If she, Bilhah, had been a mother, she would never have succumbed to illness and left a little one alone
For a long moment, Bilhah stares at Leonora. The walls of the prison press in on her. In her throat is trapped a strange, inchoate cry, as if she is some wild, ensnared creature. I gave her away because I did not want her. I did not want my daughter. The words Leonora just said echo, over and over, filling her until there’s room for nothing else.
“You see that I am evil.” Leonora speaks quietly.
It is on Bilhah’s lips to say, yes, evil, evil, evil.
But something stops her.
She lifts the lamp, holds it up, so she can see Leonora’s face. She has the mark of nobility. Her silk cloak is grimy and her long skirts are hemmed with mud, but she is still a tall woman with flashing eyes and contempt for the world.
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