Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 (24 page)

Once Nora was convinced and agreed to try, Sam produced a bottle of Nightfall pills from his jacket. He had her swallow three of them with her water. I watched her throat move as they went down. He swallowed four of them himself. Too wired up to sleep, he told me. 

What about me? I wanted to say. But I was useless. I could only sit there and watch as Sam tucked Nora back into her bed. She watched me under hooded eyes until they closed.

“
How long?” I ask him. He has lain down next to her. It should seem strange to see a young man next to an old lady, holding her hand, but somehow it doesn’t. Of course everything in my life is strange lately, so perhaps it’s just in comparison.

“
Not long.” He begins to talk to her of 1889. The sights, the smells, the feel of Africa. He speaks of Sonnet and of Noah. He talks about things like the plains, and sick children, the heat, the desert. He repeats 1889 over and over again, until I personally want to scream. Eventually, he stops murmuring and I know he’s asleep.

And all I can do is watch and wait, and hope that Rose isn
’t nearby, doing the same.

28

If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it. I
have
seen it, and I don’t know that I believe it. One moment they were there, curled up in the hospital bed with one thin blanket between them, Sam’s feet sticking out the bottom side, and the next, the bed was empty. I don’t know what I was expecting, a flash of light, a puff of smoke, but what happened was hardly noisy or theatrical. They were just gone. An indentation in the bed, and that was all to prove they were ever there to begin with. I whimpered like a kitten and found myself clawing at the blanket. The pillow was still warm. I lay on it for a moment, pressing it to my face, trying to smell him. I didn’t even really get to say goodbye.

My life is a train wreck. This is insanity. What am
I doing? They had neatly escaped Rose’s clutches and left me to fend for myself. I had no promise that they would or even could come back. And if they did? What then? Use Sonnet to lure Rose back, that’s what. If we were all lucky, it would bring back Rose’s memory, and if we were luckier still it’d only bring back the good parts. If there were any. I’d read her diary; I wasn’t feeling hopeful. Rose was as sociopathic as they came. I didn’t think she had any good feelings to fall back on. If we weren’t lucky, Rose would finish off her sister for good, and she and Sam would retire to their island getaway and leave me to find a good physiologist and maybe a Holy Father to confess my sins to.

There was no happy ending for me. I had to face it. I couldn
’t travel with Sam, and he couldn’t stop himself. Even if Rose was out of the picture, it would do nothing for me. I was going to be alone, and I may as well face it. Maybe I could dedicate my life to finding a cure for the Lost. Wouldn’t that be wonderfully ironic?

I smooth my hair with my fingers and braid it the way I used to. Something should feel normal around here. I go down to the laundry and get myself out of my
ball gown and into a uniform. I leave the gown crumpled in a corner, and then I change my mind and toss it in the potato bin. I never want to see it again. I make my way down to the kitchen to beg for some tea. I’m still jumpy, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been up all night, but I don’t see how I’ll ever go to sleep again. If I do, my dreams will be filled with horrible nightmares; I’m sure of it. My cheeks are wet with tears, and I rub them away harshly with my fists. I haven’t seen Mina yet, or Mack, but I do see what looks like Dr. Ford’s immense frame from a long way away, down one of the long hallways.  I have no idea anymore if I’m scheduled to work today, but I figure no one else knows or cares either. I can blend in well enough, though if I don’t look busy and scrub something, Miss Helmes will have my head.

The tea is weak and bitter, the way Bedlam
’s tea always is, and the only food I can find is someone’s leftover tray from breakfast.  I hope it wasn’t full of crushed up medication, because I devour every bite quickly. If I feel dizzy or sleepy, I only have myself to blame.  Though, lately, I swear, dizzy is the norm for me. I imagine dizziness and feelings of anxiety are common side effects of too many fantastic, improbable goings-on.

I hadn
’t even asked when to expect them back, if they came back at all, that is. Would it be immediately? A week? A month? Could Nora steer them through time so effectively that only moments would have passed for me here? I hope so. I hope Sam is back in Nora’s room right now.

I know for them it could take time to locate Sonnet and Noah
—even if Sam is correct and knows exactly where and when they are—and a lot more time to convince them to come back. It could take weeks maybe, in their time. They know him as Luke—Luke, the violent sidekick to Rose and her delusions. Israel Rhode didn’t seem a pushover; how would they convince him? Even Rose was nervous around him, and Luke’s history with him was anything but friendly. I’d say they hate one another’s guts really.

