The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  He raises his finger to trace a snowy sleigh ride. The carriage is decked in evergreens and holly, the woman’s hands thrust into a wooly white muff and the man with rosy cheeks around a wide, white smile.

  “Have … Have you ever ridden in a sleigh?”

  I shake my head. “No. It is all from books.”

  His smile is sad. “Then I say, you have a very vivid imagination.” He points to another set. “What about this one?”

  A man and woman, hands linked, ice skating about a frozen pond. Children and dogs lingering on the sides, frolicking in the powdered-sugar snow.

  I shake my head again. “My experience with the out of doors has been limited to Soothing Hills’ gardens. I will admit they have many beautiful trees and flowers in their season. And animals … I have only seen what have been brought to the asylum.”

  He points to a cluster of dogs: German shepherds—their tan and black muzzles frosted with individual snowflakes.

  “These are from imagination?”

  I shake my head. “No.” I slide from the bed, wrapping my shawl about me, and shuffle to the window. “See here.”

  Mason comes to stand beside me, and I point through the frosted pane, toward a kennel of shepherds far below in the courtyard.

  One is particularly feisty. He lunges, pulling at his comrade’s leg, and they tumble down into a rolling ball of snow and fur. “He is my favorite. Smoky.”

  Mason smiles. “You have named them?”

  I nod. “There are ways to see them, if one is … creative.”

  His eyebrows rise. “I see.”

  He turns, heading back to the sketches. “And these?” He points to paper after paper of compositions, the musical notes in colors as I hear and see them.

  The effect is a staccato rainbow, weaving across sheet music like a musical trail.

  Frost hated the pictures—telling me it was all a lie. It elicited such rage that I hid them when I knew he was expected to do rounds on my ward—as if they were a personal affront to him, somehow, that I create such fantasies. But since Grayjoy took over my case, he encourages every arrangement, encourages me to fill in the notes with the colors, to purge my mind. He went to great lengths to provide me with the necessary supplies—dyes from wherever he could find them.

  “Why are they in color?”

  I hesitate, not certain I should blatantly share the abnormal workings of my mind. But if I am to have a chance with him, there should be no secrets. I take a deep breath, and the words tumble forth.

  “I hear the music when I see them. Notes and color always paired. I tried to cover the walls completely. So when I look around the room, I may live either in my imagination or within the music. The piece plays in my mind when I look at it.”

  He nods, his mouth fluctuating between awe and sadness. “I see. That is a lovely sentiment.”

  I swallow and cannot believe I am admitting it. “I … make up musical stories. Try to put myself in them. I know them to be fiction, but it … eases me through the day.”

  Mason’s eyebrows knit, and he approaches my bed.

  “Let me show you.”

  His mouth tightens, but he carefully sits, as if the bed were made of pin cushions. I reach for one of my compositions, colored notes sprawled on the music bars. I take his finger and trace the notes, humming the tune as I go. His chest rises and falls, faster with each bar.

  “The colors, they appear in my mind, just as you see them here. Picture them like flickering, colored flames.”

  Our eyes hold, and my heartbeat soars. I swallow again and again, trying to quiet it.

  “Astounding. It has always been such for you?”

  I nod.

  “May I … ?” He clears his throat, looking supremely awkward. “I know it is forward, and nowhere in the bounds of polite society, but I haven’t a choice. I cannot rightly ask you to take a turn with me. But … will you? Take a turn with me?”

  The ridiculousness of the statement makes us both smile. We are not in a parlor, nor near a park. We are in an asylum.

  I smile anyway, playing along. “Yes, you may. But please be watchful. They will do rounds at sunrise. Won’t you be missed?”

  I picture us strolling down the asylum hallways, arms linked, commenting on the naked patients as offhandedly as if they were poinsettias in snow.

  He looks sheepish. “I will admit my shift ended at eleven. But once I saw you in the dowsing room … ” He covers his face, rubbing it hard. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You … saved me. By pushing me down the hatch.”

