#wickedwanton

The following is an email I sent MizJ yesterday…

“This is as I sent to the family in mid-August.

I’m very sorry this has taken me so long to write. I have to tell some things that I’ve been trained my whole life to never discuss and doing it is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You’d think discussing things with Mom’s doctors would make it easier, but family is so different. I’ve had anxiety attacks on and off since puberty and they’ve come back since April. I’ve already cried through a box of tissues and I haven’t even begun yet. Funniest part is I don’t actually know how much of this will be news. Mom and Dad may have told you at least some of this, but I was supposed to assume no one knew any details.

A quick pre-note: I will be forever grateful that I was able to know Mom and Dad as both ‘Mom and Dad’ and as ‘Tom and Diane’. Yeah, I had ‘hurt little kid’ feelings, but once I was able to see them as just people, not Important Unquestionable Omnipotent Authority Figures, I not only forgave them for the ouchies, I realized there was nothing to forgive. They made mistakes just like every other person who has ever walked this planet. Fate scars us all. They weren’t perfect and neither am I. Heck, I didn’t even have the foresight to come with an instruction manual.

The polite way of saying this is that Mom has always been set in her ways. When I was little (pre 10) she cried a lot, almost all the time. She would decide something should be a certain way and if it wasn’t, she would go brittle and silent, or weep for hours, or stomp about fixing it in any way possible, or even occasionally slamming things and yelling. I got spanked a few times while growing up; she never touched me that way, but we used to have several patches in the walls where she’d punch through the drywall. I tried to help, but the only one who could reach her when she was like that was Dad. They were the world to each other.

Since I grew up, I’ve wondered if she has some level of ocd or perhaps is bipolar, but I hate throwing out terms like that without an official diagnosis. She would obsess about making a perfect life for Dad; for the house to be perfect, the food perfect, me perfect (fat chance) and would work herself beyond exhaustion trying to achieve it. She would get terrible headaches that would last for days.

The one thing I do know is that she was repeatedly molested by one of her grandfathers. He was abusing both she and Annie, pitting them against one another. They didn’t even know it was both of them until they got in a shouting match at Granny’s when I was 9. He would praise one to high heaven in front of her parents while berating the other. I think that’s why things were so horrible between the sisters. It was so bad that Ann made arrangements so that Mom didn’t know she had died until I got a notice that the state was foreclosing on Granny’s house for taxes.

The headaches came so often that Dad made her see the doctor. He put her on Emperin threes (like Tylenol threes only with aspirin instead of Tylenol.) She took them for literally decades. Dad and I did wonder about it, but she had a prescription, right?

In the 80s (I wish I had an exact date, but the records were lost in the fire), Mom’s vision was dimming. Like both her mother and I, she is blind on one side from birth, so losing vision in her good eye was scary. She eventually got sent to a specialist who gave her a very early MRI.

His diagnosis was that she had a brain tumour roughly the size of a golf ball, located directly above her pituitary gland. It was wrapped around her optic nerves and was cutting them off. He said without surgery, ‘she would not live long enough to see Shawna graduate from high school’. His plan was to cut the top of her skull off, lift her brain, then try to cut as much of the tumour out as he could, but that complete removal was impossible and it would start regrowing immediately. He gave her a 50% chance of survival, but the odds were very much against her being able to return to a normal life.

Dad wanted her to have the surgery but Mom refused. Her opinion was that maybe it would shorten her life, but that the shorter life would be so much better than the longer one. He wasn’t happy, but Dad agreed to her wishes. After that, she refused to fly in a pressurised plane, use a cell phone, or allow any further tests on the growth.

In 1992, I was working on a sampler for Granny and Grumpy’s 50th anniversary when I got a call from the police. Mom had gotten arrested for prescription forgery. Dad never got angry, just headed out to get her from the police station to a hospital recovery program.

What had happened was that the original doctor got Mom hooked on codeine. Once she was hooked, he would write her all the prescriptions she wanted for $50 apiece. When he eventually retired, he sold her his prescription pads and taught her to forge his name. When she had went through them, she lifted pads from our current (at the time) doctor. She got caught because they were finally putting all the prescription info through a computer system.

She knew she had a problem; had even worked on cutting down to just a few pills a day (she confessed to taking more than 30 a day at one point). She completed the treatment program, the judge changed it all over to the special laws written for ‘mother’s little helpers’ and was ‘sober’ until the last couple of years.

Yeah, I’d better address this. My discovery out of this was that I am a classic co-dependent. I was the one who filled in the blanks, covered the bases, cleaned up messes. Not easy when I was a teenager. I was accused on multiple occasions of being an addict. I might have caught onto the truth, but I believed she was on a prescription, so it never occurred to me to question it. This is part of why telling the story hurts so much. Everything in me is screaming that revealing anything is heresy.

After Dad died, Shawna was concerned Mom might go back to using, but by then her vision had degraded enough that she could no longer drive. She barely left the house. We knew we wouldn’t get any for her and since Shawna lives with her, she couldn’t get any from anyone else.

Her earlier fears and phobias returned with a vengeance. I promise you all she wanted to see you desperately; she would make plans and promises, but every time at the last minute something would come up. Her back hurt, it was slippery out, she hadn’t found something good enough to wear. The only one who could ever get her past it was Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t have the skill.

Koschai and I came for a while, but as she shut down more, I got afraid of being several hours away. I kept trying; she’d go along with it, then veer away at the last minute.

A couple of years ago, Shawna texted me in the middle of the night. The pain in her back had gotten dramatically worse and she was having ‘stomach problems’. She had called an ambulance and gone to the hospital.

The diagnosis was an abscess in her colon, probably due to intestinal damage from her years on codeine. They wanted to go in and cut out the damaged area, but Mom refused. She said she would die before she would allow them to put in a colostomy bag. The doctors told me they would try to fight off the infection with antibiotics, but that the surgery was inevitable. They would have to release her, but tasked me with talking her into the operation.

I got her in with my doctor at the time for maintenance (antibiotics and tramadol) and set up the surgery. When we took her to the pre admission meeting, she stormed out, yelling about voodoo doctors trying to kill her. As long as she wasn’t near a hospital, she seemed normal. Her memory was going, but I was told it was just age taking its toll. Her temper was getting more and more uncertain, but I had promised I would try to let her live her life by her own terms, my approval not being a requirement.

About this time last year, I got a letter from Mom’s doctor (Koschai and I had to change due to his insurance). She was switching to a different speciality and couldn’t see Mom any more. Mom was happy about it until she realized the pills would stop. She demanded I find her another doctor to keep the pain controlled.

I kept trying but it was impossible. I needed a doctor who would accept Medicare, would give prescription pain killers and not demand Mom have the surgery. From the medical position, that is ‘drug seeking behaviour’ and I couldn’t get anyone to take her.

I visited at least once a week and Mom was never short of cordial, but it was tense. She seemed to take my failure as an attempt to thwart her plan. She was more distant every time I was there, complaining about food, weather, television, but nothing of real substance. Both Shawna and Greenstreet (a family friend who’s been living at the house for about three years) assured me she was doing just fine; that she was her normal self. She would complain about never getting out, but every time the guys would arrange something, it just fell through.

Greenstreet was the one who texted me and rode to the hospital with Mom back in April. By the time I got to the hospital, Mom was already in surgery. I demanded to see (and was shown) the consent form Mom had signed. She had ruptured her colon and the surgeon gave her a 50% chance of survival.

You know a lot of the story from there. I’ve been the one the medical people come to for consent. Mom always insisted she wanted a ‘dnr’, but she agreed to the initial surgery, so I’ve tried to use that as a guide. I let them put in a kidney shunt because she’d developed kidney stones, but I would have refused a full trach tube.

Not long after she woke up, they moved her to a secondary hospital. It was kind of a halfway point; she didn’t need to be in an ICU, but wasn’t ready for therapy yet. She asked me to limit visitors to Greenstreet and immediate family or I would have given an all-clear to see her. Several problems came up, but I was told it was all because she was depressed as people frequently are after a huge surgery like that. The infection was still raging and she was heavily sedated, so I wasn’t supposed to worry. She pulled every single tube out repeatedly, despite being in full restraints. (She pulled her catheter out three times in one day.) She kept wriggling out of both her bedsheets and bed clothes. When I would talk to her, sometimes she knew where she was and why, but mid conversation she would insist she was in jail. She’d lost the house and could never go home again. Then she was on a train, sometimes a plane. She’d demand I reposition the red couch she was resting on. It was incredibly scary, but they kept switching drugs and amounts and most of the scarier parts seemed to stop.

Eventually they decided she was ready to be moved to a care facility for therapy. The initial plan was to get her home.

She seemed to stop thinking she was on planes or trains, but sometimes thought the facility was some hotel. In all honesty, she wasn’t in la la land, but she wasn’t right either. Koschai had to send me into the room first because she kept taking her clothes off. She refused any therapy, insisting at her age she shouldn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. She refused to even look at her colostomy bag, let alone learn to deal with it. Looking at it in isolation, alarm bells are screaming, but as it was happening it seemed like she was making progress. The staff kept assuring me it was the drugs and she’d get better.

She stopped pulling out tubes, but refused to call for help to use the toilet. As a result, she fell several times, once requiring a trip to the main hospital to be examined. (They are in the same complex.)

Koschai and I managed the jungle of paperwork and got Mom both Medicare and Medicaid, but Mom’s refusal to do any therapy was putting that in jeopardy. Shawna, Greenstreet and I took it in turns to visit every day, but she would demand more and more Coke and cheese and cookies while refusing therapy. I had to stay away for a couple of weeks due to a bacterial eye infection, but Koschai visited in my place.

Eventually the government demanded some action, so I went to see her myself on my birthday. When I went into the room, there was a small smear of blood on her pillow and she was acting like she had just woken up. All she would say was ‘okay’ over and over. We called the nurse, who called the doctor. We didn’t want to be in the way, so after the nurse promised to call me, we went home. I stayed up all night but no call came.

The next day, they called me and told me Mom had fallen again and they were sending her to the University Medical Centre. They took a quick x-ray, determining that Mom had some damage to her spine, so they had put her in a cervical collar. The bigger problem was that she had had a stroke, but there were complications. They needed to get a MRI, but Mom had fought getting into the ambulance, out of the ambulance and any time they tried to get her into the machine. A nurse called me because Mom kept screaming for Tommy to help her and she wanted me to get him to the hospital. It was the first time she had seemed to lose time.

