by M. D. Elster
CHAPTER 16.
Another blackout. Nurse Kitching claims I tried to attack her — or so the other nurses tell me. She won’t acknowledge what happened when we are face-to-face. When I attempted to ask about it and apologize, her mouth went tight and twisted into disapproving line, so I left things alone. I suspect Dr. Waters yelled at her after the incident. He is also openly displeased with me now, barely hiding his annoyance during our sessions.
“He’s ordered us to put you in restraints at night from now on,” Nurse Kitching tells me. “It’s for your own safety.”
For my own safety? I think. That’s not it; I know when I’m being punished. The thought of being regularly tied down to my cot at night horrifies me somewhat, but I know better than to argue; it only seems to antagonize Dr. Waters, who keeps insisting that if he was just able to administer some electroshock therapy, he could cure me. I work extra hard during our next session, trying to keep him happy. Whenever I close my eyes, I keep seeing that horrific wooden box with all its metal dials.
Later that night, while changing into my nightgown and preparing for bed, I notice something else is amiss.
“Where is Ellen?” I ask, looking at her empty bed. It has been stripped of its bed sheets. The thin, water-stained striped mattress on her cot has an eerie, forlorn air.
“She has been discharged, and has gone home, ma chérie,” Nurse Baptiste says as she helps one of the other girls into bed, tucking the covers up around the girl’s neck. “She had a sudden breakthrough, came out of her catatonic state, and began talking. Her family was very happy to take her home.”
“Oh,” I smile weakly. But I think about this. It is awfully surprising, given the last time I saw Ellen she was — as usual — utterly mute and eating her own hair.
“Aren’t you happy for her?” Nurse Baptiste chides. “She is better. She will have a good life now.”
“Yes,” I say, “Very happy.” I pause. Nurse Baptiste is the nicest nurse, and my best chance. “Nurse Baptiste?” I say in a timid voice. “Are the restraints really necessary?”
She looks at me with a half-smile, half-grimace. “Oui, ma chère. I am afraid so. But I will tell you what: I will do up the other girls’ first, and do yours last. For now you just lie down and get comfortable.”
Three other girls require restraints; Nurse Baptiste leaves my side to go coax them into bed. I sigh. Not the outcome I’d hoped for, but I decide to obey and lie down, listening to the din of the dormitory all around me, as everyone settles in for the night.
“Psst! Anaïs… That’s not the truth, you know,” Lucy whispers between our two cots. “Ellen didn’t snap out of it, and she certainly didn’t go home with her family. She wasn’t discharged. That’s just what they want you to believe.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
“She was taken. Taken to that place. I know you’ve been there, Anaïs…”
I sit up, ready to ask Lucy more questions.
“GIRLS!” comes a shrill voice.
I wince, looking across the room to see an unfamiliar nurse glaring at me.
“Young lady! Anaïs, is it? Lie down at once. It is time for sleep. Lie down and let Nurse Baptiste do up your buckles. Don’t make me call for the orderlies!”
“Shh, shh, shh, laisez-tranquille,” Nurse Baptiste urges, returning to my bedside.
When I am thoroughly belted down, Nurse Baptiste puts a kind, cool hand to my forehead, but ultimately leaves me trapped on my cot, boiling with fear and frustration.
Lucy shoots me an apologetic shrug, and unable to do much more, rolls over and closes her eyes. Aggravated, I stare straight up at the ceiling. My head swims with the recent events. Dr. Waters… the threat of electroshock… the lawyer with his photograph of the man on trial…everyone’s fevered urgency to make me well again. There is something not quite right about the whole situation; something fishy that makes me not quite certain the police have their man.
I close my eyes and try to remember everything I can about the accused man — Jules, I think Mr. Duval and Dr. Waters said his name was. Jules Martin. If only I could remember him, or remember anything he has ever said — anything at all — it might afford me some insight into his personality, into the question of whether or not I truly believe he shot my stepfather.
But before I can summon forth anything of consequence from my fragmented memories of Jules Martin, I feel myself slipping from the conscious realm. Never in my life have I slept so much; these days, I want to sleep all the time, it seems. Now sleep comes to me in the form of a dark wave, its undercurrent pulling me under with a strangely irresistible sense of suffocation.
