Chapter Three

There is nothing but the darkness, and the dripping of the rain against my window, relentless, like a finger tapping out a sinister message on the pane.

So. It is late. I am somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

I had not expected it to be as it is. What does he want of me, that he should seem so - so -

But I cannot find the word. I thought for a moment, "so kind," but no - he is not a kind man, not him. But so far, at least, he is polite; and that I did not expect.

It will be raining in England, Mimí said; and she was right. In England, there is nothing but mists and rain. England. Mother's land. Shall I ever see her? Does she think of me, in some dark dream?

My aunt. Narcissa. She hates me. I should have expected nothing else; but I didn't think she knew. I thought perhaps she persuaded him to take me - for my mother's sake.

Because he never wanted me before.

I hate him! I hate him, and I do not understand. Does he find it amusing, to throw away and pick up at a whim? How does he think I've been living, all these invisible years? Did he even remember, or care, that I existed? With my grandfather, it was drunkenness: an old man, liver-spotted, brandy-soaked, cruelty-sodden. But him -

Narcissa is not important, and my grandfather - my grandfather is dead.

But he is like a velvet glove that bruises with the lightest touch.

I looked in the mirror for a long while tonight, trying to decide if we resemble each other.

For every hurt that I receive, I shall repay it tenfold.

And the raindrops on the window are like the footfalls of the memories that stalk us through our nights and days.