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By Root 1658 0

within the chamber. I was writing in my notebook and did not witness her entrance, but when I looked up from the page she was standing next to the glass, hands on hips, wearing undergarments obviously intended to arouse: a corset (of Parisian design, I believe) sheathed in emerald-green silk and lace that constricted her waist and exposed the plump upper curves of her breasts; and pantaloons of a filmy material that clung to her hips and thighs. Her hair was a complexity of curls piled high atop her head and framing her face, and her smile had a touch of disdain. She walked away from the glass, displaying her long legs and shapely derriere, glancing over her shoulder—a dram of poison had been added to her smile. I had the thought that she was replaying a scene from her life, showing herself to someone she despised, someone who could no longer afford her charms.

Placing my mouth close to the grille, I called out, not expecting an answer. In truth, I was uncertain whether she had the ability to hear—I had no idea how she perceived the world. After ten or fifteen seconds, as though my outcry had taken an inordinate amount of time to carry across the distance between us, she came toward the glass and pinned me with a stare so fierce and hostile, I had the urge to bolt. Despite Dorothea’s acclimation to the company of spirits, I was an interloper and placed no faith in their benevolent disposition. I spoke her name again and laid my palm flat on the glass, as Richmond had done. A confusion of emotions crossed her face. Her eyes grew teary and she became distraught, plucking at her hair, touching her face . . . and suddenly she was gone. I stood beside the chamber awhile, waiting for her to reappear. At last I turned to the bench upon which I had left my notebook and let out a squawk—Christine stood less than an arm’s length away. Not the high whore (the toffer, as Dorothea would have said) in her French frillies, but bloody Christine in her chemise, pallid and dead of eye. A distinct emanation of cold proceeded from her. She gave no sign that she saw me, but shuffled off to my right and back again. It seemed she felt some sort of attraction to the spot and yet had not the consciousness to understand it, but muddled about like a chicken habituated to being fed in one particular section of the barnyard. My heart racing, I slipped past her and reclaimed my notebook. She turned, but instead of facing me, she took a step or two toward the end of the corridor. I surmised that in this guise her perceptions might be clouded, her reactions to stimuli uncertain, more so, at any rate, than when appearing in her other aspects. She exhibited a terrible slowness and sluggishness, her fingers knotting in the folds of the chemise. Her irises looked to be revolving a few degrees backward and forward like clockworks, an uncanny thing to see. I wished that I could will her from the world, because while I had no real attachment to her, one could not see her so drained of life, possessed of that eerie glamour, and remain unmoved.

I DREW THE curtain after she had gone and sat at the bench writing until late in the evening, recording a detailed account of what I had seen and felt and thought during the day. On returning to my room I discovered a fire crackling in the hearth and half a roast chicken on a plate covered by a linen cloth, along with bread, cheese, water, and a bottle of Edradour. Apparently Jane had come and gone. I sat by the hearth, sipping the whiskey, made despondent by the dreary prospect that not seeing her presented, not in the least because Dorothea had said that she fancied me, but also because I had been immersed in death and its products for many hours, and I had been anticipating a visit, however perfunctory, from someone alive and vital. As a result I drank more than I should have in an attempt to ameliorate the morbid effects of dealing with Christine. If I felt this way after a day in her company, I wondered how much drink I would need after a week? A month? I had no doubt that the investigation would last at least that