Being alone she was used to. And that she most certainly wasn’t in a room of twenty sleeping girls. Lonelines was less familiar, not to mention extremely uncomfortable. Annoying, for that matter.
Three in the morning. It was the time of night when orphaned girls in magazine serials remembered things their mothers had told them once, and hugged themselves close repeating the words. The things her mother had said to her – apart from her name, Heather Ann Mulcahy – didn’t bear repeating.
Normally, her past was not something she gave much thought. It consisted of many days, many fights, many alleys, many unhappy, unfriendly, uncertain people who blurred into each other like shadows. But just now, in this dark room, they seemed to mingle with the sleeping figures and surround her.
She was afraid of nothing in particular – she was not afraid! – but . . . but . . . something about three o’clock . . .
There were things she’d never be, things she’d never do, if it killed her. And it hadn’t. However close it had come on occasion, it hadn’t killed her. And she didn’t think about it because if she started giving it words . . .
Three fifteen, according to Skies’ pocketwatch. How long would it take the girl to notice it was missing this time? The shadows flickered as a cloud moved across the moon.
Across the room, one of the sleeping figures whimpered. Her eyes darted around. Across from her, a girl shivered and tossed. Fingers swung her legs out from under her blanket and padded between the bunkbeds. Swipple. She rolled her eyes to herself, rather more mildly than she might have at any time but three a.m., and perched on the edge of the girl’s bunk, folding her legs underneath her. Her ears caught another whimper, then an abrupt, wary stilling.
"Fingers?" It was a bare whisper.
She snorted quietly. "Naw, Forlani."
The girl flinched. Fingers straightened, telling herself she did not feel guilty for the comment. Quill turned away.
"You tripped Quill?!"
"She dodged."
"She’s crippled."
"She desoived it."
Fingers sniffed. "You scared a’ me?" she asked after a moment of staring at the wall.
Surprise, this time. "What?"
"Ya ain’t deaf an’ stupid."
"You asked a question without a point," the girl replied with some asperity. Dere’s some backbone, at least.
Fingers frowned. "Tell me not ta, an’ I won’t kill ‘im," she said. "Odderwise, ya ain’t got nothin’ ta worry about."
More silence as the shadows crept in. What was the saying? It was always darkest before the dawn. Stupid, really. It was darkest right after the light died and plunged you into darkness. "Swipple," Fingers said to the shadows. "I hate Lansing, Forlani an’ Grover Neely. I don’t hate me goils." In daylight, perhaps, she might have added, ‘not even da stupid ones,’ but this was three a.m., and it didn’t cross her mind.
The shadows continued to converge.
"Grover?" came the small voice.
"Me mudda’ woiks for ‘im," she muttered. "I don’t." Quill did not deserve the sharp tone, but it wasn’t directed at her anyway. "Radder steal." Fingers scowled at the smug shadows and shrugged abruptly. "Go ta sleep." She glanced at Skies’ watch. "It’s t’ree-thoity."
"I can’t."
The shadows flowed over them. Fingers poured out her hatred on them. "Ain’t nobody gonna touch me goils," she replied.
Silence. Fingers rested against the footboard of the bunk, keeping watch as clouds drifted across the stars. The sound of soft breathing mixed with the shadows. In the parlor, the clock struck four.
