Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  Pummeling the cold metal, he suddenly understood why a trapped fox would gnaw off its leg to get free. If it would do any good, he’d beat this door until all he had left were bloody stumps for fingers.

  “God, this isn’t fair.” Though he couldn’t see it, he shouted at the sky. “You hear me? It’s not fair!”

  “God don’t live here, boy.”

  Ethan whipped around, startled by a voice as agreeable as rocks in a tin can. The only light in the cell came from an air vent high up on the wall, and that from a mere hand’s breadth of space. He thought he could distinguish dark forms around him. Then again, maybe not. But now that he’d stopped making noise, he could hear the blackness breathing.

  A touch swept along his right arm. He jerked left.

  “Skittish one, this,” the darkness snorted.

  A waft of air fanned his face as if something flew by. Close.

  He swatted at it. “What do you want from me?”

  Fingers reached out from the abyss and brushed the length of his left leg. He jerked right.

  Dry laughter wheezed in and out from mouths he couldn’t see.

  “Make this easy, boy, and it won’t hurt so much.”

  The flesh at the nape of his neck rose. He crouched, waiting. Whispers circled, coming from everywhere at once.

  Then stopped. Silence filled the black space. No whispers, no talking, no breathing, as if all life had been driven from the room.

  The cell was a crypt.

  Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest, his throat, his ears, unbearably loud and out of control.

  “Where are you?” His question hung like a noose—

  And squeezed the air from his lungs. He crashed to the floor beneath the weight of countless men atop him.

  This time when darkness came, he didn’t mind.

  31

  Miri sat on one of the benches lining three of the walls in her cell and closed her eyes. Are You there, God? Do You know where I am? Do You even care? She scrunched her eyes tighter, pretending to be any place but here in Sheltering Arms.

  Huh. What a name. Sheltering Arms, the great sanctuary and haven for those suffering brain illness, was nothing more than a jail. No … worse. It was a warehouse, storing the unwanted or those too embarrassing for polite society. A great pantry, with jars of forgotten humanity, left to dwindle and rot.

  In the four days since she’d arrived, she’d had no contact with the outside world or the staff of the asylum—except for the crony that brought gruel and emptied the waste bucket once a day. Though Miri pleaded for news of Roland’s welfare, the woman ignored her. She began to despair of ever knowing, and desperation was a crueler companion than the inmates around her. When Ethan told her that sometimes faith was a moment-by-moment thing, she hadn’t really understood.

  Until now. With every breath, she fought to trust anew that somehow, good would come of this plight.

  Resting her head against the wall, she opened her eyes and sighed. Careful not to focus on any of their faces, she watched the women around her. Shapeless blanket gowns hung loose on their thin bodies. None had hair. Her initial fear and revulsion had given way to curiosity, leastwise toward one in particular.

  A sprite of a girl named Lil sat on a bench across from her. Miri smiled. The girl waved in return, then resumed conversing with another. Eight or maybe nine years old, she displayed the mildest form of the affliction marring the faces of the group. Only one gap split open from her upper lip to her nostril, making her nose slightly tipped and flat. She could speak somewhat in a nasal monotone, though with much effort and concentration, and it was hard to understand.

  Instead of such verbal gymnastics, Lil and the other women snapped their fingers and intermittently clapped, a primitive yet unique language structure. As near as Miri could tell, not one of them showed any outward signs of madness. None acted as erratically as Roland. To the contrary, they’d treated her with kindness. Yet she understood why they were locked away. The smallest glimpse at their abhorrent faces would bring a grown man to his knees.

  One woman’s mouth extended into both nostrils, with no upper lip and no way to ever close the gaping hole. Pink skin with reddish veins, moist and plump, was visible to deep recesses that ought not be seen.

  Next to her, another woman’s jaw jutted the opposite direction of her mouth, a slanted affair, with misshapen lips that in one corner appeared to be attached to her ear. A few wore perpetual smiles, curved splits in the flesh with tongues that lapped out like a dog’s. Except for Lil’s, everyone’s teeth were helter-skelter, some missing altogether, others with extra, all malformed into spiky pillars or flattened nubs.

