The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  My voice cracks. “Mama. Please. Where are you?”

  I break into a cold sweat as my mind is swept backward in a deluge of memories.

  Maeve standing over me as a child, glowering. “You must not ever speak of it again. I believe you, ma colombe, but your father … ” She hoists me into her arms, away from the window, away from the corn. “He will not like it. He will punish you severely. You wish to stay with Maeve, do you not?”

  Tears flowed as my three-year-old self nods in agreement.

  “Zen you only tell me. Not him. Ever. Yes?”

  Maeve knew. What does she know now?

  More words. As if an ethereal hand grasps my chin to right my attention.

  Harmonic words hover and linger about the notes, till the two are indiscernible. “You need her. Together, you are one. Together, you shall save us.”

  My mind flashes, and I see her, as if some ethereal lightning strikes my brain—I glimpse her for but a moment. Cowering, clutching something to her chest against the wind.

  Still quite young. In a white gown. I realize it is an infant against her chest and rain plasters her dark hair to her face.

  Her face lifts, and our eyes meet. And hold. A terrifying jolt of current courses through my soul.

  She mouths the words: Find us.

  And it halts. She is gone in a roar of deafening silence.

  My hands fly to press against the cold windowpane. “Wait. Don’t go.” I pound it with a closed fist. “Don’t leave me. Please. I don’t understand.”

  A lingering tone remains; a single humming like a bell recently rung.

  A single note.

  Middle C.

  She has left me with middle C. Warmth flows over my body, a palpable comfort, as if someone dearly loved embraces me.

  It is the feel of childhood. Of a mother and stability. From so very long ago.

  I weep into my hands, every muscle violently quaking. My surroundings slowly fade back into my consciousness as I realize Jonathon’s arms are wrapped about me. The note is fading, and I now may finally discern his words.

  He is the one who is shaking—his face as white as the lily behind him.

  “The ravens … They took flight as one, and you collapsed to one knee.”

  I look up to meet his eyes, pinched and terrified.

  “What just happened? What did you hear, Jules?”

  His face glides upward as my eyes roll back in my head. And darkness comes.

  I rub the glass furiously once again, but immediately it fogs.

  Something is very wrong. I stare down at the dog pens, blinking, and whisk Sebastian into my arms, burying my face in his fur.

  Down below, one of the dogs walks in aimless circles. Another bites his ear, and he docilely allows it, lying down on the ground to give the aggressor a better grip.

  I remember overhearing Frost, screaming at Gentile, “Philistines! These canine ablations have been a tremendous success overseas. You are both fools if you do not embrace them here. It shall propel our asylum to fame and much-needed fortune.”

  Fear tightens my chest. Frost has been conspicuously absent, but now I see him, and Grayjoy, and Gentile, and a few other men I do not recognize, by the pens.

  Frost is gesturing to the dogs. My blood ices, and I drop the cat and whirl. I pelt down the hall as my mind places the pieces together.

  Frost, one week prior, at the nurses’ station. Chastising Kate.

  And instead of taking it, instead of lowering her head and allowing him to browbeat her, she fought back. Fought back like that very same dog I saw lunge at Frost two days prior.

  He looked murderous.

  I begin to cry in earnest. “Kate, Kate, Kate.” I whisper her name like a talisman that I am—

  Alexander wheels her out of her room, four doors down.

  “Wait, please!”

  Nothing. Her head does not even twitch in recognition.

  I run faster, but Alexander is picking up the pace, pushing her toward the ward’s exit.

  “You wait, you ruddy”—a string of expletives escapes, and he rounds on me, letting go of her chair so fast it continues to roll without him.

  I dodge away from his arms, sliding between his legs, and scrabble toward Kate. “Please. Please. No. No.”

  Nothing.

  My heart breaks. Like it has detonated in my chest and is no longer capable of beating. I collapse to the floor, holding my head.

  Alexander arrives. “What is wrong with you now?”

  Between short gasps, my chest hitching, I manage, “She’s ablated. You took her to Ward Thirteen.”

