brass—or it might have been only gilded. The metal bars felt hollow; they pinged like wind chimes when she flicked her fingernail against them. They’d have to do.
When at last she was ready for bed, she checked the door a third time and shook the corked bottle on the nightstand to swish its contents. And then she turned down the light, and then she slipped the loose iron cuff around a bar on the headboard, where it jangled as she settled beneath the sheet.
It didn’t have to hold for long.
It only needed to give enough resistance to wake her if the monster crept up from the inside while she slept. It only needed to startle her, and bring her around until she could regain control of herself. It only needed to buy her time to open the bottle and breathe or swallow or cough.
Through the slits at the edges of the curtains, and at the seams of the nightshade behind them, the moon slipped higher past the clouds and framed the window with white.
Upstairs, a new client was being shown to his room by Tabitha, the small blonde girl who looked no older than fourteen. Annie was taking a bath and rubbing herself with a bar of soap that smelled like French lavender. All the way up on the roof, Marianne was writing a letter and crying quietly to herself. Outside, two men were riding slowly past on tired horses.
Eileen Callaghan could hear every clipping hoof, every slight sob. She could smell the perfumed soap as if it were lingering above her lip; she could feel the miniature earthquakes of each footstep, each bedspring coiling, recoiling.
She stretched herself out on the bed and pointed her toes at the ceiling. In the back of her throat something was pushing, fussing to be let out—but she had tethered the thing well and its leash would hold.
III.
She rose at dawn, having slept little. She was tired, growing more tired every hour—but such was the price of vigilance when the moon was filling itself up like a bowl of milk.
With the passing years she’d grown aware and wary of the process, and never accustomed to it. The key around her neck unlocked the shackle. She rolled it up and put it back in her bag, hiding it quickly. In case. Always in case.
And the bottle beside the bed, with its green glass spinning runny prisms in the morning light—she shook the bottle and frowned. She hadn’t needed it, but it was just as well. The contents were nearly spent.
The label on the side read, oleum dulci vitrioli, which was an old way of naming it. Americans called it chloroform if they called it anything at all.
Through trial and error she’d tried many palliatives before settling on the chloroform. Prayer, will power, and a profound personal composure could stave off early attacks, but a full moon called for stronger stuff.
Mandrake would suffice in a pinch, when it wasn’t hard to come by. Opiates like laudanum might work perfectly, or they might things much, much worse—and there was no way to predict the outcome.
But fortunately, the fussy little ladies of the American temperance movement skirted the use of alcohol by drugging themselves with cough medicine made of ether and ethanol, obeying the letter of their moral law if not the spirit. Therefore, ether was relatively easy to acquire in lieu of her preferred sedative. But it was difficult to stomach, and it left her nauseous for hours.
Regardless, Eileen vowed to seek a back-up supply as soon as possible, for surely the chloroform wouldn’t last another month.
As she gathered her clothes and pulled them on a piece at a time, she debated bringing the gun. It was a good gun, a Colt six-shooter she’d purchased to replace the one lost on a riverboat, a long time ago. But it wasn’t good enough. Nothing was good enough, yet—not even with the special silver bullets. She didn’t bother to have them made anymore, not since that night when the riverboat burned.
On second thought, better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.
A glance into the
When at last she was ready for bed, she checked the door a third time and shook the corked bottle on the nightstand to swish its contents. And then she turned down the light, and then she slipped the loose iron cuff around a bar on the headboard, where it jangled as she settled beneath the sheet.
It didn’t have to hold for long.
It only needed to give enough resistance to wake her if the monster crept up from the inside while she slept. It only needed to startle her, and bring her around until she could regain control of herself. It only needed to buy her time to open the bottle and breathe or swallow or cough.
Through the slits at the edges of the curtains, and at the seams of the nightshade behind them, the moon slipped higher past the clouds and framed the window with white.
Upstairs, a new client was being shown to his room by Tabitha, the small blonde girl who looked no older than fourteen. Annie was taking a bath and rubbing herself with a bar of soap that smelled like French lavender. All the way up on the roof, Marianne was writing a letter and crying quietly to herself. Outside, two men were riding slowly past on tired horses.
Eileen Callaghan could hear every clipping hoof, every slight sob. She could smell the perfumed soap as if it were lingering above her lip; she could feel the miniature earthquakes of each footstep, each bedspring coiling, recoiling.
She stretched herself out on the bed and pointed her toes at the ceiling. In the back of her throat something was pushing, fussing to be let out—but she had tethered the thing well and its leash would hold.
III.
She rose at dawn, having slept little. She was tired, growing more tired every hour—but such was the price of vigilance when the moon was filling itself up like a bowl of milk.
With the passing years she’d grown aware and wary of the process, and never accustomed to it. The key around her neck unlocked the shackle. She rolled it up and put it back in her bag, hiding it quickly. In case. Always in case.
And the bottle beside the bed, with its green glass spinning runny prisms in the morning light—she shook the bottle and frowned. She hadn’t needed it, but it was just as well. The contents were nearly spent.
The label on the side read, oleum dulci vitrioli, which was an old way of naming it. Americans called it chloroform if they called it anything at all.
Through trial and error she’d tried many palliatives before settling on the chloroform. Prayer, will power, and a profound personal composure could stave off early attacks, but a full moon called for stronger stuff.
Mandrake would suffice in a pinch, when it wasn’t hard to come by. Opiates like laudanum might work perfectly, or they might things much, much worse—and there was no way to predict the outcome.
But fortunately, the fussy little ladies of the American temperance movement skirted the use of alcohol by drugging themselves with cough medicine made of ether and ethanol, obeying the letter of their moral law if not the spirit. Therefore, ether was relatively easy to acquire in lieu of her preferred sedative. But it was difficult to stomach, and it left her nauseous for hours.
Regardless, Eileen vowed to seek a back-up supply as soon as possible, for surely the chloroform wouldn’t last another month.
As she gathered her clothes and pulled them on a piece at a time, she debated bringing the gun. It was a good gun, a Colt six-shooter she’d purchased to replace the one lost on a riverboat, a long time ago. But it wasn’t good enough. Nothing was good enough, yet—not even with the special silver bullets. She didn’t bother to have them made anymore, not since that night when the riverboat burned.
On second thought, better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.
A glance into the
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