Olivia: The Plight of Roufoide

by Quill Swipple

Not so very long ago, around fourteen years before I place my pen to paper now, Marianne Roufoide whispered softly in her delicate voice to her husband Guillaume Roufoide that she was going to have a child. It was a bright day in mid-April, and their home in the south of France was warm, and filled with the scent of fresh flowers. They led a simple life, having been married for no more than a year, seven months, and six days. The news came as quite a surprise to the newlyweds, but a good surprise at that. Elated with the thought that he would be a father, Guillaume hugged his wife and kissed her and pulled her close.

Marianne was a beautiful young wife, as delicate as an apple blossom. She had dark, thick brown hair that whipped about in the most delicate breeze and bobbed up and down with every light movement of her head. Her eyes were the same shade, constantly glittering like those of a child. In a sense, she was one. Not yet twenty and very much sheltered from the dark realities of life, she thought the world held no evil and no malice.

This sheltering came from her husband, also young, only four years her senior and quite the gentleman in himself. He knew the world could be dangerous and never wanted his wife to know. He never brought her to the city, and when the time came that he did have to make a trip there, he held her under the care of his neighbor (two miles to the west), Renouart d'Enneris, not allowing her to travel. Marianne, naturally, respected this decision and allowed him to take his leave. Marianne lived in a fairy-story, for then was a simpler time in the country.

But that fairy-story would soon be shattered.

"Swipple!"

The loud, bellowing cry of Mrs. Opperheim caused the pigeon-feather quill pen in Olivia Swipple's hand to jerk out of its fluid motion and scratch to an abrupt halt on the thin page on which she wrote. Her muscles tensed at the mixture of the harsh sound and the uncomfortable squeak of the quill, her shoulders scrunching up around her ears. After the initial shock subsided, she managed to grab her papers and shove them skillfully under her pillow, stuffing the quill into the drawer of the single nightstand in the room before the hulking body of Mrs. Opperheim turned the corner to be enlightened to Olivia's actions. Olivia went about sitting obediently on her bed, hands folded in her lap. As Mrs. Opperheim approached, she respectfully stood.

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Opperheim's large, muscular arms grabbed Olivia abruptly by the shoulders and shook her twice shortly, roughly. "Are you deaf, Swipple? Are you stupid?"

"No, ma'am." Another shake. "Yes, ma'am."

"I specifically said names Nelson through Twine were to be at laundry this morning. You know your alphabet, don't you, Swipple?" Her voice changed from its usual harshness to a false, syrupy tone, as if she were speaking to a toddler.

"Yes, ma'am. I do, ma'am."

"And what are the letters between N and T?"

"O, P, Q, R, and S, ma'am."

"And what is your last name?"

"Swipple, ma'am."

"And what does that start with?"

"S, ma'am."

"Is that before T?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Opperheim boxed her ears. None too roughly, but enough to jolt Olivia from her routine subservience. The woman's tone immediately changed again to cruelty. "Then why ain't you at work!"

Olivia gulped, shaking her head slightly as she tried to clear the ringing in her ears. "Well, ma'am—"

"Did I ask you for an explanation?"

"Yes, ma'am." Shake. "No ma'am."

"Are you dressed?"

Olivia looked down at herself. The pale brown dress which fell a few inches below her knees, too small for her in any sense, was hard to distinguish from her nightclothes. It took her a moment to think about whether or not it was her dress for the day. Once she had it registered in her mind that that was what it was, she nodded. Her hands reached up to absently fiddle with a button that was beginning to bulge at the seams. Thirteen years of age was around the time for any young girl to begin to develop, and though her breasts had not matured drastically by any means, they were a certain change from her childish flat chest of the previous years. New dresses were always issued every four years, and she had worn this one for a painstaking three, at her time where she grew the most. The seams were beginning to rip and she couldn't wait for her fourteenth year to arrive, when she would receive a new one that wouldn't pull at every which way.

Mrs. Opperheim roughly shoved Olivia's hands back to her sides. Her cold gray eyes glared daggers into Olivia's glittering brown ones. "Then get to work, Swipple," she said darkly. "And don't let me catch you slacking. You know well and good that your leg is no excuse."

"Yes, ma'am." Aided with a sharp shove, Olivia limped from her bed and toward the room down the hallway which held the basins for laundry, as well as the children from Nelson to Twine. Her leg was in a particular amount of pain today; it ached and she knew that bad weather was coming. A rainstorm, perhaps. Since birth, she had always been able to predict the weather. Her right leg was clubfooted, the bones and muscles below her knee moved out of position from birth. Her foot, from slightly above the ankle, twisted inwards toward the left leg and upwards, so she could only walk along the outside edge of her foot. It ached if she stayed on her feet too long, which she often did, and it ached when bad weather was coming. That was less often, but made working long hours almost unbearable. After thirteen years of living with it, she'd gotten used to it and learned to deal with it. Rather than being painful, per se, it just became an annoyance. And so, as she felt the pain shooting up her right leg, she only groaned, rolling her eyes.

"It's going to rain soon," she muttered.

Shoving the heavy door to the laundry room open, she was greeted with the usual bustle of the workload: children scraping clothes against the washboards, carrying baskets nearly twice their size outside to be dried, and the ever-present sound of sloshing liquid and suds.

While Mrs. Opperheim wasn't looking, there was always a great amount of talking amongst the orphans, as such was happening now. No one ever shirked at their duties; the work had to get done. But they were still children, and children will have some amount of fun no matter the conditions.

Olivia limped her way in and took her place at one of the laundry basins. There was already a pile of wet clothes soaking at the bottom of the water. She pushed up her sleeves and reached in, grabbing a skirt and raking it across the washboard, and plunging it back into the water. Rake up, rake down, and plunge. Rake up, rake down, and plunge. Every so often, she would add a few extra short rakes that made a rhythmic scraping noise. That, added to the slow rake up, rake down, and plunge, soon ended up sounding similar to "Sur le Pont d'Avignon."

"Hey, clubfoot—Quit dat," mumbled the girl to her left, splashing her. She was a short, muscular girl, a few years older than Olivia, though several inches lacking in height, and Olivia wasn't ever very tall to begin with. Her thick red hair was wild and frizzed out like she had been struck by lightning. Freckles riddled her round face and her grayish-green eyes were usually harsh and apathetic. Her name was Alice McGovern, carrying a rough nickname of "Ironsides," like the ship, when the other orphans spoke of her in secret.

Olivia flinched as the grimy brown suds flecked against her cheek. "Sorry," she mumbled absently, returning to the usual rhythm of her rake up, rake down, plunge. Rake up, rake down, plunge.

"What was that, clubfoot? I didn't hear you." In addition to being senior to many of the girls there, she was also the orphanage bully. Despite her size, she was strong, and could probably do serious harm to any of the girls there if they gave her any trouble. Which was why Olivia flinched again with her tone, and once more with another splash. After a few moments, regaining her pride, she spoke.

"I'll repeat: I apologize for trying to amuse myself and break the monotony of the day's work at the expense of your pleasure. I won't do it again. And I'd appreciate it greatly if you did not refer to me as 'clubfoot.' My name's Olivia Swipple, and you know it."

"What an infernal piece of bad luck for ye," she muttered, but her voice raised with authority as she continued, stopping her own rake up, rake down, plunge. "You keep your fancy tawk an' I'll have ye clobbered, clubfoot. Thinkin' yer smarta den da next poysen. Jus' 'cause dat Letty girl tawt you ta read 'n' write don' mean you c'n go an' put on fancy airs about it."

Letty Nelson was a tall, gangly girl who was even older than Ironsides, and she kneeled in the corner, content with her own rake up, rake down, plunge. She had stringy black hair that reached her shoulder, and large eyes that were the colour of highly diluted blue paint, like dishwater. Since Olivia was five, Letty was the girl who taught her to read and write, against orphanage "regulations."

How it escaped the Children's Aid Society that the orphans at Mrs. Opperheim's annex were illiterate was beyond Olivia's understanding. It was important that all orphanages raised young men and women to become outstanding members of society. That meant teaching reading, writing, arithmetic, etiquette, and the like. Though run under strict discipline, it was in the best interests of the children. However, Mrs. Opperheim managed to escape those rules and the orphans at that particular annex learned nothing of writing and reading, and nothing of arithmetic. But they were run under strict discipline. Mrs. Opperheim made sure of that.

Despite this, Letty knew how to read and write when she came to the orphanage. She was eight when Olivia was five, and came to the orphanage because her father and mother were unable to care for her. She still had parents who were alive, and it set her apart from any of the others. Resorting to writing as solace, she once had her ears boxed for doing it. She considered stopping and trying to forget, until she met Olivia, who showed a profound interest in both the forbidden and the written word. Amazed by the clubfooted girl with the large, interested eyes, she willingly granted the child literacy during secret meetings over the course of three years.