My eyelids droop… and against my will… shut entirely, leaving me swimming in a sea of black.
I wake several hours later. It feels as though no time at all has passed, however, because I didn’t have a single dream. Or, at least, I didn’t have a single dream I can recall.
I flinch awake, much as I did the night before — the night after my outburst in the courtyard with Colette — and look around the room, struck by the sudden sensation that I am not alone. I twitch, and realize, once again: My restraints have been unbuckled. I feel around my chest area over the scratchy wool blanket, and am not surprised when I encounter something slender, cold, and metal.
It is the key.
I am being summoned again. Mr. Fletcher has left me the key; he is attempting to send for me. It is the only conclusion I can possibly draw. I lift the curious brass object and inspect it in the dim red light. Yes, I see the four insignia as plain as day: clubs, hearts, spades, and diamonds. And I know exactly which door in the asylum this key will open.
I hesitate, looking around at the startlingly angelic, sleeping faces of my fellow patients, once again contemplating the theoretical punishment for being found out of bed. But I am a tad more belligerent and rebellious now, feeling the restraints were a unjust and demoralizing punishment.
I grip the key in my hand with a renewed sense of certainty, and carefully creep from my bed. Understanding better where I am going this time around, I pull on a pair of shoes and don the cardigan in my footlocker for warmth. Once I’m properly attired — or, as best I can be — I make my way softly to the door, then quickly down the darkened hallway, past the nurses’ station, and down the hall. Once the nurses’ station is long behind me, my nerves settle down somewhat and I am able to navigate my way with a clear head back to the door. I find it and turn the key in the lock. It opens.
Everything is just as before — the dilapidated boiler room, and the stone corridor tucked away behind a forgotten bookshelf. Before I know it, I have swung the second door open and am staring into a sky full of stars. As it did before, the air smells crisp and piney; the scent of a chilly night laced with evergreens. I stamp over the dewy grass, to the tree line, take a breath, and plunge forward. This part is more difficult. I had a fox-man to chase the last time. No doubt he is the one who left me the key again, but this time around he has left me to find my own way back to the bonfire.
After scrambling through the pines for a time, wading through the thick, brambly underbrush, I go down one side of a familiar ravine and up the other, and rediscover the hollowed-out log. This is the way, I think. I am sure of it. Once out the other side, I am relieved to glimpse the rows upon rows of white birch trees. There is more space here, less scraggly underbrush to leave red angry scratches all over my legs. I break into a run through the grove of birch trees, trampling over crunchy leaves, down a hillside — and all at once, there it is: the bright orange glow of the bonfire.
I inhale the familiar scent of wood-smoke as I walk in the direction of the fire. I see a circle of figures standing around the tall flames. They appear to be discussing something; all of them arguing with animated gestures. This time, instead of hiding in the bushes, I approach.
“Hello?” I call softly.
They turn.
“Oh, it’s her — the human
girl!” exclaims Mrs. Hobbs, the woman with the head of a hedgehog.
“Welcome back, my dear Anaïs,” Mr. Fletcher says, a pleased, sly smile on his whiskered face.
“Why, Mr. Fletcher… did you send for the young human for a second time?” Mr. Thomas demands, aghast, clearly fighting to hold back a toad-like ribbit.
“Naturally,” Mr. Fletcher replies. “The Young Cwen here and I agreed: We must push forward with our plan.”
He gestures towards a tall robed figure, and I see the Young Cwen has come down from her mother’s hiding place in the nearby mountains again. She acknowledges me with a nod, her silky black hair swinging around her glamorous, beautiful face.
“The human and I must visit the next court,” Mr. Fletcher continues. “It is important we investigate all four. And as recent events have shown us, our situation is growing more dire by the minute.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Another human girl was found, Anaïs,” the Young Cwen says.
“Found!” Mr. Weaver exclaims, indignant. “Hah! That’s a polite way to put it.”
I turn to look at him, and he adjusts his plaid hunting cap over his weasel face. I notice he is carrying a shotgun over his shoulder. He sees me looking at it. “For protection,” he tells me.