  Here in this patch of poorly carved jack-o’-lanterns, Miri felt pretty for the first time in her life—and the feeling shamed her. She was no better than Roland, superior only because of noting the impediments of those around her.

  The grate of a key in the lock pulled her from her thoughts and pushed the women toward the back corner in a huddle. Their fingers snapped up a frenzy, clicking and snipping some kind of warning. Would it be safer to join them or remain where she was?

  She rose. Too late.

  The door opened, and every hand dropped.

  Mr. Graves stood on the threshold, gripping the hated stick and wire device. No one moved.

  He lifted it and faced Miri.

  Her throat closed at the thought of the wire biting into her skin. Tender flesh still smarted on the back of her neck from when Spyder had dragged her here.

  “There is no need to yank me about. You have my word I will follow you,” she said.

  He did not lower the stick. Neither did he advance.

  “Look”—she lifted her wrists, iron cuffs still attached—“do you really think I’ll be any trouble?”

  The stick hesitated in midair, then lowered.

  Graves stepped aside, nodding for her to exit. He relocked the door and, without a word, grunted for her to follow. As they descended the stairwell, Miri braced herself for the clamor of the big room.

  But even prepared, she winced when they entered.

  Occasional howls pierced the air, awful in pitch, though that didn’t curdle the blood nearly as much as the undercurrent. A continuous drone babbled, passionate and charged with energy. The many voices blended into one foreign monologue of cries for help.

  “Oh, the worms! The bloody worms again. They’re crawling. Crawling! Somebody get ’em off!”

  “Mum? Mum? Whyn’t you come for me, Mum? I done like you tol’ me. Be quiet! Don’t tell me. Make her stop. Make her stop!”

  “Me stockings are too tight. They choke me, they do. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!”

  Miri sped ahead, drawing a small measure of security from Mr. Graves’s broad back. The depth of insanity hidden behind those doors disturbed her like nothing else. What a blessing she was not locked in with—

  Sudden understanding stole her breath, and she gasped. In the midst of the most hellish place on earth, she’d been granted peace and safety in the company of women neither mad nor violent. Her cellmates were dreadfully disfigured, nothing more.

  One stunning thought shone brighter than the rest: God knew exactly where she was and had provided accordingly. Though the standards differed from what she expected, it did not negate the provision. The very name of the asylum took on a whole new meaning. No matter where on earth she or Roland or Ethan may be, they were not out of God’s reach. Her trust level swelled, and she mouthed a silent “thank You” to the One watching over her.

  The frenzied noises faded as they wound through the maze of corridors and locked gates, but her heart didn’t pound as hard as the first time she’d passed this way. Peace held her as securely as the irons on her wrists.

  At last they entered a room smelling of camphor and something that left an immediate brassy taste in her mouth. Mercury, perhaps? Many jars and instruments lined a rack of shelves, most unidentifiable—except for the one clutched by a singular-looking man in
a long, white jacket.

  Miri retreated a step.

  “No, no, come on in. There’s nothing to fear in here,” he said.

  Liar.

  The man who spoke held a silver pair of shears, shinier than those she used in the garden, though every bit as large.

  And sharp.

  Sandwiched between two guards, Ethan stumbled up the last two steps on a twisting staircase. He flung out a hand, catching himself before falling.

  “Move on!” the guard behind him snapped.

  “If speed’s what you want, then take off the chains.”

  A whip cracked an instant before a searing stripe opened across his shoulders.

  “You say something, bait?”

  Ethan arched his back but kept his mouth shut. Better to save his venom for Thorne. No doubt that’s who had summoned him—finally—from below. How long he’d been in here was hard to say. Days and nights didn’t exist in Newgate. Only pain. Time was measured in beatings and blood.

  He squinted as they crossed the corridor. A torch burned in a sconce near the door. After the blackness of his cell, the light hurt.

