Waltz of the Crows

by L Rollins

  Gads, he needed something to do. What was so hard about finding work? Half the town was clustered in the castle, wholly mad. Yet, there was nothing for him to do. It seemed no one cared anymore if their shops were tidy or their grounds well-groomed.

  After all, who would see them?

  What he really needed was to speak with Nurse Bartel. He’d heard back from his friend who knew chemistry, Doctor Elise Hopkins, and he wanted to share with Leila what she recommended they do.

  The rattle of a large carriage broke through the stillness. Samuel moved toward the road. Sure enough, an elaborate carriage pulled by no less than four horses rolled up to the castle door.

  The carriage door opened and an elegant woman of indiscriminate years alighted. Another woman come to call on their humble asylum? Conques was full of far more drama now than he remembered there being when he was a boy.

  Monsieur Martin walked out, arms wide, welcoming their new guest. Madame Uppertick was directly beside him—her words gracious, but her expression murderous.

  “Madame Winstone,” Monsieur Martin said, his voice lighthearted. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” the newcomer responded. “I must say, I am finding your little corner of the world even more lovely than I have heard tale of.”

  Curious. Her accent placed her as decidedly British. He’d never known anyone from England to care about their small, out-of-the-way town.

  But who knew with the overly-rich British? He’d heard of people traveling twice as far as the distance from Conques to London, only to see a unique rare flower. Perhaps this Madame Winstone was a lover of orchards and rolling hills—Conques was known for those.

  The party moved inside, Monsieur Martin going to great lengths to keep Madame Winstone between himself and Uppertick. That was going to make for an entertaining supper, he’d wager. It was a shame he’d never get to see it.

  A scullery maid hurried by and Samuel called out to her. “Do you happen to know where Nurse Bartel is just now?”

  The young girl, dirty from head to toe, didn’t slow down. “Most nurses are either with patients on the grounds, or in the Crow’s Hall.”

  Crow’s Hall? Sounded like a child’s nickname. But she was gone before he could ask what she meant. Samuel marched around toward the back. A thorough search proved that Nurse Bartel was not out back with the patients.

  When he asked another nurse where Crow’s Hall was, she acted as though he’d asked nothing out of the ordinary. So it wasn’t a name the little girl had made up. The nurse gave him very direct instructions, apparently too preoccupied with her babbling patient to care that a complete stranger was about ready to wander through the castle.

  Conques certainly had changed. As a boy, he was never allowed so close as the river.

  Crow’s Hall, as it turned out, was one entire wing of the expansive house. A curtain hung from the vaulted ceiling of the hallway giving the pretense of separating this wing from the rest of the castle.

  Samuel pushed the edge of the curtain aside and slipped in. The biting sent of astringent herbs filled the air, which was thick with perfumed smoke. Samuel coughed and placed a hand to his mouth.

  The sick littered the floor. All up and down the hall, people, most too sick to move, huddled close to the wall. A couple children were crying softly. One man babbled senselessly.

  Samuel took a few steps and peered into the first room. The door was open and he could clearly see over a dozen mattresses crammed onto the floor. There were no bed frames. Several patients’ pillows were stained with blood.

  He peered into another room across the hall. One woman, probably his sister’s age, walked in a tight circle. Around. Around. Around.

  She caught sight of Samuel and smiled. It would have been sweet, except one eye roved unnaturally upward and she dropped her head to the side, as though she couldn’t hold it up straight any longer.

  “I’ll be a butterfly tomorrow,” she said, her words slightly slurred. “I will fly away and grant wishes to children.”

  A chill ran down Samuel’s spine and he stepped away from the room.

  All the rooms were open—no, he looked again—none of the rooms had doors. They had all been removed from their hinges.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Samuel turned toward the voice. A woman dressed in a white nursing uniform hurried up to him. Her face was hidden in a crow’s mask. The black cloth covered all her features, with only the smallest slits for her to see through. A long beak stuck out covering the nurse’s mouth and nose.

  Samuel could smell the herbs it held inside. They were supposed to protect the nurse from contracting whatever disease she came in contact with. But, would it really? So many had fallen ill already, what were the chances a few herbs placed close to one’s mouth would save anyone?

  “I’m looking for Nurse Bartel?” he said.

  The nurse nodded her understanding and then walked him toward a room near the back. They had to step over many patients along the way. When had his town disintegrated into this? Hopefully the plan Elise Hopkins had laid out would prove beneficial. He was over and done with doing nothing.

  “Leila,” the nurse called out.

  Another nurse, deep in the heart of the room looked up from the patient she had been speaking with, also wearing a crow’s mask.

  “Rowley?” She hurried over to him. “What are you doing here? You aren’t ill, are you?”

  She was worried for him—kind of made a man want to puff out his chest, that did. “Quite healthy, I assure you. Only, I wondered if I could speak with you for a short moment. It’s quite urgent.”

  The first nurse nodded. “Go on. I’ll cover if Madame Hamon ever appears.” As she walked away, the nurse muttered to herself, “It isn’t as if we’re doing any good here.”

