The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  “I am afraid,” I whisper.

  “I am as well. It is your locket. Open it, Jane.”

  Jonathon and Maeve have rushed to stand behind us, neither moving, neither speaking.

  My finger slides along the back, and it swings wide. Inside is the tiniest of braids. Three strands woven together.

  Dark brown, stark white, and red.

  Jules’s hand flies over her mouth, and then her finger traces the braid lovingly. “That is you, that is me … ” Her finger stops at the red. “Who is this?”

  “Your hair is white,” Grayjoy says, looking distinctly ill. “Your mother had to have seen you in the asylum. Our records say your hair went white the night you were admitted here.”

  Maeve hovers behind us, face ashen. “Zat locket.”

  We all stare, waiting.

  “A bird. Ze massive, black bird brought it to me. Left it on my windowsill. I realized it was the match to your own, Jules. But I was so frightened. I … hid it.”

  “Preposterous!” Jonathon roars. “Birds merely love shiny objects,” he suggests.

  But he begins to pace before the hearth, his hands running over and over through his hair till it stands up in great, black spikes.

  I stand, grasping at my chest, where my breath seems to have clogged my windpipe. “The words to the song. It says, Find the red sparrow.”

  “Where?”

  But we both know.

  Her finger tightens on mine before she whispers, “In the corn.”

  “I must return to my room.”

  Grayjoy finally speaks. “You cannot.”

  “You cannot come with me. Any of you. It will draw attention. I have something I must see to.” I cannot believe the words ready to come out, but I square my shoulders and say, “Before I can leave.”

  I hurtle out the door before they can stop me.

  In my mind, I picture kind Miss Pinchok, a woman on Ward Four; I will tell her of Sebastian.

  He was the first love of my life—he saved me really. I am certain I am to leave where he cannot follow, but I shall not abandon him. Every soul needs a place to lay his or her head. To feel safe. To call home.

  Mason

  I hurry down the dank passageway as quietly as possible, keeping one hand on the wall, the other on the lantern. The passage heads due north, toward the patient rooms, as I suspected.

  After some moments I stop, leaning against the stone wall to catch my breath, and extract my pocket watch. It has been ten minutes since I entered.

  “Caw-caw.”

  My heart catapults into my mouth at the sound.

  I ease forward, my mind whispering the words I dare not say aloud: These are not normal ravens. They think … and act upon intentions.

  The hair on the back of my neck rises. I have never been one to believe in anything beyond what my eyes could see, but I cannot deny their actions any longer. They are harbingers, but I know not of good or evil.

  I hurry forward, my chest tightening at the thought of him finding Jane once again. My footsteps ring like gunshots in my ears in the still tunnel.

  I slide to a halt. The tunnel splits; one continues north, the other east.

  I close my eyes, wishing for a compass, but below ground, I have completely lost my bearings. I haven’t the foggiest idea where each would lead to on the asylum’s grounds.

  Fear for her safety tightens my throat, and I ball my fists.

  “Caw-caw.”

  In the northbound tunnel, the raven sits on the ground. Its black, beady eye stares directly at me.

  I swallow.

  It flaps its wings, as if waiting.

  This is insane. I am following a bird.

  “Why not? Nothing in my world is as it seems. A respectable physick is a bloody lunatic, I am in love with a patient, and now, I am following the advice of a raven.”

  Pictures of my former life flash through my head. On the plantation, when I was a younger man, I would’ve considered a tale such as mine, at best, tripe, at worst—I would’ve persecuted the storyteller as a fraud or lunatic.

  I hold the lantern up in time to see black feathers fly round the corner.

  Gritting my teeth, I hurry on.

  In another few minutes, I am at what seems a dead end.

  The raven sits, its twitchy head moving this way and that, as if trying to muddle a puzzle.

  “What? Where have you taken me? It is a dead end. I am trapped.”

  Fear floods my mouth. Perhaps the bird works for him. It is not trying to help. And I am now officially herded. A lamb ripe for slaughter.

