She climbed the stairs behind Miss Trelawny. The upper hall was filled with sunlight—it must be around noon. They walked down a corridor with closed doors on both sides—bedrooms, Alice remembered from the last time she had been here. Suddenly, from one of the rooms, she heard a faint groan. Which room had it been?
“Walk on, Lydia,” said Mrs. Raymond in her cold tones. For a moment, Alice had stopped, and Mrs. Raymond had almost tripped over her.
Obediently, Alice—who would never, she mentally swore, think of herself as Lydia—walked on, following Miss Trelawny to the end of the corridor. There, Miss Trelawny opened the last door.
“Your room is right next to mine. If you need anything, just knock on the wall and if I’m there, I’ll come right over.” Miss Trelawny smiled at her, encouragingly. Then, she stepped into the room and pulled Alice along with her.
The room was not large, but light and airy, with white lace curtains. The last time Alice had seen these rooms, they had been bare, but now fresh linens had been put on the bed and there was a vase of flowers on top of a bookshelf filled with books, next to a comfortable chair for reading. A wardrobe, chest of drawers, and washstand completed the furniture of the room.
Mrs. Raymond entered behind her, walked to the wardrobe, and opened the doors. Inside were dresses, hanging in a row. She pulled out one that looked exactly like the blue dress she had conjured for Alice out of energic waves.
“I think this will do for today,” she said. “I want you to look respectable for our meeting.”
Alice glanced down at herself. She was once again wearing the dirty nightgown. But Mrs. Raymond still had on her gray silk dress, and her hair was still a luxuriant black. Which was the real Mrs. Raymond? Alice could see the energic waves roiling about her head—Martin had taught her how to see them. She could see them about Miss Trelawny as well, but only faintly—most people, meaning people who were not mesmerists, had waves just like that. But Mrs. Raymond—well, it had been clear from the first moment Alice had seen her in the cellar that she was a mesmerist, much stronger than Martin. There would be no fooling her with illusions.
“There is a bathroom at the end of the hall,” said Miss Trelawny. “I’ll have Gitla bring up hot water and towels. She’ll take you there so you can bathe. And then I want you to get dressed in that pretty dress Helen—your mother—has chosen for you. You can do that, can’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, miss,” said Alice. It was the first thing she had actually said in—how many days? Her voice sounded like a rusted hinge.
“Please call me Margaret. I think you and I are going to be good friends. Now, your mother and I have some things to take care of. We’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“Do you understand, Lydia?” said Mrs. Raymond. “You are to bathe and get dressed. We will come for you when your presence is required.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Alice. Miss Trelawny—Margaret—had put it so much more nicely! She had at least pretended that she was not ordering Alice, but asking her to get ready for some sort of meeting. What sort of meeting? And why would Alice need to be there?
Mrs. Raymond just nodded. A moment later, Alice heard a key turn in the lock behind them. Once again she was alone and locked up, but at least it was in better circumstances! What now? Really what she wanted to do was lie down on the bed, pull the covers around her, and cry. But how would that help? The last time she had been kidnapped, Mary had come for her—well, for Justine and Beatrice really, but she had been rescued as well. This time, no one was coming. Mary and the other members of the Athena Club were far away, in Europe, which might as well be the antipodes. Mr. Holmes was off somewhere on a case—unless he had returned already? But even if he had, there were probably more important things to occupy his time than chasing down a kitchen maid! She could certainly not expect the great detective to come after her. Alice had always been comforted by her own insignificance. If she was just a kitchen maid, she would be safe. No one would bother her or ask much of her. Well, now she was Lydia Raymond, or so they told her, and she did not feel safe at all. Surely Mrs. Poole would do something? But what could Mrs. Poole do? If she went to Scotland Yard and reported that her kitchen maid had been kidnapped, she would likely be told that kitchen maids ran away from their employers every day, and she should simply find a new one. After all, who kidnapped kitchen maids? Who would want them? There were thousands of girls just like Alice in London, who could scrub floors and sinks and dishes, who could stir soups and watch to make sure cakes did not burn. There was nothing unique about her—except her mesmerical abilities, which seemed to be what had gotten her into all this trouble!
She would lie down on the bed after all, just for a moment, to have a good cry.
It lasted for more than a moment. She had not cried so hard since the night after Mrs. Jekyll’s funeral, when Mary had told the staff they would have to be let go. She had known, then, that it was either going on the streets or back to the orphanage for her. She had never felt so alone. And here she was again, as alone as she had been that night. But no, she was not completely alone. She had friends, even if they were far away. And she herself was not as lost and uncertain as she had been back then. After all, she had participated in the escape from the warehouse, even if her part had been a small one. And later, she had helped Catherine rescue Archibald, hadn’t she? She would be fourteen years old in February. That was Diana’s age, and look at all the things Diana did! Of course, she did not actually want to be Diana, because Diana annoyed everyone. And yet, how handy the ability to pick locks would be right now!
No, the person she really wanted to be like was Mary.
DIANA: Why in the world would anyone want to be like Mary? She’s so boring.
Mary was logical. Mary could break a problem down into its component parts and solve them one by one. What was the central problem, then? She needed to escape. There was either the window or the door. Alice stood up and walked to the window. It was a sheer drop to the ground. Nothing to climb down, not even some ivy growing up the wall, and she wasn’t a monkey like Diana. The door, when she tried it, was most definitely locked. The key was not in the keyhole—Mrs. Raymond must have taken it.
While standing there, she heard a groan again—it was coming, faint but distinct, from down the hall. Then there was another sound—boot heels! Was Mrs. Raymond or Margaret Trelawny coming back for her? A moment later, when a key turned in the lock, Alice was sitting back on the bed, with her feet tucked under her, crying into her hands—but this time the tears were false. If whoever came in thought she was distraught, it might be easier to escape somehow.
When the door opened, she looked through her fingers and saw a girl, not much older than she was—perhaps fifteen or sixteen?—in a maid’s uniform. Alice sniffed and dried her nonexistent tears. It was a waste of time pretending to cry for a maid, and anyway, maids, in her experience, were more perceptive than other people. The girl might be able to tell that she had not really been crying.
“Hello,” she said tentatively.
“Hello,” said the maid back, smiling in a friendly fashion. Her “Hello” was heavily accented. She had dark brown hair and wide cheekbones that reminded Alice of the old woman who had brought her food in the coal cellar. Could this be her daughter?