Chapter 17

My confinement met an early end. I was balled up on the floor when someone entered the room: Mrs. Atwood with a meal tray, I later learned. Slivers of her words penetrated my daze. “…not fond of…extremes…discipline…own good…”

What came next were more distant calls of my name, then bellows and footsteps, a mix of taut voices, and soon I was floating, my gaze on the passing ceiling, until landing on what seemed a warm cloud. When I gained clarity, I found myself on a real bed and pillow, the lone child in the sickroom.

A woman checked me over, probing with nurse-like questions. My answers appeared to rule out the need for a doctor. From several months’ worth of exhaustion, I drifted in and out of sleep for the remainder of the day and woke just once during the night, when a hand on my shoulder released me from another casket, a nightmare more terrifying than ever. For a split second, I expected the rescuer to be Arie. But my fit had summoned the same woman from before, with the addition of curlers and cold cream.

Mercifully, I was able to drift back off. When Mrs. Atwood perched on my bed in the morning, I gradually registered her softened tone, accentuated by the use of my given name.

“Fenna, as I believe I’ve made clear, your recent conduct has been very disappointing. You seemed like such a good, obedient girl. Change can be difficult, but it does not give one permission to act out with violence.”

For the first time since the incident, I recalled Ingrid huddled on the floor, stripped of her armor, openly sobbing as others snickered.

Despite all rationalizations, shame pulsed through me.

“Having said that, I consider the punishment you received sufficient for the purpose of learning. From here on out, during your time under this roof, I expect your behavior to improve substantially. Are we agreed?”

It was a tough thing to guarantee. Should Ingrid turn meaner than ever, my behavior, perceived or otherwise, was bound to worsen. However, the question did limit the scope to my time under this roof…

“Yes, Mrs. Atwood.”

Pleased, she rose to her feet. “I’ll tell you what,” she added. “So long as you behave yourself—and there’s not another bedtime accident—I’ll see to it that you have some nice, cotton sheets by the weekend. Would you like that?”

I’d have cringed at the reminder if not for the surprise of her offer. Perhaps a product of her own pulsing guilt.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

She smiled, flashing a peek of those crooked bottom teeth. “Good. Now, eat up”—she gestured to the bowl on my night table—“then head down for daily lessons. They’ve only just begun.”