  One guard led him into a chamber while the other remained on watch outside. A table with two chairs totaled the sum of furniture in the small room, but a booming voice filled it completely.

  “Ethan, lad!”

  Caught up in a bear hug, Ethan winced until the man let him go. “Reverend, you are a sight for sore eyes—and I do mean sore.”

  Newton laughed. “At least they’ve not beat the humor from you. Sit.” He nodded at one chair while he sank onto the other. “I didn’t think it possible, but you look worse than last time we met, boy.”

  Ethan smirked, the side of his face stinging from the sudden movement. He could only imagine how he must look, let alone smell. “What are you doing here?”

  “Saint Matthew writes that our blessed Lord said, ‘I was naked, and ye clothed Me; I was sick, and ye visited Me; I was in prison, and ye came unto Me.’ You just provided an opportunity to carry out the work of our Lord.”

  “Glad I could help out.” Ethan shifted in the chair, and his shoulder burned a retort.

  “Hah!” Newton slapped the table. “Salty as ever, eh, boy?”

  The reverend’s voice thundered like a squall at sea, but to Ethan it sounded as comforting as a mother’s coo. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this man. “How did you know I was here?”

  Newton rubbed a hand over his bald pate and sat back. He appeared as relaxed in the depths of Newgate as in the pulpit at St. Mary’s. “There’s nothing God can’t reveal.”

  Ethan’s brows rose. “God spoke to you?”

  “Speaks to me all the time, boy. Through His Word.”

  “Right. So you read in one of your gospels that Ethan Goodwin’s in Newgate. Go visit him.” Some of the venom he’d stored for Thorne spilled out. Instant remorse hit him hard, and he looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say—”

  “No offense taken. Prison has a way of sharpening a cynical edge, even in the mildest of men. And you were never mild to begin with. I heard about you on the streets, lad. Talk spreads faster than the pox in Old Nichol.”

  He jerked his face back to Newton’s. “What were you doing in that hellhole?”

  “Jesus came to storm the gates of hell, boy. What better place to stir up a tempest of a revival? Why … I owe it to you for bringing Old Nichol to my attention.”

  Ethan snorted. Not many would be so thankful for an introduction to that place. “You’re incorrigible. You know that, don’t you?”

  A grin dawned on the old man’s face, deep crevices appearing at the sides of his mouth. “That’s not the first time I’ve been called such, and I daresay not the last.”

  “So tell me then”—Ethan leaned forward, trying hard to ignore the hot sting of the lash marks on his back—“what is the talk?”

  Newton cast a glance at the guard by the door, then nudged his chair closer. “Word is you killed a man. Your friend Will Brayden.”

  Slamming both fists on the table, Ethan shot up. “I did not!”

  “Watch it, bait,” the guard warned.

  Ethan blew out a long breath and slowly sank, welcoming the accompanying pain. But inside, he yet raged. “I swear to God, I didn’t do it.”

  “Swearing to God holds eternal consequences, son.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  The reverend’s eyes bore into his, as if Ethan stood before the living God in flesh.

  “I did not murder Will Brayden. Nor anyone else, for that matter. Not yet, anyway.” Without willing it, his hands curled into fists. “But if I ever get my hands on Thorne—”

  “On whom?” asked Newton.

  “Nigel Thorne.” He spit out the name like a bad piece of meat.

  Newton cocked his head. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “He’s the one who killed Will.”

  “Hmm …” Newton studied the ceiling and went back to rubbing his head. “That does present a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Thorne’s dead himself.”

  Ethan flinched, the news a direct hit. The trouble that man had caused him in life would be manifold with his death.

  He thought it, but Newton spoke it. “So you’re charged with a murder you say Thorne committed. It’ll be your word against a man who can’t defend himself, and a lawman at that. I have a feeling the judge will see it as a desperate attempt on your part. Were there no witnesses?”

  Despair grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. “None,” he whispered, sinking back.

