Prey

Chapter 1

My body is one ravenous ache, and the ache intensifies every time I glance at the girl beside me. She is chatting, her hands moving with the sound of words I cannot hear. My mouth is parched, the air so dry around me, and she is inches away and all the moist, delicious sustenance I need right now.

The rumbling intensifies, becoming a chanting in my head.

Now. Now. Now.

Distorted faces pass by with frustrating frequency. Cattle, all of them. They should be prostrating themselves in front of me, begging for their meager lives, but instead, I hide from them.

It is too dangerous here. I need somewhere dark and quiet, where no one can see us.

Patience, I tell my body, but the chanting gets louder, and my hands are shaking. I hold them close to my body, so the girl will not notice, so she will not become alarmed. My need is too great to allow her to escape.

There is a dark alley nearby. I know it well, and smiling, I grasp the girl’s arm and pull her toward it. At first, she looks at me in surprise, and then a frown covers her forehead, but by this point, we’re in the alley, in the dark, and there are no other people around. She tries to pull away, but I am strong, far more so than I look.

Picking up speed, I drag her to the back, where the darkness is absolute. She yells, frantically struggling to get away. She might as well be a rabbit trying to escape the jaws of a lion. The street is too busy for anyone to notice her screams, but I thrust a hand against her mouth anyway. I cannot take any chances.

I see well in the dark, but the hunger has taken over and now everything is blurry, even the girl. But the delicious sea-salty smell of her reaches toward me, an unerring guide. Her terrified screams serenade me as I take one last whiff and start to feed.

Oh, God! I wake, sitting bolt upright in bed, sweat covering my body. The sheets are twisted around my ankles and I’m struggling to pull air into my chest. In just seconds, the cold night turns the sweat into shivers and I pull the blankets around me, trying to find a way to get warm. The thin, coarse wool does nothing. I move my knees up against my chest, trying to find whatever heat I can. All the while that girl’s face is still so clear in my mind.

Just a nightmare.

The fourth time in less than two months I’ve had the same dream. The streets change, the girl is always different, but they all end in the same way, and in them, I’m always the monster.

What’s wrong with me?

The room is deathly quiet, the darkness closing in. I clutch the sheets as whispers start to fill my head, voices I know are not real. But they fill me with dread, nonetheless. I thought I’d gotten better, but the nightmares make me doubt if I’ve changed

My breathing picks up, becomes a panting now, the lingering effects of the nightmare mixing with the terrible memories of that room. It’s not real. I whisper, clutching the words as if they have actual power. I had eight months of normal, and I thought I’d gotten better, and then the nightmares started.

Lizzie, are ye all right? Becks’s sleepy whisper breaks the silence. She’s lying on her side, her eyes half closed, still half asleep.

Her voice brings me back to the present and calms me. I’m not alone in here, and I’m not trapped. The soft whispers disappear. I’m not the same terrified girl I was when I first came to London. It took three months of freedom before the voices stopped, and now each nightmare brings them back. Each horrible dream reminds me how insane I’d been and maybe still am.

I’m good. Sorry to wake you. I’ve woken her many times since I came to the house and she’s never once gotten mad at me for it. Even in those early days, when I slept for no more than an hour at a time and often woke screaming because of my dreams.

Becks smiles and fully closes her eyes. Just making sure? She pulls the covers back over her shoulders and curls into a ball, falling back to sleep almost instantly.

On the other side of Becks, Alice, the third scullery maid, sleeps on. Little snores punctuate each breath she takes. There’ll be no more sleep for me tonight. There never is after a nightmare and I’ve learned to not even try.

I get out of bed and fumble for my frock before pulling it on. Pressing against the door handle, I’m stupidly relieved when it moves, even though the logical part of me knows there is no reason for it not to. With the door open most of the tension leaves me, and I can breathe properly again.