“I think you’re just inviting more trouble with that dreadful contraption, Weaver,” says Mr. Croft in a haughty voice. “You’re no better than the humans.”
“You’re wrong, Croft,” Mr. Weaver replies, shaking his head stubbornly. He pats the shotgun affectionately. “This here is going to be what keeps trouble at bay, at least while I’m around.”
Mr. Croft makes an expression, as though to roll his beady bird eyes.
“The Glade?” I repeat. “This time the murder happened here, in the Glade of the Commoners?”
“Yes,” answers Mr. Fletcher. “I’m afraid so, Anaïs. You can understand why we find this turn of events so troubling. The Glade has always been a peaceful place, neutral territory between the Four Kingdoms. Finding the body of a murdered human here is unthinkable, unless the perpetrator’s true aim is to undermine what remains of the peace treaty between our four great kings.”
“I haven’t seen a human in years, and now two in one week! Oh, and the dead one… so sad… she was a lovely little wisp of a human girl with pale fur — just like yours!” Mrs. Hobbs says in an unbecoming, near-wail.
“Wait!” I say, my mind suddenly suspicious. “Pale fur… what do you mean by ‘pale fur’?”
“I mean she was about your age, and her — oh, what’s-it-called — her ‘hair’? It was about your color…” Mrs. Hobbs replies. “She had clear gray eyes.”
The description matches a girl I know. Or a girl I have known, rather. I can’t help but wonder… Lucy said no one is ever released, that it was all a lie… Ellen?
“She was found hanging upside down from a tree, strung up in a hunter’s trap,” Mrs. Ramsey elaborates in a somber voice. “Her blood had been completely drained — taken, by the blood thief. Most gruesome sight I’ve ever laid eyes upon, I’m afraid.”
“Enough,” Mr. Fletcher intervenes. “Can’t you see you’re frightening the poor girl? She doesn’t need you filling her head with the gory details. We need her help. Please believe me, Anaïs,” he says, turning to me. “That won’t be your fate. I’ll keep safe.”
“Yes,” the Young Cwen chimes in. “Mr. Fletcher speaks the truth, Anaïs. We still need your help. And I do believe the fox will keep you safe; he’s quite cunning. Perhaps we’ve frightened you off, though. Are you still willing?”
I look into her face, studying her features. She is very beautiful. And yet… and yet I have an instinctual dislike for the Young Cwen. On the surface of things, I know I have no reason to feel this way, other than the fact she reminds me of Colette. Whatever the cause, my dislike is almost as potent as my instinctual affection for Mr. Fletcher.
“I don’t know,” I reply truthfully. For the first time, I think of my bed in the asylum with a sense of vague yearning.
“You know, Your Highness,” Mr. Fletcher says, addressing the Young Cwen, “none of this would be necessary if you would only consider marrying one of the Four Kings. We might crown a new Cyning, and unify the land under one ruler. I urge you to at least consider it.”
The Young Cwen nods, but a shadow falls over her features. “I have no desire to marry, yet I understand your point…” she says, biting her lip. “And anyway, which king to wed? I fear it would be too much power for any one of them.”
“Hmm, yes,” Mr. Fletcher nods. “Your concerns are valid. My recent visit to the East reminded me afresh: The Raven King is quite mad. And the Snake King… well, he is clearly not fit to be a suitor, either. But perhaps… perhaps the Lion King — or even better still, the Unicorn King — might make a good High Cyning.”
The Young Cwen appears to think this over, lost in contemplation. She shakes her head ever so slightly.
“My mother warned me against this path, against trying to unite the land through marriage…”
“With all due respect, Her Majesty the High Cwen has abandoned us during a treacherous time by remaining in hiding. At least you have come down from Harpy’s Refuge in the mountains.”
“I just… don’t know…”
“It is only a thought, Your Highness,” Mr. Fletcher says, waving off the serious tone of the conversation. “I have long admired the Unicorn King’s love of justice and orderliness — he stands for all that is pure and righteous, and keeps such a fair, clean kingdom — but that is simply my own perspective. Do not obligate yourself to listen to my lowly opinions.”
The Young Cwen is silent, still thinking. Mr. Fletcher coughs, and changes the subject.