  Neither of them spoke. What else was there to say? It was hopeless. And what of Miri? She’d never know what happened to him. He hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye.

  A rap on the door broke the silence.

  “Time’s up,” said the guard.

  “Don’t fret, lad. If anything, you’re in the best position of all.” Newton rose and rested his big hand on Ethan’s head. “When we’re at our weakest, God’s at His strongest. We serve a powerful God, boy, and last time I checked, He was still on the throne. Do you believe that?”

  Did he?

  Ethan closed his eyes. He had to.

  God was his only hope.

  32

  Miri’s eyes locked onto the scissors gripped in the man’s hand. Her newly formed peace played tug-of-war with fear, and she retreated another step.

  “Oh, do these make you nervous?” The man laid the shears on a table behind him. “There. Now come. Let’s chat.”

  Her gaze traveled from the man’s hands to his face. His skin, the color and texture of porridge, suggested he’d suffered a particularly vile case of the pox in the past. A distinct bone structure stood out in contrast to dark eyes that sank in. It appeared his skeleton thought it should make an appearance before being closeted away in some casket.

  “Don’t be timid.” He smiled, his flesh stretching tighter over his jawline.

  A skeleton that talked. Miri shuddered.

  “You see, my dear, I like to get to know my patients first.”

  “Before what?” She didn’t want to know, really, but the words tumbled out nonetheless.

  “Before treating them, of course.” He nodded at Graves. “Remove her shackles, and then you are dismissed.”

  Graves produced a small key, and she held out her hands. Her arms floated upward when the heavy cuffs came off.

  The man in the white jacket pointed to a chair with wide armrests. “Have a seat. We shall get to know one another, shall we not?”

  Other than his ghoulish appearance, he appeared to be a gentleman. Rubbing her wrists, she crossed the room and sat.

  “You are Dr. Pembernip?” she asked.

  “One and the same,” he answered.

  “I am—”

  “Yes, I know. Miss Miriall Brayden.” He lifted a brow. “I wonder if you are as interesting as your brother.”

  She leaned forward. “Please
… how is he?”

  “Delightful!”

  Miri blinked. Roland and delightful mixed together like lemon juice and milk.

  With his chuckle, Pembernip’s jaw moved as if it had become unhinged. “Your brother put Alf out of commission in record time. Record time! Which reminds me, I must apologize for your lack of proper admittance. Alf usually handles such matters. I am here only once a week.”

  He angled his head toward her hands. “May I?”

  Her wrists did look bad—skin rubbed raw, swollen and red. And the man did have doctor attached to his name. She bobbed her head. “Very well,” she said.

  He examined one wrist, then the next, his touch probing yet light. “Those irons should have been taken off days ago.”

  “I should never have been admitted in the first place, Doctor. My commitment is based on lies against my character, my behaviors, even my virtue.”

  He reached for a jar of ointment on the table beside him. “One man’s lie is another man’s truth, my dear.”

  “You don’t understand. The men who put me here did so out of spite and ignorance. I am not mad.”

  Dabbing a bit of the gel on one of her wrists, he did not look up when he answered. “It’s always our adversaries who are the mad ones, is it not? Other hand, please.”

  Her skin felt soothed even if her emotions did not. If nothing else, at least the doctor knew what treatment to offer.

  “Clearly you can see that my sanity is intact,” she said.

  “I would suggest that sanity is an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” He paused, looking up, his dark eyes wells of mystery. “We are all mad in some respect, especially when the cause is perceived as sufficient.”

  Miri sighed. She was getting nowhere.

  Pembernip released her hands and screwed the lid back onto the jar. The scent of lanolin lingered long after it was sealed.

  “Now then, for your own safety and comfort, you’ll find a gown on the other side of that screen.” He pointed toward a woven bit of wicker framed in a corner. “Though you are housed with a gentle lot, which I must say was a rare act of nobility on behalf of Mr. Spyder, the rest of the inmates would as soon skin you alive to get their hands on such a fine dress.”