Chapter 5
Chapter 5: Growing Up
Nastusia shifted immediately into the role of caretaker for her family when her mother died. At the funeral, it was she who greeted guests and accepted condolences with a warm handshake while her father sat mute in the first pew and later, at the reception, in his armchair in the living room. She laid out practical clothes for each of them and made sure everyone was up and ready to go to the church at the right time.
Eventually, the relatives and friends that had shown up to pay their respects to Natasha and give their best to her family would make their way to the place where Vladimir sat motionless. They would take his hand in both of their own and say how truly, how deeply sorry they were for his loss. They would then do their best to remind him of her most wonderful qualities, the ones he would miss the most; they would pause, and after a moment would say to him, not too unkindly, “Vladimir, your eight-year-old daughter is taking care of you?”
Nastusia played hostess well; no one could deny that. The house was clean, as were all three members of the now-diminished family. Snacks were set out for guests, however meager, and Nastusia thanked everyone by name and said how glad she was to have their support at such a difficult time. The fact of the matter was that Nastusia was too good. It worried everyone that an eight-year-old was acting as head of household and it worried them more that she did it well. Vladimir was clearly in no shape to greet people, to thank them by name and ask them how their own families were doing, but everyone expected this. No one, they thought, should be this together, let alone a girl of only eight. The poor girl’s mother had just died. Didn’t she feel it?
Alabaster clung to her father during the whole ordeal of funeral and reception. She met no one’s eyes, leaning one half of her face against her father’s chest at all times, her finely dressed dollie always in one hand. The guests understood and approved of the two blank stares of father and daughter, inseparable, immobile. They felt pity for them where there seemed nothing to pity in regards to Nastusia unless one could pity capability and maturity.
Thus it was this scene, father and youngest daughter dutifully broken by remorse while the eight-year-old was usher and attendant, which prompted each guest to feel that something should be done. By the end of the evening, the close friends and relatives who had stayed to help clean up and organize the gifted food were abuzz with worry, clamoring to remove Nastusia from her found seat as the head of the house. “For her own good,” they all said. “The girl needs time to mourn,” they agreed, stacking dirty plates. “She probably doesn’t even understand what’s happened,” were the whispers while drying.
And so at some point, when the dishes were done and the casseroles neatly tucked away in the refrigerator, a young aunt took hold of Nastusia and Alabaster and whisked them away to be tucked into bed while the others talked to Vladimir.
“Of course you cannot do everything, Vladimir.”
“But neither can a child of eight.”
“There is so much to be done.”
“You need to be taken care of also.”
Vladimir sat mute and stunned while the hoard of people around him explained to him what needed to be done. He needed to find someone to act as mother to his children and caretaker for the household. Of course, to say that he needed to find a new wife so soon after Natasha’s death would have bee preposterous, lewd, undignified. So they did not put it in those terms. Instead they told him that their family needed help in this hard time, someone to relieve some of the burden.
It was not two months, therefore, after Natasha’s death when Gwynn moved into the house. She was a tall, quiet woman with piercing, thin eyes. She dressed immaculately, even while doing chores, and she made it incredibly clear to Nastusia that she was not to be trusted.
In the beginning, it was only a feeling. Nastusia would walk into a room in which Gwynn was busy with something and she would stop short, feeling as though there was not quite enough air to go around. She would become momentarily frightened when Gwynn brushed helped Alabaster undress for bed, anticipating some violence from the woman that did not come. Or rather, did not come immediately.
Vladimir retreated from his children after Gwynn’s arrival. No longer physically forced by his daughters to interact with them, either by Alabaster’s constant need to be held or by Nastusia’s matronly gestures of coffee in the morning and heating casseroles that night, he spent longer hours away from the house, accepting that Gwynn could do a much better job raising his children than he could ever do, afraid of their fragility and emotionality as he was. And as Vladimir became less and less involved with the lives of his daughters, Gwynn spent less and less time being the caring woman Vladimir had hoped she would be and more like the woman Nastusia feared she was.
The physical violence, of course, did not come until somewhat later. It was six month before Gwynn hit the six-year-old Alabaster on her small hand, a year before the strike was against the child’s face. But she asserted her terrible dominance in equally powerful ways as soon as Vladimir shifted out of the house, though none that left marks on the children. The fine scraps of fabric and beautifully colored ribbons were the first to go. It was a clear attack on the lives of the children, easily couched as Spring-cleaning. The children responded at first with tears and accusations, pleading for help from their distant father. But soon it was clear that although he still came home at night, albeit later than he had previously, he was not with them during even the times when he was at home. He kept his distance from them and responded, when he responded at all, by directing them toward Gwynn, the very person from whom they ran.
Nastusia did her best to shield her little sister from Gwynn’s attacks. There were times where we was just a moment too late, just in time to see the follow-through arc of Gwynn’s arm flying away from Alabaster’s frightened face. But for the most part, she managed to steer the woman’s attentions toward herself, stepping in front of Alabaster as Gwynn’s nostrils began to flare, the first sign of her violent rage. Nastusia mastered her bating technique, able to shift Gwynn’s anger onto herself without allowing the woman to realize that it had been intentional.
And so, Alabaster managed to live for a number of years sustaining only minor injuries and very few scars. With Nastusia, however, the beatings only worsened, progressing from the petty, non-violent attacks against her favorite belongings through slaps and spanks all the way up to broken bones and cigarette burns.
Then, one day, Vladimir did not come home from work. Gwynn acted no different than any other time he was away, taking no notice of his unusually long absence. The children, though, were exceptionally fearful. They sat at the kitchen table for dinner, afraid to eat and not to eat, scared of making the wrong move, and of being too perfect. Gwynn’s eyes narrowed even farther than their usual thinness and she watched them as they took small, bird-like bites of chicken, kept their gaze down, and tried furtively to communicate with one another without bringing attention to their camaraderie.
Suddenly, Gwynn’s demeanor changed. A soft smile came over her face and she took her eyes off the children for a moment in order to look around the room pleasantly. “Your father is not coming back,” she said in an easy tone alight with humor. Her calm did not abate, even as Nastusia and her sister protested wildly, filling the air with accusations. Gwynn picked delicately at her dinner, patting the corners of her mouth with her napkin periodically. The girls fell silent when Gwynn got up from the table. They watched her with a mixture of fear and loathing while she scraped her excess food into the garbage and ran water over her plate. As she turned around, still with that beatific smile etched into the line of her lips, Nastusia stood, finding her voice again. “What’s going to happen?” she asked, her voice clear and strong and unwavering. She gripped the edge of the kitchen table, standing as tall as she could next to her frightened sister.
