.” ~Oh now that’s interesting,~ Jane thought, and put a ‘(F)’ next to the name, and underlined it. “She’s American, I think, so they’ve never actually met. And she’s only sixteen or seventeen as well, or at least she says she is, and Jonathan said he’d checked up on her. He can do that, he says, although I suppose that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t think anything of going around snooping into other people’s personal details. As long as it’s through the computer it doesn’t count as being a bad thing to do. I mean… he wouldn’t do that in real life, he’s not like that. But I’ve sat and watched them talking online, and it’s mostly just about computers and science fiction and all that stuff. So far at least she doesn’t seem to be trying to get him to do anything, that I’ve seen, but I know what he’s like, you see? He’ll want to impress her, and show off how clever he is, and it’ll get him into trouble again.”

“Hmm.” Jane thought. “All right, I won’t make any hasty decisions. You’re giving me a lot of new information to think about, anyway, and I want to confer with some of the expertise I have available to me.” ~And I’ll see what Reggie can dig out about Ground Effect and Jester,~ Jane was thinking privately. ~Hmm.~ Her pencil-tip tapped against the first name on the list.

“Oh, I’m glad.”

“In the meantime, what can you tell me about that schoolfriend of his? Simon? What sort of influence is he?”

“Oh.” Jane heard a chuckle from the other end of the line. “He’s a bit of a character, I have to say. Quite the charmer. I can see what Jonathan sees in him, once you get past the way he looks.”

“What about the way he looks?”

“Well, he has a habit of turning up at the house wearing lots of make-up and skirts and black lacy tights and Victorian jewellery, that sort of thing.”

“Oh really?” Jane said, writing ‘CD’ in big letters next to the name, and underlining it. Three times. Then a box around the letters. “He likes dressing up as a girl, then,” she continued lightly, adding ‘in public’ after the box.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I think it’s just a Goth thing. It’s all blacks and purples and androgyny, and he certainly doesn’t behave in any way camp or girlishly, and he’s so tall. No, you wouldn’t mistake him for a girl. In fact I think he’d be very put out if you did. It wouldn’t have the same effect, then, would it, I suppose.”

“I see.” Jane wrote ‘(Goth)’ under the boxed ‘CD’. “No, I suppose not.”

“He looks quite spectacular in all his regalia. A bit like a young Ziggy Stardust, I suppose, though I think he models himself after that pop singer, whats-his-name, Marilyn Manson?”

“Oh yes, I think my daughter listens to him as well.”

Lindsey was still speaking, “I have some photos of them both I took once before they went out with some of his other friends. I could send them if you like.”

“If you would. Does Jonathan dress up too?” Jane asked easily. The million-dollar question.

“No,” Lindsey replied. “He certainly doesn’t do with the whole make-up and skirts thing.”

“As far as you know,” Jane pointed out.

“Well, yes, I’d be astonished if Simoom never once persuaded him to at least try something on, but if he wanted to do it more he’s had every opportunity to be open about it. He should know we wouldn’t mind. I think he’s just not very into that stuff. It’s not something Simoom’s been doing for very long. It’s only because Simoom’s his friend and they’ve known each other right from when they started Secondary school.”

“All right. Sorry, ‘Simoom?’”

“That’s his nickname. I don’t know anyone apart from his parents who really calls him by his real name. He’s a lovely boy, somewhere under all that make-up,” Lindsey ran on. “He wouldn’t lead Jonathan wrong. Not like those hacker types.”

“Indeed. Well, thank you Mrs. Shaw. I certainly have a fuller picture than I did.”

“I just wish we’d spoken more beforehand,” Lindsey said.

“Yes, in retrospect, so do I,” Jane answered. “It’s been very illuminating. I have plenty to think about.”

The phone call ended with the normal parting pleasantries. Jane sat for a few moments looking through the notes she’d made; then she brought the notebook with her to her office, shut herself in, and brought out her large Jonathan log-book. She quickly wrote out what she remembered of the morning’s events. It ended with, ‘negotiating a price’ and ‘offered himself to me’ and under that, in capitals, ‘HAS HE DONE THIS BEFORE?’ ~But he’d been so clumsy and nervous about it.~ She wrote something to that effect too. Then she transcribed the new notes, and other impressions she got from the phone conversation with his mother, while it was still fresh. ~So he’s subject to peer pressure, in common with every other teenager I’ve ever met,~ she thought. “Is it more than that?”

She wrote, ‘The mother wants me to disregard concerns about his earlier childhood. Homeless. (Abused? Prostituted?) Witnessed a horrific murder, at the least. Mother says he has “moved on.” Wishful thinking?’ She thought for a moment and carried on, ‘Or was she right until I blundered in and reopened old wounds that had long healed?’

‘Do such wounds ever heal?’ she wrote. And that brought to mind Lindsey Shaw’s exhorting her — pleading with her — not to define him forever as a victim. ~And we don’t know what actually happened to him back then,~ she reminded herself. Imagination filled the gaps. ~Did he even get any therapy?~ she wondered. He had been fostered with the Shaws within days of the events that had brought him into the care system. Lindsey Shaw hadn’t mentioned therapy, and Jane was angry with herself that she’d forgotten to ask.

~Art is coming,~ she reminded herself. ~There’s more here than I can deal with alone. Art is coming. He’ll know what to do.~

‘Dolls & Mirrors’ she wrote. Things had been going well until then. She remembered with fondness the long voice lesson she had given earlier the same day. How attentive he had been, how well he had responded to instruction, how engaging he was as a student. She wrote, ‘we accidentally recreated a set of circumstances he has experienced before, and from then on it was obvious something was wrong.’ ~I think it started to go wrong then.~ ‘How subdued he was in the evening, and then this morning. And then to offer himself to me like that; he’d clearly come to a decision about what he must do. A decision based on things he had seen, surely.’

She put down her pencil and stood, then went across the landing, around the oval stairwell, and into the playroom. The large mirror was screwed firmly to the wall; she needed tools to remove it, so she went downstairs to the kitchen utility room and found the toolbox and carried it back upstairs into the playroom. She had to move the daybed to get at the mirror properly. It was mounted above the mantelpiece of a disused fireplace. She found the right screwdriver and unscrewed one side, lowering it gently onto the mantelpiece, then repeated with the other. She had to move some ornaments out of the way in the process, then she concentrated on getting a good grip on the mirror and on lifting it away and down, so she could carry it back into her office and leave it leaning against a cupboard.

The exertion left her a little flushed and breathy, but she felt better for it as she wandered back into the playroom and restored the ornaments and daybed to their proper places.

She sat on the other daybed, across from where the mirror had been, and looked at the space it left. There was a small scratch in the wallpaper where she hadn’t been quite careful enough in unscrewing the mirror, and of course, the two empty rawlplugs. She’d get someone in to clean that up at some point. Or find a picture to put up in its place. The room itself seemed a little smaller and a little darker than before, which was the only reason the mirror had been put there in the first place.

~He lay here,~ she remembered, her hand touching down on the cushion beside her. He’d been captivated by the light and the play of the curtains and the mobile, now hanging silent and lifeless in front of the closed window. It was overcast today, and quite drab in comparison. Still, she kicked off her shoes and brought her feet up onto the daybed, and lay down, where he’d lain; first only on her side, then she turned onto her back, her head propped up on the chenille-covered cushions that she had chosen. She gazed slowly at the window, and the sky, a scrolling grey parchment of clouds. She checked what else she could see from that vantage. No, she could not see the doorway at all. The mirror would not have betrayed her either, and there wasn’t anything else reflective in her field of vision.

She felt so tired. She’d had little enough sleep in the last two nights, and hadn’t really slept well for several nights before that. And it was restful on the daybed, and so very quiet. She let her eyelids flicker shut. Her hand, on the closed side of the bed, fell naturally to her breast, and she breathed deeply.

***

Valerie wasn’t tracking well at lunch. “Pardon me?” She thought someone might have mentioned her name.

“Are you all right, Vee?” Jo asked. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“It’s only half a week,” she corrected, before remembering that was bad enough. “Havanothercookie.” They were disappearing fast. She wondered madly if Natasha could be persuaded to make more tonight.

“What is it?”

“Uh, chocolate, vanilla extract, butter, chocolate, eggs, flour–” Someone gave her shoulder a friendly shove. “Chocolate…” She started giggling, then shook herself. “Nah, I’m okay. Really.”

