The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  Above me is a central skylight of beveled glass. The sunlight is dim currently, but should it choose to brighten, my shadow shall be cast on the wall.

  “Lucy? Hurry up with that bread. Do not dawdle.” I hear her scuttle into the kitchen.

  I release my breath and hurry over the bridge into the servants’ quarters. My heart is hammering loud in my temples. If caught, I shall have a devil of a time explaining myself. And he is not beyond the punishments.

  As a child, he would lock me in one of the rooms, devoid of toys or any comforts—till I cried. Confessed and repented.

  Maeve would sit outside the door when he left for the asylum, singing to me in French. Lulling me to sleep as I curled against the crack beneath the door.

  But now, I see no one. All must be down in the kitchens or stables.

  The only entrance to the attic is on the servants’ side. I reach up to tug the concealed ceiling square, and it creaks down as I cringe and wait again.

  When no soul arrives, I hurry up the stairs.

  I’ve just managed to light the lantern when voices filter up the steps.

  I lurch forward and pull the rope ladder up, shutting myself in the musty attic. I press my finger beneath my nose, staving off a sneeze, breathing through my mouth till my eyes water.

  Scanning the dark with the lantern, I quickly find my target. I reach the steamer trunk, place the lantern on the floor, and heave it open.

  Mother’s jewelry. Her dresses spill out onto the dirty floor.

  I pull one to my face and inhale. Tears fill my eyes. I was so small when she passed.

  I do not see her, really, but feel her. Feel her arms about me. Cradling me, crooning in my ear.

  I shuffle the dusty dresses aside till I see it—the only portrait of her left in the manor, at the bottom of this dusty trunk.

  I slide it out and prop it up, holding the lantern aloft. My fingers fumble as I remove the sketch from my pocket, tearing the corner in my haste.

  All the breath has vacated my lungs.

  I hold them side by side, and I collapse to my knees.

  “Jules, are you up there?”

  I hastily wipe the tears from my eyes. “Yes, I’m coming.”

  Frost’s fingers grip my cheeks, turning my head side to side, black eyes examining my bruises.

  “Now, look at the damage you have done.” He releases my face with a snort of disgust. “It seems you have fooled Dr. Grayjoy, Twenty-Nine, but I have a question for you. Do not lie.”

  For all my life, Frost has ruled this asylum with fear and pain and some would even say death. It was as if the board were under the spell of his charm, which he could flare and extinguish at will, like a guttering candle of personality. Of late, his spell is fading. There are rumors of a new physick to take his place. But still no one challenges him, allowing him free reign over every ward—his word is carried out above all others.

  “I have a question for you. Do not lie. You know I detest falsity.”

  At the very words, my legs quiver beneath my skirts—thinking of the dunk tank, the leeches, the crème of tartar. I vomited it for weeks.

  I nod.

  “Do you still wish to escape?”

  “I was not trying to escape, Dr. Frost.”

  His dark glare scrutinizes me. “I do not believe you. Convince me otherwise.”

  “You may deem me mad, but I am no imbecile. I understand I have no means by which to care for myself even if I should escape. I would end up a street harlot or in St. James’s graveyard. I know I must adhere to the proper discharge procedures.”

  Your proper games. You monster.

  “’Tis too true. And very cognizant of you to be so realistic. There may yet be help for you.”

  At his mild words, a ray of sunshine spikes in my heart, and I hold my breath. Perhaps my punishment shall not be so very terrible—

  “I must, naturally, however, make an example of you. No matter what Grayjoy says. You will always be under my care, Twenty-Nine. No matter what ward I am assigned to. No matter where you are.”

  The vision of sunlight fades as dark thunderclouds roll in. Fear ices my heart, pumping a cold, violent stream to weaken my legs. I bite my lip to hold back the whimper.

  “If I do not, others shall think running through the corridors at night is acceptable behavior. In mere moments, we could have a riot. Your beloved savior Grayjoy has not yet experienced such chaos.”