I went in to see her, but it was bad. She grabbed Koschai in one hand and me in the other, screaming at us with no words. The noises were all there as if she were speaking, she was obviously furious, but no words. I think she knew it because it ended with a scream of frustration, then she fell asleep. The nurse suggested I not visit for a few days. She didn’t think Mom would realise it and having her that upset wasn’t helping her.

I eventually had to consent to having her fully put under so they could get the MRI. They needed it in order to help, so I approved despite the risks.

A couple of days later, a cancer specialist called me. He was glad I remembered the description of the tumour because it gave him something to compare to.

It isn’t a brain tumour; it’s a calcified melengianoma. A growth on her melanges. It isn’t just wrapped around her optic nerves; it is sitting directly above the area where her brain and spinal cord meet. There isn’t any way to tell for certain, but the headaches and back pains Mom has had all her life may be coming from it.

It isn’t operable even with current medical advances. It doesn’t appear to have grown, but a pocket of fluid has formed around it, adding pressure on her brain. Mom did have a small stroke, but there’s no way to tell if the stroke caused the pocket or vice versa. There is also no way to tell when it formed or why. It may have been forming over years, or the initial surgery could have triggered it. His recommendation was to treat the pocket with steroids and see how Mom is if it deflates. He said there is a real chance she could get back to where she was before the initial surgery.

The doctor also told me that it may have been affecting Mom’s ability to think and make choices even before I was born. Dementia is not an uncommon symptom. Oh, also, if Mom were in better shape, they could try radiation, but they aren’t willing to risk it now. If they did and it worked, she would need the treatment several times a year to keep it under control. I’m not thinking that’s an option.

They moved her back to the care facility to heal and start therapy, but it isn’t working. Shawna and Greenstreet visit her early in the day and report her sitting up and talking calmly to them about how she’s doing and promising she’ll do her therapy as soon as she’s up to it. The nurses kept calling me because Mom was fighting them, falling out of bed and pulling her nose tube out. (She’s having trouble swallowing so they were using it to feed and medicate her. They put in a pick line last week so no more nose tube.)

I can’t visit during the day (can’t drive) and Koschai’s working 45 minutes away, so he doesn’t get home until late, so I usually arrive between 7:30 and 9. When I’ve seen her, she is groggy, usually only using one word at a time. The nurses tell me she’s more active during the day, and she’s usually just gotten her meds, so I’ve been assuming she’s just tired when I’m there.

Meanwhile, the government wants some sign that Mom is participating in her therapy. We’ve been given a window to try to get her to, but if she doesn’t, they will either send her to hospice or back home. The guys can take care of her (Greenstreet has a lot of experience; he moved in right after his grandmother died and he’d nursed her for five years), but none of us think that is best for her. Shawna thought maybe it would help if one of us was there when she’s supposed to do it, so we’ve all been scheduling around it.

I had to take a cab to be there on time Tuesday. It was the first time I’d be able to see her that early, so I hoped she’d be a bit more lively.

They had had to move her to a different room right before I arrived (her yelling was disturbing her roommate). She was curled up in the bed, seemingly asleep. I touched her arm and said hi. She said it back. I asked if she wanted to sleep a bit and she said ‘yes’, so I sat in the chair and waited for the therapist to arrive.

The therapist came in about fifteen minutes later. They had left the harness on her, and the therapist brought the winch. The plan was to get Mom sitting up in a wheelchair, then go from there.

I touched Mom’s arm and started to explain this to her, but she started yelling ‘no!’ over and over. She thrashed away when I touched her. I kept trying, but after a bit, the therapist said maybe Mom was just too tired from the move. She suggested we get Mom out of the harness so she could be more comfortable. After she summoned another nurse, the three of us moved in to do it.

Mom’s eyes opened wide with recognition. She looked squarely at me and yelled with considerable venom “Get the hell away from me!” She kept yelling like that until I stepped away from the bed.

They got the harness off, settled her in and covered her with the blanket. She seemed to fall asleep and didn’t answer me when I left.

Maybe she thought I was Ann. I’ve never seen any resemblance, but Granny, Grumpy, Dad and even Mom frequently called me “Ann”. All I know is that I was not an asset. I texted the guys that I won’t attend any more therapy sessions since I seemed to make it worse.

Shawna refuses to consider it, but maybe she’s thinking if it all stops and the tubes are all taken out, she’ll die. She isn’t dying. If they move her to hospice, she could outlive us all. Every time I got asked for consent, I approved because what they wanted to do was heal her, not just extend her life.

I do know this; I’m exhausted and I’m not the only one. (Just a side note: Greenstreet totalled his car in the interim, then his own mother died, so there are a lot of walking wounded around.) I desperately want an Important Unquestionable Omnipotent Authority Figure to come tell me what to do. Don’t worry; I’m not recruiting. Advice would be gratefully received, but I’m still on the spot. The stress is getting to me. I had a duodenal ulcer when I was 12, so I tried to learn all I could about dealing with the tension. I ground my teeth so badly that I dislocated my jaw, and that was before Mom went into the hospital!

Mom is at ***. If you choose to come down, Koschai and I are living at ***. The place is a mess; my in-laws are coming in mid-September, so I’m trying to get ready. They offered to postpone, but Tammy is Mom’s age, Brad is older, and I’m too aware how fast you can lose somebody. I don’t want Koschai to miss a chance.

Thank you for hearing me out. I haven’t been able to write since this started, so it’s been a familiar feeling. Maybe Matt’s buddies are right and confession will be good for the soul. I will try to keep you all closer in the loop. G’night.

 My father’s brother and his wife visited shortly after that. I had lost all hope, but when they walked in with me it was like I almost had her back. She couldn’t really sit up, but we were all talking, repeating family jokes, etc. I had hope again and it was wonderful. Matt visited right before they were ready to move her back to the secondary hospital.

While Brad and Tammy visited, Mom had a cardiac blockage, which was scary, but they were able to fix it via a tube inserted in her thigh and the prognosis was looking up. They were even able to take her right back to the secondary hospital. They had had to intubate her, but the hope was she’d be able to come off it soon.

She got moved from the secondary hospital to a rehab center at the beginning of October. It wasn’t great, but the people were wonderful. I went to see her every other day. They were shutting the respirator off for hours at a time and working to get her swallowing properly. She would probably never get back to her former strength, but we thought she’d get home. I promised her I’d take her home.

They called me the morning of October 29th. (I had set my ringtone as the old Red Alert sound from Star Trek since I had to wake and answer if doctors called in the wee hours.) Mom had developed a bit of pneumonia and they wanted to take her to the hospital out of caution. I approved.

Within the hour they called back. Mom’s heart had stopped as they had loaded her onto the ambulance. And they couldn’t revive her.

I went over to see the body, made the funeral arrangements she had specified years ago. I couldn’t speak at the funeral, but everybody came and was wonderful. I finally actually signed onto Facebook and a lot of the family has been ‘talking’ with me.

My father told me two things about myself that I have come to believe. First, he gave me the complete book and told me I was Sherlock Holmes when I was eight. I had trained myself to be observant of the slightest details because I needed to help him help Mom. Second, he regretfully said he’d instilled in me a ‘MASH mentality’; that I wade into hip-deep mess and chaos and do what’s needed in the moment at any cost and any sacrifice.

And now they’re both gone. I feel like I failed, but I’ve made peace with that over the last month. The prepping to be ready for the next wave is going to be harder. The anxiety attacks are still happening and I’ll build up a head of steam without being aware of it, only to need to find an outlet to bleed it off. I’m trying a method now, using a Big Ben chime on my phone, making lists and reviewing once an hour to ask the right questions and center myself.

I will be okay, promise.”

MizJ, as always, has been incredibly supportive. She had emailed me back in April, but I got it while I was in the waiting room during Mom’s initial surgery and I couldn’t bear to answer her. Yeah, I pulled a ‘Sherlock’ and didn’t get in touch with her until that awful day in October. She is every bit as wonderful and patient with me as John Watson would be to Sherlock and I am beyond grateful for her undeserved friendship.

I desperately want to get back to writing and hope I will be welcomed, but I need to heal a bit first.

This year has been so horrible and scary and painful for so many. I have a fantastic husband, a handful of tried and true friends and an extended family that is drawing closer to help me in any way I’ll allow.

I’m going to ask two things of you, dear reader. First, in memory of my mother, please be as good and kind to each other as you can be. To use the Beatle’s quote I had put on her funeral booklet…”And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

Second, in any way that you can, as loud as possible with as many loved ones as you can, send this year out with a bang. Eat, drink (soda allowed), scream, make jokes, cry tears and kick this year into the past.

Sherlock and Gregory alighted from the hansom cab at Miss Morgan’s Chelsea address. With apologies for the impropriety of it, Gregory brought him in through the kitchen, dropping off an unused hamper of brandy, cigarettes, chocolate and smelling salts he had offered to Sherlock in the aftermath of the incident. The servant explained that people were frequently shaken by their initial contact with his mistress and he kept such stimulants on hand in case they were beneficial.

Each door that they passed through squealed as they were opened and Sherlock enquired about the recurring oddity.

Gregory was dismissive. “Miss Charlotte prefers not to be surprised. She has me treat all the hinges with salt so they can’t be moved without alerting someone. It wears on the doors and the nerves, but the repairs are simpler than the alternatives.”

Sherlock thought back. Each door he had passed through at the theatre had screeched like a beaten animal, yet the door that had slammed just before the incident began was unheralded. What door had the servant missed?

They made their way to the conservatory at the back of the structure. As with most such rooms, it was large, with panes of glass forming two walls and the vaulted ceiling. The farthest glass wall was hidden by what appeared to be an ocean of billowed black fabric. Red clay tiles formed a herringbone pattern across the floor and the hearth of a small fire grate which warmed the open space. Such rooms were frequently used as greenhouses; this example had a tap and large basin, but no plants were evident. Instead, a large ornate round oak table dominated the area, an assortment of chairs and smaller tables scattered haphazardly around it. Several trunks were piled in a corner, and an imposing cheval glass stood silent sentry in the corner. Books were everywhere, piled in sliding disarray.

Gregory offered Sherlock a seat which was refused before moving to an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys that seemed to crisscross the entire room. As he began to manipulate the mechanism, the black fabric was drawn forth via tracks in the walls and ceiling. It draped like a tent, and as it began to smooth, Sherlock could see the dim ambient city light through its ebony weave. Flickers caught his attention and he realized the fabric had silver threads running through it, creating an effect like a starry night sky. Overall, the effect was quite breath-taking.

