When his stare continues, I add, “I bought the paintings? I was a swan?”
He nods, but a light sheen of sweat dots his brow. “Yes, of course.”
I reluctantly let my hand drop. “I am sorry to have startled you. Perhaps I should’ve waited in the hall? But one never knows what may lurk around corners at Soothing Hills … ”
“No, no, I would’ve preferred you wait inside.” He slowly walks behind his desk to retrieve two paintings, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. “These are much too large for you to manage on your own. I shall escort you back to your carriage.”
I smile widely. His eyes are adhered to my face. I flush.
I feel a draw. A reluctance to leave the picture as the musical refrain blares in my head, over and over.
My heartbeat trips against my rib cage. Who wrote that piece? But more importantly—whose voice speaks through it?
We walk into the hall, and my words tumble forth, as they do when I am vexed. “So, I truly love these. So much so, I would like to purchase the one in your room, with the sheet music?”
“The music, you say. That is one of my favorites.”
He gives me not yes, nor no. If it is no, I shall resort to common skullduggery to obtain it.
He returns the smile, seeming to be recovered from his ailment. “When shall I have the company of your presence once again?”
“Tomorrow? I … ” I drop my voice conspiratorially. Suddenly, my mouth seems to be in charge of my brain, the words slipping out. “Might I tell you a secret?”
He stops, staring at me, but his eyes are light. There is even a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Oh, please do, Miss Frost. I must confess it has been an age since I heard a secret outside of Soothing Hills.”
“Jules. Please call me Jules.” Bold, I know. To ask this just after our introduction.
I nearly swoon. He is so very, very handsome. Dark blue eyes, one slightly larger than the other. Rather than unbalanced, it somehow manages to make his face more interesting.
The sweat has returned, dotting his brow. “Very well, Jules. What is your secret?”
“I work here, as a nurse in training.”
His eyes widen, and I cannot tell if it is with interest or blatant shock. His eyes scour my dress, as if trying to turn it to a nursing uniform by sheer will.
“You do? Which floor?”
“I float. Just go wherever I am needed.”I flush at the lie. I am to remain with Nurse Turtle-bird at all times. Be confined to her ward alone.
He begins to walk again, his fingers wrapping around my elbow to steer me. “Is that so? Your father has given his consent for this?”
I give a false laugh. “Oh, he is wholly unpleased, but willing to make concessions at times.”
We reach the entrance, and I sigh with frustration. I wish to be near this man. There is something … magnetic … about him. It is more than his looks—indeed he seems to scarcely be aware of the effect he has upon the feminine sex.
Even to follow him on his patients rounds would give me so much more joy than the evening of whist that awaits me.
“I hope you enjoy the paintings.” He nods, turns to go.
“Dr. Grayjoy?”
He spins back, eyes clouded. “You may call me Jonathon.”
My heart beats wildly. Very unconventional.
I smile so widely it hurts. “Jonathon, might I stop and see you if I am near your floor?”
His eyebrow rises at this overt rebellion of polite society. “To avoid a scandal, perhaps I should find you? I … would be glad to do so.”
My face burns with the blush. “Wonderful. I shall see you tomorrow then.”
I scarcely remember entering the carriage, and as I return to my senses, I stare out the window as it rumbles towards the wrought-iron gates, past the corn. My infatuation has driven out the musical refrain, but I roll the words over in my mind, over and over like the surf.
“Two turtledoves, one red sparrow,” I whisper.
Jane
The day is clear, bright and cold as I walk outside into the faltering gardens, but the sun shines brightly, glittering off the melting remnants of snow. I wander down to the dog pen, drop to one knee, and wait.
Within moments, Tiger and Wolfgang hurry over, half crouching, half happy, tails tucked partially between their legs.
I reach into my pocket and hold out a scrap for each, and they wolf them down in a blink and then are trotting back to their pack. Their life is nearly as poor as mine. They are not always friendly to others, but to me, they are like domestics.
I turn to go, heading toward the topiary maze. Inhaling the stinging air, I sigh. I have not seen Mason in several days.
Again, the worry, despite our kiss. Worry that perhaps Grayjoy has frightened him away from me.
The rambling stone walls line the paths as I make my way toward the hedge maze at the center. Another of my favorite places. Second only to the secret library.
In the heart of the maze, no eyes peer, watching, evaluating, scribbling, and overanalyzing your every move. Entrance here is only granted to the least volatile.
One may cry there, if one has the need. Or smile. Or spin in circles or—
“I don’t understand why it can’t be now, Mason. I have waited long enough.”
I halt, frozen to the ground. Voices come from inside the hedgerow.
I should not listen, it is wrong, but … Mason is inside with a woman whose voice I do not recognize.
“It isn’t time. The plan must be enacted perfectly, or it shall fail. You know that. If we act too soon, what good shall it do you?”
“What good? Are you the one digesting crème of tartar? Or allowing people to thrust syringes in your bloody legs?” the feminine voice rages.
“No, I am not.” His voice is sad. Very sad.
My cheeks heat with color. He cares deeply for this woman; I hear it in his tone.
Anger. Betrayal.
