The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  Too-long fingernails touch the metal door, scratching the length of it.

  I am done for.

  Music. Oh, my word, orchestral music, from the corn.

  The fingernails pull away, distracted.

  And I hear it. My heart skips two beats, and my breath breaks through my hands, my chest heaving.

  Words. The words embedded in the music say—“Run. Run, Jules.”

  I lurch forward and yank the rope, and the dumbwaiter plummets downward. It strikes the bottom of the shaft, jarring my teeth together. I flail sideways and fling open the sliding metal door, roll out and heave it shut, but not before I hear the door at the top of the shaft creak open.

  I run.

  I forget Grayjoy, I forget Twenty-Nine, and I run directly for the entrance.

  To escape the monster that roams the halls of Soothing Hills Sanatorium.

  I see him. The shuffling monster, silhouetted in one of the top-most windows.

  The birds. The birds sit outside my window, peck-peck-pecking. One opens its pointy black beak, and my name harmonizes with its caw.

  I sit straight up, eyes darting, chest heaving. I press my hand against my sweat-soaked shift. I whimper over and over, my eyes darting to the window.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, too slowly, reality seeps back into my mind. I close my eyes, trying to remember.

  My canopy bed. I am home. It was a dream—but it was not.

  “Easy, Jules, you half-wit,” I breathe, worrying I am now talking to myself. As if Soothing Hills is somehow leaving an indelible imprint on my soul.

  It was a memory. I did see him as I alighted into the very last carriage, and then shrank back tight against the seat, away from the window, staying that way till we rattled down the lane.

  I stare out my window at the yellow glaze upon the horizon. It is nearly dawn.

  “Ma colombe.” Maeve enters my room, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. Anxiety twists my gut. Something must be awry—she is up early, even for her.

  She swiftly crosses my room to sit on the edge of my bed. Her dark eyes are pinched with anger. “Where were you? If your father would have been home, and I’d lied for you—he would dismiss me. You know that to be true. Ma colombe, your days here are numbered, you must behave until then—”

  A foreign rage overtakes me. I am ever good. Ever proper. Forever doing as I am told.

  “I am tired of being his puppet.”

  My tongue traces the bite marks in my lower lip.

  Her eyes narrow. “What options have you? Speaking of your options, Willis showed up last night and was quite put upon that you were not here when you promised you would be. Willis will have a breaking point as well and eventually mention these absences to your father.”

  My hands go clammy with fear that I shall be banished from the asylum. There are mysteries there I must solve. I feel as if I shall never be whole until I do.

  Another memory hits. The corn knows my name.

  “What is it, Jules? Your face is bone-white.”

  I chew my lip, wincing at the pain, and mutter, “It is nothing. I have overextended myself.” I smooth my nightgown. “I shall behave, Maeve. Send word to Willis that I shall see him on this very eve—and I swear on my honor I shall.”

  Her soft hand strokes my hair, my dark curls a contrast against her alabaster skin. “That is my good girl.”

  Something in her tone bades me look at her. “What?”

  Maeve blanches, her expression pinched. “I … have found something. I am unsure if it is wise to give it to you.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “The other day, when you were in the attic … I went up later to see what you were up to. I found the trunk, your mama’s dresses.” Her black eyes fill. “You know I loved your mama. She was my very best friend. The classes between us”—she waves her hand theatrically—“made no difference. We were like zis.” She crosses her long, delicate fingers.

  I smile. “Yes, I know.”

  She reaches into her pocket and then holds her closed fist before me.

  My mouth goes dry. “What is it?”

  Her long fingers open.

  “A locket?” My hands fly to trace my own. It is identical. Silver. Heart-shaped.

  “Why would she buy two lockets? Did you ever see her wear it?”

  Maeve’s face drains whiter still. “No. I never saw her wear it.” She abruptly stands, walking across the room. “I have much to do. Keep it safe.”