Gwynn whipped her head around and glared at Nastusia. Her lips were thin lines cutting off her chin. Slowly, Gwynn’s body followed her head until she fully faced Nastusia and said, “You may stay here as long as you are useful to me. As this is my house now, some things will change, but you don’t need to know about the details, yet. You’ll know when the time comes that you need to.
“You can start this new life by cleaning up after dinner. I’m doing to bed.”
Gwynn sauntered off down the hall and into the room where Natasha had birthed both of her children, consummated her marriage, and, more recently, died. She had taken over the room some weeks earlier, completely undoing any signs of Natasha’s life there and filling the space as her own style and taste suited her. Slowly, though more quickly now that she alone claimed rule over the house, Gwynn’s personality began to usurp that of Natasha throughout the house. Furniture was rearranged. Pictures were taken from the walls and new ones hung in their places. Colors of things changed slightly and small details changed as well. The types of coasters about the house shifted from a familiar flower pattern to flat color. The lampshade on the table next to the couch became tassled. The girls did what they could, for the most part in vain, to keep some physical memory of their mother, but the precious silks and ribbons were long gone and many of their clothes went also.
The only thing they managed to hold onto, despite Gwynn’s constant attempts to the contrary, was the small doll that Nastusia had made for her sister only a few days before their mother died. It was small enough to hide effectively and soft enough to go unnoticed even when touched. The two girls passed it between them, sometimes as often as within the hour. Sometimes, though, one girl would keep it for a week or more, hiding it among what few possessions she still had, or in a pocket or a pillowcase. Both knew that it was only a doll, and not magical or powerful like Vasilisa’s, and yet at times the two girls would close their eyes and hold the dollie and wish for everything to get better, for the woman to go away, for their father to come back, and most of all, for their mother to return to them. There were times, late at night, where each would know beyond the possibility of doubt that if she offered the little dollie a scrap of food, she would come to life and grant the wishes that they so wanted to ask. But at those times, they calmed themselves with the thought just before drifting off to sleep thinking, well, if it gets too much that I can no longer endure it, then, and only then will I ask for help from the little dollie.
But other things changed besides the décor. When Nastusia was eleven years old, doing all she could to shelter a sister the same age she herself had been when their mother finally passed way, some new people came to the house and did not really leave. Although the individuals did, at times, take their leave of the house, there was always someone besides the girls and their stepmother there with them. Someone eating a sandwich at the kitchen table when they woke up or a group having some sort of meeting in the living room when they walked across the hall at night on their way to bed after a bath. The girls were always wondering about the new people in the house, but generally they remained more afraid than curious and didn’t dare ask their stepmother or the people themselves what it was that they were doing in the house.
“Nose-Mole is getting another sandwich!” whispered Alabaster to her sister. The younger girl was lying on the floor in their room with her head poked out into the hall just enough to be able to see most of what was going on in the kitchen at the end of it. “That’s the third one tonight!”
The girls had given these new houseguests names, generally focusing on particularly gruesome physical characteristics they possessed and sometimes something distinguishing in their mannerisms or style of dress. Nose-Mole was appropriately named, of course, for the brown protrusion on the left side of his nose. He had other distinguishing characteristics: a shaved head, a large belly, and a leaning back stance. But the girls had focused in on the mole for their name for him, partly because they enjoyed mocking the man for the one thing he could not change.
Nastusia sat on her bed picking feathers out of the old down comforter she used. The blanket was flattening with time, the feathers inside forming little clumps dispersed unevenly between the cloth covering and leaving gaps of air that would not be trapped and warmed by the down. The small patches of the feathers poked out of the thinning cloth, also, forcing their stiff peaks through to Nastusia’s skin. She skimmed her hand across the cloth to find the feather’s tips scratch her fingers and pulled on them, forcing the matted feathers through the fabric. She made a little pile of them while she sat there, listening to her sister’s periodic explanations of the scene down the hall.
Alabaster flipped around on the floor, lying on her back and staring up at her sister. “What do you think they’re doing here?” she asked. She looked at the ceiling for a moment, not really expecting an answer from the other girl. “I think they’re bad people.”
Nastusia frowned in agreement. Neither of the girls had spent any time really talking to the new people in the house but they were clearly not the sort of people their real mother would have wanted them to talk to. There was a smell around them that lingered in the air after they were gone. A smell neither of the girls could place but which smelled acrid and unsanitary, like the sweat of a diseased thing. They smiled at the girls in a way they did not appreciate. Their eyes were cold, but firey, intent on something that could not quite be placed. Nastusia and her sister spent most of their time in their room. They did not dare stay out late after school because they feared what their stepmother might do upon their return, but the stares kept them at the end of the hall. It was clear that Gwynn had control over the intruders, but the girls did not want to test her patience, either, knowing that it was this volatile and spiteful woman who kept the others at bay.
“They’re so gross.” Alabaster said. She was ten, a warm and smiling child, despite her traumatic childhood. She kept her hair in pigtails and talked endlessly when she had the chance. She knew not to do so around Gwynn at this point, had the scars and bruises to remind her, but she rambled on endlessly in the company of her more reserved, older sister. Alabaster narrated the movements of the strangers, made up stories about them and also ones about her sister and herself, running way and making a new life. She would detail the changes they would make to their lives. The color of their hair would change, their style of dress, the food they would eat. Alabaster imagined a glamorous life. She remembered the silks and ribbons her mother used to bring her and translated them into grand dresses and tapestries in an ornate and stately house. She put each of them in matching gowns with their hair done up superbly. Nastusia did not tell her that this was far beyond what she hoped for the two of them, that she did not want such grand dresses or such a large house and that, in truth she would be happy to just be rid of this life. She wanted her sister to dream and she would not let even her own desires get in the way of the powerful distance Alabaster managed to gain when she closed her eyes and told her sister where they really were.
Nastusia’s dreams were never so complex as her sister’s. She wanted distance and her mother and she knew that of those two wishes, only one would ever come true. So she focused her attentions on the former, hoping that one day she would be able to take her sister away from their worsening existence, from the changing house and the volatile woman and her strange new companions.