Something had been puzzling Sherlock, and he raised the subject as the servant stirred the ashes and fed the coals in the grate. “Where is Tobias? I thought Miss Morgan wanted him to accompany us?”

For the first time, the servant seemed to falter, at an apparent loss for words. “I – I’m sure he will be along, sir. If you’ll please excuse me, I need to prepare for Miss Charlotte’s arrival.” Gregory bowed very slightly, leaving the room before any additional questions could be asked.

Gregory was lying somehow, Sherlock was certain of it, but that would need to be pursued later. Restless, he looked over the spines of her books seeking some form of distraction. A few classic novels, a thin volume of Russian verse, but a majority of them surprised him by being not unlike his own collection. Physical sciences, chemistry, geometry, even a volume on transference of infectious diseases he had been looking for but hadn’t been able to acquire. Certainly not the heavy religious tomes or Gothic romances he would have expected.

The sense of being observed refused to be dismissed. Sherlock’s eyes kept being drawn to the cheval glass. It was tipped forward, reflecting the herringbone pattern on the floor. The trunks could yield a multitude of secrets, yet he couldn’t resist approaching the glass. His hand tremored, reaching to push its reflectivity upright before he was interrupted.

The effectiveness of the lady’s preparations made itself clear as Sherlock heard a series of high pitched metallic protests, echoed by two bickering voices. The woman’s voice stopped with a strong curse, but the man’s was coming closer.

The conservatory door burst open as an already red faced Mr. Baker exploded into the room. He stopped inches away from Sherlock’s face, in a move Sherlock was sure would have been threatening if they hadn’t been of similar height. The manager was practically frothing in fury. “You gained that card because of a murder, then the first time you are near her, she almost dies! You’re going to get her killed!”

Before Sherlock could respond, Gregory returned, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. He placed a silver tray on a smaller side table, unloading its contents and preparing the apparatus it contained. “Mr. Baker, Miss Charlotte asks your assistance with her wardrobe.” It seemed like a rote statement, the real meaning quite different than the words used.

The manager was unmoved, continuing his rant. “I owe that woman more than I can ever repay, but I have no intention of returning her to America in a pine box, do you understand? I’m sure your problem seems very important, even earth shattering, but you can find help for it elsewhere!”

Gregory lit a taper from the grate, using it to ignite the charcoal in the hookah. He added some tobacco from a small pouch beside it on the tray. “Mr. Baker, Miss Charlotte asked me to remind you that you are not her father, husband, employer or guardian.”

It seemed to affect the manager like a slap. He moved his attack from Sherlock to the servant, with as little effect. “You saw her turn blue! Don’t tell me you don’t want to pack her trunks and get her on the next available steamship!”

“Of course I do!” Gregory barked, then seemed to retreat from the faux pas. “We have to trust them.” It was as quiet as a whisper. He smoothed his buttoned vest. “Mr. Holmes, Miss Charlotte doesn’t wish to shock you, but tobacco is one of the few indulgences she allows herself. She will join you presently.” He shot the manager a poisonous glare as he left the room.

Mr. Baker walked slowly along a thigh high wall of books, hands clenched and words hissed. “What do you want to leave right now? How much will fixing your difficulties cost? What do I need to buy to make you go away and leave us alone?”

Sherlock was distracted from any answer by a heavy copy of ‘Anatomy: Descriptive and Applied’ that rested precariously atop the wall. By itself, it was not unusual, but he had thought its spine had been roughly parallel to the volumes below it. Now the spine hung over open space directly above the manager’s foot.

As he watched, the book tipped slowly, eventually falling edge first and landing heavily on the man’s instep. The manager displayed a vast knowledge of vitriolic language.

He was stopped mid tirade by a quiet woman’s voice. “Douglas.”

Miss Morgan had somehow quietly negotiated the door. She stood against it, her arms folded in apparent irritation, hidden by the voluminous sleeves of a formal oriental kimono; white cranes flying majestically across a jade ocean. The peace of the scene was not reflected in her expression; her head raised but her eyes gazing darkly at the floor.

Mr. Baker strode to her, bristling with outrage. “You don’t have to help him, Charlotte! Damn him and his tart! We can be aboard ship within the hour; the trunks can follow…”

“Assez!” She hadn’t shouted, but the word struck like a gunshot. Her eyes blazed in fury as they rose. “La jeune fille est la famille.” She huffed, resigned. “Go home, Douglas. You’re of no use to me like this.”

In seconds, Mr. Baker visibly deflated under her intense stare. “Your grandfather will have me skinned alive if I return his only granddaughter in a coffin.”

Miss Morgan shrugged. “So bury me in your family plot in Cambridge and don’t tell him. As long as the stipend is spent, he’ll never suspect a thing.” A small smile seemed to want to escape.

The manager paled, descending into a symphony of wordless gargles and harrumph noises. Miss Morgan went to him, craning up on her toes to press an affectionate peck to his quivering chin. “I’ve given my pledge, Douglas. Helping is not negotiable.”

The manager was almost out of the room when Miss Morgan interrupted him by loudly clearing her throat. He mumbled some odd form of atonement Sherlock couldn’t hear, but it seemed to placate her and she let him go out the conservatory door.

Miss Morgan stooped to replace the fallen volume. “My apologies, Mr. Holmes. Some families are chosen, not born. Unfortunately, you end up with an even more motley collection of oddities than blood allows.” She gestured him to a padded chair beside the smaller table.

Again refusing the offered chair, Sherlock stood beside it and folded his arms. “Why the performance, Miss Morgan? Why do you present yourself as a charlatan?” Sherlock noted the steaming tea beside him on the table. He wondered if it was prepared to his unstated preferences.

“Charlotte, please.” The lady opened a small wooden box of already rolled cigarettes, leaving them beside Sherlock in invitation before settling herself into the larger padded chair. She took a prolonged draw from the hookah, rose petals spinning in the bubbling water. When she released the smoke into the room like an unfolding cloud, she met his eyes with that same obstinate stare she had used on her manager. “My mother had to withdraw from her last finishing school in order to marry her husband before my arrival six months later. He had not met her previously and disappeared right after my birth, so it’s safe to assume he was not my father.”

Her bald forthrightness stunned him, but he assumed it was leading to something. He packed his pipe, waiting for her to continue.

“When I was very young, we were living under my grandfather’s roof. My mother had a school chum who asked to visit her. My grandfather agreed, but was furious when the young woman arrived with both her own parents and three of her sisters in tow. You see, the reason for the visit wasn’t social niceties; they had taken up the temperance movement with religious fervour and she wanted to convert her poor fallen friend.” Miss Morgan’s face clearly showed her opinion of that motive.

“I assume the effort failed?” Sherlock remembered the heavy scent of brandy in the air when he had dreamt of her being attacked.

“They tried over four days. I think she was sober two of them.” Another long draw and spiralling petals. “I started having nightmares as soon as they arrived. Flashing lights, flags I couldn’t recognise, screams. The worst was a noise I later knew was rending metal. I went to the girl’s father and told him if they continued going to revivals, it would cost them their lives.”

A sinking feeling Sherlock was only too familiar with. “Did it?”

She smiled bitterly. “At first, the old man thought I just liked having visitors and wanted them to stay. Unfortunately, I ended up using a few of my grandfather’s choicest terms for them and they left in a fury. I had made quite a scene; every servant overheard.” She stood, moving to prod at the glowing embers in the grate.

“The following Saturday night, they were coming home from a revival via the Portland Express train from Boston. Their engineer must have fallen asleep or missed a signal. One way or the other, he failed to recognise they were in peril until it was too late. He did attempt to stop, but the brakes failed and they collided with another train.”

As she sat back down, he remembered similar accidents closer to home. The carnage left by a steam locomotive wreck was horrific.

“His boiler exploded on impact. Several cars simply flattened. Rescuers had to peel the walls away to try to get to survivors. The entire family was killed and not to be egocentric, but my life changed forever.” She took up the hookah pipe again.

Sherlock thought of his own responses to what he had seen and heard. He couldn’t imagine enduring something similar as a child. His own memories of difficulties caused by his racing mind and absent censor provided some understanding. “The servants had overheard you.”

“As had my mother and grandfather. I think they were more embarrassed than frightened; they’ve never acknowledged it happened. The servants had more than enough fear to go around; they always knew I was illegitimate, but they saw it as my mother’s sin and had treated me well. As soon as we received the news, I became cursed. By weeks end, I was damned. Within the month… Do you know what a cambion is, Mr. Holmes?”

He nodded. “The offspring of a mythical creature and a human. Merlin was supposed to be one.”

This time her smile was genuine. “Merlin would make fine company, thank you.” She drew another long puff. “My mother and I were packed up and banished as far away as we could go and still be within reach for punishment if we embarrassed him; Louisiana. You see, sir, the only thing worse than people thinking I’m a charlatan is people believing I’m real.”

His mind spun. His own abilities caused discomfort, even fear on occasion. Through painful experience, he’d tried to learn when to keep his observations and deductions to himself unless they were requested. He was not as adept at it as he sometimes wished, but at least if asked, he could explain his conclusions. They didn’t appear to be some form of sorcery or black arts.

Sherlock sipped at the tea; prepared just as if he’d made it himself. “The Sullivans were asking after their daughter, I presume. You wouldn’t help them?”

Charlotte flinched, her fingers tightening on the hookah pipe. “I can’t.” Her lips were drawn very thin. “It doesn’t work that way. I have little control over what I’m shown.”

“I don’t understand.” How had she perceived so much of his own trauma, but be unable to assist the grieving parents?

She sat silent for several moments. “I have to be able to make some connection to a person or event. Usually, they come from either familiarity or intensity. If I had met the girl or perhaps her parents before her death, I may have been receptive enough, but all they could provide me with was a shawl. If her death had been traumatic or painful, it might have been intense enough, but it wasn’t.” She looked distantly. “Small mercy.”

“You’re certain she’s dead?” Sherlock had suspected as much. The girl had lead a chaste, almost pedantically quiet life. She had been missing far too long without contact for any other likely explanation.

Charlotte’s head dipped in what Sherlock thought was pained embarrassment. “The girl was walking through that square with all the columns. She wasn’t meeting with anyone; all she’s thinking is how upset her mother will be because she’s late.” She stopped, giving Sherlock a baleful look. “All I can see is what she herself saw. She was killed by a blow to the back of the head, dead before she fell. She never saw her attacker, even the light was in front of her, so she saw no shadows; nothing that could identify her assailant. All I could tell them is that she died, but I can’t even prove that! What possible help or comfort could I give them?”

