My sister anxiously awaits any plan, so that I might help her escape as well. Her own plight: A horrible ex-husband, who committed her to Soothing Hills on a concocted charge so that he might trade one wife in for a younger, lovelier model, incarcerated her under a false name, Mrs. Smith.
Indeed, I have unfortunately heard this scenario whispered more than once since starting. These women, used to a life of luxury and comfort, quickly succumb to the struggles of asylum life—conveniently making them appear exactly as their admission papers proclaimed. Insane.
Not my sister. She is just as feisty, just as determined to exact revenge as the day they admitted her, kicking and screaming, and cursing her husband’s name.
In my short time here, I have seen many a resident far saner than myself. Improper incarcerations abound.
From spousal desertion, to epilepsy, to dropsy. Purely physical maladies—or an unhappy marriage—are equally sufficient reasons for permanent placement. The physicks who practice these admissions are less than scrupulous. And Frost is at the front of the pack, wielding his pen like the almighty sword, striking down people’s lives with his scribble of a signature.
I sigh, shoving my hands deep in my pockets, and walk quietly through the tunnels, heading for the library. Rage flushes my face—rage at my life, my situation. Although a second son, I had expected a bright future—till my father passed.
And now. Love. I never expected love, if I am honest. I expected to marry, to produce an heir, to continue our bloodline.
I think of Jane.
Her full lips, her striking white-blond hair, her person. Life inside Soothing Hills produced a woman unaware of society’s expectations. Her spirit and mind developed into someone so unique, so pure—someone I would die for.
Who I would do most anything to free. So we might be together.
“Misneach,” I murmur, and square my shoulders against the silence.
Grayjoy told me of the library, of Jane’s missing chart. He is being watched, so he requested I go in his stead. Any answers to her past will most likely lie buried here, under forgotten piles of documents and years of layers of dust.
As I turn into the hallway, I make my way around the rubble and focus on the task at hand. The dark seems darker here—as if the air has liquefied to ink and is somehow infused in the air of this corridor.
I hold the lantern aloft and stifle a cough into the crook of my arm.
The library is quite large, with books from floor to raftered ceiling. I squint, trying my best to hold in another sneeze. I see leftover patient activities, scattered to and fro on the shelves: an old paintbrush, a chalkboard, and numbers we use to reorient the patients to the date.
A fluttery movement.
I start and stumble backwards. A single raven perches on a rafter beam, staring at me. I cock my head. A bird. Down here?
The memory of the unkindness of ravens, seeming to shelter us in the cornfield, resurrects in my head, along with the rising of the hairs on my arms. I swallow, turning away from its disconcerting gaze, fully aware of the lunacy of the thought.
I walk toward the shelves, not having the slightest clue where to begin.
After a quarter hour of searching, I slump into the dirty armchair, my face in my hands. The bird has changed locations. It now perches on what looks to be a natural stone ledge high above the bookshelves.
I squint, and the bird cocks its head, left and then right. My breath catches. Is it standing on something?
I sigh, walking to the shelves. I give a hard tug, but they are mercifully bolted to the wall behind. I slide my hand and feet onto the shelves, gritting my teeth as they creak and groan.
One, two, three. I climb, higher and higher, till I can finally grasp a rafter with one hand, fingers splayed on the other, reaching for the mysterious something. Too far.
I stretch, but it is too high, and I am far too large to fit in the space between the ceiling and the top of bookshelf.
“Caw.”
My nostrils flare as fear pumps steadily from my heart, trying to weaken my grip. This is so very unnatural.
The bird flaps, talons grasping the book to drop it on my head.
“Blast!”
It bounces off my crown and topples to the ground.
I hop down, gathering it tentatively into my hands, dusting off the cover. The initials, IJF, are engraved in a beautiful silver script on the front. The bird flutters back up, waiting.
Oh, merciful heaven, it is waiting.
