Chapter 8 Cold as the Grave
Daphne
Cold as the grave
It was cold. Breathing hurt. Surely, those demons had broken a rib or two. My lips were so cracked that I couldn’t form a word.
“There, there.” Doctor Vexley’s soothing voice made my blood run cold. I cracked a swollen eyelid open. The gray light in his office was even scarcer. I sat on a chair before his desk. He was watching me, his eyes cold and sharp behind the golden frames.
“You’re turning into quite the disappointment. All my hopes for something rare—and all I see is hysteria.”
So, I got my chance to speak to him. That was the good news.
The bad one: convincing him I was harmless and normal was out of the question now.
“I—” My voice broke, and I cleared my throat. It hurt so much as if someone had shoved razors down it. The room danced around me, and I wondered when I had eaten last. “I need to speak to my brother. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I am not mad.”
Looking down at my bloodied nightgown and scratched legs, I realized how ridiculous this claim sounded.
He rose from behind the desk and paced, circling me like a vulture, drawing closer with each pass.
“I’m afraid not, Daphne,” he said with a smile, tossing my name into the cold air without a trace of etiquette. This familiarity was scandalous.
“Violent. Delusional. Prone to manic episodes. The picture is quite clear to me.”
I inhaled with a hiss. Agony pierced my left side. There was also a hot, pulsating ache in my right wrist.
“I… want… to speak to Lord Draymoore,” I spat, hoping that reminding him of our family’s status would help.
“You didn’t ask how Becky is.” Suddenly, he was over me, his face cold and close. “She’s an orphan, you know. Picked her up from the streets. Gave her a job.”
Guilt pierced me, twisting an ugly blade in my chest.
“How…is she?” I muttered, looking down at my bloodied bare feet.
The doctor’s brows climbed up, and he adjusted his golden spectacles.
“Empathy!” he exclaimed, that maddening smile pulling at his lips but not reaching his eyes.
“How interesting. Is it fake, though?” He walked around the desk and leaned on it.
“What triggered you? What provoked that attack, Daphne?”
“It’s Lady Draymoore for you, Doctor,” I managed through clenched teeth.
Something about this man was not right. His hands gripped the armrests of my chair, his breath brushing my cheeks, smelling of tobacco, camphor soap, and spite.
My heart leapt inside my ribcage like a tiny, trapped animal.
He reminded me of a puppet, an empty husk occupied by some demonic entity.
He was too cold, too sterile to be human.
“Oh no, it is not. You’re a murder suspect, shunned by her family and a patient of mine—quite a violent one. So you’re nobody, Daphne,” he hissed.
Blood-chilling as it was, I was glad to see some emotion on his face, even if it was disdain. “And you’ll follow my orders if you want to keep that name.”
“I need to speak to my brother.”
“Daphne—” He clicked his tongue in disappointment. “You need to work with me. We need to fix you. And I need your full cooperation. Will you cooperate, Daphne?”
Venom trickled from each word, especially from the way he pronounced my name. I remained silent.
He walked to the window and looked into the gray day outside. “It’s clearly hysteria. Luckily, I have the most modern methods at my disposal. Have you heard of that new treatment with electricity?”
An icy shudder ran down my spine, and the doctor turned around, noticing my terror. He grinned, pleased by my vulnerability.
“But your case is not that severe, right? I think some cold baths and soothing medication will be enough—for a start.”
He rang a small bronze bell hidden among the piles of papers on his desk. Three of the demonic nurses swarmed the room. Their aprons were still stained with Becky’s blood, and my stomach churned.
“Cold baths. The usual duration. Then some fresh air,” he ordered, turning his back to us.
The women dragged me outside.
“It was the hair, for sure,” he said, obviously pleased with his discovery. “Noble ladies value their hair highly.”
The door clicked closed behind me. They dragged me through the drafty corridors, full of sobbing and cries. The steely grip of the nurses bruised my forearms.
“You’ll follow my orders if you want to keep that name,” he said.
What would this place do to me in days? In weeks? Or months?
Would I become one of those ghosts haunting the corridors and the gardens?
Becky’s blood still stained the bathroom tiles.
“Easy now, you don’t want any trouble with us,” one of them said. “Cold baths are good for you.”
They brought me into a large room, where rows of copper tubs stretched all the way to a narrow window. The frigid wind blew in some snowflakes, and our breaths came out in milky puffs. Before I could open my mouth in protest, they shoved me into a full tub.