As she picked the down from her blanket, Nastusia watched her own hands, noticing as she did at times exactly how young she was, or old. She was always surprised at such moments of self-reflection. She thought herself capable, as an adult, but knew that she was not one. And yet there were times when she was surprised to find that she had grown since that day her mother died, that she was not still eight years old, that her hands had scars on them from where a knife had slipped while making dinner, or where a lash from Gwynn had fallen on them. She imagined that her hands could be no better looking that those of the horrible men crowding her kitchen at that moment. She stopped picking at the blanket and extended her fingers before her, looking carefully at the form and texture of every part of her hands. She bent and extended the fingers together, noticing the tightness in the joints that had been broken, the strange shape of those fingers. Her fingernails were short and unpainted, a thin line of black dirt lining the beds and the space under the nails.
She was fourteen but she felt older. She had nothing in common with any of the other children she knew, other than her sister. The two of them kept to themselves at school, rushing home to the half-comfort of their own room once school was over. They walked hand in hand, each in the role of both protector and protected. Each clasped tightly to the other for the security of both, and while Nastusia remained quiet, her sister talked of an imaginary present and a hopeful future.
Sitting on her bed, Nastusia looked up from her hands and to her sister, lying sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling and muttering something under her breath, likely narrating a particular ball gown and the music that would be playing. “Alabaster,” she said solemnly, calling her sister’s attention to her. “We need to get out of here. We need to leave, to really go, not just talk about it.”
Alabaster stared at her sister. She felt comfortable dreaming, but really to act? She glanced at the door, somehow afraid that the new tone to their dreams of escape had awakened the notice of their stepmother who would clearly punish them for their insolence. But no one was there. When she rolled her head into the hall, she saw that Nose-Mole was eating the last bit of his sandwich and listening to a story that one of the others was telling with complicated hand movements and periodic loud noises. She turned back to her sister looking somewhat less frightened, but still concerned and surprised. “What are you talking about?” she asked quietly, creeping across the floor so that they might continue their conversation quietly and thus with less chance of interruption.
“I’m talking about getting out of here. I’m talking about running away. About leaving for school and not coming back. Getting on a bus.”
Part of Alabaster was pulled toward this idea of escape, she certainly longed for a different life, but at ten, she was not quite old enough to feel the strength she would need to separate herself from the life she knew, however tormented it was. She thought about Gwynn and her thin eyes narrowing into slits when she became enraged, the high arc of the wooden spoon swinging down from over the woman’s head and splitting the skin of her own forearm. Alabaster reached for the flesh above her right wrist in remembered pain. It was certainly not that she wanted to stay. She wanted to be as far away from Gwynn as possible, but her fear of the woman ran deep. She could not convince herself that even her sister could find a way to keep them out of range of the woman’s wrath. She didn’t like the way those men looked at her and she wanted to be rid of them, too, but if Gwynn found out what they were planning to do, she might not keep those strangers away from her and from Nastusia.
“But what if she gets mad?” Alabaster asked, turning again with a frightened look toward the open door and the sinister group that waited at the end of the hall.
“Gets mad?” Nastusia was not whispering. She could not understand how her sister could be having misgivings about a plan like this. This was the only option. It was clear. It had always been clear that Gwynn would not stop, would not love them the way their mother had. And Nastusia had been able to bear the loss of affection, had been capable of handing over control of the house to this mad woman with an angry face, but she could not stomach these intruders in their house. With her father gone and no expectation of his return, the only thing that kept Nastusia there was her younger sister who needed protection. The woman had rages and reacted with malice at the sign of any imperfection, but she could be avoided or placated at least most of the time until these strangers had come into the house.
It was as though she enjoyed showing off for them. Every once in a while, for no reason that either of the girls had been able to gather, Gwynn would call one of them into the kitchen. If they came together, she would slap the other across the face and send her back to their room. “Did I call you?” she would say softly through tight lips, eyes narrowed to lines, as the back of her stiff hand hit the girl’s cheek. The strangers in the room, some times as many as four, would laugh mockingly at the red welt as it began to appear, sick smiles forming across their ugly faces.
The injured sister would return obediently to her room, knowing that the punishment could only worsen with more involvement or protestation. But she would watch from the open door down the hall, feeling each blow as it was given. The strangers would mock softly, chuckling at the sign of flinches or uncontrolled tears. They commented on Gwynn’s choice of instruments, a wooden handle or her cigarette or a strap, on where each blow should fall, arguing with each other: Thighs! No, arms! And Gwynn ignored them for the most part, only looking at them with the same slit eyes after she had finished with the girl. They would fall silent then, keeping her gaze, perhaps giving a nod, but no more. At the end of the hall, the girls would embrace, comforting and crying, wishing themselves for a moment out of the house and the world.
More recently, however, something had changed yet again. Three days ago, Nastusia had been called to the kitchen from her room. Her stomach leapt up into her throat and she caught her sister’s eyes before walking demurely down the hall. Gwynn, who was usually silent before a beating, was yelling at someone already in the room. She could tell that there were four or five men in the room, some leaning on counters, some sitting at the table, but she kept her eyes to the floor. Nastusia didn’t understand from what she said what had happened. She did not dare look up to see who was receiving the admonitions either, knowing that her role had not changed, that although Gwynn was acting somewhat differently, this did not give herself any leave to alter her part of their interaction.
“-dimwits! Entirely unacceptable!” Gwynn paused to breathe and looked suddenly toward Nastusia, standing obediently in the middle of the room. “Look at this,” she said more softly, though with no less malice. “Look how she comes when I call, standing there just as I have taught her to await what she knows is coming.” She looked back to the men and yelled again, “I get! What I want!” And with no warning, Gwynn’s hand flew against Nastusia’s ear, causing her to fall to the ground in pain and alarm. The men chuckled, seeing her collapse, but went silent again when Gwynn turned to them. They were not used to any attention at all while the girls were being punished. Gwynn looked down at Nastusia and her upper lip began to curl back, showing her teeth. “Get up!” she growled, at the same time sending the heel of her foot down onto Nastusia’s side. Nastusia grunted as the air was thrust out of her and her hip was pushed violently against the floor. Tears ran down her face and she heard the men laugh again. As she struggled to regain her breath, Nastusia felt Gwynn clutch at her hair, pulling her up painfully. Her feet made a cycling motion at the ground, desperately trying to grip the floor and stand, but with a jerk and a grunt, Gwynn thrust the girl toward the kitchen table. Her head cracked against the edge, inches away from one of the strange men who were now watching in wonder and fascination as whatever anger Gwynn was feeling was taken out on the girl. He moved back suddenly in his chair, willing, it seemed, to watch the interaction between the two women, but not to participate. As Nastusia sank again to the floor, the man stood quickly, backing into a corner and away from the fray. Gwynn turned on him, whipping her head around before her body caught up. She was stooped, maintaining a wide stance and looked somewhat like a bird of pray. Her eyes had widened in a manic fury and the stiffness of her fingers, clenched and extended, were reminiscent of talons. The man slinked toward the wall while Nastusia groaned in a mess on the floor and Gwynn’s hunched frame turned stiffly toward him.