  I shrug, my face heating with the truth. I could not bear for any harm to come to you.

  Instead, I manage, “I … never had a friend before. I wish to be able to see you still.”

  “I am grateful. I would’ve gladly taken the fall—but now, at least I might visit you. I brought you that coverlet. This place is bitterly cold. It is a miracle the residents do not freeze to death.”

  I swallow. “That happened once. We had difficulty with the heating system … and four froze to their beds.”

  His eyes seem to sink further beneath his brows, as if recoiling, but his mouth stays strong.

  A loud flapping sound erupts by the window, and we both turn. A great, black wingspan takes flight from outside my sill.

  Mason stares from it to me and back. “Ravens … seem … drawn to you.”

  Hair rises on the back of my neck. People have been hanged for less. I keep silent, unsure how to respond.

  “The other day in the corn … I have never seen birds act so queerly.”

  “I am not a witch.”

  His blue eyes widen. “What? I did not say you were.” His gaze drifts back to the window. “Something odd is afoot in here, in the corn, but I am certain you are not to blame.”

  I finger the texture of the coverlet. It is woolen and so heavy and warm. I try to change the subject yet again. I want him to think pleasant thoughts when he thinks of me. If he thinks of me.

  “I know not how to thank you for this, but I fear they shall notice. You see I have no family to speak of. So no one who would bring me such gifts.”

  Anger flits through his blue eyes, and they tighten. “You tell them it was from an admirer, left outside your door. Let them fret a little.” His accent thickens, his voice gruff with emotion.

  He takes a deep breath, letting the air whistle out through pursed lips as his eyes cast over the pictures again.

  “So many sketches are in winter. Why is that?”

  I shrug, fearful to admit the reason. “I suppose winter is the most memorable here. The contrast of the snow’s beauty outside with the carnage it often wreaks inside makes it stand out in my imagination. Reminding me often what is beautiful cannot be trusted.”

  He cocks his head. “Do you mean me?” He smiles. “I mean, I know that sounds presumptuous.”

  I feel my eyebrows rise, and I shrug. “Perhaps. I … trust no one. Each time I have tried … it has been a miserable failure. Or, if one reaches out to be my friend”—my voice chokes on the word—“they always want something in return.”

  So much for pleasantries.

  “I want nothing more than your friendship, I assure you.” He moves closer, taking my hand in his. “Please tell me your full name.”

  I smile and whisper, “I told you, it is Jane.”

  He nods encouragingly. “I know that, putan. It suits you. You know your first name—have you ever found out your surname?”

  “Putan?”

  I wonder at the word he used for me, but he barrels forward. “Would you like me to try? I mean, what if you have relatives somewhere? Forgive me, but I do not think the staff here are eager to discharge any of their patients to the outside. It would mean less coin for this place, and the rumors say it is already struggling to keep its doors open.”

  This news strikes me like a hammer. “Where would I g
o, if they should close?”

  “I am sorry. I should not have blurted that so plainly. I am sure they would help you—I mean, Dr. Grayjoy seems genuinely interested in you.”

  “Yes. It was he who arranged for me to play in the Ward One concert. He who recommended I be moved there. You called me ‘putan.’ What … What does that mean?”

  His face colors. “Did I? I often lapse into me native tongue. I don’ even notice. It means ‘button.’”

  “Why b—”

  The sound of a shuffling footstep silences me. I hastily press my finger to my lips. Mason’s eyes go wide. I gesture beneath the bed. His eyes shoot to the door, but I mouth, “There is not time.”

  I know who approaches. Dr. Cloud, the night physick.

  I gesture to the window. Mason’s eyes widen, but he throws open the sash and scrambles out onto the escape, hastily shutting the window behind him. My window is without bars, due to the height. Only one who wished to end his life would attempt such.

  I have never seen this physick by day. He often bypasses my room when doing his rounds. But tonight, I all but hear the intent in that shuffle-step as he slides his way toward my door.

