I walk softly toward it. “What do you want?”
It opens its mouth—and I crumple to my knees, barely registering the pain as my flesh tears on the cobbles.
Music. Layered music, like an orchestra, flows forth from his open beak.
The colored strobe of notes rising and falling like variegated waves of the sea. Words. Suddenly a singular voice cuts in. Altering the notes.
All in red.
“She is here. Find her. Find me. Find us. All is not lost, my darling. Come to the corn.”
I shake my head, cradling it in my hands. It cannot be. It cannot be. Never have I heard the red music outside of the corn.
I crawl beneath the covers, pulling my legs to my chest, my hands over my ears, praying it leaves.
I lie still for what feels hours, all my joints screaming from the cold, till finally Sebastian curls about my face, biting my scalp with a little too much insistency.
I sit up and flinch with dread as I slowly turn to regard the window.
It is gone. The bird is gone. The windows are frosted over, skewing my view of the clock face.
I crawl back to the bed, sliding into the layers and breathe deeply. Not for the first time, I think, Am I mad?
I almost taste the bitter of laudanum and the sherry used to sweeten it. I breathe deeply. I must be strong. I must live life in the present, endure all of its facets, be they pleasure or pain.
I grasp the coverlet and inhale its pleasant scent. I exhale with its comfort. The bottom of the cot remains scratchy and lumpy, but the coverlet is the best I have ever known.
I fidget, waiting for the lantern and gaslights to disappear in the rooms. Only one light per hallway, except at the nurses’ station. And honestly, many employees covet this floor—the nature of the patients being so docile and compliant that staff secretly take turns napping during the night shift.
My eyes wander and hold, staring at the bare space on the wall, above the other bunk where the plea for help was scrawled. A chill creeps up my neck, and I fight the urge to close the door. With it comes the nagging claustrophobia.
I worked so very hard to have the privilege of the unlocked door.
My door is cut in half, as is the case with all “trusted” residents. The bottom may lock to deter entry to the dazed wanderers, and a mosquito net draped across the top—allowing more cognizant patients a measure of privacy and safety—is only a measure.
It would merely slow a determined patient, not stop him.
I creep out of bed and silently close the bottom of my door and slide the deadbolt.
A very, very large privilege, indeed. To be locked in. A level of trust awarded to only four other patients I have met. Only the nurses and two physicks possess a key. It is a trust only won by the few the staff are convinced are not suicidal. We are permitted one hour of solitude per day.
I bite my lip and unbolt the door, slipping out, down the hall. The only sounds are loud snores. I find myself at Patient Twenty’s room.
I stick my head over the top, pushing the netting aside. She too has earned the right to the split-entry door.
“Twenty? Are you there?”
“I’m here, deary.”
I slide inside and walk over to her bed in the gloom, but it is still made. I cock my head.
The moonlight is so bright; it streams in through her window, illuminating the entire room, turning every chair and mirror to mother-of-pearl.
I turn to see her silhouette still in the wheeled chair, still by the window.
I hurry over. “Why are you not in bed?”
Her cloudy eyes meet mine. “Apparently, I was forgotten in the shift change.”
I bite my lip but force my voice to be strong. “Well, we must get you to bed, then.”
I have seen Twenty’s bottom, with the sores that sprout because of her inability to reposition herself. I do my best to help her, but I know which nurses might be relied upon—so it is odd she was overlooked.
“Was Tilda not in to do rounds this eve?”
She shifts back and forth in her chair, grinding her teeth at the pain.
“No. ’Twas Alexander.”
“Of course it was,” I mutter and angle her wheelchair toward the bed, lock the brakes, and wrap my arms about her waist. “We shall stand together, alright? Will do you good to have a few moments on those legs. Ready? One, two … three.”
I haul Twenty up, her legs accepting the weight as I shift her toward the bed in a pivot. But tonight, tonight, she tilts, her knees giving way.
“Twenty-nine! I am going down!”
“No, you are not.” I compensate, quickly shifting her weight backwards so her bottom hits the bed—and I fall forward, landing on top of her. We end in a heaping sprawl of arms and legs upon her bed.
“Are you alright?” I worry.
Her chest hitches, and I raise my head in alarm.
But it is not tears. She is giggling like a little girl. “Get your scrawny person off me before you break my behind rather than help it to bed.”
My head drops back, and I guffaw. We laugh, till tears leak from the sides of our eyes, at the ridiculousness that is both our lives.
I manage to scramble off her and readjust her body so she is side-lying, to permit her ulcers some relief.
When I finally turn to leave, she says softly, “Jane.”
I bite my lip and turn back. We are not to use our given names. Punishments are severe. “Yes, Kate?”
“Do not be afraid. Whatever kindness is given you, child, take it. Take it and run with it. It is worth the risk.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Thank you. Sleep well.”
I fly back into bed, pulling the coverlet over my head.
Not a half hour later, I wake in a sheen of cold sweat, listening. Something awakened me.
Knock, knock, knock. Very soft rapping at my door.
I slide out of the covers and pad, shivering, to the door. I see Mason’s form, hovering behind the mosquito netting. I bite my fingernail. I should not let him in.