He lit a match from the hookah’s glowing coals, watched as the sulphur burned away. “So what exactly is your connection to me?” He recalled her statement to her manager. “Are you claiming a familial relation?”

Her expression slid from surprise to indignation to coldly restrained fury. “You really are the damnedest fool! I said the lady is family, not you! I’ve sworn to protect her! Meanwhile, you see a crack in the door and approach it with all the subtlety of a drunken politician!” She stood, moving to the basin to splash water on her face.

“What door?” Sherlock blew out the match, pocketed his pipe. “What crack? You said she was in danger; what did…” he reached out, determined to finally get some form of answer.

The bare skin of her arm was beneath his palm. Reality canted violently. He knew he staggered, his grip holding and pulling her from the basin. She seemed to be falling toward him, but his vision darted away.

Images flashing by too quickly for recognition. Sherlock blinked, shaking his head to try to resolve the clamour. Marching across a field caked in blood-stained mud. A dark haired man writing with painfully cramped hands at a candle-lit desk. He couldn’t draw enough breath to shout.

A beautiful raven haired woman was coughing final waves of crimson onto a blood-tinged pillow, then the man at the desk sobbed as ink coiled across the page.

“Friend of a friend. His beloved wife died of consumption.” he recognised Charlotte’s voice in the rising hurricane of sound. “Try to focus on him.”

Where was she? Sherlock couldn’t find her and the images flooded forth. A set of wooden steps, spattered, leading to Madame La Guillotine. Someone being dragged to an already smouldering pile of tinder. A noose surrounded by a maddened crowd. The reflected image of a copper-haired woman desperately trying to reach the mirrored surface of the water above before her one gasp of breath ran out. The man at the desk was grinding the heels of his aching hands into his tear-filled eyes.

“Dangerous between.” Charlotte sounded calm, almost regretful. “Experienced mystics get lost wandering here. You can get trapped even when you know the path.”

She was standing in the writing man’s shadow and suddenly Sherlock was standing beside her. She favoured him with a sad smile, sliding her hand into his. It seemed to anchor him, mitigate the swirling dizziness.

The silence was deafening, only broken by the man’s occasional sobs. Sherlock was afraid to move, break the quiet.

“We aren’t really here.” Charlotte assured him. “He died before I was born. Grande-dame Cherie, a servant of my mother’s, brought me here when she tried to teach me control. You should see what he’s written, though.” She gestured him forward.

Releasing her hand, Sherlock stepped closer, trying to read around where the man’s elbows were inadvertently blotting the ink. Most of the words were obscured, but at the bottom of the page he read ‘O God! Can I not save one from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?”

“He died not long after he wrote that.” She nodded gravely. “Like you, he accidentally found a chemical path to get between. I don’t know if that was what actually killed him, but it must have made it easier.” She took Sherlock’s hand again.

“We’re…” he hesitated. “We’re between what? Dreams? Realities? How?”

“In sleep, the mind is protected by disbelief; what is perceived cannot be real, so can be dismissed. Die in a dream, wake up safe in your own bed. If you experience something too horrific, too damaging, the mind ignores it as nonsense with little or no damage. We don’t have that protection right now. Dreaming, experiencing with neither flesh nor defence.” She watched his expression carefully.

“It’s just a different perspective than the one in my conservatory. Our flesh is locked to that point in time by blood. You are seeing from one dream to another; across time and distance; his reality,” she gestured to the sobbing man. “Our dream. The crack in the door gave you a glimpse you weren’t meant to have; now you’re developing an affinity for it. We need to find a safer method for your oneiric impressions.” A small smile settled on her face as she dropped his hand, seeming to ease backward into a gathering gloom.

The darkness would have concerned him, but Sherlock felt some odd sense of familiarity. He became aware of a sound from somewhere outside the small garret; quiet but growing louder. At first it seemed some vibration of a great engine, but as it grew, he realized it was animal; feral. The growl of a beast larger than any in his experience. Where was it coming from? He stepped closer to the woman, determined to defend them both.

“It’s all right.” She smiled in understanding. “The aberration can’t see us here.” Some measure of the darkness seemed to wrap itself around her midsection and she stroked it with affection. “The silver confuses him; makes us too hard to track, but he’ll wait until he can find us again.”

The darkness spoke in a voice he recognised from his own dreams of Charlotte. “You are safe in my lady’s home, Sherlock, but your lady remains imperilled.” A wisp rose from behind Charlotte’s shoulder, brushing his cheek.

It lasted only a moment, but the vision caught at his breath. Molly; seen from some distance above. Oddly, the colour was muted, almost non-existent. Her arm was raised as if trying to hail transportation from a blur of fast movement.

Sherlock reached out clumsily, trying to follow in the way he had found Charlotte in the whirl of images.

Reality swam, but it would all be alright if he could just get home quickly. Mum had wanted her to stop for a loaf of bread, but the baker had closed early, and she couldn’t find another open to custom. She spared a glance up at the statue of Admiral Nelson. It was just too bad none of the local boys were cut of anything near the same cloth. Only a suitor of… Sharp pain flared across the back of her head as her vision went first to red, then to black as the ground rushed up to meet her.

Sherlock snapped awake with a shout, his feet pushing him away from where Charlotte was heaped on the floor. Heart hammering, he gasped for breath. Perspiration on his skin had gone clammy. He wiped the salt stinging his eyes away.

Pushing up from the floor, he staggered toward the cheval glass. An urge to either laugh or vomit bubbled in him. All his fears of insanity suddenly seemed no more than childhood fictions to force obedience. A single question burned as he stared at the reflected herringbone tiles. “Where is she?”

Charlotte’s voice softened. “Molly is in London, Mr. Holmes; just a bit ahead of us.”

He closed his eyes tightly against the thought. He had reached that conclusion himself, but had wanted it to be as impossible as it appeared. Teeth so close to her throat and there was nothing to be done. Some weakness seemed to be creeping up his legs, robbing his knees of strength. He reached to the cheval glass to steady himself, tipping it up to reflect Miss Morgan cradled in the arms of the bohemian man that had known his name outside the theatre.

He seemed to be blowing gentle circles from her hairline to her chin. “Are you all right?”

She was looking up at him, her gaze full of the warmth reserved for an intimate. “You seem to be developing quite an affection for this face. Who is he? A victorious warrior? Perhaps an eccentric lord? ” Her hand drew itself affectionately through a sea of golden curls.

“A figure who will be beloved by children and adults alike. A bit of a scoundrel; an imp. I can change if you don’t approve; just don’t ask about the dog in the daytime.” He smiled back, vibrant blue eyes shining devotedly.

The dark figure in dream, the bohemian, and the unseen entity who seemed to repeatedly harass Mr, Baker suddenly melded seamlessly.

Meeting Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror, Tobias stage-whispered conspiratorially. “Our guest can see me now.” He smiled, waved jauntily, and had completely disappeared as Sherlock turned to face him.

Sherlock could hear shouting even as he followed the alarmed manager; the second man within the hour to know who he was without introduction. He had attended hundreds of theatrical productions in his life and breaching the curtain didn’t give him pause. He had always prided himself on slipping in and out of the darkness with a minimum of fuss or distraction to the other patrons. This time, however, he stopped as the lobby curtains closed behind him.

Usually the glow of the gaslights on the stage allowed enough illumination that he could move quickly and quietly. Instead, he had to spend several moments feeling his way toward the ongoing scuffle, willing his sight to adjust to the hellish glow. The crowd were staying seated, but he could hear their confusion and concern.

Pillar candles large enough to be at home in a cathedral burned a respectful distance from the stage exits while a heavily loaded candelabrum marked the front of a table at the centre of the boards. The tapers glowed in their usual flickering yellows, but all other lighting was being filtered through some form of ruby glass. It bathed most of the stage a bloody tint, throwing all other colours sharply to red or black. The tinged illumination only penetrated a few yards out, leaving most of the audience in a blended pool of shadow.

Sherlock had read of the use of red lighting. Mediums were said to produce an unlikely substance called ectoplasm; a physical manifestation of the ‘spirit world’ that simply vanished if exposed to regular light. The fact that the subdued lighting would also camouflage forms of trickery and thievery was a significant side effect.

Charlotte Morgan seemed less willowy than her print artist had depicted. She was wrapped in a golden bodice with black velvet skirts, her scarlet hair swept into a psyche knot rapidly escaping some form of shell and pin contrivance. Her waist and arm were being held tightly by a man whose sequined dress coat showed he was intended to be part of the performance. Her other arm was being roughly yanked at by a dishevelled figure who canted with drunkenness. Mr. Baker had a hold of the lout, but his bruising grip on her wrist wouldn’t budge. Her splayed fingers curled like talons.

Sherlock tried to see her face in the gloom, expecting fear, perhaps even a swoon. Instead from beneath the curtain of her liberated hair, her eyes blazed with undisguised fury. He heard her moan, but it sounded more of frustration than either pain or fear.

She drew her elbow back sharply into the solar plexus of the sequined man, reclaiming her arm and using it to shove her fellow performer away. Twisting a large ring on her now freed hand, she pulled back and slapped the drunk with considerable force. The stone of the ring cut a thin gash in the lout’s cheek and he released her. She stumbled back a few feet as the man lunged against the restraint imposed by Mr. Baker and a man Sherlock assumed was a soon-to-be-sacked security guard. Above the uneasy murmuring of the crowd, he thought he heard her tell the inebriated man that if his wife wanted her other arm broken, she would know where to find him.

Sherlock felt an empty chair and slid into it, watching as Mr. Baker and the security man hustled the drunk away. His vision further adjusted to the nearly monochromatic palette and he began to see the details on the stage. A glass cabinet containing a plain wooden chair stood alongside the table, which had its own seat. Atop the table a sound trumpet lay discarded beside a cheaply made poppet and a deck of some type of playing cards. A globe nearly the size of a dinner plate he assumed was supposed to be a scrying orb distorted and reversed the image of anything viewed through it. He had read that such spheres were supposed to be made of quartz, but suspected this specimen was glass due to its clarity.

An additional large pane of glass took up the rear of the stage. Some unseen mechanism wafted steam in clouds on the reverse side. Several fading scribbles seemed to have been made in the condensation, but they were dripping away as fresh vapour settled. They were too degraded to tell if they had been letters or depictions.

A man in livery rushed on from backstage, going to Miss Morgan as she turned her back to the crowd, cupping her indecently collapsing hair with one hand and ripping the shell viciously from its sliding perch. He was pantomiming some effort at comforting the supposedly upset woman, but it was obvious to Sherlock that the lady in question was fully in control of her faculties as she whipped the useless fastenings away. The liveried man produced what appeared to be a set of chop sticks from inside his vest, pressing them into her free hand. A deft flick of the wrist and she jammed the sticks through her now restrained chignon.

