The Dickens Mirror

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Such a tempting target. Aim a good strong kick into those buttocks … what she wouldn’t give for a nice sturdy pair of hobnails. Do too much damage, though, and Kramer would drug her senseless, then spirit her away to a dank little padded cell in the bowels of this place. (Actually, Weber would probably like that. The pig was always looking for an excuse to bundle her into a strong dress. A good, long grope—that’s what he wanted.) “Go.”

  Pushing to her feet, Meme swept her gaze round the room. “And I will, just as soon as …” Her cobalt eyes narrowed as she spied the comb. “Please move aside.”

  “Why?” Give her a good show. Keep her eyes on the comb. “I like it here.”

  “Oh yes. Quite the palace.”

  A flush of heat. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Then do not say ridiculous things just because you have a tongue. Either kick out the comb or go sit on your bed where I can see you.”

  “Fine.” Struggling to keep the glee from her face, she gave the comb a savage swat with the side of her foot. “Take it.”

  “Why are you so hateful?” The comb joined that broken bolt and those ceramic shards in Meme’s over-apron. “Can you not take friendship when it is offered?”

  “Friendship?” For some absurd reason, tears pricked. “I don’t need a friend, and even if I did, that would not be you. You are Kramer’s creature.”

  “Oh, and you are so much better off: a mad girl with no family, no friends, left to rot in this place.” Turning away, Meme shook her head with something close to bewilderment. “And to think that he treasures you.”

  ELIZABETH

  Little Alice

  1

  TREASURES ME? AS soon as the door closed, Elizabeth dove for that bone handle. Who? Kramer? That snake? And she calls me a fool.

  She had to be quick. That idiot would be back with reinforcements—Graves and Weber, for certain—and soon. Dropping to her knees, Elizabeth swept a hand. As her fingers closed over the bone handle, however, she felt the nip of something else jagged. “Ohhh.” She drew out first the toothbrush handle—and then a shard of ceramic from that shattered pot of bicarbonate. They’re both perfect. So which to use? Should she even try right now? Wouldn’t it be better to pick loose stiches from her mattress and hide these? Meme will be back. The girl had said Battle was expected. I won’t have time to cut every symbol. She didn’t even know in which order she should. The smart move would be to do nothing. Yes, but what if she got it right this time? Would she even need the Mirror?

  won’t work, not the right place, not the right one

  “Right place? Right one? I don’t even understand what that means,” she muttered. Ceramic first, she decided. She would save the bone spike for … well, for something. Slipping the handle under her right thigh, she pressed the sharp bit of pottery to a scar midway up her right forearm. There was a small hiccup of pain as the point dimpled scar tissue. An instant later, a miniscule bead of bubble slowly welled. All right, this was good; this was what she wanted. Left to right. Twisting the point back and forth, she cored and dug. The bead widened into a slim dash and then the minute curve of a red smirk. She gave it a critical look. Not much of a cut. Pause too long and this would quickly clot. But there was blood, and that was all that mattered. She only wished she understood precisely why.

  Then on to the next. She licked pearls of pain-sweat from her upper lip. That symbol of a pitchfork with horns … what was its name, anyway? The luxl she knew; that was the symbol with three interlocking spirals. But this one she couldn’t quite remem—

  no, not right, not for you

  “I GOT YOU UNDER MY SKIN.” Her throat was full of razors. “DEEP IN THE HEART OF ME.” God, she hated this song. Why couldn’t she sing something nice, like “The Fine Old English Gentleman”? Or “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter”? Now, there was a jolly tune. “But the ratcatcher’s daughter had a dream, that she shouldn’t be alive next Monday.” Thinking, a little abstractly, Dream? Such an odd word. She punched out the next line: “So he cut his throat with a piece of glass, and stabbed his donkey arter … in spite of a warning voice that comes in the night and repeats, how it yells in my ear …”

  It was no use. The song was really a part of me, and she was fated to rot in this hellish place, fall apart a piece at a time: a finger here, a leg there, a nose. Lose an eye like Graves. (Her only consolation: like as not, no one would eat them. Her eyes, that is. She didn’t think. Actually, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if any of them were dining well. Now the rat they’d used in that thin soup instead of a quivering wobbler …)

  “Oh, for the love of God.” A new voice, hard as a boot grinding sand onto stone. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  2

  BLAST. SHE WENT absolutely still. You fool. You knew they would come, but you had to try, didn’t you? And now look. But she couldn’t. Instead, she kept her eyes riveted to her forearm. All she’d managed was a pathetic red dribble and a bit of broken crockery now smeary and slick as a …

  PLIP-PLIP-PLIP

  No, snail, SNAIL. She heard the ferocious chuck as her jaw clenched and her teeth clashed. I don’t care what you say. I was thinking snail, not plip-plip!

