A Madness So Discreet (7 page)

“So you . . .”

“It's quite simple,” Thornhollow said, advancing on her again. “I make two triangular incisions on the forehead—here and here.” He tapped her sharply on the temples right at her hairline. “Cut through the dura to the skull.” He increased the pressure on her temples from both sides, his fingers digging into her scalp.

Grace stiffened. “And then?”

“And then”—Thornhollow released the left side of her skull to reach for his bag, producing a blade and a circular tool—“I cut to the bone on both sides of the temple and punch through the skull with a trephine, which leaves a neat little circle in the bone. The apple corer is to destroy the frontal lobe of the brain. This is where you live. Every gesture, every skill you've perfected and experience you've had is wiped clean, like my breakfast plate once I managed to get the damn egg off of it.”

“And memories?” Grace asked, refusing to smile at his joke. “What of them?”

“Gone, I suppose,” he said, his eyes no longer jesting. “I don't
know for sure. Most of them lose the capacity for speech and can't say. For all we know they're living in their own private hell that I delivered them into.”

“They're not,” Grace said swiftly. “Their eyes tell the story. They're calm and contented.”

“But”—Thornhollow raised a finger in warning—“I would never claim they are happy. I think they lose the ability to feel anything. I've only been experimenting with this for a short while, but the asylum administrators thank me for it. They believe I'm doing them a favor by turning violent patients into timid lambs. But in truth I do it for the afflicted, to ease their suffering and the weariness of the world they've been born into, where we have yet to understand or truly help them.”

He fell silent, his eyes on his hands, now balled in his lap. Grace watched without speaking, willing him to come to the same conclusion she had hours before.

“This is what you ask of me, then?” He raised his eyes to hers. “You want me to cut into you, tear away your skin and your brain, and leave you a desolate, incoherent mess that feels no more?”

“Yes,” she said, the one word heavy in her throat as a tear slid down her cheek. “Yes, I would have that.”

The lantern flickered, sending his face into shadow and back into stark illumination for a moment. “I don't need to ask why,” he finally said. “You're an attractive girl, obviously well-bred by your speech
and mannerisms. The poor excuse of a rag that you wear can't hide where you used to carry a child. Any society family would have a sharp eye on an attractive daughter your age, and you wouldn't have the freedom to pursue any males you find yourself drawn to and so . . .” He paused, watching her closely. “I assume that in order for you to become with child it would have been at the hands of someone with the freedom to roam the halls of your own home.”

Grace dropped her gaze. His fingers went under her chin and drew her eyes back to his own. “And so,” he continued, “once your condition was discovered there was no acceptable way to explain it other than to disappear you for a while, am I right?”

“I'm on my European tour at the moment,” Grace said. “Due to return in a few months.”

Thornhollow nodded and then glanced about the room. “You should register a complaint about the lodgings.”

A bubble rose up in Grace's throat, erupting in the form of a laugh, and she clasped her hand down on her mouth in astonishment. Thornhollow smiled.

“That's the game, then?” he continued. “You return home, undoubtedly back into the nest of the viper himself?”

Grace nodded, all laughter gone.

“We can't have that.”

She reached for him, and it was his turn to flinch. “This is why I ask for it, Doctor. I cannot go back. If you change me permanently,
I won't be wanted at home. They can say what they like about my fate, I'll live and die here, happily unaware of the present, and all traces of the past taken from me.”

“As well as your propensity for thought,” he argued. “Grace, so few people in this world have any skills worth speaking of. You've learned that beauty can work against you, and your build is so slight you'll never be able to defend yourself. Your brain is your strength, your quickness of wit the one thing that will deliver you from the damnable life of the dull.”

She yanked her hands from his, balling them into fists at her temples as she realized he was refusing her. “No,” she cried. “Doctor, it is my weakness. I see everything; I notice all and I remember—the beautiful and the horrific alike I can recall as easily as a daguerreotype that can't be unseen. It will be the death of me, this remembering.”

“No, Grace,” Thornhollow said, pulling her hand away from her face. “Utterly to the contrary, this curse of
seeing
will do you well.”