By the time Miss Morgan faced the disquieted and mildly scandalized crowd, she seemed to have retreated into a stage persona. The irritation was gone from her features, replaced with an overly sweet peace that now seemed vacant and unnatural. Sherlock wondered for a moment if they had met previously, but her face had retreated into that carefully poised blankness expected of her sex. She demurely lowered her head as the sequined man helped her back to her seat at the table.

“Our apologies, ladies and gentlemen.” He was making quite a show of squiring his supposedly distressed damsel. “I’m afraid that individual was in the grip of a spirit our lady has difficulty engaging with.”

Sherlock wondered if anyone else saw the look of purest venom that momentarily slipped past her carefully crafted visage.

oOo

Anthony poked listlessly at the bag of boiled sweets, his only companion in the private box. Large doses of sugar were usually enough to keep sleep at bay during any assignment, but oddly, the bizarre lighting seemed to muddle the flavours into a single cloying yet unidentifiable taste. He had an almost irresistible urge to simply crush them underfoot into a sticky uniform paste.

His was not to wonder why, and he usually never indulged in the exercise, but looking out over the squirming audience, he had to admit he wondered at the reasoning that left him assigned to this task. The lady on stage was obviously an adept performer, but no more talented than several he had observed. There was an interest in such things developing, which meant his superior needed information on anyone making a name for themselves in this new and questionable field. So far at least, his efforts had yielded nothing worth reporting on, which had led to many nights fighting drowsiness.

The physical confrontation appeared to be over; the agitated man was removed and hopefully arrested. Even assuming the performance was merely smoke and mirrors, creating that kind of disturbance was intolerable and needed to be redressed. The lady had returned to the table on stage, picked up the playing cards and settled back into answering a seemingly unending stream of inane and pointless questions. If she were actually able to see the future, communicate with the deceased, access some greater knowledge, Anthony was disappointed at the use people wanted to make of it.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he allowed himself to relax back into the chair. Anthony was beginning to suspect the damage the lead slug had done to his ilium was going to plague him for an extended time. It was an injury he was more than willing to endure. Death would have been preferable to allowing that bullet to strike its intended target; his superior. He had been rewarded by being allowed to continue his work, his loyalty affording him the ability to answer directly to the man himself.

Unforgivably, he must have drifted off for a moment, because Anthony hadn’t heard the other man enter the private box and settle into the chair beside him. It was jarring and he cursed his lax behaviour. He looked the intruder over, disquieted that the man’s voluminous coat had the potential to conceal all manner of weaponry. The odd lighting scheme rendered detail a homogeneous blur; the only thing Anthony could plainly make out was a small bag of sweets the stranger rooted around in with almost distasteful eagerness.

Anthony had relaxed enough to stop glancing suspiciously at the intruder when the man finally spoke a single word. “Attraction.”

Conversation during a performance was rude, but Anthony found himself unable to quash a reply. “Pardon me?”

“Attraction is the key. People recognise lovers, family, and companions. They are drawn to them by warmth, affection and acceptance. Somehow they find each other across vast distances and despite impossible obstacles.” The stranger gave a long sigh. “You are a far more interesting case.”

He felt no fear, but Anthony had the strangest urge to stand and flee the box. They had made no contact, but the stranger made him feel exposed, vulnerable, and naked in a way no clothing could cover. “Am I?” He wanted to lash out, create some barrier to this intruder lurking in shadows.

“Come what may, you follow him. He could lead you to the gates of Hades itself and your only concern would be how to maintain his supply lines. There are precious few capable of that kind of dedication; fewer still worthy of it. You are aware enough to follow that attraction. Sacrifices are required, yet you never hesitate to pay the price. Believe me, I honour your choice; I know too well the cost loyalty demands.”

Anthony was reaching out, determined to drag the man out into the hall where he could get a clear view of his face. His arm was fully extended, yet he felt nothing but empty air sliding through his fingers.

The man turned to him, but all Anthony could see was the faintest hint of a smile and a glint from his eye. “Tell him to stop arsing about and introduce himself. It’s later than you think.”

The smile faded, leaving absolutely nothing in the chair. Fully conscious, Anthony sincerely wished he could wake up.

oOo

Sherlock had come here to ascertain if the lady in question would be able to assist him with his unique situation. So far, he was getting an explicit lesson in banality. He had never supposed people were so invested in ideas of luck and chance, so confident that their deceased relations had nothing better to do than to attempt to arrange sudden financial windfalls. It was a public airing of details better kept private.

Two examples gave him some reason to keep his seat. The first was a lady inquiring after an antique broach supposedly lost from an unlocked drawer. It was obvious to him as she spoke that the broach had not actually been lost; it had been purloined, probably by the squirming husband sitting right beside her. Interestingly, Miss Morgan seemed to have perceived this as well, telling the woman that perhaps the object might return if the ‘spirits’ yielded to their conscience and returned the curio to its rightful place. The husband practically nodded at the suggestion. Sherlock wondered if the man had kept the incriminating pawn ticket.

The second was an inquiry posed by a workman, asked while worrying at a well-worn cap. He had lost a friend in an industrial accident. He presented an ideal opportunity for Miss Morgan to try to sell him further services at a price or to recruit him to some new faith. Instead the lady expressed a proper level of sympathy for his loss and assured the man that the nature of the accident itself meant that his friend’s passing was painless, instantaneous. It relieved him enough that he wiped away an errant tear, saying he would buy a round at the pub in the man’s memory.

Miss Morgan smiled warmly. “I’m sure he would have liked that.” It was a crack in her stage visage, quickly recovered by the placid mask. Sherlock noted that her phraseology gave no indication of contact between the deceased and herself. “None needed.” She gathered the cards back into an orderly stack as Sherlock wondered if he’d spoken aloud.

The sequined man was giving some stream of overly dramatic patter, trying to draw attention to the glass case. Sherlock ignored him, trying to identify Miss Morgan’s accent. It was definitely based in America, probably the upper classes of the northeast of that country, but it had some of the drawl usually heard in the deepest south. Oddly, she seemed to divert to a French pronunciation for certain words.

She took the sequined man’s offered hand and walked to the case, sitting down on the chair it contained. After demurely adjusting her skirts, she rested her hands on her knees, palms turned upward and drew her posture very straight. The man bolted the cabinet shut with a large brass padlock and stepped away, eventually quieting and retreating to the very back corner of the stage.

A murmur rising from the crowd told Sherlock that what they had come for was about to arrive. Perhaps someone should have informed Miss Morgan, because her eyes had drifted shut and her head had lolled forward as if she had simply fallen asleep. After a few moments, something seemed to be taking form in the air above her lap; a vapour coalescing.

A shuddering sound distracted him, and Sherlock looked to the pane of glass at the back of the stage. Someone he must have missed had written the letters ‘FREK’ into the settled mist, the letters running rivulets down the surface. He was a bit surprised the letters were turned the right way since they must have been scrawled on the far side.

The trumpet began to roll gently back and forth on the table. It was too heavy to be moving in the drafts on the stage, but the movement was subtle and fading fast. A wispy and breathy voice came from it, but it was several moments until Sherlock began to make out the words being sung.

“…be poison my drink, if I sleep, snore or wink, once forgetting to think, of your lying alone…”

Sherlock looked to the cabinet. Miss Morgan largely hadn’t moved, but the fingers of her left hand were twitching in some rhythmic pattern. He thought for a moment that it was sloppy; allowing the crowd to see how some part of the illusions worked, but a different interpretation gave him pause. He began to make the movements in time with her, checking his sudden insight. It was the exact fingering of Paganini’s ‘Caprice Number Six in G Minor’. He used it himself as a simple exercise before playing more elaborate compositions on his violin.

“…och, it’s how I’m in love, like a beautiful dove, that sits cooing above, in the boughs of a tree…”

A series of cracking noises drew Sherlock’s attention back to the table. The threadbare poppet seemed to draw itself to its feet, first swaying, and then pirouetting to the singing from the trumpet. It bowed to the assembled crowd, dancing along the edge of the surface.

People were gasping around him, but Sherlock remained unimpressed. Whoever had rigged the stage was obviously knowledgeable, but it was still only simple magic tricks, not the skills he had hoped might assist him. He looked back to Miss Morgan. The apparition seemed to have grown, but it was clearly, to him if not the crowd, some form of fine netting powdered liberally with talc or perhaps corn flour. He assumed she was producing the supposed ectoplasm from her décolletage.

“…it’s myself I’ll soon smother, in something or other, unless I can bother, your heart to love me…”

Someone somewhere in the building must have slammed an outer door. Sherlock heard the muffled bang; felt the rush of colder air that extinguished the pillar candles and left the flames in the candelabra flickering wildly, scattering sparks. The poppet tumbled from the table to the stage, its arm outstretched toward him. Sparks landed nearby, and he felt a horrific compulsion to extinguish them.

“…sweet Molly, sweet Molly Malone…” the singing stopped abruptly.

Charlotte Morgan’s eyes snapped open, locking with his as her hand shot forward, the ring still turned with the stone in her palm. The stone hit the glass hard enough to crack the front of the cabinet. The fracture raced outward in a spider web pattern, the glass collapsing into a pile of jagged shards.

Several of the sharper pieces fell into the cabinet, cutting into the lady’s skirts. Seemingly unaware of the damage, Miss Morgan stood and moved forward, fragments sliding away from her feet. The sequined man tried to rush forward, but Mr. Baker pulled him backstage for a whispered conference.

Her eyes never blinked, never left Sherlock’s. She peered at him as if he’d asked a vital question. Her mouth moved without sound, but finally words arrived. “Davos Platz”, she gasped, seeming to be pleading with him for understanding. Her hands were clenched in shaking fists, but her lips didn’t appear to be under her control. “…won’t make it to Lucerne.”

The words struck Sherlock like knives, pulling the breath from him. The last time he’d heard those words, they had come from James, right before the doctor went back down the path to the inn, leaving him on the side of the mountain. What was she seeing?

The sequined man was frantically pulling the ruby lenses from the gaslights, the heated glass burning his fingers and causing him to drop most of them to shatter upon landing. Someone was turning up the house lights and the sudden brightness was nearly blinding. The crowd shifted from a quiet muttering to a rising clamour, which Mr. Baker answered with assurances of full refunds.