  “How did you … Oh, I see.” Kramer clucked like a spinsterish aunt over a gravy spot on a lace collar. “Drop it, Elizabeth.” When she didn’t move, he added, “At once.”

  Fine. Without looking up, she pitched the smeary bit of crockery aside. There. Choke on it. The spike of bone toothbrush was hot as a brand under her right thigh. Just so long as she didn’t move, wouldn’t get up, that was hers.

  “Thank you.” A skeletal hand swam into view and clamped its fingers around her wrist. Through the curtain of her hair, she watched her hand flop as Kramer turned the arm over and back to assess the damage. “Thank heavens, she’s only managed a few scratches. A plaster ought to do.”

  “I suppose no need to disturb the surgeon.” Graves sounded a tad put out, as if she’d have welcomed something with a trifle more gory flair. “We’re only fortunate she didn’t decide to swallow that bolt. I shudder to think of the internal damage.”

  “Oi, sir.” Weber always sounded as if he had a mouthful of gravel, although Elizabeth suspected he was a little disappointed, too. Perhaps he’d have welcomed the chance for Connell to gut her like a rabbit. “I think you might consider removing everythin’ but the mattress. No telling when her cot’ll give way, or that stand. Next time we walks in, she mighta opened her jug’lar.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Weber, but I don’t believe we’ve quite come to that.” Kramer relinquished her wrist. “On your feet, Elizabeth. Inspector Battle and Constable Doyle will be here any minute to query you again, and we don’t want to keep them waiting any longer than necessary. Unfortunate, but since you refuse to bathe properly, you’ll just have to come as you are.”

  No, leave me alone. She most certainly wouldn’t budge an inch. If she did, then the toothbrush would be lost to her, too. Go away. I’m busy. Can’t you see I’m busy?

  “Elizabeth?” Kramer said. Another pause, and then Graves picked up on the refrain: “Elizabeth, you will do Doctor the courtesy of looking when he addresses you.”

  Not bloody likely in my lifetime. In point of fact, she was afraid to. The last time she’d looked at Graves, that crow’s face had changed: skin and eyes turning runny to drip in thick, murky gobbets like

  the monster-doll’s head

  GLASS SLUMPING FROM A BLOWPIPE

  in a Kugelrohr oven turned too high on accident

  IN A FURNACE’s GLORY HOLE

  no, a Kugel—

  “No, shut up! Candle wax! I was thinking candle wax!” She clapped a hand over her traitorous mouth. Idiot. But God, it was like trying to follow a cork ball in a game of lawn tennis, the voices volleying back and forth from ear to ear.

  “Excuse me?” Kramer paused. “Am I speaking to Elizabeth, or someone else?”

  “Mmm.” Thinking, Yes. N
o. Maybe. Really, it’s anyone’s guess. Using her index finger, she scratched at the luxl’s leftmost spiral, beginning at the center, wincing as her nail lifted a corner of scab and bumped over black thread stitches.

  that’s not right

  Oh, please, shut up. She just had to dig deeper, that was all. Claw the meaning from those symbols, wring them of

  thought-magic

  energy. Find the right symbols in the right sequence, and that would get her out of here, whisk her away to her proper place, the correct Now—and away from

  Dad eyes Daddy eyes oh Daddy

  WHISPER-MAN

  this place before it was too late.

  “Look at me, Elizabeth.” When she still wouldn’t, Kramer added, “This instant.”

  “Sir?” A different voice, but one she also recognized. Through her lashes, she saw a pair of legs in trousers come to stand next to Kramer. “It’s not my place, but …”

  “Bode.” Now Elizabeth did look and saw Meme, her face pale. “Do not get involved,” Meme said, her voice tight.