  “I do not think anyone else saw me, sir. I am very sorry. I—”

  “I am afraid you ‘do not think’ is not sufficient. Word travels fast here, as you are well aware. I daresay your little escapade has reached the whole way to Ward Thirteen by now.”

  As if anyone in Thirteen would understand.

  I hear my breath, rattling faster and faster, awaiting his decree like the whoosh of a guillotine.

  Frost rings a bell, and Alexander and another bulky orderly appear as if by some detestable asylum magic. Frost nods, and they flank me, restraining my arms.

  “Solitary. One day.”

  A wail escapes. “No. Please, Dr. Frost, please.”

  He makes a show of removing his white gloves, digit by digit. “Make it two.”

  I wail again but do not protest further. I hang limp, like a flower wilted, refusing to walk, and my feet drag behind, creating a terrible scratching sound as they haul me down the corridor.

  “This is blooming crazy, Alex. Hold ’er here. I’ll be right back.”

  The surroundings fade as my mind begins to recoil from reality. All in my sight dims as I begin the lonely crawl to the corners of my mind. Prepared to huddle, to survive.

  A hibernation from life’s cruelties.

  In a moment, I feel the cold metal of the gurney against my back and the straps as they’re yanked tight across my ankles and wrists.

  I am gone now. Humming middle C, over and over and over. Its colored blips coming and going like red stars in a sea of blackness.

  I long for laudanum. If it were here, I would crush the poppy seeds, swallow them whole. Anything to find the numbness.

  We reach Ward Thirteen, where the padded cells line the halls like a soundproof purgatory. For all I know, it will be the scalpel. The ablation. The death of my person, my soul, my mind.

  The feel of the rough material resurrects my mind from where it cowers in a dark recess.

  The straitjacket.

  A guttural growl escapes my throat.

  I scream and flail, kicking out at every angle. I feel my foot connect with Alexander’s jaw and hear the snap as his teeth grind together.

  “Shove ’er arms in, now!” His voice is livid.

  “No. No!”

  My senses heighten. The smell of urine, the scratch of the fabric, the clang of a cage slamming. Panic swells, filling my brain.

  I thrash, gnashing my teeth, and growl. “No, pleease. Help me, please!”

  Tears cut hot tracks down my cheeks. I am hoisted, the vest restraining my arms in a crisscross, tied behind my back.

  “I have an idea. She likes this one, she does.”

  The other orderly laughs. “What’s that?”

  They swing me, one grasping my arms, the other my ankles, at the entrance.

  “One.” Swing. “Two.” Swing. “Three.”

  Weightlessness. I am airborne for a very long moment and then crash to the padded floor, my breath rushing out like a bellows. My head collides face down on the floor, my nose instantly gushing blood.

  Because of the jacket, I cannot stay the flow. I am trapped, face down in my own blood.

  I find the presence of mind to rock my legs and to roll.

  In time to hear the click of the lock.

  I lay still, trying to place myself elsewhere. Anywhere.

  When I was ten … they forgot me here. The panic swells.

  I nearly starved to death.

  Nurse Ginny eyes me warily. “You are certain D
r. Frost instructed you to be here, on this ward, Jules?”

  Her black eyes search the nursing roster of Ward Three, the convalescent ward. Arguably the easiest ward in Soothing Hills. The patients are primarily older gents in wheeled chairs, many easing their way in to senility as their families steal their fortunes—but many sharp as tacks, their wits intact in stark contrast with their bodies’ deterioration. It is also the tuberculosis ward—and I am risking my life—but there is no chance of seeing Father here. He leaves this ward to the other physicks.

  I nod fervently. “Oh, yes. He said I should be exposed to all the wards. To see where I might best fit.”

  Her eyebrow rises, so I add, “To be the most help. I know there have been staff cuts.”

  “More likely no one daft enough to work here, with a bloody killer on the loose,” she mumbles.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “The asylum must be cutting costs wherever possible. I mean, look at these uniforms. They’re dreadful.”

  Ginny’s only reply is a scathing look, and I bite my lip in embarrassment.

