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. Hereminded 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.”
