Also by Heather Lyons
The Fate Series
A Matter of Fate (#1)
Beyond Fate (#1.5)
A Matter of Heart (#2)
A Matter of Truth (#3)
A Matter of Forever (#4)
The Deep End of the Sea
The Collectors’ Society
Copyright © 2014 by Heather Lyons
http://www.heatherlyons.net
Cerulean Books
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9908436-0-3
Cover design by Whit And Ware
Editing by Kristina Circelli
Book formatting by Champagne Formats
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Also by Heather Lyons
Dedication
The Pleasance Asylum
An Offer of Employment
Doorways
A Newspaper
The Collectors’ Society
The Library
Dolls and Boxes
Alarms
The Librarian
A Playbook
The Museum
The 21st Century
Reading Books
Intent
Ex Libris
Girl Time
Drama Island
The Wall
We Need To Talk
The Truth
Fissures and Secrets
The Land That Time Forgot
Capture
The Nightrider
The Past
Star-crossed
SleepMist
The Tulgey Woods
Catalysts and Rabbit Holes
New York City Revisited
Gravity
A Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Also by Heather Lyons
A Matter of Fate
Follow Chloe’s story in the rest of the Fate series books . . .
About the Author
To Tricia Santos,
AF loves and appreciates you
just as much as I do.
THE CEILING ABOVE ME is a mysterious map of cracks and chipped paint, nearly undecipherable in origins or destinations. Voids unsettle me, though, so night after night, as I stare up at it, tracing the moonbeams that flit in between hills and valleys, I assign them my own designations. There, that bump? It’s Gibraltar. That chunk? The Himalayas. The deep groove near the Southeast corner of the room? The Great Wall of China. The smooth patch nearly dead center is the Pleasance Asylum, which is vastly amusing to me.
I shy away from the splattering of flakes in the Northwest quadrant, though. Those ones, whose ridges grow on nearly a daily basis, are far too easy to decipher. I made the mistake of telling Dr. Featheringstone this during a fit of delirium, and he’s not forgotten it. In fact, he’s asked me about them again, just now, and he’s waiting patiently for my answer.
“They’re flakes of paint,” I tell him. “Created from age and lack of upkeep.”
As he chuckles softly, the thick mustache that hides his lip twitches. “Always the literal one.”
I keep my eyes on his face rather than in the area he’s quizzing me about. It taunts me though, just over his left shoulder. “Why shouldn’t I be? Word games are silly and are best left for children or the elderly who seek to hold onto their wit.” The muscle inside my chest works in overtime as I tell him this. He’s heard my ravings, and knows my struggles.
“And you are no longer a child?”
I lean back in the still, wooden chair, delighting in how its discomfort bites into my bones. “I hardly think a woman of twenty-five is a child, Doctor.”
In direct opposition to his faint yet genuine smile, pudgy fingers stroke his bushy mustache downward. “Many ladies of your standing are long married with family.”
He says many when he means most. I smooth the stubborn wrinkles on my gray skirt. “It’s a little hard to meet prospective suitors in . . .” I glance around the room, eyes careful not to settle too long above his head. “A fine establishment such as yours.”
Neither of us mention where I’d been before here, or what I’d seen and done and experienced.
Another chuckle rumbles out of him. “Too true, dear. But you will not be at the Pleasance much longer. What then?”
My fingers knot tightly together in my lap. “I imagine I will be sent to rusticate at our family’s summer house near the seaside. Perhaps I will find a nice stableboy to court me, and by the ripe age of twenty-six, we will be living out our bliss amongst seashells, ponies, and hay.”
Featheringstone sighs, his face transforming into a look I could sketch from memory; it’s given so often to me when I offer up an answer he doesn’t like. I call it Disappointed Featheringstone.
My eyes drift to the one window in the room. "I am still not positive my release is the wisest course of action."
"You’ve been here for over half a year,” the doctor says. "Most people in your position would be clamoring to taste freedom."
A thin smile surfaces. That’s the problem. I’ve had a taste of freedom, true freedom, and I’m loathe to accept anything other than such.
"You are in good health," he continues. "Your need for confinement is gone. Your nightmares have decreased significantly." His chair creaks beneath his significant girth as he leans forward. "It is time for you to resume your life, Alice. You cannot do that here at the asylum. You are, as you pointed out, twenty-five years old. You still have many years of experiences ahead of you."
I have many years of experiences behind me, too.
"Perhaps I ought to become a nurse," I muse, keeping the edge of my sarcasm soft enough to not wound. "What a story mine would be: patient to nurse, a grand example of life dedicated to the Pleasance."
"I think nursing school is a grand idea.” His ruddy face alights. "There are several reputable ones in London you could attend."
It’s my turn to give him a patented look, the one he affectionately calls Unamused Alice.
“Your father has sent word he will come to escort you home at the end of the week."
