The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  “Excuse me?”

  His face instantly colors. “I am so sorry. How incredibly bold of me. It is just … ” He takes a deep, steeling breath. “Never mind. Anyway, do you wish to buy the cat print? I see you are taken with it.”

  The trance is broken. The familiarity, or whatever it was, has vacated the room.

  My eyes wander over the walls, and I walk back and forth, feeling the swish of the ivory against my legs and the tickle of the costume’s feathers. Several pictures are of hands. Hands with ink stains, and a quill poised over music.

  “I shall take the cat and every picture here with the sheet music in it.”

  His eyebrows rise, and his forehead wrinkles. He is my senior, perhaps a score and ten. It matters not; he is wholly intoxicating.

  I drag my eyes away.

  “They are not dear, but neither inexpensive. Are you sure you might afford that many on a musician’s earnings?”

  “Jules!”

  Father’s voice is cold and sharp as the ice frosting the windowpanes. He slides into the chambers, his eyes narrowing as he instantly assesses the situation. “I have been searching everywhere for you. It is nearly time to begin.”

  The man goes rigid at the sound of Father’s voice. They are more than acquainted; I have no doubt as I observe the now stiff set of Grayjoy’s shoulders.

  I walk toward Father but notice a painting leaning against a desk, half hidden on the floor. It seems to be a pair of eyes, with a singular word beneath them.

  Colourata.

  I swish past him and out the door. Father nods. “Grayjoy.”

  “Frost.”

  I call back over my shoulder, “I want every one of them.”

  I hear his reply as I exit his quarters. “You shall have them, Miss Jules Frost.”

  I shiver as he uses my name, but I square my shoulders and hurry toward the stage.

  I can scarcely breathe.

  Mason looks exhilarated, not afraid. The freezing cold bites his cheeks, and they are flushed red.

  After a terrifying canter through the catacombs below the asylum, we followed the tunnel to its very end. It seemed a mile long. All the while my heart ticked back and forth like a metronome—vacillating betwixt trying to appreciate each moment with Mason and a mind-numbing fear of discovery. In which he is dismissed and I am back in solitary.

  For a year.

  Where we surfaced at the barn, I quickly changed, stashing my patient uniform beneath the hay, my teeth chattering with the cold.

  I emerge, and for a moment, he is still. “You are breathtaking.”

  Smoothing the dress self-consciously, I bite my lip.

  He notices. “It is alright. I will let no harm befall you, Jane.”

  I smooth the blue gown again, staring down at the flowing layers, wiggling my toes in the laced-up, fine boots. I feel, again, like someone else. The urge to flee is strong.

  He offers me his arm, and I take it, and we leave the barn.

  We stand directly outside the asylum’s first set of gates. My first time ever outside it, to the far south. In the distance, a sleigh approaches, with lanterns attached to either side, swinging gently with the gliding movement.

  I swallow. “When I am with you … I am not afraid.”

  Mason smiles widely, his blue eyes crinkling. “Jane. What an utterly perfect name. And it is perfect for you.”

  He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Remember, you are my cousin, in from England, should we be stopped and questioned.”

  I nod. I have read enough of England in my library books that I believe I might pass any inquiry as to landmarks or basic history.

  The sleigh halts with a jingle, and off it steps a man so old, I fear he may disintegrate and blow away with a sudden gust of wind.

  “Mason. Here she is. Be sure to have her back by dawn’s light.”

  Mason takes my hand, leading me toward the front seat. He tips his hat. “I will, Mr. Krain, you needn’t worry.”

  The man pulls out a key to the southern gate and, in moments, is limping toward the barn.

  My mind explodes with music. Music of escape. I am going outside the gates. I am going outside the gates. The note-colors are so blindingly bright I am momentarily distracted.

  I slide onto the cold seat and shiver. Mason slides in beside me, the leather reins wrapped about his gloved hands. Shimmering white globs of snowflakes fall all about us like a glittery wonderland. As if we are inside a snow globe.

  My teeth chatter with the cold, and Mason smiles.

