Poppet doesn't even try to return Ruby's enthusiasm. She just slips into a floor-length dress to cover the mysterious cut marks that have appeared on her legs. As for me, I pull on a long-sleeved gown, one of Poppet's, of course. I have new cuts steadily blooming across my forearms, and I have no idea where they came from. The only connection I make is that we each wake up with a new one every morning.
Two nights ago, we slept in shifts to catch Mercy or Raquel sneaking upstairs to continue their torment. But Poppet fell asleep, and so we woke with a fourth cut. They are shallow and not terribly painful. But that's not the point. The point is the Carnations are sending us a message. They're angry that we left them behind, and they won't let us go that easily.
Last night, I tried a new tactic. I encouraged Poppet to sleep, and then jammed the door with a chair from the family room. When I woke up, a thin, swollen line marked the fifth night.
I vowed to Poppet that I'd talk to Madam Karina tomorrow morning. I have to. But tonight, we have to continue with our plan. Though I sometimes daydream about becoming Top Girl and taking over this house, I know I'm kidding myself. I'm not a business owner. I don't know the first thing about managing money or advertising or whatever else it takes to be successful.
All I know is that I need four strong walls that are mine. For an entire year, I've been on my own. Dizzy entertained me for a while, but in the end, Dizzy was a one-man show, and I guess I don't fault him for that. Then there was Madam Karina's Home for Burgeoning Entertainers, a house of hope and horrors. It's a means to an end, and I know what I want.
I want my own house.
And I want Poppet to come with me.
Poppet is rushing to the bathroom for a last minute makeup check when I stop her. "Hey, I want to ask you something."
Her eyebrows rise.
"You know how I said I wanted to get my own place one day? Well, I'm really going to do it. I'm going to keep moving up in the house until I have enough money. I'll even become a Violet if that's what it takes."
"What's your question?" Poppet's voice is unnaturally soft.
"I want you to come with me. When I get enough money and I leave, I want you to come too."
Poppet is already shaking her head.
"Poppet, listen, we can't stay here. There's too much that's off."
"Like what?"
I glance into the hallway before continuing. "Like the fact that Madam Karina has a police officer on staff, and that girls rarely go into town, and that no one is supposed to discuss the girl I replaced." I trace my fingers over the cuts on my arm that were made by someone else's hand. "Where do the girls go who leave here, Poppet? Why doesn't anyone talk about them?"
She shrugs. "I think most that apply to leave go live in Pox."
"You have to apply to leave? See, that's just it. Why would you have to apply?"
"So you can get paid out." Poppet steps back. "Look, I really like that you're asking me to go with you, but there's nothing bad going on here outside of the Carnations turning on me. On us. Plus, I like it here, even with what's been going on lately. This home is a better one than I've had in the past."
The last part she whispers, and my stomach twists. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe Wilson is, too, when he reminds me, late at night as I try to sleep, to be careful.
I don't like it here. Wilson paces back and forth. It's got me on edge.
I push my tongue against the roof of my mouth, try to feel the hole that a silver bar once filled. "Maybe you're right. But … "
"But what?"
I hesitate, because I don't want to say the real reason being in this home bugs me. If I say it aloud, then it becomes real. Eyes cast downward, nerves rattling under my skin, I speak my mind. "What do you think the girls in the guesthouses do? The Lilies and Violets?"
Wilson raises his hand. Ooh, I know! Pick me!
Poppet puffs out her cheeks and thinks on my question. "Want to know what my first response to that question is?"
"I do."
"We'd be lucky to find out. Want my second? I'll give it to you. Probably nothing worse than I've done in my past. And maybe a lot better."
I dwell on this. Realize she's right. There's nothing I could do as a Violet that would compare to the thing I did in my parents' home. A memory flashes into my mind. One of my mother plucking a splinter from the heel of my foot. I remember the concentration on her face, the smell of rubbing alcohol. It took her ten minutes to get that sucker out, but afterward she made me apple cobbler with vanilla bean ice cream, and we made a fire in the hearth. It was almost Christmas, only a few short weeks before my father changed our lives forever.