  Nurse Bartel took hold of his hand and walked him back out of the hall. He spotted several other nurses on his way out. They all wore the same black mask. No wonder this hall had been given the name ‘Crow’s Hall’.

  They pushed past the curtain and Nurse Bartel slipped her mask off over her head. She was red and sweating and the herbs she’d been breathing in had dyed her lips slightly plum-colored, but he found her all the more beautiful for it.

  “You shouldn’t have gone in there. Suppose you caught the waltzing flu?”

  “I live in Conques. If I’m going to catch it, I’m going to catch it.” He pulled the letter from his pocket. “I heard back from my friend. She suggests we do a test.”

  She stepped close, angling to see the letter better. For once, he wasn’t told he was unneeded, he wasn’t told to leave or to go help someone else. Nurse Bartel was as excited to solve this problem as he was.

  And he had something to add.

  “I met Dr. Elise Hopkins on my last submarine venture. She’s known for approaching problems from an untried perspective. Look”—he pointed at a particular line from Elise’s letter—“she says there’s a simple test she can run to determine the toxicity in the patients. All she needs is a bit of hair from several of them.”

  Nurse Bartel was eagerly reading the entire letter. “That’s a brilliant plan. We’ll gather some from here, some from other patients who aren’t as sick, and some from those who came today.”

  Samuel’s stomach rolled. “More were admitted today?”

  Her tone flattened. “More are admitted nearly every day now.”

  How long could his town last with madness consistently siphoning away it’s people? “We’d better act quick, then. The sooner we have answers—”

  “The better,” she finished for him. “I can gather hair from those in the Crow’s Hall without a problem. But we’ll need to slip into the other rooms sometime when Madame Hamon is occupied. I think it’s best if she doesn’t know what we’re up to just yet.”

  Fine by him. He didn’t care who’s orders he needed to circumvent, so long as they solved this problem. “Now is probably ideal then. A Mad
ame Winstone has just showed up and I believe most the house is quite overwhelmed.” He thought back to the scene he’d witnessed earlier and chuckled. “If nothing else, Madame Uppertick will probably keep Hamon busy with orders in an attempt to mark her territory, as it were.”

  But Nurse Bartel was not laughing. She looked at him with a strange expression—uncertainty, or even hope, perhaps?

  “You’re certain she said her name was Winstone? An elderly woman with only a little gray at the temples?”

  “And the most elegant carriage pulled by four horses,” Samuel added.

  Nurse Bartel sighed and her expression turned to one of pure relief. She sagged against him momentarily, muttering, “Thank the gears above.”

  “Do you know her?” he asked.

  She stood straight once more. “I’ll explain another time. For now, let’s focus on gathering hair samples and getting them to your friend as soon as possible.”

  “You can count on me.” The way she’d responded to the news of Madame Winstone was strange. It piqued his curiosity. But he knew better than to pry into a woman’s private affairs. If she wanted to tell him, she would.

  And if she didn’t . . . well, then he may have to dig about and figure it out on his own later.

  “Doctor Hopkins,” he said, “is quite meticulous and orderly. We should place a couple of strands of hair from each person in a separate, sealed envelope.”

  “Excellent idea. I have envelopes in my bedchamber.”

  “Just direct me to it and I’ll get them for us.” It certainly wasn’t something a gentleman would ever have been heard to say—asking directions to a lady’s bedchamber was probably a bit roguish of him—but they had a task to accomplish. A mission to see to.

  Nurse Bartel must have felt the same way, for she gave him clear directions without blush or stuttering or second-thoughts. Samuel hurried off in the direction she’d pointed him. They made a good team.

  He found the envelopes easily enough. They were in the small writing desk beside her well-kept bed. The room smelled slightly of her.

  But there were only five envelopes. Samuel wasn’t much of a scientist, he’d never even gone to much school. But during his last voyage with Elise and her werewolf patients, she’d said more than once that her sampling was too small. She’d wished she could have brought several dozen werewolves, only it wasn’t logistically feasible and those had been the only individuals willing to participate.

  If nearly a dozen werewolves was too small a sampling, then five separate samplings of hair probably wouldn’t be enough either. He rummaged around Nurse Bartel’s writing desk. Yet another roguish move, but he knew she wouldn’t mind. They were trying to solve the same issue.

  He found a roll of twine. Could one wrap a minuscule bundle of hair with a strip of twine? Keep the hair samples separate that way? If so, they could fill one envelope with over a dozen samples from different places: Crow’s Hall, a sick room, a new admittance group.

  He hurried back to Crow’s Hall. The house was in an uproar. Madame Winstone, who ever she was, was seemingly unplanned and unexpected. As far as he could tell, no one even knew who she was, though her carriage and entourage denoted she was of high standing among the English.

  But Nurse Bartel knew who she was. Though he was less than halfway serious before when he thought about digging about and finding out the truth, the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t deny that there must be a history between the two women, despite their difference in social standing.

  Samuel charged into Crow’s Hall without a second thought, flinching slightly when the smell hit him as hard as it had previously. He paused for a second as his eye watered. These poor souls needed answers, and a chance to escape this horrid place.

  He found Nurse Bartel, still speaking to the same sick woman she’d been speaking to before. The woman seemed determined to lift her left arm but was wholly unable to do so.