  “Yes, do listen to her.” Kramer turned Bode a frosty glare. “And you are quite correct. It is not your place.”

  “Nevertheless, sir, I get on with her. She can be quite reasonable if you know how to handle her,” Bode said. “Isn’t that right, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Bode.” This time, Meme touched his arm. “Please, let Doctor handle this.”

  “But I can help.” Bode was a plain boy with pocked skin, a blunt jaw, and a crooked nose, probably broken one too many times. Scraped back from his face and secured with a scrap of leather, his shoulder-length hair was muddy brown. The thin, pale whip of a scar trailed down one side of his neck. Yet his eyes were very fine, and they never wavered from Elizabeth. “Right, Miss? Won’t you let me help?”

  “Yes.” She knew him. Of course she did. The color of those eyes was so close to what the sky once was like that a pang speared her heart. And then she thought, My God, I remember what color the sky was? When? Where had I been? She couldn’t place it, if it really was a proper memory. She pulled herself a little straighter. Now’s not the time to worry about the sky, you idiot. Focus on now. “Hello, Bode.”

  “Hello, yourself.” Of all things, he threw her a wink that was so normal and friendly, she wanted to cry. “You’ll get on now, won’t you? Tell Doctor what he wants to know?”

  “Well, I …” She let that go. As much as she liked Bode, she didn’t know about that. In his long white doctor’s coat, Kramer loomed like something born of the ice and snow. She owed him nothing.

  Bode opened his mouth again, but Kramer cut him off. “Thank you. That will do. Now back away. Remember your place. Do not interfere again.” Without waiting for the boy to move, Kramer gave him a rude shove, then turned her a glare. “I see from the stains you’ve had another bout of hemoptysis. Are you ill?”

  Ill? Oh, that was good; that was brilliant. I’m in a madhouse, you arse. I’m coughing up blood. What do you think? She held her tongue.

  “Well then, you leave me no choice.” Kramer snapped his fingers. “Meme!”

  “No!” she said as the girl swept forward with Kramer’s medical bag. She knew what he would do: drug her senseless. When she woke, she’d be down below, cocooned in a strong dress. Yes, yes, that much I do remember. But God, there were moments when she could swear that every single thought, each memory, was scripted, written for her—perhaps even by her own father, who’d stuffed her full of these many voices and pieces—only so much ink on paper, with no substance. In a book, a character could remember … but recall what? Life beyond the book? Absurd. “What do you want to talk about? I’ll be good, I’ll be …”

  “Wait,” Bode said as Meme brushed past. “Let me …”

  “What did I just say?” The underside of Kramer’s jaw was scarlet. “Be silent.”

  “Bode.” Meme’s voice was toneless. “She is not worth it. Please, back away.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” Exhaling in exasperation, Bode held his hands out to the other girl. “Meme, can’t you see? Scaring her like this, it’s not right.”

  “She is a patient, Bode.” Frowning, Meme threw the catches on Kramer’s bag. “We all do our duties.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Bode gave Meme a wondering look. “Yes, you’re his assistant; we all deal with nutters every day, but even you got to see that kindness …”

  “Sometimes the kindest thing to do seems cruel but is necessary. What Meme sees is her place,” Kramer hissed. “As should you.”

  “My place?” Bode rounded on him. “Then what about yours? You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to heal, not bully.”

  Before Kramer could answer, Elizabeth heard a new and deeper voice rumble, “Is this how you people at Bethlem get on?”

  “Oh, bloody shite,” Kramer muttered, and turned a look over his shoulder. Following his gaze, she saw what the doctor had been too distracted to notice. Blocky as a monolith, Inspector Battle loomed in her doorway. Just beyond Battle’s left shoulder was Constable Doyle, looking decidedly pale and sweaty. Judging from the pewter smears under his eyes and the way he fidgeted, Doyle was as ill as she felt.

  “Treatment by committee?” Planting his huge fists on his hips, Battle leaned in and squinted as if inspecting a suspicious leg of mutton. “Well, you’re certainly living up to your nickname; this is positive bedlam. These are your creatures, Doctor. Control them.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. How good of you to remind me.” Kramer’s tone was brittle as hoar ice, and she could see the effort he put into grabbing back some nastier retort. “Now, if you will all let me get on with my job.”

