The Tenth Girl

by Sara Faring

  “Miss,” says Mariella, of course, standing up out of her seat with an impatient glance at the others, “Michelle isn’t well.”

  “She’s being a baby,” hisses Silvina.

  “She feels tired,” adds Diana, folding her card in half. “And I don’t think she’s being a baby.”

  I set down my papers, noticing that the space heater has been turned off. “And where is she?”

  “She’s with Madame De Vaccaro and Ms. Morency and Dr. Molina in the sickroom.” Mariella looks at Gisella, who sits gray-faced beside her. Michelle must have been the reason Morency called Mole upstairs. And the sickroom—the sickroom is new, it seems. I turn on the space heater with a faint click.

  “How odd,” I say evenly, passing out the exercises I’ve written up with trembling hands. “But class must go on. Seats, please.”

  Mariella settles, tugging on her braids, and Sara sighs and blows a raspberry.

  “It’s not odd. It’s logical. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the girls got sick,” Sara says, fixing me with a contemptuous look that spits, You dumb bunny. I keep my jaw from setting. It’s as if she can read my worst thoughts. I’ve taught myself not to indulge my distaste toward her, but sometimes it’s difficult to ignore the feeling that some children should not exist. I’m not sure what scares me about Sara. Every sentence she speaks seems menacing, every action rooted in some hidden, incomprehensible cruelty. “Illnesses travel in close quarters, and all that.”

  “Shut up,” whispers Gisella under her breath, her hands bunching up. I watch her for a moment, grateful for her interruption, and find myself hoping the color will return to her unusually pasty face.

  “Shut up?” Sara smiles without an ounce of warmth. “Oh, pretty Gisella, beautiful Gisella, divine Gisella,” says Sara in a mocking singsong, running her own stiff hands up her arms and her chest and her neck like a woman who has lost control of her body to a lascivious man. “I can’t bear to keep quiet until you braid my hair like yours, in those luscious rows. All I want to feel is you touching my long, thick strands. I might just die if you don’t satisfy me.”

  Silvina chokes out a laugh, but everyone else is stock-still, watching her. Gisella’s mouth falls open. Some of Sara’s words sound lustful; others, cold as ice.

  “Oh,” she continues, arching her back. “To feel your pretty little fingers separating them, stroking them, thumbing my naked scalp.” I fight the impulse to retch as she trembles with overacted delight, lunging across Mariella’s desk to snatch Gisella’s arm with white fingers.

  Gisella chokes and shudders away.

  “Don’t you want to? Touch and be touched? Oh, dear Gisella, won’t you be my very, very, very special friend?”

  “That’s enough,” I shout, snapping my fingers at Sara as Mariella shoves Sara’s arm away from Gisella. “No more performances. There is no place for that kind of behavior here, Sara. Stop now. You may go to Madame De Vaccaro’s office if you cannot comply.”

  She whispers unsavory words under her breath.

  “Excuse me?” I say loudly, hoping that I’m not shaking. A horrific transformation has come over her. A girl who seemed only quietly off before seems entirely possessed.

  She grins with uneven teeth so small they cannot be adult.

  “Morency thinks it might have been a bad batch of fish that’s leaving a few of us a bit tired and queasy,” interrupts Mariella, covering Gisella’s hand. “That’s all it is. Enough nonsense.”

  “A bad catch of fish,” says Diana, and Mariella throws her hands up.

  We begin the lesson, but try as I might to engage them, they seem more preoccupied with their nonexistent manicures than the passage in the book. Sara can’t even be bothered to open her copy, despite insistence on my part. “No redeeming qualities,” she offers as her sole explanation. She crosses her arms at me, and I at her: She is resolute in her uncouthness and better off ignored, at least for today—at least until I regain my patience with her and lose that niggling fear.

  When the time comes for Gisella to read a portion of a homework essay, she sways on her feet. “‘Phoebe says she does not want to ride the carousel, at first, because she is too old. Holden knows she wants to ride it, so he…’” She licks her chapped lips with a thin, lethargic tongue. “‘He buys her a ticket. The carousel runs even though it is winter, and…’” She drops the paper, and as it floats to the floor, she stares up at me abjectly. “I can’t continue, Miss Quercia. I’m sorry.”