  He nods. “Yes. The procedure was yesterday. She is going there permanently, right now.”

  He grips her face, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

  She is gone.

  All that remains is a shell.

  I hear nothing else. I grasp my hair in my hands and pull, and then stumble my way back to my room. And find that bottle. The tiny blue bottle with my liquid salvation inside. I upend it and shudder.

  Jonathon paces before the hearth, his arms laced behind him. He furiously worries his bottom lip as if discerning a riddle. We are now in his private study, the door locked.

  Despite the luxurious blanket, despite the warm cocoa between my palms, gooseflesh tears across my limbs, dimpling my flesh from scalp to toe. I realize the rippling surface on the cocoa is coming from my own hands; I am shaking.

  “You hear voices in the music?” His face has drained to stark white; a corpse would have better color.

  I nod, and his expression blackens. He rounds on me, squaring his shoulders. I shrink against the intensity of his gaze. “You must trust me. Do you trust me implicitly, Jules?”

  I nod.

  I do. Like no other. Except perhaps Maeve. But with every strange, new revelation, I am doubting even my most trusted companion.

  “You must not tell your father of these voices. Residents have been imprisoned for less.”

  A rush of fear pumps from my heart, weakening my arms, causing the cocoa in my hands to slosh down over my fingers.

  “You believe I am ill. I am not ill. This is reality. I hear the words as surely as I hear your voice now. I am not imagining it.”

  He bites his lip again. “I … do not know what to believe. But until we sort it out, I must protect you.”

  I swallow. “You have sent for Maeve, then?”

  He flips out his pocket watch, and I notice the shake in his own fingers as he fumbles for it. A hand I have seen wield a scalpel with unflinching precision amidst screams of madness. A hand that did not waver when a surprise blow narrowly missed his jaw.

  “She should arrive any moment.”

  I stand to stare at the cornfield. No sounds emit, except the occasional squawk of the ever-present blanket of ravens perched on the stalk head. The cornfield looks as any other field would. The birds do not.

  I shiver, staring at them. All seem to stare back.

  Jonathon notices and is instantly behind me, rubbing my arms. He follows my stare, and I hear the hard click in his throat as he swallows. “They are queer, to be sure.”

  I give a quiet, derisive snort. “I am queer. They …” The words die on my lips.

  “What, darling?” Jonathon prompts.

  I feel my face color and try not to be pleased with his use of this endearment. “I was going to say wicked. But they are not wicked. I have dreamt of birds for as long as I can remember. They are frightening, yes. But not wicked.”

  Jonathon’s thick eyebrows rise, his unwavering gaze pinned to the flock. “If you say so.” His voice indicates he is anything but convinced.

  I flinch at the soft rapping on the door. Jonathon’s eyes whisk from me to the door and back in a blink.

  “Hide,” he whispers, finger jutting out to indicate a tall cluster of potted trees.

  I lift my skirts and dart over, sliding behind the co
pse of pots to ease myself down into a crouch. I leave one eye room to spy and hold my breath as Jonathon hurries forward, smoothing his waistcoat. He stops at the door and takes a deep inhale before opening it.

  I bite my lip as Maeve sweeps into the room. “Vhere is she? Is she alright?”

  Jonathon’s calm is placating and I bristle. He’s using the very same tone he uses to subdue unruly patients.

  “I assure you, Miss Beaucage, she is fine. She—”

  They suddenly both whirl in tandem, staring at something hidden from my gaze, something approaching in the hallway. Maeve takes a single step backward. Her hand flies to her heart, clutching her shirt, her eyes wide, round circles. She stumbles, but Jonathon swiftly catches her, holding up her weight.

  “What are you doing here?” Jonathon’s voice is unnaturally high.

  I stand, my quivering legs ready to bolt from my hiding place. Is it Father? I nearly vomit with fear.

  “Ma colombe? What ’ave you done to your hair?” Maeve’s voice is tight, as if her throat has closed, her breath strangling out every word.

