The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  A great ripple of noise, like sheets whipping in the wind. Overhead.

  I drop to my knees, instinctively covering my head.

  Bats?

  I hold up the lantern, and my blood runs cold. Ravens.

  A bloody unkindness of ravens sits on the reinforcement rafters above. Some upside down. I blink, rubbing my eyes. Their wings flutter, a whipping pell-mell of artificial wind battering my eardrums. But not a one squawks.

  A single white page flutters down, and I lunge to catch it.

  I flatten it, my eyes flying across the page to read at the top: Patient Twenty-Nine.

  My heart skips several beats.

  The unkindness takes flight as one, zooming out of the library, banking left, to barrel out the tunnel, and in a breath, they are gone.

  As if they wanted me to find this page.

  I am wholly aware of the irrationality of this thought as I proceed to walk to the wingback chair. I am a man of science. This is preposterous.

  You just saw a creature who sniffed you out like a ruddy bloodhound and now a hive-minded flock of ravens that so much as handed you a page from Jane’s chart like a bloody carrier pigeon.

  I drag the wingback chair over to the rafter on which they were perched. I lift the lantern, and my breath sucks in.

  Atop the rafter sits a very thick pile of parchment, a large rock holding it in place. The missing part of Jane’s chart.

  With considerable effort, I move the stone aside and slip the papers into my arms before stepping off the chair. I quickly sit and open page one.

  Before I realize it, fifty pages sit nearby, and I shake myself. I have utterly lost track of the time. I shall be missed for certain. I rifle through the file, trying to find any last bits that may help me.

  My eyes catch sight of a familiar word, written in another physick’s hand. Dr. Gentile, one who has since partially retired from asylum life.

  Upon entering the nursery today, I could not believe my eyes. Had I not done the child’s intake myself, written down her history with mine own hand, I should’ve thought another physick to be mad from drink. Upon entering a week prior, the child’s description reads as such: “three-year-old girl, blue-green eyes, catlike, dark brown hair.”

  As I called to her this morn, and she burst forth to greet me with her winning smile, her hair … is utterly white. Not a strand of brown remains.

  Marie Antoinette syndrome, it is called. The phenomenon was said to occur in the disease’s namesake on the night prior to her beheading. I thought it poppycock.

  But here she is, in the flesh. I cannot fathom what horror has befallen this sweet child, to precipitate such a change.

  I concur with young Frost, however. She does, indeed, hear sounds others do not. I observed her standing by the window, staring out into the corn, humming, twirling, repeating words, as if they were being whispered into her tiny ear. A slack, incomprehensible expression on her pretty face

  “Fear not the corn,” she said. Most peculiar and precocious.

  She should at the very least be kept for observation. But as I know her to be orphaned, I fear her fate may be such as to become a permanent resident.

  The next page contains a sketch of a strikingly beautiful child. With brown hair. The same almond-shaped eyes that I have seen once per week for the past four years stare back from the page.

  I collapse to the ground, closing my eyes, swallowing hard, again and again.

  The same almond-shaped eyes that I, myself, painted. My embarrassing, forbidden obsession with Patient Twenty-Nine—that if I could not have her, I should paint her, to gaze upon her in my private chambers.

  My personal resolve to rehabilitate her—to free her from the asylum.

  The reality crashes down on me like the cave-in. She had dark brown hair. I try to imagine it, and my mouth goes dry.

  The picture conjured is nearly identical to one Jules Frost.

  I fidget as I fold the patients’ bedclothes. Nurse Sally Spare approaches, and I jump, smacking my hand on the table, and promptly suck at my knuckle to quiet the stinging.

  “Whatever is the matter with you, Jules dear? You are nervous as a pig on Christmas.”

  I smile. “I am sorry. I am feeling under the weather.”

  Ward Seven’s door opens, and my heartbeat doubles as Dr. Grayjoy sweeps in. His handsome, rugged face manages to maintain its kind expression as no less than three patients pounce, all hurtling questions and requests in tandem.