  Bode tried again. “But sir …”

  “Bode.” Meme snatched at him. “Stop. Do not task him.”

  “Yes, you would do well to listen to her. You overreach, young man!” Graves snapped at the same moment that Weber grated, “Watch your mouth around Doctor, ya damned hobbledehoy.”

  Bode ignored them all. “Please, sir. I mean no disrespect, but I’m sure I can get her to cooperate. You saw before, yeah?”

  “Nonsense.” Kramer had his bag open now to reveal an array of gleaming instruments—scalpels, a saw, clamps—as well as glass tubes, steel syringes, and small brown phials filled with colored liquids. “The time for talk and persuasion is past. What she needs is for you to step aside and let me get on with what needs doing.”

  “Wait,” Bode began—and that was when Kramer uncoiled, fast as a snake, and cut a vicious backhanded slap to Bode’s jaw. The boy’s head whipped to one side, and as he staggered, Kramer bore down, shouting, “I am the physician here, not you!”

  “No!” Elizabeth shouted. It was one thing for Bode to reassure her; it was another for him to take a beating. This was her fight, not his. Why didn’t someone stop Kramer? That idiot Meme only stood there, eyes wide, hands to her mouth. From his place by the door, Battle was a stone. “Stop! He’s only trying to help me!”

  “This is my patient!” Kramer thundered at Bode. “My asylum, my charge, and I say what is right and what is not, do you hear?” The right half of Kramer’s face went the color of a ripe plum while the half-mask of tin hiding the left remained eerily like porcelain with its coat of faded flesh-colored paint. “I offer you, a foundling, a boy with nobody and nothing … I give you protection, safety, food.” He cuffed the boy again, a brisk, smart snap. This time, a spurt of blood jumped from Bode’s mouth. “This is how you show your gratitude?”

  “No.” Eyes watering, Bode backhanded blood from his lips. “I’m only saying … there’s no call for you to—”

  “Don’t!” Elizabeth’s fingers tightened about her spike of bone. Come here, you; try that with me. “It’s my fault. Here, I’m talking! Isn’t that what you want?”

  This seemed to catch Kramer off his stride. “Yes. What am I thinking, wasting my time with this … this whelp?” Turning, Kramer crooked a finger. “Weber!”

  No! Cringing, her courage fleeing, Eli
zabeth pressed herself against cold brick. At the door, Battle still stood, impassive, his gray eyes fixing her with a look of detached interest. Doyle only fidgeted. Meme—her very good friend—was useless.

  “N-no tonics, no more t-teas.” That pressure in her chest was growing, unfurling in a hot, dark, menacing rose. Above her eyes, the Other was trying to claw its way out of her skull. “I promise, I’ll—” Her scalp gave a shout as Weber wrenched her hair with one huge paw.

  “Open your mouth, Elizabeth.” Selecting a phial, Kramer withdrew a minute stopper. “Don’t make me force you.” When she still didn’t budge, Kramer sighed, then flicked a finger. “Weber? If you please?”

  “Right,” Weber said, and pinched her nose shut with his free hand.

  “Wait! You don’t need to do that!” Bode said.

  No! A bolt of panic ripped through her. Her right hand closed around the bone spike as she dug the nails of her left into Weber’s wrist. Her chest was already churning; she could feel her throat working, trying to get her to open her mouth and breathe, breathe!

  “Don’t hurt her!” Bode tried shoving Weber to one side, but it was like trying to move a monument. “Let me, sir. I can get her to take it.”

  “We’re managing, thank you,” Kramer said. “Open your mouth, Elizabeth.”

  “Nuh.” Parting her lips just enough to suck a breath through the gate of her teeth, she fought to twist away from the mouth of that small brown bottle of poison. “NNN—” She kicked and tried to bite as Kramer grabbed her face in one hand, but then he was straddling her, using his greater weight to crush her into her mattress. She heard the tick of glass against her teeth, and then she was coughing and choking against a thick, unctuous yellow liquid first seeping and then gushing into her convulsing throat. Rearing, she spat out what she could but knew: too late.

  “Stop fighting.” A dribble of tonic and her spit trickled over Kramer’s tin cheek in a viscous yellow tear. Kramer studied her a moment, then nodded at Weber. “Open her mouth.”