The Ghost of Winn Peterson

18. Winn

10 October

Four days of moving and cleaning and biting my precious nails to useless lengths. I had hoped to continue my tale after arriving, but the doctor saw to it that we were well occupied, and even now, I am supposed to be organising the things in my room to make way for a desk. Appalled at my lack of a consistent workspace, Dr. Radcliffe has purchased a desk, of all things, for me to write at. I don't know how he discovered, or who told him, that I write more than childish journal entries, but now I am all the more suspicious of him for it. Of course, I am still required to bed down more often than not, and am incapable of seeing Evie nearly half as much as I want. What a silly point, to pull me away from my quaint house to live as a companion for the rest of my life, if not to allow me in the presence of the one who I was brought to give said company to! 

It's all ridiculous. I haven't bitten my nails in years, mind you. My mother put quite an emphatic stop to it when she dipped my fingers in oil for a week, but even that very vivid memory was washed away by my nerves. I wanted to cuss. I am not a rowdy woman, but I wish I could fling out at the walls the dirty words the sailors shouted when there were no women to woo. 

Fuck. 

There. I think I'm better. At least having written it down means no one will have heard it. Fuck. Oh, if my mother could hear me now! How easily am I reduced to vile and rude behaviour, but I feel there's a definite excuse for it. It's so obnoxious, so utterly repulsive, to be locked away in this house! I haven't seen much of it, but I've heard quite a raucous clatter that I've been reduced to jumps and flinches for nearly every hour of the day. I thought I heard crying earlier, but it could have been the window, which is opened only to a degree or so to let in the smallest amount of air possible, but which also possesses the horrid side effect of screeching relentlessly. Sometimes, if the wind outdoors is kind, the shrill noise quiets to a dull hum, but from where I suppose my new room is located, the wind has all the opportunity to rip so callously into my room, and thus produce that vile sound all the more. I'm not entirely certain where Evie's room is, as this house is far larger on the inside than it would appear from the street. I shudder to think that it isn't just her room, but I've seen so little of her since we arrived that I can neither confirm nor deny any of my suspicions.
 

After we were told to eat, Evie and I, fearing for our compromised states should we eat, were very hesitant to consume anything, until the cook and his son sat down at the table and served us all food. I hadn't heard of any modern houses having cooks, so this bade me wonder all the more about what this doctor actually did to be able to afford such an expense. Oddly enough, the cook and the son only gave us strange looks when we didn't immediately start eating. Were they not scared of poisoning?

Supposing if they had poisoned the food, they wouldn't consume what was set out on the table, we tentatively began to pick at our food. Evie was very pale about the face and did not more than nibble at what she had, much to the displeasure of the cook, who glared at her occasionally from his bowl. I made a note to beware this character.

Once I had looked up from my food long enough to gaze curiously at the dining room, I found the son of our baker of bread staring intently at me. I jolted in my seat, hoping nobody had noticed the rattle of spoons, and blushed. It was the sort of stare that attempts to digest one's entire personality in a look.

What right did he have to my personality, to unapologetic viewing of my face! Evie may have laughed, should she be in my shoes, but young men and I had never been on the sorts of terms that would allow them to gaze like so upon me.

Now annoyed and suspicious of both father and son, I ate my soup as quickly as I could, turning redder still with the knowledge that I was the object of someone's unabashed staring. What deplorable conditions to eat in! Once our food was cleared away, more so in the case of Evie, who had hardly consumed any of her food and left her glass of wine untouched, the cook's rude son stood, wiped his face with a cloth dirtier than his unkempt nails, and belcher in such a manner that the handkerchief around his neck fluttered from the gale. "Alright, off we go, m'ladies," he said, and, expecting us to follow at once, only raised an irked eyebrow when we did not immediately arise. "Life'll be far less pleasant down here, trust me. Off we go." Sharing glum looks, Evie and I picked ourselves up and followed the surly young man up the stairs, wincing every time he scraped at his teeth with a pick.