  I stare at him, my hands halting their automatic folding.

  He is a large man and could be imposing if he chose to be, but no patient cowers from him—as they do Father. I stare, evaluating him.

  I decide it is his eyes. They sparkle and crinkle about the edges—they are naught but welcoming and nearly scream, Talk to me, tell me your troubles.

  And the patients are all too willing to oblige.

  Dr. Grayjoy holds up his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, I request you wait for this doctor to make his rounds in an orderly fashion, knowing I shall meet with each and every one of you, not leaving the ward till I have heard your complaint and, or, story.”

  My stomach drops to my knees, and they weaken. Grayjoy’s eyes flick over the patients’ heads to meet mine. And hold.

  Something is different in the way he regards me, as if seeing me for the first time. My mind cautions restraint, but the thought breaks through—that perhaps he is seeing me, as I see him. As one I would shed name and title and dress for.

  He is ten years my senior, but I have never felt such attraction. It is not his appearance, per se. Although it is far from lacking.

  Dark, wavy hair, a well-groomed beard of the same shade. Deep, large, blue eyes, one slightly larger than the other. And he a muscular man—with more the physique one would see on a longshoreman than a man with his eye behind a microscope.

  In my short time here, I have witnessed Dr. Grayjoy subdue unruly patients without the assistance of an orderly. Once they are restrained, he whispers to them—croons, really. The women, and even the men, eventually quiet under his murmured words. I suspect it was one of the key reasons this man was hired—that and his obvious empathy, which does seem to be in very short supply in these largely esoteric men, these alienists, who seem to view these wretched residents as experiments or with a singularly clinical eye.

  They are people. Every last one, someone’s child. Someone’s mother.

  I stare at the pillow case I am folding and blink back the sting of tears as a warm, large hand encircles my wrist.

  “Nurse Frost?”

  I turn my head, looking up into the depths of that deep-blue gaze. “Yes, Dr. Grayjoy?”

  He murmurs low, so that only I may hear, “Jonathon.”

  I smile and nod, but do not repeat his name, should someone overhear us.

  Indeed, Nurse Ginny, who is never an eavesdropper, seems astounded at the sight of us, her hand poised in midair, halted in her task of separating tinctures.

  Dr. Grayjoy follows my stare and clears his throat, which prompts her eyes to drop back to her task at hand. He flips open a chart, pointing to words that do not match the ones coming forth from his mouth. “I wish to meet with you.” He points with his writing utensil, as if showing me important facts. “Today, if possible.”

  “Where?”

  He slides the quill, inserting it into the top of the chart. My eyes follow obediently.

  “I would like … to take you to dinner.”

  My mind roils. How is that possible? How can I manage that without being seen by someone who would undoubtedly tell Father … or Willis?

  My heart throbs with equal measures of guilt and desire.

  “I … I have to work.”

  He chews the end of his pen, contemplating. “Meet me on the lower level at six of the clock. A picnic? Here.”

  Not precisely what I had imagined—me in my work uniform, vaguely smelling of crème of
tartar—but I shall not miss this chance.

  I nod.

  He drops the chart, his voice rising to a normal decibel once again. “Well, done, Nurse Frost. I expect that remedy shall work directly.”

  Grayjoy

  I stand in the hospital hothouse, pacing like an expectant father, awaiting Jules’s arrival.

  The asylum has begun growing its own poppies in hopes of hiring apothecaries to produce their own special stock of laudanum.

  The room is sweltering—the only warm place in the entire asylum, I suspect. The glass windows, fogged from the heat, overlook the cornfield on the asylum’s north face. I swipe a peephole in the condensation with the heel of my fist to peer through. Not a very pleasant sight, the once green stalks dying and withering beneath the daily threat of snow.

  I rub my hands together and swallow the lump of anticipation. I feel ridiculous.

  It is then the squawking begins, and I turn my head. It feels as if time has slowed, an eternity for my head to swivel over my shoulder to spy the corn. My eyes widen as I swipe at a raised plant bed for support. Again those infernal ravens. A black, undulating blanket crossing the corn tops. Screeching and biting one another.

