Page 45 of My Darling Girls

There are whispers all around her. They’re behind her, then they’re in front of her, then they just circle and circle and circle. She tries to listen, but she cannot understand the words. The voices are everywhere. In the walls. Above her head. Beneath her feet. She lies down on her back and listens.

Find her. Find her. Find her.

They are urging her to go. She needs to get out, go back to the river.

She sits up, the voices getting louder, the dread in her veins spreading. Unsteady on her feet, Jo manages to stand still for a few seconds. Her mouth tastes of blood and her own sickness. She spits on the floor to get rid of the foul taste. It doesn’t help.

She stumbles to the door, praying silently that her father didn’t lock her in. When she pushes against the door and it opens, Jo almost falls down on the ground from the overwhelming wave of relief that washes over her.

Despite the agony in her body, despite the fear, Jo stumbles down the familiar path to the river.

Occam’s Razor

Jo breaks the surface and gasps for air. She climbs out of the well, throwing herself over the edge. Her dress is heavy, drenched with water. She kneels on the cobblestones, her knees screaming from the pressure, and twists the hem of her dress to get rid of the water, of the heaviness. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she pulls herself up, legs shaking from the strain, and gazes around, looking for Millie. But there is no girl waiting for her. There is no Horace. The crows don’t circle in the sky. The sun is still blinding, and the air is warm, but there is no sound.

She’s utterly alone.

Exhaustion pulls on Jo’s bones. Her head spins. Breathless, she sits on the edge of the well and inhales the stench of stale water. She feels as if she climbed a mountain. Everything is different. Same and not the same. Could she be in a different courtyard? Is that even possible?

Here, the trees seem higher. The alleys that spring into different directions from the well look endless, desolate. Everything is still blinding white, but there is a hint of blackness in the shadows of the trees. Jo gets to her feet and slowly turns, searching for Millie. For the horse. Even for the crows. But it’s just her and the well with the still, murky water and the vacant alleys.

With the feeling of desolation comes fear.

Its violent assault almost cuts Jo at her knees. She is afraid to think what it all means. This absence. This void. She gazes out into the beckoning depth of the alleys. Maybe she should walk every one of them, check every corner. Perhaps she’ll find the world beyond this courtyard, and maybe she’ll find Millie, who needs her. No one has ever asked for Jo’s help, her protection. This is unfamiliar territory for her, and she likes this feeling of being important to someone in a new and exhilarating way. And Jo needs Millie too. More than she’s willing to admit.

“Millie,” she calls out.

Wake up, Josephine.

Her heart leaps. The voice doesn’t belong to the girl. It’s low and threatening. She’s heard this voice before. In her world. Why would he be here, in the courtyard? Her core clenched tight, she whirls around, fully expecting to see Ira behind her. But the only thing she sees is a new alley stretching into nowhere.

Wake up. Jo detects anger in his voice.

She senses the pull of her world. She must be stirring already. But what about Millie? Millie, who always waits for her by the well.

“Millie!” Jo screams.

Millie. Millie. Millie.

The sound spreads into the alleys and bounces off the white brick walls and cobblestones. No one calls back.

The courtyard starts to shimmer, and soon it will start fading away, one alley at a time, and the fog will come, and the pull of the real world will get stronger. Soon Jo will be back to her studio. There’s no time to waste. She must find the girl who is stranded in the doorway between the worlds.

She sprints into the new alley. There has to be a reason why this alley appeared. Nothing happens in the courtyard without a good reason. To her left there’s a door, and Jo frantically tries to open it, but it remains closed. She slams her palm into the white wooden frame.

“Hello? Millie, are you there?”

Silence.

More doors appear in the walls, springing out of nowhere like mushrooms after the rain. Jo checks every one of them, but all are locked. And as she says “Millie” again and again and again, she doesn’t recognize her voice anymore. It vibrates and deepens. She sounds like the man on the other side. The smog is rolling in, and she turns to look at the well, to make sure Millie isn’t there, but she can’t see anything.

The wind is swirling and howling, and she cannot catch a breath.

Wake the fuck up.

When Jo opens her eyes, the pain behind her lids is hot and blinding. The headache seems to swell with every exhale, pulsing in her skull. Her mouth is as dry as the desert sand, her throat scratchy. She touches her forehead because it feels like a tight metal ring is wrapped around her head, and it squeezes tighter and tighter around her temples.

She felt wretched before, but this sickness coming out of the opium daze is a new experience. Did she have too much laudanum and not enough water? Or is it because something interrupted her sleep?