There was no warning.
My shin hit the sharp edge, but the pain paled in comparison to the shock of my body being completely submerged in icy water.
Thousands of needles pierced my skin while my lungs screamed in agony—someone was holding my head underwater. For one long, terrible moment, I was sure that this was how I would die.
Yet the nurses knew what they were doing, and just as my movements slowed, they pulled me by my hair above the surface. I sucked in the air greedily, white flashes swimming across my vision.
“See? It calmed you,” one of them crooned. The rest laughed when they heard my teeth chatter.
When my heart slowed down, they pulled me out of the freezing water.
“Blue becomes you, Lady Draymoore,” one mocked.
I shook so intensely that I couldn’t even snap back.
“All calm now. Time to get some fresh air. It’s good for the nerves.”
If I was freezing in the water, the rush of cold air made everything much worse. I was shaking so violently that I bit my tongue, filling my mouth with blood. “I...I need to change,” I muttered.
No way was I going outside wearing only a soaked, tattered nightgown.
I didn’t even have any shoes on.
The nurses cackled.
“Perhaps a dress for tea?” Anne suggested.
“Or a gown for a walk in the park? And a bonnet with a feather?” Pulling my hair and shoving me, they led me to the main entrance.
“Go around and meet our other guests, Lady Draymoore,” Alice said, pushing me into the garden. “Mingle around and be social and graceful, like a proper lady.”
I stumbled down the stairs and wrapped my arms around my body in a desperate attempt to preserve some warmth.
The garden was empty, the bony hands of the trees scratching the gray sky.
A thin layer of snow shrouded the frozen ground.
The cold beneath my bare feet was so intense that it felt like walking on glowing embers.
Mother, sweet Mother, help me survive this.
I limped to a tree and leaned against the rough bark. It sheltered my back from the biting wind. I rubbed my arms, but my movements were slowing down.
How long would I last out here?
How long until I got pneumonia?
A sound from the sky broke the silence. A flock of ravens landed in the black branches above me, the birds studying me with beady black eyes.
One of them hopped onto the snowy ground, just a foot away from my blue-tinted toes.
The bird cocked its head, letting out an odd squawk that sounded almost like a question.
“Shoo,” I said, teeth chattering. “Not about to die yet.”
His friends followed soon, and I was surrounded by a swarm of glossy feathers, whispering wings, and glittering eyes. Their presence was not menacing, though.
“Wish I had your feathers,” I mumbled, rubbing my arms more vigorously.
The bird standing closest puffed its feathers and crooned with empathy.
The sound of a carriage approaching startled it, and it craned its neck to see who was arriving.
“Arthur!” I whispered, hope blooming against my better judgment.
Yet the carriage that shook to a stop didn’t bear our family’s crest. It was black and unmarked. Doctor Vexley was already outside, dressed in a warm coat, rubbing his hands to warm them.
The carriage door opened, and a man stepped out.
I let out a disappointed hiss. That was not Arthur.
The man was tall and breathtakingly handsome, with the casual elegance of old money and good genes. His sapphire blue eyes brushed over the sad landscape—and snagged on my shivering form.
A wave of shame choked me, so hot and suffocating that I nearly felt warm. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hide the way the wet, tattered nightgown clung to my body.
Too late.
The newcomer’s attention fixed on me, and he said something to Vexley.
Now, both were staring at me, and I suddenly wanted to run. It was more than just shame that made me uncomfortable.
Something was odd about this man.
Despite his sculpted features and long blond tresses, despite the French-tailored suit—there was something wrong.
The ravens sensed it, too. They took off, filling the air with hateful screeches.
Was it the cold, the beating, the hunger—or was I already losing my mind?
I wasn’t sure.
But for a moment, it looked as if Vexley’s visitor had sprouted powerful wings that glittered silver in the gray light.
I blinked—and just like that, the wings were gone.
Vexley cursed as he led the visitor inside.
“Damned birds,” he said apologetically.
“Those are no ordinary birds, Septimus,” the visitor said with an accent I couldn’t place.
Before disappearing into the dark purgatory, the newcomer turned once more, looking straight at me. Then he smiled and dipped his chin, touching the edge of his top hat like a real gentleman.
And, to my surprise, I wasn’t keen on going back inside.
Somehow, I preferred the biting cold to the presence of that odd man.