  “I am sorry. I never have been good at controlling my tongue.”

  She scans the airy, open room, the residents packed like elderly silver-headed sardines. “Very well. You best bridle it here. Insubordination is not tolerated. I am never in want of staff, to be sure. I primarily work here and on Ward One. You know … I feel as if I have seen you before. You are certain we’ve never met, perhaps outside the asylum? Something about your face is familiar.”

  “No. I’m quite certain.”

  I notice the white circle around her left ring finger. She once wore a wedding band. I stare at her. Young and pretty. Vibrant auburn spirals against the pale skin of her neck. She currently wrinkles her nose at a particularly pungent tincture, and the smattering of freckles ripple in time.

  She is like a light in this dark place.

  Nurse Ginny riffles through no less than six clipboards before she finally decides upon my assignment.

  Father is somewhere in the asylum. But I know for certain he is never on the convalescent ward. He views it as no challenge. I shall have to avoid running into him, as it is decidedly not my scheduled day. Nor was the day before, or the day before that. I stifle a smile.

  Willis shall be calling on me at five. If I am not yet returned, I have Maeve presenting him with an alibi.

  I must return to Twenty-Nine’s room. I must see if there are other sketches. Sketches of the woman who, at least from the back, looks eerily like my mother. I cannot be certain. I was only six when she passed.

  “The laundry. Take the patients’ bedding and soiled clothing over. Help out if needed and bring them back when complete.”

  I nod and follow the direction of her outstretched finger toward a massive, wheeled laundry cart. The stench is overpowering, and my eyes begin to water whilst I am still ten steps away.

  I smile. Another deterrent from people examining me too closely. Perfect.

  I hold my breath and heave the cart to rolling, and the orderlies throw the massive metal bolt to open the doors. They swing wide to permit my exit. I keep my eyes downcast.

  I have donned a pair of my lady’s maid’s old spectacles and wrapped my hair tightly beneath the nursing cap to avoid further detection.

  The halls are dead quiet, the only sound the squeaking of the cart’s wheels.

  In my mind, I shift through the puzzle pieces of this mystery.

  The music I hear—though this is not new; it has been present since my childhood. The words buried within the compositions. Maeve’s admonitions to never, ever breathe a word of it to Father.

  I hear them in the corn around my house. Only from what I have deemed the corn music.

  The eyes in Dr. Grayjoy’s study. Nearly identical to my own.

  And the strange picture, of a woman who is possibly my mother. And the other girl by her side. I am an only child. Who could she be?

  It makes not a whit of sense. None of it.

  I grind my teeth together and murmur, “I shall make sense of it.”

  If there are two subjects at which I excel, it is music and riddles.

  Grayjoy

  Frost shoves the papers under Gentile’s bespectacled nose for the third time.

  “I am telling you, the procedure was a success.”

  Frost’s eyes have the familiar manic gleam—in such a state, he is nearly impossible to derail, perseverating on whatever topic festers in his mind, intent on convincing his audience.

  “I remain unconvinced.” Gentile’s voice is low. I recognize the tone—it is the same he uses with patients on a knife’s edge, ready to slice free.

  Frost paces. “Philistines. The lot of you. I shall be the one to live in infamy—once my findings are published—neither of you shall have a say. I shall decide which patient is in need of ablation.”

  Gooseflesh erupts down my neck, and I fight to hold his gaze. He is like an animal. To keep his respect, and his ferocity at bay, one must show no fear.

  I bristle. “You do realize, Frost, my degree is from Harvard. And before that, Oxford?”

  Gentile’s bleary eyes widen, and we exchange a silent conversation. “Mistake,” his gaze all but screams.

  Frost whirls, teeth bared. “Oh, beg pardon, Dr. High and Mighty, Lord of the Manor and apparently of Soothing Hills. You were wetting your nappies when I was giving injections. You—”

  Gentile placates, “No one is doubting your abilities, Isaiah. We just think you may be embracing procedures too quickly, without even research—”

  “Dr. Frost?”

