Conjurer by Cordelia Frances Biddle

permitting Rebecca Lippincott to precede her, and speaking only after the older woman has finished.
    Martha silently examines the dormitory, noting the empty clothing pegs above the beds, the rigorous impersonality of each child’s space. Not one gray blanket remains rumpled; not a pillow is out of place. All at once, the tidiness seems like a cry of terrible need; and she pictures small arms and hands at their tasks, hearts and brains vying for the teachers’ attentions, hoping fervently for a kindly glance, an encouraging word. It’s remarkable, the order you maintain here , Martha almost says but doesn’t. Instead, she follows Rebecca Lippincott in ever-increasing guilt and shame. Her own bedroom, her clothing, the feckless abundance of her possessions begin to mock her in their terrible excess.
    â€œYou will note, Miss Beale, that the children do not own playthings,” Rebecca Lippincott is saying. “We believe that personal possessions create mean-spiritedness and greed. When our charges play, they are taught to share. Prayers and the occasional story are all that accompany them into sleep.”
    Hannah Yarnall adds a soft “When the foundlings grow and leave us, their lot will not be an easy one. It would be unfair to provide too much.”
    Why? Martha wants to demand. They’re only children. They hunger for happiness and pleasure, for a loving voice. Why deprive them of playthings, of laughter? Joy is fleeting. Let them revel in it while they can . Instead, her growing discomfort keeps her mute.
    â€œNow we will proceed to the fourth floor,” Rebecca Lippincott advises. “You may examine the boys’ accommodations, and then our tour will have concluded.”
    Martha lags behind. The task she’s set herself has begun to seem very great indeed.
    â€œBut I must warn you,” Rebecca’s voice continues, “that among our boy foundlings we have a child with the falling sickness—epilepsy. He was delivered into our hands a year ago, malnourished, filthy, unable to speak. Dr. Walne believed him to be two or three years old at the time, making him four or five at present—although exceedingly small for his age, as is to be expected. Racially, he is of mixed parentage, putting him at disadvantage with both Negro and white; mentally, he has changed little since his arrival. Sudden movements startle him, as do abrupt noises and confused surroundings. Knowing of your arrival, we kept him upstairs today.”
    â€œI’m not an ogre,” Martha finally offers.
    â€œDr. Walne believes the child experienced great fear—perhaps even a form of physical torture. We take what precautions we can, although there is consensus that the Asylum will be our sole recourse as he ages. Of course, the illness is incurable.”
    â€œWhat is his name?” Martha asks.
    â€œHe responds only to ‘boy.’”
    The child is wizened, a preternaturally grim and ancient face set upon gaunt shoulders. He gazes from Rebecca to Hannah; he doesn’t smile, nor does he seem to register their arrival. Martha he affixes with a vacant yet perplexed stare; his mouth opens; he appears on the verge of attempted speech when his left hand begins quivering and then his right. His eyes glaze immediately after. The trembling intensifies and rapidly moves to his legs.
    â€œFetch Dr. Walne,” Rebecca orders Hannah while bending over the boy’s shaking body. Martha backs away, banging her head against a low-hanging beam. “I was concerned that such an event might occur,” Rebecca states. “Visitors should be introduced gradually.” Her tone is outraged, indicating every insult perpetrated by the callow—and idle—rich.
    â€œShall I leave, Mrs. Lippincott?”
    â€œThe damage is already done.” Not one hint of forgiveness is present.
    Martha hangs in the shadows, waiting. She hears the child’s body being turned over, hears