Demon Stories

Josephine: The Curiosity, 1862, England

He just did not break his intense gaze. 

When we arrived at the party, he took my hand in a gentlemanly elegant way in his own white gloved hand. His hand was small in mine. The fingers fine and like a bird's bones almost. I stole a glance upon feeling them. He was still staring at me with that bitter look, his eyebrows almost creased. But I was becoming more sure of two things the more time we spent together. 

It became more apparent once we were greeted by the lady of the house, the hostess of this party. "Let Eve take your coat, Mr. Crane!" she chirped, gesturing for us to come inside. A maid bobbed a quick curtsy to us and this man whom was Mr. Crane gave her his coat rudely by shoving it into her hands and causing her to lose her balance a little bit. 

"Who is joining you this evening? Is this Mrs. Crane?" the lady of the house asked pleasantly, not caring to see the rudeness he had displayed to her help. 

He looked at her with that bitterness which I was soon beginning to assume was his manner all the time. "No," he said firmly and rudely, and pulled me along to the dining room like he knew the house. 

That voice again. With this I knew. 

Once in the dining room, he shook hands with the master of the house. I surveyed the room. We were the last to arrive. It looked like these were close friends of this couple. Such parties I was not accustomed to, and wished dearly for the man I was close to and not this angry stranger. This stranger, who was quickly becoming curiouser and curiouser to me. 

Dinner had not started yet, so we stood around the sitting room making small chat with the various guests. Mr. Crane did not offer to explain who I was, and no one asked. Still, they were nice people, so we spoke freely. I did not tell them what my cover job was, for it was a working class job and these were not working class people. I was read up on literature and the like, so we spoke of that. All the while, I was aware Mr. Crane spoke to no one and appeared to be looking around at the ornaments of the room, mostly the mirrors. And in all of these, I noticed he was staring at me with those bird sharp silver eyes, and that he knew I was staring back at him. 

I knew why he wasn't speaking. There are things you can not cover when your gender does not match your sex. As a singer, I had trained for years to cause my voice to be able to pass into a feminine way, but I betted for him it was different. His voice was feminine through and through, even when he was trying to speak low in his throat to show different. I couldn't help but begin to feel bad for him. And fearful for him, for I knew how our society worked for women who tried to pass as men. If he were to be found out, he would be thrown into some place for hysterical women and never let out again. He would be mutilated. Horrible things. Immediately I felt a sad connection with him. I wanted to be his friend, to help him. 

He did not feel the same way. And the strange things about this evening were only beginning.

The lady of the house announced dinner was about to be served in her cheery way. I was pleased to note how she was kind to her staff, complimenting the cook on the delicious meal we were about to enjoy. I felt happy for her lucky servants. Though, her display earlier with her maid, Eve, made me slightly confused. She hadn't seemed to care about the mistreatment then. Had she not seen it?