I crack open the book and realize at once it is a diary. A precise but beautiful hand has filled page after page. She has numbered them.
I lose track of time, reading this woman’s thoughts. Her words paint pictures upon my mind—the birth of her children, their odd circumstances. Fraternal twins, but born two days apart. I have never heard of such.
I stare up at the bird. “What am I to ken from reading this?”
I feel insane. I am speaking to a raven. I feel a sudden rush of camaraderie for poor Poe and a twinge I may be developing his madness. The bird takes flight from its perch to land on the top shelf. My heart beats loud in my ears, drowning out the morbid flapping of his wings. It clutches something in its talons. Dread forms a ball in my throat, leaking its bitter taste up into my mouth.
The object falls by my feet with a tinny clatter. Numbers. It has dropped numbers.
I swallow and recognize the metal numbers used on the wards to reorient the patients to the day and time.
My stomach clenches. Seventy-five. Does it mean page seventy-five?
“Caw-caw,” it chastises, flying back up to the perch.
I blink again and again, trying to maintain control—to reckon this bizarre new reality that has become my life. I flip the pages to seventy-five.
I remember his passion that night. His need. Every touch seemed to linger and burn, like no other night together. Jules’s conception was magical. Tender, thoughtful. We lay together afterwards, holding one another for a long while.
Late in the night he woke me, wanting, again. Then … something happened.
His hand strokes my thigh, pulling me closer. I am still exhausted from the hour prior, but wish to make him happy. I reach for him in the dark, my hands tangling into his hair.
My nose wrinkles. An odd odor. Nothing like his usual musky, woodsy scent I have breathed every day for a decade.
Fear pounds my heart—that this is not my husband, but a stranger who has slipped into my room, my bed … myself. While I slept in the dark.
“Darling?”
A near growl. Every hair on my body lifts in fear.
I reach up with my trembling hands in the dark to feel the face. The strong nose, long lashes, curly hair. It is he.
“What is wrong?”
His face twitches beneath my hands. Still he does not speak. In moments it is over.
I bite my lip, holding back the tears. In a moment, he slips from me, from the bed, staggering out the door.
I wipe my hand across my brow. My waistcoat is drenched through with sweat.
I look up to see two more numbers placed perfectly in the dirt before me. I was so overcome, so swept away in the woman’s words, I did not notice the bloody crow’s descent.
I swallow and turn to the page.
I blink, squinting harder in the dim lantern light.
This writing is familiar. Perfectly formed, professional blocks. As if each letter is a soldier, screaming out the intent with each syllabic sound.
Frost. Good heaven above, it is Frost’s hand.
This journal shall serve as the last will and testament to my wife, Ivy Jane Frost. She explicitly states the children are to be left under my care upon her demise.
My eyes skip down the page, and my breath sucks in. The handwriting has disintegrated to nearly illegible, but I still see remnants of the distinctive block printing. I lift the paper to my nose and sniff. A faint smell of old spirits s
till clings to the page, a testament to long-dried spots of spilled ale.
She … is not mine. The second child conceived by him. Born two days later than my own precious Jules. She looks perfect. But I know … deep inside her beats not my heart, nor the heart of her mother. But him. The heart of a monster.
The pain of this reality is far too great to bear.
She, the little girl, has confessed her abnormalities to me. I must dispose of her. But I cannot bring myself to do it. Her mother … has confessed the same. I believe Ivy may suspect my plans.
I love her. Love them both. Love them all.
And hate myself for it. I know now what must be done. I shall perform the procedure.
The library turns, nay, upends, as vertigo spins my head. “Jane,” I whisper, my hands shaking as I ball them into fists.
“You monster, you are talking about my Jane.”
My mind conjures a tiny, innocent Jane, large blue eyes bulging in terror. I stare around at the library as if seeing it for the first time in all its freezing, lonely, lunatic glory. I picture her pink mouth screaming in terror as he brought her here. “Left her here.”
And the mother. What happened to the mother?