  “Have a cup, now.”

  He nods behind me, where I spy two mugs and a teapot. I spin to carefully lift it, and as I tip it, a deep, rich, brown liquid pours out as the smell of chocolate fills my nostrils.

  Tears sting my eyes again as I turn to sit, sipping it daintily with my white-gloved hands. What care he has taken to arrange this outing!

  All for me. It seems impossible, as if I have fallen into the pages of the library’s books.

  He reaches to grab the other cup, and a small leather book tumbles from his pocket to our feet.

  “Oh.”

  I bend and pick it up, smiling wickedly. “Whatever is this?”

  “Nothing,” he says, but he lurches to snatch it away.

  I hold it aloft, away from him, and laugh quietly. “That is quite a bit of reaching for nothing.”

  I crack it open and stare. Names. Rows and rows of names stare up from the worn pages.

  He smiles and looks forward. “I told you. Words. They are my weakness. I am a bit … obsessive about them.”

  I look through, reading the collection of T’s before me, all penned in his perfect penmanship.

  Scottish Descent

  Tara: goddess of the sea

  Taveon: twin

  Thane: follower

  I smile widely, but he is still looking forward. “What is the meaning of your name?”

  He laughs softly, melodic and deep. “Stone cutter. Superbly interesting.”

  I slide closer to him, my face heating with my forwardness. “I think it is interesting. In fact, I think you are the most interesting person I have ever met.”

  One dark eyebrow rises. “Considering where you come from, I would say that is saying something.”

  We both laugh, too hard.

  But too soon it dies, as if the mere mention of Soothing Hills kills any and all mirth in the world. The snowfall is heavy, muting all sound, covering the entire countryside in a hushed undertone. I blink as heavy flakes gather on my lashes. The sound of the sleigh through snow lulls my senses, and we are quiet for some time.

  As if feeling my dread, he says, “Do you know the meaning of your name, Jane?”

  I shake my head and shrug. “Cursed?”

  He turns to meet my eye, and his smile is sad. “Gift from God. As I said, it suits you.”

  His eyes narrow, studying my expression. “What is it?”

  I shrug again, staring forward. “Every minute I spend in your presence seems stolen from someone else’s life. Like one of the novels from the library.”

  He smiles widely. “That makes me very happy. Now drink that before it goes cold.”

  I stare down at my now cold chocolate.

  Hot chocolate is a specialty, and very dear, served only twice a year at Soothing Hills. On the eve prior to the new year and on the anniversary of the asylum’s opening.

  My finger’s stroke the leather cover of the book like a worry stone.

  “Keep the book.”

  “I couldn’t. You said you’ve had it since you were a lad.”

  “I will ask for it back one day. For now, it is officially on loan.”

  The black horse shakes his mane, sending a shower of snow to either side, and I smile.

  “Please tell me more about your life. About … ”

  “Outside?”

  As if on cue, the sleigh slides past the final set of wrou
ght-iron gates. This exit, used primarily for deliveries, is not even visible from the Asylum-proper. I glance back to see Mr. Krain securing them.

  My heart flies, seeming to bounce against my insides like a bird trying to flee its cage.

  I nod, “Yes, outside,” feeling another blush suffuse my cheeks. At least I have the excuse of the cold.

  The sleigh rails glide through the snow, as if we are phantoms, hovering above the drifts. The countryside is quite dark except for our lanterns, and far off in the distance, a bonfire awaits.

  “What do you wish to see, once you leave Soothing Hills?”

  I sigh. It all seems impossible, to even picture it, but I force the words out.

  “I wish … to see an opera. To eat in a real restaurant and … ”

  Mason turns, eyes tightening. “Go on, then. No secrets.”

  “No secrets,” I murmur. Another impossible concept. “I wish … to ride a carousel.”

  Mason’s arm slides about my shoulders, and he gives me a squeeze. “You are quite possibly the sweetest creature on the planet, mo cridhe.”

  My cheeks heat again. I know not what that means in Gaelic, but I recognize the prefix. He called me his … his … something. I find I cannot summon the courage to ask.

