The Fall Read Free Page A

trees and lawn. I tried the window. It opened easily and I leaned out. Far to the right I spotted the bluish roof of a large house with a small tower in the middle. It too was obscured by trees, but looked strangely familiar.  
    There were no other houses on the premises, which was good. But there was neither a house nor a street within view. Sending light signals would make little sense.
    The water in the jug was still warm. I opened the package, revealing a small can of tooth powder, a tooth brush, a hair brush, and a piece of soap. The scent of patchouli curled up, contrasting with the stinging odour of vomit stuck to my hair. I washed thoroughly. My temple was still sore from Moran’s punch, but I found no blood on it.
    The maid had draped a towel over a chair. I rubbed the moisture off, thinking that whatever I would find in this house was either important or irrelevant to my father’s survival. Whatever came to me, I would step over it without emotion. But my heart wouldn’t listen. It was still trying to crack my ribs.

    With nothing else to wear, I dressed in the nightgown again and pulled the bell rope. The maid arrived a few minutes later.
    ‘Miss Gooding, could I ask you to lend me a dress? These here,’ I waved at the wardrobe, ‘are too large.’ The maid was slender and small, her clothes should fit. But my enquiry seemed to shock her.  
    ‘Oh, but Miss, the tailor should arrive any minute now.’
    ‘The tailor?’ I was stunned. ‘Miss Gooding, can you tell me whose room this is?’
    ‘Why, it’s yours.’  
    I wanted to jump at her. ‘Who lived here before me?’
    She shrugged. ‘No one.’
    ‘Whose dresses are in the wardrobe?’ I got desperate. Suddenly the door opened and she clapped a hand to her mouth.
    ‘Gooding, go back to where you came from. Dr Kronberg, questioning the maid is useless. She knows next to nothing.’ The man who had entered was pudgy. His skull shone through sparse hair. His white shirt and black suit with tails made him look like an austere house martin. The maid slipped past him and out the door.
    ‘I am Alistair Durham, the manservant. The tailor will arrive in a minute, and supper will be served in an hour. That is all you need to know for now.’ He turned on his heels, shoes squeaking, tails flying. The door snapped shut, and I relaxed my fists.  
    A knock announced the tailor. He was a small man with mouse-like features. He rushed in, closed the door with a flick of his arm, and scurried towards me. His small hand took mine gingerly and he bent down to breathe on my knuckles. He introduced himself as Nicolas Smith, pulled out a measuring tape, flicking it here and there, scribbled numbers onto his notepad, and was finished within seconds. ‘What materials and colours do you prefer, Miss?’
    ‘Dark please. Simple cuts without buffs or laces, as they would hinder my work. I’d also prefer front buttoned dresses.’
    His pointy face collapsed in shock. Upper-class women were expected to dress elaborately, with useless appendages that made it impossible to even lace one’s own shoes. God forbid they dress and undress without the help of a maid. But as a woman I had no social status whatsoever — for years I had masqueraded as a man. The results were an obscene urge for independence and an education that far exceeded what most upper-class woman could ever obtain. Up until now, I had observed such social categorisation from a safe distance. I would have to pay attention now, as I was being placed in the same cage as all the other pretty birds — wives, sisters, and daughters of men with more money than need for. I already missed the freedom a pair of trousers provided.
    The tailor hesitated, then lowered his head in sad acknowledgement.
    ‘Thank you, Mr Smith.’ I bowed a little, making him blush. ‘Could you tell me how long it would take to finish one dress? Mine were destroyed, and now all I have is this nightgown.’
    ‘Oh, I see. I think under these