No, the odds are not in our favor. If I were Sonnet I
’d run him out of town. I wouldn’t want anything to do with Rose Gray. Then I consider an angle I hadn’t thought of before: if Nora and Rose are the only ones who manipulate time, then Sonnet might have use of them after all. Would it be possible to go back and right the wrongs? Would Sonnet wonder the same thing? I’m not well versed on the thought process of changing history, but if anyone could do it, it’d be the Lost. What if Sonnet could go back and catch Carolina before she fell? What if she could save Emme that night in Victorian London, save her from Jack? If I were Sonnet, wouldn’t I try?

I hear a creaking sound and nearly jump out of my skin before my mind registers the fact that I know this particular creak. It
’s Mr. Limpet’s wheelchair, and sure enough, he rounds the corner and stops at my feet. He is still under heavy medication, I can tell, though he is no longer being completely sedated. His eyes are heavy and hooded and red rimmed, and he has the ever present bit of spittle at his mouth. He looks up at me in alarm.

“
Hello, Mr. Limpet. Lovely day for a stroll, isn’t it?” I pat his head like I would a puppy.

“
Lizzie? That you?” He squints up at me. “I haven’t seen you in too long. I thought she got you.”

“
Who, Mr. Limpet?”

“
That wicked girl. The one who threw the scissors. She’s always here.” He glares at the walls. “I’ve been here longer than anyone, and she’s always here. Can’t get away from that blasted girl.”

Now I know he
’s not insane, or at least not in this regard. Poor man. He knew and was trying to avoid Rose all along. I should have paid better attention to him. I feel terrible.

“
I’ll keep an eye out for her,” I promise. “Don’t worry. She won’t come after you if you stay out of her way.”

“
It’s not me I’m worried about.” Mr. Limpet glares again. He really is in a mood.

“
I’ll take care of everyone.” Of course I will. Keep her away from everyone, especially me, the girl who kissed her husband; if she has a vendetta for anyone, it’s me. And then? Well, that’s up to Sam and Sonnet. “Go back to your room. I’ll see if Miss Helmes can convince Cook to make those honey carrots you like so much.”

“
Honey carrots aren’t gonna keep that girl at bay,” he answers, darkly. “She’s here. I can feel her. And she’s close.”

Not a comforting thought, but I force a smile and repeat my offer of honey carrots as I push him back along the corridor the way he had come.

I don’t want to admit it, but I can feel her too.

********************

Sam isn’t in Nora’s room when I get back. He isn’t in the hallway, he isn’t in the dining room, and he isn’t in Bedlam. I know it’s only been a couple of hours, but I’m worried and anxious and every bump and noise makes me jump. Miss Helmes asks me if I am all right and when I say I am, she snaps at me to earn my pay and quit wandering the halls like a cat. I busy myself in the largest, most populated room, and read books to one patient, help feed another. Still, the time slips ever so slowly by. I feel sick.

What if they never came back? What should I do? No one would believe my story, even with Nora gone. They
’d assume that she had escaped. What else could they think? No one would even care; she had no family that they knew of. No one had visited her in years. Meanwhile, Rose is somewhere, doing or planning who knows what, or just existing, not knowing who she is. I am the only one who knows her. Well, and Mr. Limpet, but he’s hardly helpful. What could he do, fight her off with carrots? No, I am utterly, hopelessly, on my own.

The day has faded into evening. I
’m so tired I can’t see straight. My head is still aching, but still he doesn’t come.

********************

I have to sleep in Nora’s room. There is nothing else for me to do, or if there is, I can’t think what it could be. I could go back to my flat, but it’s dark out now, and I don’t relish the walk. There was a day when I could walk the streets of London carefree. I didn’t check behind me. I didn’t pay attention to every noise. Those days, I fear, are long gone. The thought of sleeping in Nora’s bed, in a lunatic asylum, makes me nervous and anxious in all sorts of ways I can’t explain, but unless I want to stay up another night, I’m out of options. I’m going on too little sleep as it is. How do the Lost do it? Force themselves to stay awake, then force themselves to sleep. It’s no small wonder they’re a little odd. I would be, too.