Unamused Alice transitions to Curmudgeonly Alice.
Featheringstone stands up, glancing up at my past before shuffling over to pat me on my shoulder. He is a nice man, whose intentions for his wards are sincere. It’s for this I both appreciate and resent him. An old schoolmate of my father’s, he was selected upon my return sorely for this purpose. Too many horror stories about hellish asylums and nefarious doctors rage about England, but my father knew his friend would treat me with kid gloves. While the Pleasance may be physically showing its age, it’s amongst the most sought after when it comes to those in the upper class due to its gentle hand and discreet employees.
Sometimes I wish my father hadn’t been so kind. It might have been easier had he thrown me into one of the hellholes, where I could have gotten lost amongst the insane.
MANDATORY STROLLS ARE REQUIRED of all patients at the Pleasance, as Dr. Featheringstone believes, “Fresh air is the tonic to many ails.” At first, I was resistant to such outings, preferring
to stay in my snug room with the door closed, but after several tours with the good doctor and a team of nurses and orderlies, I determined he perhaps had a point. There is a nice pond that is home to a family of ducks, a small grove of trees, and a handful of boring, quiet gardens that house no red roses after the good doctor had requested them removed. Worn dirt paths lined with benches connect the Pleasance’s outdoor pleasures, and one can experience everything in as little as a half hour. We patients are never left to our own devices during these Fresh Air Hours, though. Nurses and orderlies mingle amongst the residents, setting up tables for games of checkers, chess, or croquet, although I naturally recuse myself from such frivolity.
Half a year in, and I am still a stranger to most of the folk here. That was by my choice; many of the residents did their best to welcome me into the fold, but I was determined to keep my distance out of early fear of spies.
There is nowhere you could go in which we could not find you, little bird.
“A letter, my lady.”
My head snaps up sharply to find one of the orderlies standing over me, an envelope in his hand. I eye the object warily; outside of my parents, whom I requested not to write to me during my stay, no one else of my acquaintance knows I’m here. “There is no need to be so formal with me. We are at an asylum after all.”
I think his name is Edward, but it could easily be Edwin, too. Or perhaps even Edmund. A mere incline of the head is given, but I highly doubt my bitterly voiced suggestion means anything to him. The staff here is the epitome of propriety.
I don’t want what he has to offer. “Toss it into the fire.”
His smile is patient and kind, one borne of tempered familiarity. “Dr. Featheringstone has already previewed its contents.” The open flap is jiggled. “Would you like me to open it as well?”
I sigh and set my sketch pad on the bench next to me. The ducklings in the distance scatter across the pond, leaving me without subject to capture. “Go ahead and read it aloud.”
A slim piece of paper is extracted. Through the afternoon’s golden sunlight, I can determine less than a quarter of the sheet is filled with thin, spidery calligraphy. “Dear madam,” E reads, modulating his voice so it sounds very dignified, indeed. “It is my great hope that I may come and speak to you tomorrow afternoon about a matter of great importance. Yours sincerely, Abraham Van Brunt.”
“That’s it?” I ask once the paper is refolded.
“Yes, my lady.”
What a curious letter. “I am unacquainted with an Abraham Van Brunt,” I tell the orderly. And then, as I reclaim my sketch pad, “I suppose Dr. Featheringstone has already sent off a missive telling him not to bother coming round.”
Naturally, he does not know whether or not the doctor did just such a thing. “Would you like the letter, my lady?”
I’m already turning back toward the pond. “No. Please burn it.”
The crunch of twigs informs me of his retreat, allowing me to reclaim my solitude. The ducks long gone, I spend my time perfecting the tufts of grass and reeds growing at water’s edge on today’s landscape.
Alice.
I focus harder, my charcoal furiously scraping across the paper until I remember I don’t want to do anything furiously. Not anymore, at least.
Alice.
I close my eyes, focusing on the red and orange kaleidoscopes that dance across my lids.
Alice?
The paper in my hand crumples as easily as my heart. I leave it behind on the bench when I make my way back inside, because I’m positive there was an H etched into it. And to think that Featheringstone is convinced I’m sane.
I haven’t been sane in over six years.
“TRY TO KEEP AN open mind, hm?”
I’m sitting in Dr. Featheringstone’s ode-to-wood office, my hands folded primly across my lap. “Do my parents know about this?”
The corners of his mustache twitch upward. “As you’ve pointed out numerous times in the past, you are not a child. There was no need to inform your father about this as he is not your legal guardian.”
My smile is tight. “If that’s the case, then I must insist you turn the gentleman away at the door. I simply do not have the inclination to entertain a visitor today.”
The good doctor is undeterred. “Since arriving at the Pleasance, you have spent very little time conversing with anyone outside of myself and the staff.”
I nod vigorously.
“But, Alice, none of us live in a vacuum. Mr. Van Brunt’s visit could be an excellent chance for you to practice your conversation skills.”