Sherlock had stood without thought as the lady raised her hands, reaching toward him. She blinked rapidly as a tremor seemed to pass through her. “How could you? Heartless automaton!” she hissed. “You should have…” Miss Morgan stopped abruptly; her head leaned slightly to the right as if listening to unheard whispers. “Oh.” Her face seemed to clear with sudden comprehension, then resolution. “Of course.”

Sherlock was moving through the agitated crowd, determined to get to her. He had to know what she was experiencing. If she were somehow shadowing his own steps that fateful day, she had to stop, and quickly.

Mr. Baker seemed to turn the stage and crowd control over to the sequined man. He went down the short steps to the audience area in a single ungainly step and hurried to Sherlock’s side. “You can’t touch her!” he tried grabbing the detective’s sleeve. “You’ll make it worse!”

“Make what worse?” he demanded. Miss Morgan certainly appeared to be reliving one of the most horrifying moments of his own life, and Sherlock dreaded what might come next.

Miss Morgan’s eyes seemed to be trying to roll back into her head, focused on nothing. She pantomimed placing an object into a pouch and putting that into a pocket her dress didn’t hold. Her hand returned with an unseen memo book and she scribbled into empty air.

Four horribly screeching sounds came from the rear of the stage and Sherlock looked for the source. The pane of glass was now scarred with two vertical and two horizontal lines deeply etched and forming a rough box. As he watched, four more lines seemed to gouge themselves into the square shape, forming a crude ‘M’.

Miss Morgan had completed her pantomimed writing task, and Sherlock recognised her movements as following his as he’d left what he thought was his final note to James under his cigarette case. In the note, he had told James the evidence he’d collected was hidden in pigeonhole ‘M’.

Sherlock wanted to shake her, and she appeared to be trying to retreat from whatever had her in its grip. Miss Morgan’s hands had come up, as if attempting to protect her head. She was swaying, flinching as if struck, staggering. “Doll’s eyes; soulless,” she moaned. “Burn the heart out of you.”

She suddenly went very still, her arms dropping as she found Sherlock’s eyes across the intervening space. As they met this time, he fell back a step. It was her; the other girl he’d dreamed of. The lighting had disguised her copper hair as scarlet or he might have realized before. The words from the dream came back to him: ‘You and your lady are as bound to it as we are.’

The living colour seemed to drain from her face, her pallor becoming blue and cold. Grimacing, she gasped for breath. No one was left on stage with her, no physical presence, but as she sagged, something propelled her forward, her form clearing the small pit the theatre used for musicians and landing heavily in the seats as the antagonized crowd retreated.

The thin man in livery reached her first, pulling her from her sprawl across the scattered chairs and putting his ear near her lax mouth. He looked sharply up at Mr. Baker and shook his head. “She’s not breathing!”

Sherlock followed Mr. Baker to her side as a few in the crowd pressed closer in curiosity. She seemed to have re-enacted his going over the edge; the breath-taking fall, and then the harsh shock of icy waters that closed over his head, nearly killing him. How could she be drowning?

Mr. Baker was looking around wildly. “Tobias, so help me, if you let her get herself killed this time, I’ll find a way to end you forever!”

Without thought, Sherlock pulled her limp body from the servant’s arms. The lightening pallor of her skin reminded him painfully of Mary in her last days. He had no reasonable idea of what to do, but instinct lead him to place her face down on a now cleared area of floor.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Baker was shoving at him.

“It’s how I awoke.” Sherlock snarled. He stayed knelt by her body, looking for any sign of movement. Mr. Baker gave him a thunderous look, but turned to herd the gawkers away.

The manservant knelt on her other side. “How long were you unconscious?” He lifted her wrist, searching for a pulse.

“No way of knowing.” Sherlock guessed the man was having no luck because his hand moved from her discarded wrist to the side of her throat with hardly any delay.

A sudden gasping, choking sound, and she began coughing, trying to push up from the floor. After several hard fought for breaths, she retched, spitting out what looked to be at least a pint of pink tinted water. The liveried man pushed a cloth into her hand and she wiped at her mouth as she rose to her knees. “Merde.”

The servant was trying to assure himself of her condition, but her emerald eyes had locked in fury on the stage she’d just left. Their green colour, the livid anger, even the slow trickle of crimson from her nose were shockingly familiar.

“You’re bleeding.” Sherlock reached out with his own handkerchief, but the woman evaded any contact.

“Shh.” She dabbed at the slowing flow with her own cloth as the manservant helped her to her feet. “We’re attracting attention.”

Doubting the lady meant the few straggling audience members milling about, Sherlock looked around. Another uncomfortably familiar face looked back from one of the balconies. What was Anthony doing here? The man in the balcony seemed disturbed at being so suddenly discovered and retreated from the private box, undoubtedly to give Mycroft a detailed accounting of the goings-on.

“We’re too vulnerable like this.” The lady handed the bloodied cloth to the servant as she continued staring at the stage. “Tobias, you’d better stay with Mr. Holmes; she’s in greater danger than we thought.”

“She?” Sherlock asked sharply as the woman started picking a path through the overturned chairs.

The lady stopped, breaking eye contact with whatever had obsessed her and glaring harshly at the detective. “Do not, under any circumstances, complete this line aloud!” She pointed to the glass orb on the stage. “By the pricking of my thumbs…”

Sherlock looked to the orb. Movement in its glassy surface made him search for the source of the image, but nothing else on the stage matched the reflection. It looked as if a distant figure were walking closer. Reversed, it shimmered as if traversing waves of heat, head over heels and coming ever faster. Not possible, but every instinct recoiled as he remembered the lines from Macbeth; ‘Something wicked this way comes, open locks, whoever knocks.’ No.

The manservant was trying to get his attention as Sherlock watched Miss Morgan climb the few steps to the stage. Pulling a wad of black fabric from somewhere behind the curtains, she held it draped behind the orb. The image it contained remained unchanged, colouring his theories with doubt. She swept the heavy glass up, encasing it in the fabric and dropping the whole in a nearby fire control bucket. It hissed faintly and steam rose.

He jumped at the contact to his sleeve. “Mr. Holmes, my name is Gregory; I’m Miss Morgan’s servant. I can see you home, but Miss Morgan would prefer I take you to her residence in Chelsea. Is that acceptable to you, sir?”

“No.” Sherlock was determined to get backstage. Miss Morgan had clearly indicated some danger and he needed answers.

“Sir, please.” Gregory was calm and in complete earnest. “Miss Morgan is fully engaged and I promise you, she will do anything she can to assist you, but you must give her time to gather herself. For the safety of all concerned, this consultation must be had under very specific conditions that can be readily met at her home. Please come with me and I promise she will join you shortly.”

Author’s Note: This tale is intended as a combination of both Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and the current ‘Sherlock’ series. Any other characters the reader may recognise only exist in this tale as much as they do in the reader’s own experience. Yes, those words are carefully chosen.

James took the time to peel off his gloves, placing them in his greatcoat pocket. He hung the coat and his hat on the pegs that had once been their home. Finding the kitchen in such an orderly state deepened his concern. It meant his friend had not used the room since Mrs. Hudson last cleaned it.

It took him a few moments to find the tea; the leaves were in a tin marked ‘gun cotton’. Absently, he hoped the container had been washed before being pressed into this new service. As he waited for the water to come to a boil, he watched Sherlock staring out the window, his arm and clouds of rising smoke the only visible movements.

Once the leaves were steeping, he gathered the rest of the tea set. Not having to wash cups shook him. Even when Sherlock was at his most withdrawn, James could always count on his need for stimulants to keep him hydrated.

He placed the tray on its usual table between their chairs, but had to rescue a cushion from the settee before taking up his well-worn seat. An ocean of memories surrounded him; the uncountable times they had repeated this same scenario. In some ways, his friend was as much a mystery now as he had been that very first time.

“I do know you’re here.” Sherlock’s voice was thick with disuse. “I watched you step from the cab. You tipped the driver generously for such a short voyage.”

“I waved at you several times, but you didn’t return the greeting.” James busied himself preparing two cups. “Standing there like a statue. I do hope you at least blink.”

“Dangerous.” He remained fixated on the view.

James settled back, warming his fingers on his steaming cup. “I kept the leather case, but the contents have been destroyed as per your request.” The question hung in the air unasked.

“I don’t suppose you would believe I finally took your lectures to heart?” The contents of his pipe reduced to ash, Sherlock turned from the window.

James carefully walled up his reaction. He’d never seen his friend look so exhausted; eyes deeply shadowed, skin verging on waxy. “Not likely, no. Sherlock, sit down before you collapse.”

The sharp glance made it clear he was sitting by choice, not by order. He paused with the cup near his lips. “Stay away from Mrs. Hudson’s teapot for the time being. Your former landlady has been practicing medicine.”

Mrs. Hudson had confessed her subterfuge as soon as James had come in the front door. He might have prescribed it himself had he known how worn the detective had become. “Have you slept since?”

A forlorn lopsided smile. “I’m unsure I’m awake now.” Sherlock drained the cup, returning it to its saucer on the tray before repacking his pipe. “I thought mental clarity was one of the benefits you promised if I abstained.”

James took a moment to look over the literature piled on every available surface of the sitting room. Biology, mathematics, even histories might have helped him figure out what was so obviously vexing his friend. Instead, he found himself surrounded by volumes on world mythology, collections of folklore, legends, even a few tomes of western esotericism.

“Clarity can be hard to find on such ephemeral subjects.” Perhaps Mary’s thoughts of a possible romantic entanglement were not as ludicrous as he’d thought. Since direct questions had gotten him nothing, James was determined to get him to talk around the subject.

Sherlock shrugged. “Mythology can be more revealing than history. History is recorded by journalists, and their reliability is questionable at the best of times. They lose focus; forget the murkier aspects in pursuit of the illusion of heroes and villains.”

James leaned forward in his chair. “And what villain are you pursuing now?” The sharp stare he received confirmed there was some specific point to Sherlock’s efforts. “For god’s sake, man, let me help you.” He hadn’t meant to be so blunt.

Sherlock sprang up, returning to the cleared path through the books and pacing furiously. He was obviously considering it, so James paused in his questioning.

Mary had thought it perhaps had something to do with The Woman, but James doubted it. Mrs. Norton’s first name was ‘Irene’, and if the diva had returned to London, he was sure the papers would have informed the entire city by now. Still, as time dragged on, James thought perhaps a shove was needed.

“Sherlock, who is Molly?”

He had hoped to provoke a reaction, but the look his friend gave him made him wish he’d never asked. Anger, confusion, frustration, but beneath it all some kind of desperate pain the detective appeared to have been taking great care to conceal from the world.