“I really don’t think you should try to ride home tonight,” Mary said. “Can’t you leave the bike here one night and I’ll drive you home?” ~Bad idea!~ Valerie flashed. ~So many levels.~ “Or you can crash at my place… Or someone’s… But we’ve got a spare room an’ all.” ~Hand the lady a shovel,~ Valerie thought. She thought she’d already seen Jo give them both a curious look earlier.

It wasn’t a problem for Valerie. She knew none of this crowd would have a problem with it. Danny was gay and out about it, and it just hardly even came up.

But Mary was nervous anyway. Valerie could understand that. People were going to look at her differently when it came out. It didn’t have to be bad-different to be a bit scary. And maybe it was worse, being a mother.

“No, ’m okay. I just need to…” ~Lie down. I need to lie down somewhere.~

“So how come you haven’t been sleeping?” Danny asked.

“It’s this new kid, Natasha?” Jo explained. Valerie blinked. She didn’t remember telling Jo about that. ~Oh wait. Had to say who made the damn cookies. Again.~ She hoped she got the story straight when she must have said it. It was probable. She hadn’t been as tired then.

“What new kid?” Aiden asked, swiping another cookie.

“You were there when she said,” Jo remonstrated. “This girl’s staying at Vee’s for the summer, ’cause her parents had some trouble coping with her, or something.” That sounded more or less straight to Valerie. “She’s having nightmares, right?” Valerie nodded. No need to mention her own problems. “Vee’s been up babysitting every night. That’s where these cookies you’re scoffing came from!” She grabbed the tupperware box away from Aiden’s side of the table.

“Oh that’s nice of you,” Karen said. “So she’s what, your foster sister? How old is she?”

“Is she fit?” Aiden put in, and got a thump from someone. Jo, Valerie guessed. “Hey! I was only asking!”

“Fifteen,” Valerie answered Karen, opting to ignore Aiden.

“Really?” Mary said, surprised. “You made her sound a lot younger.”

“She seems a lot younger sometimes,” Valerie admitted. ~Foster sister?~

“You’re not going to be any good to her if you crash your bike, ’cause you’re so tired, are you?” Jo said.

“Well, I’m going to go and see little one,” Mary stated. “You coming, Vee?”

“Uh, sure!”

“Mind if I tag along?” Jo asked.

To her credit, Mary didn’t hesitate, or she covered it while she was standing. “Sure.”

“We’ll look after the cookies,” Danny declared, grabbing the box back.

“Save some for the rehearsal. Lizabeth will want one.”

“Why don’t you take hers to her now?”

“Because, if I do that I’ll have to bring enough for the whole group, and then they’ll be unmanageable all afternoon and their play supervisor will hate me forever. You know there’s far too much sugar in these for children, don’t you, Vee?” she added.

“No there’s not. There’s exactly the amount there’s supposed to be.” Valerie managed a grin, then remembered she had to get up too, if she was going to see Elizabeth. She stowed the remainder of her lunch and got up. “Look, it’s a really occasional treat. It’s not going to happen often, I promise.”

“Hmm. Okay. Well, are you coming?”

“I’m coming.”

***

“Why don’t you go up and take a shower, and change, and then you can come down here and help me make lunch. How does that sound?” Marie said. She and Natasha had returned and were standing back in the kitchen.

“Okay.”

“Well, go on then, unless you need me to take your coat off as well.” She smiled wryly at the earlier scene, seeing the echo of her expression in Natasha’s face.

“No, I think I can manage. I’ll call you if I get stuck.”

Marie smiled. “Go on then.”

Natasha paused at the door. “You know, you forgot something,” she said, still with that ironic lilt.

“Oh?”

Natasha grinned. “Mittens tied together through the arms with elastic.”

Marie chuckled. “I’ll remember for next time. Go on.”

Natasha disappeared in the direction of the back stairs.

It was good to get out, Marie decided. A little air, a little light exercise. It had definitely been the right thing to do, for both of them.

She waited for the old plumbing to tell her Natasha was in the shower and went upstairs to search for Jane, not without a little trepidation. She meant to go to Jane’s bedroom, but whatever strange sense tells that there is someone behind a closed door made her gravitate to Jane’s office. She knocked, softly, and pushed the door open.

Jane was there, seated at her desk, surrounded by papers, sketched charts, a few open books, and even her laptop computer, open and facing her. She was writing quickly in a student logbook and apparently oblivious to Marie’s arrival. No sight could have given Marie more joy in that moment. She closed the door behind her and seated herself, without invitation, in the chair in front of the desk. Jane looked up momentarily, then continued with her notes. Marie noticed the large mirror from the playroom, now leaning against the stationary cupboard.

“I had a very interesting telephone conversation with Mrs. Shaw,” Jane said, still writing. Then she paused and looked up. “How was your walk?”

“Very pleasant.”

“Excellent. Did she behave herself?”

“Yes.”

“Do as she was told?”

“Ye-es?” Marie was starting to wonder what Jane was getting at.

“And didn’t huff or complain at all, I bet,” Jane said.

“A little, when I put her coat on. She wanted to do it herself.”

“But no serious resistance. And she had a good time.”

“No. And yes, we both did.”

“What’s she doing now?”

“I said she should take a shower and then she could help me with lunch.”

“Good, good. And is she?”

“I heard the shower running when I came upstairs– Jane, what’s this about?”

Jane grinned quickly and leaned back in her chair. “Can you think of a single direct instruction that she’s failed to obey since coming here?”

Marie had to think about it. “Nnnno,” she said, thoughtfully.

“Nor can I. And you can’t have failed to notice her response to nonverbal cues. Oh, she’s prevaricated on occasion, outright delayed, I’m sure of it. Ask her to get something when she doesn’t want to and she’ll take her sweet time about it, but she’ll do it.”

“I haven’t noticed her going-slow.”

“Ah ha!” Jane grinned again. “Of course not. She’s your friend. She obeys me because she thinks she must. She obeys you because she likes you, and that’s far more interesting.”

“I’m a little confused, Jane. I thought that was what we wanted.”

“Yes! It is! It’s exactly what we wanted.”

“Well then–”

“It’s not what we normally get after just three days, is it? After three days I am still performing an expectation of obedience, rather than genuinely expecting it. Would you take Natasha for lunch? I won’t be joining you.” Marie’s eyes widened in surprise. “I want you to get her to help you, and see what happens. This will let you both interact informally around food. Watch what happens when she’s at ease, but be sure to give her plenty to do. Observe her moods as she carries out the tasks you set her, and report back to me with your impressions later.”

“Jane–”

“That will be all.” She grinned to take the peremptory tone from her words. “Oh, and of course we’re still expecting Harriet and Mark tonight. Harry can talk about Natasha’s schoolwork. I think that will help settle Natasha’s mind considerably about what she’s doing here. For dinner, I think I should like something very…” she smiled knowingly. Marie couldn’t help but smile in return, to see Jane so restored. “Complicated,” Jane finished. “Something labour-intensive. But I want you to take it easy. In fact, I want you to be downright lazy, and make Natasha do almost everything, particularly the complicated, difficult jobs. Just tell her what to do, and show her as necessary. Run her ragged, and if you run out of things for her to do in the kitchen, send her on errands around the house, but be very sure to praise her for her work, especially when she’s made a good effort.” Another grin. “However, I will interrupt you both to get her ready for our guests’ arrival, so you should let time run away with you.”

“Should I tell her there are guests coming?”

Jane looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “No. I will. I may want to put her mind at rest about one matter, but in others I should like her not to get too comfortable. Let her speak English if she wants to. When I come for her I shall feign anger at finding her doing so,” she warned.

***

Jo nudged Mary. “What?” Jo just pointed behind Mary’s back. Mary turned and saw Valerie fast asleep, curled up on the floppy old sofa in the corner of the playgroup room. “Oh no. We can’t leave her there like that.” It was nearly the end of lunch-break. She remembered Valerie flopping down on one end of the sofa soon after they arrived; after that her attention had been taken up by Elizabeth.

“Why not?” Jo asked. “What’s she got next, do you know?”

“Mummy?”

“Um, I’m not sure. Maths all afternoon I think. How long has she been asleep?”

“Like she’s going to stay awake for that. She might as well stay here.”

“Mummy!”

“I think she likes Maths.”

“Ew! Sick puppy!”

“Anyway, you can’t leave someone asleep–”

“Mummy!”

“What dear?”

Elizabeth looked slightly startled to have her mother’s attention back. “I’ll look after her,” she suggested.

“Awww.” That was too cute for words, so Mary had to grab her and hug her for a bit.

“Tell you what, I’ll go and talk to the play supervisor.” Jo said. “Maybe she’ll be okay with her staying here for a bit.”

