Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 (2 page)

“
You’re silly,” Mina rolls her eyes. “There is no such thing, and if there were ghosts here, they’d be thinking of more important things than pounds and biscuits and eavesdropping.”

“
If you say so,” I consider telling her about the diary of Rose Gray, but something stops me when I open my mouth. It’s as though an inner voice instructed me, sternly, to be quiet and keep this little secret. Instead, I find myself making small talk as we move about the hospital, keeping busy, and the little red diary seems to burn a hole in my apron pocket until my lunch break arrives and I can break away into the garden on my own.

2

I am so incredibly sick of this place. It pulls me in constantly, like a perverted tide. I am tossed about and end up here again and again and again. I dread opening my eyes. I know the smell even before anything in my vision accosts me.  The cursed stench of insanity.

I want to sleep forever.

Either that, or I want to be awake forever.

Which is it? Choose, Rose. Sometimes I hardly
know myself.

Sometimes I hardly know myself.

Sometimes I hardly know myself.

“Well, she certainly was confused,” I think to myself as I munch on a piece of stale bread. I dip it in my tea to make it more palatable, but it only sogs, and a chunk drops off in one fell swoop. I groan as if a loved one has died; I had been greatly looking forward to that last bite. There are weeks in my life where nothing is more exciting than that last bite of perfectly despicable bread.

No small wonder the p
oor thing was confined here though. Rose sounds crazier than a loon, and I am only a smidge into her story. I find one last crust of bread tucked beneath the curve of my saucer, and though it’s terrible and tasteless, my stomach growls and wants another.  I had forgotten to pack my own lunch again, and the extras from the kitchen make a poor substitute. The inmates (excuse me, patients) don’t generally care what they’re eating, so I can’t say our cook is world class. She isn’t even London class. I don’t think she’s even village class. I pour more tea and keep reading.

The only comfort I have is that I am not alone any longer. He is with me here and with me there and with me everywhere. His loyalty brings me happiness where once there was none. Now I know what it means to care about another, and with that knowledge comes a sort of peace.

Though…

Do I want peace?

I never have before, not really. Anarchy is more my specialty, and truth be told, disorder brings a peace to me all its own. I
’m not good with happiness. Not good with love. It makes me nervous.

I fear him and what he means to me.

Just a bit. I’ve always been alone; even when I wasn’t, I was. It’s how I exist best. But this is so much better.

See? Just the thought of Luke distracts me again. I was writing about my hatred of this blasted place, and suddenly I am spouting sonnets of love? I think the traveling messes up the workings of my brain, either that, or being in love does. Something isn
’t right. Like a yo-yo, I am yanked back to these walls and manacled to them, either figuratively or literally. I am more a prisoner here than anyone else. More than anyone!

Luke, on the other hand, is too good at the ways of the theater, curse him. He passes for anyone sane whenever he comes back.  A visitor, a guest, a servant, a relative, a doctor even. He fools everyone, every time.

No matter how hard I try, I don’t fool anybody. Not for long.

They all know I belong here, and that belonging is my downfall and my sorrow. I look in the mirror and I don
’t see what they see; I see a girl trying to fit in, that’s all.

Just a girl.

Harmless, really.

For some reason I don’t quite believe the words and it is with a shiver that I turn another page.  Was she harmless? She’d hardly have been here (and more than once, she said with her own pen) if she was completely harmless. I mean, certainly, we get a few patients who aren’t really crazy; they can be recovering from a traumatic event, or have something physically wrong with them, but they aren’t certifiably insane. As a result, they don’t stay long and certainly not against their will; however, maybe back when Rose Gray wrote this (who knows how long ago), things were different. After all, Bedlam isn’t famous for its humanity. We now strive very hard to change that reputation. Naturally, keeping people who aren’t insane is on our list of things not to do.