  I slide beneath the covers and leave my eyes open the tiniest slit. It should not bother him—many residents’ eyes do not close whilst sleeping. I suspect from the many tonics administered that may be paralyzing their facial muscles.

  Cloud’s hair is a tousled mess. Dark blue lenses in horn-rimmed glasses seem out of place on his grizzled face. He still wears his traveling cloak, and his boots are covered with a splattering of mud, a stark contrast to the ever-prim, ever-proper Soothing Hills physicks. His walking stick, black with a serpent’s head, shines silver in the candlelight.

  His eyes dart around the pictures on the wall. His voice is no more than a low mumble. “Frost is going soft. He indulges you much.”

  My heartbeat accelerates, and I pray he does not have the notion to examine me. Please. Please. Sweat breaks on my brow.

  He sniffs the air, his brow furrowing. He carries no clipboard.

  He bends over my bed, his wig tilting. “Patient Twenty-Nine. So like her, you are.”

  “Ahem.” A feminine voice from the hall calls, and Dr. Cloud straightens, adjusting the spectacles. Nurse Spare lives on campus, not having her own family.

  “Nurse Sally. Might I help you?”

  “Yes, doctor. I believe you are wanted on Ward Thirteen.” The bird comes to hover at my doorframe.

  “Is that so?” he sneers.

  “Yes. And the dawn is coming. The shifts will soon change.”

  “Yes, yes,” he mutters, shuffling toward her and turning in the direction of her bony outstretched finger.

  They halt outside my door, and I remain statute-still, trying to eavesdrop.

  “My love, you must not take such risks.”

  A growl. An inhuman growl. Shuffling away.

  “This girl, she is not like the others. She is not worth it.”

  And with a voice that could stop a beating heart: “I shall decide who is worth it. You play no part in this.”

  I wait, fighting the balloon of panic in my chest telling me to run. Run now.

  I remain stock-still till the shuffling is no more, my eyes scanning back and forth across my sketches.

  Scrambling out of bed, I open the window as Sebastian leaps inside, instantly burrowing into my bed. Mason is nowhere to be seen. He must’ve shimmied his way down to the ground off the fire escape. I swallow. I hope he did not break anything in the process.

  I sit on my bed, trying to make sense of the overheard conversation, letting the walls, the sketches soothe me. I blink and stand, intuition touching my spine. Something.

  I whirl around, trying to discern what is wrong. What is different?

  My gaze flashes back as I recount the section of the wall near the window I have deemed “my childhood.”

  One of my sketches is missing.

  “Jules, we must set a date. There is much to be done.”

  My hand drops from the windowpane, and I tear my eyes away from the corn. “I understand that, dear boy, I just”—I feign a cough into a handkerchief—“do not feel up to it as yet. My father made you aware of my weak constitution before you asked for my hand.”

  Willis chews his bottom lip. “Yes, I know, my dearest, but it has been some months now, and I will handle most of it, if it comes to it … ”

  I often feel the roles are reversed with Willis. He being the one pining for the wedding, I perpetually finding reasons to put it off.

  I muster a great hacking cough, over and over, till my eyes convincingly water. He gives my back an awkward pat. His hands are massive—they remind me of a small bear’s paws.

  I feel a twinge of guilt as he looks genuinely concerned and says, “I’ll fetch you some water then.”

  Dabbing my eyes, I nod.

  Truth be known, my constitution was frail as a child, but I soon learned it earned me freedom.

  Freedom from my father’s constant controlling presence. “Play your violin as such,” and, “I do not like the color in this room. We shall paint it blue. Must you wear that color? Blue is your color.”

  Father’s personality was so domineering; I was not even permitted to make decisions normally bestowed upon the female persuasion. He decorated our entire manor, my apartments included—or at least delegated his ideas to others and paid them to complete his whims. My dresses, my hair, all controlled by him—down to the color on my cheeks.

  One would imagine I would be anxious to depart.