Letty was amazed by Olivia's ability and willingness to learn. She learned quite quickly and always wanted more. By the time she reached seven, she was writing stories of imaginary places. The only thing Olivia needed help with was spelling, and once Olivia learned the spelling of a word, she never forgot it. Soon, Olivia really had no need for the gangly girl who gave her her took (but not her talent) to express the wondrous and adventurous, but truthful. However, Letty and Olivia stayed together. At Mrs. Opperheim's annex, friendships didn't always form easily, particularly between those few who had parents and those who were born there or merely abandoned.

"Be quiet about that," Olivia murmured, still watching her companion in the corner. "Mrs. Opperheim doesn't like the girls who come in here reading and writing. If she knew that Letty taught me—"

"Have da both o'youse shipped awf t'Illinois in one a' dem orphin trains 'cause she ain't gonna wanna deal wit' you."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"But foist, she'd go on an' git someone ta beat ye widdin an inch o' yer life."

Olivia blinked, the heavy, wet fabric in her hand slowly sliding down the washboard and into the water with a dull sloshing sound.

"An' ye wouldn' have no chance o' gittin' away 'cause a' yer leg dere," Ironsides continued with a snicker. "An' fer readin! Why Livvie! Det might as well jus' kill yas rather'n send you ta some farm in Illinois. Dey don' want no farm'ands smarter den 'em. Not ta mention, ya wouldn' be no help to 'em, crip."

Olivia's jaw set tight as she listened, refusing to react. "I would appreciate it if you'd cease calling me names, Alice."

"I don't care what you 'prec'ate, clubfoot."

"I do." Olivia stood shakily, picking up the skirt and wringing it out. A few drips strayed and hit Ironsides in the face. The girl bristled, her muscles tensing and bulging under the tight sleeves of her dress. She, too, had worn the dress for three years, but she hadn't grown nearly as much as Olivia had, other than her muscles.

"Oh—Alice—I'm sorry," Olivia said with a dash of sarcasm, handing the wet fabric to a passing younger girl who was carrying the basket of laundry to be brought to dry. "I didn't mean it, I'm sure you understand that much."

Ironsides stood and wrong out her own sopping wet garment, her eyes meeting Olivia's. The slow, deliberate motion made Olivia cringe, as it looked that Ironsides had a strong desire to do the same to her. Olivia very often found herself in trouble when she spoke in a sarcastic tone, said the things the characters in her stories would say. She very often made the mistake of speaking without thinking of the possible consequences. It was a well known, unwritten rule among the children in Mrs. Opperheim's annex: one cannot be sarcastic with Ironsides McGovern.

As the stronger girl took a step forward, around the basin, a genuine apology escaped Olivia's lips as she took a limping step back.

"Don't you know da rules 'round 'ere, clubfoot? Huh? Any goil dat makes Alice McGovern angry gets a lesson tawt to 'em. Ye gotta be awf yer rocker ta think dat you'd bodder me s'much an' get out widdout yer lesson. You t'ink yer so smart 'cause you ain' from 'round 'ere. You come in as a baby wit' awl dese stories a' who yer parents were an' how fancy yer life woulda been if dey weren't dead. 'Ow could ya know dat if you was a baby, huh? You ain' in France no more, you ain' livin' no fairy-story. Youse 'ere—an' you ain' no better'n any of us."

Olivia gulped. "Well, I—"

"Leave 'er alone, McGovern."

Ironsides's right fist was raised and ready to make fierce contact with Olivia's jaw when the tall, spindly form of Letty Nelson stepped between them. She towered a good eleven inches over the redheaded girl, though Ironsides looked like much more of a threat. But even so, Ironsides lowered her fist and looked up at the Vermont girl, eyes flickering lightly.

"Shame on you, McGovern," Letty said softly, her dishwater blue eyes remaining calm and controlled. Olivia watched Ironsides quietly as she peeked out from behind Letty. "She's thirteen years old. Leave her alone. Just because she said something sarcastic is no reason to attack her."

The short, half-Irish-half-Brooklyn girl folded her arms and looked up at Letty with a slightly amused smile. She scoffed, her shoulders briefly rising and falling with the quick exhalation of air. "You jus' don' want me beatin' on 'er 'cause she's a crip, Letty. Yous're awl protective of 'er 'cause she got a clubfoot an' you don' think she could fight back."

Letty faltered, and Olivia tensed, shifting her weight to her good leg. "I didn't say that, Alice. She's younger than you and has never been in a fight in her life. I don't want her getting hurt."

"You know it's her leg, Letty. She's lived 'ere awl 'er life an' ain' neva gotten smacked around by anudder orphin 'cause of you awlways stickin' up for 'er. One a' dese days y'ain' gonna be 'ere ta keep me from blackenin' 'er eye."

Ironsides glanced around to Olivia and grinned, her chapped lips curling back in a sneer, revealing yellowed, poorly maintained teeth. She reached out to push a dark strand of hair out of Olivia's eye, causing her to flinch.

"Seeya, clubfoot," she snickered as she backed up, and spat at Letty's feet before walking off. "You too, spindle-legs."

Olivia and Letty could only exchange glances.

Renouart d'Enneris loved Marianne duPoitier. Her former fiancé, her parents and d'Enneris had arranged their union six months after her seventeenth birthday. He was twelve years her senior and could provide for her quite well. But she did not love him.

When she met Guillaume Roufoide, she abandoned d'Enneris. Love at first sight was something she hadn't ever known before, and it filled her completely with a euphoria she never believed she could experience. Roufoide was closer in age, well-monied, and a true gentleman. Her parents found that he would be a more suitable husband, and though d'Enneris raised the marriage price for her, he was refused her hand. Guillaume and Marianne were married over a year later.

D'Enneris's hatred for Roufoide boiled inside of him. Marianne was meant to be his wife, his lover, and she was meant to bear his children. She belonged to him. And he longed for her, with unspeakable passion. He watched her closely while he cared for her. He watched her hair, her lips, her eyes, her breasts. He longed to touch her hair, her face, her body. But he was also angry at her. She left him, she abandoned him, she scorned him and disgraced his name.

And she would soon know it.

"Where do you think you're going, clubfoot? Huh? Hurry up dat limpin', yer holdin' up da line!"

This was many of the day's routine torments for Olivia. The hour at which luncheon was served turned unsavory, much like the food distributed to them. When the whistle called noon, Olivia knew that the following sixty minutes would be her own personal hell as Ironsides felt the urgent need to persecute her.

Olivia ignored Ironsides with quiet indifference, and advanced in line. A ladle of watery gruel dripped and plopped into her wooden bowl, followed by a hard, crusty roll that caused some of the gritty, watery soup to splash from the bowl. She nodded a thank you and limped to her seat beside Letty, and across from two of the other more friendly girls.

"Doesn't Ol' Ironsides eva give it a rest?" murmured the girl directly across from Olivia. She was somewhat younger than Letty, with dark strawberry blonde hair that curled at the ends and dark blue eyes that always sparkled. Her appearance never seemed to be that of an orphanage girl; she was pretty—no, beautiful—and she held a refined, upright manner about her despite her faint street accent. Her name was Mary Picker, and she came before Sarah Quinlan. She was another one of the orphans who was born there or left there, and had to be given a name by the orphanage board.

"Not if she c'n 'elp it," growled the one to her left, a much younger girl who had only been at the orphanage a matter of months. She was given the name of Cora Fitzpatrick at birth, but most of the orphans called her "Whistle," because of her untiring ability to stick her two pinky fingers into either side of her mouth, blow, and produce the most ear-piercing sound this side of Manhattan. And she made good use of it. She had blonde hair like a duckling's feathers, and it seemed to be her only saving grace for looks. A large maroon birthmark covered the lower right quarter of her face and continued down her neck and right arm. She had tight pink lips that were chapped and reddened in most places, and one brown eye. The other eye, her right, had a large, gruesome scar over it, making that eye slightly lower than the other, and the area around it a purplish tint to it. No one knew what had happened, but they assumed it would have been better not to ask. She was temperamental and impatient, but that was only because she was eleven years old.

"Mrs. Opperheim shouldn't let 'er talk to you like dat, Livvie," said Mary contemplatively as she dipped her bread in her gruel-like substance to soften it, and took a bite. "It ain't so polite."

"Neidder is tawkin' wid yer mouth full," replied Whistle, flicking a spoonful of the gruel into Mary's face. She sputtered and wiped it from her eye.

Letty smiled and nudged Olivia with a bony elbow. "Don't let McGovern get to you, Livvie. She's just trying to bother you."

"I know," said Olivia as she allowed the gruel to drip unappetizingly from her spoon and back into her bowl. "She doesn't get to me. I just don't like the names she calls me."