One thing I can
’t bring myself to do: don Nora’s nightgown. No, there are some boundaries I cannot cross, and wearing an old lady’s sleepwear is one of them. I lie down in my uniform, and burrow deep beneath her blankets. It seems peculiar to be in the same spot that Sam and Nora were when they disappeared. Had no one else in the history of man watched a Lost person vanish before? Was I the first? It seemed strange, but I suppose there have been tales of vanishing and disappearance for as long as tales have been around. Have I known other Lost? The thought is intriguing enough to distract me from my real problems: Sam and Rose. I ponder a girl who went missing a few years back at the orphanage, and an old man who used to beg for scraps outside the bakery by my flat until one day he was gone and no one knew where. We assumed the girl had run away, though at the time I thought it strange, and no one had even bothered to look for the old man.

I yawn, and will myself to think of more people I have known who have left me. The list is depressingly long, my parents included. I don
’t remember them at all. Eventually, I sleep.

********************

I awake to the sound of rustling and scraping. My eyes open; they rest on the doorknob of Nora’s door, just barely illuminated by the moon. There is nothing there, and the doorknob does not move, does not turn the way it might in a scary picture or in my overactive imagination. Why then did I wake and my attentions fly there? It’s no good willing my bad feelings to go away, so I gingerly make my way out of Nora’s blanket (I have always wrapped myself up in covers at night the way a swaddling baby would prefer) and walk swiftly to the door, barefoot. I had wanted to lock myself in as a precaution against Rose, but being a mental hospital, locks are hardly the norm, not on the inside. We don’t want our patients locking the staff out and doing God knows what inside. Instead, I had borrowed a chair from the dining area and tipped it beneath the knob, hoping it would do the trick. I move the chair silently aside and place my hand on the knob. I wouldn’t mind a trip to the kitchen anyway and maybe a cup of hot tea. Nora’s room is freezing. How does she sleep in this temperature? I think perhaps I’ll try convincing Miss Helmes to heat the hospital better tomorrow. There’s nothing like seeing the place through an inmate’s eyes.

The knob doesn
’t turn, and I realize quickly that I’m locked in. Had it been Miss Helmes? We only lock in the new patients and the violent ones typically, and Nora is neither. She’s been here forever, and she’s as meek as a lamb. I can’t imagine why Miss Helmes would have locked the door, but then again, I have never understood Miss Helmes. She confounds me.

I will my heart to slow down. There
’s no reason for alarm. After all, being locked inside a safe room when there is possibly a vindictive wife out to get me isn’t the worst thing, not if Miss Helmes pocketed the key and didn’t leave it resting in the knob on the other side for anyone to turn, that is. I will simply have to wait for Miss Helmes or the morning staff to let me out once the sun rises.

That
’s when I realize something else. The sound that woke me makes yet another noise, a kind of scratching, a kind of hissing, but it isn’t coming from the door. No, it’s coming from the other side, closer to the bed, closer to where my head had lain moments before. Confused, I turn slowly and peer into the darkness. The moon illuminates the bed and the figure crouched by the foot. The head down by the knees, small, almost like a child. I know instantly it’s too small for Sam, but it could be Nora. Would she have come back without him? Where was Sam?

But it isn
’t Nora. I know when I look harder. Her yellow hair spills over her shoulders, and I know this is the same girl I had seen in last night’s moonlight, framed by the window. I know it’s Rose, and I’m afraid.

While I was concerned she could be wandering the halls of Bedlam, frightening Mr. Limpet, pinning someone
’s hand to the wall with scissors, maybe even following Mina home or searching my flat, she was with me all along. How long had she been near me, hiding by Nora’s bed? Had she shut us in together somehow? With a chill, I remember Sonnet, locked in an old, crumbling house, alone. Rose would have cheerily let her starve, if not for Luke intervening.

Luke.

Sam.

Where was he?

My thoughts race, millions of them per second, it feels. I will my breaths to calm, not come out in shuddering gasps like they want to. What does she want from me? Is she here for revenge, a displaced wife, scorned and vengeful, or is she here for help, for shelter? Does she know I’ve read her diary, that I’m perhaps the person who knows her best?

If she didn
’t walk in here while I was sleeping, then she must have traveled here, anchored to Bedlam the way she always was and would be. Had she simply woke here then?

My mind is coming up with all sorts of questions, but no answers. I am shut in with a murderess and have no recourse, except my training as a nurse. She is small, but so am I, and she has violent rage on her side. I only have fear. Overpowering her is not something I
’m eager to jump to, not without reasoning first. This was the lonely girl who had some love in her heart—Solomon, Luke—and I would not abandon all hope of sanity quite yet. I would find some redemption in her if it killed me. The thought chills.