  “Nurse Bartel, I have them,” he said without preamble.

  She excused herself and walked with him into the hallway beyond the curtain. He quickly explained his new plan, involving the twine.

  “My apologizes for looking through your things, but—”

  She stopped him with a hand on his arm—it brought with it a tingling warmth, just as it had the night he’d jumped into the well for her. Truth be told, if she asked him to jump into a well again, he’d do it.

  “Nothing is more important to me than finding answers,” she said. “I like the plan with the twine. We’ll stuff each envelope as full as can be.”

  With the small pocket-knife Samuel kept always with him, they cut nearly one hundred pieces of twine. Then they divided the envelopes and went their separate ways.

  It took the rest of the day, sneaking around without being enough in the way to draw attention to himself, gathering bits of hair from patients. Sometimes he told them what he was doing and why—every patient was more than willing to give up a bit of hair in the hopes of finding an answer—and sometimes he snipped it while the patient slept.

  Most of the faces he recognized. It made his heart ache to see old friends reduced to hallucinations and babbling, to see them stagger and struggle to sit upright.

  Still, it felt good to be at work. More than that, he wasn’t working for a pretty lawn, or for the benefit of some rich earl. He was making a marked difference for people who were suffering unnecessarily. In the few hours since he started cutting hair, finding a cure to this problem went from important to all-consuming.

  It didn’t matter what it would take, Samuel was determined he would not rest until an answer was found. Not only for his sister, but for his hometown and all the people who’d watched him grow up.

  While the other nurses on Leila’s schedule were away at supper, she met him by the well.

  She held up two, packed envelopes. “I could barely seal them. I think I must have almost fifty hair samples crammed in there.”

  “Good.” For the first time since returning home, Samuel felt confident in what he was about. “The more we can send Doctor Hopkins, the better answers she can give us.”

  “I hate to sound callous,” she said, brow creased. “But for once, I’m almost glad there are so many sick. Having this many people to study can only help us find a cure that much quicker.”

  She rolled her eyes up and then shut them. “That sounds just terrible to say aloud. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Of course.” Did all women look this adorable when trying to express mixed emotions? “You don’t want anyone sick, and you definitely don’t want this many people sick. But if we’re going to find a cure, it’s simpler with a large pool of individuals to study.”

  “I’m so glad you understand.” She breathed out and then reached for the three envelopes in his hand. “You should let me send them.”

  There was something more to her tone than just a desire to be in charge. Still, all he said was, “I don’t mind doing it. I’m not nearly as busy as you are anyway and getting these out immediately is imperative.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t trust me?” he teased. With any luck, a lighthearted joke would bring out the truth.

  “It’s not that, Monsieur Rowley. I completely trust you.”

  I completely trust you. He liked the sound of those words. “But?” he prompted.

  She tilted her head to the side, clearly considering how to say what was on her mind. Curious—she’d done the same thing when he’d pressed her about the letters he’d pulled out of the well a few days previous.

  Finally, with voice low, she admitted, “I can get them to England quicker than the normal post.”

  That, he had not expected. “How, exactly?”

  She bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. She couldn’t say, then. Things weren’t lining up in a clear way regarding Nurse Bartel. Samuel scratched at his chin, his gaze moving to the well.

  “Those weren’t your letters we pulled out, were they?”


  “No.”

  “You’re not just a nurse?”

  “No.”

  Each simple admission seemed to pain her.

  Samuel turned and faced her full on, pointing the envelopes stuffed with hair in her direction, emphasizing each word. “You swear to me you’re here to help Conques? To help those poor suffering people?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her tone was sincere and emphatic. “Nothing is more important than figuring out why those people are suffering and how to stop it.”

  Well, so long as they were after the same thing. “All right then”—he held the envelopes out to her—“get these to Doctor Hopkins of London, England.”

  “Thank you.” She took the envelopes but didn’t leave.

  They stood for a moment, the cool evening air blowing stray strands of hair into her face.

  “I want you to know you can trust me, too,” she said.

  “I know.” When it came to people, Samuel trusted his gut. And his gut was most confident in trusting Nurse Bartel. He’d seen how she’d cared for patients when she thought no one was looking. He’d seen her determined grit when fishing out letters from the well.

  Whatever she was truly here for, it wasn’t to hurt or exploit Conques.

  “I’ll keep you informed, too,” she added. “Once I hear back from your friend.”

  “That will be fine.” The only thing that wasn’t fine was leaving on such a serious note. Serious and Samuel didn’t usually get along for long stretches of time. “Since we’ve declared our trust for one another, we might as well be friends.”

  Her brow creased. “I thought we were friends,” she said hesitantly. But her lips twitched—she seemed to know him well enough already to know he was teasing.

  “Well, if we were friends, we wouldn’t be calling each other ‘Monsieur Rowley’ or ‘Nurse Bartel’, now would we?”

  She tsked disapprovingly. “An unforgivable oversight. What would our mothers’ think?”

  He gave his eyes an exaggerated roll. “It’s a miracle mine hasn’t begun to haunt me already.”

  “Let’s not risk that. You’d best call me Leila.”