“You won't do it, then?” she asked, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. “You won't cut me?”

“No,” he said. “There's a much better use for you.”

“
S
he'll go with me,” Thornhollow said, casting the words into the darkness of Falsteed's cell. “You were right in your estimation of her quickness, and I can use her in my new endeavors. She'll be safe, far away from the brute who did this to her. Not to mention Heedson.”

“He'll never let me go,” Grace said at the mention of the director's name. “My father is paying him well to keep me here and for his silence as to my condition.”

“In your current state, no, he wouldn't let you go,” Thornhollow said. “But you came across the solution yourself. Your family's story about your absence being due to a long holiday won't hold up if you come home scarred.”

“Thornhollow, you wouldn't!” Falsteed cried from the darkness.

“No, he wouldn't,” Grace said. “I'm of no use to him without my mind intact.”

“Quite right,” Thornhollow agreed. “I'm not in the practice of smuggling privileged young women out of asylums, even if they are as sane as a field mouse. She'll be put to use and earn her keep with me at my new assignment.”

“And getting her out of here?” Falsteed asked.

“Your man, Reed, he's dependable?”

“As the dawn.”

“He'll be the perfect player in our little ruse, then,” Thornhollow said. “Now, Grace, I imagine you'll want to say a little something to Dr. Falsteed. I'll give you some moments alone. Join me in the surgery when you find yourself quite prepared.”

Thornhollow disappeared into the darkness, his footfalls echoing after him.

“Prepared for what, young one?” Falsteed asked, his voice heavy.

Grace took a deep breath. Even though their plan was her only hope of salvation, she was worried that Falsteed would disapprove.

“We've worked it out,” she said softly. “If Heedson believes Thornhollow has cut me and I'm unrepairable, he'll panic at the thought of my father's wrath.”

“I should say. For you to enter the asylum healthy and with child and walk out a drooling idiot would hardly be to Heedson's credit.”

“Precisely.” Grace wrapped her hands around Falsteed's cell bars,
wishing her friend would come into the light before she left him forever. “He'd go to any lengths to cover the enormity of such an error. Bruises and cuts for his own sadistic pleasures will heal, but if I'm permanently damaged he'll have no choice but to aid in my escape.”

Falsteed sighed heavily, the warmth of his exhalation reaching her but not the sight of him. “And what am I to do after you're gone? Wait for a new prisoner and hope they're interesting?”

The second smile of the day spread across Grace's face, her stomach now alight with the possibility of a future. “They could only be so lucky, to have you with them here in the dark.”

Fingers closed around hers, but she couldn't see past his wrist. “Write to Reed here at the asylum under the name of a Miss Madeleine Baxter. He'll get the letters to me. I would know how you fare.”

“Good-bye, my friend,” Grace said, her throat tight once again. His fingers gripped hers, stopping her from moving away at the last second.

“Be wary of Thornhollow, Grace. He's a good man, by all measures. You have nothing to fear from him that you would from other men. But that is precisely why you must guard yourself. He does not understand human nature, our emotions and attachments. He's made a place for himself among the insane because it's easier for him than moving among society. People are a mystery to him.”

“They are to me as well,” Grace said, squeezing his hand before she followed Thornhollow into the dark.

“You've said your good-byes?” Thornhollow's back was turned to her when she entered the surgery, his hands busy sharpening a scalpel.

“I have,” Grace said. “Shall I sit or . . .” Her voice trembled as she motioned to the bed.

“Sit,” Thornhollow said. “Obviously, I won't be coring your brain. Triangular cuts at your temple should be enough to convince that witless Heedson that you've been damaged. You do realize you'll be scarred?”

“Yes,” Grace said as she settled into the chair.

Thornhollow nodded. “Very good. As to the cutting itself, I'll be dosing you with ether, so there will be no pain.”

Grace's hands grasped the seat of the chair. “No, Doctor.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I'll take no ether, sir.”

“Grace, you must understand—”

“No,
you
must understand. I'll not be witless for a moment.”

Thornhollow frowned, his brows drawing together. “Do you not trust me?”

“I trust you with my life. Nothing more.”

