He is coming. The letter announcing his visit arrived yesterday. It ended up in Sister Florence's hands instead of mine and so I was last to know about any of it. They had accepted his request for me. How very generous and thoughtful of them.

Now I sit in the parlor, a room I'm rarely permitted to enter, and wait for him. It is impeccably clean and ornately decorated. It has navy blue wallpaper and sheer white lace curtains. I sit stiffly on a couch and to my left and right there are matching floral armchairs that look too lumpy to be truly comfortable. The window, which sits directly in front of me, looks out onto a busy street.

I don't know the full address, no one has ever bothered to tell and I have never bothered to ask. I haven't left this home since I first arrived here, in the cloak of darkness, three years ago. I do know that St. Agatha's in located Manchester and that it is quite a ways from my previous home in Bolton. The city beyond this room, this window, is like a totally separate universe from my own. Those people have choices. They can go where they please, say what they feel—even the women who can be terribly misunderstood or ignored altogether, have more of a voice then I do. When I came here, was accused of what they say I did, I lost what little power I had. No one cares what a murderess wants.

Except for this man, this doctor who has requested that I meet with him. He asked me, didn't tell me. I have a choice. Earlier this morning Hanny had told me to say no.

"You don't have to meet with him. You are being given a choice. Think on it."

I'd been sitting on my bed, staring down at the folded dress she'd just given me. It is new to me but still old enough to smell of someone else's sweat. She had been the one to bring me the news, to ask if I would be willing to meet with Dr. Abaddon. She was right, I didn't have to meet with him, but I wanted to. I was intrigued, both by this man and his interest in me.

"I want to."

"But why?" She sat next to me on the bed and took my hand in hers. "What can a meeting with a doctor, one you don't even know, do to help you now? I will not outright dissuade you from it, but I think you should pray about the choice. Don't be hasty."

"Why should I not meet with him? I'm locked in this place without any help or hope of escape—" I winced as her serene expression faltered. She took my frustration at being trapped at St. Agatha's personally, as if I equated our friendship with my internment here.

"Do go on." She whispered.

I ran my fingers over the fabric of the dress in my lap; it was blue cotton with alabaster buttons and dainty flowery stitching along the collar and hem. I imagined Hanny digging through the pile of donations until she came across this for me. She was thoughtful in small ways and I knew without a doubt that she must have seen the pink roses embroider along the sleeve cuffs and remembered that the flower was my favorite. I hated that I could never repay her for her kindness.

"Merritt?" Her grip on my hand tightened, she was waiting expectantly for an answer.

"I just need something to happen. What if I am stuck here until I die?"

"You won't be."

"But what if I am?"

She was silent.

"I have to do something. Anything. You have to understand that, Hanny. I cannot do this forever. I will truly lose my mind if I am forced to stay here. Eventually I am going to have to take a chance. Dr. Abaddon seems amiable. I don't feel threatened by him, only curious. His letter was polite and I think it's a courtesy of him to even give me the choice to refuse him."

Hanny adjusted her habit, tugging at the thick white fabric until she was satisfied. "It is not much of a choice, not when he has already been appointed as your doctor. Not when he is already on his way here."

"If you have reason to distrust him I wish you would just come out and say."

"We are friends. I just care about you. I've heard things about him, just as you have."

"Perhaps. But then, all of Manchester has heard things about me. I am truly lost if they believe every word that was ever published in the papers."

"You are different." She spoke the words softly, like a prayer. "Anyone who knows you can say without doubt that you are not the killer they make you out to be."

"Then maybe I should get to know him, judge for myself."

"He has a reputation with ladies. He's been all over the news of late for having been with some actress." She pressed her lips together and sighed. "It would be a good idea for you to at least approach him with some hesitance." This was not news to me. Although I had not seen the papers for myself, I'd heard the nuns gossiping about it.

"Again, we are judging him off what the newspapers are saying—I know from personal experience that they are most definitely not a solid source."

"Perhaps." Hanny shrugged. "I just think he's a cad and you'd be wise to remain wary of him."

"You say that about all men," I responded. "That's why you're a nun—you only trust God."

Hanny stood and wrapped her arms around herself. "You should give it a try sometime."

I leaned forward and lowered my voice so it was no more than a whisper. "You've read the papers, seen his picture. Is he devilishly handsome?"

"He's a devil, that much is certain." Hanny's lips pulled up to one side in a hesitant smile; it was there and gone in an instant. "As you are so hasty to remind me, I am a nun. I'm not supposed to think about such things."

"Ah, but you do."

"Hush and get dressed. I would imagine that he'll be arriving around mid-morning and Sister Florence will deprive us both of our dinners if you make a spectacle of yourself."

I stood and began undressing. I was quick, getting out of my nightgown and into my chemise in a matter of seconds. The next few steps require a bit more time so I turned my attention back to Hanny as I dressed. "What would you do in my stead?"

"If Dr. Abaddon was coming to see me?"

I slipped on my petticoat and nodded. "Yes."

I struggled with my corset for a second, adjusting it over my chest until I was pleased with the positioning. I always had to pay attention to my breathing when I was in a corset. I couldn't feel the bite of the structure itself, this meant I was always at risk for being tied in too tight. I'd passed out more than once when I'd first graduated into wearing the garment. Without words, Hanny walked over and tightened the black satin ribbons until I was sufficiently breathless and sufficiently trimmed.

When the task was finished I turned to her.

She swallowed. "I would not meet with him."

"But why?" Hanny handed me the bustle and I tied it around my waist. Since I was not to be deterred from my curiosity, I again prompted her. "Well?"

"I do not like what I've heard of him, there is no other reason."

I smoothed my fingers over the bustle to smooth it before I grabbed bodice and the skirt of the dress from where I'd left them on my bed. They were wrinkled and I had a time with the buttons, but once on it proved to be lovely, even if a bit out of style. I turned back to my friend and held out my wrists so she could assist me with the small buttons on the wrist cuffs.

"I suppose we shall see if he is the scoundrel you insist he is." I cross the room and came to a stop in front of the dressing table. I made quick work of my hair and Hanny didn't say anything else to me as I finished getting ready.

I'd been worried about her words then, even if I was unwilling to admit it. Now, as I sit in this room awaiting a complete stranger, I am anxious. Aside from the occasional visit from Gabe every now and again, I rarely receive visitors. My social skills, which were already deeply underdeveloped, are now at ridiculously low levels. I neither know how to speak to a man, nor understand the art that is being a hostess. As a result, I am overanalyzing everything, thinking about what I should and should not say to this man. Hanny's words are prevalent and I cannot help but wonder if she is perhaps right in her assessment of this man's character.

I sit perched on a lumpy couch with this journal balanced on my knees. I am trying, and I must admit I am failing, to write while still sitting straight enough to breathe with my corset. Through this exercise of writing I have to face the state of my penmanship head on. It has always been insufferable, but now it is in extremes due to the shaking of my hand. Nurse Franklin once told me that I had the handwriting of an illiterate boy. I am not sure what to make of such comments, but I cannot fault her in her teasing. My handwriting, as anyone who takes the time to look at this account can attest, is wretched. Perhaps constant use will even out my words. I am rambling.

Hanny and Sister Florence have arrived with tea. Neither of them ask what I am writing, they will keep Hanny's promise of insuring my privacy. The nuns can be terribly straitlaced, but they are honest in excesses, something I can appreciate.

I will write more when things have settled.