  I cock my head at her use of my endearment.

  A soft, melodious voice replies, “I am afraid I do not understand.” Then, to Grayjoy, “He ablated her. My … She was my friend. And—”

  “The canines, yes. Frost has been campaigning for the ablations with the board for months, insisting many patients are in need of the procedure. You are in danger, Jane. You know too much. I will need to keep someone watching you at all times, till we sort this out.”

  A girl steps into view. No … I step into view.

  My world and perception seem to roll, my mind cartwheeling and righting in a matter of seconds, leaving me heaving and breathless.

  My legs give way, my knees striking the hard floor as pain resounds the whole way to my hips.

  The girl. My mind reels, lifting up and crashing down like the asylum’s dowsing machine.

  Not me exactly, but a close replica. Not my hair. I lift a curl of my dark brown hair, staring at it as if for the first time. Her hair is white. A stark, stark white. Braided on either side and rolled into a tangled bun at her nape. A piece has escaped the twist, and it is longer than mine, reaching the top of her hipbones.

  A strangled cry issues from Maeve’s already open mouth, her eyes blinking furiously.

  “Ma … Ma T-turtledove.”

  Her eyes roll to reveal the whites as she swoons, but Jonathon swoops in, easing her into a nearby chair.

  I break free from behind the trees to bolt toward them, my heart pounding madly in my chest.

  As the girl turns, time slows, as if the air has liquefied, pulling against my skin and mind, making each step an effort. I see her profile, the pinched expression in her eyes as she flinches, holding up her arms in automatic self-defense.

  Her eyes finally drift up to meet mine—we both freeze.

  I unconsciously hum middle C, and at precisely the same time, another voice joins mine, in a perfect harmony.

  The girl takes a step closer. The girl in patient attire. The girl is a ruddy patient here.

  My mind thunders as the explanations rumble forth, and the words break free without permission. “You are Patient Twenty-Nine.”

  Jonathon stands, his gaze darting back and forth between us. Maeve’s chest heaves as a wail of utter despair slips out.

  “Ma colombe, ma turtledoves. Two turtledoves.” She stands, looking mad, her hands flailing as she paces back and forth between us. Her eyes dart back and forth—seeing nothing here, something long gone.

  “I could not stop ’im. I zought you were dead. Good merciful heaven. You are not dead.”

  Her ashen face drains even further.

  “He lied. He lied. He lied.”

  Her unfixed eyes stare at me, her entire body shaking. She claws her face, murmuring to herself, “You knew he lied. You convinced yourself. You did not fight. You did not try to find her. But it was better to have one than none. Heaven forgive me.”

  Jonathon grasps her shoulders, halting her frenetic pacing. “Who lied, Maeve?”

  But her words have cracked open hazy, uncertain memories. Memories I had convinced myself were false, had come from a childhood filled with reading.

  Maeve and I in the closet, I am small. Her long fingers wrap around my neck to cover my mouth. “Shh, shh, my chere. Please be quiet, ma colombe. It is hide-and-seek. They must not find us.”

  Harsh voices outside the closet. But I’m not scared, so long as I am with Mama or Maeve, all is well in the world. I snuggle tighter into her chest, waiting, and begin to suck my thumb.

  “I have removed her from the house.” Papa, on our new device, Mr. Bell’s telephone. “Yes, it is most unfortunate.” A quiver in his tone.

  “I have not told my wife, I shall directly. I was trying to spare her as much pain as possible. I shall tell her it was an accident. A terrible accident.”

  He hangs up the phone and whispers, “And she was.”

  Maeve’s chest rose harder and faster with Papa’s every word. She’d squeezed me tighter, her body shaking, just like it shakes now.

  She stands, squeezes my hand, and leads me to Twenty-Nine, who places her hand in mine and takes Maeve’s other, so we form a ring, as if we might play ring-around-the-roses. Another memory flashes: childish giggles, two voices, twenty years smoothed from Maeve’s upturned face. Mama’s face, too.

