“I have an appointment with Dr. Yates to see the facilities and,” glancing to the side, Ansley dropped his voice, “discuss my wife’s condition. It should be under Morgan.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Morgan, here you are in the book,” she said, tapping his name in the ledger. “Dr. Yates is currently busy with his patients, but I will show you around the facilities until he is ready to see you. You can, then, discuss the specifics of her case with him.”
“Thank you, Miss—?”
“Mrs. Draper.” Her dark eyes flitted to Oliver where he hovered at Ansley’s shoulder. “Is this other gentleman with you?”
“Yes, I’m his brother-in-law,” Oliver added flatly. “Dr. Owens.”
“He doesn’t trust that I have my wife’s best interests at heart.”
“Ah, well,” she gave them another slow smile, “let’s see if we can set your minds at ease.”
Motioning for them to follow her, she led them through the foyer, past a waiting room that had dozens more patients than Oliver expected, and into the heart of the clinic. The furnishings and color rapidly leeched away as they passed nurses leading patients into rooms and a youngish man in a frock coat that Oliver assumed was one of the doctors or chemists on his rounds.
“The Institute for the Betterment of the Soul is a holistic clinic. We believe in treating the whole person and all maladaptive behaviors in order to help people reach their full potential. This is done in stages over a period of months, though the length of the course is determined by the patient’s initial state and their willingness to stay the course and work on themselves to the best of their ability.”
“What sorts of maladaptive behaviors?” Oliver asked, watching a woman waiting on a bench start to rock but catch herself with a flinch.
“Dr. Yates has treated quite a wide range: criminal behavior, violent outbursts, using one’s unnatural abilities, having unnatural proclivities, nervous ticks, paranoia, holding beliefs that are unsuitable in a marriage. Dr. Yates stays up to date on the latest discoveries and therapies for neurasthenia and neurology as a whole, but his work is so much more than just medicine. We offer people a way back to the proper path, so they may better assimilate and become a productive member of society.”
With a sweep of her hand, she led them into a hallway with classrooms on either side. Through the wood and glass, Oliver could hear what sounded like a sermon as well as a lecture on etiquette and a woman discussing how to properly run a household. Ansley looked around appreciatively, nodding as Mrs. Draper told him of the classes and lecture series the institute required patients to attend. They supposedly brought in people of all faiths and ethnicities to give talks, though Oliver doubted the content was as diverse as it appeared, considering every patient and worker had been white thus far. The deeper they went into the hall, the harder Oliver’s mind struggled to keep up with the clash of voices and topics, but he drew himself tighter and tried to beat back the looming overwhelm by focusing on Felipe’s steady presence on the other end of the tether. He had to be his eyes and ears.
“Enrichment is key. We provide the most in need with jobs, if they will accept them, food, and a place to stay in exchange for their participation in the clinic. Many of the people who come to us are in desperate need of rehabilitation and leap at the chance to overcome their less than desirable attributes at no cost to them. We have a very high compliance rate, especially once they’re able to pull themselves out of the gutter.”
Oliver thought of all the work Gwen’s friend Bennett Reynard put into his shifter union, how hard he tried to overcome the prejudices that sent people running to this clinic by providing the same things these people were offering but asking nothing in return. The Paranormal Society had provided Oliver with food, shelter, a job, a community. It adapted to his needs and the needs of others without asking. He knew places that weren’t conjured from the aether couldn’t operate on community support and magic alone, but giving up yourself in return for basic necessities felt cruel and wrong. Leading them past more lecture halls and a cafeteria lined with long tables, Mrs. Draper herded them into an elevator. Ansley’s gaze dug into Oliver as he lingered a moment too long outside its doors. With a tight breath, he crowded in beside Ansley and glowered at the floor as the elevator operator took them higher.
“The next two floors are segregated by sex, but each contains a ward with room for twenty beds as well as specialized areas for hypnosis, radio treatments, electric therapies, ice baths—”
Ansley was asking some inane question about the lectures when Oliver blurted, “What sorts of electric therapies?”
Mrs. Draper squinted at Oliver as if trying to tell if he was being judgmental or if his professional interest had been merely piqued. “I’m not a doctor, so I cannot tell you the exact specifications, but they are the same electrical therapies used in major hospitals to aid patients with nervous dispositions. I know electricity can be dangerous, but I’ve had the treatment myself. I can assure you that they are not as ghastly or worrisome as they sound. They have done me a world of good, and they might do the same for your sister if her condition is anything like mine. Would you like to see the therapy room, Dr. Owens?”
When Oliver glanced at Ansley, he gave him the most imperceivable of nods. Clearing his throat, Oliver added, “Yes, I’m quite interested to see what sort of treatments Dr. Yates employs. It might be useful in my own research.”
“Are you also a neurologist, doctor?” she asked, leading them into an echoing wing of austere plaster and tile.
Their footsteps rang in time with the heartbeat in Oliver’s ears. The smell of iodine and alcohol wafted from a parted door, numbing his senses in a way they never did back in his lab. “Not exclusively,” he said, letting his body and mind run without his interference, “but I do have an interest in it. I have quite a bit of experience with nervous conditions.”
Giving him a satisfied nod, she directed them deeper into the building. She didn’t need to know those nervous conditions were his own. Ahead, an orderly pushed a man in a wheelchair who stared blankly ahead as if drugged or half-conscious, and Oliver averted his gaze. Ansley and Mrs. Draper didn’t even flinch at the muffled cry that broke from behind a closed door markedBehavior Modification Therapy, but Oliver could feel the secondhand trepidation hanging thickly in the air. At a door with the wordElectrotherapypainted across the opaque glass, Mrs. Draper let them in with a key from her belt. Oliver was relieved to find it free of patients. It had been a long time since he hardened himself this much, and he wasn’t sure he could sustain it if he had to witness someone being electrocuted.
The spartan room contained a bed of wood with rubber feet in the center and a cabinet on the wall beside it that housed the electrical apparatus. As Mrs. Draper told them of how she became a paragon of success at the institute through Dr. Yates’s use of electrotherapy, Oliver studied the device. While he had never seen one up close, he had heard of them. Machines that conducted electricity directly into a patient’s brain in hopes of rewiring or resetting it. He could see how it might help some medical problems, but somehow, he doubted it would magically make his necromancy go away. He glanced behind the machine but found the cords in good condition along with the rest of the outer parts. For a moment in the elevator, he had wondered if Herman Judd’s death may have been an accident caused by a faulty wire. There was still, presumably, another machine on the other floor, but he couldn’t think of a ruse to get there and check it.
“Does Dr. Yates operate this machine exclusively? I can imagine it could be dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“Only the most trustworthy here have a key to these rooms, but Dr. Yates is the only one to perform these sorts of procedures, especially now that Dr. Thorn has left. The junior physician, Dr. Ambrose, carries out the behavior modification sessions, but those are far more straightforward.” When Oliver nodded thoughtfully, Mrs. Draper checked the watch hanging from her chatelaine and said, “Well, if you’re satisfied with what you see, I will take you up to Dr. Yates’s office. He should be done with his rounds soon.”
Following her back to the elevator, Oliver collected himself and recited the story Ansley had quizzed him on back at the society. No matter what Ansley or Dr. Yates said, he had to remember he was supposed to be Dr. Owens, not Dr. Barlow who quit practicing medicine despite having the knowledge and desire to help people. Oliver tried to recall the man he had been in medical school, who had hardened his heart to so many things until the dam irreparably broke and pretending was no longer an option. As the doors closed on the sterile hall, Oliver wondered how he had ever been that man.