  A strange, eerie dread creeps up the back of my throat.

  I have never been a man to believe in the hereafter, but of late, a plethora of extraordinary circumstances seem to be swallowing me, like some living, gaping maw of incredulity. I rub my eyes in disbelief, but when they clear, the scene is unchanged. They seem to stare at me. A sweat breaks on my brow, which has naught to do with the hothouse.

  Every beady black eye is glued to my pacing, no matter their location in the sky. Like one of those trick paintings whose eyes track the subject, no matter their location.

  I once knew a falconer who refused to work with ravens. He swore they knew him. Could differentiate between he and his partner. Were too intelligent, too decisive.

  “Any bird that smart, I’d rather eat than train. I jus’ don’ trust ’em,” the falconer would say.

  “This is ludicrous,” I murmur, the scientist in me recoiling.

  I turn away from the windows, feeling their glares sear my back. Ever since Jules’s entrance into my life, the laws of the physical universe no longer seem to apply. Unseating my confidence. They have always been my gravity, my way of making sense of the world.

  I try to refocus on the task at hand.

  I unfurl, then snap open a festive, blue gingham blanket, spreading it beside the windows. I had my manservant fetch a silver teapot and cups, a small dinner of watercress sandwiches, a block of cheese, fresh crusty bread, and wine. I chose to ignore the incredulous look on his face.

  It was, indeed, out of character for me. I am typically turning away women’s advances—not restructuring my bloody workday to woo them.

  I hold the wine, turning it round in my hand to inspect the label. Will she think me too bold?

  I sigh. “Too bold? You are inviting a woman you hardly know, unchaperoned, to sup with you in a hothouse. That is not bold, that is insanity.”

  A throat clears. My face sears with heat. My back is to her. I straighten, rolling my eyes before I steel myself and turn.

  “Do you always talk to yourself, Dr.—Jonathon?”

  I feel my face flush deeper. “I do, I must admit.”

  She looks stunning. An incredible feat for one who has walked off the wards.

  Jules has shed the nurse’s cap, allowing her long, dark waves of hair to fan around her shoulders. My eyes sweep over her natural curls—some ringlets, some waves, as if it cannot decide how to exist.

  Her eyes, those cat-like, mesmerizing eyes, stare intently. I dare not risk a glance at the rest of her.

  My eyes flick back and forth across her locks, thinking of Jane’s snow-white counterparts. I banish the thought.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable.” I spread a hand, indicating she should sit. She walks forward and then slowly eases herself onto the blanket.

  She has shed her uniform for a dress of deep, rich blue that highlights the beauty of her dark hair. I surmise she, too, sent word to a servant to fetch it to her before her shift’s end. I feel a little thrill course up my spine at the fact that she is trying to impress me. I press my lips together, smothering the desire to take her in my arms.

  I place myself beside her, my heart hammering whilst a glut of emotions rush through my head.

  Guilt. For perhaps wanting her because she is the facsimile of Jane, whom I cannot have.

  Desire. Because she, herself, is stride-stoppingly beautiful.

  Curiosity. To know what she is truly like.

  Twins. They may very well be twins. Fraternal, not identical. I would need to see them side by side to be certain.

  Frost’s child. Is Jane, somehow, Frost’s illegitimate child?

  “You wanted to talk to me?” she implores, looking up through dark lashes.

  I hold up the wine. “A drink first?”

  She shrugs. “I am off duty now.”

  My eyebrows knit, staring into the twilight. “I shall take you home. I do not wish you to muss such a magnificent dress in a hansom.”

  Her smile falters, just a fraction, but I see. “Thank you.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” I request.

  At first, she is slightly shy, choosing her words carefully. But after two additional glasses, her thoughts flow as freely as the heat wafting from the fires. Bits of our conversation play in my head. I struggle to pay attention, my eyes roving over her full lips and, heaven help me, full hips.