Mary sighed as Jo got up. “She does need the sleep.”

Elizabeth wriggled free and went towards one of the cupboards. Jo went in the other direction to find the play supervisor. If anyone could persuade her to let a student sleep on the sofa while the children were in playgroup, Jo would find a way. More of the children were returning, being dropped off by their mothers as lunch ended.

Elizabeth returned with a blanket and proceeded to drape it over Valerie where she slept, which was a complicated job for a small person, thus demonstrating her commitment for the moment, Mary supposed. She shook her head at the appalling cuteness of it all. If Aiden was here he’d probably be sick. Never mind that, she thought, if Valerie was awake, she’d be sick.

Best not to wake her then.

Jo returned. “It’s okay, at least for an hour. She’s going to read the kids a story to settle them down, then they usually lie down for a nap anyway. Aw, she looks so sweet like that, doesn’t she?”

Mary couldn’t tell if there was anything behind those words: A question, an accusation. She just shrugged and got to her feet, avoiding Jo’s eyes. “All right, Lizbeth, you’re going to look after Auntie Vee until she wakes up, okay?”

“Okay.” She grinned, full of pride. Mary picked her up and kissed her.

“I’ve got to go, love.” Elizabeth nodded. “You be good.” She nodded again and Mary put her down.

***

The phone rang again. Jane picked it up instantly. “Thompson residence, Jane–” she began.

“Janie!”

Only two people in the world still called her that. “Harry.” She smiled and relaxed. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“One of my girls has a brother at another school. Let us call him Bobby, for that is his name.” Jane settled in for the story. “Bobby is about to be expelled from an exclusive public boarding school for carrying a knife into school and threatening another student in the changing rooms, and for coming into school after lunch heavily drunk on vodka. He’s a bully, and a thief, and frankly a spoilt little brat. He’s been in trouble for bad behaviour many times before, but this knife incident is the last straw. Not even his parents’ money can protect him this time, and frankly they’re at their wits’ end.”

“Oh my, he sounds perfect,” Jane said, unable to keep the smile off her face. ~That was what I needed to get me back in the saddle,~ she thought to herself. ~Not one of Gina’s Geekettes. A nice straightforward bully and pig.~

“I thought you’d say so. How soon can you take him on?”

“So soon after starting with another student? Difficult, but… it might work. How old is he?”

“Fourteen. Fifteen in October.” ~Younger than Natasha. Good. Yes, it might work.~ “Oh, one small detail,” Harriet said, almost as an afterthought. “Bobbie is a nickname for Roberta, and she doesn’t have a brother. Apart from that every word is true.”

“Harry!” Jane protested. “Really.”

Jane heard a sigh from the other end of the line. “I’ve just got off the phone to the other girl’s parents. They want the police to press charges, and frankly given this girl’s history I’m inclined to agree and damn the publicity. I can’t see anything short of that making much of an impression on her. To think it should happen here! It’s not as if we’re an inner-city comprehensive.” Pause. “So come on, Janie, what about it? Give me an option I can put in front of the parents. Both sets,” she added.

Jane hesitated for a moment. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You want to send her to me?”

“Why not? You said yourself ‘Bobby’ sounded perfect for you. And you always said this whole crazy idea grew out of your work at that girls’ school in New Hampshire–”

“Yes, but… that was a quarter century ago! It won’t work.”

“I don’t see why,” Harriet pressed. “It’s based on how finishing schools used to work, isn’t it?”

“Only superfic–” Jane wrenched herself out of lecture-mode. They had talked about it a lot in the last few months. Harriet knew all the arguments by now. She was openly skeptical, but Jane was fine with that. In fact, in a way, she was counting on it. “Some of it might work, I suppose, with a little alteration,” Jane said, “but you can’t mix boys and girls in this. It’s been tried.”

She had been a young English teacher and house-mistress at Eastmore, on only her second full-time teaching job, and her first since returning from Paris in the wake of her brother’s death. As an escape from the atmosphere at her mother’s house Jane had thrown herself into her teaching with an almost obsessive zeal. She had found, after all, that the persona she had created for herself was very much to her own liking.

A couple of the girls’ parents, impressed by the change in their daughters’ behaviour attributed to her, had essentially begged her to ‘do the same thing’ with their unruly brothers, and Mrs. Bruton, the headmistress, had grudgingly agreed. It had worked too, after a fashion, and well enough that the school was starting to receive more enquiries, but she had to take the boys away from Eastmore in the end. The girls were too vicious. They had the upper hand and absolutely no mercy. When Jane thought back on those first students, she shuddered at how narrowly she must have escaped disaster, the amount of wild improvisation in which she had indulged. As everyone said, she seemed to have a peculiar talent. She shouldn’t have got away with it. But she did.

Grace, Marie called it. Jane cringed at the thought. She had been lucky. Far luckier than she had any right to be. It wasn’t good enough any more to depend on that.

“Yes, I remember you saying,” Harriet was continuing, “but it was a long time ago. Times change. And besides, this isn’t a school full of spoiled American princesses. This is one girl, separated from her clique. And frankly she’s in more trouble than she can handle.”

Jane floundered slightly, not entirely sure if Harriet was really being serious about this, or whether she should entertain the notion for entertainment’s sake. “I can’t. Not with another student just starting. Things are unsettled enough. It would be a huge unknown factor.” She hesitated. Her brain was starting to work again. ~Not now!~ “Maybe, when he’s ready to be big sister, maybe we could talk about it, but I don’t see how she could be a big-sister in turn, to a boy coming after her.” She shook her head. “She needs to form an empathic bond with the new student. Girls that age don’t have the emotional maturity to see a boy wearing a dress as anything other than a figure of ridicule.” ~And no reason, no reason at all, to keep the boy’s secret in public.~ “The boys only do because they’ve been through it. The act of transgression binds them, you see? A girl can’t share that. There’s nothing transgressive about a girl wearing a pretty dress, is there?”

Silence for a moment. Then, “I’m not sure you’re right,” Harriet said. “Clearly what I should have done is dress her up as a boy and send her to you without telling you.”

“I think I can still tell the difference, Harry,” Jane said, chuckling wryly.

“Oh I don’t know. From what you told me she’d only have to be convincing as a boy for a couple of hours–”

“And unconvincing as a girl for several days afterwards,” Jane reminded her. “Or weeks, in some cases.” ~Although God knows there have been exceptions to that.~ “Jonathan, for instance, is one of my more precocious students. That’s to say after three days he can look almost convincing as a girl already, just as long as he doesn’t take more than three steps or open his mouth to say more than a ‘yes please’ or ‘no thank you.’ We’re still in the very early days of vocal and carriage training and believe me, it does show. I would certainly have noticed if he could walk and talk convincingly too quickly.”

Harriet sighed. “Never mind. No, I don’t think I was really serious. I just wanted to soften the blow: I can’t make it this evening, for obvious reasons.”

“I’d guessed. Not to worry.”

“After I finish with you I have to go and talk to the police. By the time I’m finished there, I imagine Roberta’s parents will have arrived from London to take her home; assuming the police let them.” She sighed. “So I’m–”

“Trying to make me feel bad about this?”

“Absolutely.” Jane could tell Harriet was grinning. “I think you’re being appallingly discriminatory.”

“Says the girls’ school headmistress,” Jane pointed out.

“So how is Jonathan settling in?” It was so blatantly an attempt to change the subject that Jane chuckled again. “No, really?”

“Very interesting,” Jane reported. “I think you’ll like him. We have had some difficulties.” She took a breath and admitted, “and some misunderstandings, and I want to talk about that, but I think we’re getting on top of it now. It always takes a few days to settle in.”

“I shall look forward to meeting him. I can still come Friday afternoon, as we already planned, barring any further misadventures, and we can go over his revision and exam schedule with him then. In fact… I might be able to pop in for a couple of hours tomorrow as well.”

“Oh that would be excellent. Well, Mark will be setting off from Cheltenham soon. It’s time for me to play the wicked stepmother.”

There was a silence for a few moments from the phone. “Is that wise? If there’s only Mark coming now, mightn’t he get the wrong idea?”

“Who, Mark?” Jane queried, confused.

“No, Jonathan.”

“The encounter is intended to be a discomfiting one for him, but I need him to start having some contact with a larger world. I’m going to keep it very simple. I shall keep him by my side the entire time, and he won’t be required to do any more than sit quietly and behave. As this and other encounters pass off without incident, he should gain in confidence and understand that his fears were groundless.”

Harriet made an unconvinced noise. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to tell him his fears are groundless?”