Nastusia could not hear anything. Her breath was hot and sticky in her mouth and her ears were filled with the sound of breathing and of her own heartbeat. Her head was heavy and she could not make sense of what she saw. She was in pain.
One of the men still sitting at the table was almost shocked to see the girl this way. Something was different about the way Gwynn was punishing her. It was worse in a way he could not place and he reached a hand down to help her to her feet, seeing as he did so, that her face was covered in blood. He frowned in a sympathetic way at the girl, reaching out a hand to her, but Gwynn was at his throat. “She is mine to deal with. Do not dare interfere.” She stood in front of the man, pushing him back into his chair. Her nails dug into his neck and her wide eyes made him look away, going limp. She looked around the room and the cowering men. “I’ll do what I want with her.” Her voice was soft and biting like a flame against their ears and they were silent, waiting.
Gwynn turned her attention to the girl on the floor, again. For a second time, she swung her foot into Nastusia. The girl cried out in pain, but this time no one laughed. Her mouth was dripping blood and she clutched at her stomach, though her face was limp and the noises she made were weak and strained.
“You have all forgotten who I am, apparently.” Said Gwynn to the rapt crowd. “ You seem to think that you have your own authority, that I am unnecessary? Maybe you have just forgotten what I will do to those who disobey me.” She found one of Nastusia’s splayed hands with her foot and shifted her weight to crush the little fingers. The men cringed. Nastusia groaned softly into the linoleum. Gwynn ground the fingers in an arcing motion.
“You,” she said, nodding to the man who had tried in vain to fade into the corner of the room after witnessing so closely Nastusia’s fall into the table. He shifted forward, hoping that it would be enough of a response from him and that she would pick on someone else. In stead, she walked over to him and tapped is breast pocket, where he kept a pack of cigarettes. “Light one, will you?” she asked.
He fumbled with the box, nearly dropping it, and then the cigarettes when he finally got it open. He managed to place one hurriedly in his mouth and then searched frantically for the lighter while Gwynn stood staring at him. He searched his breast pocket, his front pockets, his back pockets, and could not find it. When he again tapped his hands against his front pockets, he did notice the slight bump of a lighter, overlooked on first pass. He lit it quickly and took a small drag on the cigarette to ignite the paper and tobacco, then took it out of his mouth and held it out toward Gwynn. She cocked her head to one side and gave a little half smile. Then she reached behind her toward the prostrate figure of Nastusia, still moaning and sputtering on the floor. She grabbed the girl’s limp arm and pulled her toward the man with the cigarette. Her strength was surprising to everyone. Nastusia’s body slid across the slick floor with no problem, coming to a halt at the man’s feet, his had still outstretched, cupping the cigarette to keep it lit. He looked confused, although Gwynn gave him a look that told him he should know what was happening. As he looked at the tall woman, his eyes got wide and he slowly shook his head. Her face betrayed her fury at the sign of his dissention.
Gwynn’s voice was cool and controlled while she stared into him. “Put that cigarette out.” Nastusia was still drooped toward the floor, her legs had been dragged straight behind her and her head lolled back with the force of gravity, but Gwynn’s unnaturally strong arm kept the girl’s aloft, lifting with it the bulk of her torso. The man with the cigarette looked down at the girl, semi-unconscious and bleeding. He had seen her hit before, but had never seen this much damage inflicted so quickly and efficiently. He looked to his own hand, knowing that the cigarette would be put out whether he did it or no, and that the pain would only worsen, for him as well as for the girl, if he disobeyed. So in the end, he did not disobey the order. He reached down slowly and carefully with the lit cigarette in his hand. It had only burned down a small amount while he had been waiting for Gwynn to take it, but the ember was still hot and red with life.
Nastusia did not cry out when the ember hit her flesh. Clearly the injuries she had sustained had caused a temporary hypoalgesia as she stumbled in and out of consciousness. But there was the smell. The man let the tip of the cigarette burn into the skin on the girl’s wrist, just below her thumb, and watched the area around it grow red with irritation as the burn spread outward from the point of contact. The other men in the room were silent. Some looked away. Once the noise from the burning flesh subsided, Gwynn let Nastusia drop. She made a thud as her head and shoulders hit the floor, a little slap followed when her hand fell. The man was still holding the cigarette in mid-air. Staring at the crumpled bottom, no longer glowing. He was ashamed and disgusted by the smell. When he looked down, he could see the small circular burn on the girl’s arm, swollen, raw, and covered in ash. He let the cigarette drop and crumpled back against the corner wall.
Gwynn then moved on to the next man. Each man in the room was forced to torture the unconscious child in some different way and when Nastusia finally woke up, in pain and in bed with her crying sister hovering over her, she had a swollen eye, a broken finger, large welts on her back, and bruises all the way up her legs, all in addition to the first burn.
“I can’t let what happened to me happen to you, Alabaster. We have to get out of here. She’s not going to get mad at us because she’s not going to know.” Nastusia clutched at the pile of feathers in front of her on the bed, staring at her young sister and realizing truly what kind of danger she was in. There was a bandage on her wrist still, and she wore long sleeves to conceal it, but she fingered the spot where the cigarette had burned her, not remembering what it had been like, but knowing that the scar would outlast it if she had remembered. “We don’t have a choice, Ali.”
Alabaster looked away again, this time toward the floor, and she frowned, knowing that her sister was likely right, but also feeling that there was little hope either way. The only time her stomach was not in knots was when she was daydreaming about silk dresses and the most beautiful fabrics. Or when her sister told her the story about the girl who went to the woods.
There was a long silence. Natusia tried to put together all of the elements of a successful escape while fingering her bandage. Her sister sat still, trying not to think at all for fear that she might imagine something frightening, like an end to Nastusia’s plan that did not work out well for them. They sat there together, each lost in their own minds, for the rest of the evening. At some point, one or the other of them got up, deciding that it was time to change her clothes and to turn off the light. Once the first move had been made, the other followed suit, putting dirty clothes into the hamper to be washed, putting on a nightgown. Alabaster crawled into bed with her sister after turning off the light. She trotted to the bed like a doe, as though she was afraid of spending too much time touching the floor. Nastusia kissed her sister on the forehead and neither said what she was thinking. Neither voiced their fears or attempted reassurance. They simply huddled together in the dark, under the lumpy down blanket to await morning.
