Maelstrom (19 page)

“Each month,” Persephone replied. “And I’m
helping Christine decorate for her wedding.”

“You are? So am I!” Miss Parkhurst’s excited
tones faded as they disappeared down the street.

I shut the door and looked at the clock. “No
sense in going to bed,” I said. “I’d have to rise in an hour
anyway, to catch the cursed train.”

Griffin winced sympathetically. “Perhaps you
can get some sleep on the train before you have to see your
brother.”

“Ah, yes, Stanford.” I made for the stairs.
“And to think, on an ordinary day, battling an evil rat creature
would be the worst thing I’d have to face.”

Whyborne

It began to rain when we reached the New
York state line, and continued all the way to the private asylum
where my brother now resided.

I napped fitfully. Father never traveled
anywhere except in his private car, which had every imaginable
amenity, including a porter to tend only to our needs. After a
light lunch, I had the man prepare the sleeper, curled up, and
tried to ignore the rocking motion of the train. It invaded my
dreams, however, and the whistle became a scream, waking me from
nightmares.

Father and I spoke little, either on the
train or in the coach that took us from the station to the asylum.
The place bore no resemblance to a public institution such as
Stormhaven. Rather, it might easily have passed as a large private
residence. True, there were more than the usual number of men
watching the high brick wall surrounding the grounds, but otherwise
it formed the very picture of gentility. Rain dripped from the oaks
dotting the wide lawns, and I imagined that on fair days, the
patients might pass many a pleasant hour in their shade.

We disembarked beneath the portico. The air
smelled of green grass and wet earth, so very different from the
omnipresent odor of fish clinging to Widdershins. Did Stanford miss
it? We weren’t meant to leave the city for long; even Guinevere had
eventually returned.

Or perhaps Widdershins sometimes released
what it collected. But I doubted it. The nature of a vortex was to
draw things in, after all.

A smiling man with a thick silver beard
greeted us on the steps. “Mr. Whyborne, a pleasure as always,” he
said heartily. “And this must be the younger Mr. Whyborne.”

“Dr. Whyborne,” I replied stiffly as we
shook hands.

“Percival, this is Dr. Hayes,” Father
said.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Dr. Hayes
said. “Your visit will be instrumental in your brother’s treatment,
I’m certain of it.”

“Er, that’s...that’s good,” I said.

“How is Stanford today, doctor?” Father
asked as we went inside.

“Oh, very well, very well indeed.” The
doctor glanced over his shoulder at me. “He’s abandoned a great
many of his delusions since coming here. His irrational beliefs
about you in particular, Dr. Whyborne.”

I expected him to lead us to some sort of
ward, as when Griffin and I had visited Stormhaven. Instead, he
ushered us into a finely appointed room near the entrance, which
looked more like the parlor in some grand mansion than something in
an asylum for lunatics. “Would you care for some refreshment,
gentlemen? Coffee? Brandies?”

I sat gingerly on a velvet-covered chair.
“Coffee, if you please,” I said.

“A brandy for me,” Father replied.

“I’ll let my man know. Just give me a
moment, and I’ll return with Mr. Whyborne.”

The doctor bustled off, leaving us
temporarily alone. As soon as he was gone, I leaned over to Father.
“You do remember Stanford isn’t actually delusional, don’t you?” I
demanded in a low voice.

Father shifted his weight slightly. “Of
course I do.”

“Then what is all this talk of treatment and
progress?” I clutched the arm of his chair. “Stanford is here
because he tried to murder a great many people, including us! He
killed Guinevere!”

“I know that, Percival,” Father snapped.
“The doctor says whatever he thinks will make me happy.”

“And what if he decides Stanford is well
enough to be released? What then? You can’t—”

The door opened and Stanford entered.

I hadn’t seen my brother in nearly two
years. At the time, he’d been thickening around the waist,
following an athletic youth. He’d lost the weight, but regained no
muscle, giving him a surprisingly gaunt appearance. Gray showed at
his temples, even though he was only four years my elder.

“Percival,” he said, holding out his hand to
me. “I’m so glad to see you.”

