Dollhouse (17 page)

My stomach and intestine were completely empty.

Emptiness is a place—an abandoned town—a bottomless hole.

And this was only a few days without food.

A terrible thought entered my head.

We were at the mercy at whatever Henry chose to put in the dumb waiter. What if he got sick—or died? No one else knew we were down here. There was no one else to feed us.

Or what if he decided there were too many of us down here now—and he decided not to send down any more food?

In my heart I knew something bad had happened to Lacey. But I couldn’t let myself think about that anymore—else I’d curl up and want to die.

I had to find out who
The First One
was. There had to be traces of her somewhere.  Missouri hadn't wanted to say more about her. Perhaps
The First One
had left a note in one of the books. I had to try. I realized I still hadn’t given up on the idea of a secret map of the underground being hidden away inside a book.

Hanging the towel to dry over a rack, I studied myself in the mirror. My body stood there, but my mind was locked within a box. Only a small part of me still functioned—I had to grasp tightly onto that or I'd slip completely away. My expression was one of frozen fear. I guessed I looked like that all the time now.

* * * *

I knelt in front of the fire, letting its warmth seep into my flesh—but it didn’t penetrate all the way through. My hair dried a little after a few minutes. The only time Jessamine seemed to allow anyone to sit in front of the fire was to dry their hair. She seemed to hate the look of any of the girls with wet hair—she called them drowned rats.

Missouri and Philomena came to join me. The warmth made our hunger a little easier to bear. For me, it was different though. I had reserves the other girls didn’t. They’d been malnourished a long time.

I understood now how Missouri had lost track of time over the years. Already, I didn’t know if four or six or eight days had passed—it was impossible to tell. I stared into the fire, disconnected from everything, even myself.

Stepping over to the library, I pulled out a murderously thick book. I’d heard of the title—War and Peace, but didn’t know anyone who’d read it. No wonder—the thing weighed a ton.  Handmade paper bookmarks fluttered from the back jacket of the book. Missouri and Sophronia’s bookmarks.

I replaced the book, and continued my search for any clue of
The First One
—flipping through book after book and then replacing it.

“My my, you
are
having trouble finding a decent read,” said Jessamine. “Just choose one and have done.”

“I have stomach pains,” I told her. “May I be excused?”

She waved me away.

I crept down the corridor, but not to the bathroom. I'd had a thought the belongings of
The First One
might still be in the store room. I turned left into the store room and started looking through the drawers. I didn't know how I'd even recognize the clothing or anything of the girl I sought.

Frowning, I tugged open one of the large drawers at the bottom of the cupboard—it hadn’t been this heavy last time I checked it. Large reams of a sturdy green material had been folded and squashed in here.  Straining, I pulled at the thing—falling backwards with it as it wrenched loose.

The taste of bile hit the back of my throat.

The material was our tents.

Someone gasped behind me. I turned. Missouri stood with her hand over her mouth.

I stuffed the tents back into the drawer, and ran back to the ballroom. I curled up into a chair with trembling legs. Missouri followed, sinking stiffly to a chair beside me.

Philomena was sprawled in the middle of the floor by herself—a doll in each hand—humming.

“Philly—do stop that rowdiness,” called Jessamine.

She began bawling, clutching her stomach. “My belly hurts. It hurts!”

Missouri knelt beside the little girl, raising her eyes to Jessamine. “She’s hungry—she needs food.” Her voice was low, faltering.

Jessamine rose to her feet. “You know exactly why there’s no food. You can only blame yourselves.”

“Philly’s too young to know the rules. She doesn’t deserve to be punished.”

“Nevertheless she has to learn,” said Jessamine. “Anyway—surely it’s not that bothersome to do without for a few days.”

Sophronia rose from a dark corner—I hadn’t even noticed her sitting there in the shadows. She hurried out of the room, and returned with a trolley of cups and steaming tea.

“I can always rely on you, dear Sophronia.” Jessamine bowed her head. “Making tea is precisely what is called for.”