  I sit, staring at the heart, trying to fathom why my mother bought identical lockets. And wondering why I need to keep it safe.

  “Get her up.”

  Frost. My heart pounds as fear shudders through my veins, shaking me awake.

  I blink repeatedly, the solitary walls blurring into focus. Sometime during the night, after I had fallen asleep, Mason must have departed. I roll onto my back and scoot backward toward the wall.

  “I said, get her up, Grayjoy.”

  The young physick strides forward and stoops beside me, pulling my torso away from the wall. His hands reach behind my back and stop, registering my freed hands.

  Our eyes meet, and I hold my breath.

  “Dr. Frost, I need your signature.” Alexander stands at the door, clipboard in hand.

  I plead with my eyes, staring up into Grayjoy’s handsome face.

  His lips press tight together, and he hauls me to stand, fingers flying, releasing me from the jacket.

  Frost whirls, his eyebrow cocked. “Did I say to release her from the restraint?”

  Grayjoy folds the jacket in two, effectively hiding the cut straps.

  “I did not like the color of her hands. I read in a journal the other day that with certain patients, blood flow might be compromised. The patients whose fingertips are consistently cold to the touch and tinged purple. That is Twenty-Nine.”

  He is right. The man’s wits are lightning-quick.

  Frost’s eyebrows pull down. “Hmm.”

  He walks forward, and I instinctively take a step backward toward Grayjoy.

  He examines my cheeks again, his hot fingers turning my cheek to and fro.

  “The bruises should be healed by next week. I decided to believe you. That your roommate had assistance. Perhaps she was planning to escape—and her accomplice turned on her.”

  I curtsy. “Thank you, sir.”

  “When you are well, we shall try the Ward One Trio once again. It will be just in time for the next fundraiser.” He heads for the door, murmuring, “Of course, after those bruises heal.”

  “Capital, Dr. Frost. I feel Jane displays excellent potential for success.”

  He uses my name. Not my number. I see from Frost’s expression this is not lost on him.

  As we turn to go, Frost halts me, grabbing my elbow to lean in close. “I have a favor in exchange for Ward One, Twenty-Nine. I shall come to speak to you in confidence when the time is right.”

  Chills lick my neck. Something in the tone of his voice …

  The need to leave, a survival instinct, rears its head within my chest.

  I must find a way out, Ward One or no. The time has come.

  “When I stopped by the other eve, you were out. I’ll admit, I was sorely disappointed.” Willis’s pinched face looks truly despondent, and I sigh.

  “I am sorry. But I am here now. What shall we do tonight?”

  Willis crosses his long legs, which reminds me of a man-sized cricket.

  “Why don’t you play for me? I do love to watch your fingers trailing across the pianoforte.”

  I smile. This request I am always happy to indulge. I sit and flinch as he stands behind me, leaning over. Tentatively, he places his fingers over mine on the keyboard.

  “Let me remain for just a refrain. I do wish I had any musical ability. But, alas, tone-deaf as they come.”

  I begin to play Mozart, a piano concerto in
D, and his fingers tag along.

  He releases me, realizing he slows my pace, and comes to sit beside me on the piano bench.

  I feel a twinge of guilt as I glance at his smiling face. He is a good man. A sweet man. And I do not love him. He deserves to be loved.

  “How is the nursing work progressing?” Father enters the room, beaming, as he always does when I play.

  I see the set of his mouth, the light in his eyes. He is Good Papa this day. I will have no troubles from him. In fact, if I have anything unpleasant to discuss, I must seize upon his countenance.

  I cease to play. The music brings Mother back into the house. When she lived, the house was filled with music, light, and parties. And Father was almost always Good Papa.

  Not that I did not hear the screaming matches—they tried to conceal them, but I am too astute. He changed when she died, his horrid half rising to take command over his better self.

  “The nursing is an education, Father. One in direct contrast to my Latin, music, and history studies. It is an education of the world, of what lies outside class and privilege, and I am better for seeing it.”

