The Judas Rose by Suzette Haden Elgin

corridors painted beige, into a room lined with cupboards and cabinets and shelves. “Potions,” her employer had said, and Jo had expected the ordinary household medicines any housewife might keep, and perhaps a few drugs prescribed by physicians. There were a few prescriptions, each properly labeled, all the caps glowing to indicate that the substances inside were pure and safe and not too old for usage. But she had not expected what Dorcas showed her, which was in literal truth the stuff of potions in the ancient sense of the word. Herbs. Dried and fresh in hanging bunches and powdered, made into oils and extracts and teas and lozenges and salves. It smelled wonderful, it was magnificently organized, and it scared Jo-Bethany to death. There were sturdy locks everywhere, and the keys were around Dorcas’ neck; presumably the palm locks responded only to her touch. But many of the herbs she saw were dangerous; improperly handled, they would be fatal.
    She said nothing, because she had made up her mind that she would not criticize anything else in this bizarre place today, no matter what she saw. But she made a mental note to spend plenty of time reviewing her files on poisons and antidotes, and tomorrow she would see what she could find out about Dorcas Chornyak’s claim to be “superbly trained” in the preparation and use of all these substances.
    By the time she’d finished the tour, and unpacked her things and put them away, the day was gone and she was numb with exhaustion. Too numb to face the diningroom in the main house this first night. She went in search of the backup kitchen she’d been told was on the lower level at Womanhouse; there was hot soup, and a good dark bread, and plenty of fruit and nourishing drinks. She ate quickly, not sure she could even taste what she was swallowing, cleared up the minimal mess she’d made, and headed for her own room feeling desperately sleepy.
    And managed to get turned around, of course, in her fog of weariness. The women in the room she blundered into were reciting something or other aloud, and didn’t hear her; she hoped that only the one woman standing at the front of the room had seen her. She backed out fast, closing the door as quietly as she could, and stood there trying to get her bearings, looking at the women who were sitting around the single big room they called the “common room.” They were all busy, she could see that; she hated to interrupt them.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said finally, to the room at large. “I’mafraid I’ve gotten myself lost. Which door goes to Barren House? I was looking for it, and I went in there by mistake . . . .” She gestured vaguely at the door behind her.
    â€œThat’s the chapel,” said a woman sitting nearby with a microfiche reader and a lapful of fiches. “It’s all right. They’re only practicing, and you’re always welcome there.”
    Jo-Bethany shook her head. “Thank you,” she said, “but I just want to go to bed.”
    â€œIn that case, let me show you,” said the woman. “You turned the wrong way at the head of the stairs, that’s all. I’ll see you home.”
    â€œIt’s not necessary.”
    â€œOf course it’s not, but it’s a terrific excuse to get away from these damn tables of prefixes. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
    She came over to Jo-Bethany and stood facing her, hands clasped in front of her, feet apart, a pair of amazingly long thick braids—some effect of the family potions, no doubt—swinging almost to her waist. She was taller than Jo-Bethany, and that was unusual; most women had to look up at the plainer of the two Schrafft girls. This one looked down, and clucked her tongue as if what she saw were deplorable.
    â€œLaw, but you’re tired!” she said, fussing. “You’re worn out . . . too much for one day, and nobody with sense