The Luminaries

‘You were there when I woke up in gaol after my blackout.’
    ‘Yes,’ Devlin said.
    ‘You prayed for me.’
    ‘And I have prayed for you many times since.’
    She looked surprised. ‘Have you?’
    ‘Fervently,’ the chaplain replied.
    ‘What did you say you wanted?’
    Devlin repeated his intentions.
    ‘What do you mean, a document?’
    ‘I would prefer not to produce it here. May I come in?’
    She hesitated. ‘Mrs. Wells is out.’
    ‘Yes, I know,’ Devlin said. ‘In fact I saw her entering the Courthouse just now, and hastened here with the precise hope that I might speak with you alone. I confess I have been waiting for just such an opportunity for some time. May I come in?’
    ‘I’m not supposed to receive guests when she’s not here.’
    ‘I have but one item of business to speak with you about,’ Devlin said calmly, ‘and I am a member of the clergy, and this is a respectable hour. Would your mistress deny you so little?’
    Anna’s mistress would certainly her deny so little, and a great deal more—it being against the widow’s policy ever to admit exceptions to the regulations she imposed at whim. But in a moment Anna decided to be reckless.
    ‘Come through into the kitchen,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make us a pot of tea.’
    ‘You are most kind.’
    Devlin followed her down the corridor to the kitchen at the rear of the house, where he waited, still standing, for Anna to fill the kettle and place it on the stove. She had certainly become extraordinarily thin. Her cheeks were hollow, and her skin had a waxy sheen; her wasted carriage bespoke malnourishment, and when she moved, it was with a trembling exhaustion, as though she had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. Devlin glanced quickly around the kitchen. On the washboard the plates from breakfast had been stacked to dry, and he counted two of everything, including two ceramic egg cups, printed with a raised blackberry design. Unless Lydia Wells had had a guest to dine early that morning—which was doubtful—then Anna must have eaten breakfast, at least. There was a half-round of bread on the breadboard , wrapped in a linen cloth, and the butter dish had not yet been put away.
    ‘Will you have a biscuit with your tea?’
    ‘You are most kind,’ Devlin said again, and then, embarrassed at having repeated the platitude, he rushed on: ‘I was gratified, Miss Wetherell, to learn that you had conquered your dependence upon the Chinese drug.’
    ‘Mrs. Wells won’t permit it in the house,’ Anna said, swiping astrand of hair from her face. She fetched the biscuit tin from the pantry shelf.
    ‘She is right to be strict,’ Devlin said, ‘but it is you who deserves congratulation. You must have shown great fortitude, in throwing off your dependency. I have known grown men who have not managed such a feat.’
    Whenever Devlin was nervous, his speech became very formal and correct.
    ‘I just stopped,’ Anna said.
    ‘Yes,’ Devlin said, nodding, ‘an abrupt cessation is the only way, of course. But you must have battled every kind of temptation, in the days and weeks afterward.’
    ‘No,’ Anna said. ‘I just didn’t need it any more.’
    ‘You are too modest.’
    ‘I’m not mincing,’ Anna said. ‘I kept going, for a while—until the lump ran out. I ate all of it. But I just couldn’t feel it any more.’
    Devlin appraised her with a calculating look. ‘Have you found that your health has much improved, since your cessation?’
    ‘I expect it has,’ Anna said, fanning the biscuits in an arc over the plate. ‘I’m well enough.’
    ‘I am sorry to contradict you, Miss Wetherell, but you do not seem at all well.’
    ‘You mean I’m too thin.’
    ‘You are very thin, my dear.’
    ‘I’m cold,’ said Anna. ‘I’m always cold these days.’
    ‘I expect that is on account of your being very thin.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I expect so too.’
    ‘I have observed,’ Devlin said after a moment, ‘in persons of low morale—particularly those who have contemplated suicide—that the loss of appetite is a common symptom.’
    ‘I have an appetite,’ she said. ‘I
eat
. I just can’t seem to keep the weight on.’
    ‘Do you eat every day?’
    ‘Three meals,’ she said, ‘two of them hot. I manage the cooking for both of us.’
    ‘Mrs. Wells must be very grateful,’ Devlin said, speaking in a tone that made it clear he did not entirely believe her.
    ‘Yes,’ she said, vaguely. She turned away to