  “Here, here.” Willis does a little stage clap, and I blush.

  Father’s eyes are indiscernible. “Yes. I can see how you could benefit from it. Tell me, when will you have arrangements ready to play for our ensemble once again? There is another gathering in a fortnight, and the physicks requested an encore.”

  I smile. “I shall be glad to prepare for it.”

  I suffer through dining with Willis and Father, every few seconds glancing at the grandfather clock, whose hands seem stuck with the treacle tart on the table, by the rate they crawl around its face.

  Finally, I am at the vestibule, bidding Willis goodnight.

  He leans in to kiss me. I turn my lips at the last moment, and it plants upon my cheek. He pulls back, his eyes shining with frustration. I throw my arms about him and give him a tight, brotherly hug. “I shall see you soon.”

  He tips his hat and is gone in a flash.

  I shut the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes.

  I sense a presence in the vestibule. Please not Father, I cannot bear one of his lectures on how to better myself.

  “Jules.” It is Maeve.

  I open my eyes, and her expression is pinched. “I have something to tell you, but c’est notre secret, ma belle.”

  I lower my voice. “What secret?”

  She glances up the stairs, then pulls me into the parlor to sit on the chaise.

  “I wanted to wait till you were old enough, so do not be cross wiss me.” Her French accent increases twofold as it does in times of stress.

  My boot taps in dread and anticipation.

  “I know where you may find more of your mama’s personal effects. They … are hidden away.”

  “Jane, Jane, where are you?”

  “Huh?”

  I turn away from the window, where the dogs frolic in the courtyard. Biting, chasing and sliding in the new snowfall.

  The past few days have flown by—I have not seen Mason since our deep discussion in solitary. Truth be told, I am afraid I was too bold and frightened him away with my honesty.

  Nurse Ginny sits across from me.

  “Where is your mind today? Jane, it is no secret you play well.” She cocks her red head. “That is a gross understatement. I will wager you are a virtuoso.”

  My face flushes as I think of paper upon paper of symphonies, hidden in my room beneath my floorboards. But we are here to make me useful, so that I may someday depart these walls.

  I hear her voice. “Perhaps a governess? I think … ”

  But no position in the world can compare to music. It is what has kept me alive and as close to sane as I might manage.

  Frost detests hearing about composition. Indeed, when he was my personal physick, too many times to count, he would rage on: “The gift, as you call it, is quite impossible Jane. These supposed words imbedded in the music. They are a hallucination. Your fractured mind cannot discern reality from fantasy—and thus, this frailty impedes you. Keeps you alienated from polite society.”

  When I was young and hopeful, I tried in vain to convince him.

  For a short period of time, he entertained the thought, having scores and scores of music played for me. Musicians parading in and out of the wing at his whim.

  I tried to explain it is only certain music in which I hear the messages. Precious, precious few times in my life.

  “It is a disassociation. An ab-nor-mality, nothing more. Your mind creates the messages, the voice, the color of the notes, Jane. Not the music.”

  I grind my teeth at the thought and square my shoulders. I am not mad.

  Sheltered? Yes.

  Abused? Much.

  A mind that has seen too much torture? Irredeemable? Perhaps.

  But I hear the words in the music, as sure as I feel the breath of life in my chest. As if an ethereal hand stamps them there, not my own inner voice, with a red-hot poker—leaving every note of the symphony with its brand. A rainbow of notes.

  Other music appears in multi-color, each according to the note. Middle C being red. Always in red. And the corn music. It too, is forever red. Other, falsely pious men were quick to whisper, Witchcraft.

  In the Bible, God wrote a message on the wall with an invisible finger.

  If that were possible, why is this not?

  “Jane. Jane, are you listening to me?”

  I shake my head and force my focus back to Ginny. “I will learn whatever occupation you deem fit,” I say.

  “I think we should pursue the music, of course. But I want you to learn more common jobs, as well. In case … ” She trails off, as if unsure whether to proceed.