I think back to my last time here
—
not here in the hospital, but here in London. I cannot figure what went wrong, because every time I think of it, I am so angered again, and then I can’t organize my thinking. I let that dark haired demon girl get away, and all my work was nearly for nothing. I say nearly, because at least someone near to her is dead, and all because of my handiwork. So that’s something. Something to keep me warm at night.

Harmless indeed, I think, sipping tea and frowning. A murderess then? I have seen one or two of those in my time here, and I haven’t even been here that long. We have a woman named Ann who poisoned her husband with herbs she carefully cultivated in her garden, and an old man, who, rumor has it, killed his whole family and buried them under his floorboards. I’m a bit skeptical of that one though; it was so many years ago, I believe the facts are greatly exaggerated. He probably killed his hamster and buried it under the floorboards; although I suppose that sin wouldn’t get you life in an insane asylum.

It isn’t good enough, though, not for all the trouble I went to. My life’s work, really. I never even got to confront my father. I barely got to say the things I wanted to say to my sister
—
I kept getting distracted and forgetting why I was there. She nearly killed my Luke, and by the time I discovered what she’d done, she was gone. It’s been a year.

A year of nothing but rumors and speculation. It
’s as though she dissolved into the mist somehow.

She is mist, and I am ocean. She drifts by, carelessly, willy
-nilly, and I am tossed up on the shores of Bedlam yet again, as though I am to be punished.

I don
’t deserve to be punished like this.

I hate her.

Poor sister. No small wonder she disappeared. Mentally, I wish her God
-speed.

“
Lizzie? Is it you? Or is it...?” Miss Helmes’ voice cuts through my pleasant, solitary picnic.

I mentally groan, but outwardly manage a polite and professional smile at my superior.
“It is me, ma’am. Did you need something? I have ten more minutes, I think.”

She approaches my seat in the middle of the overhang of the tree and bats away a bee impatiently. Miss Helmes has no time for bees. I
’m always surprised they dare to fly anywhere near her.  I certainly wouldn’t, were I a bee.

“
Tea again, is it?” Miss Helmes peers into my cup, and I detect a bit of patronizing in her voice.

“
It is customary for most people, yes, especially at this time of day.” I have to resolve myself from rolling my eyes. Miss Helmes must be the only British woman in the history of the world who does not like tea. “But I’m nearly finished now. Did you need me somewhere?”

“
I need you to stop wandering off,” she snaps. “I don’t have time to constantly be wondering where you are and if you’ve gotten yourself into mischief. Lord, girl, I do have other things to do. You aren’t the only person around here. So if you’re done with your little picnic...” She trails off, and taps her pointy shoe, impatiently.

“
Back to work, yes, ma’am,” I stifle my groan and leave my little teacup behind in the garden. I should have picked it up and returned it to the kitchen, but Miss Helmes’ intolerance of me gives me angel wings, and I cannot stop my momentum.

Mina is wheeling a very elderly man, our Mr. Limpet, through the ballroom when next I see her. I am scrubbing off a disturbing stain from the wall (again, a chore I wish more eleven year old boys would sign up for so I can be free to do more interesting things) when he barks something at me as they pass by.

“See you there!” His voice is raspy and he barks like a seal when he’s finished with his three little words. He waves at me cheerily. He is forever bossing people around, and no one ever knows what he’s talking about.

“
Sure, Mr. Limpet, I’ll see you there,” I agree, and smile politely.

“
We’ll all have a nice time, won’t we?” He looks at me intently, waiting for my response. Mina shrugs at me; she has no idea what he’s referring to, either.

“
Of course,” I pat him on the arm, comfortingly. It must be difficult for him to be moved from his home, such as this place is, though he’s been here so long I doubt he remembers his real home anyway. I’m pretty sure he’s a lifer.

“
And we’ll have parties again?” he whispers, conspiratorially. “And dance?”

Though the thought gives me the willies, I force myself to nod and smile some more. He
’s harmless, but occasionally spooky.

“
Sure, Mr. Limpet, I’ll try to save a dance for you.”

