Victorian Psycho

by Virginia Feito

Mr Pounds looks to Mrs Pounds for instruction. Upon the raising of her eyebrows he appears to decide, at last, to hurl himself into the abyss of conversation. ‘I trust your journey was a pleasant one?’ ‘No,’ I say, so cheerful and beaming that Mr Pounds simply nods and says, ‘Good.’

I wonder what all the fuss with children is about. They’re only people, albeit smaller. Why care about people when they’re small if no one cares about them when they’re grown?

In the dank dead of night, I haunt Ensor House. Tracing the unicorn horns on the tapestries with my fingertips, tongue-kissing the portraits of Lord Manlow, of Lady Augusta. Ensor House haunts me – the wallpapers bulging with hands, the mirrors reflecting back shadows of past maids.