Rage reddens my sight, flushing my face as I grind my teeth. He performed the ablation. So she could not protest. Could not condemn him, reveal his secrets. Then what? Is she still alive, wandering aimlessly like the rest of Ward Thirteen?
I stand, my hands clasping and unclasping. I am vaguely aware the bird is swooping and screaming.
“You monster. You left her here. A wee girl.”
Flashes of recognition reverberate through my brain.
I recall Grayjoy’s words: “It is a very rare condition. But indeed, I have seen it twice.”
“Split personality. You believe your other half conceived Jane, had his way with your wife, because she was born two days later.”
Disgust, and a pain so sharp I feel it slice my guts, doubles me in half.
“Misneach, mo cridhe,” I whisper to the dark. To Jane.
Shuffle-shuffle-step. My blood goes cold in my veins. Footsteps?
I hold statue-still, fighting for control of my now frantic breathing.
It is Dr. Cloud. I am certain. Dr. Frost’s alter ego.
The bird squawks; I duck as it dive-bombs me from the rafter, flapping its way out of the library, soaring into the tunnel proper.
A moving moan echoes through the chamber as the creature ducks out of the bird’s flight path.
Shuffle-shuffle-shuffle. Directly outside the catacomb leading to the library.
He is come. My heart pounds hard as a cold sweat dampens my brow.
I am trapped. It is the only way out.
People have died in this tunnel. I grit my teeth—I will not be next. Jane comes to this library. Alone.
I shudder—if I die, there will be no barrier between it and her. No one to warn her.
I shall not die. Not without a fight.
I stare up and make my decision, extinguishing the lantern.
Shuffle-shuffle step-step-step. He is loping forward, down the tunnel. I hear his breathing just on the other side of the pile of rubble.
I wrap my hands around the rough beam and swing, back and forth, back and forth, till my legs wrap around the rafter. I haul myself up, straddling it, battling to master my breath, keep my breathing quiet, lest I alert him.
Stones crunch directly below. I feel him in the dark. He travels without a lantern, as if he does not need the light to negotiate.
He is a creature of the night.
My senses heighten: the rough-hewn wood scratches against my palms, the air is warm, dense in the high rafters. The smell. Sulfur.
He has arrived.
Sniff. Sniff.
I pull my shirt to cover my mouth, to conceal my breath.
Mercifully, his cane taps in front of him, then up the side of the bookcase. A hollow sound?
My blood freezes at the sound of a door swinging wide. The footsteps shuffle forward, growing fainter and fainter. The click of a latch refastening.
I swing down and fumble to light the lantern, cursing the shake in my fingers. With a flare of yellow, it mercifully illuminates the library around me. I run to the bookshelves, pulling and tugging every few inches, trying to discover the door. Nothing. The room is still and silent as a tomb.
Focus, calm yourself. I hold still, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. After a brief moment, I smell it. The acrid odor of Frost’s alter ego. Feeling ridiculous, I begin to sniff up and down the books. My eyes tear, and I blink rapidly as the sulfuric trail flares my nostrils.
I pull out the books, flinging them pell-mell to the ground, searching.
My heartbeat doubles when I see it.
A peephole. Hidden behind a book. So that he might spy on whoever happened upon this place. Spy on Jane.
I nearly wretch with dread and jam my fingers through the blasted circle—irrationally trying to damage his ever-present eye in her life.
Rage consumes me, and I swipe the entire shelf of books to the ground. Then I hear the click. The whole section of bookcase pops open, and I stand for a second, breathing hard, staring at it in disbelief.
I ease it open with a creeeak and peer inside as a thought ices my veins, deadening my heart.
I know precisely where this passage leads.
Jane
I sit before the hearth, my eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.
I hear the tinkle of decanter on tumbler and a heavy sigh as Dr. Grayjoy pours his second Scotch. Jules sits across from me in the opposite wingback chair, her heavy-lidded eyes drifting closed from fatigue.