I knew even before I was given the cup of tea that I was going to drink it. It wasn’t food, exactly—but it was
something
. And it was going to put me to sleep—take me away to a place where I wouldn’t feel this clamoring hunger. Where I wouldn't know that searchers or bushwalkers wouldn't ever find our tents.

* * * *

I woke into dim, spidery light. Air so cold my breath whitened the air. The smell of wet moss clung everywhere. My arms pained stiffly as I tried to stretch them—they'd been crossed over my chest. My heart clutched as I realized I was in the bed chamber. I sat bolt upright, musty sheets slipping away from my body. I didn’t remember even coming in here.

I’d slept in the bed with the dark stain.

Missouri and Philomena began to stretch and wake.

Philomena tried to get up, but dropped herself back down flat on her back.

Jessamine stood at the door. She wore a deep purple dress—the fabric grayed and stiff. “Come on lazy bones. All of you. No dilly dallying— I have the most delirious news to tell you all.”

Missouri's eyes were ringed with dark shadows. “Philly needs food. You’re starving us.”

Jessamine glared. “You and your impertinent accusations. Get up.”

Philomena dragged herself obediently out of bed, wobbling on unsteady legs. She collapsed on the floor.

Missouri rushed to pick her up and place her back in the bed, brushing hair from her forehead. She bowed her head into the bed, sobbing.

It was the first time I’d seen her cry—or any of them cry.

Sophronia roused. She gazed at me with dull eyes.

“Now that you're all awake, I'll tell you my news. Jessamine paused and clasped her hands. “We have chocolate cake! Today is my birthday!”

Missouri stared at her with a wet face. “How old are you, Jessamine?”

Jessamine scowled in Missouri’s direction. “Why is everyone still in bed? This is a day of celebration—get up and follow me! Come Sophronia!”

We were herded out to the kitchen where a large, elaborate  iced cake sat in pride of place on the table. Fifteen pink candles circled the edge.

The sight of food made my mouth water. Raggedy Ann and Clown moved into the kitchen, standing at the door. Sophronia stepped on tippy toes to fetch a box of matches from the cupboard. She lit the candles one by one while Missouri placed plates on the table.

Jessamine looked expectantly around at everyone.

Missouri began the Happy Birthday song—her voice thin. Philomena and I joined her—the song a mournful dirge.

Sophronia cut the cake—giving Jessamine the first slice.

Jessamine glowed with excitement. “I wish that all my friends have a delightfully delicious day and that for celebrating this day with me they all have their hearts’ desire granted.”

Sophronia pushed pieces of cake in front of each of us. My heart dropped to see pieces given to the doll and bear—pieces that would only end up in the trash. She took the rest of the cake to the bench, and placed it into a canister.

The cake tasted rich and wonderful. Sugar hit my brain like a speeding train. Philomena smiled broadly—icing all around her face. She wiped every bit of icing off with her fingers and ate it.

Jessamine declared that games were to commence in the ballroom now. I wanted to stay here and eat more cake—at least just one more piece. But she had already left the table—and I knew I was expected to follow.

Ethan and Aisha stood with their hands on the bars as we filed past. Jessamine didn’t acknowledge them. Looking back, I exchanged long glances with them—trying to tell them to hang on. It seemed a hollow gesture.

Sophronia bobbed down next to Aisha’s cell—pushing an object inside—the canister from the kitchen—then walked away quickly.  I tried to catch Sophronia’s eye—to thank her. But she kept her face away from me.

Birthday celebrations went on for hours, including games of hide and seek and pass the parcel. The prize in the
pass the parcel
was always just some toy from the toy shelves. But Philomena’s eyes still lit up each time someone began to unwrap their prize.  I discovered playing charades with Jessamine was next to impossible—she referenced people and things of history I had sketchy knowledge of—and she couldn’t guess my charade subjects. After the games came the dancing displays that claimed far more energy that anyone had to give—but Jessamine was insistent. She clapped her hands as the last of us danced an old dance named the Charleston.