  Could she have been so adversely affected by Sara’s pathetic show? “And what’s wrong, Gisella?”

  Mariella shoots to her feet defensively. “You can see she’s not well, Miss Quercia. Can’t I read in her place?”

  I ignore her. “Gisella?”

  “Sick to my stomach,” she says, sitting down and laying her golden head on the desk. I watch her carefully, wary of falling for some kind of prank. I am not ignorant of the vulnerable fair-maiden act, after all. But the poor thing looks fairly ill, unless she’s pulled the chalk-on-the-cheeks trick.

  “Mariella, you will take Gisella to Dr. Molina after class,” I say calmly.

  Mariella fetches Gisella’s paper from the ground. Mariella whispers into her ear, and for once, she looks quite somber. “No more little fishes for you,” she says aloud.

  Gisella looks as if she might groan. She manages the class, though, with her satiny head down, her reedy arms draped across the desk.

  “I’ll take these to Mr. Lamm, too,” says Mariella, toting the stack of cards as she helps Gisella out at the end of the class. She’s loyal, that one. Blooming into someone else in the time I’ve been here—someone responsible and keen. If only all the girls had taken to their relative independence in the house this way.

  Sara exits the classroom last, despite showing the most limited interest in my teachings. She slows by my back, coming so close I can’t bear it. I can even smell her, this woodsy, musky scent, like the sweat of a full-grown man. She’s whistling a tune that evokes the American Old West. She tugs the door shut, relishing every creak the unoiled hinges make. I glance in the door’s direction as soon as it catches the frame, only to find her peering at me through the window, stone-faced. She salutes, and the same wicked smile stretches her pale lips.

  * * *

  After a solitary lunch of soggy lettuce tucked inside slips of ham and old bread, I visit Michelle in the sickroom, a free room in the family’s quarters that has been converted to a cheerless, airless space with two cots, a crumpled burgundy rug, a lumpy taupe sofa, and a lone lamp. The air smells of sickness, of damp. Morency lets me squeeze by with an enormous frown, and Carmela rises from her seat beside Michelle and folds her slender arms with a similar glumness. Her nails haven’t been freshly painted, and even her face is more bare than usual. She whispers with Morency so I take the opportunity to slip in next to Michelle. She lies in one of the cots with a wet charcoal rag on her forehead. “How are you feeling?” I ask, kneeling beside her and dabbing her with the filthy thing before casting it aside.

  She burrows into her stained pillow. “I could sleep a hundred years,” she says, curling onto her side so only a few centimeters remain between our faces. She looks half the size she was, a kidney bean, as if she’s withering before me. “Have you figured out what’s happening?”

  “I’m still trying,” I reply as softly as I can. “Can you tell me anything more?”

  “When I’m awake, I feel this ice in my bones. It’s easier to sleep, but I don’t get any rest when I do. I—I go to this … place.” She swallows, the slightest flush spreading across her cheeks, before locking eyes with me. “It shines like scales, and there are other people there. She’s okay, Mavi,” she whispers, a weak grin spreading across her face.

  Cold fingers trace down my spine. “Who is okay?” I ask her.

  But she doesn’t answer, her eyes hazing over.

  “We’ll call your aunt to come get you,” I say, covering her cool hand with mine. The tho
ught of Michelle suffocating in an attic beside stacks of old canned legumes makes me sick. Still, she must be sent away, if the house is causing this. If Others are whatever Others might be.

  Her eyes refocus. “I can’t leave the school. You don’t understand.” She clenches her hand around mine, pricking my skin with her unclipped nails. “All I want to do is sleep. Please let me sleep.”

  She’s a shell of a girl. I promise her that I will come every day to sit with her while I investigate what’s happening. As I leave, I smooth her hair down at the part, the way she likes. But she’s too exhausted to react.

  I speak with Morency as I’m leaving, and Carmela returns to her spot beside Michelle’s bed, plopping the rag on Michelle’s forehead. “Ms. Morency,” I whisper, “I was hoping I might stay with Michelle overnight and make sure she is comfortable.” It’s less a proposal than an entreaty.