  “Whoa.”

  We draw close, the bonfire’s orange flames a sharp contrast in the white snow.

  Who is he, really?

  Doubt flickers in my heart. He has gone to too much trouble and, I will daresay, expense. Asylum workers would not grant such favors for free. If cut off from his fortune, he is obviously not destitute.

  The sleigh halts, and Mason slides out, covering the horse’s back with a thick wool blanket. He hobbles the horse before tethering him loosely to a nearby tree.

  He walks back, his eyes tight and indiscernible, to hold out his hand. He does a quick, formal bow. “Miss … ”

  “I don’t know, remember?”

  He nods and waves his hand as if pushing away the unpleasant thoughts. “Miss Geamhradh.” He bows deeply.

  Smiling I hesitate. “And what is the meaning of that word?”

  “Miss Winter.”

  I must look perplexed, because he adds, “Your hair. It is the color of snowflakes.”

  I blush violently, the heat scorching from ear to chest.

  “Might I have this dance?”

  I slide toward him and laugh too loud. “This shall be more of a fall. But I am certainly all yours.”

  After a few minutes’ struggle, my skates are on. He glides out onto the ice, showing off, his scarf flying out behind him like a pair of wings.

  He skates about the whole circle, fluid and graceful, and even manages a little spin, sending a shower of shaved ice into the air.

  I clap and smile. In my imagination, it was neither so cold, nor so awkward. A strange fear presses. I have not been out of doors, save the Asylum Gardens—I am like a domestic cat, thrust into the wide open spaces.

  “Come, Jane.”

  I take his outstretched hand as he skates backwards, towing me out to the center. My ankles wobble as I fight to keep them stiff.

  He nods encouragingly. “That’s it. Control your movements.”

  After a quarter hour, and several painful spills, I have mastered staying on my feet. The drifts surrounding the lake seem surreal, as does the tiny fire, which blazes on the shore. Mason stops every few minutes to stoke it, fearful we will freeze.

  Our eyes meet, and he skates quickly toward me, spinning so that he turns behind me, his chest bumping my back. I give a nervous laugh.

  He pulls me close, and my heart beats so fast I feel light-headed. He turns me so that my back is flush against his chest.

  Below my corset, both of his gloved hands grip my waist. His hot breath and low voice are in my ear. “Slowly now.”

  I push off, feeling his hands guide my hips, right, left. I keep my hands out, trying to stay my balance, but they gradually fall, layering over his.

  The falling snow reflects the lantern light, making certain flakes appear alive—as if tiny white fairies dart and whisk to the ice below.

  Mason picks up our speed, and I try to keep pace, concentrating on my feet. Push, push, glide, glide.

  The rocking synchrony of our hips distracts me. Desire dowsing me.

  I almost stumble, and my hands fly to cover his—his grip tightening on my hips.

  I am breathing hard. Not just from the speed, which feels like flying. Snow wetting our faces as we whizz around the lake, our legs move in harmony. Music explodes again. Yearning notes, pulling at strings, for thoughts and wants I never thought possible. Never dared entertain.

  Of the dance between man and woman, I only know what I have read and seen in the novels buried in the hidden library.

  But as he guides my hips with his hands, my imagination erupts in images.

  I lose my concentration. My skate tangles in his, and they intertwine, sending us sprawling to the ice with a heavy whuuump.

  “Good heavens! Are you hurt?” Mason’s eyes are wild. My body is flush against his, sprawled flat on the freezing ice.

  I may faint.

  I clear my throat. “No. I am fine. Well, perhaps I shall bruise, but I will most certainly live.”

  Our faces are inches apart. “Jane.” His voice is a hoarse whisper.

  I lean forward, and our lips connect in a warm, stroking dance. I feel the vibration of it to my core, and my breath shudders out. He moans softly and roughly grips my cheek with his hand, his tongue finding the inside of my mouth.

  At first, I resist, not knowing what to expect—but my body weakens, as if my bones dissolve, till all that remains is the blessed union that is our mouths.