“This has turned out to be the best birthday ever.”

She flopped into a chair, her face drawn and tired. Her eyelids closed. Behind her, the clock hands whirred around and around. It was suddenly eight at night again.

“Time for sleep!” Jessamine crooned.

Missouri stared at me with anxious eyes.

We’d only been out of bed for four or so hours.

Sophronia brought the tea cart around.

I sipped the tea, meaning to throw the rest out when I could. But I drank it all. Guilt crushed into me—I should be doing all I could to stay awake, to figure out what to do next. A heaviness dragged through my body. I slipped further and further down—a drowning person slipping deeper into a mire.

Slipping straight into a dream—intense sunlight drenched the air. I wandered within a day I’d spent with my class on South Beach, Miami—back when I was ten or eleven. Waves washed over my feet, and the sun—big as a satellite dish—dazzled my eyes. I lost the school group and become hungry. I went pleading to strangers along the beach for food. They were eating cakes and ice-cream, french fries and doughnuts.  But no one, not one person, would give me even a bite.

Philomena refused to leave her bed when Jessamine came in. She turned her head and cried into the pillow, her small shoulder blades trembling.

I thought quickly, sitting up in the bed. “It's a nice morning for a picnic, isn't it?” I tried to sound light, looking around at the other girls.

Missouri and Sophronia nodded.

Jessamine twirled a blonde ponytail in her hand. “We never do picnics.”

“Just this once? We can lay out the tablecloth on the floor, and we can wear hats...  and recite poetry.” I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment, wondering if I'd gone too far.

She wrinkled her forehead as she considered my words. “Well—it’s about time one of you had an idea like that. It does get tiresome having to plan everything myself. We’ll have pancakes!”

Stepping over to Philomena, she eyed her with concern. “I don’t want you feeling poorly—you are the most delightful little doll.”

I rushed from the room before she had a chance to change her mind about the picnic and pancakes. Sophronia was right behind me. She pulled flour and powdered eggs from the cupboard while I folded the tablecloth.

She nodded at me.

I took the tablecloth down the passage. My legs were unsteady—my stomach practically eating itself. Aisha and Ethan slept on rugs on the floor of their cells.

Spreading out the huge tablecloth, I noticed the grandfather clock had the time set at four in the afternoon. I’d slept more than an entire day—maybe more. We all had.

The stocks of firewood were growing lower by the day—Henry didn’t seem to be replenishing much down here. I lit the kindling, then threw two logs in the fireplace. I tried not to think about what would happen if further supplies were not sent.

Warmth spread over the surfaces of my body. I ran back to grab the hats from the dressing room.

The clock raced around to seven in the morning as Sophronia set the stack of pancakes down on the cloth. Jessamine pranced in after her—dressed in a white dress with yellow ties and a white hat.

Missouri carried Philomena in. She met my eyes, but hastily looked away. I handed a hat to each girl.

We knelt to a breakfast of pancakes with sprinkles of sugar on top—Sophronia had made enough for an army. They tasted watery—I guessed she’d not wanted to use the powdered milk at full-strength. Powdered milk stocks were running low enough already. But it felt intensely good to feel food passing into my stomach.

Philomena was uncharacteristically quiet as she ate.

I slipped four pancakes into my bloomers while Jessamine was busy singing Philomena a song.  Jessamine did care about Philomena in some sense, I guessed. Perhaps she cared about all of the girls. But she was impossible to figure out. How could it be her who imprisoned us here, as Aisha said it was? She was stuck here too, suffering the same fate as us.

We read poetry and passages after breakfast, none of us caring too much about the words.

Jessamine was the exception, and she read at length. I chilled at the last selection she chose to read:

Singing commenced directly after the poetry readings. The voices of the girls rose eerily around the spaces of the ballroom as they chanted nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme.