A Madness So Discreet (6 page)

T
he first man came down like a demon being cast back into the hell he'd escaped from. The lanterns in the hands of the male assistants swung crazily as they dodged his blows. Shadows leaped across the walls and Thornhollow emerged from them, his white shirt now spattered with blood.

The knot of male bodies twisted outside Grace's cell, but he slipped in between them easily, wrapping his forearm across the patient's neck. Thornhollow was not a large man, but Grace could see the knotty muscles at work as the patient realized he could not escape the doctor's grip.

Grace could see that force was not the only thing bringing the man's struggles to an end. Thornhollow's voice rose and fell rhythmically, his mouth moving next to the patient's ear as he made
promises that no one but the two of them would ever know. The man slumped in either agreement or defeat. Thornhollow released him and the orderlies moved him farther down the hall into the promising dark. As the doctor moved away from her she caught the faintest whiff of a scent from her former life, one so reminiscent of luxury that it was difficult to place amid the foulness that surrounded her. It lingered even as the doctor disappeared into the surgery, and Grace raised her hands as if to follow its translucent path.

The only thing to answer her silent supplication was the emerging face of the spider girl, almost unrecognizable. Her features had worn a mask of misery for so long that the slackness of peace made her almost beautiful as Reed guided her to her cell. A bandage held the hair back from her cheekbones no longer clenched in pain. Her eyes were wide and bright, the sheen of suspicion and fear vanished. She looked at ease for the first time; whatever her horrific past had been wiped clean with a flash of Thornhollow's blade.

The scent flowed from her too, heavy and redolent in the mire of the cellar, bringing with it the memory of warm baths. Grace watched the girl lean against the bars of her cell for support as she slid to the stone floor, her gaze blank and satisfied, the smell of luxury drifting from her corner.

“Thornhollow,” Grace cried, when she heard the hollow banging of the door at the end of the hall. “Come here, Thornhollow!” All the authority she'd carried in the time before swelled her vocal
cords, and her voice came out stronger than it had been in months. He came out of the depths, a question stamped on his features.

“Here,” she called. “Next to Falsteed.”

Thornhollow carried a lantern, and though her voice was strong, Grace flinched when the light fell on her. He studied her for a moment, and she fought against the years of training that told her to not meet his gaze.

“Hello there,” Thornhollow said. “And what demand do you make of me?”

“I only wish to know, sir,” Grace said, “why is it that you should bring roses to only one lady when there are two who wish to receive them?”

“Roses?” Thornhollow's eyebrows rose in surprise, and she heard Falsteed move closer in the adjoining cell, though he did not come into the light. “What do you mean?”

“Oil of roses,” she said. “You reek of it, as does she, though she went in smelling like the rest of us. Whatever you've done to her to bring forgetfulness, the roses play a part. Give me the same, so that I may know less.”

“You do not know what you ask, though I'll show you,” Thornhollow said. “Falsteed—”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“I assume this is your favor?”

“Not what she is asking for, no. Our Grace has a quick mind. I'd not see it incapacitated.”

“Mmm . . .” Thornhollow held the lantern close to the bars of her cell and peered deeply into her eyes, as if to illuminate her brain and make an assessment that moment.

“Quick or not, she'll have to wait. There's a man down the hall who is quite insane and needs me immediately.” He gave her one last look before pulling the lantern away, the coldness of the cell instantly sapping all the heat her cheeks had gained from it. His footsteps receded and Grace sank to the floor, all initiative gone now that she had his attention. He would be back, and she would make her plea.

“Grace,” Falsteed chided in the dark. “No.”

“The roses,” she said, sighing. “The smell of the roses, it undid me. How can I call it a life when I curl in the darkness, covered in my own filth? I was once surrounded by light and smelled as lovely as a garden. I'd rather forget both than remember either.”

“Oil of roses,” Falsteed said. “You've got a good nose.”