“Do you find my ability to converse lacking, Doctor?”
He chuckles softly, no doubt remembering how I wasn’t chatty with anyone, himself included, for the first month of my stay. To be fair, it is difficult to carry on an invigorating discussion when one is shaking so hard from withdrawals they fear they might shatter into thousands of painful pieces before a single word can be uttered. Plus, there was the whole bit of how once I did open up, I raved liked a lunatic about things no normal person could imagine being true.
“Certainly not,” he says to me. “But as I must stay at the Pleasance and you must go forth into the world, it will do you good to practice on somebody new.”
“Then send in one of the orderlies. Or one of the nurses. I’ll happily chat with a staff member.”
One of his bushy, out-of-control eyebrows lifts high into his forehead.
“There are people out there who are quite content being solitary,” I point out. “Who do not need to converse with anybody but themselves and their dogs.”
He sets his pen down. “What about cats?”
Rigor mortis sets in ever so briefly at this question.
“You father said you were quite fond of cats growing up. There was one in particular that you favored. Dinah, was it not?”
“I’m—” I have to clear my throat. “Lately, I wonder if perhaps I’m more of a dog person after all.”
The mustache hides nothing. I’m patently aware of how the corners of his mouth turn downward. “Nonetheless, I’m afraid I must insist you allow an audience with Mr. Van Brunt.”
Irritable Alice emerges. “Do you know this gentleman?”
“I do. He and I go way back.”
“As far as you and my father?”
“Not that far.” The frown gives way to another soft chuckle. “But far enough. He would not come here to talk to you if he did not have something important to say.”
“How do you know it’s him?” I ask. “How do you know the missive was not forged?”
Concern fills his dark eyes.
I push my advantage. He must be wondering if I’ve gone mad again. “What if it’s one of the Courts? Or their assassins?”
Fingers tap against the felt mat guarding the top of the wooden desk as he studies me. Just as I feel victory is within my grasp, he says, “You will take the meeting. Hear Mr. Van Brunt out.”
I slump back into the padded chair. I don’t wear defeat well. “Fine.”
EASILY ONE OF THE tallest men I’ve ever seen, Abraham Van Brunt has to stoop ever so slightly to fit through the doorway into Featheringstone’s office. He’s wearing a smart gray suit with a matching gray vest, a thin chain of gold looping from button to pocket, announcing a watch I want to snatch off his body and toss out the window.
A hand is proffered. “Hello, Ms. Reeve.”
It’s interesting he’s referred to me by the name my family chose to register me under for privacy’s sake. I take in his dark hair, equally dark beard, and piercing blue eyes as I leave his hand lonely in the space between us. “You are an American.”
“Indeed I am.” The hand withdrawn, he lowers himself into a nearby chair. “From New York, to be precise. My name is Abraham Van Brunt—”
“You’re a far cry from home, sir.”
The door opens, bringing with it one of the housekeepers and a tray loaded with a teapot and biscuits. “That I am.” His voice is deep
and soft, yet filled with a hint of thunder. “I’m not gone for too long, though. If all goes as planned, I’ll be heading back tonight.”
“Before you do, though, you thought you’d stop by an old friend’s asylum and have a chat with one of the unstable ladies within?”
A smile touches his full lips. “Not just any woman. I specifically wanted to talk to you, Ms. Reeve.”
You would think I’d learned my lesson about curiosity, but apparently I have yet to fully embrace the dangers associated with it. “Has Dr. Featheringstone been talking out of turn about me?”
He waits until the housekeeper closes the door behind her before selecting a cup. “Would you like some tea, Ms. Reeve?”
The words practically have to be ripped from me, but I agree to the drink.
“Let me reassure you that the good doctor has not betrayed your confidences—at least, not much.”
I stir a doily-shaped slice of sugar into my cup, my eyes refusing to leave his face. “I feel quite confident that any mention of my person is gross abuse of patient-doctor confidentiality.”
The flowered teacup comes to rest just before his lips. “Rest assured, he merely informed me there was a woman he’d met who spoke of Wonderland. After that, I . . .” His smile is surprisingly boyish. “Well. Let’s just say that I am quite talented at rooting out mysteries. I’m afraid that I had to know exactly who was mentioning Wonderland and left no stone unturned until I did.”
The blood in my veins runs cold at how easily he issues this statement. “This is a madhouse, sir. I assume many of the residents here have concocted fanciful lands with equally fanciful names to explain away their insanity.”
He sips his tea, and it is his eyes this time that do not stray away. “But how many of them specifically mention Wonderland?”
I silently curse myself when the porcelain in my hands clink against one another.
“It’s not often,” he continues, “that one meets somebody who knows of, let alone has been to and back again, from such a place.”
I let out a carefully nonchalant scoff. “Who is to say that person is me?”
The Collectors' Society Page 1