"I say ya clock 'er," said Whistle, pounding her fist into her hand. "Ironsides needs some'un ta do it to 'er."

Olivia stammered. "Why me?"

"'Cause she's got it out fer ye. Ya gotta admit dat."

"She just doesn't like me. Nothing's going to happen."

There was silence as it seemed that Olivia had sealed her own fate. Whenever someone said Ironsides McGovern wasn't going to do something, she always would. No one could predict her. Letty, Mary, and Whistle exchanged glances, but they quickly looked to her as Olivia looked up.

Mary cleared her throat. "Why does she dislike ye s'much, Livvie?"

Whistle growled again, angered. When she was angry, the purple discolouring over her right eye seemed to brighten and almost turn the colour of her birthmark. "It's 'cause she's a crip. Ironsides dun' like me neidder 'cause a' me eye."

Letty frowned. "Yes, there is that. But it's not a reason that Ironsides would target her so specifically."

"Yeah, so what is?"

"Haven't you noticed that Olivia's lived here all her life and yet she doesn't have an accent?"

"So?"

"So everyone here knows that Olivia isn't lying."

"Everyone 'ere thinks she is," Mary scoffed, but that was quickly corrected. "I mean—I believe it, o' course."

Whistle raised a brow—her left, of course, since her right was immobile. "Lying about what?"

Olivia glanced up. "About my parents."

"Ya was born 'ere. Ya can't know nuttin' about yer parents."

Letty swallowed the bit of gritty soup that had been pooling on her spoon for the past few minutes. "She found the files when she was seven. That was just after she learned to read. Didn't show them to me, or anyone else, but she can't be lying. It was hard evidence that her parents were Guillaume and Marianne Roufoide, and that her real name is Mireille Roufoide. She was born in France and her parents were both killed soon after."

Whistle leaned forward in her chair, interested. "So, why's she 'ere?"

"The man who killed her parents sold her to gypsies, and they came here. The woman caring for her was being chased by the police. She was shot, and came to the orphanage doorsteps with her, and told Mrs. Opperheim what happened, giving Mireille—Olivia—over to her as she died. Mrs. Opperheim didn't believe it, but wrote it down and put it in the files anyway, and gave Mireille the name of Olivia Swipple to make her think she had no known past. But, of course, she found those files."

The blonde girl pursed her lips and exhaled a low, breathy whistle. "Well, I'll be damned if dat ain' da most far-fetched, ridiculous t'ing I'se eva hoid."

"It's true," Mary said, swatting the eleven-year-old lightly. "She's been sayin' the same thing fer six whole years. An' Livvie doesn't lie."

As the other three girls further discussed the matter, Olivia remained stonily silent. She hated it when the attention was on her. Though it was good to know that she was different from the other girls, apart from the rest, she wasn't used to attention and she wasn't used to being talked about. One would think she enjoyed it, but she felt highly uneasy, highly uncomfortable. She was ever so glad when the bell rang to signal the end of lunch and she could get away from the talking.

"Hey clubfoot!"

Olivia tensed, her fingers clenching around her bowl which she was carrying to be put away. The ever familiar cry of Ironsides was present, and she didn't want to be forced to deal with the redheaded girl. She attempted to ignore it an advanced in line with a hobbling step.

A spoonful of gruel hit Olivia in the cheek.

The girls who sat with Ironsides giggled.

Olivia sighed and wiped the grimy substance from her face and ignored it further, though she could hear murmurs amongst Ironsides and the other girls. She hated being ridiculed and she hated being teased, but she couldn't do anything about it. Maybe if she ignored them they would go away.

She dropped her bowl and spoon into the dishwater and limped her way to the door. Ironsides and the other girls followed her.

"Where're you headin', clubfoot? Awf ta laundry? I'se glad, 'cause dat's where I'se headed, too. Ain't you glad?"

Letty, Mary, and Whistle trailed behind the other girls to make sure nothing happened. Olivia wasn't always careful about what she said, and they didn't want her getting hurt.

But Olivia was silent.

"No answer, clubfoot? C'mon, Frenchie, let's see ya tawk. We'se just wantin' a con-ver-sa-shun! Maybe yer voice's come as cripped as yer leg, is dat it? C'mon, clubfoot, toin around!"

Olivia stopped as the girls caught up. Her leg was aching with the warning of impending bad weather, and she didn't want to walk so fast anymore. She glanced over her shoulder before turning around.

"You want me to speak?"

Ironsides practically cackled with delight. "Lookee dis, goils! Da crip speaks finally! She ain't as cripped as we t'ought she were! Look like luck is on yer side, Frenchie. Dun' it look dat way?"

Whistle growled and clenched her fists. Letty held her back, and Olivia shrugged softly, her brows rising and falling with the delicate movement of her shoulders.

"I suppose," was her reply.

Ironsides's features twisted into a scowl, then bent into a sneer. "Well, ain't dat nice. Lemme let you in on a little secret. In Mrs. Opperheim's orphanage, dere ain' no such thing as luck."

The redheaded girl turned to walk away. But in a lightning fast movement, she had turned again, and her fist made swift, harsh contact with Olivia's jaw. Olivia stumbled backward, and tumbled over the girl that had surreptitiously positioned herself there on her hands and knees, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

And the girls laughed.

Letty and Mary watched in numb horror for a few moments as Olivia struggled to get up. She managed to get to her knees before Ironsides kicked her in the ribcage and caused her to collapse. Mary, though naturally refined and delicate, clenched her fists. She grabbed Ironsides by the collar and sent her knee up into her stomach, throwing her back into the other girls.

Which ensued the fight.

Ironsides and six other girls against Letty, Mary, and Olivia. The shouting in the hallway was loud and ear-piercing as punches were thrown, kicks were issued, and blood was staining hands. Girls were tackled to the ground, hair was mercilessly pulled.

Whistle panicked and shoved her two pinky fingers into either side of her mouth and let out her tell-tale shrieking trill that rose above all the yelling and signaled Mrs. Opperheim.

"The storm has delayed his return."

Marianne looked up from her reading and frowned. The book rested comfortably upon her bulging abdomen as she sat in the chair in front of the fire. "He can't come back? He must return before—"

Renouart d'Enneris nodded gravely, his boots clicking as he stepped into the room beside her. She thought he had just come in. In fact, he had been watching her from the doorway for an hour, like he always did when she thought she was by herself. "The snow in the city is worse here. The roads are blocked. He won't be back for days, until the roads are cleared and the carriage can get through. I'm sorry, Marianne."

There were a few moments of silence as the reality of the situation set in. She could sense that the child would be born soon; there was no escaping it. Her husband had to be there—he had to! Closing her eyes tightly, she turned towards the fire and reopened them, the flames dancing in her eyes.

D'Enneris sighed and stepped over to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll come back. But if he doesn't, Marianne, you mustn't upset yourself over it. What happens is meant to happen. You know that."

"Yes, I understand," she murmured quietly.

The man sighed and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. But he knew that if he touched her, he wouldn't be able to stop. He wanted to bend down and inhale the sweet scent of her hair, kiss her all over her body. They were alone, and Roufoide would not be returning. She was fragile now. And in her most beautiful and vulnerable state; about to give birth to a new life. He could take her now, before Roufoide returned. Marianne was too fragile and quiet to ever speak to her husband of it. And who was to say she would mind?

Marianne stood, grabbing the shoulder of d'Enneris in order to stand up. She trudged out of the room to go to her bed, and left d'Enneris to stare into the fire and collect his thoughts which blazed equally as passionate.

Bloodied, battered, and defeated, the nine girls who had been in the fight sat in silence in the orphanage's primary office. It was a small room, not meant to hold any more than six, with bland white walls and dark mahogany furniture.

At least the paint isn't peeling in here, thought Olivia to herself with bland emotion, as Letty helped to hold her up because of the pain in Olivia's leg. Peeling paint would make this room worse.

The girls stood as far apart as they could within the white walls which held them captive, and waited for Mrs. Opperheim to come back with her latest disciplinary aid.

Mrs. Opperheim was a threat, but only verbally. She hired "disciplinary aids" when trouble arose. They were usually hulking, muscular men from the nearby factory; men with simple minds and harsh dispositions. They were wanted for their brawn, however, not their brain. The concept of a disciplinary aid was simple. There was an hour of verbal abuse and interrogation of what happened from both Mrs. Opperheim and the aid, and then a close watch would be held over the girls who had misbehaved. If one of the girls misbehaved, all of the girls were beaten. It was a way of keeping the girls in check. No one wanted to issue a beating—not because it would hurt the person, but because they didn't want to deal with the shame and the torment and the hatred that would come from the girls for years after. This surveilance lasted a week. Olivia never found Mrs. Opperheim to be a highly intelligent woman, but she had to admit that the cruel, twisted form of punishment was not only creative, but smart.