“He has been told.” ~He should especially know after this morning,~ Jane thought. “He’s been told exactly what is to happen while he’s here. And of course he doesn’t believe a word of it, so it has to be demonstrated to him until he does. There’s little helping it, I’m afraid. It’s just a process he has to go through. The biggest help and reassurance would usually come from the big sister, who already knows this to be true. Marie’s doing her best. Of course she’s not of his peer group, but I think he’s beginning to trust her.”

***

Jane paused in the kitchen doorway. It was apparent that her approach down the stairs had not been heard by either Natasha nor Marie, to judge by the undiminished banter from around the kitchen table. Natasha was sitting there, with her back to Jane, doing something and holding forth animatedly to Marie about ‘home economics’ lessons at school. A quiet plop of something being dropped into water, and Jane realised what Natasha was doing: peeling potatoes. And, contrary to Jane’s instruction for her to be ‘lazy’, so was Marie.

Jane stayed and listened. It wasn’t Natasha’s words that held her attention, but rather her bearing, the tone of her voice, her apparent enthusiasm for both the task and the conversation.

~How do I deal with you?~ Jane worried. It felt like an age since the scene that morning. Natasha’s clumsy attempt at seduction; the slap. ~How do you face a child again after a scene like that?~

~I’ve been too gentle,~ she thought again. ~Too familiar. I haven’t earned that yet.~ She stood outside the simple friendliness she could see between Natasha and Marie. ~I have to earn this. I’ve always had to earn it, one way or another.~

~You’re being maudlin, Jane. There’s work to do. And safety in a stern manner. It’s time to be brisk, and leave her not enough leisure in which her imagination can work. It’s time to rush her, a little. Now.~ She stepped firmly into the room. “Ah, there you are.” Natasha sat bolt upright. Jane stood, and put a quieting hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “Natasha is supposed to be practicing her French, but instead I find you here speaking English. This is unacceptable.”

Marie, bless her, played her part to perfection. “Oui Madame, je suis désolée. C’est de ma faute. J’ai dá» expliquer quelque chose de compliqué, et aprá¨s j’ai oublié–”

“Tu n’oublieras plus,” Jane snapped.

“Non, madame.” Marie curtseyed in submission. Even with the performance done for Natasha’s benefit, to further increase her empathy for Marie, Jane could hardly help but smile.

Maybe it was as well that Natasha still kept her back to Jane. That, however, had to be remedied at once. Good. That little act of rebellion made keeping her visage of severity easier to maintain. “Et toi,” Jane pitched her voice so Natasha couldn’t doubt she was being addressed directly now. “Natasha! Regarde-moi en face!”

She stood slowly and turned to Jane. “Oui Madame.” Her voice shook.

Jane flashed again to that seductive lilt Natasha had used earlier, the knowing smile, the hand sweeping her petticoats aside to display her stockinged thigh. There was no suggestion of it in Natasha’s face now, but Jane pulsed with wilful anger. There was safety in anger. “Si Marie oublie á  l’avenir, tu lui rappelleras. Comprends-tu?” she instructed curtly.

“Ou-Oui, Madame,” Natasha stammered.

~Enough French,~ Jane thought, trying to keep the mood. “Marie, I want Natasha changed for the evening. I will see to it myself. Where is the dress I said she should wear?”

“It’s in the wardrobe nearest the window, ma’am,” Marie replied. Her hand rested again on Natasha’s shoulder and held tight.

“All right. Natasha, come with me at once.”

“Is-Isn’t Marie going to help then?” Natasha asked. “She usually–”

“Marie will be busy with dinner. Come here.” She extended her hand towards him.

He was literally quaking in his heels. ~Ah, this is something approaching normal,~ Jane thought with satisfaction.

***

“She’s going to figure it out,” Mary said, meaning Jo. They were standing outside the main entrance, waiting for Mary’s mother to turn up with the car. Jo was a little distance away, playing with Elizabeth and waiting for the same lift.

“She already has,” Valerie mused.

“What? Has she said something to you?”

Valerie shook her head. “I just know. She’s waiting for you to tell her.”

“Oh God…”

“You guys are so close,” Valerie continued. “She’s your best friend. I don’t want to get in the way of that. Seriously, I’m not worth it.” She sounded sad and wistful. “Anyway, come on, this is Jo we’re talking about. This is hardly going to break her mind.”

Mary sighed. “I suppose.”

Valerie touched her hand quietly, and Mary, without words, held on.

“Are you really okay about that stage-fighting thing?” Mary asked. “You seemed a little–”

“No, it’ll be… interesting.”

Mary couldn’t get the picture out of her mind from earlier. Valerie had only been at the last few rehearsals, but ostensibly to watch Elizabeth, so that Mary could concentrate on rehearsing. Aiden and Jo had been larking about with the prop daggers; swashbuckling — badly — as a lighthearted way to settle another artistic argument, of course, when Valerie had returned with Elizabeth from the toilets. She’d taken a moment to look at them, and at Mary, Karen and Danny looking on in consternation, and stepped straight in between them and disarmed them both with shocking ease.

And there was just a moment, in the middle of it, that had given gave Mary a chill. Valerie caught the hand-guard of Jo’s dagger and twisted it out of Jo’s hand as simply as turning off a tap. Continuing the same single whirling arc begun by that movement, she turned toward Aiden and caught his wrist and stepped through. He cried out and landed hard on his back. Valerie plucked the dagger from his hand as he fell.

Aiden so hated to be shown-up doing something stupid, and as a member of Fencing Club he knew how stupid he had been, which just made him worse; but Valerie actually got him to shut up, let her put a support bandage from her first aid pack on his sprained wrist and got him to take an anti-inflammatory.

So then everyone wanted to know where she’d learned to do that, which she wouldn’t say, of course. It was Danny who asked her if she wanted to help them work out the fight scene. She had demurred, but then Jo got in on the act too. Danny was in the fight scene with Aiden, so having someone in charge of that who could actually control Aiden probably seemed like an attractive idea, and even Aiden had to agree the whole sequence would probably look a lot cooler that way. Eventually Valerie had agreed, looking surprised about it herself.

“You can go if you want,” Mary said. “You don’t have to wait. Or… you could come round. If you like.” She could feel herself blushing. Nervous, knowing what she was saying. “Mum and dad are going out later.”

“Uh… I, um–” Valerie stammered.

~Did I actually manage to shock her?~ Mary wondered. Valerie’s hand, still holding hers, was clammy.

“I can’t,” she said eventually. “There’s something I have to be home for tonight.”

“You’re sure you can’t cancel it?” ~I’m really trying here!~

Valerie hesitated, clearly undergoing some internal struggle. “Yeah,” she said eventually. “I’m really sorry. I promised.” As if to try to make it up, Valerie’s head darted forward for a kiss.

“Jo,” Mary reminded her, backing out slightly. Valerie sagged and nodded.

“Sorry.”

“I’ll tell her tomorrow,” Mary promised. “She’ll be cool.”

Valerie nodded, her eyes downturned. “I suck.”

“No…” She hated to see Valerie looking so wretched. “I just… I’m an idiot, okay? It’s just ’cause I’m nervous–”

“Not your fault,” Valerie said, her blue eyes meeting Mary’s then. “Can I see you tomorrow night?”

“I’m working.”

“Oh goo, yeah.” It made Mary giggle every time, including this time, when Valerie said ‘goo’ like that, instead of ‘God’, like the remnant of some childish habit to get around parents who refused to believe their children knew swear words. Not that Lizbeth did, of course.

“Saturday?” Mary suggested. “We can go out somewhere if you like? You know, an actual date?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“And we can leave sproglet behind this time. And I’ll actually get to see you dolled up at last.” Valerie smiled, and met her eyes again, for a longer time. She looked… apprehensive. “What are you worried about? I’m the one who should be nervous.”

Valerie sighed, but she didn’t say anything.

***

~Stupid Tucker,~ Valerie thought. Just out of the shower, she was standing in her bedroom, naked, before the full-length mirror. “Stupid to get involved if you can’t see it through,” she said aloud to her reflection. ~She’ll hate me. She’ll think I’m a freak. She’ll think I’m a danger to her daughter.~ That would hurt more than anything. She knew that with absolute certainty. ~I should call it off now. Try to salvage a friendship out of this.~ “Stupid Tucker.”

