Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  He clears his throat and sits forward. “My heart fails me to see you thus. I was stuck in Boston far longer than I expected, tying up loose ends, and returned to Stonehenge only yesterday. Miss Collins informed me of your situation, and I left for Ironwood within the hour. Unfortunately, Faust is determined to keep you here, the bastard.”

  Yes, well, I am his new favorite.

  Thank you, Kelly, I sign. For trying.

  He leans close, touches my jagged hair gently and whispers. “Take courage, Hester. I spoke with a fair-minded judge in Stonehenge. The news wasn’t good at first. He told me that as your sole guardian your father was entitled to commit you by law. Grayson also has Faust’s documented diagnosis of your supposed mental illness.”

  Guessed as much.

  “The judge did mention that your situation might change if you married.”

  Married?

  Won’t work.

  “Of course, it will. Your husband could sign your release papers and free you from this place. It would also help if he had another medical opinion contesting Dr. Faust’s verdict. I can do both.”

  You’re saying…

  “I’m saying marry me, Hester, and let’s get you the hell out of here.”

  You hate marriage.

  Kelly pats my knee. “Don’t worry, we’ll get an annulment in time. And it wouldn’t really be a marriage, would it?”

  Other choices?

  “Only those that will take years to achieve in court, without any guarantee of success.” His laugh is short and sardonic. “Of course, I do have a pistol in my boot. I could distract the guard and knock him out. We could make a run for my horse. Probably both get shot.”

  I think of Tom briefly, stunned that doing so doesn’t hurt as it once did. He had years to wed me and always found an excuse to avoid it. Yet here’s Kelly, with his own marriage ending in a painful divorce, ready to step in and save the day.

  The doctor leans back and sighs. “Miss Collins said she would stand as your proxy at the Stonehenge courthouse. Once the ceremony is complete, I’ll ride for Ironwood with the license hot in my pocket.”

  Good old Cordie.

  “Should I find another alternative, I’ll pursue it.”

  Haven’t said yes yet.

  “You just did.” Kelly stands—evidently thinking the matter is settled—and walks to the window. “David Thornhill lives in a far better institution than this, you know. It’s a tourist resort by comparison. His father-in-law convinced the jurors Thornhill had suffered a complete breakdown.”

  Maude Lambson’s killer? I sign, relieved we are no longer discussing matrimony.

  “Precisely. Last time I saw him, he said he never intended to hurt you. Swore to me that he only meant to take you to the stable and tie you up so he could fetch his wife and ride for Mexico. According to Thornhill, he never made any attempts on your life and had not laid eyes on you since Halloween.”

  Like I thought!

  “Which means someone else spooked your horse and tried to choke you. Psychotic men seem to follow you in droves…”

  Not my fault. They’re crazy.

  Kelly leaves the window and picks something up. Sounds like his hat, the way his fingers trace the brim. “I must ride to Stonehenge—get going on our plan for your release.”

  But it won’t work, despite Kelly’s good intentions. Faust will never let me go, not in a million years.

  My pseudo-betrothed kisses the side of my head and puts his arms around me. The fraternal tenderness in the embrace makes my eyes sting. We remain like this for a while, until Titus tells us visiting hours are over. Kelly releases me and walks toward the guard at the door. “I’m the coroner of Stonehenge,” he tells Titus. “I’ll be back to claim my future bride, and you’ll be accountable for what happens here. One bruise on her is ten on you. For your own sake, keep her healthy.”

  He turns to me again. “I’ll visit in a week or so, Hester. You have my word.”

  Kelly squeezes my hand and walks out of the room. Please keep your promise, I silently beg. A week is a long time here.

  Extending my hearing, I listen as the doctor strides through the asylum. He exits the building and walks across the courtyard. Then Kelly stops and turns back toward the asylum, as though he is torn over his decision to leave me. I’m torn as well. I don’t want him to go. A few moments later, he curses under his breath, mounts his horse, and trots past the watchmen. The sound of Kelly’s departure brings on temporary moral weakness. I almost forget Anna and Isabelle and Faust’s ghosts, nearly abandon my mission at Ironwood.