  Twenty-Nine’s face quivers. “It is true. I did not imagine it. I had a family. I see you clearly now.”

  I speak for the first time. “No, you have a family.”

  Maeve’s voice is low but certain. “Jules. This is Jane. Your sister.”

  Jane

  “Please, tell me again”—I collapse at Jules’s feet, grasping her hands tightly—“what you remember?”

  The past few hours have flown—we instantly began sharing every memory, trying to splice together where the fabric of our childhoods began to fray—leaving me at the asylum and she alone. Opulent … but nearly as alone as I. I keep hold of her hand, afraid to let it go.

  Jules smiles indulgently. “She would sing to me every night before bed. Read to me. Hum—”

  I begin humming middle C.

  Jules nods, her eyes widening. Gooseflesh ripples my scalp, and I shiver, noticing the identical bumps tearing up her arms.

  “What do you feel when you hum it, Jules?”

  “Warm blankets.”

  She nods. “As do I. Do you have any recollection of me?”

  I cock my head, thinking hard. “I did have glimpses of another place. But after a time, I convinced myself that I had conjured them—read too many books, trying to place my mind in a safer yesterday.”

  Her eyes fill with tears, and she presses her trembling lips tight. She has told me of all that Frost has done to her.

  Burning her cello. Chopping up her dolls while she watched. Placing a violin out in the rain, just out of reach, as she sat at a window, staring at it.

  And as she grew, so did the punishments. Locking her in a closet for a day.

  At this image, a skeletal hand plunges through my chest to squeeze my heart as I think of solitary.

  “You had your own kind of solitary.”

  Her body shakes, and Dr. Grayjoy slides behind her, rubbing her shoulders as she closes her eyes, breathing deeply through her mouth.

  As I watch her trembling hands, I think, perhaps for the first time, that maybe I am the lucky one. Though alone, Frost had limited contact with me. With Jules, she was the focus of all his manic energy, obsessions, and controlling personality.

  Grayjoy stares. “Do you need a drink, Jules?”

  She smiles, tipping her head back to look at him. “Yes, please.”

  The way they look at one another leaves little doubt of their feelings. She hums beneath her breath, and I hear, Let him try to control me now.

  “Do you mean your father?”

 
Her feline eyes snap back to me, suddenly hard and cold. “What?”

  Grayjoy drops the decanter, and it explodes, sending shards skating across the floor. He hurries over, ignoring the slivers as he steps over them. “Jules did not say anything, Jane. She was humming.”

  I swallow, looking back and forth between the two of them, fear suddenly growing in my chest, expanding like a child’s balloon.

  “Do it again, Jules. That was one of your own compositions, was it not?” Dr. Grayjoy prompts.

  She nods, eyes never leaving mine. She clears her throat.

  Humming—D, E, C, chords and refrains. He shall never take you away now. Let him try.

  My hands fly to cover my mouth, and I shake my head. It is as if Jules’s voice speaks directly in my ear as the music plays. As if it is the lyrics to the symphony.

  “What do you hear?” Grayjoy demands.

  I shake my head, tears falling now. I picture the dunk tank and wrap my arms around my body for warmth.

  “You do it now, Jane,” he demands.

  I chance a glance at him. He doesn’t look angry, or concerned, even. He looks terrified.

  I hum, long and low. My favorite original composition.

  Jules slides from the wingback chair, her bottom striking the floor so hard and loud, I wince at the sound.

  “You said, ‘I have a sister. I shall never be alone again.’”

  I open my mouth, but no words come forth. Those were the precise words I was thinking as I hummed the music.

  Grayjoy begins to pace, absently running his hands through his hair till it is sticking up on end. “Colourata.”

  “What?” we ask in unison.

  Jules slides back to take my hand.

  “The ability is called Colourata. A musical language. I have read of one other patient who has such an … ability.”

  Mason

  I take a deep breath and make my way into the tunnels, not quite ready to face my night shift. Since my decision is made, that I must have Jane, that I must find a way to remove her from this place, whether legal or foul, my life has complicated four-fold.