"Can you hold yourself up?" Letty asked quietly, just many of the hushed murmurings in the room. She absently licked the blood from her lip.

Olivia nodded, but as soon as Letty tentatively released her, she buckled and Letty's arms fell comfortingly under hers again.

"Don't you go lying to me, Olivia. Your pride is going to get the better of you."

Mary glanced over from nursing a cut on her arm. "Livvie, you're alright, aren't you?"

Olivia nodded quietly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"They ain't gonna blame you, are they? I . . . It's not your fault."

"I know. But I can't do anything about it."

There was sullen, eerie silence as Mrs. Opperheim walked in. The only sounds anyone could hear were the gentle flutter of ragged, slightly frightened breathing and the creaking of Mrs. Opperheim's shoes. Too small for her, but she thought they made her look dainty.

More silence came was Mrs. Opperheim waited. The girls waited. Waiting to see what was going to happen to them was the worst part. Girls like Ironsides always felt they could predict what would happen, and therefore she viewed the situation with mild indifference, having experienced it before. Olivia was shaking.

Suddenly, like the sound of a gunshot in serene woods, came the footsteps of a man. Slow, forceful, and demanding respect. Olivia could see that even Ironsides flinched at the noise. Mrs. Opperheim waited. The girls waited. And what they were greeted with was a shock.

The man who stepped in was tall, and his corded muscles tensed and flexed under his crisp white shirt. His pants were dark brown and flawless, a vest over his upper half; he looked almost ridiculous in such an outfit with his imposing size. Despite his factory attire, he wasn't dirty or sweaty like any of the others who had come to be a disciplinary aid for the girls, and his sharp gray eyes conveyed intelligence and scrutiny. He had a highly imposing appearance, with such an apparent mixture of strength and intellect.

Mrs. Opperheim did not speak. She retreated to the desk, sat down, and looked over paperwork while the imposing form did the rest, his eyes scanning the girls.

"My name is Jacob Meyer," he said with a voice as powerful and imposing as his presence. "I've been assigned here in order to keep you girls in line. I understand that a fight broke out. I want to know immediately who began it."

"It was her!" shouted Ironsides, pointing her finger directly at Olivia, who flinched and clung closer against Letty.

Jacob approached with deliberate steps. He paused, looking Olivia up and down. As his eyes reached her clubfooted right leg, he chuckled, and looked up to her face again.

"Name."

Olivia pulled her face from where it was buried in Letty's shoulder and looked up. His eyes were even more powerful once they were intent upon hers. She cringed.

"Olivia Swipple, sir."

He raised an eyebrow. "What an infernal piece of bad luck for you."

"It's not my real name, sir. My real name is—"

"Silence!" he shouted, and backhanded her sharply across the face. The girls gasped. Even Ironsides. "I will not tolerate insolence! Swipple is the name you give me, Swipple is what you will be called." The girls backed up as he turned around to see them staring. "That goes for all of you as well. Do you hear? All of you. Speak out of line, you start any trouble—If any one of you does it—all of you will get a beating."

Such a statement of the reasons for a disciplinary aid were routine, but never had they seemed so frightening before. The way he said it made it seem as if the idea was completely original, completely his. His eyes cut across the room. "I want to know all of your names. Now."

"Letty Nelson, sir."

"Mary Picker, sir."

"Janie Peters, sir."

"Anne Twine, sir."

"Elizabeth O'Reilly, sir."

"Bridget Marshall, sir."

"Johanna Schuyler, sir."

"Cassie Johnson, sah."

"Alice McGovern, sir."

"And I know you already, Swipple," he finished off. "I'll get to know you much better, now won't I. Hm. You don't look like very much of a troublemaker. I'm sure I'll find out why you caused this in good time."

Olivia said nothing. She knew that it wasn't her fault. But talking back now, once the ultimatum was issued, would give her—and all of the others—a sound thrashing. She didn't like many of them because they bothered her so, but she didn't want them getting hurt. And she certainly didn't want them hating her more.

D'Enneris tried to force the painful, agonized screams of Marianne coming from the bedroom which had been going on for hours. A nurse had been sent for, and was in there now, giving coaxing words of encouragement which were mostly drowned out by the cries. The screaming was pounded into his head by every word from the nurse that he could hear, like railroad spikes being driven into the beams.

"That's it . . . Just a little further, I can see it now, Madame Roufoide . . . You can do it, Madame Roufoide . . ."

The woman was screaming. He flinched at every maddening shriek as he paced the room outside. The nurse was meant to help her! Why was she screaming? His insane love, and lust, for Marianne clouded his mind of common reasoning, and all he could think of was Marianne in pain and the nurse not doing anything to stop it.

D'Enneris paced in front of the room, then quickly backed away as a sharp, more terrible cry came through the closed door. What hideous creature could cause Marianne such pain? Certainly no innocent child could make a mother scream so horribly! Marianne duPoitier was such a sweet, delicate, elegant woman. What did she do to deserve this?

Another scream.

And d'Enneris couldn't take it any longer.

He thrust his full force upon the door, banging on it mightily and bellowing like a wounded beast. What was meant to be, "Let her out! For God's sake, don't do this to her!" came out as incoherent roars as he pounded against the solid oak.

But the door didn't open and he continued to yell, in fragmented sentences, "No—Marianne, stop—Let her go—You can't do this!" until his strength was gone and sweat was on his forehead in salty beads, and the screaming inside the bedroom stopped. He slid to his knees before the door, his fists sliding down like droplets of water on a window pane. He rested his head against the wood, his hands coming down to run nervously through his sweat-and-brilliantine slicked hair.

He heard the silence from the room.

Maybe the child was dead.

Maybe Marianne was dead.

His hands clenched around the slippery, greasy strands of hair, and ripped at them as the anger flashed suddenly in his watering eyes. He brought himself to stand, his muscles taught and jaw set, as one hand went to the doorknob.

The workload for the nine girls had been doubled. For six days they wasked, mended, cooked, sewed, and were publicly humiliated by Mrs. Opperheim and Jacob Meyer. The other girls had the audacity to point and snicker at the unfortunate souls that actually got caught fighting. Yet most of the girls there knew, first hand, the horrors of a disciplinary aid, and had since been scared of misbehaving again. They were the girls who didn't have the right to laugh but did because they thought it was only right to get back at the previously unknowing fools who had jeered at them. It was a vicious cycle, and no matter how many disciplinary aids were issued, the cycle didn't seem to end. There was always one who laughed that the others always wanted to laugh at.

They say that God created the world in six days and on the seventh day he rested. Every girl under Jacob Meyer's control felt, by the sixth day, that they had done enough work to each create six universes, and knew that the seventh day would contain no rest—they would just work hard enough to create a seventh universe. Within all of this "creating," the girls were issued no breaks, and only lunch would ease their hunger and thirst rather than the conventional three meals of the day. There were no rewards for good behavior—the only benefit to being good was that one might just last the entire seven days unharmed.

Olivia had been run ragged by the sixth day. At the end of every night, her leg had been used so much by the time she went to bed, that it throbbed with exertion and appeared red and swollen, delicately tender and painful to the touch. Letty would watch her like a mother hawk, never leaving her side. She was concerned that Olivia would hurt herself before the week was out.

"You shouldn't be with us," Letty murmured to Olivia on the sixth night. She laid ice on the younger girl's grotesquely twisted ankle and tried not to hear Olivia's gasp of pain. "You didn't hurt anyone at all. And why anyone would think you did is beyond me."

"I was there," gasped Olivia as she shifted to find a more comfortable position as she sat on her bed, leaning back on the pillow. "I was there and I didn't call for help. Whistle did. And because Whistle called for help, she didn't get in trouble."

"Whistle's a little snitch, Livvie."

"She isn't. She was scared. And she had the right idea. She got out of having to deal with a disciplinary aid, didn't she? If I could make a noise like she can, I would have done the same thing."

Letty let out a soft, almost-melodious laugh (compared to Mary's it was just slightly off-key) and reached out to brush a strand of hair out of Olivia's face. "No, you wouldn't."

Olivia looked indignant. "What do you mean, I wouldn't?"

"You wouldn't have left Mary and I to go through this alone."

"What?"

"I know you, Livvie. I've known you since you were five years old. You wouldn't have signaled for Mrs. Opperheim to come. You would have done just as you did, and carry out an undeserved sentence because you didn't want to abandon your friends."

"Well . . ."

"Well, what?" Letty grinned. "I know what I'm talking about. You're even willing to risk your good health, for God's sake. Look at your leg. It's swelled up like a can of chicken mash gone bad . . . 'cept it don't smell."

Olivia smirked, and it transformed to a smile. That smile transformed into a chuckle. "You're a fool, Letty Nelson. You really are."

Letty could only laugh as she hugged her friend.