“For now, let us return to the more immediate matter at hand.” He swivels his fox-head back in my direction and I find myself staring into his yellow eyes yet again. “Anaïs — will you journey with me to another of our Four Kings’ royal courts?”
I am a little reluctant to say yes this time, but I am also curious. “Which king would we visit next?” I ask.
“We shall go west, to the Court of the Lion King.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, considering. Raven’s court was terrifying, but also fascinating. I am scared, but also tempted.
“There is another reason Mr. Fletcher wants to investigate the Court of the Lion King, too,” Mr. Croft interrupts to add. “You ought to tell her, Fenric.”
“Tell me what?”
Mr. Fletcher sighs. “Well, the other reason to visit the Court of the Lion King is so that we may find some way to clear my name from suspicion.”
“You see, dear,” Mrs. Ramsey joins in to explain, “The Court of the Lion King has openly accused Mr. Fletcher of being behind these murders. It’s only a matter of time before they leverage this accusation as an excuse to declare martial law in the Glade of Commoners.”
“They are crossing the line!” Mr. Weaver exclaims passionately. “No one king is meant to have jurisdiction over the Glade of Commoners!”
“Yes,” Mr. Fletcher agrees, with a smooth note in his voice that suggests he is attempting to calm Mr. Weaver down. “Yes, yes. We are all well aware, Mr. Weaver.” He sighs and turns to me. “This is indeed very worrying, Anaïs. It is a bold move on the Lion King’s part. He’s always been the boldest of the Four Kings, but this is too bold for comfort, you might say. His accusations are flying rather freely.”
“Not to mention the fact all of us here tonight might be in danger,” Mr. Thomas says. “If Mr. Fletcher stands accused, perhaps it’s only a matter of time for the rest of us. The only person who stands above suspicion is… well, is the Young Cwen herself — begging your pardon, Your Highness.” Mr. Thomas bows to the sphinx, and she nods in acknowledgment.
I gaze at Mr. Fletcher for several seconds, thinking of how nice he was to me during my previous visit, and how sad it is he lost his wife during the war with th
e Boar King. Finally, I speak. “You have been very kind to me,” I say. “And if it would help you to clear your name to have me travel with you to the Court of the Lion King, I will do it.”
A sweet smile appears on his fox-face. “Thank you, Anaïs,” he says.
“Yes, for all of us: Thank you,” the Young Cwen echoes. I look at her, still not certain what to make of her friendship with Mr. Fletcher. Mr. Thomas’s comment just brought something very obvious yet important to light: Mr. Fletcher is taking all the risk, while the Young Cwen is taking none.
But now, standing around the bonfire, it is Mr. Fletcher who smiles with quiet gratitude and extends an arm. “All right, Anaïs, let us not delay any longer.”
“Good luck!” the others cry.
I follow Mr. Fletcher’s lead, away from the bonfire and presumably westward, through the Glade of Commoners and towards the Court of the Lion King, wondering what to expect from the second of these Four Kings.
CHAPTER 17.
As we march through the Glade of the Commoners, I am aware of every sound: every slight rustling of leaves, every twig snapping underfoot, every lonely cry of a dove, and every far-distant, echoing, staccato rapping of a woodpecker. I keep looking at the trees, recalling Mrs. Ramsey’s description of the dead girl.
“Please don’t worry so much,” Mr. Fletcher says, easily reading my expression. “I will keep you safe. I’m quite wily; I’ll have you know. Foxes are famed for it, in fact. Hadn’t you heard?”
I smile at him. He is a funny creature, I think. I don’t quite know him, but I feel safest with him; I certainly have more confidence in him than I do anyone else in this land, and more than I have in many humans back in my own land, for that matter.
We walk on, following the path westward through the Glade. In the short time I’ve been away, I forgot how beautiful these woods are. If it weren’t for the strange pockets of different daylight times (noon in one spot, and five minutes’ walk later midnight in another), I might be lulled into believing I am back home in the Hallerbos. Unlike the desolate, eastbound path that led to the Court of the Raven King, there are a few more cottages dotted about the path as we make our way out of the Glade of Commoners.