“
Oh, that’s nice. That’s sweet. You won’t forget now?” He leans out of his chair and peers fretfully back at me as Mina begins to wheel him away again.

“
I won’t forget,” I speak loudly for the sake of his old ears, but I go back to my scrubbing of the wall as he disappears around the wall.

“
I like your braids!” I hear him shout back at me, and then coughed again in his barking way. “Nice girls wear braids!”

I chortle as I continue scrubbing, and I hear the heavy solid doors of Bedlam slam shut. Whatever this wretched stain is, it seems to have seeped into every last stupid crack.
“I should be helping with surgeries and medicines,” I grumble to myself, “not slaving as a scullery maid.” I’m so preoccupied with feeling sorry for myself and my raw knuckles that I don’t hear someone near me until they clear their throat.

I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Blast it! Don’t go sneaking up on people like that!” I scowl and drop my brush into my bucket of slimy, cold water, where it splashes at me in revenge. I bite back my next retort as I look up at my frightener. He is, quite frankly, the most handsome man I have ever seen. Man or boy, I cannot decide and maybe that’s half his appeal. Not too much older than I, but enough to make a world of difference. Several worlds of differences. He is tall and lanky with dark blonde hair under the type of expensive hat I usually only see in the movies and sparkling eyes that seem to be laughing at me.

“
Beg your pardon, Miss,” he tips his hat at me and transfers his gaze to the stain on the wall. “And what happened here?”

I shrug.
“Who knows? I just know I am the lucky girl to clean it up.”

“
It looks like blood. Did someone get hurt?” He actually looks concerned, and for a brief, indulgent moment I pretend it’s for my safety and well-being. How nice it would be to have a gentleman concerned for my circumstances. Then again, he probably has a loved one as a patient here and is concerned that this could be their grisly remains splattered on the wall.

“
Oh, I don’t think so. Most of the patients are already gone. Are you looking for someone?” I tuck back some stray hair behind my ears, and as I do so, I get a whiff of my hands. It may just be his suggestion, but they do smell like blood, coppery and foul. I hadn’t noticed that before. I kind of thought someone had hurled a bowl of stew across the room and it had shattered and dripped down the wall. I like my scenario a bit better, I must admit. I much prefer dinner to murder, and not just because I skipped lunch: I always prefer dinner.

“
Oh, I’m always looking for someone,” he smiles, and he is even more handsome. His eyes positively sparkle. I hadn’t known that was possible before now; I thought it was merely an artistic expression, like,
a babbling brook,
or,
a broken heart.
“Is everyone mostly gone then?”

“
No, well, that is, yes, most are, but there are still a few. It takes a while to transfer when you need to go one or two at a time. Can’t exactly pack them all in one car, can we? Riots and jealousy and claustrophobia and all that,” I hope I’m not being crass, but it’s simply the truth. Paranoid people don’t do well in crowds.

“
I see. Do you want some help? Is there anything I can help you with?” He actually looks as though he means it.

“
Of course not.” His helpful demeanor makes me nervous (I’ve never had a real gentleman offer to do anything for me), and I practically stammer in my surprise. “Miss Helmes can help you locate your person. If you like, I’ll fetch her for you.”

Then, as is inevitable, Miss Helmes manifests herself immediately during the mention of her name. She slinks into the room like a skinny cat that smells a mouse. My teacup dangles from her long fingers, as though it is distasteful. I imagine her knocking me over the head with it.

“Ah, Mr. Connelly, did you find—” Miss Helmes’ voice cuts off when she sees me there, standing directly beside the man, and she frowns. “Oh. I see.”

“
Mr. Connelly here was looking for someone,” I go back to my scrubbing.

“
Yes, I know. Mr. Connelly, a word?” She exits as quickly and silently as she arrived, and I let out the breath, that for some absurd reason, I had been holding.

I feel a soft tug on my braid and look up, surprised. The man smiles and gives me a slight wink.