6 December

Breakfast was an obnoxious affair. I wished to communicate my ideas for coding my speech with Atticus, but the doctor returned from a lengthy absence (aside from his mysterious depository of the desk in my room, unseen in either the night or an early breakfast) and was proving exceedingly bothersome. Every second I turned around, he was staring at either me or busying Atticus with some task in the kitchens or outside. How certain I was that he had been using the servants around the house to spy on me! They were like ghosts themselves, always disappearing at the corners of my vision, but never out of sight. I couldn't be sure what they would have reported, unless they lurked outside of my doors when I spoke with Atticus or Evie. I was glad I whispered my plans when not in my room, but still, the doctor had found out somehow.

I was only able to spare one look at the harried cook's son before he was enveloped in a cloud of steam from the kitchen's heat and the frost of the outdoors. Whatever the doctor wanted to eat, it apparently required the entire faculties of the kitchen and left no room for anyone else. Even the benefit of assistance from his father was impossible - the elder cook was indisposed with a nasty bought of coughing and chills, brought on from the devious winter.

As the morning whirled away, Evie and I clung to one another in front of the fireplace, staring wistfully into its cold, lifeless depths. The doctor was a sworn enemy of fire (even the heating of the kitchens was a carefully monitored affair that he never stood near) and had forbidden the use of the kindling of logs before us. Why there were logs in it at all, we couldn't say. Instead, we wrapped ourselves in spare blankets and sipped feverishly at the tea Atticus had been able to spare us. Each shiver brought on a tightening in my lungs and bade me wonder where the doctor had received his license from, if he seriously believed the best way for me to maintain my health was in a house colder than his heart. After some dull hours had passed, Evie, looking around to ensure we were out of earshot from anyone other than the stuffed creatures, grasped my hand in hers and pulled me closer.

"How are you going to leave in this weather? You'll die if you step one foot out there."

"It's not as bad as it was yesterday," I sniffled in response. My upper lip had gone numb from the moistness of my nose. No amount of wiping it with a cloth could cure the dripping, and I could feel my skin burn at the effect.

"No," said Evie sternly, "but you also didn't go waltzing around out there for hours on end."

"And what makes you think I'll be waltzing around all the way to Whitecombe?"

Evie made a sound at me and looked back at the kitchens for a moment. The clattering of dishes sounded out over the whistling of my nose. Judging by the thumps, I was sure Atticus was in as foul a mood as I felt. "Where are you going to find a carriage?"

Suddenly, the answer seemed to smack me in the head. I didn't want to admit to Evie that I hadn't thought about how I was going to get to the little church where she'd described meeting the doctor for the first time, but now I had an answer that would spare me the embarrassment of being so shortsighted. "Lord DeCourt, obviously. If I can trust anyone to be sympathetic to my cause, it would be him."

"Your cause?" Evie raised an eyebrow. Her features had grown more taut since the cold had settled into the Radcliffe house, pulling her eyebrows up in an almost permanent look of skepticism. She had grown up immeasurably - I was convinced she was lying about her interactions with the doctor. Surely, simply living with him hadn't forced her to be so shrewd, sad, and sceptical. Then again, who knew how drastically I would react if my life were torn apart so quickly? "Never mind that; how are you going to contact your darling Lord without alerting my husband?" How sorrowful did those words sound!

"Would I be asking too much of you to request you deliver my request?"

"And just what makes you think I would be allowed to leave?"

"He didn't mind when you left the last time." I sniffled in remembrance of my chastising at the hands of the doctor when we had returned from our visit with Lord DeCourt. "No, it would be best for me not to raise any suspicions until we're ready." Evie gave me a hard look.

"If I get found out, you're the first person I'm giving up."

"I treasure you, too."

With our plans for my escape set, regardless of Evie's attitude about it, we retreated to our rooms to prepare clothes for the upcoming snow storms. Before I disappeared over the stairs, I turned to ask Evie if she knew where the shops were, but found her shawl flitting just out of sight by the kitchens. Curious, I tiptoed as best as I could down and after her, peering around the corner of the nearest wall and praying my hair didn't give me away. What I saw surprised me, but I knew not what to make of it. Huddled over the stove, Atticus passed something to Evie, where it was tucked away in one of her sleeves. They only shared a few more words before she turned around and floated back out, leaving a disturbed Atticus looking on.

I fled as quickly as I could, thankful for my lack of breath as a manner of disguise. Once locked in my room, I couldn't even prepare my clothes. All I could see were the looks shared between my two friends, looks I couldn't ask about without betraying my spying. It felt strange, I'll admit, being on the outside of another group. I should have been used to it by now, really. Heavens knew, I was always on the outside in Pennsylvania, the sickly child of mixed heritage. It wasn't always an issue with the various adults I knew, especially not with my father's friends, but the children my age that turned into the future of the city, oh how they loved to remind me of who I was and what I would never be.