The second patient was brought down before Thornhollow came to her. Grace watched with a keen eye as the insane went into the dark room at the end of the passage like feral animals and walked out led by Reed, simple and trusting as children. If the slackness of their faces was off-putting, the dead calm of their eyes offset it, promising that the tumult that had once raged within was now at rest.

Thornhollow followed on the heels of the last patient, arriving at Grace's cell with fresh blood spatters speckling his bared forearms. She rose when he came close, moving into the light of the lantern
with a calm determination. His eyes searched her face before he spoke.

“You've seen it three times now, and you'd still know what goes on in the shadows where Heedson has me do my work?”

“I would,” Grace said, her voice unwavering.

Thornhollow produced a key. “Courtesy of Reed,” he said, unlocking her cell door. The hinges protested as the door moved, and Grace felt the first rush of apprehension. She hadn't left her safe square of life in the days since she'd been brought to the cellar. She knew the stones under her feet well—her hardened soles had traced their edges in the blackness many sleepless nights. And now her cell had been opened by a man who wielded forgetfulness with a blade.

She stepped out and heard Falsteed's murmur of disapproval.

“Enough,” Thornhollow snapped. “I'll show her, and she'll make her own decisions.” He beckoned with the lantern for Grace to move down the hall and she went, the pale circle of light barely casting a few inches of sight past her grimed toes. Thornhollow followed behind her, his shoes ringing out on the stones.

The hall had always been shrouded in darkness, his earlier patients seeming to evaporate into an unlit hell to rematerialize as tamed demons. The door was not far. Thornhollow reached past her and lifted the latch.

The room was sparse, holding only a bed and table. The brightness of the linens leaped at Grace's eyes as if there were a phantom
in the room, except for a few dark drops that appeared nearly black in the dim light. She crossed to the opposite side of the table, enjoying the feel of the clean stone under her feet. On the table was Thornhollow's toolbox, the meticulous order now in disarray, along with the apple corer and broken eggshells.

“I suppose to the unpracticed it seems a bit more of a kitchen than a surgery,” Thornhollow said as he set the lantern on the table.

“Explain it to me, then,” she said, running her finger through a trace of yolk.

Thornhollow crossed his arms and studied her for a moment before speaking. She stared back, savoring the appearance of a new face after being denied company for so long. The meager light could hardly penetrate the hollows of his eyes, but she could see the muscles of his jaw tensing as they studied each other, the slightest tic beneath his red sideburns giving him away.

“First you'll show me why Falsteed thinks your mind is quick. It's not a compliment he pays easily and I'm intrigued. You caught on quickly enough about the oil of roses, but it takes more than that for me to call you clever.” Thornhollow leaned against the wall. “So, impress me.”

“I . . .” Grace's recently found voice died inside of her, unable to find proof of her intelligence on demand. “Georgia was not present at the First Continental Congress.”

Thornhollow laughed at the trivial fact, a harsh sound that echoed
in their small chamber. “Tell me something I'll find interesting.”

Grace dropped her eyes, gaze going to his shoes, which were splattered with the blood of those gone before her. She closed her eyes, allowing a picture to be drawn there. “The man who came in here before me was very large, but you overpowered him with words more than strength. He had a tattoo . . .” She turned her body as his had been positioned in front of her cell as he struggled with the doctor. “It was on his left bicep. It was of a letter
M
.”

The doctor said nothing, and she took encouragement from that. She squeezed her eyes tighter in search of the smaller details. “He was missing two teeth on the right side of his mouth, a third turned inward at an awkward angle. And his eyes were blue.”

The silence continued and she opened her eyes. “Doctor?”

“Very good,” he said, though his face didn't change expression. “I did indeed find that quite interesting. Since you seem to have some interest in knowing what happens in this room and have asked for the same treatment for yourself, I'll explain. But I warn you, it's not a pretty story.”

“Then it's the kind I've grown accustomed to.”

“Very well, then. Have you ever heard of a fellow named Phineas Gage?”

Grace blinked. “I don't believe so, should I have?”

