Rare Objects

“Well, no one’s asking you, are they?” I was tired of crazy people. And this place was bursting with them in all shapes and sizes.

“There’s no need to take it that way. It’s a very powerful piece.”

I glared at her. “It’s not a piece. It’s a rug.”

“A very angry rug, if you ask me.” She sat down, picked up a hook. “Go on then—show me how you do it.”

I wasn’t in the mood for a demonstration. I was only here because the staff made me come, hauling me out of my usual spot in the rocking chair by the window. “Ask the nurse if you’re so interested.”

She laughed. It was a drawing-room laugh—the practiced jocularity of a hostess, high and false. “Don’t be so serious—I’m only teasing you!” She nodded to the other women in the room. “You’re the best of the lot, you know. An artist!”

It wasn’t much of a compliment. There were maybe a dozen of us rounded up for the afternoon session, all dressed in shapeless blue smocks, heads bowed over our work. There’d been a lice outbreak, and we’d all been clipped. But this girl still had a good head of hair. She must be new. The two of us were the youngest in the room by maybe ten years, although it was hard to tell for sure.

“So you’re a connoisseur, is that it?” I pointed to a thin, wiry woman in her mid-fifties with no teeth, furiously hooking across the room. “Mary’s pretty good. Why don’t you go bother her? She doesn’t speak. Ever. But she can make a rug in an afternoon.”

The girl twirled the hook between her fingers. “But you have talent—a real feeling for the medium, possibly even a great future in hooked rugs. Provided of course that people don’t want to actually use them in their homes. So”—she leaned forward—“tell me, how long have you been here?”

I yanked another yarn through. I’d been here long enough to wonder if I’d ever be allowed out again. Mine was an open-ended sentence: I needed the doctor’s consent before I’d see the outside world again. But I wasn’t about to let her see that I’d never been so alone and terrified in my life. I gave a shrug. “Maybe a month, I don’t know,” as if I hadn’t been counting every hour of every day. “What about you?”

“I’m just stopping in for a short while,” she said vaguely.

“‘Stopping in’?” I snorted. “On your way where, exactly?”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Why are you here? In for anything interesting?”

“This isn’t a resort, you know,” I reminded her.

“Are you here voluntarily or as a ward of the county?”

I gave her a look.

“You never know”—she held up her hands apologetically—“some people come in on their own.”

“Did you?”

For someone who liked asking questions, she was less keen on giving answers. Crossing her legs, she jogged her ankle up and down impatiently. “They say it’s an illness. Do you believe that? That we can all be magically cured?”

“How would I know? Where did you get those pearls?”

“My father gave them to me.” She ran her fingers over them in an automatic gesture, as if reassuring herself over and over again that they were still there. “I never take them off.”

“Neither would I.”

“I like them better than diamonds, don’t you? Diamonds lack subtlety. They’re so … common.”

She was definitely crazy. “Not in my neighborhood!” I laughed.

“Well …” Her fingers ran over the necklace again and again. “He’s dead now.”

“Who?”

“My dear devoted father.”

I considered saying something sympathetic, but social niceties weren’t expected or appreciated much here. Besides, I didn’t want her to feel like she could confide in me.

The girl watched Mute Mary across the room, working away. “What are you really in for?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Come on! Your secret’s safe—who am I going to tell?”

I don’t know why I told her, maybe just so she’d shut up and go away, or maybe in some sick way I was trying to impress her. “I cut myself with a razor blade.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Deliberate or accidental?”

“Deliberate.” It was the first time I’d ever admitted it aloud.

But if I expected a reaction, I was disappointed; she didn’t bat an eye.

“So no voices in your head or anything?”

“No. What about you?” I looked across at her. “Do you hear voices?”

“Only my own. Mind you, that’s bad enough. I’m not entirely sure I’m on my side.”

Actually, that made me smile—for the first time in weeks.

“So at least you’re not really insane,” the girl with the pearls cheerfully pointed out.

“What about you? Why are you here?”

“Oh, they’ve given me all kinds of diagnoses. Hysterical, suicidal, depressive, delusional … Big Latin words for ‘a bad egg.’ This place is all right, actually. Not like some of the other ones I’ve been to before.” And she smiled again, as if to prove her point.

“So why haven’t I seen you on the ward? And why isn’t your hair cut?”

She picked up a ball of red yarn. “I don’t know. Are they meant to? I’d prefer they didn’t. I’ve just managed to grow it out from the most frightful French bob.” She stifled a yawn. “God, I’m tired! The woman in the room next to me moans all night.”

I stopped. “You have your own room?”

The nurse walked in and clapped her hands. “Work tools down, ladies! Stack your rugs on the table and follow me. It’s time for exercise.”

I got up and stood in line with the others. Then Mrs. Verdent, the head nurse, appeared in the doorway, casting a dark shadow across the floor. Instantly everyone went quiet.

Mrs. Verdent’s mouth was twisted into an expression of permanent disapproval and her white linen uniform was tightly fitted, covering her formidable curves so completely that she gave the impression of being upholstered rather than dressed. She scanned the room before advancing ominously toward the girl.

“I’m not sure you’re meant to be here,” she said pointedly.

“I quite agree.” The girl stood up, brushed off her hospital gown. “Have them bring the car round while I get my things.”