Tina Connolly - Ironskin

Though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was touch that doll, Jane made herself calmly reach out and grab it as it flew by. “In this house we use our hands,” she said, quoting the girl’s father.

The doll tugged in Jane’s grasp, but Jane held firm. She searched the room, looking for distractions. What would Dorie find familiar, comforting to do with the new governess? Was there anything she enjoyed besides flying the Mother doll through the air?

There were puzzles and activities stored neatly on the shelves—so neatly that Jane doubted they ever saw use at all. A small alphabet book lay on top of a chalkboard, and it made Jane suddenly curious as to whether anybody had ever attempted to teach Dorie anything. Did she know any of her letters?

Despite Dorie’s one-word answers and tongue clacks, Jane sensed that the girl was not stupid. Just … different.

Whether any other governess had stayed long enough to find out how much Dorie could learn was another question entirely.

The main obstacle to Dorie’s learning was revealed almost immediately, and it was obvious as soon as Jane saw it. When Jane handed Dorie the alphabet book, she didn’t reach out for it. Jane was looking at the bookshelf, so she thought she felt Dorie grab it. But when she turned, no one was touching the book. The book was being wafted through the air to Dorie’s lap.

“No, Dorie,” said Jane, and she picked up the book. “We use our hands.” She held out the book and watched Dorie reluctantly take it, her hands clumsy like a toddler’s. “Open it to the first page.”

The book opened, but not to the first page. Dorie tried to grasp the pages, but she could only grab several or none. She threw it down. “You don’t like to use your hands, do you?” said Jane under her breath. She brought the book back. “It’s okay. A little bit at a time. Page one is the letter A.”

Dorie clacked. She tried again to grab the page and turn, but her fingers were not used to fine movements. The page accidentally ripped. She bounced and clacked, her curls swinging. She threw the book down in frustration and Jane felt an answering crossness inside. She had chosen an activity that was far too challenging, and now she had Dorie riled up.

Jane replaced the book on the shelf and sat cross-legged by Dorie. “How about a game?” she said. “Do you want to play pattycake with me?” No, that would involve hands. She groped for something less confrontational. “Ring around the rosy?”

Dorie’s face stayed blank.

“Maybe you don’t know it. Okay, I’m going to sing it for fun, and if you do know it you can sing along.” Jane sang, but there was silence from her charge, though Dorie’s feet twitched as if she felt like dancing.

Frustration pricked behind Jane’s mask but she tamped it firmly down. No one had said this would be easy. She was here to make a difference in Dorie’s life. She was here to help her be normal.

No matter how long it took.

“Let’s play something else for a while,” Jane said.

Dorie’s face creased into a mutinous scowl that Jane much preferred to blank porcelain.

Jane amended, “Something fun.” She carefully did not mention that the activity was going to involve Dorie holding things. She brought a stuffed bear and stuffed monkey from the shelves and let Dorie point to one to choose it—a minor success. “Now, Mr. Bear and Mr. Monkey are friends.” The monkey was dressed in a scarlet felt coat and hat. Jane walked him over to the bear, which lay in Dorie’s lap. “Hi, Mr. Bear!” She said it in a squeaky voice, and Dorie laughed.

“Now you,” said Jane.

Dorie raised her arms. The bear levitated.

Monkey gently pushed him back down. “Flying makes my tummy upset,” Monkey said. “Let’s stay on the floor.”

Bear shook his head and rose again.

“What’s your favorite color?” said Monkey.

Bear shook his head.

“Can you talk to me?”

Bear shook his head.

Jane gently plucked the bear from the air and set it back in Dorie’s hands. The bear zoomed back into the air. Back into Dorie’s hands. Back into the air. Hands. Air. Hands—and then Dorie squealed and the bear went flying across the room.

Jane sighed. The child was as stubborn as the governess. She was determined that she wouldn’t be the one to break … but how was she going to get through to Dorie?

Jane spent the rest of that first morning trying different activities, searching for one that might serve as a lifeline to reach Dorie. Stubbornly Jane went back to the shelves and pulled out puzzles, games, chalk, toys.

One after another they went through Dorie’s roomful of activities. They attempted drawing, but Dorie would not hold the chalk. When tea came, she floated the bun to her mouth. And when it was finally time to get dressed for dinner, Dorie’s jam-stained frock flew off and the new one on without either girl touching them at all.

An exhausted Jane trailed Dorie down to the dining room. The dining room was lit with another blue-lit chandelier as well as candles—and yet the light fled, sucked into the corners of the dark-papered room. The house was a mish-mash of styles from different generations, Jane thought. Her rooms had been furnished a very long time ago, judging by the whitewashed walls with the worn tapestries. Dorie’s were modern—wall and ceiling papered with an intricate silver pattern, the trim and furniture crisp and white. The dining room was in between—heavy dark furniture, oppressive scrolled paper on the walls. Jane ignored the fey-blue flicker of the chandelier glancing off the dark paper and hoisted Dorie into her high seat.

“Little Miss Trouble, were we now?” said Cook. She leaned on the back of Dorie’s chair and gestured with a wooden spoon.

Jane stood up for Dorie—she wasn’t sure why. “She’s not a bad child,” she said. “She just gets frustrated because her way is so much easier and better than mine. She doesn’t get it.”

Dorie wafted her milk glass over, sloshing milk on the table in the process.

Cook snorted and wiped the table with her apron. “It’s kind you are to think so. A regular terror, I say.”

A tall figure entered the room and Cook straightened up immediately, jamming her wooden spoon into her apron pocket and feigning innocence. “Evening, sir,” she said, nodding. Mr. Rochart looked down at her until she turned and fled, muttering something about the potatoes.

Dorie jumped down from the chair, buried herself in her father’s knees. “Did you manage all right this afternoon?” There was worry in his dark eyes as he gently stroked his daughter’s hair.

“I’m not giving up yet,” said Jane. She stopped Dorie’s chair from falling over, steadied the table.

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” said Mr. Rochart. He was still in the worn wool slacks he had on earlier, though now they were covered in a faint white dusting of powder. A similar smudge streaked one shirt cuff. He ruffled Dorie’s curls and lifted her up. “You’re too stubborn for that, aren’t you? You don’t back down.”

Jane felt pleased by his accurate assessment—and that made her feel cross and prickly. She was not going to roll over like a puppy dog just because he seemed to be paying attention to her, Jane, and not her, the ironskin . She said, “How do you know I don’t?”

Mr. Rochart’s black eyebrows drew together at her tone, shadowing his eyes once more. “A less principled girl might’ve sought refuge in her sister’s new home,” he said, laying out his chain of thought for her. “And no one would’ve faulted her.”

“Except the new husband, who might not want an extra mouth to feed,” retorted Jane.

“So stubbornly this wisp of a girl seeks gainful employment,” continued Mr. Rochart, “and she will not be turned from doing it to the best of her measure. Not be frightened off by all the demons in hell.…” He looked down at Jane, and she took a step backward from the peculiar warmth in his eyes. “You are indeed determined to help us, are you not?”