At night, Olivia would sleep with the ice on her ankle and pray that the swelling would go down by morning. It always did, though it ached more and more with the passing of the days and by the morning of the seventh day it was stiff and sore. She walked with a limp that was more painful than any she had experienced, and the grueling pressure of the work under Jacob Meyer's watchful eye was beginning to come too difficult for her.

The seventh day had been in progress for a mere two hours when the pain in Olivia's clubfooted leg began to overwhelm her. She shook her head quickly to try and clear the dizziness in her head, and stopped for a few brief moments to catch her breath. The pain was throbbing in her shin, her ankle. Oh, how she wanted to sit down and feel the comfort of one of Letty's ice packs.

"Livvie . . . Livvie. Hey! Hey, Livvie!" came Letty's voice from below her. It was a strained, harsh whisper, barely loud enough for Olivia to hear. She looked down at Letty, who was on her hands and knees with a scrub brush, with a clouded quizzical expression.

"Livvie, you've got to stop standing. C'mon, I'll switch jobs with you," Letty said softly as she held her brush out in offering when Jacob's back was turned to them.

Olivia looked to the window she had been washing, then to the rag in her hand. To be on the floor was better than standing washing windows, at least. Her brow furrowed in thought as she considered Letty's offer.

"Jacob will notice and be angry," whispered Olivia plaintively.

"Oh," said Letty, realizing this with concern. "But why should he care? The work would still get done, certain sure. And I'm taller, anyhow. I can reach the top of the window without a ladder. I'm not making you do this, Olivia, if you're worried. I'm just concerned about your leg."

Olivia was left to ponder the consequences, and benefits, of what she was being asked to do. She was ready to faint with the pain of standing. Usually she was able to ignore the pain, and it didn't bother her. But today it was particularly strong. If she and Letty were caught, however, and Jacob was somehow displeased, it would ensure them all a beating that they would never allow Olivia and Letty to forget.

She shook her head. "I don't want to risk it, Letty. Not on the seventh day. Not when we're almost finished with this."

Letty frowned, making her long face even longer. "Only if you'll be alright."

"I will be. It just hurts. Don't worry."

The wiry older girl sighed with resignation and nodded, watching Olivia silently for a few moments before crawling away, scrubbing at the floor vehemently to make up for lost time.

Olivia winced as she shifted to look up at the window. Reaching her arm up, she found that she was not going to be able to get to the top of the window. A stepladder would be necessary. Maybe she should have listened to Letty and taken her offer and let her work on the window. Her eyes, glazed and not quite alert, gazed out the window. Tiny droplets of rain began to hit the outside of the glass and made her snap back to attention. No wonder her leg ached so much; it was beginning to rain. She had known for at least ten days that it was going to rain. Odd—she'd never been able to predict the weather so far in advance. Her brows knit together in contemplation of this, and the fluid movement of her hand washing the window slowed and came to a halt as the rain picked up. She would hear the gentle rumble of thunder in the distance.

It took her slightly longer to hear the thick Brooklyn-Irish accent beside her.

"Hey. Clubfoot."

Ironsides tapped Olivia with her washrag to jolt her out of her trance and Olivia looked to her quickly. The short, muscular girl had her washrag in one hand and the stepladder in the other.

"Meyer's watchin' you," she whispered. "Been watchin' you an awful while. Betcha he's thinkin', 'Don' dat Swipple goil look cute like dat, starin' out da window wid dem eyes round as fay-yant-sy dinna plates. Don' even notice dat clubfoot dat way, an' she's awlmost real pretty-like.' Betcha dat's what he been thinkin', watchin' you, an' I betcha yer likin' dat idea, ain'cha, Frenchie?"

Olivia's usually calm features changed into a scowl as she turned to Ironsides, who had been whispering in her ear and was closer than Olivia thought. The sudden sight of McGovern's repulsive teeth and glinting grayish-green eyes in a sneering expression a mere three inches from her face caused Olivia to recoil back with surprise and mild disgust.

"Be quiet or you're going to get us all in trouble, Alice," she said softly as she remembered herself and began to wash the window again.

Ironsides leaned casually against the window Olivia was almost finished painstakingly washing, knowing that the grime from her dress and the grease from her hair would force Olivia to wash the window again.

"You didda real pretty job wid dis one, clubfoot," Ironsides said, tracing her stubby fingers down the glass, leaving a set of four grimy streaks. "But, ah, it looks like ye missed a spot'r two, eh? Might wanna take a look at dat one again."

Olivia's jaw set with annoyance bordering on anger. "Alice, let me do my job. You aren't making this any easier on us. This is the last day of having a disciplinary aid, and I certainly don't want to get beaten, or have to live out these hours any longer than I must. I'm sure you feel the same, so I advise that you step aside and continue on your own work."

Ironsides grinned and stepped back. "Lovely, Frenchie, lovely. Now you're puttin' on airs again, ain't you. Thinkin' yer better'n ev'ryone an' can order us 'round like dis—"

"Alice, please stop it. You know I'm not trying to do that."

"You shouldn' be 'ere washin' winders, shouldja, Frenchie. Ya should be sittin' on your arse in some posh Frenchie 'ouse witha bunch a' swells a-waitin' on ya, yer li'l clubfoot dere on a satin pillow wit' lace. Yeah, dat's right. You be dere, sippin' lay-mo-nade and eatin' tarts an' fergettin' awl dem yea's you spent 'ere 'cause you'se're so much better'n awl of us, ain'cha."

Olivia's voice was a pleading whisper, her posture crumbling with the other girl's words. "Alice . . . Alice, please . . ."

"An' what about dat writin', Olivia?" Ironsides sneered, her voice low and threatening. "You ain' only someun born 'ere who c'n read an' write, but ya been writin' stories, ain'cha, clubfoot. Stories!"

"A-And what of that?"

"I see what you was writin', clubfoot. I see dat story 'bout yer posh parents an' dat Deneriss feller what loved yer mudda. Real nice, clubfoot, 'ow ya captured dat . . . dat emotion, dat feeling, eh? But I'll be damned if anyone's gonna read dat and t'ink it's true, clubfoot. Ya gotta figger if yer gonna lie an' make yerself seem oh-so-much better, den you gonna lie yerself ta death ta make yer story innerestin'."

"I'm not lying," Olivia murmured, cringing and wringing her dishrag in her hands. The rain splattered against the window more insistently now, the thunder rumbling with apprehension. "It's true."

"Da hell it's true. If you was so young when yer parents died, 'ow did you know about dis?"

"The gypsy woman told Mrs. Opperheim the story of what h-happened. Sh-She wrote it down at first, but then tried to forget it so no one would know about me and my past."

"Ooh, gypsies. I ain' got ta dat part yet."

"I haven't written it."

Ironsides rolled her eyes. "You just got ev'rythin' stored up in yer head, don'cha? C'mon, clubfoot. Admit dat yer lyin'. Admit dat dis story you been writin' ain' real. Yer mudda's a whore an' yer fadda's a drunk an' you jus' don' wanna admit to it 'cause you'd be just like ev'rybody else."

Olivia turned with a glare so unlike her usual placid attitude that Ironsides jumped and took a step back. "Don't you ever tell me that I'm lying, Alice. Because I'm not, and I never will be. And I don't care what you think of what I say, because I know it's true and I know that my parents loved me and wanted me and that's more than I can say about anyone who's ever known you."

"Oh. Oh-hoh, clubfoot," said Ironsides with a sarcastic jovial laugh, clapping her on the back with a force that caused Olivia to stumble forward. "Tryin' to be funny, ain'cha. Ain'cha, clubfoot. Are you tryin' to be funny? I t'ink you is. An' know what? It ain' so funny." Her laugh promptly died. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jacob's vigilant eyes begin to cast his steely gaze over them.

"Now you know how I feel when you do it to me."

"Frenchie, no one could ever know how you feel," she said softly, with a cold-hearted tone that could have frozen boiling water. She said it with such mean-spiritedness in her grayish-green eyes, such taunting, such cruelty, with that terrible yellow-toothed sneer.

Olivia was compelled to do something she had never, ever done before.

She threw a vicious punch into the left side of the Ironsides's jaw.

The seven other girls gasped and looked up as they heard the sickening crack of snapping bone. Ironsides stumbled backwards, tripped over the stepladder, and crumpled to the floor with a strangled cry of pain. Her jaw hung loose two inches left of her chin, and a pool of blood was forming on the floor beneath her open mouth. Shrieking, lying on the floor and flailing about like a fish out of water, Ironsides touched her lip and was horrified at the sight of her own blood on her fingers.

The others raced over and circled Ironsides in a frenzy. Letty, seeing Olivia standing in the same spot she had been since the blow was issued, looked to her frantically. Olivia was frozen to the floor, staring at what she had done with wide, horrified eyes, her hands clamped over her mouth. Letty was almost sure it was shock, but the gesture could have also been in repulsion of the sight.

