***

“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.