“In your circles? No. In mine he's a miracle, but I shall have to acquaint you with him. Some forty-odd years ago Phineas Gage was
a railroad worker. His specific job was a blaster, which means that he would drill holes into bedrock, fill them with gunpowder, add a layer of sand, and then press the charge down into the rock with his tamping iron before igniting it. Now, a tamping iron is—”

“Doctor,” Grace interrupted, “I have to struggle for every word I speak and only wish to know what you've done to the others. Must you tell me these things?”

“No, but I'm answering questions you haven't asked yet. If I do it in a circuitous manner you'll have to suffer through it. I only have a short time to inform you about the history of my medical practice and then offer my services to you, should you be so inclined.”

Grace wordlessly settled back into the chair, crossing her ankles beneath the filthy dress, a mannerism that had been ingrained in her by her governess, which the doctor's quick eyes took in.

“As I was saying,” Thornhollow said, his tone warning her not to interrupt, “Phineas worked with a tamping iron, a long metal rod with a sharp tip. Something like a spear, but a heavy one at that. Phineas had his made to order, and it weighed about thirteen pounds, which you'll understand why I make a note of its heft in a moment.”

Thornhollow laced his hands behind his back, his feet wandering the stones as his story flowed.

“One day, his fellow workman failed to put the sand on top of the gunpowder, which is why anyone even knows the name of Phineas
Gage. He struck with the dull end of the tamping iron directly onto black gunpowder, triggering an explosion that drove the tamping iron through his skull.”

Thornhollow's steps brought him behind Grace. “It entered here,” he said, suddenly jamming his fingers under her cheekbone below her left eye. She jumped at his touch, but he casually traced his finger along her head as if she hadn't moved. “It passed through the roof of his mouth, behind his left eye, and exited through the top of his skull, here.” He tapped her hairline, but she sat still this time.

“Amazingly, the man didn't die.” Thornhollow's hands spread out, framing her face, his own lit with the excitement of his tale. “Gage was thrown onto his back, but only a minute after the explosion he was up and speaking, despite the fact that the tamping iron had passed cleanly through his brain.

“Luckily for Gage, the nearest doctor actually knew something about treating head wounds, and his injured brain had room to swell thanks to the opening in the top of his head. With a little time Phineas healed completely, and yet those who knew him said that Gage was . . . no longer Gage.”

“What do you mean?” Grace asked.

“Gage was a kind, well-mannered man before the tamping iron passed through his brain. After his recovery he was rude, ill-tempered, and vulgar with women. The man who struck that tamping iron was not the same man who left the doctor's office healed.
The injury to his brain had altered his personality.”

“Altered,” Grace echoed, thinking of the shrieking men who had passed by her cell hours before, only to leave this room tame as lap kittens. “And so you've done something similar, haven't you? But in reverse. You've found a way to . . . to . . .” Her gaze slipped to the apple corer, and her stomach rolled.

“Don't leap to conclusions yet, though I see Falsteed was right in calling you clever. It's not a simple chore, and I'm sure you've noted by the size of my valise that I'm not driving thirteen-pound tamping irons into people's skulls.”

“I'd imagine not,” Grace said, but her eyes were still on the apple corer.

He followed them and picked up the tool. “What I did was combine the knowledge of what we learned from Phineas Gage with the common practice of trepanning. As I said before, Gage was lucky in that his wound was an open one, allowing his brain to swell. Most patients with injured brains don't know they're in danger until it's too late. A kick from a horse or a fall from a ladder may jar them, but they don't realize that their brain is swelling inside their skull, pressing against the bone and cutting off blood flow.

“It's long been a common practice to cut a hole in the skull of such a patient, allowing the brain to swell as it needs, then closing the wound. Different doctors use all manner of different things to pack the wound with, but I prefer lint soaked in—”

“Oil of roses,” Grace interrupted again, rolling her fingers together, still coated in the residue from the table. “And the eggs?”

“I'm guessing you've never had to wash your own breakfast plate. If you had you'd be well aware that a dried egg is almost impossible to remove from anything it's adhered to. I've not found its equal for closing up wounds that shouldn't be stitched.”