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They were fingers. They were hands.
    She thought of Mr. Elphinstone's hands, and of the ghostly form which had appeared between them, had appeared to grow out of them. Meanwhile, the hands attached to her hands grew larger still, and then began to elongate, to grow away from her into arms. She stared in wonder. So she could do it, too! Mr. Elphinstone wasn't so special, after all.
    But these hands and arms were not those of a baby. They were much too big for any baby. And there was something unpleasantly familiar about them as they grew into the chest and shoulders of a man. The head was still unformed, but Eustacia suddenly knew who it was.
    It was Mr. Elphinstone, of course. He had done this to her. It was his wicked plan to come to her secretly in this nasty, ghost-like manner. In a moment his head would grow out of that neck, his face would form, and eyes would open, and he would look down on her and smile in triumph, his hands closing firmly over hers, his lips . . .
    No. It was impossible. She would not have it. She refused.
    Growling incoherently, she rubbed her hands fiercely against the blanket. The half-finished, cloudy likeness of a man still hung in the air, a face beginning to form. Once it had formed, once his eyes had opened and looked down at her, it might be too late. She might never escape his clutches. Feeling sick and furious, concentrating all her mind on denying his power, she swung both hands at it. She had imagined dispersing it, but although its appearance was cloudy, it was not made of smoke. Her hands sank into something horribly cold and slimy. It was thick and soupy, not entirely liquid, but not solid, either; something like clotted milk or half-set cheese, but worse; indescribably worse. It was something that should have been dead but was alive; something that looked alive and yet was dead. And it was cold -- she'd never felt such a cold. Not a clean cold like ice or snow. This cold had the quality of a bad smell.
    The feel of it made her gag. It made her head swim. But she persisted. Her fingers grasped and tore until she had pulled it to pieces, until she had completely destroyed the unnatural, unwanted effigy.
    Then she got out of bed and tottered across the floor on weak legs and threw up in the washbowl. Her head ached fiercely. She rested a moment, and then opened the window. It was a cold and windy day, and she was grateful for that. The wind would rush into the room and sweep out the nasty smells of sickness: the smells of blood, and vomit, and something much worse.
    I've won , she thought, weary but triumphant. You haven't got me. I'm free.
    Mildred came in and found her leaning on the windowsill, head half out the window, shivering with the cold but still sucking in deep, invigorating breaths of the pure winter air.
    "What on earth are you doing? Do you want to catch your death?" Mildred's hands, firm and controlling, on her arms. Eustacia resisted, refusing to be steered back to bed, afraid of the horrible remains she had left quivering and clotted on the blanket. "I felt sick. . . ."
    "Yes, I see. You must get back into bed, you must keep warm."
    Every muscle, every bone, every ounce of flesh still resisted -- until she saw the bed, clean and dry and empty, not a trace of the horror left.
    She collapsed with relief and let Mildred tuck her into bed where, utterly exhausted, she fell asleep immediately.
     
    * * *
     
When she woke, her hands were warm and dry.
     
    Her body's only discharge came from between her legs, and that would pass after a few days. She was back to normal. She had won. She made a face at the Mr. Elphinstone in her mind, his image fading fast, and almost laughed out loud. She was happy, with four days ahead of her in which she would not be expected to work at all, time in which she could sleep and dream and read and think. Despite the mess and bother of it, Eustacia never minded her monthly visitor; on the contrary, she was grateful for the regular holiday