I cannot imagine the punishment for such a crime. “I shouldn’t.”
I think of Kate’s words.
“Both nurse and orderly are currently napping—quite possibly with the aid of a tip of the laudanum. We shall not be missed—we’ll return hours before the light. And besides, I took your room key from their ring.” He spins it round his finger, his lips upturned on one side.
I rip down the netting and throw open the bolt. “You did what?”
He holds up the key and sets to shutting both top and bottom door behind him. “If they try, for some reason, to get in your room, it will take them ages to find the duplicate. They are housed in the main office, an hour by foot.”
I realize he is carrying a small steamer trunk. “What is that?”
His smile glitters like the sun on the newly fallen snow. “A very big surprise. Do open it.”
Fear floods my mouth in a taste so metallic, I would swear I swallowed a penny. I open the steamer trunk.
A pure white muff, a beautiful blue dress with shining black buttons and lacing, a pair of boots, and … a corset. My cheeks produce a violent blush.
Mason’s face is also flushed. “Allow me to explain.”
He lifts it out, and beneath it is a white pair of ice skates.
I lick my lips as my eyes dart to the sketches upon my walls. He follows my gaze and smiles widely.
“If you are to learn to skate, you must wear a corset. It would draw much attention otherwise, putan.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re cute as a button. Much as I hate to use an overused phrase. I can honestly say I’ve never felt it applicable till you.”
I lift the clothes to my face and inhale deeply, peering through the lace to stare at him.
I resist the urge to drop my gaze and ask, “Why me?”
He presses his lips togeth
er, his eyes suddenly flicking about the room.
“I … have never met a soul so pure, Jane. Ever since I first laid eyes upon you, you have filled my every thought. I tried not to think on you … my own situation is very complicated. But the more I speak with you, the more I want to know your thoughts … on everything. I find what should be my primary goal paling in comparison to where you are, if you are safe.”
His wandering gaze finally halts, scrutinizing. “Am I … Am I too forward?”
A sudden rush of fear—that he might halt his attentions—pushes the words from my lips. I leap, the words tumbling from my lips in a rush. “No. I have never known a kindness, let alone this … shower of it. In your eyes I see … a mercy that I have never known in my life. I feel safe with you. Prior to meeting you, had one asked me to describe that word, I would not have done it justice. But now I can.” My heart is beating so hard and fast, I grip the bed for support.
His eyes are intense. My head swirls as if I am on Frost’s contraption, but I swallow and plunge on. “Safe is the feeling of your hand in mine. I honestly feel I am somehow living another’s life and shall soon awaken to find it all a dream.”
He removes my hand from the bedrail to squeeze it. “I assure you, I am quite real, as are you. Now, if we are going, we must hurry.”
My hands cover my mouth. “We are going tonight?”
He nods, gesturing toward the window. “Yes, the temperature is perfect. I cannot risk you contracting frostbite for a turn on a lake, now can I?”
“This is what you meant? When you asked me to take a turn with you?”
“Yes, now don’t dawdle. I shall turn my back while you change.”
My face burns hot, and I shake my head with mortification, but he has already turned.
When I have finished, Mason extends his hand. “If we are to do this without discovery, we must away.”
I take it.
“I cannot wait to hear you play, Miss Frost.” An overly eager, small man with a waxed moustache bends to kiss my hand.
His whiskers tickle my skin, his searching lips reminding me of a walrus.
Willis manages a look of borderline irritation—the closest someone of such an affable personality can manage. “Yes, Jules’s music is quite wonderful. Do excuse us, would you?”
He wraps my hand about his elbow and pulls me from the man.
I give him a grateful smile. So sweet. I am truly sorry I do not love him.
“Are you ready, darling?” Father has arrived, positively dashing in his tuxedo.
His jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes make women everywhere swoon. Indeed, as he cut through the crowd, no less than ten sets of feminine eyes followed his trail to me.
Until he spoke. Brash, unadulterated truth always falls from his lips, like a burr that tangles on delicate feminine personalities. Once a woman knew him, she avoided him.
He showed no interest in remarriage once mother died, and that was so very long ago. I was still in the nursery.
“Jules?” His voice is impatient. “Stop daydreaming. Follow me.”
He turns without sparing me a backwards glance. Willis shrugs. He is no match for Father. No match for me, for that matter.
Father eyes me up and down and says, “The idea is brilliant. A costumed recital. You look perfect, Jules.”
I catch sight of Nurse Ginny and swallow. She is nearly unrecognizable in a beautiful black gown embossed with scarlet brocade.
I pat his hand. “I shall see you after the recital. Father says that nurse is a friend. Perhaps you should go talk to her. The one dressed like a fairy.”
I bolt, hoping my disguise is truly that. I try to imagine what Nurse Turtle shall wear.
I follow Father up the stairs, holding fast to the elaborate mahogany banister. This shall be my first concert within the asylum. My mouth is as dry as the dirt in the many potted plants strewn throughout the physicks’ apartments. I glance nervously about, fearing my deceptions shall betray me.
“Alice!”
