Mr. Sneed notices. "Take a chair." He gestures to one in front of the desk.
I sink on to it, clutching the arms. Don't faint. Whatever you do, don't faint.
Mr. Sneed scrutinises me for a moment with his one good eye, then feels my brow. His hand is clammy.
"You are very pale, Miss Childs."
My head reels. "What did you just call me?" My voice is as thin as tissue paper.
"Miss Childs. That is your name."
Is this a trick?
And then my blood starts to flow again—they have the wrong person. That's the explanation. It isn't me they're expecting at all.
"That isn't my name. I am Louisa Cosgrove." I look from Mr. Sneed to Weeks, waiting for them to exclaim, to show surprise. But Weeks's expression doesn't change.
Mr. Sneed sits down at the desk and leans forward. "You only think you are Louisa Cosgrove. But we know who you are. You are Lucy Childs." His manner is kind, as if explaining the situation to a child.
I stare at him, bewildered. They are mistaking me for someone else—this other girl. I swallow hard. "Why would I think I'm Louisa?"
"Because you're ill."
"Ill?" I am utterly confused.
"Yes, this is a hospital." He pauses. "Or you might prefer to think of it as a refuge—a place of safety, my dear young lady."
I don't understand what he's talking about. But I do know one thing. I'm not ill. This other girl, this Lucy Childs, she must be ill and that's why they're expecting her. Her, not me. I explain all this in a loud clear voice.
Mr. Sneed smiles. "Thinking you are someone else and thinking you are not ill are signs of how sick you are. You are lucky that you are here where we have the skill to cure you."
He would be looking at me directly if it weren't for the squint. "You are clearly an unusual young woman. But here you will find we are used to dealing with unusualness of all kinds. You will soon settle in."
Unusual? What does he mean?
He turns to Weeks. "Miss Childs seems quiet enough at the moment, but we need to keep her under close observation. We will try her in the Second Gallery for now."
He glances at me. "Fanny Weeks is one of our most able attendants. She will look after you."
I look at Weeks, wanting some reassuring sign, some hint of pity. But she says, "Come with me," in a flat voice, and stands by the door, holding it open.
I look at Mr. Sneed. I should say something. "I—" But my voice dies.
Weeks coughs and gestures with her head. Under her neat cap her hair is as dark and shiny as liquorice. I find I have risen from the seat, we are outside the door, and Weeks has turned the corner and set off along the long corridor. I want to ask her what illness she thinks I have, but she's moving too fast.
The corridor ends at a door. Weeks selects a key so large it takes both her hands to turn it. The door swings open, we pass through, and Weeks locks it behind us. Another corridor, this one so gloomy the gas jets are lit. Now we're walking on bare flags; the tap tap of the attendant's shoes echoes on the stone but I can't hear my footsteps at all.
I try one more time. "Do stop! This is a mistake. I shouldn't be here."
But the blue back moves ahead of me relentlessly. Powerless to make her turn, I'm forced to follow her until I'm lost, trapped in a maze of passages and locked doors.
Eleven Years Earlier
Evelina had light brown hair, formed into perfect ringlets. Her cream, lace-trimmed dress, her cream bonnet edged with a frill, her white silk stockings and cream kid boots—all were immaculate. She had a red rosebud smile but her complexion was slightly yellow; her staring black eyes, fringed with stiff lashes, never shut.
She arrived on my sixth birthday, in a parcel addressed to me: Miss Louisa Cosgrove.
When I saw it, I was very excited: I'd never had anything in the post before. Inside the brown paper was a box on which someone had written" My name is Evelina. "I opened it and drew out the doll. Everyone was watching me, waiting for a reaction, and all I could do was stare at it.
Papa said, "You're a lucky girl, Lou. How kind of your Aunt Phyllis to send such a lovely present. She says that Grace helped her choose it."
I raised my head in time to catch Mamma giving Papa a look I didn't understand. "Such an extravagance..." She turned to me and said, "It is a lovely doll, but it's too good for every day. I'll put it away safely."
I was about to protest, but I looked at Evelina again. She was so grand. Not like my old rag doll, Annabel. I could hug her soft body without worrying about spoiling her dress. Her homely face was nearly worn away where I'd kissed her and cried on her. I could tell her all my secrets. Evelina's smile was perfect ... and lifeless.
Thinking this, I felt guilty. Although I hadn't met her very often, I admired my cousin Grace, who was older than me. For her sake, I should try to like this new doll.
But then Tom said, "Evelina! What a soppy name. Still it suits a soppy useless doll." He rolled his eyes and simpered, in imitation of her expression and Mamma frowned.