After a few seconds, it seemed to have filled Sherlock with some kind of dread reserve. He folded his arms, staring pointedly at a small stain in the rug. “In cases of cardiac arrest, place the patient on their back on a flat surface, preferably the floor. Tilt their head back and open their mouth by moving their jaw forward. If the patient is not breathing, sweep their mouth to be sure their airway is unobstructed. If the patient is still not breathing, seal your mouth to theirs and force two breaths into their lungs.”

He began to act out the motions. “Place the heel of your hand on the patient’s sternum, the other hand on top. Press down hard and fast about a third of the depth of the chest, releasing immediately. Thirty chest compressions to every two breaths over two minute’s time. Repeat compression and breath cycle until medical professionals arrive.” Sherlock heaved a breath of his own, assuring himself he had covered all the instructions on the print he had seen in that ‘other’ morgue. “Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It would work, wouldn’t it?”

James was stunned, the sudden change in direction leaving him scrambling. It took a moment before he began reviewing the physiology. “I suppose it would get oxygen into the blood and keep it moving around the body. Fracturing the ribs would be inevitable, but if the heart could be saved, that would be a minor price.” He nodded. “It could, but there would have to be years of trials before it could be recommended as a procedure. Did you read about this somewhere?”

With a dark look, Sherlock threw himself down in his chair. “Whatever is happening isn’t madness.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. What he needed was a way to interact with it, influence what he was seeing. Warn her. She was in terrible danger if he couldn’t find a way to…what, exactly?

James was blinking slowly, trying to come up with a reasonable response. “Sherlock, I don’t think…”

“Then you shouldn’t talk.”

James hastily prepared another cup to try to hide his irritation. “If you are going to quote Lewis Carroll, could you at least choose a character other than the Mad Hatter? A bit too close to the mark for humour, particularly over tea.”

Sherlock leapt from the chair, scanning his nearly empty shelves. He’d thought to check fables, but had ignored fairy tales. He bypassed Grimm with a silent hope none of its horrors were involved. ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ sat neglected and dusty beside a copy of ‘Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There’.

James may have been trying to get his attention, but Sherlock was flipping pages furiously, not knowing what he was looking for, but sure some idea was emerging. It took him a few minutes to find the line;

‘I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.’

As the implications caught fire in his mind, Sherlock thought of the card still gathering dust in his great coat pocket. He hurriedly checked it was still there. It seemed he was late for an important date.

Pulling his coat on, Sherlock looked at his friend’s bewildered countenance. There really wasn’t time to explain. “James, you would have moved heaven and earth if it could have saved your wife and child. How could I fail your example?” He was down the stairs and out the door in seconds.

oOo

Finding the theatre Miss Morgan was performing her ‘magic’ act in was difficult. The address had been on the card, but the building itself was small and nondescript. He had always assumed medium shows were an elaborate cover for fleecing the naive and gullible out of their savings and sanity. He wouldn’t have considered approaching the woman in question, but he suspected time was becoming a critical issue. He kept thinking of Mr. Carey; intelligent enough to have reasoned his identity by pub stories and addresses, yet enchanted by the woman’s illusions.

He had envisioned large signs, perhaps hawkers calling people in from the street, but there was nothing to indicate a spiritualist’s expected revival atmosphere. By the time he actually found the small venue, the evening matinee had well begun. A few people were milling about out front, seats were still being sold, but there was no sense of the excitement or the carnival mood he had predicted. Instead, as he watched, an older man drew a weeping woman clutching a faded shawl away from the exit. Whatever they had expected, they had clearly been disappointed

“She’s not a fake.”

Sherlock halted; turned sharply at the sound of a low, intense and unexpected voice coming from the shadows to his left. His eyes flickered over the man, nearly his height, curly and unruly bohemian hair glowing dark gold in the light from the street lamps. He was dressed in a manner that bespoke an artistic career, a navy scarf wound loosely around his shoulders several times before draping to his waist.

It was the man’s eyes that captured his attention. Vibrant blue, they bulged very slightly, which should have given him a whimsical, almost comical expression. Instead, they held a gravity and seriousness that testified to a wealth of experience.

“Thank you for your reassurances,” Sherlock finally responded. A fanatical follower of the medium, no doubt. The man was probably demonstrating his devotion by accosting those he thought sceptics on their way to view her performance. “I prefer to reach my own conclusions.”

“Oh, you’ll reach those conclusions, no doubt about that.” His lips widened in a delighted smile that lit his eyes from within, softening his face to a more benevolent demeanour. “But you’ll need to rethink them, Mr. Holmes. What you see on stage is but a test of the beholder; not at all what a private audience would reveal. I’d advise you to ask for one, but I’m sure you’ll come to that on your own. Forego the ticket; ask for Mr. Baker, her erstwhile manager. I’m sure he will guide you where you need to be.”

Sherlock was forced to take a step back as a crowd of wildly drunken revellers pushed between them, managing to mangle both the melodies and lyrics to “The Mikado”. By the time they had passed, the man who had known his name was gone.

oOo

James had the hack drop him down the road from where Sherlock had stopped. He had expected his friend to rush off to some library, laboratory, hospital, perhaps a private residence where this ‘Molly’ could be found. He had not expected to arrive in the theatre district. He was beginning to feel some sense of Deja vu.

Unwilling to have Sherlock aware of his presence, he looked over the placards for the nearest venue. An older couple tried but failed to stop his cab before it moved on. The woman’s face was a mask of tears and misery, but her husband was trying to console her.

It took James a minute, but he thought he’d recognized them from an illustration in the newspapers; Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, whose daughter had disappeared several weeks prior. Perhaps they were trying to find someone who had witnessed what had become of her. They had moved along before he remembered or he would have offered his sympathies. Perhaps once things were settled, he and Sherlock could help them. He watched them for a moment before someone ran straight into his back, sending him sprawling.

“Sorry, mate!” a voice from the swarm of revellers called back as they staggered down the street, laughing, dancing and singing in horribly off-key sing song falsettos.

A hand on his elbow helped tug him upright. James glanced over to see who was kind enough to assist and saw an incongruous man. Undoubtedly an actor or poet of some kind, judging by the ridiculously oversized greatcoat and scarf, but the man had a friendly and sympathetic aspect. “Sorry about that, Dr. Watson. The crowds in the theatre district can be somewhat unruly at this time of night.” The stranger’s voice had the depth and intensity for the stage.

As soon as James regained his feet, his benefactor stepped back. “You should take this as a sign; your friend needs to take this part of his journey on his own.” The man’s eyes were a vivid blue, seeming to shine with some deep emotion.

James was startled. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Who indeed.” The other man grinned, tapping a finger alongside his rather majestic nose. “Just a friend, offering another friend a bit of advice; let Mr. Holmes travel this part of the path on his own, you will be by his side again soon enough.”

With a small salute, the man turned and vanished into the flowing crowd before James could gather his flustered thoughts and demand to know how the stranger knew who he was. He looked around, but Sherlock had disappeared.

oOo

Since the performance had already begun, Sherlock took the strange man’s advice and asked for the lady’s manager. The man in the booth showed no interest until Sherlock produced the card the dead man had given him. Oddly, it seemed to excite the ticket taker, who nearly fell from his stool, then bolted to allow him into the lobby through a discordantly loud door. The man asked him to wait, then darted down a small hallway. Apparently he was expected.

He took a moment to look over the cheap four-colour prints advertising the reputed wonders of the show in progress. He assumed the woman featured was supposed to be Charlotte Morgan; a willowy figure with scarlet hair escaping the ornate knots fashion dictated. Her eyes were wide in every illustration, but disturbingly without irises, just golden light pouring forth. Cartoon-like spirits curled across every available inch and the show seemed to promise miracles unending. He was a bit surprised a ‘donation box’ wasn’t prominently placed where the gullible wouldn’t miss it on the way out.

The ticket taker hurried back, showing him to a small office whose door was in desperate need of lubrication, the hinges squealing madly as they moved. Sherlock was practically shoved inside before the door slammed shut; leaving him alone.

A draft circled the room. It fluttered a mound of newspapers and hand-written notes, crowned with one scrawled in a different ink which read ‘Do Not Touch! That Means You!’ Beneath it in pencil was a small primitive sketch that reminded him of the image from Molly’s blouse.

An unusually tall man yanked open the office door and rushed inside; difficult given his height and the room’s low ceiling. He seemed to be staring for a moment at a spot just over Sherlock’s head. Leaning out of the room, he whispered harshly to someone, and then came back in, closing the door.

As Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder, the man snatched at his hand, shaking it violently. “Douglas Baker.” He continued on before Sherlock could introduce himself. “I understand you have one of Charlotte’s private audience cards. May I see it, please?” His forced smile reminded the detective of certain unsuccessful predators.

He showed Mr. Baker the card while carefully keeping it out of the man’s reach. “I engaged a driver named Peter Carey, and he gave this to me. Shortly afterward, he was murdered. Did you know him?”

Irritation in Mr. Baker’s eyes seemed to die back before he closed them, rubbing his face with his hands. He took a sharp breath, gesturing Sherlock to a chair while he took his place behind the desk. “The papers never named the victim. Mr. Carey was our driver when we first arrived. He wasn’t a client and shouldn’t have had one of those cards. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to simply give it to me and go about your business?”

For all of the excitement his arrival had caused, Sherlock now felt plainly unwelcome. He was aware that the title ‘manager’ was sometimes used as a euphemism for ‘lover.’ If the illustrations in the lobby were accurate, there would be quite an age disparity, but not an insurmountable one. Mr. Baker must be in his late fifties, while the posters made Miss Morgan appear in her early twenties, although she was probably older. “Could she have given him one without your knowledge?”

“I have no idea what that insane woman gets up to.” He shook his head with a scowl, his gaze seeming to settle just above Sherlock’s shoulder. The office was far too small for anyone to be concealed in it.

Mr. Baker’s tone was harsh as he continued. “She has some very odd ideas about how the world works. If she didn’t have more money than sense, she’d have been locked up long ago. I have my hands full just trying to keep her flesh and spirit somewhere in the same general vicinity.”

No love lost there, apparently. In fact, Mr. Baker was behaving more like a disappointed father figure, or more accurately like a disapproving uncle. Perhaps it was merely the odd eccentricities so often rumoured about his profession. “A romance, perhaps?”

Mr. Baker’s eyes widened painfully in bald shock. He enunciated carefully. “No. I can promise you that. She would never consider it, and I can assure you, Tobias would never allow it. Look, the card is of no real concern. We hadn’t used the man in weeks. If Charlotte thinks of anything that could help, we can contact the authorities directly.”