Olivia's terrified trance was broken as her wrist was grabbed and tugged upwards with a painful grip. She found herself staring into the chest of Jacob Meyer, his muscles coiled with building anger. Looking up quietly, their eyes met. She felt that she would collapse from the expression of sheer hatred in his eyes.

"So you finally decide to start trouble again, don't you, Swipple," he said, tightening his grip on her wrist. Olivia was almost sure that it would snap like Ironsides's jaw. "Now I see why this whole 'disciplinary aid' procedure was because of you. You thought you could be sneaky, didn't you, Swipple. You thought you could get off fine with good behavior, but you couldn't keep that violent streak out of you for more than a week. You got all of these girls into this mess, and you've just gotten them into getting beaten. Each and every one of them. Even McGovern."

Olivia gasped as he twisted at her wrist. Please, she thought. Not my right wrist. Not this wrist. I need to write with this hand. If you break any bone in my body, don't break this one. Please.

"All eight girls and then you. And you, Swipple," he continued as he lowered his voice to a deadly growl, so Olivia could barely hear it above the panic in the background, "are going to watch."

The door opened with a creak as d'Enneris stepped in.

The nurse was washing her hands in a basin near the bed as Marianne, exhausted and crying softly with tears of joy, held a bundled child in her arms. She looked visibly weaker, as if someone had torn the colour right out of her. She looked like a photograph, brown and gray with almost a blurry, surreal appearance. D'Enneris recoiled at the sight of Marianne, his beautiful Marianne, appearing so weak and sickly. The child had done this. The child had destroyed her. That damned child—

D'Enneris was led to the corner of the room by the nurse as she dried her hands. "M'sieu d'Enneris. I do not know if I should tell you this, since you aren't the father, but the Roufoide child suffered a birth injury to her right leg."

"What is this?" he asked incredulously. "Let me see."

The nurse went to Marianne, murmured something comforting into her ear, and gently pulled the bundle from her arms. As she approached d'Enneris again, she unwrapped the blanket to reveal the tiny, naked infant who had just come into the world.

His eyes widened has he saw her leg. It twisted inwards toward her left leg, and upwards. The bones and muscles were twisted and swollen, and it was amazing that the child wasn't screaming from the pain. In his recollection, the child never cried that day. Perhaps he was trying to force the human from her.

"What is this."

"It's Marianne's daughter," said the nurse softly.

He wrapped the child back in the blanket and thrust her at the nurse, who gently took her out of his arms. She gave her back to Marianne, who went back to crooning weakly in her sweet voice.

"What is it."

The nurse frowned. "It's a girl, sir. Surely you could tell."

"That—That thing is no child. What is wrong with its leg."

"There were some complications during birth, M'sieu d'Enneris. But the child is young, and new procedures can help it."

"Complications!" he roared as he backhanded her. From the bed, Marianne snapped alert and looked up with a gasp. "Isn't it your job to make sure things don't go wrong!"

"I am here to help the mother. What happens, happens. I can't help that."

D'Enneris watched the nurse with a steely expression. She was shifting from side to side, rubbing her arms and unable to meet his gaze. Why wasn't she able to her job, and why would she allow such a heathenous child to live? She had to have been hiding something from him.

"There is something else," he said coldly.

"Yes."

"And?"

The nurse lowered her voice. "Marianne may not live."

D'Enneris grabbed her wrist with such a force, jerking her upwards. Marianne shrieked as the heard the woman's bone snap like a brittle twig. The nurse sank to her knees and d'Enneris went down with her, grabbing her shoulders and bellowing madly.

"You whore! You devil! How can you allow this!"

The nurse grasped the silver cross around her neck and murmured a prayer as he shook her so hard that she could feel her teeth rattle in her mouth. Marianne watched in horrified shock at this, clutching the child to her breast protectively.

The prayers of the nurse must have gone unanswered. He grasped her head and shoulders and twisted, snapping the bones between.

"No—!" shrieked Marianne as she saw the lifeless body of the nurse collapse to the ground in a heap. She pulled her daughter close and shrank back against the bed. "Oh, God, no—" she murmured deliriously, rocking the child and staring in shock at the woman crumpled upon the floor.

"Marianne—" d'Enneris began desperately, going to the bed and trying to pull the heathen child from her arms. "Get that beast away!"

Marianne let out a scream and pulled the child to her with such strength that the larger, stronger d'Enneris could not wrench her away. She cried out, and d'Enneris struck her, again trying to pull the child away. She didn't let go.

"Don't you understand! The child is a demon, Marianne! It will kill you!" he cried desperately. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her with the rising panic of a madman, the same as he had done to the nurse. She gasped and tried her hardest to shelter her only daughter.

"Let go of the child, Marianne! Let go of it! Can't you see it's deformed? Can't you see what that thing—a-and that nurse! Can't you see what they've done to you, Marianne! I can save your life—!"

He stopped shaking her abruptly, holding her by the shoulders. Her head hung down, her chin at her chest, her beautiful dark brown hair wild and scattered over her back, shoulders, and chest.

"Marianne . . . ?"

D'Enneris raked a hand through Marianne's beautiful tresses. He had longed to do so, for so long. And she gave no protest. He was pleased at this, and leant in to inhale her scent, mixed with sweat from the birth. Again, no protest.

"Marianne . . . Let me have the child. Will you let me have the child, Marianne . . .?"

No answer. He tilted her chin up with two fingers, looking to her. Her eyes were closed, passive. He leaned in toward her to kiss her tenderly, then pose the question once again. He pressed his hands against the sides of her neck, brushing his lips against hers. So close to her, he felt an absence of warmth. The warmth of her breath was gone. He blinked, putting his hand to her mouth and nose. Nothing.

The infant girl began to cry.

"Marianne. Marianne, stop this. It isn't funny. Marianne, you're going to make yourself sick. Marianne!"

D'Enneris slapped her face lightly, lying her back, the child cradled to her chest, staring in horror at what he had done. In his attempt to save her, he had murdered Marianne Roufoide. He loved her! He loved her, how could he have killed her? Marianne Roufoide was dead, and the heathen child remained alive, mourning in its sexless wail, as if it knew she was gone.

His insane grief turned to sudden fear as his eyes flit from one body to the next. His eyes widened. He had to get out. He had to run. He had to escape.

D'Enneris turned to see the figure of Guillaume Roufoide standing in the doorway.

"I know, I know. But last night, everything just kept coming forth. I had to keep on going. The first part doesn't fit what I just wrote though. The styles are so different. I'll have to rewrite it."

"I think it's fine."

"You think it's fine. You think it's fine? I don't think it's fine. Not fine at all."

"If you say so, Livvie."

"Come to think of it," Olivia mumbled as she read over her manuscript again, "I should have called the nurse a midwife, shouldn't I."

Letty frowned as she adjusted the ice on a bruise on Mary's neck. She was lying back on Olivia's bed, examining Mary's wounds after looking at Olivia's and her own, who sat in front of her on the edge of the bed. "I don't particularly think it matters, Livvie," the spindly girl said quietly. "Mary, hold yourself still."

She pulled Mary's skirt up and held it bunched around her shoulder blades as she examined the dark purple bruises swelling on Mary's porcelain skin. Mary winced and Letty shushed her, taking the ice and laying it down again against her back. She crooned to Mary and switched positions with her, then looked back to Olivia.

"I should have called her a midwife. I should have, I know it. ‘Nurse' doesn't fit. It just doesn't seem to fit. Letty, what's wrong with me! She's a midwife!" Olivia dipped her quill into the ink angrily and crossed out the word "nurse" as many times as it occurred and wrote "midwife" in its place.

"Livvie! Livvie, calm down. No one cares about whether she's a nurse or a midwife."

"So you don't care about her? So you don't care about my story?"

Letty abandoned Mary for a moment and knelt down beside Olivia. "Livvie . . . You know that isn't true. Calm down. I know . . . I know you're acting like this because of Jacob and because of what happened, and I know you're mad at yourself. But you really can't let it get to you so much that you flinch at everything you say and think there's something wrong with you, alright?"

Olivia dropped her quill, the ink upon it splattering on her page. "You act as if it were nothing. As if it were nothing that I got all of you hurt."

Mary scootched over to the edge of the bed, leaning off to look at Olivia. "It wasn't nearly as bad knowin' dat I got t'see you break Ironsides's jaw dere, Liv. I could die a happy girl after seein' dat happen to someone like her."

The corners of Letty's mouth crept up into a smile. "Yeah, Livvie, that was pretty gallant on your part."

Olivia straightened, mildly indignant. "Well . . . Well, I had to do something to keep her from bothering me, didn't I?"

Mary giggled. "And what a way to do it."

