she even still a “girl”? She was eighteen sometime this year – that much she knew, although the exact date was lost to her precarious, unhappy childhood. She was a woman now, and if she’d hoped that wisdom, perspective and confidence would come with that, she’d been sadly mistaken.
Three quiet raps at the door interrupted her brooding. She kept silent.
A pause, and then the three raps came again. “Mary?” The voice was female, of course, but muffled by the thick wooden door.
Three – no, six – deliberate knocks. She remained mute.
The brass doorknob turned, and Mary scowled. Naturally, she’d forgotten to lock the door. Some secret agent she was. “This is a private room,” she said in her iciest voice as the door began to swing open. “Kindly shut the door.”
Anne Treleaven’s thin, spectacled face appeared in the gap. “I’d like a word with you, Mary, later this evening if not now.”
Mary leapt up so quickly that she felt dizzy. “Miss Treleaven! I’m so very sorry. I thought you were one of the girls – not that that’s an excuse, either – but if – I mean, had I known…”
Anne waved her into silence. “No need for that, Mary. I just want to speak with you.”
“Of course.” She scrambled to pull out the desk chair.
They sat facing each other, Anne on the chair and Mary on the edge of the bed. It was Anne who broke the heavy silence. “It can be difficult to find privacy in a boarding school.”
Mary’s fierce blush ebbed a little. “I’m fortunate to have a single room; I know that.”
Anne leaned forward abruptly, folding her hands together in her schoolteacher’s manner. “My dear, I want to talk to you about this assignment.”
Mary’s gut clenched. “I thought it was all arranged, Miss Treleaven.”
Anne nodded. “It is. But it’s clear to me that this assignment holds special difficulties for you. We’ll discuss those now.”
Mary immediately opened her mouth to argue the point, but something about Anne’s look stopped her voice. In the end, all she managed was a toneless “What do you mean?”
“I’d like to venture a theory, Mary. You’ll do me the favour of hearing it out before pronouncing judgement?” It was a courteous command, not a question.
Mary swallowed and bowed her head.
Anne spoke slowly, quietly. “Your childhood was, by any standards, a tragic one. You lost your father and witnessed your mother’s painful death. By the age of ten, you knew hunger, danger and violence. In the years that you were homeless, you passed yourself off as a boy for reasons of safety. It was easier to move about the city, and to avert rape, and it gave you a better chance of survival. It wasn’t until you came to the Academy that you were free to conduct your life as a girl without fear of ill treatment or exploitation. Am I correct?”
Mary managed a single nod.
“A return to boy’s costume…” – Anne appeared to choose her words with great care – “…must evoke a return to the same dangers and privations.”
Mary forgot her promise to listen quietly. “It’s not the same thing at all! I’m well aware that it’s a temporary, theoretical return.”
Anne nodded. “Of course; you are too intelligent to believe otherwise. However, what I am suggesting is that somehow, at the back of your mind, those fears are still with you. The suggestion that you relive those days – even strictly as an assignment, with every certainty of returning to your ‘real’ life – may distress you.” She made a small, frustrated gesture. “I am not phrasing this well. I mean that, even seen as play-acting, the idea of passing as a boy must be an extremely unpleasant reminder of your past.”
The backs of Mary’s eyes prickled and she dared not look at Anne when she spoke. “During my first case … at the Thorolds’ house … I had some boys’ clothing. I didn’t mind running about in trousers then.” She bit her lower lip. “I – I quite enjoyed it.” Her voice cracked on the penultimate word.
“True. Is it not possible that you saw the act differently, then? As an adventure, or a game?”
“Unlike this one?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps it was different because you chose to do that, and this time it is an assignment.” Anne sighed. “Mind and memory and emotion are so complex.”
Mary stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Their outlines blurred, and then doubled, but it wasn’t until the first hot tear splashed down that she