While the shared whispers of Atticus and Evelyn were obviously not malicious, the sense of being pushed to the side once more was still sharp. As I began to collect my notebooks and pens and socks (God alone knew how many I would need!), I felt tears pooling in my eyes, the frustrating tears of not knowing and being unable to ask. How foolish I was! It was a useless thing to be upset about, especially when faced with the horrors of being trapped in the house of a man who hated me.

To be frank, I didn't know what Dr. Radcliffe wanted with me. He wanted control over Evelyn, that much was apparent, but it seemed an awfully complicated affair to bring the infirm friend along and provide for her as well. I couldn't shake the idea that there was something more to it all! I needed to speak with this rector, and I prayed he hadn't died in the months since Evie had met him.

The day crept along as I prepared, under the guise of cleaning, of course. Evie flitted in and out with clothes for me, and various drafts of a letter. "He'll know your writing voice, I'll wager," she reasoned, referring to the possibility of the doctor finding our pleas for help. "If he sees a simple request from me to add to my company in town, then he'll find no harm in that. You, however!" She went through three renditions of the letter without my input, each one adding some useless socialite detail, before she held up the triumph of her writing capabilities. As I read it over, I found I was impressed with her ability to assume the role of a city wife, a woman worthy of befriending a Lord. It was highly unusual! A little fearful of how the Lord DeCourt would act, should he discover Evie was just a step on the social ladder above my low-born self (though, I will take a moment to note, we didn't have such a complex societal situation in America!), I nonetheless commended her ability to write such a charming letter.

"Our new friend will have no choice but to offer you an audience with this," I said, handing the letter back and being buried under an armful of dresses in response.

"I am glad you think so. You may have those - I don't find dresses keep me warm in the winter."

"Will your husband allow you to wear anything else?"

"I don't rather give a damn." Looking pleased with herself for having voiced this aloud, she gave me a small smile. "I'm sure there will be a way to convince him that keeping me in this house won't do if I'm to live with him for the rest of my life."

A day for uncomfortable feelings! As Evie turned away and went to fix her letter for the post, I felt that strange sensation I had watching her and Atticus talk. The doctor knew what happened in his own house, that much was obvious. I knew not if it was the servants or some more elaborate system of espionage, but if my writing had been spied upon, or my conversations with Atticus, then surely the doctor would not let his own lady wife go unbothered by his attentions. Surely, word would get to him about her plans to assist me, about the true nature of her requesting a visit with the neighbour?

Overcome with a sudden sickness, I rushed to the bathroom and threw up tea and toast until Evie came running in. Once I had finished, she undid the ribbons tying up my hair and began to brush it, gently working through the tangles as she had when I stayed in her house. She used to play with the curls when we were in my little cliffside house, too, on nights when writing was far too stressful to be of much use. The familiar sensation, the comfort in her careful fingers, soon relaxed me and calmed the fear I had felt bubble up, though I still could not shake the image of Evie in danger once more. How disappointed in me Atticus would be.

The maid appeared in the doorway with her weathered scowl. What sort of information she could gather from my vomiting was a mystery, and Evie sent her away with a short command for some soup. "Tell the kitchen boy to bring it up," she demanded, before turning her attentions back to my head. I sat still as she ran her hand under the sink and pressed the cool water to my skin.

"I don't like this one bit," she murmured, but my skin soon cooled and my hair untangled in her hands. The sensation of the wintry air on my scalp was admittedly more cold than I would have liked, and I did not envy Evie her thin hair.

When Atticus came up the stairs with his cheeks nearly as red as his hair, Evie nudged us along into the room where I'd sat with Lord DeCourt and sat the both of us down. She was a perfect hostess, though I did wonder how much of it was her natural inclination towards caring for people, and how much was a welcome chance for distraction. As excited as Evie had been about her letter and the chance to fight the strict control of Dr. Radcliffe, I still saw the darkness in her sunken eyes, a darkness that was once bright and lively as the very earth she used to roam.

I resolved to bring her home a plant of some sort when I had collected the necessary information from the rector in St. Peter's Church. A plant would be rather hard in this weather, but there had to be even one, perhaps inside the church, that Evie could tend to as she had my garden. It was a shame the weather was too severe when we arrived to really begin anything in the mess outside of the kitchens.

Having closed the door and sat between the both of us, Evie talked of simple things, like music and books, to distract us from the worries at hand. Sharing a look with me at some point, Atticus' eyes were wet with appreciation (or the sting of the kitchen's heat). I smiled back at him and we each grasped a hand of Evie's. She made no mention and gave no notice of it, but I felt her squeeze back, and thought that perhaps, we really could all get out of the horrible house of Radcliffe.

Hopefully, 

Winn