"Tell us, Livvie," said Letty, looking at Olivia expectantly. "What does it feel like to break Ironsides McGovern's jaw?"

Olivia picked up the two pages she had written, as well as her ink and quill. She opened the drawer to the nightstand to place them into it. "I don't think that I really felt anything afterwards other than guilt. She may be Alice McGovern, but she still looks human when she's writhing on the—Oh, my God."

Letty and Mary both looked quickly to Olivia, blinking. They could very easily see the look of ultimately shocked horror that was not unlike the expression she had when she punched Ironsides. The colour drained from her face as she stared into the drawer.

"What? What is it?"

"My manuscript. My story. It's gone . . . !"

"It's gone?" Letty raced up behind Olivia to look into the empty drawer and confirm this for herself. She closed the drawer again and reopened it as if that would change the fact that there was nothing in there. She pulled up the pillow of Olivia's bed, then shoved Mary off the mattress to lift it up and look under it, then dove under Olivia's bed.

"It can't be gone, Livvie!"

"It's gone, Letty," Olivia said softly, biting her lip. She knew that, depending on who found it, she would have even more trouble. The last week had been hard enough. She didn't want any more problems.

"What's so important about those papers?" asked Mary, touching the bruise against her cheekbone and winced. She even winced gracefully.

Olivia turned to her, her knuckled white around the two sheets of paper she still had, and gulped down the bile rising in her throat."Because I've lived here all my life, like you. Those papers are the rest of the story I've been writing about my parents and Mrs. Opperheim won't be happy. I'm supposed to be illiterate, only knowing my alphabet to know about duty assignments. But I'm writing . . . and really writing, too. And it shows that I've obviously been writing for years. And the content of it . . . I'd be with a disciplinary aid, on my own, for a month. No, a year!"

She sank down onto the bed in desperation. I don't know what to do . . . ! I'll get in trouble and so will you two and Whistle for not saying anything to Mrs. Opperheim though you knew."

Mary placed a willowy arm around Olivia's shoulders. "Don't ya worry, Livvie. I'm sure there're here, you just misplaced ‘em. You'll find ‘em soon ‘nough an' you'll feel silly for frettin' somethin' terrible."

Olivia smiled. "Do you think so?"

"Well, sure I—"

Whistle bounded to the bed, out of breath. With her birthmark and scar, one would think she had been involved in the beatings also. "Livvie! Letty! Mary!"

The three girls looked swiftly to Whistle with an almost unison motion of their heads, eyes expectant, mouths slightly agape. Whistle raised her hand to pause, and collapsed against the bedpost, her other hand on her chest as she gasped for air.

"Listen," she said, though it was obvious they were. "Ironsides found yer story, Livvie. Came's soon as I sawrit wit' me own eyes, flippin' t'rough da pages like it be ‘ers. Last t'ing I sawr . . . she were bringin' it to Opperheim."

Olivia went suddenly pale, her large eyes widening as large as "fay-ant-sy dinna plates," as Ironsides would have said. The papers in her hands fluttered to the floor with a crinkling sound.

There was a long moment of absolutely shocked silence, but then the three girls stood suddenly, as if on cue. They shoved past Whistle and raced out the bunkroom foor, Olivia practically hopping on her good leg to keep up with Letty and Mary.

They ran down the hallway, Letty wrapping her arm around Olivia to help her. The orphans at work or resting in the rooms adjoining the hall peeked out, only to see the trio come, then pass by. A few moments later came Whistle, keeping her pace to a hopping jog.

Letty held onto Olivia and Olivia held onto Mary's hand. They swerved around the corner, skidding to a stop in front of Mrs. Opperheim's door and stumbling over to each other, each holding another up.

Mrs. Opperheim and Jacob Meyer were reading the manuscript.

"Well, girls," Mrs. Opperheim started off as she gestured with her hand for the four orphans to take a seat. "What a nice time for you to come."

The four seats in front of the desk seemed to have been placed there as if Mrs. Opperheim and Jacob Meyer had expected them to come. The room seemed more blank than ever and Olivia felt sick to her stomach as she saw her precious pages in Mrs. Opperheim's hands. Letty sank down beside Olivia, then Mary, then a scowling Whistle, who was scratching the hand with the red birthmark over it, and then went to scratching her head through her tufts of duckfluff hair.

Jacob's cold gaze watched the girls as Mrs. Opperheim spoke. "Alice McGovern happened to find this manuscript in the drawer of Miss Swipple's nightstand. I want to know, right now, who wrote this. I can only assume it was Swipple and therefore will not ask her. Nelson."

Letty looked up quickly. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Do these papers belong to Olivia Swipple?"

"I . . . don't know, ma'am. Perhaps they do."

"Picker."

Mary's eyes looked slowly to Mrs. Opperheim. She sat up tall, her hands folded regally in her lap. "Yes'm?"

"Do these papers belong to Olivia Swipple?"

"I . . . I think so, ma'am."

"Did she write this?"

"I don't know, ma'am. As far as I know, Olivia's illiterate."

Mrs. Opperheim didn't know why she bothered with Letty and Mary. She knew that they were able to lie. Cora, however, was not. She was only eleven, and was scared stiff about lying to anyone, particularly when it meant that she would get in trouble for doing so.

"Fitzpatrick."

Whistle's one good eye looked to the heavily-built woman sitting behind the desk. "Yes, ma'am."

"Did Olivia Swipple write this."

"W-Well, ma'am, I—"

"Answer me!"

Jacob Meyer stood as Mrs. Opperheim raised her voice. Whistle cringed further into the chair, stammering.

"Did she or did she not write these papers?"

Whistle started whimpering as Jacob stalked to her, his footsteps loud and commanding. He looked her over quietly, with a deadly calm, staring her down. She was the only girl among them who hadn't yet felt a beating from him. He grabbed her hands and started to pull her from the chair when she didn't answer a third time.

"Stop!" Olivia cried, standing.

Jacob stopped, turning to her. He dropped a sniveling Whistle back into the seat as his attention was brought to the clubfooted girl. Mrs. Opperheim also appeared stunned, as she set down the papers.

"I wrote them," Olivia went on. "I wrote those papers and I'm not ashamed to admit it. It was me, I wrote them. I learned how to write. I wanted to learn. And I did and I started to write. And you know I wrote it, Mrs. Opperheim, because you know what happened to my family and you know who I am and you know where I come from and you know it's true. You can do what you want to me and you can beat me or throw me out or send me to live in Illinois but you can't make me stop writing."

The other girls watched her in stunned silence. Jacob watched in stunned silence. Mrs. Opperheim regarded her with distaste. "I don't care how you learned to write," she said as she looked to Letty, then back to Olivia, "and I can guess how you did. I want to know how you got it into your head that this folly—this ludicrous, crude, and disturbing piece of fiction—is fact."

Letty's brow furrowed as she and Mary exchanged glances.

Olivia stammered, but grew bolder and more desperate as she spoke. she rung the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. "Don't pretend you don't know. I saw the files. Six years ago, I saw them. I saw the files that accounted for everything that happened to my parents, how I was cared for by gypsies, how I was brought here, how my real name is Mireille Roufoide. You know who I am and you don't want to admit it because you don't want me to know I have a past. Well I do and I know I do and everyone here knows it, too. I'm not going to forget my parents and my history."

Mrs. Opperheim watched her, frowning. "I don't know what you're talking about, Swipple. Your files are blank. I can retrieve them now. They've always been blank. There's nothing in your history. Nothing."

". . . What?"

"Your mother was fifteen when she had you and your father was nonexistant. She was a street prostitute whose name we didn't even know. Died in childbirth. Took one look at you and promptly died."

Olivia backed up, stopping when she bumped into the chair behind her. A look of numb horror crossed her simple features and she looked to the other girls. Not in front of them. Why did Mrs. Opperheim have to say it in front of them? Deep down Olivia knew all along that the story of the Roufoides wasn't true. It had been a childish dream that she had weaved over the course of six years. The desire to be important, the desire to, for once, be someone. To finally feel loved and accepted, even in her own mind. She'd lied. She'd lied about everything and she'd been lying for six years. It had come to the point where she believed it. Believed that she was Mireille Roufoide. It was a reason for her to go on from day to day, a reason to write and a reason to want to, one day, leave and become someone important. It was her driving force and Mrs. Opperheim had shattered it in front of the only people who really and truly believed it besides her. But it had to be true. How could Olivia make something up and believe it with such conviction? She was torn between reality and her own fantasy, and couldn't distinguish between them. Reality was starting to creep in and it shook her insides, making her feel ill.

Letty watched Olivia quietly. "It's not true . . . ? You mean . . . Olivia . . ."

Mrs. Opperheim sighed. "Sit down, Nelson," she said, and Letty immediately complied, still watching Olivia. The clubfooted girl had seemed to crumble, reduced to an empty, hollow shell, scrunched in the chair like a mouse.

