Lords of Asylum: A Noir Detective Fantasy by Wright Kevin

Author:Wright, Kevin [Wright, Kevin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: G & G Books
Published: 2016-02-28T18:30:00+00:00

…and I believe someone has been stalking me. I write this by candlelight in my den. The moon is full tonight, and I imagine I can see someone creep outside my home, casting dim moon-shadows upon the shutters as he skulks…

—Journal of Sir Myron Chalstain

Chapter 27.

“Tea?” the sister asked.

“No, thank you.” I was parched but it wasn’t tea would quench it.

Fresh rushes lay spread across the floor, and the room had a pungent just-cleaned scent, like maybe they’d recently scrubbed the floors and walls. Impressive, as far as asylums go. I’d been in some where the only thing on the floors and walls was shit. Of course, Lady Chalstain was a lady, and that was worth something. The mattress of her bed curved like an eroded mountain, smooth and crescent, lofty. It was well made, both in structure and in the blankets stretched taut across its surface. Out the tiny window was a picturesque view of the city, stretching west along the coast to the bay and across, the watch tower on Goathead far off, just barely visible, its flame atop it roiling, rippling silent across the sound.

Lady Chalstain sat slouched in a chair against the wall, her dark hair tied up in a loose bun on the top of her head, vines of it snaking down across her pale face, so pale as to be almost translucent. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead as she aimlessly chewed whatever it was that the sister had spooned into her mouth. The sister crooned a soft melody as she worked slowly, purposefully, smiling to herself when she was able to get a full spoonful into her charge’s mouth.

“Forgive me the late hour,” I said, sitting. I paused, noticing that Lady Chalstain was bound to the chair, about the waist, at the wrists and the ankles. Her bindings were silk.

Lady Chalstain said nothing as porridge slid from her mouth.

“There, there, milady,” the sister said, offering me a hurried smile as she scooped a lump of porridge from the corner of Lady Chalstain’s chin then reintroduced it to her mouth like a hungry one-year old. “Good. Good. Now you swallow. Yes. There.” With never-ending patience, she eased another spoonful into the lady’s slack, open mouth. “You need your strength, milady, yes you do.” Lady Chalstain’s head was cocked to the side as she stared at the flame of the watch tower, her eyes unfocused, blank, empty. The sister dabbed at the corner of her lip with a napkin.

“Lady Chalstain,” I said softly, leaning forward. I waved a hand in front of her face. No reaction. Kneeling by her side now, I snapped my fingers, like a complete asshole, right by her ear. Again, no reaction. The sister gave me a quick glare, clearly annoyed, and I withdrew my hand, fearful she might draw a ruler and rap my knuckles. “How long’s she been like this?” I asked.

The sister frowned. “A few weeks.” She was a robust older woman, and even when frowning, there was a round joviality to her that I’m sure served her well in her profession.

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