Clad in her housedress and fox fur slippers, Mary picked her way around the back of the asylum toward the women’s wing. She bumped into yucca plants, gasped at the furtive movement of ghost crabs and rodents. Birds called suddenly over her head. The island turned alien at night. A series of bumps and tweets and flutters and slithers that left her breathless with anxiety. Her slippers sank into the sand.
She had extracted directions to Iris Dunleavy’s room from her reluctant and bewildered son.
“I’m not going to hurt her, my darling. I’m not even going to talk to her. I just want to see her up close.”
And in fact, that was what she did want. To study this beautiful woman she had only seen from afar. The one powerful enough to send her husband into a fit of rage. Mary stumbled on a rock, nearly fell, and then righted herself. It wasn’t fair at all. It was hard work keeping herself groomed and sweet-swelling in the middle of an embargo. Every morning she dressed herself with such care and did the very best she could to please her husband, and he’d returned the favor by falling for an especially comely lunatic.
Iris stood at the window. She had removed the mosquito netting and now held the bars, staring out into the night. She’d successfully banished thoughts of Ambrose, at least for the time being, but now her anxiety centered on the boy. A day had passed since she’d asked him to help her escape. Surely he would come and give his answer that night. Had she made her story convincing enough? Every word had been the truth. Did he know that? And even if he did, was she asking too much of him? Perhaps she was. But what else could she do? Without the boy, escape seemed impossible. All hope lost. She closed her eyes and offered a brief prayer to the God she believed in only in hours of need. When she opened her eyes again, she was staring into the face of Mary Cowell, the doctor’s wife.
Iris gasped.
Mary Cowell screamed and vanished.