It was everything I could do not to strike
his hand aside. I tried to keep the shake as brief as possible, but
he latched onto my hand with both of his. “Thank you for coming,”
he said earnestly, his fingers tightening on mine. “You can’t know
how much this means to me.”

I felt my face settling into those cold
lines Griffin had spoken of before, but I couldn’t help it.
Stanford had tormented me as a child, but his behavior then paled
before the fact he’d murdered our sister. He’d shot Griffin. He
would have unleashed a horde of ketoi upon the land, had already
used them to sink ships and destroy anyone who stood against him,
killing dozens of innocent sailors in the process.

I hated him with every fiber of my
being.

I wrenched my hand free, unable to bear his
touch a second longer. “I’m sure I don’t,” I said as I took my seat
again.

Stanford and Father greeted each other; at
least Father retained his own reserve in the face of Stanford’s
effusive warmth. A servant brought me coffee, and brandies for
Father and Stanford, while the doctor stood beaming in the
doorway.

I wanted to snatch the brandy from
Stanford’s hand and throw it in his face. I couldn’t stop comparing
this sumptuous prison to Stormhaven’s tiny cells. To the horrors
Griffin had suffered during his own confinement in Illinois.

No electrical probes here. No restraints. No
attendants who abused the bodies of their patients, because who
would believe the word of a madman against theirs?

I’d never stooped so low as to fantasize
about Stanford suffering as Griffin had, but seeing this, I wanted
to scream at Father for keeping him out of prison.

“I’ll leave you here to speak privately,”
Dr. Hayes said, once we were settled. “Just ring the bell when
you’re ready.”

He departed and closed the door behind him.
I folded my hands in my lap and tried to conceal the shaking of my
fingers. “What is the point of this charade?” I asked.

Stanford’s eyes widened. “No charade,
brother. I only wanted to see you, that I might apologize
face-to-face.”

“You, apologize?” I let out a bark of
laughter, but there was no humor in it. “Since when have you ever
apologized for anything?”

He gave me a sad look. “Since I had time to
reflect on things. On what I’ve done.” Stanford bowed his head and
stared contemplatively at his brandy. “Being here, away from
everything...well, I was angry at first. I felt you’d stolen my
destiny from me. The doctors don’t realize I’m not mad, but talking
with them still helped me see I had it all wrong.”

I sat back in my chair, crossing my legs and
folding my arms over my chest. “Oh really?”

“Yes. I was jealous, when we were children,
you know. You were the only one of us Mother spent any time with.”
His shoulders slumped. “I tried to make up for the lack by
impressing Father, but as much as he did for me, it wasn’t the
same.”

The devil? “You’re
blaming
Mother
for
your abominable behavior?”

“Of course not!” He gave me a pleading look
that I didn’t believe for one second. “She was sick, and so were
you. I understand that now. But as a child, I only knew my little
brother seemed to have stolen away all of Mother’s affection.”

I let my arms fall, fists clenching. “How
dare you speak this nonsense to me?”

“Percival, let your brother have his say,”
Father cut in.

“He had his say when he murdered Guinevere!”
I rose to my feet. “He had his say in the foyer of the museum! I
don’t know why I agreed to come here, but I refuse to participate
in this—this farce any longer.”

“Brother, please.” Stanford rose as well,
his hands out in supplication. “I don’t ask you to excuse my
actions. I’m only trying to explain why I wanted to see you. I’ve
come to understand that I was wrong, horribly wrong. Nothing will
ever make up for Guinevere’s death, or for the rest of it. I don’t
expect to ever see the world outside these walls again, and I’m at
peace with that. I only want to ask your forgiveness.”

“Well, you don’t have it,” I shot back.
“You’re a bully and a murderer, and I owe you nothing. Least of all
forgiveness.”

Infuriatingly, Stanford retained his calm.
“I understand you’re angry. But you held back, when you might have
killed me and called it self-defense. I can only conclude that,
deep down, you still have hope for our relationship.”

Maybe I’d been too hasty, when I said
Stanford wasn’t mad. Perhaps his confinement had been harsher than
I realized, and had driven him insane, because how else could he
believe this nonsense?