  The slit of her mouth pinches together before she speaks. Her eyes dart to Michelle and back to me. “That is wholly unnecessary. Madame De Vaccaro will remain with Michelle until she falls asleep. This is a common flu, Miss Quercia, not the bubonic plague.”

  My brow wrinkles.

  “Sara recovered, as will Michelle,” she says, folding her hands one way and then the other. “I will not furnish you with an opportunity to make mischief in the evenings.”

  “Mischief? What—?”

  Her long nose scrunches. “The madame must not overhear a syllable of your prattle. I thought you might have learned to hold your tongue in her presence. Looseness of one’s tongue leads to looseness of one’s morals, Miss Quercia. Regardless—you mustn’t leave your room after dark.”

  What is she worried about? The mischief I’ll cause or the danger I’ll face? These damned rules make no sense. “And why shouldn’t we leave our rooms?” I ask, the pressure in my chest building. What does she know that she won’t tell us? Has the girl warned her, too? Has she seen the dangerous ghostly Others in this house? Or does she have more malicious intentions? “Did something happen to Mrs. Hawk?”

  Morency’s eyes flash to Carmela as she crushes my wrist in hand. “Hush.”

  I rip my arm away. “Have you spoken to Michelle about what she believes is afflicting her?” Any secrets she knows will not remain undisclosed for long. Any and all information about the darkness of this house must be shared among its occupants. I think of Yesi; how I could use her self-assuredness now, how I could also use Dom’s mollifying presence. Looking at Michelle, who lies wan and lost—far worse than Sara ever did—I wonder what more we can do. The girl suggested we flee; what can be done when that is not a simple course of action?

  Morency cocks her head at me. “Out. Before—” Her mouth closes as Carmela glances at us.

  I remain still, my gaze back on Michelle. “It’s just that Madame—”

  Carmela’s head snaps back to us at the sound of her title, and Morency interrupts.

  “How many times must I repeat myself? What exactly do you expect will happen to her at night, in the heavenly calm and quiet of the sickroom?” she asks me, her voice a growl as she physically maneuvers me out. When I turn back to object, she slams the wooden door a centimeter from my chapped nose.

  * * *

  As I storm away, I hear screams of laughter in the hall. I loop around to find the source and encounter Luciana around a bend, her own nose a centimeter from the bare wall, her fragile shoulders rocking hard.

  “Luciana?” I ask, rushing to her.

  Her grotesque mask of a face turns to me, tears spilling from her glossy eyes, and she shrieks with laughter, an all-consuming laughter that shakes her body with a violence that looks painful. She raises a shaking hand, pointer finger hyperextended at the joints, and gestures at the blank wall before her.

  I lean in, and I see nothing at all. Perhaps a speck of mold.

  “Are you all right?” I take her by the shoulders, and she wrests herself away, still hysterical as a hyena.

  She wipes at her eyes roughly, ripping out eyelashes yet laughing still, and races down the hall. I gape at her disappearing form, wondering what on earth has gotten into the girl and why it chills me so.

  A break. I need a break after the madness I’ve witnessed inside and outside the sickroom.

  * * *

  I miss my meeting with Dom, remembering my promise to Yesi, and find her on the patio for teatime. The kitchen staff sentries have gone, and despite the frigidness of the day, she thinks it’s pleasant enough to take the air for a short while. She hums to herself with a cup of tea and a draft of her novel in hand.

  “How goes it?” I ask, motioning at her manuscript. I’ve never glimpsed it, I’m sorry to admit. When I asked to read it, Yesi told me that it would hurt her feelings too much if I started it and didn’t finish it, so she’d rather not share it, which I found to be an altogether disappointing reason.

  She shrugs, setting it down and stroking the cover with dreamy eyes as I approach with my plate.

  “Awful, what happened to Lamb,” I say.

  “Odd,” she admits. “But Moley says he’ll recover.”

  I nod once. “I’m more worried about the girls, to be honest. Michelle’s taken such a turn,” I whisper before lifting a piece of pistachio pound cake with my gloved hand and taking a bite.

  She stares into the swirling tea leaves in her cup. “Michelle, Michelle, Michelle. I have to say that you didn’t show nearly as much concern when Sara was ill. You’re letting your unusual attachment to Michelle get the best of you. And my, how boring that girl and her common cold both are.”