Nastusia shifted immediately into the role of caretaker for her family when her mother died. At the funeral, it was she who greeted guests and accepted condolences with a warm handshake while her father sat mute in the first pew and later, at the reception, in his armchair in the living room. She laid out practical clothes for each of them and made sure everyone was up and ready to go to the church at the right time.
Eventually, the relatives and friends that had shown up to pay their respects to Natasha and give their best to her family would make their way to the place where Vladimir sat motionless. They would take his hand in both of their own and say how truly, how deeply sorry they were for his loss. They would then do their best to remind him of her most wonderful qualities, the ones he would miss the most; they would pause, and after a moment would say to him, not too unkindly, “Vladimir, your eight-year-old daughter is taking care of you?”
Nastusia played hostess well; no one could deny that. The house was clean, as were all three members of the now-diminished family. Snacks were set out for guests, however meager, and Nastusia thanked everyone by name and said how glad she was to have their support at such a difficult time. The fact of the matter was that Nastusia was too good. It worried everyone that an eight-year-old was acting as head of household and it worried them more that she did it well. Vladimir was clearly in no shape to greet people, to thank them by name and ask them how their own families were doing, but everyone expected this. No one, they thought, should be this together, let alone a girl of only eight. The poor girl’s mother had just died. Didn’t she feel it?
Alabaster clung to her father during the whole ordeal of funeral and reception. She met no one’s eyes, leaning one half of her face against her father’s chest at all times, her finely dressed dollie always in one hand. The guests understood and approved of the two blank stares of father and daughter, inseparable, immobile. They felt pity for them where there seemed nothing to pity in regards to Nastusia unless one could pity capability and maturity.
Thus it was this scene, father and youngest daughter dutifully broken by remorse while the eight-year-old was usher and attendant, which prompted each guest to feel that something should be done. By the end of the evening, the close friends and relatives who had stayed to help clean up and organize the gifted food were abuzz with worry, clamoring to remove Nastusia from her found seat as the head of the house. “For her own good,” they all said. “The girl needs time to mourn,” they agreed, stacking dirty plates. “She probably doesn’t even understand what’s happened,” were the whispers while drying.
And so at some point, when the dishes were done and the casseroles neatly tucked away in the refrigerator, a young aunt took hold of Nastusia and Alabaster and whisked them away to be tucked into bed while the others talked to Vladimir.
“Of course you cannot do everything, Vladimir.”
“But neither can a child of eight.”
“There is so much to be done.”
“You need to be taken care of also.”
Vladimir sat mute and stunned while the hoard of people around him explained to him what needed to be done. He needed to find someone to act as mother to his children and caretaker for the household. Of course, to say that he needed to find a new wife so soon after Natasha’s death would have bee preposterous, lewd, undignified. So they did not put it in those terms. Instead they told him that their family needed help in this hard time, someone to relieve some of the burden.
It was not two months, therefore, after Natasha’s death when Gwynn moved into the house. She was a tall, quiet woman with piercing, thin eyes. She dressed immaculately, even while doing chores, and she made it incredibly clear to Nastusia that she was not to be trusted.
In the beginning, it was only a feeling. Nastusia would walk into a room in which Gwynn was busy with something and she would stop short, feeling as though there was not quite enough air to go around. She would become momentarily frightened when Gwynn brushed helped Alabaster undress for bed, anticipating some violence from the woman that did not come. Or rather, did not come immediately.
Vladimir retreated from his children after Gwynn’s arrival. No longer physically forced by his daughters to interact with them, either by Alabaster’s constant need to be held or by Nastusia’s matronly gestures of coffee in the morning and heating casseroles that night, he spent longer hours away from the house, accepting that Gwynn could do a much better job raising his children than he could ever do, afraid of their fragility and emotionality as he was. And as Vladimir became less and less involved with the lives of his daughters, Gwynn spent less and less time being the caring woman Vladimir had hoped she would be and more like the woman Nastusia feared she was.
The physical violence, of course, did not come until somewhat later. It was six month before Gwynn hit the six-year-old Alabaster on her small hand, a year before the strike was against the child’s face. But she asserted her terrible dominance in equally powerful ways as soon as Vladimir shifted out of the house, though none that left marks on the children. The fine scraps of fabric and beautifully colored ribbons were the first to go. It was a clear attack on the lives of the children, easily couched as Spring-cleaning. The children responded at first with tears and accusations, pleading for help from their distant father. But soon it was clear that although he still came home at night, albeit later than he had previously, he was not with them during even the times when he was at home. He kept his distance from them and responded, when he responded at all, by directing them toward Gwynn, the very person from whom they ran.
Nastusia did her best to shield her little sister from Gwynn’s attacks. There were times where we was just a moment too late, just in time to see the follow-through arc of Gwynn’s arm flying away from Alabaster’s frightened face. But for the most part, she managed to steer the woman’s attentions toward herself, stepping in front of Alabaster as Gwynn’s nostrils began to flare, the first sign of her violent rage. Nastusia mastered her bating technique, able to shift Gwynn’s anger onto herself without allowing the woman to realize that it had been intentional.
And so, Alabaster managed to live for a number of years sustaining only minor injuries and very few scars. With Nastusia, however, the beatings only worsened, progressing from the petty, non-violent attacks against her favorite belongings through slaps and spanks all the way up to broken bones and cigarette burns.
Then, one day, Vladimir did not come home from work. Gwynn acted no different than any other time he was away, taking no notice of his unusually long absence. The children, though, were exceptionally fearful. They sat at the kitchen table for dinner, afraid to eat and not to eat, scared of making the wrong move, and of being too perfect. Gwynn’s eyes narrowed even farther than their usual thinness and she watched them as they took small, bird-like bites of chicken, kept their gaze down, and tried furtively to communicate with one another without bringing attention to their camaraderie.
Suddenly, Gwynn’s demeanor changed. A soft smile came over her face and she took her eyes off the children for a moment in order to look around the room pleasantly. “Your father is not coming back,” she said in an easy tone alight with humor. Her calm did not abate, even as Nastusia and her sister protested wildly, filling the air with accusations. Gwynn picked delicately at her dinner, patting the corners of her mouth with her napkin periodically. The girls fell silent when Gwynn got up from the table. They watched her with a mixture of fear and loathing while she scraped her excess food into the garbage and ran water over her plate. As she turned around, still with that beatific smile etched into the line of her lips, Nastusia stood, finding her voice again. “What’s going to happen?” she asked, her voice clear and strong and unwavering. She gripped the edge of the kitchen table, standing as tall as she could next to her frightened sister.