“Or perhaps I didn’t want to burden our
parents with the death of another child.” I turned to Father.
“Waste your time here if you like. I’ll await you in the
coach.”

Stanford seized my arm as I stepped toward
the door. Memories arose, of all the cruelties he’d inflicted on me
when we were youths, and I tore free. “Touch me again, and I’ll set
you on fire.”

He held his hands up. “I’m sorry, Percival.
I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted you to know that I’ve
changed.” An odd smile crept over his face. “And I have faith that,
given time, you’ll change as well.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said, and slammed the
door behind me.

Griffin

Iskander joined me across the street from
the Ladysmith shortly before closing time. We’d both dressed as
laborers, and I carried a leather tool satchel. I leaned up against
the side of a building, pretending to scan a paper I’d purchased
from the newsstand.

I’d used the same ruse years before, wishing
to observe the reclusive Dr. Whyborne before handing over a
critical piece of evidence to him. He’d arrived on foot from the
omnibus stop nearby, taller than anyone else in the crowd despite
his tendency to stoop. When he paused to let a gaggle of ladies
past, I got a good look at his profile. Even though I wouldn’t have
called him particularly handsome, something about the sight
sharpened my interest from strictly professional to personal.

Odd, how my whole life had changed in that
instant without my knowing it. There should have been fanfare, or a
beam of light from the heavens. Something to tell me nothing would
ever be the same again.

Iskander slouched against the wall beside
me, and I gave him part of the paper. While Iskander and I stalked
Mr. Quinn, Christine would await us at Whyborne House, ostensibly
making the final decisions and arrangements for the wedding.
Knowing Christine, she’d spend the time pacing the floor instead.
Whyborne would join us there, when he returned from his trip to New
York.

“Nervous about the wedding yet?” I asked to
pass the time.

Iskander pretended to study the personal
ads. “Nervous isn’t precisely the word I’d use. Terrified,
perhaps?”

I winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Christine is just so bloody minded.” The
paper crinkled beneath his bronze hands. “Which, obviously, I knew
before, but her choice of flowers and assistants...God only knows
what Persephone will bring. This was supposed to be normal,
supposed to impress society and keep them from sneering at her for
marrying a-a half-breed. Instead I’ll be lucky if Christine doesn’t
walk down the aisle wearing a squid on her head!”

“That is an unfortunate possibility,” I
agreed. “Although at least they’ll be to busy staring at her to
notice your skin.”

He laughed. “I suppose you have a point.
Still, they’re bound to notice I’m half-Egyptian at some
point.”

“Have you tried discussing the matter with
her?”

“Of course.” He sighed. “You know Christine.
She didn’t wish to hear it, and we ended quarreling.”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps it would be best to
concentrate on your happy marriage after the wedding, rather than
the ceremony itself,” I suggested.

“I suppose you’re right. At least I had the
foresight to select the menu. Otherwise, I fear we’d find ourselves
dining on roasted camel.” He turned the page of the paper he wasn’t
actually reading. “Forgive me, Griffin. This must sound like a
bunch of damnable whining to you, I’m sure.”

“Not at all.”

“That’s kind of you to say.
But at least we
can
wed. In the eyes of wider society, that is—I know you consider
yourself wed. And I do, too,” he hastened to add. “Consider you
married, I mean.”

I laughed. “I thought your father was a
diplomat?”

“Apparently I failed to learn from his
example,” Iskander said with a wince. “Did I ever tell you what
Christine said to me about you? After we, well, confessed our
affection to one another, she immediately informed me that if I so
much as looked askance at you and Whyborne, she’d never speak to me
again either personally or professionally.”

It drew a grin from me. “I imagined as much.
Hold your paper a bit higher—I don’t think anyone will take a
closer look, but we are right outside of the museum.”

He adjusted the paper higher and ducked his
head lower, so the brim of his cap shadowed his features. “I owe
Whyborne a bottle of good scotch—without his intervention, I fear
Christine wouldn’t even have picked out flowers yet. Actually, she
seems convinced that his sudden interest in our wedding is because
he wished something more elaborate for himself.”