My chest aches as if the surrounding thorny bushes have grown out of my heart, spreading to envelope and prick each organ. I swallow, fearful a writhing stem may poke its way out of my mouth.
Tears flow, and the anger flares, hard and fast and heated. I do not cry.
I begin to pace, knowing my mind to be unraveling. Knowing, but powerless to stop it.
“I do not cry. I do not cry. I do not cry.”
Tears stream in an unrelenting flow, and I turn and stumble, not bothering to be quiet—my only thought to flee. To make it back to the confines of my wretched room. The only home I shall ever know.
“Ow!”
My knee collides with a stone bench, and I lurch forward toward the maze’s mouth.
“Jane!” he calls, his voice full of dread.
I spin and walk backwards. “You.” I jut my finger at his face. “You are a devil. Come with me, Jane. I am yours, Jane. Did you mean a bloody word of it?”
The woman hurries up behind him. “Miss? Miss, do wait!”
But I turn and bolt toward the gardens, heading back to the Asylum.
Outside the wrought-iron fencing that surrounds the gardens lays the cornfield.
“Caw. Caw.”
I hear them. The corn music begins. It seems to be coming from their mouths.
My breathing breaks into panting. I am hallucinating. I must be.
Perhaps I do belong here after all.
Bluebirds join the fray. They dip in and out, swooping between the beating black wings in a soaring ballet.
I reach for the handle and hear the first words riding the song.
“Don’t take too long.” I plug my ears and push inside. Away from him. Away from the blasted music.
Grayjoy
“Nurse Chloe?” I stand in the ward’s nurses’ station, behind the iron bars.
Chloe halts in mid-stride, dropping into a hurried curtsy. “Yes, Dr. Grayjoy?”
“Come near, won’t you
?”
She struggles to keep the scowl from her face, her eyes flicking first to the corridor toward a moan issuing from a nearby room, then to the watch pinned to her uniform front. I am impressed she keeps her toe from tapping.
“It won’t take but a minute,” I assure her.
She wipes her hands on her uniform as I swing open the barred door.
“You have known Twenty-Nine for a very long time.”
Her face goes rigid, almost protective—like a mother toward an invasive schoolmarm.
“Yes, sir. I expect I know her better than most.”
I step past her to gaze into the corridor, checking up and down for eavesdroppers. The asylum is fraught with them and rumors and all the vile conspiracies that go with a closed-off, tightly knit community.
I meet her stare. “Where is the rest of Twenty-Nine’s chart?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” she says, but her face is white as the snow gathering round the eaves.
“How many years have you been employed by the asylum, Chloe?”
She swallows, her hand nervously fingering the uniform’s trim. “Ten, sir.”
I hate to use this tactic, but I am desperate.
“And would you like to stay employed?” I ask, knowing the answer. Her husband has passed, and she has a small boy at home.
“Of course, Dr. Grayjoy.”
“I assume you have been sworn to secrecy. Again, with the threat of dismissal. You are between the rock and the proverbial hard place.”
Her face morphs from ash to fire in a blink. She presses her lips tighter. Tears form in her eyes.
“I shall ask questions, and you merely answer yes or no.” I place my hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. “Therefore you have not betrayed a confidence—blameless. I am not the enemy. But I need this information.”
She nods, still not speaking.
I hold up Jane’s chart. “Was Twenty-Nine’s chart always this size?”
Sweat has broken across her brow. “No.”
My eyes flick across the charts strewn across the desk. Each has a sketch of the resident on the front, done by one of the patients for identification purposes. Most of the pictures are yellowed and worn, depending on the patient’s year of entry.
I stare at Twenty-Nine’s, which looks astonishingly new for a girl admitted at the tender age of four.
I hold it up for Chloe to see. “Did Twenty-Nine always look this way?”
Chloe blinks, and a tear escapes. She angrily swipes it with the back of her hand, her nostrils flaring as she exhales. “No. No, she did not, Dr. Grayjoy.”
Fear and excitement rush through my veins. I nod encouragingly. “Do you know where the remainder of the chart is? Does it still exist?”
The tears are a constant stream now. Her lips quiver as her resolve finally gives way.
“Here, sit down, dear girl. I shall not dismiss you.” I pull out the chair for her to sit and collect herself. “I shall shield you from his wrath, I promise you.”
Fear knits her eyebrows together. “I … I’s hid the chart. He told me to destroy it … but I knew that wasn’t right. It’s … ”
Another nurse’s heels click by the bars. I nod to her. “That all sounds well and good, Chloe,” I say, a trifle too loudly. “But these tonics must be administered precisely per my instructions.”
The other nurse turns forward, quickening her pace.
I place a handkerchief in Chloe’s hand and lower my voice to a whisper. “Where?”
She hedges.
“How about if I guess … so if anyone should ever ask, you would not be lying?”
She sniffles. “Alright.”
She stands and walks to a shelf at the back, beside the teapots. She stands on tiptoes to slide a dilapidated book into her hands, then points, as if it is a clue.
My finger taps against my lips. “A library? There is no library in Soothing Hills.”
Her blush deepens yet again, and I fear an apoplexy. “There was. Long ago.”