~I’ll call her. Tomorrow. Before she comes out to anyone. She’ll just hate me more if I leave it that long.~

But first she had to go downstairs and do the pretty thing. Dry, she put a clean pair of knickers on and went to the dressing table to set a hairdryer to her hair. At least she’d got some sleep. Three hours in the end, waking up in the playgroup room at college to find Elizabeth sitting right there on the sofa with her, doing her colouring book, explaining how she was looking after her. Yes, that was embarrassing. Then realising she’d slept so long that she’d missed nearly the entire double Math session, leading to a run across college to catch the teacher as the class let out and give her the previous assignment she’d only set the day before, and get the next one, and do the apologies and so forth. The simple truth was good enough. It was the first Math class she’d missed since starting at the college, so it wasn’t as if she was a regular offender. It was still annoying. Math was her favourite class; she hated to miss it.

It wasn’t enough sleep, but it made a difference. It was enough to ride home on, and maybe get through this evening. She could always excuse herself early if she felt herself fading again, but if she didn’t even make an appearance Jane would Have Words, she was sure.

~Maybe take a sleeping bag down to the naíad, or out to the gatehouse if it isn’t warm enough to be under the stars without a tent.~ She didn’t feel like dealing with a tent.

Mark was already here, but she’d seen no sign of Mrs. Lawrence’s car outside. It only took her another quarter of an hour to get ready, then she headed downstairs and into the parlour.

“Hello Mark, I’m sorry I’m so late,” she excused herself. “The rehearsal overran.” He got up, and she shook his hand and found somewhere to sit down. “Good evening Jane, Natasha.” Natasha looked exactly like someone trying very hard not to look scared.

“Rehearsal?” Mark distracted her.

“Would you believe, I’ve been drafted as some kind of fight director for a play some friends are doing.”

“You? A fight director?”

“It’s not as surprising as you’d think! You should have seen the way they were holding those knives. I had to do something. Someone was going to lose an eye.”

“Valerie, Mark’s brought those forms for you to sign,” Jane cut in. Clearly the conversation had taken an insufficiently ladylike turn.

“Oh, yes. Which one is this again?”

“This is the covenant.”

~Oh, right.~ Jane had been trying to involve her in more of the finance side of things; but it was a slippery subject, pretending to be mathematical but so steeped in tradition and made-up rules that made no real sense, so her mind kept sliding off it. Trying to understand it always made her miss Debbie again; Debbie could always grasp things like this as if she was born to it.

“Why don’t you two go and finish that in the private living room. Mark, you’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?”

Valerie stood to go.

“With pleasure, if you’ll have me,” Mark replied, joining her.

“You’re welcome any time, you know that.”

Valerie led the way out of the parlour and across into the private living room. “So, what do you think?” she started, when the door was closed.

“Natasha?”

“Uh-huh. Take a seat.” She sat on one of the sofas, and Mark took the armchair opposite the coffee table.

“Well…” Mark looked a little lost for words. “She… Well, ‘he’ I suppose, looks a lot more like a girl than Jane led me to expect.”

“I’ll give them that, they’re good at what they do.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He looked doubtful. “If he wasn’t so obviously nervous I might have forgotten. It’s really quite… remarkable. The illusion.”

“It’s best to stick with ‘she,’” Valerie said. “Consistency and all that.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.” He dropped his voice, as if to confide in her. “He– She, haha, she does know I wouldn’t do anything to, ah, hurt her, doesn’t she?”

Valerie looked at him steadily. It was too close to what she was thinking, seeing Natasha’s face. “She should,” she said. “Jane should have made that clear enough.”

“Jane wanted me to keep complimenting Natasha’s appearance. I must say it goes against the grain. Not that she’s not pretty… which… is bizarre when I think about it, but if I spoke like that to the girls at the office I’d be pulled up in front of an industrial tribunal I’m sure, and rightly so. It’s just not done in this day and age.”

Valerie chuckled at the plight of a modern gentleman in Jane’s museum-world. “She’s probably mostly wondering whether or not you actually know. You’re the first person outside of us three she’s seen. Talking of which, what happened to Mrs. Lawrence? She was supposed to be here tonight.”

“Jane said she couldn’t make it. She had some problem with one of her own pupils.”

“Damn.” She sighed thoughtfully. “Anyway, shall we do this? Whatever it is. I’m sorry, I don’t have a head for this stuff.”

“All right.” He opened his briefcase and brought out a few thin folders. Valerie restrained a sigh. “Jane wanted me to make sure you understood fully what this covenant entails. Do you understand what I mean by a ‘covenant?’” He must have seen Valerie’s hesitation because he carried right on. “In the simplest terms, in English common law, a covenant is a legally binding promise to do a thing, and it’s enforceable in the absence of consideration, which simply means that it’s unconditional. It’s not in return for anything from you — in fact it mustn’t be — and should she fail to honour the terms, you have a legal claim to redress.

“As you know I’m not a lawyer, I’m really just a glorified accountant. Jane’s already signed and sealed the covenant itself, and the papers are in the solicitor’s office. My job is simply to manage the funds that have been set up on your behalf until the terms of the covenant pass them over into your sole control, at which point you may of course do what you please; including, should you so wish, to continue to retain our services to help you manage your financial affairs going forward. All right, let’s look at them in turn.”

He slid the first folder across the table towards her. She picked it up. “This is your college fund, in a nutshell. It’s expected that this will be used to pay fees and living expenses for the duration of your university career.”

Valerie opened the folder. After a couple of pages of what looked like blurb and legalese that basically said it was in her name, there was a simple statement of account with just a single ‘account opening’ deposit transaction. Valerie gasped at the figure. “Oh my God…”

“As you can see it’s quite a generous opening balance. Education and medical costs aren’t taxed as inheritance, so she was able to give those accounts a large opening balance; just as well as I understand you’re planning to go to university next year?”

Valerie nodded blankly. The figure was beyond generous, it was extravagant. She couldn’t help thinking of her mother and father, who had been paying into her college fund all her life, and in one day Jane had signed over an amount to dwarf it. That was a very strange feeling, down in the bottom of her belly. And with Mom and Dad mixed up in it, it made her eyes sting.

It not only meant she could go to college, she could go to college anywhere she wanted, and for as long as she wanted, for all practical purposes. Multiple Doctorates, ~if I go that route,~ she thought. ~If I’m really that good.~

The last page had a space for her signature. “This is what I need to sign?” She saw Jane’s signature already there; her customary sweeping cursive overspilling the space available.

“That’s correct, and I can witness it, unless you want to call Marie in.”

“Uh…” She was still a little in shock. “No, that’s okay, she’s going to be busy. Do you have a pen?”

“Of course.” He pulled one out of the inside of his jacket and passed it across. It looked expensive. She bent down and signed her name. Valerie Thompson. She was getting too used to doing that. She knew there was going to be a time when even that residual dissonance would fade. She didn’t know what to think about that any more.

Mark was going on about how it therefore probably wouldn’t gain much in value before the time came for it to be used, but he had growth estimates anyway, factoring in Jane’s ongoing payments into that fund. ~So that’s not even all of it!~ Valerie was thinking, still amazed.

She passed the folder back and he re-opened it and added the witness signature.

“Moving on,” Mark said, sliding the next folder across. “This is your medical fund.” Valerie numbly picked it up. More words saying it was in her name; her money. The amount, again, was astonishing. “This is intended to pay into a private medical insurance scheme of your choice essentially in perpetuity. Although she’s chosen a scheme for you for the time being, you can change it when you’re eighteen should you feel the need. Plus, this should cover any incidental medical expenses or procedures you may need in the future that aren’t covered by medical insurance or the NHS, although I have to say that’s extremely comprehensive in its own right, but you never know what might happen, I suppose.”

“No,” Valerie breathed. “I guess not.” Her head was swimming again. Clearly Mark had no idea why Jane might think Valerie would need that money. Or at least, a fraction of it. Contingencies. Decisions she wasn’t ready to make. She signed on the line, feeling numb.

“Similarly with the education fund, there’s no tax burden on this so she was able to open with an immediately generous balance. They are ringfenced for those purposes. Now, this,” he pushed another folder towards her, “is intended as a fund to help you get into the property market.” Valerie looked through it. “At the simplest level I suppose it can go towards an enhanced deposit on a property once you start work, or on home improvements, that sort of thing, but I know she has another idea she wants to discuss with you about that sometime before you go to college anyway, and if I know Jane it’s going to be well worth listening to what she’s got in mind.