  I spin on my heel, walking quickly in the opposite direction.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  I reluctantly turn back, staring over my shoulder.

  The bird taps on something in the dark. Something decidedly not large, a hewn stone.

  I jam my eyes closed, hesitating. I curse and turn back, hurrying toward the sound. I stoop to see … a large square, hollowed in the stone, fashioned with a wooden, tiny door.

  “I don’t understand?”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Shuffle-shuffle-step.

  Merciful heaven. I am found.

  “Hello?”

  It’s Jane’s voice, just on the other side of the tiny door, sounding confused and sheepish.

  “Jane, it’s me.”

  “Mason? What? How?”

  “Never mind. Does this door open?”

  “Yes, just a moment.” There are sounds of sliding objects and scrapes along the floor.

  The tiny door cracks open, and a yellow column of light shines in the tunnel.

  Shuffle-shuffle-shuffle. The creature’s version of a run.

  “Jane. Jane, I need to get out. Push it open further, alainn.”

  The bird, the ruddy bird, begins to sing, but it isn’t birdsong. And it isn’t music—somewhere between—as if an orchestra somehow flows out from its sharp beak.

  Jane’s hand, which was frantically pushing, is now still.

  “Jane! He is coming!”

  Her boot thrusts into the tunnel, jamming the door open as wide as it can go.

  I slither into the too-small hole, wiggling and squirming till my waist halts my progress. All the while the bloody bird screeches a lunatic symphony behind me.

  Footsteps, right in the corridor. “Pull, Jane!”

  She grasps me under the arms, and I thrash to and fro—a crunch. A sharp pain in my side. But I shove harder.

  The bird now shrieks. A flutter of wings. Many wings. As if the tunnel is now full of the birds. The creature screams in guttural pain.

  I heave with all my might, feeling a cruunch in my side and a pain to match—but I scramble out of the hole to peer back inside.

  They are attacking him.

  “Aibhistear,” I murmur.

  I clutch my side, panting. My eyes flick to Jane.

  “Ailleagan? Are you hurt?”

  “We have to shut that door.” I crawl forward, but she is quickly replacing the cut-out, miniature door. It rattles in her hand.

  I lurch forward to help and grit my teeth as the pain shoots through my ribs. The door crashes in, Dr. Cloud’s boot shoving its way in.

  “No!” Jane howls.

  Her face contorts with rage; lips drawn back, she nearly hisses. She whirls around, hauling the loose post of her bed free, crashing it down upon his exposed leg.

  Another howl. Feathers float in, and a hand, pecked and bleeding, searches to find a hold.

  I jam my boot against his fingers, and the same moment Jane swings the post again. The limbs retract, and I shove the board into place. I push my whole body against it, against the continued rattle as he tries to force his way in.

  “Jane, in the nurses’ closet, under the spare linens, are some tools. Fetch a hammer and nails.”

  She flies out the room and, in a moment, returns. I quickly nail the four sides of the rectangle in place. She
shoves a strange square of stone on top of it. This escape was fabricated by someone or something. Jane was placed in this room for a reason.

  My mind replays the overheard snippets of conversation between Grayjoy and Frost: “But why can she not move to Ward One?”

  “Four is her home. To remove her from familiar surroundings would cause her to regress,” was Frost’s reply.

  I help her jam the faux wall into place. You would no longer have access to her if she was moved. Could no longer spy on her.

  She whimpers, her voice trembling. “The voice. The voice I heard. Whispering my name. It was him. Making me believe I truly, truly was mad.”

  We slide the bed in front of it for good measure, and I notice Jane’s face. Still flushed, enraged.

  She paces back and forth across the floor, not seeing me. It reminds me of when she was in solitary, when she left me.

  Fear causes my guts to shrivel.

  “Jane, mo cridhe? It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

  She swings the post again and again against her bed, the coarse wood instantly bloodying her hands. “I am not safe. I will never be safe. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”

  She collapses to the floor, shaking all over, sobbing into her hands.