Sherlock put the card back in his pocket. “Could I perhaps ask the lady herself?” The sense of his being unwelcome was clear but leaving without some kind of answers was unacceptable.

A long pause seemed filled with the manager’s resignation. “She never meets with anyone privately in the theatre; only in the conservatory of her house. Some nonsense about not wanting to be overheard.” He seemed to look Sherlock over intently, his eyes finally settling yet again on a blank space behind him. “If you really want to meet Charlotte, I’ll arrange it, but I should warn you.” A brief glare seemed directed at nothing before the man looked him in the eye. “It can be a rather jarring experience. I know a few people who would like to buy back their introductions, including, on occasion, myself.”

Sherlock almost laughed aloud. He’d heard James say roughly the same about him. “I’m sure it would be for the best.”

Mr. Baker stood, his head nearly colliding with a low beam in the office ceiling. He stepped toward the door, but tripped over something Sherlock couldn’t see and barely caught himself on the edge of the desk. The manager hadn’t squinted, but perhaps he needed spectacles. He patted down his vest, directing another withering look at empty air. “Yes, perhaps you should see her at work while I try to arrange things.” Muttering viciously under his breath, he reached for the door, gesturing Sherlock to follow, but then he stopped abruptly.

Happy Halloween, everyone! It's been a strange day all around, but I got a wonderful gift from a friend....

There's no way of preparing the reader for this...its a latex liver. (If I'd been a bit quicker, I should have blinked coyly and said 'You had me at onions!') Not accurate enough for a medical model; it might not even fool a camera, and that was before the hearts, smiley faces and flowers drawn all over it in pen! I laughed until I cried, especially at the sunny rays drawn around the pictures! 

Strange? Yes, I am. A woman at the mall costume kiosk earnestly asked me which Disney Princess I've always dreamed of being. Without thought, I answered 'Fiona'. 

Oh, and if my fated friend is reading this, the new work is neither 'trite' nor 'cute'. Promise.

Halloween Gift #1: This gentleman has a Youtube channel under the name 518Taurus. The song is “Endless Appetite” from the musical “Tanz Der Vampire” or “Dance of the Vampires”. You may recognize it from somewhere else. I have very eclectic music tastes, but this composer always gets the creative mind whirring.

I’ve been rooting through the cabin trunks in my mind. One tenth is memories and the rest is used for penguin storage. (Bonus points to anyone who gets the reference.)

A friend recently answered a question I’ve always had: When do you become an adult? Not a grown up; an adult is a different animal. I categorically refuse to ever even consider growing up, but I remember kids introducing me to their parents as “twelve going on thirty”.

His answer was that you become an adult the moment the list of people depending on you becomes longer than the list of who you depend on. Unsettling.

Thinking on that reminded me of a true and scary story I thought I’d share for the upcoming holiday. (After all, MizJ and I are already weaving a supernatural tale!)

One advance note: My father always said firstborn children should have the words ‘experimental model’ tattooed to their foreheads as a warning to the rest of the pack. I’m not only a firstborn; my parents were both firstborn as well. One was a graphic artist, the other a classical musician. A strange household.

This particular story begins with me being nine and a quarter, and absolutely miserable. (Hey, when your age is in the single digits, those fractions count!) My school year had begun with my parents telling me my ‘only child’ status was at an end. They had always treated me as the shortest adult in the room, but since Mom was going to need help with a new baby, I was going to have to learn to fully live up to that particular title very quickly.

October arrived, and with it a near-legendary bout of stomach flu. I missed a full week of classes and trying to make it up was a pain, so I wasn’t in the best mood when Dad sat me down for a talk. He had some vacation time he had to take or lose, so they decided to pull me out of school for a week to go to the Island; to a cottage my family has owned for several generations and where I spent the best summers of my life. Formerly a hunting cabin, it had one bedroom, one bunk room (my father was the oldest of four boys, so the second bedroom had two sets of bunk beds, hence ‘bunk room’), a fully functioning bathroom, and a kitchen/dining/living room combo. All very arts and crafts rustic.

Now, you would think I’d be overjoyed, but even at nine and a quarter, I could recognize the set-up of a horror film. In the summer, I could swim in the lake, run around in the woods, read for hours on the porch swing. Most of the cottages there were built for summer use only; no heating systems. There was a fire place, but the heat from it wouldn’t reach the bunk room where I slept, let alone the bathroom. No one would be around for miles, and we’d be a ninety minute ferry ride from…anything.

The crowning glory of it? We’d be going the week of Halloween, so no costume or candy for me! I was furious! I was told on no uncertain terms that I was too old to do anything but pass out candy on Halloween, and my dire predictions that we’d freeze were wrong because my grandfather had just installed a propane heating system.

I tried everything I could think of to get out of it, but the day arrived and I was packed in the back of the car with all of the luggage and enough groceries to get us through the week. It’s normally a six hour drive, but they kept getting sidetracked, so it took three days! Plus side was I got to stay in hotels. Minus side, since I wouldn’t be able to swim at the Island, I hadn’t packed my suit, so I couldn’t use the hotel pools. Yep, I was miserable.

We finally got there in the evening, and my father built a huge fire in the fire place, saying he’d turn on the furnace before he woke me in the morning. That was great for them since they were sleeping on the fold-out couch in the living room, but I had to make do with three blankets on my bunk bed! If anyone ever asks you, the phrase ‘character developing’ is just a nice way of saying ‘it sucks; live with it’!

Sleep and I have always had a strange relationship. For some reason, my body clock has never matched my location. (It wasn’t until I’d kept a journal for a project that I realized my body thinks I’m on Greenwich Mean Time no matter where I actually am! Permanent jet lag!) As a result, I sleep shorter hours than most, but when I go under, I’m a zombie! People tell tales of how hard I am to wake up! Caffeine has become an art for me as an adult, but as a child, I’d drift off soon after dinner, snap awake at two a.m., then have a terrible time trying to go back to sleep. Waking me for school should have come with danger pay!

I don’t know when my father got up, but it took him more than an hour to wake me. He had turned the furnace on as promised; I knew this because it was installed in the bunk room and it was loud. I was warm and wanted to get up, but it wasn’t happening. He kept shaking me, telling me that my mother was making (later ‘had made’) breakfast and eggs are gross when they get cold. I could hear her getting more and more upset, and my dad was getting nasty, but I had a problem.

I didn’t know what it was at first. It started as the worst headache I’d ever had. Like my head was getting squeezed in a vice. It didn’t hurt if I was asleep and I was so tired! I remember thinking if this was what a hangover was like; I’d never drink in my life! Maybe if I just slept a little more, it would go away.

My father brought me a couple aspirins and some water and threatened to carry me out and dump me in the lake if I didn’t get out of bed, and I believed he’d do it! My mother was that upset, so I fumbled out into the dining area without the stupid slippers which must have been hiding under the bed.

I was getting the riot act about my bare feet when I discovered the second problem. Cold eggs are gross but I wasn’t going to eat them anyway because I was getting nauseous. No imminent danger, but there was no way I was going to put food in my mouth. Suddenly, I recognized my symptoms, so I told Dad I thought my stomach flu was coming back.

Mom blew up. She was so upset because she thought I was doing all this to deliberately ruin their dumb vacation. She stormed out in a huff after ordering me to at least clear the table and get the damned dishes washed. My father went after her since she went out without a coat.

I stood up to start clearing the table and discovered the third problem. I was so dizzy that I had to use the table to keep standing! My parents hadn’t put the couch back together yet, so I walked a few steps to their fold-out bed and fell onto it, then to sleep.

Her second blow up was even more impressive than her first when they got back and not only was I asleep, but none of the dirty dishes had been moved, let alone washed! My father started to try to take care of it himself, but that upset her more. Stomach flu doesn’t just come back like that, so I must have been doing it to get attention and mess up their time off!

My father was giving me his patented ‘could you help a guy out here?’ look, so I got up and took a load of dishes to the sink, but then lay down again afterwards. He tried cheering me on; I took another load, and then lay down. He tried yelling; I took another load, and then lay down. Threats; load, lay down.

I was trying, I swear, but every time I got up, it got so much worse! I could almost hear the blood in my head; whump, whump, whump. I remember the last time I lay down; I had two names in mind; Jimi Hendrix and Janice Joplin. My parents had their albums and I knew how they had died, so I rolled over onto my stomach. Usually, I can feel myself drift off to sleep like pushing away from the side of the pool. That time felt like falling off a building. Kind of scary, but if it would make the pain stop…

When I woke up, the sun was starting to set. I saw this because I was outside. I knew that because I could see my breath fog up the air in front of me. I was sweltering hot, but clammy and soaking wet. Somebody was crying, but I couldn’t see them. It took me a bit to realize it was my mother, and I couldn’t see her because she was right behind me. Specifically, I was in her lap on the front porch of the cottage, wrapped in every blanket in the place. I knew I had to have been sick because my ribs hurt horribly, but whoever cleaned me up must have rinsed my mouth out. I tried talking to her, but whether I was too mush-mouthed or she was too upset, it wasn’t much of a conversation. She was squishing me too hard and my arms were wrapped up so I couldn’t do a thing about it except wonder where my father was.

He arrived back a few minutes later with the captain of the mail boat in tow. (The mail boat was the only way on or off the place unless you had a boat of your own.) He’s also an old family friend and I was so relieved to see him, even if he looked panicked. He just kept telling me not to be afraid because in an emergency, with no cars or other passengers aboard, he could get me to the mainland and a doctor within forty five minutes.

They all talked and since I’d woken up, they decided I didn’t need to go to the hospital after all. Instead, the captain helped my father fix the problem… Have you figured it out yet?

See, my grandfather had told my father that he’d installed the furnace. He left out the part about how he hadn’t installed the exhaust system. When my father turned the furnace on, it started pumping colorless, odorless carbon monoxide gas directly into the bunk room.

I not only had the smallest body, I’d gotten the largest dose. After I’d ‘fallen asleep again’, they had shut the furnace off in favor of another fire in the fire place. It wasn’t until after I’d gotten sick and they’d cleaned me up that my mother got enough to start feeling the effects. They figured it out and opened all the doors and windows so the gas could escape. My father got us moved out to the porch and walked to find help.

When we got back home, my mother went to the doctor to check on the baby. He told her point-blank that due to our size differences, if she hadn’t been pregnant, I would have been dead before they felt the effects enough to get help. No; this did not endear me to the idea of having a sibling.