“Finally, there’s a straightforward savings and income fund.” He passed across the folder. “This pays you an income every month for your incidental and everyday expenses. The rest goes into a high-interest savings account. Obviously the lower the monthly payout the more is left to be invested on your behalf. In any case the amount is capped until you graduate from university, at which point you can do with it what you like. This,” he pointed at the folder in her hand, “replaces the allowance you’ve been getting so far, effective immediately. It also pays my fees, because as of now I’m not working for Jane, I’m working for you. I don’t have anything to do with any of her other onshore interests.” He stopped while she pretended to peruse the final folder. “Naturally as well as the regular payments, if you have any occasional requirements for a larger lump sum, we can discuss them and as long as it’s reasonable I’ll be happy to release the funds. I suppose the obvious example would be should you decide to buy a car, it’s clearly more economical to do so outright out of here than to get a loan to be paid out of your monthly income.”

He fell silent.

Valerie cleared her throat. “Um, right.” She was more than a little overwhelmed.

“Is there a problem, Valerie? Do you need something else explained.”

“Um… It’s just… It’s just so much money. I didn’t expect…” Her words ran dry. She filled the silence with signing the last two folders and passing them back. She felt dizzy. “I guess I’m not used to this.”

Mark nodded, understanding. “I believe it’s broadly in line with the provisions she’s made for your brother, expressed in UK terms.” ~He means Darryl,~ Valerie had to remind herself, after a slight stomach clench. “It’s an extremely tax-effective way of giving you the maximum benefit of your future inheritance now. Naturally she has other things going on on your behalf as well, with which I’m not involved, mostly offshore. And of course in time the remainder of the estate will pass to you and Darryl, but we don’t expect that to happen for many, many years. For the moment, Jane was very concerned that you have a stable foundation, a bedrock, as it were, for your future. No matter what happens this is yours. It’s all in your name and no-one can take it away from you, not even Jane… Valerie?”

Valerie had had to duck her head, squeezing her eyes shut. ~Dammit.~ Her hands danced a couple of words, but Mark couldn’t possibly understand them, so she stopped. “I’m sorry,” she got out.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” ~Mom and Dad worked so hard,~ and ~Everything I was worried about. She answered all of it. Like she knew. Like she understood.~ How for the last several months she’d felt like she was floating on a ramshackle raft of charity and goodwill, that might be taken away in an instant, if she ever really lost it with Jane and let her see what she was really like. She supposed Jane had tried to explain, but she couldn’t help it; she always zoned out when Jane started talking about money. It was as bad as English Lit. It took Mark, this kind and gentle man, to sit there and patiently explain what it was Jane had done; the nature and scale of the commitment Jane had made to her, and could not now unmake. “I’m sorry!” she said again, and got up. She had to get out. She was losing it, the tears coming freely now. “I’m sorry.” She escaped from the living room and dashed for the stairs, almost bumping into Natasha, for some reason coming downstairs at that moment, and ran to her room.

She still couldn’t understand why, what moved Jane to such a gesture as adopting her in the first place. Oh, she knew the reasons Jane gave, but at a deep level it still didn’t make sense. But she could no longer doubt the fact of it. Expressed in plain laser-printed numbers, she was rich.

She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling after the tears had dried.

It didn’t feel like she expected it to feel. Fantasizing with Mike what they would do with a lot of money. The gadgets, the equipment, the plans for world domination they could at last put into motion! It wasn’t that kind of rich: Jane’s self-appointed mission not to let her get ‘spoiled’ was still reflected in the terms of the covenant, but it was a practical kind of rich that told her, deeply, that unless she really badly screwed up she was never going to go hungry, she was never going to struggle to make ends meet. She was never going to have to worry about having enough money to live, and live well. The worry and the pressure that drove most people’s lives, that she always knew would drive hers in the end, lifted away with a gesture.

~Fuck.~

***

“Mmm,” Natasha enthused, finally taking a spoonfull of Marie’s lovely peach pie into her mouth. ~Is she drunk?~ Jane wondered, not for the first time. Natasha had such a light frame, and had gulped down a generous glass of a very fine wine, but it was only one glass, and two courses ago at that. Since then she hadn’t behaved badly, precisely; merely as one distracted, alternately hyperfocusing on something on the table and staring expectantly into space. Not much food had passed her lips, it almost went without saying, but she seemed to be genuinely relishing the dessert, at least. Jane began to wonder if maybe she was getting a sugar high.

“So what do you, Mark?” Natasha asked Mark as sweetly as Jane could have wished. Naturally Mark responded in kind. “Really?” Natasha replied. “That sounds very tedious.”

“Natasha!” Jane remonstrated automatically, but Mark seemed to have found the comment funny.

“You have no idea,” Mark replied, leaning forward as if to confide in her, and she smiled at him. ~What… Is she flirting with him?~ Jane realised suddenly.

“You two still haven’t convinced me it’s not a black art,” Valerie said, from across the table, breaking Jane’s line of thought.

She quipped back almost automatically, “Would that it were. You might have been a more apt student.”

“Meow,” was Valerie’s only comment to that playful barb. Jane was distracted. Something was going on between Mark and Natasha that–

But her thought was diverted again by Mark addressing Valerie. “I would have thought you’d have few problems grasping the subject, Valerie, given your background in Maths?”

Jane sighed, knowing the gist of the rant Mark would get back for that, and took the opportunity to observe Natasha for a moment and saw, while Mark’s attention was on Valerie. She saw that Natasha had frozen almost motionless again, and now, while her eyes were still fixed on Mark, they didn’t didn’t look flirtatious at all, but apprehensive; deeply afraid in fact.

But Jane found herself drawn into the argument about the mathematical virtues — or otherwise — of finance with Valerie, and missed something, to her annoyance. She knew something had happened because now Mark was looking embarrassed and discomforted and Natasha was smiling at her, looking altogether too innocent. ~What has she done?~ Jane wanted to know. ~I think I need to bring this dinner to a close sooner rather than later.~ Natasha wouldn’t be the first new student to try to flirt with a male guest, but that look of fearful anticipation told Jane all she needed to know about how willingly Natasha was doing it.

“May I say, you don’t look like someone who sits behind a desk all day,” Natasha was continuing, to Mark. “You look very fit, if I may be so bold, sir.”

“Thank you,” Mark replied. “Although I’m afraid it’s one part good fortune to two parts down to my daughter’s ponies.”

“What have they got to do with it?” Natasha actually batted her eyelashes.

This was no defiant prank; no playing up in an attempt to embarrass Jane or test her limits. She thought… ~Oh no,~ Jane realised what Natasha had been thinking. ~Jane, you idiot.~ Harriet had even warned her, without even meeting Nastasha she’d been afraid of this.

Only it was worse than Harriet suspected. Jane sat, for the moment conflicted and uncertain what to do. Anger, and send the child upstairs? ~That wasn’t a brilliant success this morning, was it?~ she berated herself. ~And to shame him with that in front of Valerie and Mark…~ Valerie laughed at something Natasha said, apparently not picking up on the undercurrents of the situation. That gave Jane another doubt. ~Am I imagining it because of what happened this morning? But how can she possibly have misinterpreted my meaning then?~ And after all, they were just talking about Mark’s daughters.

“Were you in the Brownies when you were younger, Natasha?” Mark asked suddenly. That question seemed to shake Natasha deeply, Jane thought. Jane could hardly believe it either. She could hardly believe that Mark had forgotten. Natasha simply wasn’t that good yet, and Natasha’s own confused expression betrayed her obvious uncertainty about what she thought Mark knew and didn’t know.

Finally, Natasha managed to just say “Dib dib dib,” enigmatically, and reached for the water jug to refill her glass.

“What? Oh, yes. Dib dib dib. How foolish of me, I almost forgot.”

~Oh Mark,~ Jane thought despairingly. ~What a mess.~ Aloud, she said, “You should ask Valerie to take the girls on one of her hiking expeditions,” in an attempt to change the subject. That seemed to work for a little while, and she let the conversation move on to more equestrian matters and surreptitiously watched Natasha again, and felt a hope spring from Mark’s fumbling. Natasha looked confused. Jane could almost read it. ~You’re thinking, ‘if he really thinks I’m a girl, he can’t be here to have sex with me, can he?’ So now you’re starting to figure it out, dear? Never mind whether or not you trust me, merely be calm for a moment and think this through logically, and realise it can’t possibly be what you think.~

“Miss Shaw, do you ride?” Mark was asking Natasha.

“Um–sorry Mrs. Thompson.” She glanced at Jane apologetically. “Not, like, since I was little.”

“The word ‘like’ was superfluous in that sentence, Natasha,” Jane responded, a gentle rebuke. She was pleased, though. The flirtatiousness had gone, and Natasha seemed more in the mold of a child allowed to sit at the grown-ups’ table. “You rode as a child?” she asked pleasantly. It was, after all, a much more pleasant topic of conversation, and if Natasha had ridden before, that was something else that was useful to know, perhaps.