  “In case I slip and am expelled from an orchestra for my abnormalities. This may sound odd, but I accept my issues. I learn from them and am willing to work around them, however necessary, to try a new life.”

  Her smile is bright, the pure soul beneath shining through. She is the perfect match to help the patients find their ways. “That is profound, and shows excellent insight into your condition.”

  Her expression clouds. “Jane … ” She leans in conspiratorially. I do very much like this young woman. “Dr. Frost and Dr. Grayjoy are often at odds as to your treatment remedies and … punishments. I am going to follow Grayjoy’s treatment plan. But please, keep that to yourself, should you have any sessions with Frost.”

  I twist my fingers before my lips and toss the invisible key behind me.

  I slide open the loose cluster of faux stones in the wall of my room, allowing Sebastian to slide inside. His long tail lingers, and I carefully tuck it in.

  Long ago, I placed a bed for him there—well-washed cloths, stolen from the laundry carts, a piece at a time. I have fed him from my meager trays, cared for him as best I could. I have never tried to crawl into the tight space myself … a burning fear of confinement from years of solitary and straitjackets.

  My heart swells as I watch him curl into a contented gray-striped ball, purring. I slide the board back into place, leaving a slight crack should he wish to slip out. I stand, wrapping my arms about me, to stare out the window.

  The snowflakes are beautiful, crisp, and bright, as they swirl and fall before the face of the old clock tower.

  I smile, and my fingers cover my lips. Afraid. I am afraid of this happiness.

  For perhaps the first time ever, I have … hope. It fills me and is repeated with every beat of my heart. Even the mystery of the deaths seems dampened this eve.

  Someone, nay, two someones, believe in me.

  I have never experienced such. The joy is tempered by fear—but I refuse to give it free rein.

  Tonight, I will relish this joy—memorize it, and thrust it out as a shield against the melancholy, when it comes. And it will. I am not so foolish to think it has abandoned me at the first sign of light in my life. T
he melancholy will scatter like spiders in the light, waiting in the shadows for my joy to dim. To return.

  My teeth chatter, and I wrap my arms tighter. Then I relent and reach for the heavy, tattered shawl flung on the back of my rocking chair. It is so very cold on the ward. Both physicks have already visited and moved on to other wards on their rounds. A young nurse is on duty this night—not the normal, controlling, skeletal Nurse Spare. Sally Spare.

  Did her parents not see the cruelty in this name?

  She and Frost are thick as thieves. I see the way she looks at him, the unveiled desire. She probably thinks me incapable of such realizations.

  “Pfft.” I’ve know it since I was old enough to dress myself.

  I wander into the cold hallway to pass Mr. Entemeyer, walking, as he does each and every night. His hand brushes the wall as he ambles back and forth, back and forth. The sweet old gent is not dangerous, merely confused—and should not be on our all-female ward.

  He will continue his endless walk till they force him to bed. Which shall be—

  “Oy. Entemeyer. It’s lights out. Back to yer hallway.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. The orderly is not Alexander. I have the makings of a perfect night before me. I feel the hint of a smile curl up my lips. I may even compose.

  The music plays in my mind, traveling down my nerve endings, twitching my fingers— begging to be put to paper. A swirling tornado of colors, notes, and music, storming through my brain.

  It will lie in wait, haunting my dreams, becoming the overture of my days, till I can dispel it.

  I crawl into my bed, sliding on my threadbare socks, and add the extra layer of dressing gown. I long to call Sebastian from his closet, to feel his steady purr against my chest, but I do not dare, lest someone enter unannounced.

  My eyes cast to the bed, to the new, warm coverlet—Mason’s second gift. Since its placement upon my bed, my sleep is almost dreamless. As if his concern and protection have driven the wretched birds away.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  He may have driven them from my mind, but not my window.

  A massive raven sits on my sill, coal-black wings dusted by the white powdery snow.