  All I want is for Noah Kelly to come back and make me safe again.

  “Time for another session,” Davis says the next day, interrupting my work at the wood shed. He sounds quite sorry to bear such tidings.

  I give the kindling in my arms to Anna and follow the guard to Faust’s office. I feel a strong urge to apologize to Davis for causing him distress. The boy has shown me nothing but kindness, and it isn’t his fault that I am here.

  As usual, a fire is burning in the hearth, probably fueled by the wood I carried into the room a few hours earlier and stacked in the large copper bin. I’m always surprised by how normal this room seems. If I were to visit it, having no previous knowledge of the acts performed within these walls, would I think it had a quaint, cozy atmosphere?

  No. Evil leaves a mark, and any person with a shred of sensitivity would sense the darkness here.

  Davis helps me onto the cot, and we wait for Faust to arrive. It is a short interval. The doctor walks into the office with something rattling in his portmanteau. Sitting at his desk, he takes the Book from the drawer, his flowery cologne drifting across the room. Faust removes several items from his bag—glass clinks against a hard surface, a liquid of some sort gurgles. Curiouser and curiouser…

  “I’ve missed you,” Faust finally says. “Our time together is the highlight of my day, Hester.”

  Does he think to flatter me? I may vomit on his cravat.

  He opens the Book and makes a contented sound. “Yes, here it is.”

  Belonging only to Faust, the patients of Ironwood are his trophies, and he relives our sessions by reading them over in private. It’s his way of taking us down from the display case, to polish up and admire.

  As he sits by my cot, I smell the new leather of his shoes. “So sorry to hear of the commotion with Harry Swinton,” Faust declares. “He was burned so badly he lost all the fingers on his dominant hand. I had to cut them off. He can’t write or hold an implement properly, as a result. Be careful, pet. Harry bears a grudge against us both now.”

  Faust adjusts his body to a more comfortable position. “I experienced something similar to Swinton when I came into contact with the skin on your face. My hand grew terribly hot and later I found blisters between the fingers. Why is that, do you suppose?” He turns to Davis and orders him to wheel a cart over to the bed. “That will do. Back to your station.”

  The doctor goes to get my medication. His movements sound practiced, belonging to one experienced with filling syringes. Faust ties a cord around my arm above the elbow and flicks the glass barrel a few times with his finger. The needle punctures my skin, followed by a burning sensation as the drug enters my body. Faust unties the cord and sits back in his chair.

  “Many of my patients need this sort of encouragement, to allow their real selves to emerge. You will tell me everything I wish to know, Hester. There will be no secrets between us.”

  This is not my mother’s laudanum. Whatever it is works faster and takes me to a whole other sphere. Wishing to be everywhere at once, I feel like a fly caught in amber, like lightning frozen in the sky. I sense all that occurs in Ironwood simultaneously. Anna works over a steaming cauldron, cursing Matron under her breath. A man chokes on his own saliva in the east wing. Titus corners Isabelle on the stairs.

  A sense of detachment fills my mind, and I have no loyalty to any other being but myself, no need to conceal my thoughts. All
is open wide, without any measure of self-preservation.

  Faust looms over me, his head next to my lips. “The barriers you have built around yourself are gone. You spoke as a child. There is nothing to prevent you from doing so now. What is your name?”

  “Hester,” a faint, rasping voice replies, less than a whisper. It is soft enough to be a figment rather than an actual sound.

  “Very good. Why does your touch burn others? Do you use an ointment that causes inflammation? Is it a chemical compound? Where did you produce such a weapon?”

  “Veritas.” Another nearly indistinct utterance. “Harms the evil, heals the good.”

  “Who is this Veritas?” Faust asks, sounding impatient. “Are you schizophrenic? Is she your other personality?”

  “No.”

  Swallowing against the raw pain in my throat, I realize that the frail voice is mine. The world turns, like a wheel rolling madly down a hillside. Topsy-turvy until the vision grows detailed and clear. I am at Griffin House, back in Stonehenge. The ballroom is filled with people wearing hooded cloaks, dressed for an elaborate Venetian masquerade. We are dancing the waltz, and tall candelabras stand in every corner. Their light is weak, barely penetrating the fog and darkness that swirls about the floor.

  My partner wears the mask of a horned beast. His jaw and lips are exposed, but the rest of his face is hidden. Who is it? I feel I should know him. We waltz over to a Harlequin, his diamond-patterned domino glowing in the candlelight. The beast releases me, and the Harlequin takes his place.

  He mumbles something, and I snatch the domino away. David Thornhill gazes back at me. “Throw her off the mountain,” he says. “You’ll lose everything, if you don’t.”

  Thornhill twirls me around and around, until we reach a small figure swathed in red, the entire face covered in black leather. I remove this mask as well and find Marie-Louise Lennox under it. “No reason to live,” she whispers.

  The woman’s face is pale and wet, and weeds tangle in her hair. I look down and see a rope cinched about her waist—still tied to the stone at her feet—as if Marie-Louise had just been found in the pond where she took her own life.

  Then I am caught by strong, calloused hands. I cover them with my own, knowing their shape well. They have held me a thousand times, but I am frantic to get away now. Heedless of my resistance, he refuses to move, wearing the gold, weeping face of Tragedy.

  “Quickly, Tom,” I whisper, his soft, alfalfa scent filling my lungs. “Run for your life.”

  “I can’t, love. He won’t let me.”

  As soon as I embrace my Interpreter, he becomes insubstantial, dissolving into the air. The crowd parts with one accord, revealing the horned beast seated in a chair on a platform. I walk toward him, sensing his eagerness and pleasure. His mouth turns up into a welcoming smile. I recognize him now.

  The heir of Archimendax.

  Fog rises suddenly and cuts me off from the dancers, sweeps me into the darkness. The beast laughs from his elevated throne, and the vision ends. I return to Faust’s office, gasping.

  25

  Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.

  It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in their sorrow—Virgil.

  The guards are late to fetch me the next morning, so I follow a routine I’ve developed for days when I am stuck in the Pit with nothing to do. I walk around my cell quickly, then up and down the stairs as fast as I can, until my muscles grow hot and tired. Despite this, they feel good after the exertion and will not atrophy for lack of use. Each time I finish this routine, it feels like a triumph against Faust. His drugs muddle my brain and the exercise counters their affect somewhat.

  As my body cools, I sit on the table and try to make weapons out of a few old bones. They are rather brittle and small; about the right size for a chicken. I grind their edges carefully against a piece of iron. The same bit of metal I used to carve words into the cell wall, when I vowed to stop Faust.

  Some of the bones shatter. I push the useless fragments away and run my finger over the two successfully sharpened pieces. The little knives aren’t for throwing, but if I were very close to a villain and struck a jugular vein forcefully, I could kill. Or I might take one of their eyes. Yet even if I never actually use the makeshift weapons, I feel better knowing I have some sort of defense. Supernatural gifts cannot always save me. The new ones haven’t shown themselves since my encounter with Roy when I burned with power and levitated.

  Slipping the bones into the secret pocket of my drawers, next to my lucky pebbles, I stand and roll my shoulders, deciding to work my arms next. I pick up the remaining bones from the floor, the ones that feel knobby and round and gather bits of plaster that have fallen from the ceiling and rotten wood. Then I stack the ammunition at my feet and throw at various points in the Pit. Not like when I worked with Tom, but just as a reminder of an old skill. The daily chore of hauling wood has developed my upper body and although I am still thin, I possess a sinewy strength.

  What is that murmuring sound behind me? Spinning about, I come face to face with Carver, the vagabond ghost from Stonehenge. The confused soul pops in on occasion and always leaves in tears. It’s rather depressing to watch him cry over my current state. Ghost-sight is even worse. I hate what it reveals.

  My blindness disappears and I see myself and my surroundings through Carver’s eyes. It is not an attractive picture. The atmosphere in the Pit is gloomy, but I can still see myself standing next to the pile of bones and rotten wood, wearing a stained shift. My eyes look too large for my face and even with the shadows, the dark circles under them are evident. Gaunt cheeks, paler skin than before and dry, cracked lips. Is it any wonder Carver cries?

  Turn off the ghost-sight, I ask him.

