Her hair had become loose, flowing dark and tangled over her slumped shoulders. Her face was a pink mound of agony, shining with tears and the skin around her nose was raw and chafed.
She walked with no particular purpose and in no particular direction. Truly, she had nowhere to go and was in no hurry to reach any destination. Her legs moved simply because the idea of being still was simply too awful, propelled by her grief, fear, disappointment and self-loathing.
Could she return to Iolanthe? Did she dare? Barbara growled to herself, “that’s what I am, after all. Isn’t it?”
But, no, as bleak as everything seemed, a return to Iolanthe seemed too terrible to imagine. Perhaps Marie Laveau would take her back. Perhaps. But, what would be gained by that?
“If I apologize again—sincerely…” Barbara said aloud, “Julian might…” But, no.
Should she have stayed with Arthur? The sight of him disgusted her—that face and figure which had once so excited her. Gone was the picture of his better features, replaced with a more accurate portrait of his countenance. Behind his full lips, yellowed teeth glinted. Beneath his long lashes, beady eyes shone coldly. At the end of his firm arms hung cruel hands. She shivered, and, soon realized that she’d walked toward the river.
She hurried down a dock and rushed toward the edge, stopping with her toes just over the end of the pier. She leaned over dramatically and stared at the choppy water. And, then, the answer became clear to her.
Meanwhile, in the dusky flat above the Routhe’s dress shop, sweat dripped down Robert’s face as he loosened Julian’s scarf and waistcoat. His friend’s face had begun to turn blue from a lack of breath.
“What can I do?” Adrienne asked quickly.
“Fetch some water and rags.” Robert grunted.
“Doctor,” Marjani began.
“I know.” Robert nodded. “We’ve got to get him breathing.”
“I don’t know what good it will do.” Marjani said, placing her hand on Julian’s chest. “He done got a far greater battle goin’ on inside him.”
At that very moment, in the imaginary room within Julian’s body, Mr. Punch squinted and rose to his full height—which, admittedly, wasn’t very great.
“Now, Jack Ketch,” Mr. Punch snarled. “You stop speakin’ in one word grunts and tell me what you done to me master and why.”
“No.” Jack responded.
“You said you punished him.” Punch spat. “Why? What’s me master ever done to anyone?”
Jack Ketch didn’t respond.
“What’s he done?” Punch screamed. “Oh, if only I had a stick, Hangman, I’d…”
Punch paused and narrowed his eyes.
“Why can’t I have a stick?” He said slowly. “None o’ this is real. It’s whatever I want.” Mr. Punch closed his eyes and clenched his wooden fingers. Before he opened his eyes, he could feel—somehow—the smoothness of the slapstick in his hand.
“Ready for your lesson, Jack?” Punch grinned.
Did you miss Chapters 1-283? If so, you can read them here.
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