A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(7)

Her face paled, but other than that she was surprisingly calm. It was . . . odd. And so very, very different from Mama’s reaction. “You are handling it all quite stoically,” I told her.

Allison’s eyes flicked to the window. “I would hardly call my reaction stoic. But I do not deal with my grief through hysterics.” She spat the word.

“My mother does not have hysterics,” I said sharply. “Mama has melancholia. For days I could not get her to eat, to leave her bed, or even to speak to me. Her mind—her will to live—simply vanished.

And Kirkbride’s,” I tried to say in a gentler tone, “was the only solution I could conjure.”

Allison gave no response, and I was grateful when, moments later, we rattled to the end of the street—to where Kirkbride’s famous hospital for the insane stood. I scooted to the edge of my seat.

“We’re here.” I pointed at the wrought iron fence, behind which were gold-tipped trees and an enormous white mansion. With its long, ever-growing wings and cupolas, and its beautiful grounds and gardens, the hospital was meant to be a soothing place for the mentally disturbed to regain their wits. A haven of peace and beauty right in the middle of Philadelphia’s hustle.

I set my hand on the door as the carriage slowed to a halt before the entrance gate. “Thank you for the ride.”

Allison’s lips puckered. “I am not finished with you yet.”

I hesitated. “I told you what you wanted to know.”

“And I want to know more. Now shut pan and get out. I’ll come with you into the hospital.”

“No!” I lifted a pleading hand. “It’s dangerous. Please, Allie—”

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever call me that. That was his name for me.”

Shame seared through my face, hot and heavy. I turned away. Of course I had to use Clarence’s nickname right when Allison’s heart was no doubt aching. But it was too late for apologies or for begging that she stay. I had lost the argument, and Allison was already pushing out the carriage door. I hurried after her.

We strode through the gate, where the guard bobbed his head at me in recognition. I spared a quick glance for the wide, grassy front lawn—sometimes Mama liked to sit there—but all I found were vacant benches and the bronze statue of William Penn standing guard.

“My mother is probably in the back,” I murmured to Allison, waving to a gravel path that circled the huge hospital. Despite more than a hundred acres of gardens and forest to entertain the mental patients, Mama was always on that front lawn or beside the same azalea bush in the back. There was a low fountain there that kept the summer heat away.

We set off, our feet crunching on the gravel.

“So what,” Allison said with carefully flat inflection, “does your mother do here? It seems like a holiday resort.”

“It’s meant to be that way.” I glanced at her, but it wasn’t until we reached the end of the white mansion that I added, “My mother needs calm, not violence and straitjackets.”

Allison’s eyebrows lifted. “And has it worked?”

No, I thought as we passed a wisteria bush. But I do not think anything will work. . . . I took in a breath to tell her this, to explain that I had tried everything, when a long, throat-rattling shriek rang out—a shriek I knew well.

Fright burst inside me, and I broke into a sprint. My heels kicked up gravel, and I could hear

Allison running just behind.

We bounded past azalea bushes when another scream ripped out. With it came shouts.

I skidded around the last bush beside the fountain, only to find struggling figures on the other side of the low pool: my mother, screeching and wrestling with two nurses. I surged to the fountain’s lip.

“Mrs. Fitt, settle down!” shouted one nurse, her uniform rumpled and her hat missing. She held

Mama’s hands clasped.

“Let go of me!” Mama shoved and tugged, trying to free her arms.

The second nurse spotted me. “Miss Fitt, thank heavens! Help us get her back to her room! We’ve dragged her across the entire grounds.”

I stepped forward just as Mama whipped around. She yanked once, and her hands broke free of the nurse’s grasp. My mother was a powerfully built woman—it was a wonder the two small nurses had managed to contain her this long.

“You!” Mama thrust a pointed finger at me. “You!” Her gray hair was falling from its usual bun, and her walking gown was covered in dust and twigs.

“Mama!” I moved to her. “What’s wrong?”

“How dare you show your face here,” she yelled.

“What?” I turned to the nurses. “What is she talking about?” They only shrugged. I glanced back at

Allison; she waited by the azaleas, her face pale.

“Do not look away,” Mama hissed. “Do not pretend you do not know.”

“Know what?” I stepped toward her. “I don’t underst—”

“You told me Elijah was a necromancer,” she cut in, her voice gaining in volume and speed. “You told me that he killed Clarence Wilcox and those other boys. You told me he was dead!”

My mouth went dry. “He is dead.”

“Do not lie to me!” Her chest heaved, and her fingers curled into fists. “I do not know why I believed you when you had no evidence but a handful of Elijah’s letters. There was no corpse!” Her eyes raked over me, more lucid than I’d seen in months.