Page 48 of A Madness So Discreet

“Do you think that’s what it is, Grace?” Lizzie asked. “He’s angry that he’s unable to . . . to . . .”

“Get a cockstand,” Nell put in, and Lizzie threw Grace’s pillow in Nell’s face.

Grace pulled the lantern off the bedside table in time to keep it from falling to the floor as Nell tweaked Lizzie’s long braid. “Ye go ahead and doubt wha’ I’m sayin’ if you like, me friend,” Nell said. “If you want a better reason, maybe String knows what drives a man to killin’.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Lizzie said. “String only hears what goes on in the people around me, and then only those that let their thoughts flow free. I couldn’t tell you what President Harrison had for dinner or anything like that.”

“And who cares, anyway? I’m more interested in wha’ I’m having,” Nell said. “I almost forgot to tell you lassies, wha’ with the excitin’ trip to the whorehouse—we been invited to Janey’s for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Lizzie clapped her hands together. “Have we really? What a treat! But, poor Grace, you look confused.”

Grace was indeed quite lost, as her eyes went back and forth between her friends.

“Sometimes for special occasions, certain staff members can take well-behaved patients off grounds,” Lizzie explained.

“An’ the rest of us go along illegally,” Nell interrupted.

“Nonsense.” Lizzie shushed her. “You’ve been to Janey’s before. We went last Halloween, remember? The girl from the third floor went too . . . what was her name?”

“Sophia,” Nell said. “She were a nice enough lassie till Janey’s mum brought the jack-o’-lantern out.”

“I never did understand it,” Lizzie said.

“I had seeds in me hair fer days,” Nell said. “And we near burned the ’ouse down. But Janey said she assured ’er mum that Grace won’t be throwin’ nothin’.”

“And it’s Thanksgiving anyway,” Lizzie said. “So there won’t be any jack-o’-lanterns.”

Nell narrowed her eyes at Grace. “Ye don’t ’ave anythin’ against turkeys, do ye?”

The three girls burst into laughter, heedless of the dark and the wind outside.

TWENTY-SIX

Sundays brought fewer people as the air found its teeth, the bite of cold chasing them away from the grounds and into the warmth of their homes. A few brave souls still traversed the paths, their desire for fresh air before winter bringing them out despite the colder temperatures. Mary and her mother were among them, though the baby was left behind to rest more comfortably with his father. By an unspoken agreement Grace had been under the willow every Sunday since they met, and when their paths crossed she would look to the mother for permission before holding out a hand to Mary.

The girl always flew to her, the weight of her little body bringing a bittersweet happiness. This was not her sister but a stand-in for Grace’s affections, the mother a walking reminder of what Grace’s life should have been. She looked to the little family for a glimmer of what life was like beyond the brick walls she now called home, and while she knew they offered her safety, they also denied her a life like theirs.

One Sunday they did not come, and Grace’s fingers curled around Alice’s most recent letter, the tips of them nearly blue with the cold. The pages had become fewer and far between, and though Grace continued to write to Falsteed and Alice, she often received no reply from her little sister. Reed weighed her pages with stones, but the fingers of the wind could reach into any crevice, and Grace knew that many of her well-intended letters were read by no one. She pored over the one in her hands as the wind whipped at the pages, until she heard someone coming along the path.

Grace came to her feet, a smile of greeting in place for Mary and her mother, but it soon disappeared when a fellow inmate rounded the corner, his loping gait stalling when he spotted her.

“Hello, hello,” he called. “Cold day. You must have the wandering bug, like me.” He left the path, his feet eating the distance between them as Grace tried to widen it by backing away. But the lake was behind her, and she could only retreat so far.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Patrick’s never hurt anybody. Patrick don’t hurt people.”

She motioned at him to go away, Alice’s letter fluttering in her hands. He ignored her, eyes drawn to the paper.

“What have you got? What is it?” He came closer and Grace dodged to the side, ready to run for the asylum. He snagged her wrist and bent it, plucking the letter from her numb hand in an instant.

“From a lover? Is it? From a man?” His eyes roamed the pages, and Grace felt her panic dissolving into rage as he followed a line with one huge finger, mouth moving with the words.

She ran at him, but he moved quickly, holding the pages above his head and dancing out of the way as she grabbed for them.

“She wants it back, yes she does. She wants it,” he sang. Grace tore at his arm but he lifted her whole frame, swinging her in the air easily. She kicked at his shin and he yelled, dropping her near the base of the willow. Grace grabbed a broken branch from the ground, whirling to stab at him with the sharp point. He sidestepped her lunge, laughing as he tore one of the pages in half, lifting the shreds to the wind.

Grace screamed, the sound tearing through the cold air and following the ripped pages as they blew out over the lake. She went after him again, no feint in her stab as she drove at him. Footsteps were running down the path but she ignored them, her entire being bent on getting what was left of Alice’s letter back even if it meant impaling her tormentor. Strong hands grabbed her before she could do it, and she was wrestled to the ground, her stick tossed out of her reach.

“Patrick!” a male nurse yelled as he squared off against the patient. “What do you think you’re doing?”