I had no idea. “Yes, thank you. That will suffice.”
She inhales deeply and smoothes her uniform. As she slides past me, I grasp her hand and force open her palm to deposit some coins.
“I don’t want it,” she protests.
“Do not be ridiculous. It is for young Jeremy. I overheard you saying he needed new boots. It is a gift, nothing more. With no expectations, I assure you.”
Her eyes fill with tears once again. “You are a good sort, Dr. Grayjoy.”
She curtsies and hustles back onto the floor. In the direction of the moaning, which has continued without letup.
A library. I must find it.
I walk into Ward One so nervous I swear my heart has crawled into my mouth. I feel the steady, rhythmical beat of my pulse through my neck as it pumps out a steady stream of my fear.
“Hello, Jane!” Ginny says with delight, clasping her tiny hands together.
She is one of the few people I actually believe is truly excited to see me. That is a very new sensation, so I smile.
“Hello, Nurse Ginny.”
“Just Ginny.” She hands me my violin. I lovingly trace its grooves. It has a distinctive scratch on the front, but to me, that doesn’t mar its appearance a bit.
It’s merely careworn. Like me.
The other girls, Claire and Susan, wait patiently for me. My eyes drop to take in Claire’s fingers—they are a constant tremble from too much laudanum. It happened to me. Frost’s doing, once again.
It was the only time he was ever kind to me, because I believe he thought me incapacitated. And I was. And I refused it. It took away my pain, but also my music.
I remember waking one morn to the sun shining and the smell of summer wildflowers wafting through my window. Nurse Sally Spare had been absent—a complete rarity—the shriveled woman was never ill. It was as if the ravages of disease found her body so nearly corpse-like already, they deemed her an unfit host.
I missed my dose of laudanum that day, and my world swam painfully back into focus.
I had missed an entire season. No recollection. When I tried to summon the music to my head, to comfort me … or even to hum middle C … nothing.
That terrified me, more than anything I had ever seen or felt.
Dr. Grayjoy had only just arrived, and I told him it was killing me. Refused to take it.
And thus began a year of weeping, difficulty catching my breath at the slightest exertion, and my skin … my skin was alive, as if a million tiny cockroaches crawled over every inch. At times it bled, as I dug my frantic nails into my flesh. Anything to stop the sensation. ’Twas the longest year of my life—
I swallow, blinking back tears of empathy for Claire’s plight. I hope her fingers do not worsen and take away her music. I force my eyes away from them, praying she did not catch my stare.
For two blessed hours, we play, first the master’s, then our own compositions. All the while, Ginny sits at the back of the salon, eyes closed, swaying dreamily for the better part of the pieces.
Another aide appears with a silver tray topped with real china teacups filled to the brim with thick chocolate. The smell permeates the salon, and my stomach gives an unladylike roar.
Ginny laughs loudly, handing me a cup.
“Might I have a word with Jane?” At the sound of his voice, I nearly choke.
My blood seems to freeze inside my heart as it stutters several times before resuming its beats. I place the teacup down so my shaking hand does not spill it.
Mason.
Ginny’s eyebrows rise, and she cocks her head as they seem to exchange a silent conversation.
Finally, she nods, adding below her breath, “You best hurry, Mason. No telling what he will do if he sees you.”
The he needs no explanation.
While behind the other girls, she gives a significant look at them as she says, “I know you are supposed to, but b
e quick about it. You know the rules about schedules.”
Tattletales abound. Mostly due to the fact that Frost, Spare, and Alexander are famous for rewarding snitches with cigarettes, chocolate, liquor—any contraband to compensate for secrets.
Mason’s fingers encircle my elbow and guide me to the vestibule, which leads to the veranda. We are still within sight of Ginny’s anxious gaze. Her eyes flick up and down as she continues with a pretense of conversation with the other girls.
“You have been avoiding me. Which is saying something, as I have been assigned to your floor twice.”
I have. In the past fortnight, when Mason was assigned the night shift, I stole away to the library, confident he would not report me. True to form, no lashings resulted.
My heart … could not take the rejection.
I shrug, feeling my face heat.
“Jane. That woman. It was not what you thought.”
“It seems nothing I believe to be true can ever be trusted.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I shall be glad to return the clothes.” I lower my voice. “And the skates.”
My stomach flips with the thought. It was the very best night of my life. At least he cannot take the memory.
Frost could, however. I shiver, picturing how a trip to Ward Thirteen would erase any meager happinesses I manage to wring from my life.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Those were a gift. It is not what it seemed. She … ” He shifts nervously, his voice lowering to a whisper, eyes flicking all around. “She is my sister.”
I cock my head. “You’re what?”
“Yes. She was admitted here under false pretenses. Her husband … decided he preferred a younger woman. So, he had her committed. Trumped up a myriad of symptoms so they would incarcerate her. It happens quite often, I am afraid.”
The heat leaves my face, snaking into my décolletage. “It was Frost, wasn’t it? Frost admitted her.”
He nods. “I believe he may be taking bribes, forging symptoms just so the board will cooperate.”
I hold completely still, except for the traitorous tremble in my lips.
The Requiem Red Page 15