I flinch and trip on the train of my dress. Both hands shoot to the banister as I manage to right myself before falling. Father’s head whirls around, his gaze narrowing at my atypical clumsiness.
I turn my head, trying to keep my face calm as a young man bounds past me, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Alice!”
A pretty, blond thing halts at the top, smiling widely for him. He wraps her arm in his. “I thought I’d never find you.”
“Whatever is the matter, child?” Father’s voice is near-livid. He teeters on the edge of violence tonight. He is very close to Mad Papa.
I shrug. “I merely wish to make an impression upon your colleagues.”
He turns back, climbing the steps once again. “Do not be foolish. You are the best musician I know.” Then, as if he thinks I cannot hear him, he mumbles, “Save one.”
We reach the top of the stairs, and I halt, astounded at the wing.
Floor three is solely for housing the asylum physicks and their families. I stand, dumbstruck, at the top of the staircase.
A woman’s shoulder strikes mine, jarring me out of my shock, and I step forward, unstoppering the flow of well-dressed society, which bottle-necks behind me on the stairs. A myriad of animal faces stream past like a freakish nightmare.
The contrast between this floor and the ward floors is inconceivable.
Expensive Turkish rugs cover the floors and potted ferns line the hallway. Ornate mahogany furniture complements the tall, dark-wood pocket doors with stained-glass vestibule tops. And light. So much light here.
In the dusk, I just manage to see the spire of the old clock tower from the window. It chimes, deep and low like an old man’s voice.
Seven o’clock.
I right the mask on my face, fighting the urge to scratch.
It was Father’s idea, that all of the musicians wear a costume of sorts. My own is crystal, and heavy. My gown, off-white with downy feathers about the bustle.
“A swan,” Father had said. “It suits you.”
“Over here, Jules.” His voice startles me, and I hurry after him through the crowd.
A small stage is erected at the end of the hallway, and several of the girls are already present, examining and tuning their instruments.
I hum middle C under my breath. It calms me.
“I shall return, Jules. A few minor details need seeing to. I will be stealing Willis as well.”
“Take your time, Father.”
I take advantage of the rare freedom and steal champagne from a passing waiter as I make my way down the hall.
The physicks live here. In the asylum—the only thing separating them from patients on either side is a wooden double door at the end of the hallways.
Several children giggle and run past.
My eyebrows rise. They have their children here as well.
I shudder, wondering at their sheltered upbringing, which seems too entirely like my own. I stare after them. A brother and sister poke one another with vehemence while walking behind their unsuspecting parents.
“At least they have one another.”
Many of the doors of the apartments are flung wide, and I realize each is set up as an open house. I pass one, glancing inside, and see a table set with a myriad of wines of every shade and color in brilliant crystal goblets.
I walk faster, hoping I have time to see them all before I have to play.
I enter the last, and I stumble as the hammer of déjà vu strikes.
Paintings. Everywhere, paintings adorn every inch of this doctor’s room.
I take a step back, and my boot catches, twisting my ankle. My leg gives way, and I twist, plummeting toward the floor when a viselike grip latches at my elbow, instantly righting me.
“Miss, are you alright—”
Our eyes meet and his widen. As if in fear.
An ice-blue gaze regards me, nearly obscured by
a shock of raven-black hair. Full lips turn up in a strange, perplexed smile. He even cocks his head, as if trying to discern a puzzle.
“I am so sorry, sir. I was … I was overcome by these many paintings. Tell me, were they done by the patients?”
He gently sets me to rights, releasing my elbow, which now stings from the force of his grasp. I absently rub it; I shall most certainly bruise.
He breaks our staring contest and walks; no … this man saunters, around the pictures, his fingers gently tracing them. “Yes, they are all from the residents. Magnificent, are they not?” He only dons a mask, like Father. Too proud to play the game, I suspect.
His stare flicks back and locks with mine once again. A stare so intense I resist the urge to shrink under it. One eyebrow cocks as if trying to discern my thoughts. He takes in my dress, my arranged hair.
“You are a musician?”
I nod, vaguely indicating to my violin case, which lies forgotten on the floor.
I have seen him on the wards, but from afar. Never have I seen a man so ruggedly handsome. His hair is longer than is fashionable, wavy and thick. Piercing is the only word for those eyes.
“Is this your first time playing in public?”
I must look the complete dolt, staring at him. “Oh no. I have been playing since I could walk.” My hand waves away the notion. My eyes shift to the pictures near the large fieldstone fireplace, and I walk over, warming myself before the grate.
There’s a picture of a plump tabby cat on a snowy windowsill. Outside the pane, the outline of the clock tower is visible.
I point. “Whose picture is that?”
He walks behind me, and I shiver at the smell of him. Musky, manly, but very, very pleasant. Am I bewitched?
“I am afraid I cannot reveal which patient drew which picture. That would be a betrayal of confidences. They are, however, for sale. If you care to purchase one, the bulk of the proceeds go to the patient, to help them buy niceties, and a small portion to the asylum, for their care.”
I stare up at him, blinking madly.
He stares, as if he wishes to whisper a secret. His eyes stray over my eyes and then halt at my hair. Linger on my hair.
“Is that your natural color?”
The Requiem Red Page 12