  Oh, yes. Sorry about that, Hester. How have you been?

  I gesture around the Pit. As well as can be expected, I suppose. Thank you for visiting, Carver.

  He tips his hat to me and tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his dirty blue vest.

  Why has Carver followed me here? He cannot help or get me out. Is the incompetent gambler my self-appointed guardian angel?

  The ghost circles the Pit, shaking his head. What can one say about such a dreadful place, after all? He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, blowing his nose and accidentally passing wind at the same time.

  I snort with mirth. Once I thought Carver was a nuisance, but perhaps he is a blessing in disguise. Who else could bring humor to the Pit?

  Pardon me, he says, cheeks blooming with embarrassment.

  Carver fades away, and I shake my head at his absurdity. A sound near the iron lid of my cell makes me lift my face toward the ceiling. Davis walks along the corridor upstairs. I know it is he because of the unhurried, simple stride—the way a child moves without thinking much about it.

  The lid to the Pit lifts. “Brought you something,” Davis says, cheerily descending the stairs. This is what my young friend always announces before handing over a gift. Brought you something.

  He unveils the bowl with a flourish, snapping the cloth that covered it. “Chicken noodle! But there’s only one piece of cornbread. Sorry.”

  Thank you, I sign.

  Davis knows this gesture well by now. I perform it for him several times a day. Thank you for more jerky… clean blankets… a new shift.

  “Think nothing of it,” he says, casually sitting on the table and swinging his leg. “I threw away Faust’s schedule this morning. I hoped he’d forget your appointment if he didn’t see it on paper, but my idea didn’t work. He always remembers you.”

  Come hell or high water.

  Faust has injected me each afternoon for six days straight. As a result, my brain feels fuzzy, and I find it difficult to concentrate and plan my escape. I hate to admit it, but I’m beginning to enjoy what the drugs do to me. I’m intrigued by my ability to speak while under their influence. It must be all those ideas and opinions whirling about in my head, waiting for the chance to be heard.


  I finish the soup, and swallow the last bit of bread, wishing there was more. That’s your problem, Hester. You’ve always wanted what you can’t have.

  Davis gets to his feet. “We better go, before Titus or Roy come looking for you.”

  We climb the stairs leading out of the Pit. I lower my chin, hoping to appear submissive to the other staff members as we walk to a new location—Faust’s temporary office. Davis tells me that the usual treatment rooms are being painted. Evidently, the evil doctor chose a warm, buttery yellow.

  Davis opens the door, and I follow him inside. He takes the cuffs out of his pocket, once I am stretched out on the cot, and slips them around my wrists. “I’m afraid I must,” Davis whispers, the metal ratchet snapping into place. “They’re as loose as I can make them.”

  Having caused little trouble recently, and by working well at my assigned tasks, I’m no longer forced to wear heavy irons. Should I thank Faust for this? I shake my head, fearing I have actually gone insane.

  Faust disrupts my thoughts by storming into his office.

  Doctor’s tardy—ten demerits.

  He despises lateness of any kind, especially in himself, and goes about readying the syringe. The needle plunges into my arm without preamble, and then the fun begins. Except this time the dosage is off. I pull against the restraints, filled with aggression. It is a thrilling, terrifying experience.

  “Now, Hester,” Faust says. “You claim that you reveal truth. I’d like to test this assertion. Tell me something about my childhood.”

  Manic energy runs through me, and the raspy voice emerges from my throat. “You were punished. Harsh and often. Didn’t know what you’d done to deserve it, or how to please her.”

  Faust does not respond for some time. “Who told you about my mother?” he finally asks. “Was it Harriet? I mean, Matron Latham?”

  The doctor stands, knocking the Book to the floor, and tells Davis to fetch a vial of another drug. He injects it into my arm, lacking his usual finesse with the needle. Within moments, I feel such fatigue that breathing is nearly impossible. Head spinning, I concentrate on sucking air into my lungs, exhaling it a few seconds later. What’s happening, Faust? Help me. But he never helps anyone. Instead, the doctor opens the door, calls for Titus, and walks out. If this is how he treats his favorite, how do the neglected ones fare?