Page 28 of Haunting the Deep

Okay, he’s officially mad at me. He waited four whole hours to tell me that? And I get it; I’d be frustrated with me, too. I don’t even know how that conversation spiraled out of control this morning or how we wound up talking about Elijah.

I exhale audibly. “Why are you so hard to forget? I didn’t even like you at first, and here I am getting into arguments about whether or not I still have feelings for you? Total bull. And here I also am talking to myself for no good reason. You suck.”

I put my phone down, and my eyes move back to the box. I’m just gonna put my jams on and not think about any of this until tomorrow.

I walk to my armoire, grab the latch, and pause. I look back at the box. We opened it before and nothing witchy happened. We took the dress out and everything. I let go of the armoire door. It can’t be that dangerous to touch it if Susannah already did, right?

I take off the box lid and grab the emerald-green silk dress. The box falls by my feet as I spread out the delicate fabric on my bed. A piece of white lace peeks out from the rose tissue paper on the floor. I push it aside, and there are lacy shorts, a bra, a slip, and a skirt. Who sends someone historical underwear?

I run my fingers over the silk and down the seams. I’m not usually a dress fan, but even I have to admit this one is beautiful. Would it really be so bad to try it on?

I slip off my jeans and sweater and step into the dainty shorts. I slide each layer on as though I know instinctively how they fit together. Weird. Last time I tried on a dress in a store, I got my shoulders caught and had to yell for help from the changing room.

Once the delicate layers are on, I pick up the dress, pull it over my head, and—

My vision blurs, and for a split second I panic. But the panic leaves just as quickly as it came. And with one blink, the world comes back into focus, a more vibrant world than I remember.

I’m standing in front of a long oval mirror in my many undergarments. A girl just a couple of years older than me is tightening the laces on my corset. She wears a dark gray wool dress, and her curly brown hair is tucked into a white cap.

Am I supposed to know who she is? I must; she’s dressing me. How could I not know someone who’s dressing me? My worry returns, but is quashed before it can take hold. I touch my stomach as the girl gives the corset laces a strong pull.

“How am I going to eat in this thing?” Am I going to eat?

The girl winks at me. “Small bites, miss,” she says with an accent. British? No, Irish, I think. She pulls an emerald-green dress off a pink satin hanger and holds it above my head for me to slip my arms into. “This must be the prettiest dress on the whole ship.”

My brain is in a thick fog, and my mouth is answering when it shouldn’t. “Do I seem like myself to you?”

The long skirt glides to the floor, and she works on fastening the small buttons in the back. “Just like yerself. Only maybe a wee more elegant in this.” She examines me in the mirror and runs her hands along my sides to smooth the fabric.

Her voice is reassuring, and I smile at her. “I’d be more elegant if I didn’t trip in dresses.”

She laughs. “Nonsense. Ya’ve made a singularly good impression here. There are a number o’ ladies talkin’ about yer fashion. And one young man in particular seems quite smitten. Come, sit down. I’ll fix yer hair.”

The girl has freckles that form a speckled cloud under her eyes and across her nose. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name. That’s awful that I can’t remember her name when she seems to know me so well. My nervousness comes back for a third time, only it’s so weak that I brush it off entirely.

The girl leads me to the vanity, and I sit down in the chair, careful not to catch my dress on anything.

I watch in the mirror as she twists and pulls my hair into elaborate patterns. “Where did you learn to do hair likethat?”

“Me mum taught me. I was never quite awake in the mornin’ before school, and by the time I was dressed and ready, I’d missed me breakfast. She used ta say, ‘Mollie, do yer hair quick and yer eatin’ slow.’ ” She smiles to herself, and I smile with her.

Mollie, her name is Mollie.She grabs a hairpin from the vanity and pushes it into my hair.

“Sooo, who is it?” I ask.

“Me mum, miss?”

I laugh. “No. Who’s the guy who’s smitten?” What in the hell kind of a word is “smitten”?

Mollie’s freckled cheeks lift in a smile, and she leans close to my ear. “Mr. Alexander Jessup Jr. I heard from one of thewaiters that he could barely hold a conversation over lunch with his pa for seein’ ya. He nearly toppled his chair once, tryin’ ta get a better look atcha. But ya didn’t hear it from me. Yer uncle would box me ears if he knew I was gossipin’.”

“I won’t say a word.” I run my fingers along the brown bristles of the hairbrush in front of me. “I don’t remember meeting an Alexander. Will you point him out to me?”

There’s a noise in the adjoining room.

Mollie stands straight up like someone pinched her in the butt. “I would be happy ta walk ya to the dinin’ room, miss,” she says at normal volume, and winks at me in the mirror.

My messy hair has been transformed into an elaborate updo with more pins than I can count. Mollie lifts a gold lace ribbon with tiny pearls on it and weaves it into my hairstyle like a headband.