Razorhurst

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Authors: Justine Larbalestier
me and Snowy and Davidson, she’d be in a much better position to take care of both of youse.”
    Kelpie shook her head.
    “I will, Kelpie,” Dymphna said. “I promise.”
    “God damn it!” Palmer roared, then disappeared. Kelpie hoped he’d stay gone this time. He talked almost as much as Miss Lee, but none of it was useful. She was not going to tell Dymphna lies about Snowy Fullerton.
    Mrs. Darcy returned carrying tissue paper. She placed the crinkled sheets in front of Dymphna. “Go on then. Unwrap them.”
    Dymphna carefully peeled back the paper. Nestled inside were a pair of cream-coloured gloves. Dymphna stared at them.
    “My wedding gloves, ain’t they?” Mrs. Darcy looked almost teary. “Made ’em myself. Lost count of how many I’ve made since then. But these are still the finest I ever made.”
    “I can’t.”
    “You have to. Wouldn’t look right you in that suit and no gloves. Might as well wear no shoes. You’ll get them back to me.”
    “I will.”
    Dymphna opened her purse and fished out a red note and handed it to Mrs. Darcy who gasped, staring at it.
    “A brick! Ten pounds! I never seen one of these before. That’s more than Neal makes in weeks!”
    Kelpie didn’t reckon anyone round here had ever seen that much money. Not unless they were Old Man O’Reilly, or some other nob, or worked for Glory or Mr. Davidson, and even then. She’d never seen Snowy with a note that big. Ten shillings, maybe.
    “I gave her that,” Palmer said. “Remind her.”
    “Don’t say no,” Dymphna said. “You’ve run a risk hiding us. You’ve fed us, let us wash, loaned me your gloves. You have to let me repay you.”
    Mrs. Darcy looked as if she was going to say no, but then she tucked the note into her apron next to the torn silk stockings. “I won’t forget this.”
    “Nor I.”
    “Now, what are we going to do about her hair?”
    “It’s a disgrace,” Palmer said. “Look at Dymphna and then look at you. Hard to tell you’re a girl.”
    Kelpie itched to point out that his hair hadn’t looked especially wonderful after he was killed, sticking up in all directions, stuck together with blood.
    Mrs. Darcy tried to pull her fingers through Kelpie’s hair, but the snarls were too tightly stuck together. It hurt, but Kelpie didn’t flinch.
    At one time, her hair had been plaited and tied with string. Kelpie had done it herself, copying how Mrs. Darcy did her girls’ hair with Miss Lee giving her instructions and encouragement. But that was likely months ago now. The string had become part of Kelpie’s hair.
    “It’s more like carpet than hair. Dirty old carpet.” Mrs. Darcy lifted up a clump and let it drop. Her nose wrinkled.
    “It will be prettier short,” Dymphna said, as if Kelpie cared about pretty.
    Mrs. Darcy began to saw at it with a kitchen knife. “It’ll grow back soon, love.”
    Kelpie knew that. It was the main problem with hair. Always growing. Mrs. Darcy threw the hair into the fire. It smelt awful.
    Then she attacked Kelpie’s head. Pouring water over it so that her coat got wet and rubbing at her scalp so hard Kelpie wanted to scream.
    “You call that washed, lass?” Mrs. Darcy’s voice was stern again. “You’ve just spread the dirt around your face. Let me.”
    Mrs. Darcy pushed the sleeves of Kelpie’s coat up past her elbows and put her hands in new cold water, then scrubbed at them with a stiff brush and soap like she was washing clothes. Kelpie’s eyes watered, but she refused to cry. Even when her fingers started bleeding around the nails and the soap got in.
    Mrs. Darcy began scrubbing at Kelpie’s face only marginally more gently than she had scrubbed at her hands. “And behind your ears. Don’t think you’ve ever washed here, have you?” Mrs. Darcy shuddered. “Water’s all dirt already. You’re filthy, you are. And your neck.” She pulled the collar of Kelpie’s coat down, and it came away in her hand.
    “Don’t break it!”
    “I’m

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