A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [8]
Maud tagged after her. Her stomach growled: the ice-cream soda had been delicious but not filling. She tucked her fingers in the crooks of her elbows, hugging her books to her chest. She wished she had gloves.
“Come, Maudy!” hissed Hyacinth. “Don’t be slow! I don’t mind crawling along for Judith’s sake — she’s an old woman — but you’re a child; you ought to be able to keep up with me!”
Maud hesitated. Then she plunged forward, careless of the shadows before her. She caught Hyacinth’s mood, and all at once the night was magic. She felt a wildness in her blood. She drank in the sounds of the wood: the brittle underbrush snapping, the small scuffling of her feet against the earth. Her cheeks tingled with the cold. The great dark trees loomed like ogres, but she would be swift and nimble, like a child in a fairy tale; she would dart past them before they could snatch her. Hunger and nightmare forgotten, she danced over the silver grass.
Maud awakened at dawn. Her eyes went from wall to wall, seeking the mustard-colored paint of her old dormitory. It took her a moment to realize that she was in a new room: her room. She sat up in bed and examined it, first with curiosity and then with approval. Wallpaper. It was pale gray, with bunches of pale pink roses and cornflowers — faded, but still pretty. The bed was made of dark wood, with acorns carved on the end of the bedposts. The sheets were clean, the blankets thick. There was a grate but no fire, a washstand, a small table, a straight chair, and a chest for clothing. Nothing was ugly. The only ugly things in sight were her Asylum clothes, lying on the floor.
Maud scrambled out of bed and gathered them up. If she was going to be perfectly good, she would have to take care not to leave her clothes lying about. She folded each item, even her stockings, and laid them on the chair. Then she looked under the bed.
There was no chamber pot. Maud shifted uneasily. She tried to sort out the events of the night before. The wonders of the moonlit wood had not sustained her throughout the walk. It was past midnight when Hyacinth led her out of the woods and through the sleeping town. Maud had meant to look over her new home carefully, but by the time they climbed the stairs of the wide porch, she was staggering with tiredness, longing only for a flat place where she could lie down.
She remembered passing through rooms that seemed to be stocked with treasure: heavy draperies, glass-fronted bookcases, thick carpets, little shelves crowded with china ornaments. She remembered climbing dozens of stairs to her new bedroom. She had a vague memory of visiting the room with the Modern Improvement, and she wondered if she could locate it again. It seemed impolite to use it a second time without asking permission. Still, her need was urgent, and it was possible that she might be able to creep in and out without anyone knowing.
Maud tiptoed to the door. She put her hand on the knob, which turned noiselessly. The carpet under her bare feet muffled her footsteps. She found the staircase and descended to the second floor.
The corridor was dim. It was hung with a wallpaper so dark that Maud couldn’t tell if it was purple or brown. One of the doors along the corridor was closed. Maud halted, pressing her thighs together. She was almost certain that it was the door she wanted, but she was afraid to touch the doorknob. It would be horrible if someone — Judith or the unknown Victoria — was inside and she opened the door while the older woman was using the Improvement.
As she stood nerving herself, she heard a voice from below. It was a female voice, unfamiliar and raised in anger.
“I never thought you would go through with it! If I had dreamed you were in earnest —”
Maud had an impulse to run back to her bedroom and hide. She cast a look of longing at the door to the water closet.
“Don’t be such a hypocrite! You knew perfectly well —”
The voices quieted, almost as if the speakers sensed she might