I sneak downstairs, aware of where every creak, every groan awaits, because I’ve painstakingly cleaned every floor in this house on my hands and knees many times in the past six months. Then I go through the kitchen, which is warmer than my room, and into the main foyer. Listening carefully to ensure the family is not awake, I open the library door and slip inside. I dare not turn on the gas sconces, so the first thing I do is light a candle.

Mrs. Markham keeps an account of the servants’ use of candles, but not of those used in the main rooms of the house, so I feel safe that on the few occasions I come down here at night, no one notices the missing matches and candle.

Once that is done, I take the candle to the small table right in front of the west wall and the bookshelves stacked eight feet high. In front of me are row upon delicious row of red, and brown, and black leather bindings. A feast, and for a moment I close my eyes and point. When I open them, my finger is upon a black book, which I pull out.

The title is Natural Theology. It looks really boring. I immediately put it back and exchange the finger method of choosing for browsing the shelves until I find The Mill on the Floss by a man named George Eliot. It’s a novel, which in itself is enough of a recommendation. As I settle into a leather wing chair, the last remnants of fear leave me and I finally believe that what woke me was just a nightmare.

In the kitchen, Cook holds an eel on the counter right next to the sink. Using the butcher knife, she deftly slices off the head while the body squirms, curling up her arm like a grotesque bracelet. In the sink, two more live eels wriggle in the water, unaware of what awaits them. Cook glides toward the stove, with a grace and lightness unusual in a woman her size, and drops the eel into boiling water.

The fire in the stove is blazing, and the smells of bread baking and sausages frying are a terrible tease. Servants can’t eat until after the family has breakfast, and that's usually around nine o’clock. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’ve already been working for three hours, so by the time I eat breakfast, I’ll be really hungry. But mornings are the servants’ busiest times, with fires to be laid in all the rooms, breakfast to be prepared and water to be heated, all before any of the family wakes for the day. I don’t love getting up at five o’ clock in the morning, but I like being busy. It helps take my mind off anything but the task before me. There is a rhythm to being busy that keeps my mind occupied and gives me a focus, each task following another, a purpose to the day that helps me sleep at night. There is nothing worse than never-ending boredom, and in this new life there is none of that and I’m grateful.

It’s been two days since I had my last nightmare, but I feel better, not as scared, and less like a freak.

Cook's apron is covered with grease; even though she put it on clean this morning when she arrived at the house at seven. There are eight breakfast platters and all will be filled. And whatever remains after the family eats will be given to the servants, with Becks, Alice and I the last to eat whatever cold remnants everyone else in the house has rejected. As the scullery maids, we are the lowest-ranked servants in the house and treated as such.

Perhaps if I am very lucky today, I will get one of those lovely looking pieces of ham, but it is more likely that I will be left with cold poached eggs and bread crusts.

Cook bends before the stove, her face red from the heat that is never allowed to falter. I’ll be needing another bucket of coal before you head upstairs.

A chill paints my body with goose bumps. Yes, Cook, I mumble, before forcing my body to move in the direction of the coal cellar. This is the one task I always try to avoid.

I have to go to the back of the kitchen and out the door, into the small back yard. A cold breeze I barely notice brushes past my cheeks. Two feet to the right of the kitchen is a little, iron door leading to six steps and a small, unlit room half filled with coal.

I drop the bucket and open the door, letting the light seep into the room. There’s no light inside, but that isn’t what bothers me.

The door only opens from the outside. I push it back as far as it will go and grab a big stone I have stashed at the edge of the garden. It’s almost too heavy to carry, but I manage to pull it over and place it against the door. Even so, the door creaks forward an inch, causing my throat to dry up.

Grasping the bucket I take a huge breath, and almost as if I’m getting ready to plunge into a deep lake, I race forward into the cellar, rushing down the stairs. I don’t glance toward the door, and instead I focus intently on filling that bucket. The coal shovel is supposed to be hanging from a nail in the wall, but it’s not there.

Damn April, she never returns it to its rightful place. I search quickly, my breath raspy and harsh, tinged with the sour taste of coal dust. I finally find it in a corner, tossed aside, and I quickly fill the bucket and race back out.