  “Jane, I—”

  Craaaack.

  His eyes go wide with fear, and I feel his frantic heart against my chest. “Do not move.”

  “What is happening?”

  He gently slides me off, and begins to slide on his belly, across the ice. “Do as I do, quickly now.”

  Craaaack! And I see it.

  A jagged line, traversing the ice, headed directly for the spot where we fell. I hoist my skirt to give my knees purchase, and we scramble frantically for the shore.

  Mason reaches it first, immediately turning to thrust out his hand for me to grasp.

  I feel it before I hear it. My legs depress, tilting below my waist. Then, the cold. Like no other cold. Piercing my skin with crippling pain. “Ahh!”

  Mason’s hands are under my arms, hauling me toward him. “Hang onto me!”

  I wrap my arms about his waist, and he grips a low-hanging tree limb to keep from sliding into the deadly water. “Crawl up me.”

  “What?”

  “Like a bloody ladder. Do it, Jane!”

  I move my hands to his shoulders, jam my boot onto his belt buckle, like a ladder’s rung, and launch myself to the snowy ground.

  In moments, he is beside me, lifting me into his arms. “We must hurry. We haven’t much time in these temperatures.” He utters a curse. “I was a fool.”

  Worry eats at my brain. Worry that he refers to our adventure, not to his taking a chance with me. Me, the idiot, the imbecile, the lunatic, the …

  That is the last I hear before the shivering commences. Rattling my teeth so hard and fast I swear

  I hear each bone of my skeleton following suit.

  “I should have the lot of you dismissed. Of all the irresponsible, reckless, not to mention illegal—”

  The voice is familiar, but so far off. It is muted, bringing to mind a submersion in the dunk tank, and my body responds with a violent shudder.

  A warm hand is on my shoulder, the fingers somehow calming. My breathing slows.

  “Do not touch her.” Dr. Grayjoy.

  The hand grips tighter. “I shall touch her, and there isn’t a blasted thing you can do about it,” Mason retorts.

  “Oh, there is much I can
do,” Grayjoy replies. “The question is, what is best for Jane—not you.”

  My legs feel so very cold. Cold. The lake. The events rush back as quickly as the icy pond waters that covered my legs.

  They will dismiss Mason for our recklessness.

  That thought ices the blood in my veins, damaging me far more than any frozen pond ever could.

  I try to reach up my hand, my eyes fighting to flutter open. “Do not quarrel, please. I am f-f-fine.” My teeth still rattle with the cold.

  “You are most certainly not fine,” Grayjoy retorts. There is a new, foreign tone to his voice. Protective? I cannot say for certain.

  I open my eyes to see them standing on either side of me—two sets of clenched fists and furrowed brows.

  It is odd to hear him be so bold. I know he detests Frost, disagrees with his treatment of me, but I also know being a physick is most important to him. Were he to push Frost beyond his limits, he would lose his position. And that position is first. All other causes, no matter how important, come behind that fact.

  Mason gathers my hand in his and gives it a little shake. “Jane. I am so very glad you are alright. When you swooned … ”

  “You brought her to me,” Grayjoy sneers. “Release her hand. It is highly improper.”

  I bite my lip, and slowly, he does, placing it gently upon the sheet, my fingers instantly growing cold.

  “Please, Dr. Grayjoy, do not dismiss him. He was merely trying to help.”

  Grayjoy’s eyebrows disappear into his hair. “Help? Is that what they are calling it nowadays?”

  My mouth drops. I have known the good doctor for going on four years and have never, ever seen him lose his composure. Not under Frost’s scrutiny, not even in the midst a wailing, head-banging patient. But our rebellion … this affects him, somehow.

  Mason’s expression is black. “Do not be ridiculous. Jane is chaste as the falling snow.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  My face colors when I realize it is my maidenhead they discuss. “Dr. Grayjoy. I assure you nothing whatever of that sort has happened.”

  Mason’s expression shifts as his eyes tighten. “I fear for Jane. These murders, every single one her roommate. You do not find this odd? And what about the rumors?”