Gwynn whipped her head around and glared at Nastusia. Her lips were thin lines cutting off her chin. Slowly, Gwynn’s body followed her head until she fully faced Nastusia and said, “You may stay here as long as you are useful to me. As this is my house now, some things will change, but you don’t need to know about the details, yet. You’ll know when the time comes that you need to.
“You can start this new life by cleaning up after dinner. I’m doing to bed.”
Gwynn sauntered off down the hall and into the room where Natasha had birthed both of her children, consummated her marriage, and, more recently, died. She had taken over the room some weeks earlier, completely undoing any signs of Natasha’s life there and filling the space as her own style and taste suited her. Slowly, though more quickly now that she alone claimed rule over the house, Gwynn’s personality began to usurp that of Natasha throughout the house. Furniture was rearranged. Pictures were taken from the walls and new ones hung in their places. Colors of things changed slightly and small details changed as well. The types of coasters about the house shifted from a familiar flower pattern to flat color. The lampshade on the table next to the couch became tassled. The girls did what they could, for the most part in vain, to keep some physical memory of their mother, but the precious silks and ribbons were long gone and many of their clothes went also.
The only thing they managed to hold onto, despite Gwynn’s constant attempts to the contrary, was the small doll that Nastusia had made for her sister only a few days before their mother died. It was small enough to hide effectively and soft enough to go unnoticed even when touched. The two girls passed it between them, sometimes as often as within the hour. Sometimes, though, one girl would keep it for a week or more, hiding it among what few possessions she still had, or in a pocket or a pillowcase. Both knew that it was only a doll, and not magical or powerful like Vasilisa’s, and yet at times the two girls would close their eyes and hold the dollie and wish for everything to get better, for the woman to go away, for their father to come back, and most of all, for their mother to return to them. There were times, late at night, where each would know beyond the possibility of doubt that if she offered the little dollie a scrap of food, she would come to life and grant the wishes that they so wanted to ask. But at those times, they calmed themselves with the thought just before drifting off to sleep thinking, well, if it gets too much that I can no longer endure it, then, and only then will I ask for help from the little dollie.
But other things changed besides the décor. When Nastusia was eleven years old, doing all she could to shelter a sister the same age she herself had been when their mother finally passed way, some new people came to the house and did not really leave. Although the individuals did, at times, take their leave of the house, there was always someone besides the girls and their stepmother there with them. Someone eating a sandwich at the kitchen table when they woke up or a group having some sort of meeting in the living room when they walked across the hall at night on their way to bed after a bath. The girls were always wondering about the new people in the house, but generally they remained more afraid than curious and didn’t dare ask their stepmother or the people themselves what it was that they were doing in the house.
“Nose-Mole is getting another sandwich!” whispered Alabaster to her sister. The younger girl was lying on the floor in their room with her head poked out into the hall just enough to be able to see most of what was going on in the kitchen at the end of it. “That’s the third one tonight!”
The girls had given these new houseguests names, generally focusing on particularly gruesome physical characteristics they possessed and sometimes something distinguishing in their mannerisms or style of dress. Nose-Mole was appropriately named, of course, for the brown protrusion on the left side of his nose. He had other distinguishing characteristics: a shaved head, a large belly, and a leaning back stance. But the girls had focused in on the mole for their name for him, partly because they enjoyed mocking the man for the one thing he could not change.
Nastusia sat on her bed picking feathers out of the old down comforter she used. The blanket was flattening with time, the feathers inside forming little clumps dispersed unevenly between the cloth covering and leaving gaps of air that would not be trapped and warmed by the down. The small patches of the feathers poked out of the thinning cloth, also, forcing their stiff peaks through to Nastusia’s skin. She skimmed her hand across the cloth to find the feather’s tips scratch her fingers and pulled on them, forcing the matted feathers through the fabric. She made a little pile of them while she sat there, listening to her sister’s periodic explanations of the scene down the hall.
Alabaster flipped around on the floor, lying on her back and staring up at her sister. “What do you think they’re doing here?” she asked. She looked at the ceiling for a moment, not really expecting an answer from the other girl. “I think they’re bad people.”
Nastusia frowned in agreement. Neither of the girls had spent any time really talking to the new people in the house but they were clearly not the sort of people their real mother would have wanted them to talk to. There was a smell around them that lingered in the air after they were gone. A smell neither of the girls could place but which smelled acrid and unsanitary, like the sweat of a diseased thing. They smiled at the girls in a way they did not appreciate. Their eyes were cold, but firey, intent on something that could not quite be placed. Nastusia and her sister spent most of their time in their room. They did not dare stay out late after school because they feared what their stepmother might do upon their return, but the stares kept them at the end of the hall. It was clear that Gwynn had control over the intruders, but the girls did not want to test her patience, either, knowing that it was this volatile and spiteful woman who kept the others at bay.
“They’re so gross.” Alabaster said. She was ten, a warm and smiling child, despite her traumatic childhood. She kept her hair in pigtails and talked endlessly when she had the chance. She knew not to do so around Gwynn at this point, had the scars and bruises to remind her, but she rambled on endlessly in the company of her more reserved, older sister. Alabaster narrated the movements of the strangers, made up stories about them and also ones about her sister and herself, running way and making a new life. She would detail the changes they would make to their lives. The color of their hair would change, their style of dress, the food they would eat. Alabaster imagined a glamorous life. She remembered the silks and ribbons her mother used to bring her and translated them into grand dresses and tapestries in an ornate and stately house. She put each of them in matching gowns with their hair done up superbly. Nastusia did not tell her that this was far beyond what she hoped for the two of them, that she did not want such grand dresses or such a large house and that, in truth she would be happy to just be rid of this life. She wanted her sister to dream and she would not let even her own desires get in the way of the powerful distance Alabaster managed to gain when she closed her eyes and told her sister where they really were.
Nastusia’s dreams were never so complex as her sister’s. She wanted distance and her mother and she knew that of those two wishes, only one would ever come true. So she focused her attentions on the former, hoping that one day she would be able to take her sister away from their worsening existence, from the changing house and the volatile woman and her strange new companions.