  I drop, cradling her to me. “Shh. Shh. Mo cridhe.”

  “Fathers are to love their children. Why didn’t he love me? Why? Am I so horrible?”

  “You are wonderful. Magnificent.” I place my hand across her cheek, pressing her closer to my chest.

  Then I grasp her face, making her meet my eyes. “Singular. No others like you. He is sick, my love. Very sick. The side that is Isaiah Frost does love you.” I take a deep breath and cannot believe I am speaking the words. “He cannot help himself. But it is not you, my pet.”

  Her large blue eyes flick up to mine. “The bird … the music.”

  The hair on the back of my neck rises. “More words in the music?”

  She nods. “It says, It is time to go. I … believe that is my mother’s voice in that music.”

  I wrap the shawl tighter about my shoulders and hurry through the freezing sleet, taking the asylum steps two at a time. After Jane departed, I hurried Maeve home and said my tearful good-bye.

  The staff realized Father did not come home from his shift.

  I replay the scene in my mind and shudder.

  I had burst through the vestibule door, crashing directly into a ruddy-faced Willis.

  “Jules, where have you been? Where is your father? I have been waiting near on two hours for him.”

  Fear contracted my gut. The time had come for utter honesty.

  I grasped his hand and led him to the parlor, decisively shutting the door on a curious servant’s face.

  “Willis, we shall not be wed. I have found another, whom I love deeply.”

  Willis’s hands balled into fists, and he paced, face as red as his curly hair. “I knew it. I knew it. I am such a fool.”

  I touched his arm. “You aren’t.”

  “Do not touch me. I have had enough of your deception.”

  I nodded. “Too true. I have been a beast.” I held up my hands, trying to still his constant pacing. “There is much you do not know about this house, and I refuse to involve you. The less you know, the better.”

  Although I at first thought him crushed, when I related the sad story of Nurse Ginny, her young husband lost overseas, and how she fancied him at the masquerade, he brightened considerably. A little too considerably. I was thinking Willis is in love with love. Not anyone in particular.

  I give up on any pretenses and head directly for Jonathon’s study. The asylum is still and quiet, which makes my nerves strangely more on edge.

  I have become accustomed to screams, moans, and shouts of joy. They are the language of this place. This silence is as if the very tongue of Soothing Hills has been extracted.

  My footfalls echo down the hallway as I hurry past the faculty doors. I fling open Jonathon’s door. He is bent over his desk, a massive tome cracked open before him.

  “Jules, you’re soaked.” He stands, his ice-blue eyes tightening. “We have to talk, I—”

  I silence him by flinging my arms around his neck, smothering his lips with mine.

  At first, he resists, his entire body tense. My lips continue on, biting, pulling, stroking. His body softens, his arms grip me tighter, and his tongue invades my mouth, hot and velvety.

  He pulls back, forcing our foreheads together. “It isn’t right.”

  I meet his gaze. “I told him. Willis.”

  He nods. “Before we go further, I must confess something.”

  My heart drops to my knees, weakening them. “What is it?”

  He takes me by the hand, out into the hall, walking towards his apartments.

  He does not utter a word. The only sound in the cavernous hallway is the cadence of our steps, and I press my lips tight so as not to speak, to force him to answer me.

  We finally reach the door, and he ushers me inside, closing and locking it behind us. We are in the room where first I met him. The study with all the pictures.

  He stands, arms spread wide in the room’s center. “All these … ” His eyes dart around the room like an animal trapped. “All these sketches … are Jane’s.”

  I cock my head, a hard knot of fear forming in my stomach. “Jane’s?”

  He walks slowly toward me. “Yes … I was … infatuated with her.”

  I open my mouth, but the words are suspended between my mind and tongue. I merely utter a small, astonished sound. “Were … Were you lovers?” Hot tears fill my eyes, along with the hot flush of anger. And jealousy.