The blade hovered in the air, the slightest tremor betraying him. “I'll need you to be utterly still through the pain. You're no use to me if you twitch and I accidentally put your eye out.”

Grace sat straight in the chair. “I've been still through worse.”

Thornhollow nodded his assent and moved behind her. “All right then, look up at the ceiling, if you please.”

The first cut brought a slice of heat near her eye; a second slice came close to her hairline, followed by pressure as the doctor pressed a clean rag against the wound. “Hold this,” he said, drawing her hand up to the wad of cloth. “Tightly as you can stand,” he added when she gripped it.

Grace concentrated, all sense of self lost as he moved to her other side, and the pain, bearable in its familiarity, flashed again. Thornhollow pushed against the wound with one hand, the other reaching for a ball of lint on the table.

“I'll soak this in the oil,” he said, “and dress the wounds with gauze. I doubt Heedson would go so far as to flap back the skin to see if I truly punctured your skull, but I wouldn't put it past my bad luck to have him decide to suddenly take interest in his patients when I need him at his most incompetent.”

Grace nodded her understanding but said nothing. Black spots had started to float in her vision as a stream of warm blood trickled down both cheeks. “Is it . . .” Her voice floated off, lost in the darkness of the room beyond their lanterns.

“Is it . . . ? Whoops-a-daisy,” Thornhollow said, righting Grace as she slumped in the chair. “Steady now, girl. Almost done.”

With his hands flashing about the work and oil of roses following in the wake of blood, Grace felt the warmth returning to her
hands, now resting in her lap. “I'd not thought there'd be so much blood,” she ventured to say when she trusted her voice again.

“Head wounds do tend to bleed,” the doctor answered, his eyes not leaving her bandage as he tied it securely about her head. “There,” he finished, patting her crown like a child. “Nicely done. No bow, but I suppose you'll not mind the fashion faux pas. Rest a moment, then we'll go about our little ruse.”

“Doctor,” Grace said as he leaned back against the table to rest. “I have a friend here, in the ward. A woman named Mrs. Clay. There's nothing wrong—”

Thornhollow waved her words away before she could finish. “It cannot be done.”

“But I owe her—”

“That may very well be, and I'm sure she's a fine sort. One finds many unfortunate women tucked away in places such as this. But she's of no use to me, and I'm hardly running the Underground Railroad for Insane Women.”

“I don't under—”

Thornhollow raised his palm. “Getting you out of here will be difficult enough, and I stand to gain by your release. Attempting to rescue the ill-fated Mrs. Clay would be sheer madness, if you'll allow me the use of the phrase.”

Grace bit down on her lip to stop the flow of words, finding it difficult to cut them off now that they had begun.

“You're unhappy with me, I see,” Thornhollow mused. “It can't be helped. For the sake of our working relationship it would be best if you didn't dislike me, but I won't take unnecessary steps to ensure your goodwill, either. We'll be clear about that with each other from the outset. If you'd like I can return you to your cell with nothing to show for this misadventure other than a bit of scarring.”

Grace felt her teeth grinding together, stopping the vowels and consonants that she wanted to spew at him. For a moment she remembered the meaty give of Heedson's hand under her dinner fork, but she cut the thought cleanly from her head as if wielding a scalpel of her own. “No, Doctor,” she said. “You don't need my goodwill for us to work together, as I don't need your friendship to facilitate my escape.”

Thornhollow clapped his hands together. “Good. Onward, then. Are you steady enough on your feet? Wobbling a bit is perfectly fine, but if you fall I can't be expected to catch you. It won't do to scramble your brains in the end, would it?”

“No, Doctor,” Grace said, rising despite the black swell that threatened her vision. “I can stand perfectly fine.”

“Excellent.” He reached into his valise for a flask, the smell of alcohol overtaking the lesser scent of roses in the room as he splashed his shirtfront with it before taking a pull. He ran his fingers through his hair, yanking the red locks in all directions. “And now, Grace, if you would please poke me in both eyes.”

“I'm sorry?”

“No need to apologize, you haven't done it yet,” he said as he snapped his kit shut. “Now come here and have a go at me. If you need me to antagonize you a bit first, I can certainly do so.”