  I stare at her, mouth full of crumbs. “Thank you for the psychoanalysis, doctor, but—”

  Our table rattles, and Yesi snaps to look up; it’s only Mole coming through the patio door. I beckon her over, as this is the first chance I’ve had to speak with her since the morning, but she ignores my summons. She sits at a table away from us and nods wearily at me before cracking open a book and nibbling on some pound cake. For once, she looks uneager to gossip, hunched into her coat. I don’t blame her.

  “Mavi,” says Yesi in a low and measured tone, so that Mole cannot overhear over the wind, “I’m worried about you. You’re plainly looking for someone to lap up every half-baked theory you spout—someone who will take up a pitchfork with you at a moment’s notice. Well, I won’t provide the same warm little comforts as Domenico. I’m sure he held you close as he mirrored your every opinion, but—”

  “Oh, shush. I didn’t even see him to—”

  “He couldn’t possibly have one bad intention, could he? With an angel’s face like that?” she says, her voice rising. “Tell me, just how many fingers does he have stuck up inside of you at any given time? And I do mean that in the puppeteering sense, though I’m very fond of the lurid alternative.” She takes a prim sip of tea, eyes piercing me.

  I feel punched in the gut hearing this after staying true to my word. “Moley?” I call out, rapidly swiveling away from Yesi in my chair, its legs grinding against the stone floor. “How is Lamb doing? When can we visit him?”

  Mole sighs, lifts herself out of her seat, and edges over to sit at our table with her plate. “Well, Mavi dear, I’m so impressed by his progress. You can go see him whenever you’d like—I think your company would cheer him up quite a bit. He has no memory of last night, I’m afraid, but he’s in good spirits. To be frank, I’m more concerned by certain complaints made by the girls.”

  “What?” I feel the pleasant burn of affirmation, especially welcome in front of Yesi. “What do you mean?”

  Mole’s pupils dart behind her glasses. “I saw Gisella privately, in her room, after you sent her to me,” she says carefully, cutting into the dried-out crumb with a measured look at us. “Because of her aches and light fever, I was immediately convinced that she was in the early stages of the same strain of influenza Michelle suffers from. It’s highly treatable on-site.” I feel Yesi’s gaze of superiority settle on me as Mole continues. “I was going to have her sleep in th
e sickroom tomorrow if her condition worsened. But then she pulled me close.” She deposits her fork on the plate without taking a bite. “She told me that men … that men come to her in the night and … touch her. That they give her the illness.”

  I clutch my stomach, and Yesi pales. Men sounds so much worse than them; it humanizes these evildoers, lends a perverse and pedophilic dimension to it all. “Men come to her? She didn’t say whom?”

  Molina shakes her head and breaks apart a clump of cake with her fingers, which are blue with cold. “She said she couldn’t tell. But before you get yourselves into a tizzy, here’s the rub. She said they weren’t real men—they were ghost men, ghost men the size of three men combined, like the demon in the ballroom mural, come to punish her for thinking unclean thoughts.” She brushes off her fingers, pauses. “And Michelle, well, as you both know, Michelle complained yesterday of a lack of restful sleep. And she made a mention of visitors today, too, before Gisella did. It intrigues me that one girl should be afflicted by these delusions, only for a second girl to share them and expand upon them the following day, all the while living in the same dormitory. Now, I’m no psychologist, but it seems as if we’re now facing a bout of hysteria brought on by the influenza.” Mole picks up her fork once more. “And when considered in tandem with Mr. Lamm’s strange heart attack … well…”

  I pause. “Mole … are you suggesting Lamb was involved in the girls’ … claim?”

  The color drains from her face. “Oh, no, Mavi. Not at all. No, no—as a five, Mr. Lamm is careless at times, even irresponsible, but I wouldn’t think him capable of hurting a child in a thousand years, and I do not believe the girls are victims of abuse in general. You misunderstood me. Every man here has been vetted by Carmela herself. In all likelihood, the girls were rattled by Mrs. Hawk’s departure and Mr. Lamm’s attack, and perhaps they’ve invented this story to cope with their stress.”