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  “Jo, get these things. I’ll put them down, they’ll be needed and I must go prepared for nursing, as it is my duty to care for whatever sad invalid human I find there. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I’m not too proud to beg for this faceless stranger. Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my things, for I’m half bewildered.”

  Trying to comprehend how an immortal could suffer the illnesses of humanity might well bewilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little while, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.

  Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the mother’s absence, which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn’t offer, from his own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible. Mrs. March would not hear of the novice vampire undertaking the trip, for he could not know the many challenges a creature of the night faced on a long journey. But he saw the look of relief when he spoke of it, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he’d be back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of pig’s blood in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.

  “I’m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,” he said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. “I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there.”

  Down dropped the rubbers, and the blood was very near following, as Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time and comfort which he was about to take.

  “How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I’m sure, and it will be such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!”

  Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling blood, and led the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother.

  Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what she had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo would have understood if she had been there.

  The evening wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and her mother were busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got blood, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a “slap and a bang,” but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie went off to find her, for no one knew what freak Jo might take into her head. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in her voice, “That’s my contribution toward making Father or the unknown victim comfortable and bringing him home to us or the other Marches!”

  “My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you haven’t done anything rash?”

  “No, it’s mine honestly. I didn’t beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it, and I don’t think you’ll blame me, for I only sold what was my own.”

  As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.

  “Your hair! Your beautiful hair!” “Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty.” “My dear girl, there was no need of this.” “She doesn’t look like my Jo anymore, but I love her dearly for it!”

  As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked it, “It doesn’t affect the fate of the nation, so don’t wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I’m satisfied, so please take the money and let’s have supper.”

  “Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can’t blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I’m afraid you will regret it one of these days,” said Mrs. March.

  “No, I won’t!” returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned.

  “Didn’t you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?” asked Meg, with a shiver.

  “I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost seemed as if I’d lost an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. I’ll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don’t think I shall ever have a mane again.”

  Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk. She only said, “Thank you, deary,” but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about the good weather for traveling, Mr. Brooke’s kindness, and the happy times they would have when Marmee confirmed that the sick man wasn’t their father. “What do you mean, Mr. Brooke’s kindness?” Jo asked.

  “He’s going to escort Mother to Washington, as Mr. Laurence has commissions for him to discharge there,” Meg explained.

  Jo felt a sense of dread come over her and she ran to find her mother. “Marmee, you mustn’t do it,” she said. “You mustn’t.”

  Her mother smiled softly at her, for she was a little surprised to find her passionate Jo in a tizzy about something. “Mustn’t do what, dear?”

  “Go with Brooke. He’s a vampire slayer, I just know it.”

  Marmee ran a gentle hand over her daughter’s shorn locks. “My darling girl, it’s a distressing time and our thinking processes don’t always work as smoothly as they do during peaceful times. I know and have seen how unhappy the young gentleman’s courting of your sister has made you, and I understand. You don’t want to lose her and our happy family and so you’ve created a wild fiction in your head to justify this discomfort. It’s perfectly natural for someone with your exuberant spirit and nothing to fret about. It will pass soon enough.”

  Jo protested violently that she wasn’t imagining things; that the Russellmacher Ruse No. 4,23 in which a slayer pretends to be an ardent human suitor, was a classic maneuver she’d read about a dozen times; and that even if one didn’t believe in the deadly Russellmacher Ruse, one had to admit there was something deeply suspicious about a human man who—

  Here her mother cut her off before she could admit the evidence of the glove, for she knew her daughter’s powerful imagination. “Go to sleep and don’t talk.”

  The girls kissed Marmee quietly, and went silently to their coffins. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob escaped the casket.

  Meg
lifted the lid and exclaimed, “Jo, dear, what is it? Are you worried about Father?”

  “No, not now.”

  “What then?”

  “My…My hair!” burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the hard, knotty pine.

  It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner, although she couldn’t help noticing that Jo’s hair wasn’t quite as short as she’d thought.

  “I’m not sorry,” protested Jo, with a choke. “I’d do it again tomorrow, if I could.”

  Meg pulled back and said slowly, “I think that indeed you could.”

  “Of course I would,” insisted Jo. “I’ve never meant anything more and I don’t care who the money is for. It’s only the vain part of me that goes and wails in this silly way. Don’t tell anyone, it’s all over now.”

  “But, Jo, it is over now. Look!” she said, lifting her sister’s hand to her own head, so she could feel for herself the freshly grown locks that tumbled over her shoulders. “It’s come back.”