“Only once a week,” Natasha replied, uncertainly.

“Did you enjoy it?” Mark asked her.

“It was all right. It was more Sar–” He interrupted himself and studied his dessert, blushing. ~Now, what was that about?~ Jane wondered. ~Sar-what? Sara? Who’s Sara? Someone she knew in childhood? A sister perhaps?~ She wished she knew more about Jonathan’s early years.

Mark was continuing, “Well, if Jane is amenable I’m sure we could arrange a few days for you to ride one of our horses during your stay. We don’t live so far away after all.”

Jane was distracted for a moment from worrying about Natasha. The offer from Mark had been completely unforseen. “Mark, that’s… That’s extraordinarily generous of you. Are you sure?”

“If it doesn’t interfere with your plans, of course.” He smiled.

Jane’s mind raced. ~If riding was something Natasha had done as a child before… before everything, presumably. Oh, that’s too important to pass up. And it’s a chance to get us out in the air and Natasha away from this house for a while somewhere I know she’ll be safe.~ “Natasha, thank Mr. Kingsley for his kind offer,” she said, almost absent-mindedly. She had to think about this. With half an ear, she heard Natasha thank Mark, as directed. ~And still so obedient. I never have to tell her anything twice.~ She smiled, feeling pleased with Natasha now. “That was excellent,” she said aloud, hearing Mark and Valerie agree. “Mark and I have some business to discuss now. Valerie, can we leave you two to clean up? I don’t want to leave all this to Marie.”

Valerie took it in her stride. “Yes, of course.”

“Natasha, after you’ve finished helping Valerie, you may go upstairs and get ready for bed.” ~It’s been a hard enough day for both of us,~ Jane was thinking, deciding to spare Natasha the further excruciating of having to sit up with the grown-ups after dinner while they talked over her. Besides, she was thinking, she needed a word or two with Mark to smooth things over before he left.

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson.”

They rose. Jane was pleased to see Mark remember to go around and help Natasha up, and pleased also to see no attempt at flirtation from Natasha. She took her leave, with Mark, and crossed the hall to the private living room. Once the door was closed she could relax. She sighed with relief. “I’m so sorry, Mark.”

“Sorry? What for?”

“Didn’t you see the way she was behaving towards you?” Jane almost fell into her armchair. “As soon as I realised what she was doing…”

“Oh, that. Yes, that was a little, ah, disconcerting.

“She shook her head. ”Please, sit down. Oh… what was he thinking? I told him this morning! I don’t know how I could have said it more plainly.“ She sighed. The door opened, admitting Marie with a tray and a coffee service. ”He seems almost determined to read the worst possible motives into anything we do. Thank you Marie. Please join us, I’ve asked Valerie and Natasha to clean away dinner.“

Marie had brought four coffee cups, expecting the two teenagers to be coming into the living room to join in the after-dinner coffee with Jane and Mark, so she took one for herself and poured coffee for all three.

“I still can’t believe I actually asked him if he’d been in the Brownies,” Mark wondered.

“What?” Marie asked, surprised. She hadn’t been in the room at that moment.

“Oh yes. Actually that was quite providential,” Jane explained. “It certainly gave him something to think about. That you might not know, or not be certain, or even that you had simply forgotten that he was a boy, really took the keystone out of the whole logical edifice he’d built. You noticed he didn’t attempt to flirt with you at all after that?”

“He was flirting with you?” Marie asked Mark, astonished. Then she looked at Jane, and Jane confirmed her thought with a serious nod.

Jane watched Marie pour, letting the little ritual calm her. Finally Marie sat on the same sofa as Jane.

“We only found out earlier today,” Jane started, by way of explanation, “some disturbing news about Jonathan’s childhood. I say news, it’s supposition really. We know he was homeless for a period of time. We can only make guesses as to… as to what he had to do to survive, so perhaps in retrospect it’s not so surprising that he saw us as trying to exploit him. Doing his best to co-operate, as the least-worst option, is of course precisely what I expect of my students at this stage in the programme, but in the context of his specific expectations…” She shook her head sadly and sighed.

“Oh, the poor child,” Mark said.

“I did tell him, after this morn– We had a– an incident this morning. I told him he was wrong I… I’m afraid I lost my temper at him a little in the shock of the moment, but I can’t understand how he could still have misinterpreted me, unless he’s doing it deliberately.”

“I don’t believe that,” Marie said, after sipping her coffee.

Jane reached forwards and took hers. “No, nor do I. But he can’t have forgotten…” ~I certainly never will.~ She saw again the hand in the petticoat folds, moving them apart; the awkward, unpracticed smile. She closed her eyes sipped her own coffee. Strong and black, the way Marie knew she preferred it.

~Unpracticed.~ The thought struck her so suddenly she opened her eyes again. She stared at the coffee pot on the table, her awareness of Marie and Mark fading in a moment of clarity. ~Surely, if our worst fears for his past are true (oh, why shy away from it, Jane: you mean if he had been a prostitute), wouldn’t his attempt at seduction have been more skilful? More assured? More practiced, at least? It was as if he was imitating something he’d only seen, and not often either.~

She didn’t know if it worked that way. It was outside her experience. But it brought another unwelcome thought. ~Had he been more skilful, might he have succeeded?~

She only said aloud, “I’ve told her to go straight to bed after helping Valerie, so that’ll be an end to it tonight. She’ll be able to think about what’s happened, and realise what she was thinking just doesn’t stand up to clear thought. All we can do is continue to demonstrate that nothing of that sort is going to happen to her here. Eventually it’ll sink in. It has to.”

“She needed a big sister,” Marie commented.

“Yes.” Jane sipped again pensively. “Very much so. I can’t ask Darryl to come all the way here for this. He’s in the middle of his end-of-year exams anyway.” She sighed. “Anyway, Mark, you shouldn’t take any of this upon yourself. You did everything right. This is my responsibility.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t make anything worse. She was so clearly distressed at the sight of me–”

Marie’s mobile phone started chirrupping from somewhere about her person.

“Oh Marie, for shame, you should turn that thing off when we have company.”

“It’s only a text message…” She looked at Jane hopefully.

Marie had made few enough friends since they had moved here, Jane knew. Jane had the benefit of old friendships renewed, and Valerie had her college life, of course, but it was more difficult for Marie; so Jane was minded to be indulgent. “Go to another room to answer it, then,” she said.

“Merci, Madame.” Marie rose.

Jane caught the curious look on Mark’s face and merely smiled while she waited for Marie to leave. “Anyway, Mark, yes. She was supposed to be a little discomfited by the presence and attention of a male, but I see now in this instance it was a mistake to have this encounter while she had such thoughts in her head. Certainly none of this is your fault. If only Harry–”

“Jane,” Marie cut in. She was standing at the door, her phone in her hand. “It’s Valerie.”

“Valerie?” Jane was truly surprised. “She’s right here in the house; why is she sending messages to your cellphone?”

In answer Marie returned and passed the phone to her, then leaned over to point at buttons. “Use this and this to scroll through the message,” she said.

“Yes, I know,” Jane said, a little irritably. Marie retreated and sat in her former place. Jane read the message:

Nathan has wrong idea bigtime. Removed to safe location. Send mark home asap. Reply text only

“Removed to a safe location?” Jane repeated querulously. “What’s she doing now? Where is she?” She passed the phone back to Marie. “I don’t know how to reply on this–”

“She says to only reply in text–” Marie began.

“Yes, I know. Obviously Jonathan’s with her and she doesn’t want him overhearing a conversation. Ask her where she is.”

Then something else occurred to her. “Wait,” she said aloud, to forestall Marie sending a reply. “Of course, he must have said something to her. He still believes it! How can he still believe it now?”

She got to her feet, restless and energised, and paced. ~If he thinks Mark doesn’t know about him, how can he still think–~

“He must have reasoned you do know about him after all, and just slipped,” Jane realised aloud. Then she swore. “Which is the exact truth of course. Damn it, why does he have to be so perceptive?” She parted the curtains with her hand, as if she would be able to see where Valerie had taken Jonathan, aware distantly of the pressure of the two people behind her, waiting for her to come up with an answer. “So now Valerie’s trying to reassure him, and of course she can do that much more effectively than any of us. He’ll believe her.” She released the curtain and turned back to face them. “We have to help her.”

“Um, what do you want me to send?”

