Rannigan nodded and said a bit of fresh air wouldn’t hurt, and went on to tell us how to wrap her up and how long she might stay out, but I was too busy regretting my offer to listen. Rose is besotted with the firehouse and the firemen, and a besotted Rose is a tedious thing indeed.
Morphine to ease her passing.
Father looked from me to Rose and back to me again. For the first time since Stepmother died he noticed our clothes. He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded remarkably like “Good God!” He said we couldn’t go about dressed like twin versions of the Little Match Girl; and that we certainly couldn’t testify at Nelly Daws’s trial like that; and that Pearl would know how to fix us up.
We were to have new clothes.
We were to have new clothes because I tried to bargain with the Boggy Mun and he outwitted me. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Father shouldn’t feel guilty, but he does. We were to have new clothes because I made Rose sick.
This, to me, is Hell.
On and on ring the lunatic bells.
Storybook events come in threes. So, it seems, does Hell. Here’s the third strand of Hell woven into that night.
I lay in bed, listening to Rose cough. It was a wet, skin-scraping cough, very different from her earlier cough. Rose had never had the swamp cough. I was a fool.
I was a fool, yet I was clever.
It was the clever Briony who’d called up Death. She called it up so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Mr. Dreary, who wouldn’t have died had she not called it up. It’s rather unbearably circular.
But there are more unbearable circles.
It was the clever Briony who dreamed up a plan to save Rose. She dreamed up the plan so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Rose, who wouldn’t have contracted the swamp cough had she not gone into the swamp.
The clever Briony knows that when she enters the swamp, people die. The clever Briony intended that Rose contract the swamp cough. She has always been jealous of Rose.
This to her is the third strand of Hell.
10
Lo: the Gloriousness
That night, the swamp craving returned.
What a strange word,
craving
. What is it, really? It’s hard to describe, despite the fact that it keeps you up all night. It’s trickier than pain. It’s an itch stuck below your skin. You lie awake on your side of the do-not-cross line, listening to your sister heave and cough. You scratch at itch-ants that tunnel through your bones. You never can reach them.
It makes me sympathetic to Fitz the Genius’s craving, which was for arsenic. It sounds a peculiar thing to crave, but apparently more people than one might expect are addicted to the stuff. That’s what Father said after he dismissed Fitz, even though that meant I had no tutor. Even though he was still a genius. I couldn’t see that the arsenic affected him a bit.
Father sacked the Genius, I banished the Brownie, and then I was alone.
Night faded into blue ink. I was bored, I didn’t want to be hanged. I was bored. I buttoned myself into collar and cuffs. I tied myself into ribbons and shoes. Dawn clung to me like cobwebs.
I find it impossible to be bored when I help Rose get ready for the day. That’s because I’m too busy loathing her. Loathing and boredom don’t mix.
“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station,” said Rose.
“Before you take any of those steps, you must put on your shoes.”
“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station.”
Honestly, if I don’t save her life, I’m going to kill her!
Despite her cough, Rose was in unusually good spirits. That was irritating. If I’m to trade my life for Rose’s, I’d appreciate her exhibiting a touch of melancholy. Also acceptable would be despair.
“You talked last night while you were asleep,” said Rose.
“Your shoes, Rose!”
“How can you talk when you’re asleep?”
I could blame myself for her good spirits, if I wanted to, which I didn’t. Rose’s fascination with the fire
Morphine to ease her passing.
Father looked from me to Rose and back to me again. For the first time since Stepmother died he noticed our clothes. He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded remarkably like “Good God!” He said we couldn’t go about dressed like twin versions of the Little Match Girl; and that we certainly couldn’t testify at Nelly Daws’s trial like that; and that Pearl would know how to fix us up.
We were to have new clothes.
We were to have new clothes because I tried to bargain with the Boggy Mun and he outwitted me. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Father shouldn’t feel guilty, but he does. We were to have new clothes because I made Rose sick.
This, to me, is Hell.
On and on ring the lunatic bells.
Storybook events come in threes. So, it seems, does Hell. Here’s the third strand of Hell woven into that night.
I lay in bed, listening to Rose cough. It was a wet, skin-scraping cough, very different from her earlier cough. Rose had never had the swamp cough. I was a fool.
I was a fool, yet I was clever.
It was the clever Briony who’d called up Death. She called it up so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Mr. Dreary, who wouldn’t have died had she not called it up. It’s rather unbearably circular.
But there are more unbearable circles.
It was the clever Briony who dreamed up a plan to save Rose. She dreamed up the plan so she might go into the swamp, so she might save Rose, who wouldn’t have contracted the swamp cough had she not gone into the swamp.
The clever Briony knows that when she enters the swamp, people die. The clever Briony intended that Rose contract the swamp cough. She has always been jealous of Rose.
This to her is the third strand of Hell.
10
Lo: the Gloriousness
That night, the swamp craving returned.
What a strange word,
craving
. What is it, really? It’s hard to describe, despite the fact that it keeps you up all night. It’s trickier than pain. It’s an itch stuck below your skin. You lie awake on your side of the do-not-cross line, listening to your sister heave and cough. You scratch at itch-ants that tunnel through your bones. You never can reach them.
It makes me sympathetic to Fitz the Genius’s craving, which was for arsenic. It sounds a peculiar thing to crave, but apparently more people than one might expect are addicted to the stuff. That’s what Father said after he dismissed Fitz, even though that meant I had no tutor. Even though he was still a genius. I couldn’t see that the arsenic affected him a bit.
Father sacked the Genius, I banished the Brownie, and then I was alone.
Night faded into blue ink. I was bored, I didn’t want to be hanged. I was bored. I buttoned myself into collar and cuffs. I tied myself into ribbons and shoes. Dawn clung to me like cobwebs.
I find it impossible to be bored when I help Rose get ready for the day. That’s because I’m too busy loathing her. Loathing and boredom don’t mix.
“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station,” said Rose.
“Before you take any of those steps, you must put on your shoes.”
“Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station.”
Honestly, if I don’t save her life, I’m going to kill her!
Despite her cough, Rose was in unusually good spirits. That was irritating. If I’m to trade my life for Rose’s, I’d appreciate her exhibiting a touch of melancholy. Also acceptable would be despair.
“You talked last night while you were asleep,” said Rose.
“Your shoes, Rose!”
“How can you talk when you’re asleep?”
I could blame myself for her good spirits, if I wanted to, which I didn’t. Rose’s fascination with the fire
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