I stared at the door knob, some secret, senseless part of my brain hoping that my eyes might suddenly find within themselves the skill to lay bare its secrets with nothing more than a hardened glance. They did not.

As far as Henrietta was aware, no one had ever given Mr. Purvis permission to change the locks on his door, but in spite of this fact, the key she had for his rooms was proving to be less than appropriate for the task of granting us access. Below the knob, as if mocking the three of us, dangled a tiny sign that Mr. Purvis had fashioned for himself at some point or another proclaiming “Do NOT Disturb” in neatly written letters.

Impossibilia shifted quietly from foot to foot. “I can smell death from in there,” she whispered to no one in particular. Her hands grabbed and twisted at the hem of the knit sweater she wore over her plain dress. Henrietta and I turned, as if on queue, to glance at one another. It was clear that Impossibilia was alone in this perception.

“Mr. Purvis!” I shouted, rapping at his door, “Are you in there?” I paused, but there was no response. “You haven’t been out of your rooms in nearly two days. We’re concerned!” Another pause. “This isn’t typical for you!”

I turned back to look at the girls. I would like to imagine that their eyes were full of trepidation, but I was having trouble keeping my sight balanced. The mathematics of their features was overpowering. With the briefest of glimpses, I was able to perceive the exact length of one of Henrietta’s hair follicles (twenty two point three six inches) or the circumference of Impossibilia’s wrist (five point four nine inches at its narrowest), but any expression of emotion that might have adorned their faces was lost to me.

I turned back to the door. “We’re coming in, Mr. Purvis!” I shouted.

Again there was no response.