Page 3 of My Darling Girls

When the darkness closes in, there is no point in resisting it.

She takes a cube of sugar and pours water over it. She retrieves her vial and measures a few drops of the brown liquid. Closing her eyes, she downs the drink, cringing at its bitter taste, and rushes to her bedroom.

The first wave of opium hits her, and she starts to float. Then the dizziness comes, slowly increasing in intensity, turning into a strong current, pulling her down the stream.

Suddenly Jo’s in a small courtyard lined with trees.

There is a well in the middle of the square. The water glimmers, green and muddy. Like a swamp. Above her, the sky is blue and clear, not a cloud in sight. The air is warm. Welcoming. There are no shadows. No darkness.

She feels safe. And feeling safe is something Jo learned to appreciate years ago.

The serenity of this place takes her breath away. That a place like this exists in the middle of a dirty, crowded city is a miracle. Even if it exists only in her opium-clouded mind. Usually, when she’s in her slumber, she just dives into a dreamless nothingness. If she’s been to this place before, she wouldn’t know.

Is this where she’s supposed to be? Now that the door is open and she’s finally dreaming?

She stands still for a few seconds, listening. It’s eerily quiet here, but there’s a gentle whisper of a breeze competing with the low buzz of voices. A thick white mist swirls at the edges of the yard, hanging low over the ground. The courtyard has five narrow alleys sprouting from its center. A path made of white cobblestones right in front of her leads to one of the alleys.

The mist thickens. It creeps closer and closer, and now it snakes around her in disjointed wisps. The chatter of voices gets louder too. Jo looks around, but she’s alone. The courtyard fills with the whispers she cannot decipher. The mist swirls faster, the water in the well ripples, and the sudden and distant cawing of crows above her head makes her heartbeat speed up.

What is this place?

“Josephine,” a voice calls out to her. “Josephine.”

She looks around again, but there is no one else in the square.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

The horse’s hooves are jarringly loud in the open air. The ground shakes beneath Jo’s feet when a white wagon enters the courtyard from the winding alley paved with white cobblestones to Jo’s right. It is pulled by a white horse. A girl in a white dress, with long brown hair and bright-blue eyes, confidently directs the wagon through the fog. Jo can see the outline of the bones in the girl’s face, shifting and changing with every click of the hooves. The mist under the girl’s skin draws tight across her features.

Acid fills Jo’s throat as if she swallowed something foul. Something poisonous.

Smiling, the girl pulls on the white reins attached to the white bridle. The horse stops. Snorts. Shakes its head, chasing an invisible fly. It looks at Jo from the corner of its big brown eye and snorts louder.

“When called, come,” the girl says in a singsong voice.

Jo takes a few steps toward the wagon, her hands pressed to her chest. “Hello?”

The horse and the girl stare at Jo.

“Josephine,” the girl says, giving her a long, searching look. Her eyebrow rises as she inspects Jo’s nightgown. Since her husband August’s death, Jo has stopped caring much for her appearance, only putting in some effort for her random customers. On most days she’s alone, not working, barely leaving her studio. So what’s the point? But now, in front of this girl, she feels unkempt, soiled, and oddly naked.

“How do you know my name? Who are you?”

The horse snorts at Jo’s question.

The girl’s eyes darken and deepen and turn into two bottomless wells. The shadows stir in all four corners of the wagon. “When called, come.” She purses her lips, clearly displeased with Jo’s apparent slowness of thinking.

“Come where?” The more Jo stares, the more the girl’s beautiful features come into focus. Like a photograph being developed in the darkroom. “Who is going to call for me?” The girl watches her. “Who are you?” Jo asks again with a strain in her voice.

The girl looks over her shoulder, and Jo instinctively follows the girl’s gaze, her eyes dancing over the narrow passage, the white mist glowing against the cobblestones.

“When called, come.”

The horse sighs and moves. The wagon creaks. The girl turns away. They ride into one of the passageways, following the white cobblestone path, the mist trailing in tow.

Jo hurries after the girl, but a white brick wall rises in front of her. She backtracks to the courtyard, to the well, frantic and lost, and tries to take another path. Another wall grows. Why can’t she follow the girl? Whatever is happening is all wrong. So very wrong. This is not what she expected to happen. Not at all.

She goes back to the courtyard and assesses the alleys.