A long sigh of relief escapes me, and I shut the door with a resounding thud before taking the coal back to Cook.

Good girl, yer always the quickest to get me coal. She smiles sweetly at me, which almost makes up for the horror of going into that room.

You’re welcome.

Alice comes into the kitchen, carrying a bucket of water and a scrub brush. Her cheeks are red, and her brown hair has been pulled into a bun and covered with a mob cap, just as mine is. She is thin, small boned and barely taller than a child. Her body is tilted toward the arm that carries the bucket, which she strains to keep from tipping over. She is nineteen years old, three years older than I am, but appears five years younger until you look into her eyes.

She has washed the landing on the second floor and set the fires in the family bedrooms. And now, we will go to the third floor and clear the chamber pots in the servants’ bedrooms.

It’s yer turn for laundry, Cook tells her.

Alice sighs loudly. Can’t Lizzie do it? The sheets get so heavy and my arms always ache by the end of the day and she’s stronger than me. Besides, Miss Danielle asked me to help her with a new hairstyle and she’ll be needing me in a couple of hours.

Alice has, in the past two months, spent some of her time helping the daughter of the house with her gowns and hair, hoping to move into a much easier position as a lady’s maid.

I’ll talk to Danielle about that, because today we need you for the laundry. She knows your duties here are more important that fussing with her hair. At least, till her official come out.

I don’t mind helping with the laundry today. I say. Every Monday Mrs. Farley comes in to do the laundry, and one of us has to assist her. It’s the worst job of the entire week and I take it on more than anyone else. Penance for when my nightmares woke them at night, perhaps, but it keeps the other two scullery maids happy, which makes my life a little easier.

Alice smiles, her good humour restored because she knows it should be her day to help. We’re both happy, I suppose.

I need Lizzie here to wash the breakfast dishes, so yer going to have to fetch the chamber pots by yerself. Cook turns a roast of beef on the meat spit as she talks.

Alice scowls but knows better than to say anything. Cook doesn’t allow the maids to disagree with her.

And I’m thrilled, because the kitchen is warm, and scrubbing pots means I get to stand still for a little while. Cook might even sneak me a bite or two.

Alice leaves and I fill the scullery sink with hot water from the tap. The scullery is close enough to the kitchen that Cook doesn’t have to yell to be heard. She is the only servant in the house who does not live here. She has a home and a family, and she loves to talk about them.

The back door opens with a gust of wind and then shuts with a small click. In shuffles Mrs. Clarens, the housekeeper and cook from two doors down the street, her white hair pulled into a bun, her cheeks ruddy and round. She’s friendly with Cook and comes to visit about three times a week. It’s so beautifully normal. Perhaps that will be me someday, chatting with Becks over tea, talking about our families.

Hello, Betty, how are we today? Cook asks from the stove as she takes the kettle and fills the teapot with boiling water. Mrs. Clarens sits at the kitchen table. Cook fills two cups and adds a small spoonful of sugar to each before placing one in front of Mrs. Clarens and sitting opposite her.

Terrible, Maggie, just terrible. She spots me and smiles grimly. Hello, Lizzie.

I nod, which is my usual greeting as I’ve learned that saying as little as possible keeps me out of trouble.

Mrs. Clarens turns her back to me and focuses her entire attention on Cook. They found Mrs. Rawley’s girl today.

Is that the girl who just left without a word to poor Mrs. Rawley? The pretty one with the long, red hair.

The very same, except they’re saying she was murdered. The bobbies found her body floating in the river.

My gut freezes. I had a dream about a girl with long red hair only a couple of weeks ago. It’s only a coincidence. It has to be.

Mary, Mother of God. Cook crosses herself while I stand very still, listening for every syllable of every word.

Eaten by the fishes, she was. The body was in a right state when they found her, almost couldn’t tell who she was. Disappeared almost two weeks ago and since then Mrs. Rawley has been an unholy mess. Loved the girl like a daughter, she did.