  She smiles widely—her eyes bright from the drink. “I had the best tutors but have never been able to speak with anyone outside of my household … till this year. Till I have been able to work here. It has been a dream realized.”

  My eyebrow rises. “Working here? A dream realized? I must say your sense of dream may be distorted,” I jest.

  She shrugs, her eyes dimming. “Life is relative. Luxury to one may seem nirvana to another—who has wealth but no freedom. They may be willing to risk all to control their own life’s path.” She stares at me, cat-eyes narrowing. “Does that seem ludicrous?”

  “No. I understand perfectly. Very well said.”

  “So that was growing up with Father.” Her eyes cloud suddenly as she puts her hand over her mouth. It’s nearly comical. “I am not showing discretion, you being his colleague and all. But something about you makes me say too much.”

  My heart sinks as all joy drains from her face. The change is astounding.

  She ages before me, her eyes reflecting a gravity no woman her age should possess. I swallow hard.

  Now, she is nearly indistinguishable from Jane.

  Her mouth turns down as shudder of fear flits across her features.

  I reach over, tightly grasping her hand. “No need to worry. I am an excellent secret-keeper. I am a doctor.”

  Her expression doesn’t budge, so I add, “It is even on my calling card, right after my credentials.” I make a move to rummage through my pockets.

  Finally, she laughs. “Stop teasing.”

  I hold her gaze steady, willing my eyes to convey my sincerity.

  She nods, eyes leaving mine to stare down at her lap. “Too true.” When she looks up, tears shine. “I … I must confess something. But, I must speak first. Please do not interrupt; I fear I shall not force my words out.”

  I nod, dread tightening my stomach. I fight to keep my expression blank.

  “I … intentionally bought those paintings. I wanted to be able to see you again. Since I began nursing at Soothing Hills, I … have watched you. The manner in which you address your patients, allay their fears, truly seem to care about them. It’s like no one else in this morbid place.” Her voice drops an octave. “My father included.”

  I nod and boldly place her hand upon my cheek—desire screaming in my head and heart. I press my lips together to keep silent.


  Her words bubble forth, like water over stones. “I know this is wrong, inappropriate, improper, and I am well aware a lady should wait on a gentleman’s declaration, but … I find you fascinating. I wish to know you.” Her face flushes as red as the spiraling bougainvilleas above her head.

  “I have a confession as well.”

  What am I doing? This was not in the plan.

  My mouth forms words and confessions without my permission.

  “You remind me of someone I knew. Someone I … loved from afar. Albeit, an unrequited love. But I have watched you as well, Jules. You are quick-witted. And so very talented. And your beauty is a mere trifle to your person. I have not seen the likes of you anywhere. Of course I wish to know you as well. Why else would I propose so ludicrous a meeting place?”

  She drops her head shyly. “Thank you.”

  “We shall have to proceed carefully, but proceed we shall. Does that please you?”

  Her eyes sparkle. “Oh, yes. Very much.”

  “I would love you to play for me.”

  “Really?”

  “Most certainly.”

  Her face lifts, her bottom lip trembling. “There is something else. Promise me if I tell you—you shall wait till I am finished.”

  “Of course.”

  Her hand claws mine. “No, promise me.”

  I stare. Her eyes are terrified. “I vow to listen till you are finished.” I return her squeeze, putting both my hands around hers. They are utterly smothered, lost in mine.

  “I … am engaged. To another.”

  I feel the heat rising up my collar. I fight to keep my hands on hers, but my fingers twitch.

  You want her. Like you have never wanted anyone before. So she is taken. Fight for her. Take her.

  Visions of her and I entwined flit through my mind, and I shove them away. For a fleeting moment, I consider eloping. To take this girl and run with nothing. Begin again on our own.

  I think of my dear mother, and my sister. Of how that would break them.

  I come back to my right mind to register tears streaming down her face.

  Her eyes plead with me. “I do not love him. I have not ever loved anyone my father has forced on me. He controls everything in my life.”