  But somewhere at its center is pity. And guilt. For the pampered, though sheltered, life I have led. Whilst my sister, my twin, lived here—with dunking tanks, and whirling chairs, and leeches, and vomiting tinctures.

  He shakes his head. “She does not know. I never even held her hand. I felt it improper. That I was doing something wrong. Then I met you—and you drove away even the thought of her, Jules.”

  He reaches me, gently grasping my hand in his. He kneels before me. “I could not begin a life with you built upon a lie. If you no longer want me, I understand. But I had to confess—I just could not find the right time. And then you met … I am yours, if you will have me.”

  I blink, and the tears trickle down my cheek. I swipe them away. “I will not say it doesn’t hurt, for it does. But—I want you Jonathon. I have never met a man like you. So honest. So brave. So bloody brilliant. I—”

  I am in his arms, his mouth back on mine, our breathing a melody and harmony of wind and sound.

  The siren blares.

  We pull apart, and I see the fear in his eyes. “Another patient has gone missing.”

  “Jane,” we both say together.

  Chills erupt from my scalp to my bottom, and my teeth automatically chatter. “Father is gone. He did not come home for my meeting with Willis. He has never, ever missed a meeting.”

  “Good heaven above.” Jonathon pulls me toward the door, grabbing his hat and overcoat.

  “We must find her before it’s too late.”

  “I’m frightened.” I grasp Mason’s hand tighter.

  He doesn’t break stride but does spare me a glance. “I know, my love. It will be alright. Get in, mo cridhe. I will be right here the whole time.”

  I step into the laundry cart, wiggling my way beneath the layers. Mason’s eyes dart up and down the empty corridor. I slide under the covers and discover a tiny hole in the cart’s fabric.

  The siren begins.

  “They know you’re gone. I won’t be talking now. Keep still and quiet.”

  The cart rumbles forward, and I struggle to keep my breathing steady.

  We pass into the first corridor without issue. I flinch when I see the sentry for the next set of doors—Alexander.

  “Where you off to, Mason?” His
lips pull back to reveal blackening teeth.

  “The pub.”

  For a minute, his great eyebrows pull together in confusion, then anger blackens his face. “Wiseacre. I could crush you like a bug, you—”

  The voice of a feminine crone halts them both. “What are you standing around for, flapping your gums? A patient is loose. Alexander, head to the entrance and go to the admitting office.” The nurse’s gaze flicks to Mason’s name tag.

  “Mason, is it? Take this laundry down right quick and head back here. We need every hand on deck for the manhunt.”

  “I have never done a search. Where will we start?”

  “The woods. We form a perimeter of the land, along the stone wall, a wall of people walking in a line to cover every inch. And that needs loads of warm bodies.”

  The cart shimmies and moves forward. “Alright, then.”

  We pass through the final set of ward doors, and the cart begins to fly, careening left and right as he bolts, pushing us toward the exit.

  The cart halts abruptly, and my face smashes against the side.

  “It’s guarded,” he whispers. We about-face, and I feel the cold seeping through the covers.

  His warm hands find me in the folds and ease me out.

  “Where are we?”

  “The morgue.” He takes my hand, and we are running again. “There is an exit here that may not be guarded.”

  Then I hear it. I halt so quickly, Mason is jerked backward by my still form.

  The corn music plays, the strange symphony of words and music and pain.

  “It says … go to the corn.”

  Mason’s eyes tighten with fear. “That is ludicrous. The corn is directly beside the asylum. We will be seen for certain.”

  I think I see it in his eyes then. The familiar pity. For the crazy girl.

  He notices, his eyebrows shoving together as his reason wrestles with my words. His eyes clear, and he stares upward, as if speaking to an unseen host. “I hope your bloody music has the power of invisibility as well.”

  Shuffle-shuffle-shuffle. The world goes black and relights as I fight the swoon. Cloud. Cloud, Frost, my father, is near.

  Mason pulls me out of the morgue and down the corridor, placing his fingers to his lips. He slips off his shoes and gestures for me to do the same.