Grace thought of Mrs. Clay. “I don't believe that will be necessary,” she said, stepping toward him as he matter-of-factly held his own lids open.

“No gouging. I simply need you to—CHRIST!” He wheeled away from her, hands up to his face. “Well done, well done,” he muttered, still covering his eyes with one hand as he leaned against the table. “I'll be asking you to do worse things than that shortly, so it certainly bodes well that you're willing.”

Grace rubbed her hands against her skirts to rid the feeling of his eyes from the tips of her fingers. “Are we ready, then?”

“I believe so.” Thornhollow pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do I look quite disreputable?”

Grace looked him over, from his red-rimmed eyes to his disheveled hair. “Quite.”

“Very well. You've no doubt made a study of my patients as they exited this room. The better you can make yourself like them in the coming minutes, the easier a time we'll have of it.”

Grace nodded, stamping down the rise of apprehension in her stomach.

“Think of the door of your own cell shutting,” he said, when he
saw the tremor of her hands. “Put your thoughts and feelings away for the moment and bar them in.”

“I'm long familiar with shutting out the world, Doctor,” Grace said. It was not her cell she thought of, though, which had ironically offered its own type of protection, but the sound of familiar footsteps in the middle of the night, followed by her doorknob turning.

The click she heard in her mind was as audible as if it were in the room with her, and Grace let her emotions leave her in a rush, all cares exiting with her exhalation, not to return until she allowed them. Even her outer appearance changed, though she hardly knew it, and the doctor watched, fascinated, as her eyes glazed over, her muscles became torpid. She slouched as if her soul had left her body, leaving behind only the warm flesh that appeared as lifeless as a bag of water.

“Very . . . good,” he managed to say, but she did not respond. “Reed,” he called as he opened the door to the surgery, and the assistant appeared from the darkness, his gaze flicking to Grace's bloodied bandages and back to the doctor's face without flinching.

“You're set, then?” Reed asked.

“Good man,” Thornhollow said. “Falsteed's brought you up to speed?”

“I'm to make a ruckus and bring Heedson straightaway,” Reed said, as if reciting his lessons.

“Come along, then, Grace,” Thornhollow called. “Let's see if
Heedson is as pliable as you pretend to be.”

Grace followed Reed and the doctor down the dark hall, allowing the safe detachment to envelope her as she emerged among the cells. Even Falsteed's murmur at the sight of her bandages slid off her consciousness like rain on a windowpane. She was a receptacle only, storing facts and impressions to sift through at a later date.

“Go to it, then,” Thornhollow said to Reed, who sprinted for the stairs.

“Heedson! Dr. Heedson!” he bellowed, his voice echoing back to them as he ascended. “Thornhollow's cut one too many!”

His cries faded. Thornhollow examined the bloodied cuffs of his sleeves as he casually unrolled them. Grace watched blankly, her brain sopping up details like a sponge but rejecting all reaction.

“It's on you, girl,” Falsteed said gently, his voice rolling from the dark. “The ruse is his, but you're the player. And the punished, for that matter, if Heedson smells the plot.”

“He won't,” Thornhollow said. “And she's the last person you need to remind of the risks we run tonight.”

“THORNHOLLOW!” Heedson's bellow filled the basement. He erupted from the stairwell, dressing gown flapping around him like badly clipped wings. “What have you done?” he demanded, his cheeks red with the unaccustomed exertion.

Reed followed behind Heedson. “I said it was so. You believe me now, Doctor?”

“Dear God,” Heedson cried at the sight of Grace, blank and staring. He approached her warily, as if she were a wild animal that might erupt into life and injure him when he let his guard down. But she only stood, shoulders slumped, eyes riveted to a point on the ground.

When his searching hands touched her face, she slipped deeper into her mind, to a place no touch could follow. Though she refused to feel it, she could draw every line of Heedson's palm if she were asked to. The tiniest gradations of the rock she'd affixed her gaze to were forever stamped on her memory. The smell of drunkenness that wafted from Thornhollow as he stumbled toward her imprinted itself thoroughly on her mind.