The gate shut slowly, not quite resistant but reluctant nonetheless, and she found herself pulling harder than was perhaps necessary.
And then it was closed, and the lock trembled in her hands, and her hands trembled from the weight of it.
And then it clicked, and her hands, flaked with rust and stained with - dirt - and she thought of the key in the drawer in the desk in the old man's bedroom, locked inside with the rest of them.
Locked away with the rest of them.
And then there was Wendy, little fingers curled around the bars like a prisoner (what else was there for her except for an endless series of cages? What else was she if not trapped, first by illness, then madness, then vengeance, and now locked away forever behind the unyielding bars of forgiveness?), peering out at her with wide, sad eyes, shimmering with resignation, and then?
Then she wasn't thinking at all.
The window was hot against her forehead, and the sunlight poured through it, puddling in her lap. She dipped her fingers in, cupped her hands together to fill with the warmth, the hideous afternoon afterglow, but even in her long sleeves and her long socks, she shivered from the cold wind that shuddered through her bones.
She closed her eyes, and the world went dark and everything was quiet.
Days passed. Sometimes slowly, seconds crawling along, minutes dragging themselves down the darkening path, hours bloated and expanding. Sometimes they were gone before she even noticed, leaving her dizzy and unsettled in a timeline she didn't quite recognize.
Now that she remembered, she couldn't seem to forget.
She couldn't seem to think about anything else.
Summer fell away and autumn blew in on a frigid wind.
She stood at her window and watched the leaves turn brown and brittle. She left her rake in the side yard and let them collect on the steps.
She boiled water for tea and left it sitting on the stove.
Slowly, she forgot the little details, the unnecessary additions.
Winter came, hungry and insatiable, to strip the branches bare and leave the skeletons exposed.
So much like the trauma of a ravenous past.
She watched from her window as the skeletal remains bent and shivered and writhed, the wind pulling and tearing and howling with rage.
The rain came, too, and the leaves on the steps turned black and the rot softened and melted them and the rake in the side yard sat cemented in place, suspended in a grip of decay.
The smell of it was sickly and sweet and exactly what she remembered. The soft perfume of her childhood.
The rotten carpet of leaves and mud squished thickly and slid threateningly beneath her feet as she trudged along, bucket in hand.
It was a poor imitation, she thought, adjusting the bucket over the handle, but it would do for now.
At night, she dreamed.
A mermaid, tangled up in rope and scaled with scars.
Goat sisters, one black, and one white, bleating pitifully from their cramped enclosure. Diana stood on the other side, feeding them roses made of paper. They chewed through the crumpled petals with teeth made of thorns, scissor sharp and streaked with ink.
"Almost time, Jennifer," Diana said, without turning around. She grabbed Sally's muzzle and forced another handful of petals down into her throat.
A red bird, fluttering its wings as it sat perched on the railing of the balcony.
"Follow me," it said, as she approached it. "Follow me to Forever Land," and it turned and flew away, soaring through the gray sky and disappearing into a storm swollen cloud with a thunderous report.
Then came the rain, hot and red and terrible. She stood there in the growing darkness until her clothes were soaked and her face was - and her face -
A white rabbit in a coat and hat, a rather dapper fellow who introduced himself as Sir Peter. He might have tipped his hat to her, or removed it altogether, but, he explained apologetically, the blood and fur had fairly glued it to his head.
"Forgive me," he said, closing his eyes as a shovel came down, flattening the hat and bursting his head like overripe fruit.
Amanda laughed, and raised the shovel again, this time aiming for her.
She awoke, not frightened and gasping and relieved, but aching and lost and -
and -
She made a rare trip into town.
She bought biscuits, and scones, and lollipops.
She bought a fish, a doll, a needle and thread.
She bought a red bird in a gold cage, and a white rabbit in a silver cage.
She bought paper, and bolt cutters and boxes and boxes of crayons.
The crayons half-filled the rubbish bin in the kitchen.
She selected a red one from the neat pile of red crayons she'd set aside, and pulled a clean sheet of paper closer to her.
Dear Clara, she began, and by the time she was finished, the crayon had been worn smooth against the teeth and claws of her words. She signed her name, folded the page, and slipped it carefully into an envelope.
She carefully selected another crayon from the pile and added that as well.
From the pile she pulled another crayon, and heated this one above the flame at the stove where the water for her tea still sat.
The seal was clumsy and unlikely to last long, but it would do for now.
The postbox reminded her of the gift box on the attic door.
She paused only a moment, wondering... and then dropped in the letter, and turned back into the rain.
By the time Clara arrived at the old, crumbling mansion with the letter and the crayon, she had already broken the lock and made her way back inside.
There was no electricity, no water, no heat.
She'd made her way up the stairs by candlelight, letting her memory guide her along the familiar path to the attic.
She wasn't sure if Clara would come, but she'd left a trail of breadcrumbs, just in case.
Fish scales, and red feathers, and streaks of blood and fur.
It was quiet in the attic, everything was muffled and far away, but she could hear Clara's voice ringing like a bell as she searched for her.
"Jennifer? Are you here, Jennifer?"
Diana and Meg giggled and mocked her.
O Jennifer, wherefore art thou, Jennifer?
"Please, Jennifer, it's Clara - I got your letter!"
Eleanor caught her eye, then looked swiftly away. The golden birdcage dangled from her fist, the red bird fluttering at the bars. As helplessly restricted from Forever Land as the rest of them.
"If you can hear me, Jennifer, please, come out! I'm a nurse now - a real one! If you'll let me, I can help you!"
A real nurse! Diana sneered, and Meg cackled.
"I'm worried about your, Jennifer! Your letter frightened me, you need to come out and let me help you."
"I'm here, Clara," she called. She waited a moment, listening for the sound of Clara's footsteps. "In the attic."
She shushed the others as the footsteps grew closer, showing particular irritation with Amanda who seemed entirely unable to control herself as she giggled and guffawed in gleeful anticipation.
The attic door creaked open, and a sliver of light - Clara had brought a torch, she saw, clever girl - sliced through the darkness.
"Jennifer?" She whispered, stepping hesitantly inside.
Congratulations, Prince Joshua, Wendy whispered, and she felt a peculiar kind of heat flood through her. You're almost done.
"Clara," she said, trying to keep her voice even as she slowly stood. She wondered how she must look to Clara, in her filthy clothes and her dirty skin. Would Clara run away, in fear, or rush forward, desperate to tend to her?
Either one would be fine.
Clara was here now.
She had successfully collected the monthly Gift as demanded by the Aristocrats.
They could finally finish their game.