As she picked the down from her blanket, Nastusia watched her own hands, noticing as she did at times exactly how young she was, or old. She was always surprised at such moments of self-reflection. She thought herself capable, as an adult, but knew that she was not one. And yet there were times when she was surprised to find that she had grown since that day her mother died, that she was not still eight years old, that her hands had scars on them from where a knife had slipped while making dinner, or where a lash from Gwynn had fallen on them. She imagined that her hands could be no better looking that those of the horrible men crowding her kitchen at that moment. She stopped picking at the blanket and extended her fingers before her, looking carefully at the form and texture of every part of her hands. She bent and extended the fingers together, noticing the tightness in the joints that had been broken, the strange shape of those fingers. Her fingernails were short and unpainted, a thin line of black dirt lining the beds and the space under the nails.
She was fourteen but she felt older. She had nothing in common with any of the other children she knew, other than her sister. The two of them kept to themselves at school, rushing home to the half-comfort of their own room once school was over. They walked hand in hand, each in the role of both protector and protected. Each clasped tightly to the other for the security of both, and while Nastusia remained quiet, her sister talked of an imaginary present and a hopeful future.
Sitting on her bed, Nastusia looked up from her hands and to her sister, lying sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling and muttering something under her breath, likely narrating a particular ball gown and the music that would be playing. “Alabaster,” she said solemnly, calling her sister’s attention to her. “We need to get out of here. We need to leave, to really go, not just talk about it.”
Alabaster stared at her sister. She felt comfortable dreaming, but really to act? She glanced at the door, somehow afraid that the new tone to their dreams of escape had awakened the notice of their stepmother who would clearly punish them for their insolence. But no one was there. When she rolled her head into the hall, she saw that Nose-Mole was eating the last bit of his sandwich and listening to a story that one of the others was telling with complicated hand movements and periodic loud noises. She turned back to her sister looking somewhat less frightened, but still concerned and surprised. “What are you talking about?” she asked quietly, creeping across the floor so that they might continue their conversation quietly and thus with less chance of interruption.
“I’m talking about getting out of here. I’m talking about running away. About leaving for school and not coming back. Getting on a bus.”
Part of Alabaster was pulled toward this idea of escape, she certainly longed for a different life, but at ten, she was not quite old enough to feel the strength she would need to separate herself from the life she knew, however tormented it was. She thought about Gwynn and her thin eyes narrowing into slits when she became enraged, the high arc of the wooden spoon swinging down from over the woman’s head and splitting the skin of her own forearm. Alabaster reached for the flesh above her right wrist in remembered pain. It was certainly not that she wanted to stay. She wanted to be as far away from Gwynn as possible, but her fear of the woman ran deep. She could not convince herself that even her sister could find a way to keep them out of range of the woman’s wrath. She didn’t like the way those men looked at her and she wanted to be rid of them, too, but if Gwynn found out what they were planning to do, she might not keep those strangers away from her and from Nastusia.
“But what if she gets mad?” Alabaster asked, turning again with a frightened look toward the open door and the sinister group that waited at the end of the hall.
“Gets mad?” Nastusia was not whispering. She could not understand how her sister could be having misgivings about a plan like this. This was the only option. It was clear. It had always been clear that Gwynn would not stop, would not love them the way their mother had. And Nastusia had been able to bear the loss of affection, had been capable of handing over control of the house to this mad woman with an angry face, but she could not stomach these intruders in their house. With her father gone and no expectation of his return, the only thing that kept Nastusia there was her younger sister who needed protection. The woman had rages and reacted with malice at the sign of any imperfection, but she could be avoided or placated at least most of the time until these strangers had come into the house.
It was as though she enjoyed showing off for them. Every once in a while, for no reason that either of the girls had been able to gather, Gwynn would call one of them into the kitchen. If they came together, she would slap the other across the face and send her back to their room. “Did I call you?” she would say softly through tight lips, eyes narrowed to lines, as the back of her stiff hand hit the girl’s cheek. The strangers in the room, some times as many as four, would laugh mockingly at the red welt as it began to appear, sick smiles forming across their ugly faces.
The injured sister would return obediently to her room, knowing that the punishment could only worsen with more involvement or protestation. But she would watch from the open door down the hall, feeling each blow as it was given. The strangers would mock softly, chuckling at the sign of flinches or uncontrolled tears. They commented on Gwynn’s choice of instruments, a wooden handle or her cigarette or a strap, on where each blow should fall, arguing with each other: Thighs! No, arms! And Gwynn ignored them for the most part, only looking at them with the same slit eyes after she had finished with the girl. They would fall silent then, keeping her gaze, perhaps giving a nod, but no more. At the end of the hall, the girls would embrace, comforting and crying, wishing themselves for a moment out of the house and the world.
More recently, however, something had changed yet again. Three days ago, Nastusia had been called to the kitchen from her room. Her stomach leapt up into her throat and she caught her sister’s eyes before walking demurely down the hall. Gwynn, who was usually silent before a beating, was yelling at someone already in the room. She could tell that there were four or five men in the room, some leaning on counters, some sitting at the table, but she kept her eyes to the floor. Nastusia didn’t understand from what she said what had happened. She did not dare look up to see who was receiving the admonitions either, knowing that her role had not changed, that although Gwynn was acting somewhat differently, this did not give herself any leave to alter her part of their interaction.
“-dimwits! Entirely unacceptable!” Gwynn paused to breathe and looked suddenly toward Nastusia, standing obediently in the middle of the room. “Look at this,” she said more softly, though with no less malice. “Look how she comes when I call, standing there just as I have taught her to await what she knows is coming.” She looked back to the men and yelled again, “I get! What I want!” And with no warning, Gwynn’s hand flew against Nastusia’s ear, causing her to fall to the ground in pain and alarm. The men chuckled, seeing her collapse, but went silent again when Gwynn turned to them. They were not used to any attention at all while the girls were being punished. Gwynn looked down at Nastusia and her upper lip began to curl back, showing her teeth. “Get up!” she growled, at the same time sending the heel of her foot down onto Nastusia’s side. Nastusia grunted as the air was thrust out of her and her hip was pushed violently against the floor. Tears ran down her face and she heard the men laugh again. As she struggled to regain her breath, Nastusia felt Gwynn clutch at her hair, pulling her up painfully. Her feet made a cycling motion at the ground, desperately trying to grip the floor and stand, but with a jerk and a grunt, Gwynn thrust the girl toward the kitchen table. Her head cracked against the edge, inches away from one of the strange men who were now watching in wonder and fascination as whatever anger Gwynn was feeling was taken out on the girl. He moved back suddenly in his chair, willing, it seemed, to watch the interaction between the two women, but not to participate. As Nastusia sank again to the floor, the man stood quickly, backing into a corner and away from the fray. Gwynn turned on him, whipping her head around before her body caught up. She was stooped, maintaining a wide stance and looked somewhat like a bird of pray. Her eyes had widened in a manic fury and the stiffness of her fingers, clenched and extended, were reminiscent of talons. The man slinked toward the wall while Nastusia groaned in a mess on the floor and Gwynn’s hunched frame turned stiffly toward him.