"It's so convenient that the rest of you are here," Mrs. Opperheim continued, looking through a few papers that did not belong to Olivia. "Nelson."

Letty's attention was pulled from Olivia as Mrs. Opperheim said her name again. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Yes. Nelson. I received a letter from the Children's Aid Society today. Your father is out of jail, working again, and you are to return home tomorrow."

"Home, ma'am?" Letty asked, incredulous, glancing to Olivia briefly, whose stance hadn't changed.

"That's what I said, ain't it?"

"I don't want to go home, ma'am."

"You don't have a choice, do you! Your parents are coming at noon tomorrow, so get packing."

"But—"

"I said it and I mean it! All of you are dismissed!"

The room was empty, the other girls working at the time, and the only light filtered in through the three dusty windows along the outside wall. Letty's bunk area had been emptied, her belongings fit into one small suitcase. Olivia stood beside her. She handed Letty the last bit of clothing, which Letty slowly took and placed into the worn suitcase, locking it.

"You really have to go," Olivia murmured slowly.

"If I didn't, I wouldn't," came Letty's reply as she picked up the suitcase, looking to her friend. Her dishwater blue eyes seemed paler now, the bruises from the beating still dark on her pallid skin.

"Aren't you happy? Aren't you happy you're going home?"

"I don't care what the Children's Aid Society says, Olivia. They're not fit to take care of me. My father hits me and my mother doesn't do anything about it. Things might be better now after my father's been in jail. I don't know. The Children's Aid Society should know these kinds of things. But then again, this place is still around."

"One of these days it will close down, I should think," Olivia said gently. She looked away for a few hanging moments. "Letty?"

"Mhm?"

"What's it like, Letty? To have a family? Parents?"

Letty's brow furrowed and she pursed her lips for a moment. "They're not all they're said to be, Livvie. You're lucky you don't have them."

"Do you think Mrs. Opperheim was telling the truth?"

"About what?"

"About my parents. Is it true?" Olivia couldn't admit to herself that it was a lie.

Letty sighed quietly, choosing her words. "I don't think it matters. You need to trust yourself to be the person you want to be. Regardless of your family." She knew, and had always known, that the Roufoide story was unlikely to be true—impossible, even. But for year, Olivia told herself the story she weaved was fact, and came to embrace it and believe it. Olivia didn't do it to be better, or make the girls jealous. She wanted, so badly, to know herself, know where she came from, know who she was. She did it for herself. And if Olivia wanted to believe it, then, by God, she should believe it.

Olivia thought over her words, but said nothing in response.

Letty was also silent, and resorted to clacking her tongue against her teeth softly. Then, "Keep up on the writing, won't you?"

Olivia's hands fumbled into the pockets of her dress. "I will. I'm going to have to write my story over again, since Mrs. Opperheim took most of it. I'd been meaning to anyway, hadn't I? I was thinking . . . a novel, rather than a story. And a title. 'The Plight of Roufoide' seems to be the best choice so far, what do you think?"

"I like it," Letty mused thoughtfully, smiling. She patted Olivia's shoulder, tightened her grip on it, and pulled her into a tight hug. "I'll miss you, Livvie."

Olivia hugged back, resting her head on her companion's shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the tears that were burning to be released. "I'm going to miss you, too."

The clock from the main hallway chimed noon. One. Two. Three.

"Nelson!"

Letty looks back over her shoulder toward the door, then back to Olivia. Four. Five. "I need to go now. Take care of yourself, Livvie."

The tears came forth and Olivia pulled herself closer to her friend. Six. Seven. "No—Letty, you can't go . . . What am I going to do?"

"You—You'll keep writing . . . and you'll get out of here," came Letty's choked reply, "one day." Eight. "N-Now, I . . . Livvie, I have to go."

Letty forced herself to pull away, picking up her suitcase again. Nine. She pulled the suitcase to her breast in a way similar to how she hugged Olivia, and forced herself to exit. Ten.

"Goodbye, Letty—!"

Olivia limped after her. Letty was already out the door. Eleven.

She stopped herself, looking out the doorway. A wave of emptiness washed over her. Letty was gone. She was gone . . . Her best and only true friend, was leaving the orphanage. They might never see each other again. Twelve.

Olivia was grabbed from behind and a hand clamped over her mouth.

The mops and brooms in the corner clattered to the floor as Olivia was thrust into the storage room and hit the wall hard. One of the shelves came crashing down, cans of whitewash and tools falling from their perch and bombarding Olivia, splattering waves of white liquid all over the floor that caused Olivia to lose her footing and slip.

The light that came in through the open doorway was blocked as the large, muscular body of Jacob Meyer stepped in, his shoes pounding on the floor with his gentle footsteps. With one hand he reached behind and slammed the storage room door shut. He approached Olivia, the cringing child in the corner, whitewash splattered on her clothes and shoes. The whitewash on the floor splashed as he stepped through it.

Olivia watched his face as he came toward her. There was a look of sheer hatred on his face, pure anger, and something else which was stronger than both of those. An expression that she'd never seen before on a face other than those in her own imagination. She was paralyzed with fear and apprehension, backed into the corner, the floor under her slick, her leg throbbing.

Jacob's eyes didn't leave her as he pulled a chair from the wall and hooked it under the doorknob. He looked down at her twisted leg with a malicious smile on his face. "I never thought that you, of all people, would be such a trouble maker, Swipple. A little cripple like you, causing me to look after you girls for a week and then bringing it to a rousing ending. I don't think I've punished you enough."

Olivia knew that smile. It was cold, cruel. And yet there was something different about it. It wasn't the same sort of sneer that Ironsides would give her. It contained something else. Cold, and yet burning at the same time. She had imagined what that smile would look like. It was d'Enneris's smile. It was the smile of a madman. The smile that would come when one intended to—

He grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her up, pressing her back against the cold stone wall. His other hand ripped at the straining seams of her dress, the buttons popping from their threads. Olivia's mind raced, Jacob's hand grinding her breast painfully. She began to let out a scream, but it was stifled as his lips met hers savagely, his tongue thrust into her mouth so quickly that it made her gag.

"You write some very pretty little stories, Swipple," he said in a low growl, kissing and biting at her neck. She tried to struggle but he held her firmly against the wall, his body pressed against her. Too close. Too close. Olivia panicked and screamed again. He backhanded her in a flash of anger. When he saw that it had silenced her, he ripped her dress further, her camisole, bruising the flesh of her breasts with his painful touch.

"'Roufoide would not be returning. She was fragile now. He could take her now, before Roufoide returned. Marianne was too fragile and quiet to ever speak to her husband of it. And who was to say she would mind?'" he continued to speak as he began to unbuckle his belt. He was quoting her work. Olivia listened to the words as they played over and over in her mind. Too fragile and quiet. He could take her now. Roufoide would not be returning. Letty would not be returning. Too fragile and quiet.

Olivia felt her dress being pushed up her leg and her bloomers being forced down. Jacob was too strong. She couldn't get away. She couldn't run. She was too fragile. Fragile and quiet.

Olivia's eyes met Jacob's and all she could see was the image of d'Enneris. The malicious smile, the brilliantine-slicked hair, the eyes that glistened with cruelty, hatred, and lust. Renouart d'Enneris. The man who killed her parents. She didn't care if she had made it up. She believed it, and now all she could see was d'Enneris waging revenge against the child that he, insanely, believed to have driven him to murder.

She screamed, lashing out against him with such suddenness that Jacob was caught offguard and stumbled back, the buttons of his trousers half undone. He reached out to grab her again, but Olivia had grabbed one of the brooms, slamming the end of the handle into his gut, forcing him back into the wall. Jacob's hand wrapped around the broomstick and threw it aside, causing Olivia to falter, falling against the chair that held the door shut.

The chance to run was hers.

But she couldn't run. He would chase her and she would lose. She grabbed a rusty wrench that had fallen off the shelf. As Jacob reached for her again, she savagely beat the wrench against his knuckles, hearing a satisfying snap as they shattered. He howled in pain, but the noise was quickly silenced as Olivia brought the wrench down on the back of his head. He crumpled to the floor.

Olivia stared in shock at what she had done. Yes, the man had tried to rape her. But she could have killed him. She may have had committed murder. Short, quick images of the past events were flashing by her eyes and she couldn't think about what she had done. She had to get out.

Ripping the chair away from the doorknob, she forced the heavy door open and limped out, her hands desperately clutching at the shreds of her dress to cover herself up. He hadn't done it. But shame flowed through her veins and caused her to tremble as she glanced back to the storage closet. How could she tell anyone? Letty would understand. But Letty was gone. She collapsed onto her bed, shame and absolute terror bringing on an onslaught of futile, burning tears.

Olivia had never felt so alone.