Don’t think about it. But my mind races anyway, and I remember the nightmare I had two weeks ago and how it felt so real at the time. The same way the dream from two nights ago had seemed so vivid. My hands start to shake and I drop the scrub brush, splashing dirty water on my apron and my chin. I wipe it off with the back of my still-shaking hand.

It had been four years since I’d had a nightmare and now I’ve had four in less than two months. I desperately want to believe it’s nothing.

Did the girl have any family? Cook asks.

I don’t know. Mrs. Rawley never mentioned.

That’s terrible. Cook turns her head to look at me. Did you hear, Lizzie? Ye’d best be careful when you leave the house and watch where you go.

I very rarely leave the house, so while I appreciate her worry, it’s misplaced where I’m concerned, but I’ll be sure to tell Becks and Alice. The police will catch whoever did it soon, won’t they? I ask.

The police, Mrs. Clarens snorts. They won’t be spending more than an afternoon on this. She was a poor girl without family to hound the police about finding out what happened. They’re saying it's a drowning.

I’m sure that the girl’s death has nothing to do with my nightmare, but I’m still shivering and the room feels as though it’s closing in on me. I escape to the back garden just as Cook and Mrs. Clarens start to debate the best length of time to boil a pig’s head.

The cold air surrounds me, finding every seam in my clothes and working through to my skin. The space is no larger than the dining room, with a large, stone fence all around and an iron gate that is never closed. To the far right there is an outhouse that the scullery maids use, with a cobblestone path to reach it. There is a pump to the left and everywhere else there is threadbare grass.

I find the small, red, overturned bucket I always use for a chair when I come out here and sink onto it. My knees come almost to my chin and I place my hands around them, forming a ball as I try to keep the cold wind out.

I’m still breathing hard. My hands are shaking and not from the cold. I had nothing to do with that girl’s disappearance. I mutter softly, but then why was she in my dream? Maybe I dreamed of another girl?

There is no way to know, short of seeing the dead girl and making sure it’s not the same one from my dream. And what would it confirm? That I’ve gone from hearing voices in my head to seeing dead girls in my sleep.

That I’m still as insane as when I left that room.

I glance up and look at the cloudy sky. It’s gray, but I can see it, and directly in front of me is an open gate I almost never walk through. I am free. Somewhat.

I wait until it is the cold making my hands shake and then return inside, going back to the sink and picking up another dirty pot.

Mrs. Clarens is gone and Cook is back to working on supper, preparing most of the dishes in advance, so she can go home at five and prepare dinner for her own family before coming back at seven to finish supper for the family here.

I finish the pots and hang them on a rack, where they will get used twice more before the day is done.

There is a knock on the kitchen door, before it opens and a young girl, maybe a couple of years older than I am, walks through, looking around the kitchen until she finds Cook. She smiles shyly.

I work with Mrs. Farley. My name is Jane. She sent me here to do the laundry because her back is bothering her.

She mentioned she’d planned to take on a girl. Do you know what yer doing? Cook asks.

Jane nods vigorously. Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Farley would’ve never sent me to people as important as you if I couldn’t do the work as well as herself.

All right then, get to it. Lizzie here will be joining you in just a moment.

My heart sinks. It looks like I’ll be working through breakfast and my next chance of a meal will be lunch, which is hours away, another reason why laundry day is the worst day of the week.

Cook smiles as she sees the look on my face. Don’t worry. She goes to the stove and pulls a frying pan off it, pouring the contents onto a plate. There is bacon and sausage and blood pudding and even an egg. It’s a feast, more than I would ever have gotten otherwise. I couldn’t let you go hungry on laundry day. Just don’t be telling Mr. Bellows. Mr. Bellows is the butler. He’s very strict about the proper way to do things, and a scullery maid eating before everyone else is not proper.

I promise. I take the plate and breathe in the delicious aroma of pig and grease. Then I eat it quickly, afraid one of the other servants