Story by Nimue.
You are feverish, but you do not think this alarming vision is just a product of your fevered brain. While you can’t stand up, you have enough mastery over yourself to be fairly certain of your own mind.
The question is, how did she get in? Surely the door was locked? She isn’t the type to climb through a window, that would be far too undignified. You feel confident this is someone who would rather die in a house fire than climb indelicately from a window.
Her hands are cold upon your burning brow. So cold. You almost like the feeling while wanting not to like it at all. She straightens your quilt, not even sickness makes untidiness acceptable.
“I do not think you are ready for soup,” she says.
This is a relief. You have never felt less ready for soup, but imagine her spooning it into your mouth, making you feel powerless in face of her. What other horrors might she insist upon? A bedbath? An emptying of the chamber pot? There are so many things to fear, and in your fevered state, that fear has a truly delicious quality to it.
“Of course you have no one to blame but yourself,” she says, sternly.
You have no idea what she means.
“I know some gentlemen consider a brisk paddle in the sea to be good for the constitution, but hardly in that bay.”
You still have no idea what she means.
“It was fortuitous that I happened to be in the area,” she adds.
You have been suspicious for some time that Mrs Beaten has been following you, but thought it best not to say anything.
“There’s a jellyfish woman in that bay. Everyone knows that.”
You did not know that, but a hazy memory returns, of translucent flesh and a desperately pretty face.
“She had you enraptured,” Mrs Beaten puts her hands on her hips and stares at you. Her judgement is intense.
“I don’t remember,” you manage to say, but your voice is hoarse.
“Of course you don’t. That’s how they get you. They make you forget, and they make you long to return to them. You’ve lived here long enough to understand that. Really, I expected better from you.”
“Sorry,” you manage.
“I had no choice but to beat her to death with my umbrella,” Mrs Beaten adds, with a casualness that suggests she does this sort of thing all the time. “I had to bring you back in a wheelbarrow.”
While this explains a few things, it does not comfort you.
“I’ve brought you a restorative from Doc Willoughby,” she says.
You can’t see the umbrella, but all the same it seems wiser to follow her instructions.