  Willis certainly would permit me free rein—in fact, he has told me whatever I desire at Lockwood, his estate, would be his very command. Indeed, I will control him, the way he is smitten with me. I thought that would please me.

  Something.

  The anxious feeling lingers on the tip of my tongue like a forgotten tune or lyric.

  I walk back to the window to stare again at the corn. Something holds me here. As if a piece of my soul is somehow tethered to this manor. I glance back at my bed. The dreams. They come most every night now. The birds. The ravens and bluebirds, dancing over the cornfield. When the music comes, I hear it.

  Something crashes in the other room. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m alright.”

  I shake my head, picturing those great paws crushing Father’s dear Swarovski crystal.

  And I hold no great love for Willis, but a woman must be practical. To marry for love and a desirable match is rarely ever achieved. I must be happy he is not a tyrant and I will be provided for. A small, spoiled part of me is pleased. The superficial side—which adores gowns and parties and attention. I, at least, know myself. Can see my own faults.

  My eyes steal across the room.

  My mother resides here. At least her memory. I fear if I leave, I shall forget her. There’s not one portrait of her on any wall. Father removed them all; as if, if he could no longer see her, then she would cease to exist.

  A memory sparks. I hurry over to my nursing uniform and pat the pocket.

  Willis returns with a full water goblet, and I hurriedly recline on the pink chaise. I detest the pink chaise. Of course, chosen by Father.

  I vaguely think of plunging the letter opener into it and ripping out its expensive guts.

  “Here you are.”

  I drink deeply and then smile.

  “Better?”

  “A trifle.” He leans in to kiss me, and I deftly pull him into an embrace so that I may check the time on the mantelpiece. I have endured, erm … entertained him a full hour. I can in good conscience send him on his way.

  He pulls back, staring at my face. His fingers stray to the beauty mark—a real one, not the kind ladies don for vanity—on my left cheek.

  “I love this, you know. It’s perfectly adorable. Like you.”

  I catch his fingers and squeeze them. “Willis, my dear, I am—”

  “Weary. Yes, I see
it in your eyes.”

  I finger the locket at my neck, as I do when I am tired. As I have since childhood.

  His fingers stray and stop over mine. I drop them, and he lifts the locket, peering over his spectacles. “It’s lovely.”

  “My mother gave it to me.”

  He nods, not wanting to upset me. “Shall I call again tomorrow? Same time?”

  “Yes, that will be lovely.” If I have my way, I shall be at the hospital tomorrow. The only thing Willis sees in my eyes is what he wishes to see.

  He kisses my hand, bows, and turns to go.

  I wait till I hear the front door open and shut, and then slink to the window overlooking the front entrance.

  The door is opened for him as he steps into the carriage. His eyes flick up to my room, and I instantly drop to the floor. “Curses.”

  I crawl on hands and knees to my uniform and pluck out the sketch. The one I took from the patient’s room a week prior. I carefully unfold it and cock my head, staring.

  I fold it again and carefully open my door. The only sounds are those coming from the kitchen as the servants prepare supper. Father shall not be home from Soothing Hills for at least an hour.

  I weave my way out of my apartment and cross the bridge to the servants’ quarters. My father, ever idiosyncratic, had an actual bridge installed in our house, connecting the front of the estate, where he has his office and our apartments, to the back, where the servants live and work.

  Father was all about tidy divisions.

  I roll my eyes as I remove my boots to stare down into the vestibule.

  In my childhood, I was never permitted to play on it. The structure, situated on the second floor, was a definite head-shattering drop for impulsive, impish little girls. I used to seethe with envy as the servants’ children darted back and forth, taunting me, reaching the very edge of my side and sticking out their tongues before bolting back.

  I pad across it defiantly, staring down.

  Lucy, one of the young maids, enters the vestibule below, and I halt, standing stock-still in the middle. If I do not move, she shall not see me. Only the bottom of the bridge will be visible to her upturned gaze.

  Her footsteps halt, and I hold my breath as I know she stares up.