Jane looked at Mark, her brain moving up another gear. ~Yes.~ “Mark, I know for a fact you’ve done nothing wrong, but we have to make a good show for Natasha. Valerie’s asked that you leave sooner rather than later, I’m guessing to prove to Natasha that you’re not here–”

“Not here for her; yes of course I’ll oblige.”

“Thank you. Marie, ask Valerie to ask Natasha if Mark did anything to her while no-one else was around. I know you didn’t, Mark,” Jane said back to him. ~Besides, he lacked the opportunity… But then, they did return to the parlour together, after he finished with Valerie…~ She froze, almost feeling her brain click up yet another gear. ~Oh, what did Natasha think Valerie was doing with Mark? I said it was to do with the covenant, but Natasha’s clearly only hearing what fits her idea of what’s happening, and discarding everything else as euphemism.~ “I want Natasha to know we take this seriously,” she said aloud. ~I do not deal in euphemism.~

~I may have been less careful with my use of language than I should have been,~ she rethought, feeling the thought clench in her belly.

“What if she says he did?” Marie asked, her thumb paused over the phone’s keypad.

Jane looked at both of them in turn. “I don’t believe she will. In fact, I’d put money on it.”

“Instinct?” Mark asked her.

Jane nodded. “In any case, the necessity of her being asked the question outweighs the risk. Marie?”

“All right, Jane.”

“And ask Valerie where she’s taken Natasha, if you would.” ~The gatehouse? The summer house? The garden? She might have taken a car and taken Natasha out of the grounds entirely…~

“I’ll get my coat,” Mark said, trying to make light of the situation.

“Finish your coffee, Mark. There’s not that much of a rush.” She was distracted by the bip-bip-bip of Marie tapping keys on her phone. “Oh what a mess, but maybe we can get something out of it, if Valerie can truly convince her where we’ve failed so dismally.”

Marie hit a button on the phone and it made a different beep, presumably sending the message. “I thought you’d be angry at her interfering again.”

“I wanted her to be more involved. It was her saying she didn’t want to. You do know she sat up with Natasha all through the first two nights because of those nightmares?”

Marie stared. “I didn’t know about the second night.”

“She can’t help herself. That’s why she wants to move out to the gatehouse. Maybe now she’ll change her mind.”

They fell silent, waiting for Valerie’s reply. When it came, the beeping made all three of them jump. Jane crossed to Marie’s side. Marie looked at it, then passed it up to Jane.

Loc classified. On site. N reports mark did not repeat did not try anything. Send mark home proves he wont later

Jane nodded. “All right. She’s thinking what I’m thinking.” She passed the phone across to Mark to read. He relaxed visibly. “It tells us something about Natasha, doesn’t it? If she wanted to make things difficult for us, she had only to say otherwise.”

“What’s it like being right all the time?” Mark asked, passing the phone back to Marie.

Jane sighed. “I honestly wish I knew.” She re-seated herself.

“The clever part happens after we make mistakes,” Marie said.

“You mean we’re good at damage control?” Jane asked her, not entirely seriously.

“I mean we’re good at learning quickly from what our mistakes reveal.”

“Hm,” Jane muttered disparagingly. “Maybe. I suspect we have a lot still to learn about Natasha.”

“Anything less would be a disappointment,” Marie said, smiling.

***

“Goodnight Mark,” Jane said, outside the front doorway. “Have a safe journey home.”

“When things have settled down, you and Valerie should bring Natasha and have lunch with us sometime, with Sophia and the brats.” Jane smiled at the description. “I think,” he shrugged, “maybe it would help clear the air. I don’t want her to go away remembering me as if I was…” ~The dear man, he can’t even say it.~

“Of course. I think that would be a lovely idea. And I may just take you up on your offer regarding the horses as well.”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled shyly. “Of course, any time. But I hope you will get your own horses again, now you’re settled here.”

~Am I settled?~ “I think I shall,” she said aloud, nodding. ~A little bloodied maybe.~ “Yes, I think I shall, sooner rather than later. I’ve come to realise how much I have missed my riding.” She was already thinking of the dusty, half-derelict stables and yard, a little removed from the house on the east side.

“Goodnight, Marie,” Mark continued, and Marie came forwards and gave him a hug. Jane envied her that simple, spontaneous expression. It had never come easily to her. ~Mother disapproved of such displays.~

“And don’t worry about Natasha,” Marie said quietly to Mark.

Finally, he was leaving, stepping down into his car and firing up the engine. Marie waved, and Jane joined her, until he was gone; only a pair of red lights and an engine growl receding towards the gate.

Jane sighed and sagged. “Oh, what a day,” she said feelingly. “What a horrible, horrible day. Everything I have done has gone awry.”

“Actually I think we’re in a far better place than we were this time yesterday,” Marie said. “Come inside. I’ll make you something calming.”

Jane nodded and started to obey. She paused, glimpsing the faint, pale light from the garage over the wall and through the trees of the garden. ~There she is. Still putting right my mistakes,~ she thought guiltily. ~So I do need her after all, Art. Natasha needs a big sister, possibly more than any child I’ve ever had.~

“The day isn’t over yet,” she said quietly, then followed Marie back into the house. Marie was waiting to close the door.

***

And she never told me her name
I still love you, the girl from Mars

“You need to stay and make this work,” Valerie finished, hardly believing what was coming out of her mouth. ~I’m actually trying to convince him this is for his own good.~

And Nathan was nodding, sitting cross-legged looking at his fingernails. He was buying it. “I-I guess.” He looked cute in that petticoat dress under her own bike jacket.

It didn’t seem to occur to him that she might be lying. She felt slightly sick. ~This is exactly what I didn’t want to end up doing.~ It was so appallingly easy to make him believe her.

“You were supposed to be afraid,” she said. “Not like this. It’s too much, and it’s all wrong. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of that.” He started shaking again, so she moved closer to him and took his hands. “It’s okay. Things aren’t always what they look like, okay? Sometimes in a good way.” He was going to start crying again, she thought, and started pulling him back into a hug.

“No I’m okay,” he objected, pushing her hands away slightly. He breathed in a few times. “I’m okay.”

Valerie sat back on her heels and nodded; impressed and a little relieved. She looked away and let him have a little space to sort himself out.

Today asleep in the chair by the window
It felt as if you’d returned.

Valerie sang along quietly to herself.

I thought that you were standing over me
When I woke there was no-one there.
I still love you, girl from Mars

Nathan started air-drumming as the song moved up-tempo again on the last syllable. He was lost to it, his hair flailing and whirling, his hands beating it out, giving the drums a hard time. Valerie joined in on the kneeboards for the final chorus, never mind the melody was carried by guitar on the track (she was never going to be caught dead playing air-guitar), and never mind Nathan had his eyes closed and couldn’t see a thing.

***

“I guess because she wanted to love him, but she was afraid to let him get to know her,” Valerie said, her mind still on the song. The music was turned down. Nathan had shed the bike jacket, flushed from the warmth from the heater and his own exertions. “She was paranoid and stupid and in the end she ran away rather than let him in. She blew it.”

Nathan nodded.

“You’re supposed to be an asshole, you know that?” Valerie commented. Nathan grinned. “That’s why you’re here.”

“I thought I was here ’cause I like playing with other people’s computers,” Nathan said.

“Yes, but that’s supposed to be ’cause you’re an asshole.”

He shrugged. “Too busy being scared, I guess.”

“Never stopped me mouthing off at someone at a really bad time.”

“Cor, I can’t imagine you doing that.”

She smiled at him sadly. “Lots of stuff you couldn’t imagine me doing.”

“I dunno, I can imagine you walking around with Arthur Conan-Doyle on your head for a while.” He grinned up at her guilelessly.

Valerie schooled her reactions right down. “What makes you say that?” She tried to make the question easy, relaxed.

He shrugged. “Just the way you do everything. You’re so elegant.”

“You really think so?”

“See? You don’t even know you’re doing it!” He grinned again. “So when girls do this, do they have to wear boy’s clothes or what?”

Valerie laughed, letting the tension out. It gave her a little time to work out a way through that didn’t involve actually lying.

“No,” she admitted. “Same kind of thing you’re wearing.”

“Stupid doll costumes.”

“Yeah. I hated it,” she added. “I felt like such a…” She ran out of words. She didn’t know.

“Plaything,” Nathan supplied quietly.

“I guess. Something like that.” She was lost in her own memories for a while. “Webster’s Dictionary,” she said then, remembering.

“What?”

She tapped the top of her head.

“Oh.”

“I guess someone dropped it one time too many.”