sauntered down the lane, the infant on her hip watching me unkindly over her shoulder as she went.
I had dismissed the incident, but as I stood staring at that doll, it came back to me, every word.
That night I placed the doll on a windowsill so I might consider it as I worked. It was my intention to return it to Ramsey in a manner that would express to him my deep empathy for his evident loss. I was puzzling over how exactly to do this even as Ramsey ate in the dining room.
I was preparing a caramel sauce for his pudding when Ramsey, as he sometimes did, came into the kitchen to compliment me on the goose-liver and leek pie. The soldier in the window caught his eye immediately.
“I found this curious object—” I began, but Ramsey snatched the doll and pushed past me, gnashing his teeth.
He burned his hand opening the oven and pitched the toy into the coals. Flames licked it up at once. He looked not at me, nor spoke, as he stormed from the kitchen. I took my reprimand from this display and never mentioned it again to anyone.
That’s not to say I forgot it. In fact I was deeply moved by the situation as I now understood it. Ramsey had had a son, by whom I couldn’t begin to guess. It was clear to me only that the son had died. Before sleeping at night, I recalled the tiny silver buttons dripping so eagerly in the heat, the round head smoldering, the tin sword gripped tightly till the last.
It made me admire him all the more for his stoicism. In loss, Ramsey and I were family. Mabbot’s merciless pistols have orphaned me again.
Mr. Apples, knowing that many things creep in the pantry, has given me a jar to hold any weevils or earwigs I sift out of foodstuffs. These the strange man will feed to his scorpions.
It strikes me with a shiver, as I write this now, that the pantry rats might be, themselves, a provision of a kind. I would not be surprised if these barbarians kept them as miniature livestock to satisfy the occasional craving for fresh meat. The thought dries my tongue and I begin to think, as I often do when faced with unpleasantness, of ways to gently and swiftly dispatch myself. But I am determined, if for no other reason than to spite the witch, to survive, indeed to stand victorious at the end of this ordeal.
How, though, to make a genuine meal from such a heap? Saint Paschal, attend to me and give me help.
Monday, August 23
Early this morning, I heard someone stumble right outside my locked door, then Mr. Apples yelling, “Damn your bones! You’re as graceful as a potato.”
To this a gentleman replied, “Give me a moment. It’s the gout. Makes my legs stiff.” This was no pirate. He had a proper accent, sounds that evoked the first curls of cream in strong tea, with the distinctly woolen-at-the-edges quality of a veteran pipe smoker.
Was this not my comrade? I rose and saw that the crafty fellow had secreted another message underneath my door. Gout indeed! The message proves that he is a valuable ally. It reads:
FLATTEN SPOON TO BEST LOCK.
I must try this at the first opportunity. You’ve a friend, Wedgwood!
This afternoon, Mr. Apples was taking his gunners through their paces again, as he did every day, firing imaginary balls at invisible foes. The men went so far as to cover their ears, though the guns were dumb.
The bosun meanwhile had a crew caulking the seams of the deck near the forecastle. These men hammered wads of oakum and animal hair into the grooves, then poured boiling pitch over them. The smell would have driven me back below deck if a stark demonstration of Mr. Apples’s power hadn’t stopped me where I stood: One of the bosun’s boys went to fetch a fresh bag of oakum and, no doubt in a hurry to be done, took a shortcut right behind the cannon crew in the midst of their fantasy battle. As he passed, Mr. Apples turned and drove his open hand under the man’s chin with such force that the runner was lifted off the deck. His feet followed their momentum, and he
I had dismissed the incident, but as I stood staring at that doll, it came back to me, every word.
That night I placed the doll on a windowsill so I might consider it as I worked. It was my intention to return it to Ramsey in a manner that would express to him my deep empathy for his evident loss. I was puzzling over how exactly to do this even as Ramsey ate in the dining room.
I was preparing a caramel sauce for his pudding when Ramsey, as he sometimes did, came into the kitchen to compliment me on the goose-liver and leek pie. The soldier in the window caught his eye immediately.
“I found this curious object—” I began, but Ramsey snatched the doll and pushed past me, gnashing his teeth.
He burned his hand opening the oven and pitched the toy into the coals. Flames licked it up at once. He looked not at me, nor spoke, as he stormed from the kitchen. I took my reprimand from this display and never mentioned it again to anyone.
That’s not to say I forgot it. In fact I was deeply moved by the situation as I now understood it. Ramsey had had a son, by whom I couldn’t begin to guess. It was clear to me only that the son had died. Before sleeping at night, I recalled the tiny silver buttons dripping so eagerly in the heat, the round head smoldering, the tin sword gripped tightly till the last.
It made me admire him all the more for his stoicism. In loss, Ramsey and I were family. Mabbot’s merciless pistols have orphaned me again.
Mr. Apples, knowing that many things creep in the pantry, has given me a jar to hold any weevils or earwigs I sift out of foodstuffs. These the strange man will feed to his scorpions.
It strikes me with a shiver, as I write this now, that the pantry rats might be, themselves, a provision of a kind. I would not be surprised if these barbarians kept them as miniature livestock to satisfy the occasional craving for fresh meat. The thought dries my tongue and I begin to think, as I often do when faced with unpleasantness, of ways to gently and swiftly dispatch myself. But I am determined, if for no other reason than to spite the witch, to survive, indeed to stand victorious at the end of this ordeal.
How, though, to make a genuine meal from such a heap? Saint Paschal, attend to me and give me help.
Monday, August 23
Early this morning, I heard someone stumble right outside my locked door, then Mr. Apples yelling, “Damn your bones! You’re as graceful as a potato.”
To this a gentleman replied, “Give me a moment. It’s the gout. Makes my legs stiff.” This was no pirate. He had a proper accent, sounds that evoked the first curls of cream in strong tea, with the distinctly woolen-at-the-edges quality of a veteran pipe smoker.
Was this not my comrade? I rose and saw that the crafty fellow had secreted another message underneath my door. Gout indeed! The message proves that he is a valuable ally. It reads:
FLATTEN SPOON TO BEST LOCK.
I must try this at the first opportunity. You’ve a friend, Wedgwood!
This afternoon, Mr. Apples was taking his gunners through their paces again, as he did every day, firing imaginary balls at invisible foes. The men went so far as to cover their ears, though the guns were dumb.
The bosun meanwhile had a crew caulking the seams of the deck near the forecastle. These men hammered wads of oakum and animal hair into the grooves, then poured boiling pitch over them. The smell would have driven me back below deck if a stark demonstration of Mr. Apples’s power hadn’t stopped me where I stood: One of the bosun’s boys went to fetch a fresh bag of oakum and, no doubt in a hurry to be done, took a shortcut right behind the cannon crew in the midst of their fantasy battle. As he passed, Mr. Apples turned and drove his open hand under the man’s chin with such force that the runner was lifted off the deck. His feet followed their momentum, and he
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