Nastusia could not hear anything. Her breath was hot and sticky in her mouth and her ears were filled with the sound of breathing and of her own heartbeat. Her head was heavy and she could not make sense of what she saw. She was in pain.
One of the men still sitting at the table was almost shocked to see the girl this way. Something was different about the way Gwynn was punishing her. It was worse in a way he could not place and he reached a hand down to help her to her feet, seeing as he did so, that her face was covered in blood. He frowned in a sympathetic way at the girl, reaching out a hand to her, but Gwynn was at his throat. “She is mine to deal with. Do not dare interfere.” She stood in front of the man, pushing him back into his chair. Her nails dug into his neck and her wide eyes made him look away, going limp. She looked around the room and the cowering men. “I’ll do what I want with her.” Her voice was soft and biting like a flame against their ears and they were silent, waiting.
Gwynn turned her attention to the girl on the floor, again. For a second time, she swung her foot into Nastusia. The girl cried out in pain, but this time no one laughed. Her mouth was dripping blood and she clutched at her stomach, though her face was limp and the noises she made were weak and strained.
“You have all forgotten who I am, apparently.” Said Gwynn to the rapt crowd. “ You seem to think that you have your own authority, that I am unnecessary? Maybe you have just forgotten what I will do to those who disobey me.” She found one of Nastusia’s splayed hands with her foot and shifted her weight to crush the little fingers. The men cringed. Nastusia groaned softly into the linoleum. Gwynn ground the fingers in an arcing motion.
“You,” she said, nodding to the man who had tried in vain to fade into the corner of the room after witnessing so closely Nastusia’s fall into the table. He shifted forward, hoping that it would be enough of a response from him and that she would pick on someone else. In stead, she walked over to him and tapped is breast pocket, where he kept a pack of cigarettes. “Light one, will you?” she asked.
He fumbled with the box, nearly dropping it, and then the cigarettes when he finally got it open. He managed to place one hurriedly in his mouth and then searched frantically for the lighter while Gwynn stood staring at him. He searched his breast pocket, his front pockets, his back pockets, and could not find it. When he again tapped his hands against his front pockets, he did notice the slight bump of a lighter, overlooked on first pass. He lit it quickly and took a small drag on the cigarette to ignite the paper and tobacco, then took it out of his mouth and held it out toward Gwynn. She cocked her head to one side and gave a little half smile. Then she reached behind her toward the prostrate figure of Nastusia, still moaning and sputtering on the floor. She grabbed the girl’s limp arm and pulled her toward the man with the cigarette. Her strength was surprising to everyone. Nastusia’s body slid across the slick floor with no problem, coming to a halt at the man’s feet, his had still outstretched, cupping the cigarette to keep it lit. He looked confused, although Gwynn gave him a look that told him he should know what was happening. As he looked at the tall woman, his eyes got wide and he slowly shook his head. Her face betrayed her fury at the sign of his dissention.
Gwynn’s voice was cool and controlled while she stared into him. “Put that cigarette out.” Nastusia was still drooped toward the floor, her legs had been dragged straight behind her and her head lolled back with the force of gravity, but Gwynn’s unnaturally strong arm kept the girl’s aloft, lifting with it the bulk of her torso. The man with the cigarette looked down at the girl, semi-unconscious and bleeding. He had seen her hit before, but had never seen this much damage inflicted so quickly and efficiently. He looked to his own hand, knowing that the cigarette would be put out whether he did it or no, and that the pain would only worsen, for him as well as for the girl, if he disobeyed. So in the end, he did not disobey the order. He reached down slowly and carefully with the lit cigarette in his hand. It had only burned down a small amount while he had been waiting for Gwynn to take it, but the ember was still hot and red with life.
Nastusia did not cry out when the ember hit her flesh. Clearly the injuries she had sustained had caused a temporary hypoalgesia as she stumbled in and out of consciousness. But there was the smell. The man let the tip of the cigarette burn into the skin on the girl’s wrist, just below her thumb, and watched the area around it grow red with irritation as the burn spread outward from the point of contact. The other men in the room were silent. Some looked away. Once the noise from the burning flesh subsided, Gwynn let Nastusia drop. She made a thud as her head and shoulders hit the floor, a little slap followed when her hand fell. The man was still holding the cigarette in mid-air. Staring at the crumpled bottom, no longer glowing. He was ashamed and disgusted by the smell. When he looked down, he could see the small circular burn on the girl’s arm, swollen, raw, and covered in ash. He let the cigarette drop and crumpled back against the corner wall.
Gwynn then moved on to the next man. Each man in the room was forced to torture the unconscious child in some different way and when Nastusia finally woke up, in pain and in bed with her crying sister hovering over her, she had a swollen eye, a broken finger, large welts on her back, and bruises all the way up her legs, all in addition to the first burn.
“I can’t let what happened to me happen to you, Alabaster. We have to get out of here. She’s not going to get mad at us because she’s not going to know.” Nastusia clutched at the pile of feathers in front of her on the bed, staring at her young sister and realizing truly what kind of danger she was in. There was a bandage on her wrist still, and she wore long sleeves to conceal it, but she fingered the spot where the cigarette had burned her, not remembering what it had been like, but knowing that the scar would outlast it if she had remembered. “We don’t have a choice, Ali.”
Alabaster looked away again, this time toward the floor, and she frowned, knowing that her sister was likely right, but also feeling that there was little hope either way. The only time her stomach was not in knots was when she was daydreaming about silk dresses and the most beautiful fabrics. Or when her sister told her the story about the girl who went to the woods.
There was a long silence. Natusia tried to put together all of the elements of a successful escape while fingering her bandage. Her sister sat still, trying not to think at all for fear that she might imagine something frightening, like an end to Nastusia’s plan that did not work out well for them. They sat there together, each lost in their own minds, for the rest of the evening. At some point, one or the other of them got up, deciding that it was time to change her clothes and to turn off the light. Once the first move had been made, the other followed suit, putting dirty clothes into the hamper to be washed, putting on a nightgown. Alabaster crawled into bed with her sister after turning off the light. She trotted to the bed like a doe, as though she was afraid of spending too much time touching the floor. Nastusia kissed her sister on the forehead and neither said what she was thinking. Neither voiced their fears or attempted reassurance. They simply huddled together in the dark, under the lumpy down blanket to await morning.