“I am!” she says. “I am about to do exactly that! Close your eyes.”
I do. There’s a moment of pain as she covers my foot in some kind of cold, wet paste. I hear her walking away from me, and when she returns, I hear the sound of running water and feel the spray of liquid passing gently across my foot.
“All done,” she says. “You can open your eyes now.”
My toes are straight; there’s no blood, no swelling. And more than that, there’s no more dead skin or calluses. It’s like I just got a pedicure.
“Wow,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says. “I feel too guilty to be thanked. You’re not still mad, are you?”
“No,” I say. “But honestly, I don’t think I’ve really accepted what just happened.”
I don’t think I’m digesting any of this information. About Sophie, about the town, about the fact that I was just almost drowned by a ghost that could somehow manifest in physical form. My brain doesn’t know what to do with any of this. It’s like being a doctor stumped on a diagnosis. It’s probably fine. Monitor the symptoms.
“I can walk you home if you like,” she says.
I shrug. “I don’t have anything to do at home.”
At least here, I have Sophie. I have company. I don’t want to be alone, sad and thinking about Sam, about why he texted me this morning.
I wonder why he texted me this morning.
“What should we do?” she asks. “Are you hungry? Should I make the goulash? Do you want to read? Watch a movie?”
I notice a wet stain on her dress. I realize, in total horror, that it’s my blood.
“Sophie,” I say, “I think I bled on you.”
I point.
“Oh,” she says. A grin splits across her face. “Human blood. My favorite!”
That was definitely a joke.
“Come upstairs with me. We can go into my closet. Play dress-up,” she says.
“Okay!”
I put my pajama pants back on, my sweater, my socks. My bathing suit is still damp, and now my clothes are damp, too. It’s uncomfortable, and I look like a slouch compared to Sophie, who is the epitome of elegance despite her dress being stained with blood.
We go upstairs, to the east wing. Sophie opens a set of French doors and announces, “This is my room.”
It’s very black. Black-and-silver damask wallpaper, a monumental four-poster bed with black velvet curtains, a black crystal chandelier. There are bouquets of black roses in black vases all around the room. It’s intense, severe, but somehow beautiful in its severity.
“Closet is through here,” she says. She opens another set of French doors.
The closet is almost as big as the bedroom. We’re surrounded by dresses, mostly black. They seem to sway on their own, to dance in a nonexistent breeze.
Sophie walks with purpose all the way to the back of the closet. She pulls some dresses aside to reveal an armoire. She opens the bottom drawer and begins sifting through it.
“You like to wear pants, yes?” she asks. “I’m going to find some pants for you.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I can wear these.”
“They’re wet,” she says. “And besides, it’s dress-up. You agreed.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Your pants will all be too short on me.”
“Maybe,” she says. “I can make you some.”
“Make them?”
“I made all these,” she says, gesturing to the rest of the closet, to what must be over a hundred dresses. “Don’t be impressed. As I’ve said, I have a lot of free time. Here, catch!”
She throws me a pair of silky gray pants, then opens the top drawer and throws me a black cashmere sweater. “Try those.”
She turns around.
I’m not getting naked right here in the closet.
“I’m going back to my room,” I say. “My underwear is in there.”
“All right, darling,” she says. “But come right back. I want to see how they look.”
As I walk back out through her bedroom, I again remember what’s so easy to forget when I’m around Sophie.
This house is very, very scary.
I break into a light jog, hurrying to my room, where I can change quickly and get back to her.
I close the door, undress as fast as I possibly can, flinging my wet bathing suit across the room. It lands on top of the canopy. A problem for later. I put on my underwear, my bra, then the pants and sweater. They’re both incredibly soft. The pants are too short.