  Nurse Sally pokes her head round the door, and Frost stiffens. He cocks his head to stare at her.

  “One of your patients is in need of your ministrations.”

  Frost straightens, tugs his waistcoat, and stalks off.

  I wait until I am certain he is out of earshot and then slump before Gentile, letting my hand drag down the length of my face. It drops to my lap, and I stare at my mentor.

  “I know,” is all he manages.

  Jules

  Passing through the halls of Soothing Hills is like a journey through the levels of insanity.

  It is simply arranged, with the ever-higher numbers corresponding with the levels of madness.

  Ward One, for those about to be reintroduced into society. A trial for their stability—to assume their would-be professions, if able, before being let loose into the oft-confusing world.

  Ward Three, the convalescents. The mysterious tuberculosis. I have overhead many an argument with nurse and physick alike, from, “It is rarely contagious,” to, “One should not even breathe the same air.” Often, lifers to the asylum are placed here. Family cast-offs and even an occasional nobility. Tuberculosis does not see class.

  On Ward Four, the moderately impaired. Where one moment the patient may seem right, his mind pure as the snow outside, and then with the wrong word—a raving, whirling lunatic. This is my destination, where Patient Twenty-Nine is housed.

  My eyes skip down the corridor to the higher numbered wards, where even the air seems caustic. As if the tunnel itself holds its breath against the patient’s screams.

  Thirteen. No hope of return. It is also the place for medical experiments. I have witnessed only a few … but there are whispers of horrors.

  A procedure called ablation—for the violent.

  The resulting creatures are docile, but no remnant of their personality remains. They are walking, eating, existing zombies. Nothing more.

  I shudder and push the cart faster.

  I reach Ward Four and knock. Please do not be Nurse Sally.

  My heart trips out a staccato rhythm, and I force myself to breathe. One in, one out.

  The sound of the bolt thrown in the lock.

  I blink. The door swings wide to reveal a leering orderly, his name badge proclaiming him Alexander. It is the monster from the in
cident with the older woman and the straitjacket.

  “Alright, then.” He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing. He catches a whiff of the laundry stench and takes a step back. “You must be new … ”

  “Daphne,” I say, lowering my voice. I give a little limp as I go. The less accurately he remembers me, the better. “I am a laundress.”

  He wipes his eyes from the stench, gesturing to the rooms. “Have at it, then. All the loons have presently flown the coop.”

  Anger flushes my face. “Sorry?”

  But he is already sauntering away. “They’s all in the airing yard.”

  My cart is divided with clean linens, and an empty bin for the dirty.

  I pull out a laundered, fresh sheet and spread it across Ward Four’s laundry. I will still need to be effective, snooping or no. I separate the ward’s dirty cast-offs and set quickly, room to room, clearing beds and bins.

  Finally, I reach the room. Twenty-Nine.

  I step inside, whirling about, my eyes darting here and there, trying to take in every inch of the sketch-littered walls.

  It is breathtaking. This mind, no matter how ill, is capable of much beauty.

  Winter scenes dominate the room. The asylum—black spires, white snowflakes, and drifts, undoubtedly a view from another window. Couples skating. Couples and children sledding. Sleigh rides pulled by massive white horses adorned with red and white bows slung about their snow-dusted manes.

  Visions of what must be the asylum gardens in bloom. Walkways borne of seasons: daffodils in spring; brilliant yellow, orange, and maroon mums in fall; and blood-red poinsettias to cheer the dead of winter.

  I spy a section, closest to the cot, where the drawings are more childlike. Children around a woman with an open book.

  Tears spring to my eyes. How long has Twenty-Nine been here?

  “Meow.”

  My eyes flash to the window, heart in my mouth. A very large tabby cat sits on the sill, head cocked, tail swishing madly. “A cat? Here?”

  It leaps, padding across the floor to entwine in my skirts. I bend down to pet its head.

  “Hissssssss.” Gray ears go flat, back arching. A low, threatening growl escapes its throat.