Maeve returned after seeing to an alibi at the estate and now lies curled on a bed in the corner.
She is speaking of returning to France, now. Her guilt drives her away—that and the fact she knows I shall not ever leave Jules’s side. That someone else in the world now cares for Jules as much she does.
Jules’s fingers drift to her neck as she fidgets. A tiny light flashes on the stone floor, catching my eye.
Her eyes pop wide open. “Jane, do you remember Mama?”
I bite my lip. “The sketches you have seen, that is all that remains of her for me. She is more a … feeling than a person for me.”
She nods, her eyes horrified. “I do remember you. I always did. I used to endlessly bother Maeve about it, but she would lie, trying to protect me.”
Maeve stirs, shakily sits, and allows her head to drop into her hands—as if it is simply too heavy from all these revelations.
We all sit without speaking for some moments, as if mourning the dead.
“Your mama … I think she knew he was unraveling. Your father was furious, as the police became involved, which made him even more anxious and nervous than usual. And then … then I overhead him on the phone one evening. And he was arguing with someone, though I had not heard anyone else announced that eve. Then you disappeared, my love.” She turns to stare at me, a constant stream of wetness flowing as she blinks again and again, oblivious to it.
“Your mother stopped speaking then. She … could not do anything but sit and hum. Her music never left her. There was an incision … two dots on the tops of her eyes. And a few days later, he came to me, telling me she had passed. I was terrified. Your mama had been my very best friend. I knew, no matter what the cost, I had to protect Jules.”
Anguish twists her mouth, and she chokes out between sobs, “I have no money, no connections. All I could do was keep Jules safe.” Her eyes turn to me. “Ma colombe. I am so sorry. I wish I could’ve protected you. I should have looked for you. He did not know how much I knew, or I am certain I too would either be on Ward Thirteen or buried in the cornfield.”
“Frost is powerful. You were no match for him, Maeve.” I shake off the sentiment and stand. “But is she dead? I am alive. We need to find the truth.”
; “The truth to what?” Grayjoy finally breaks the silence.
I hurry to the window and point. “To there. The truth about there.”
The cornstalks bend and shudder in the late fall wind.
“The birds,” Jules says, her voice excited. “I dream of birds, most every night. Ravens and—”
“A bluebird.” We say it in unison and stare at one another.
My heartbeats are wild as the night wind. I let the secret rush out. “I hear a symphony pour from their beaks. Embedded in it is a voice. A woman’s far-off voice.”
Jules’s mouth pops wide, and her hands shake. “I hear the music and the voice, too.”
Jules stands and closes the distance between us to kneel at my feet. She gathers my hand in hers. We are both shaking so hard, our gathered hands look to have a palsy.
“I am here now, Jane. And we shall never be parted.”
My heart swells in my chest with reluctant gratefulness, but I manage to nod. “But whose voice is it? Is it Mama, or another? How could it be Mama?”
The thought of having not one, but two sisters, fills my chest, and it seems to expand like a child’s balloon.
“I do not know.” Jules stares at Dr. Grayjoy, and their eyes seem to carry on a silent argument. “We shall find out, however. No matter the price. I shall not be dissuaded.”
She reaches into her skirt pocket to extract something dangly and silver.
“I believe this to be yours.” She places a heart-shaped locket in my hand.
I cock my head and blink. “I don’t understand.”
“It is identical to mine.” She pulls her necklace from beneath her dress for me to see. “It opens.” She cracks it open to expose a tiny picture of Mother.
I fumble with mine, pushing too hard. It pops from my hand and clicks off the hard stone floor. “Oh, my.”
I hurriedly bend to pick it up—and freeze.
“What is it?” Jules prompts, but she’s instantly on all fours beside me.
The locket has popped open to reveal a false back. With trembling fingers, I pick it up, cradling it like a broken bird in my palm.
The Requiem Red Page 20