  Shocked, Jo pulled and tugged on the tresses that just hours before she had surrendered for the benefit of her father or an unknown stranger also called Mr. March. But now it seemed as if her grand sacrifice was an empty gesture, for as surely as the moon would rise tomorrow, her body would assume its original formation. No matter what damage she inflicted on herself, it always returned to the way it was on the day she’d changed. She’d lost teeth, broken arms, and knocked eyeballs out of their sockets, and still she woke every evening with her parts intact. But neither she nor her sisters had ever cut off all their hair, for they always assumed it would be lost forever. Hair, unlike, say, an arm, seemed separate and distinct from the body, an embellishment that hung on it rather than from it. But now she knew that supposition was false. One’s hair was as resilient as one’s lung.

  Far from finding comfort in this development, Jo felt humiliated, for who but she would make such a to-do about an act that would ultimately prove meaningless, and she cried herself to sleep, thoroughly ruining yet another pillowcase with blood-tinged tears.

  Chapter Twelve

  LETTERS

  November 5

  My dearest Mother,

  It is impossible to tell you how despondent your letter made us, for the news was so awful we couldn’t do anything for hours but sit in the parlor and brood. How dreadful that our dear father is truly ill and suffering from a fever so high as to make him not know himself! What a shock you must have had, coming into the hospital room, so confident that the telegram had reached the wrong Mrs. March, and seeing the beloved face that you have adored so constantly for more than a century. I’m sorry we weren’t there to support or defend you when Father tried to drive a cross through your heart. Thank goodness Mr. Brooke was there to intervene. I know Father is too weak in his current condition to do you real harm, but perhaps you should stay at a safe distance until he understands that he himself is a vampire as well.

  You did not say in your letter what the doctors think of Father’s strange illness, and that worries me. I understand that they do not attend to many vampire soldiers at the Blank Hospital and that vampire medicine as a science is nonexistent, for it’s never been necessary before, but the medical officers must have some idea of treatment for Father’s fever if not diagnosis of its cause. Please write back immediately and tell us all you know. We are prepared for the worst and, in the absence of anything more definite, are imagining it constantly.

  The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn’t know her “moral fit” wouldn’t last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy, but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own…

  MEG

  November 8

  My precious Marmee,

  I am on the trail! Gentleman Jackson recalls a similar occurrence of “vampire fever,” as the doctors are now calling Father’s strange disease, during the Transylvanian Inquisition.24 He claims to have a vague memory of another illness striking with similar symptoms, most particularly the chills that Father suffers daily. As you well know, vampires are impervious to temperature and do not as a matter of course experience chills. My entire squad and many of the instructors are carefully reading books and journals from that terrible time in hopes of discovering a vital clue to the fever’s origins and cure. Gentleman Jackson is confident that we will find something to save Father, so I am, too. You must remain hopeful as well. We are desperately sorry to hear that the attacks have worsened and that you cannot dab Father’s brow without fear of losing your arm.

  Don’t spare too many thoughts for us, for we are well. Everyone is so desperately good, it’s like living in a nest of turtledoves. You’d laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day, and I’m in love with her sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and I—well, I’m Jo, and never shall be anything else.

  Give Father my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your…

  TOPSY-TURVY JO

  November 10

  Dear Mother,

  There is only time for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. We are delirious with joy to know that the formula Gentleman Jackson sent is yielding results. Meg says it’s too soon to know for sure, but I’m positive Father’s blood combined with the other ingredients is the cure we’ve been so desperately praying for. How wonderful to hear of him sitting up and reading our letters to you. Jo was overwhelmed by the news and tried to thank God for being so good to us but she could only say, “I’m glad! I’m glad!” I told her that would do nicely as a regular prayer, for I know she felt a great many in her heart.

  I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with Father’s tune. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.

  Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving…

  LITTLE BETH

  November 12

  Ma Chere Mamma,

  We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroborate the girls—Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have an extra warm cup of blood every morning at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Sallie Gardiner does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons. Can’t she? Didn’t I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can’t stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa. It’s so lovely that he’s no longer trying to stake you. Your affectionate daughter…

  AMY CURTIS MARCH

  November 14

  Dear Mis March,

  I jes drop a line to say we
git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper. She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don’t stop to cal’k’late fust, and you never know where she’s like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched ’em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur. Amy does well without frettin, wearin her best clothes. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. Dinner iz reddy, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he’s seen the last of his fever.

  Yours respectful,

  Hannah Mullet

  November 16

  Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,

  All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington that Mr. March had kicked the fever for good, and a dress parade took place at headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by…

  COLONEL TEDDY

  November 18

  Dear Madam,

  The little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds. Pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don’t let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending.