Fingersmith

by Sarah Waters

It was only later that I wondered about it and tried to look back. But by then I could only see that there was once a time when we had walked apart; and then a time when we walked together.

I felt that thread that had come between us, tugging, tugging at my heart—so hard, it hurt me. A hundred times I almost rose, almost went in to her; a hundred times I thought, Go to her! Why are you waiting? Go back to her side! But every time, I thought of what would happen if I did. I knew that I couldn’t lie beside her, without wanting to touch her. I couldn’t have felt her breath come upon my mouth, without wanting to kiss her. And I couldn’t have kissed her, without wanting to save her.

I sat at her table with her box full of brooches and rings and a saucer of vinegar, shining up the stones. I would rather do that, I thought, than nothing. Once she came to look. Then she moved away, wiping her eyes. She said the vinegar made them sting. It made mine sting, too.

but when she saw me turn to her she reached and took my hand. She took it, not to be led by me, not to be comforted; only to hold it, because it was mine.

and she had made me love her, when I meant only to ruin her.

Only that white glove I think I have mentioned, did I keep to one side; and when the bags were filled I put it, neatly, inside the bodice of my gown, over my heart.

That is all he says. But in his face I see, at last, how much I want her.

But, only what? How might I say it? Only that she held my head against her breast, when I woke bewildered. That she warmed my foot with her breath, once. That she ground my pointed tooth with a silver thimble. That she brought me soup—clear soup—instead of an egg, and smiled to see me drink it. That her eye has a darker fleck of brown. That she thinks me good . . .

I feel his kiss, like a burn upon my palm; and all at once she sees, not that I love him, but how much I have come to fear and hate him.

If she were any girl but Sue! If she were Agnes! If she were a girl in a book—! Girls love easily, there. That is their point. Hip, lip and tongue— ‘Do you think me good?’ I say. ‘Good, miss?’ She does. It felt like safety, once. Now it feels like a trap. I say, ‘I wish—I wish you would tell me—’ ‘Tell you what, miss?’ Tell me. Tell me a way to save you. A way to save myself. The room is perfectly black. Hip, lip— Girls love easily, there.

We can make it ours, I think; or else, we can give it up entirely. I need only escape from Briar: she can help me do that—she’s a thief, and clever. We can make our own secret way to London, find money for ourselves . . . So I calculate and plan, while she lies slumbering with her face upon my hand. My heart beats hard again. I am filled, as with colour or light, with a sense of the life we will have, together.

I meant to cheat her. I cannot cheat her, now. ‘I am not what you think,’ I will say. ‘You think me good. I am not good. But I might, with you, begin to try to be. This was his plot. We can make it ours—’

And so you see it is love—not scorn, not malice; only love—that makes me harm her, in the end.

‘Oh, but this,’ I think I say, ‘is perfect! This is all I have longed for! Why do you stare? What are you gazing at? Do you suppose a girl is sitting here? That girl is lost! She has been drowned! She is lying, fathoms deep. Do you think she has arms and legs, with flesh and cloth upon them? Do you think she has hair? She has only bones, stripped white! She is as white as a page of paper! She is a book, from which the words have peeled and drifted—’

But I am still what he made me. I shall always be that.