Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2) Page 68

Tom ushers me into a wood-paneled parlor, where several women sit sewing. An older woman, slightly disheveled, concentrates intently on playing the piano, tapping out a childlike tune and singing along in a soft, shaky vibrato. In one corner stands a cage that houses a beautiful parrot. The bird squawks. "How are we feeling? How are we feeling?"

"They have a parrot?" I whisper. I'm trying to keep my composure, to make it seem as if I visit asylums every day.

"Yes. Cassandra is her name. She's quite the talker. She picks up a bit of everything from our patients. Botany, navigation, nonsensical ramblings. Soon we shall have to cure her as well."

As if on cue, Cassandra screeches out, "I am a great poet. I am a great poet."

Tom nods. "One of our patients, Mr. Osborne, fancies himself a poet worth a small fortune. He is quite affronted by our efforts to keep him here and writes daily letters to his publisher and the Duke of Wales."

The older woman at the piano stops suddenly. Extremely agitated and wringing her hands, she approaches Tom."Is this all a dream? Do you know?" she asks in a worried voice.

"I assure you this is all quite real, Mrs. Sommers."

"Are they going to hurt me? Have I been wicked?" She pulls at her eyelashes. A few come away in her hand.

A nurse in a starched white apron flits over, stops her."Now, now, Mrs. Sommers, what happened to our lovely tune? Let's come back to the piano, shall we?"

The hand near the woman's eyelashes flutters like a wounded bird and spirals down to her side."A dream, a dream. All a dream."

"You've just met Mrs. Sommers."

"So I see."

A tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache approaches. His clothes are slightly rumpled and his hair will not lie flat, but otherwise, he seems quite normal.

"Ah, Mr. Snow. How are we today, sir?''Tom asks.

"Fine, fine," the man answers."I've sent a letter to Dr. Smith. He'll soon have my case well in hand, well in hand, well in hand. I shall attend the dance. I shall. I shall, sir." "We shall see, Mr. Snow. First there is the matter of your conduct at the previous dance. You took quite a few liberties with the ladies. They were not appreciative."

"Lies, lies, all lies. My solicitor shall see to it, sir, eh, what? Lies, I tell you."

"We shall discuss it. Good day to you, then."

"Dr. Smith has my letter, sir! He shall rectify my reputation!"

"Mr. Snow," Tom explains as we make our way through the sitting room. "He has a habit of letting his hands wander during the dances."

"Oh," I say. I shall try to avoid dancing with Mr. Snow. As we walk on, Tom offers a polite hello to all he meets. Considering what a beast he is at home, it is quite surprising to see him here, kind and controlled. I'm proud of him. I can't believe it, but I am.

By the window sits a tiny creature. She is such a slight thing. Her face is gaunt, though I can see where she was once a pretty girl. There are dark circles beneath her brown eyes. She rakes thin fingers through her hair, which has been pulled back into a topknot. Tufts stick out all over, making her look quite a bit like the parrot, Cassandra.

"Good morning, Miss Hawkins," Tom says cheerily.

The girl says nothing.

"Miss Hawkins, may I present my sister, Miss Gemma Doyle. She would very much like to meet you. She's brought a book of poetry. The two of you could have a nice chat."

Silence again. Nell's tongue slides along her chapped lips. Tom looks at me as if to say, Are you sure? I nod. "Very well, I'll leave you to get acquainted whilst I make my visits, eh?"

"How do you do?" I say, taking the chair directly opposite. Nell Hawkins goes on raking her hands through her hair. "I understand you've been away at school." Silence. "I am also at school. Spence Academy. Perhaps you've heard of it?" Down the room, Mrs. Sommers continues her abuse of the piano. "Shall I read some from Mr. Browning? His poetry is quite soothing, I find." The parrot squawks."Keep to the path. Keep to the path."

I make a great show of reading Mr. Browning.

Tom leaves the room, and I close my book. "I don't believe you are insane, Miss Hawkins. I know about the Order and Circe. I believe you."

Her hand stops for a moment. It shakes.

"You need not fear me. I want to stop Circe. But I need your assistance."

Nell Hawkins's eyes seem to see me for the first time. Her voice is high and scratchy as tree branches knocking against a pane in the wind."I know who you are."