Hello 2012...
Nearly a whole month into the new year already. Sometimes I'm scared by how fast time flows. I'm hoping this one will be better than last year, but in all honesty, it doesn't have to try very hard to achieve it! It has promise, though: two weddings of close friends, a new safari park opening, not to mention our ten year anniversary all impending.
I've made good progress on one cosplay, need to make sure I don't end up letting it get over-taken by other things! I've only got a few plans for the year so far: Sleigh from Super Robot wars, Isabella from Dragon Age II for early in the year and Beast for Ame. Definitely tempted to do something from Redwall, probably Cluny the rat, but not sure if I'll get that done this year.
Christmas was lovely, just me and my parents so very nice and quiet. Took the opertunity to try out my new lens taking pictures of squirrels in the winter gardens in Bournemouth and ducks on Holly Hill Christmas day. Also managed to get another chapter written, so I've posted that below. I suspect it's going to work out as chapter 9, and follows directly from the last update. I'm currently filling in the gaps so should have chapters seven and eight up sometime over the next month or so. Then I think there is only one or two more chapters and epilogues and the story should be finished. The next stage after that is getting it suitable for competition entry which is going to involve two big tasks - building it up to at least eighty thousand words and fitting it into actual eighteenth century London, in order to fit in with the criteria.
He was stood in the dock, unable to do anything more than listen as the evidence that would decide his fate was given. He was wearing a new suit, bought especially for the occasion, no doubt. It was expensive, he was sure: fine black wool, with a crisp linen shirt. They had let him wash for the first time since his incarceration, but it was not the comfort he had expected it to be.
Clothes to be buried in, he realised suddenly. They've already come to a conclusion, before I even stepped through the door. Indeed, as the verdict was read out it became clear most of the courtroom had reached the same conclusion. When the word "guilty" was pronounced there were no cries, exclamations or gasps. They all expected it, Tobin thought. Every man here thinks me a murderer.
The judge banged his gravell. "Tobin Whitlaw, for the murder of the Blackwater sorceress, I sentence you to be hung by the neck until dead. This is to be carried out immediately."
Two police officers tried to lead him from the dock, but he found he had quite forgotten how to use his legs. He stumbled and with his hands cuffed behind his back he was unable to stop himself falling. He ended up at the bottom of the steps in a crumpled heap. Someone laughed harshly.
The two officers dragged him to his feet and man-handled him out of the building. He stepped, blinking, into the beautiful spring sunshine. He was in the wide forum, standing before the dark wooden gallows. A crowd was assembled for the spectacle of his death, enthusiasticly calling for justice to be done.
He could do nothing but allow himself to be lead up the steps to the rope. Even if he believed he had any chance if escape from here, where could he go? No one would harbour a man they believed had slit a girl's throat, and it seemed everyone believed that, even his own family.
As he made his way up to the platform, he was able to look out over the crowd and see people he recognised. Near the front were the Earl and his family; Felicity was jeering, smiling even. Nearby were several sorceressess who shared her opinion of his fate. He looked out further, hoping to see a friendlier face; hoping to see Rosney. He caught a glimpse of someone who might have been him, but the man's back was turned and he was walking away.
He did not want to face his family, but when he saw them he could not look away. They were standing at the front of the crowd, almost directly below him. Milo was turned away, his face buried in his father's side. He will be all alone now, Tobin thought. Once there were three of us, but he is the last one left. His father was watching him, however, with eyes cold and emotionless. He did not seem angry, or even disappointed. When the hangman placed the black velvet bag over his head Tobin was grateful for being spared those staring eyes.
He felt them place the noose around his neck, the rope course and rough. Somewhere to his right a drum sounded, and the crowd went silent. Then the hangman threw the switch to release the trapdoor.
He woke, as he always did at this point in the dream. The sunshine was gone, along with the jeering crowds and gallows. Now he was back in the small, cold cell, curled up on the narrow bunk. He sat up slowly, muscles cramped and painful, and looked down at the floor. A rat that had been snuffling through the filthy straw caught him looking at it and dived into a hole on the far wall.
Tobin shuddered, feeling sick. He hated the tiny cell with the small north-facing window that let in barely any light; he hated feeling abandoned and alone: he had seen no one he recognised since his incarceration; he hated feeling so dirty, not being able to change clothes or even wash; but mostly he hated the rats. He was terrified of them. Mrs Hale had once remarked that rats would eat anything and he could not shake the idea that they were waiting to eat him. It had got to the point where he could no longer bare to put his feet down from the bunk, just in case.
The cell was about six foot long by four wide and bare apart from a narrow bunk and a bucket. He was still wearing the same clothes he had be wearing when he was arrested, so as well as the disgusting human smells, there was the faint scent of smoke. Not the pleasant smoke of a coal engine, but the smell of destruction. He still did not understand why Mattias Holt had tried to kill them in that room, nor why the police did not seem to care. They had not cared much about anything but getting him to confess.
The inspector who had interviewed him had at first seemed pleasant, implying it was a merely a formality to clear up a mistake, but as time went on it became clear this had been ruse to lull him into a false sense of security. The inspector had started talking about eye-witnesses who had seen Tobin around the scene of the murder. He demanded to know what business a ward of the earl would have in the back streets of the city. He wanted to know everything about Mattias Holt and why Tobin had been speaking with him.
Tobin had tried to explain that he had never actually spoken to Holt and in fact Holt had tried to burn them alive, but the man would not listen. After pleading with him until his throat was raw, the man had left the room and Tobin wondered if he had finally got the truth. When he came back he was carrying a small bundle of rags which he set on the table and began to slowly unwrap. Soon Tobin could see it was not rags but a shirt, soiled with mud and blood.
"This was found on the grounds of the Earl's estate," the inspector had explained. "Do you recognise it?"
"Yes. It's mine." He answered slowly. The room, which until this point had seemed hot and stuffy now felt cold as ice.
The inspector had not replied until he had finished unwrapping and revealed what was hidden in its a heart: a knife with a long sharp blade, also covered in dried blood.
"Can you explain why your shirt came to be buried under a rosebush, wrapped around a knife that matches the description of the one used to slit the throat of a young women two weeks ago?"
He could not, of course. He had been given a confession to sign, but he had refused. Whatever they had, however bad it looked, he had not killed that sorceress. The innocence were always set free in the end in books and at that time he had believed the same would happen to him. But that was days ago and no one had come to put things right. And while he told himself out loud that it was only a matter of time, his dreams suggested deep down, even he did not believe it.
The fact no one had come to visit confirmed it. He could pretend he had lost track of the days and Milo was still out of the city with Felicity, but some one should have been by now, surely. He expected to see Rosney appear the cell window, but he never did. He had walked away when police came though, Tobin thought. Why should he come back now? He curled back up on the bunk and closed his eyes. There was nothing to do but sleep until the trial.
When the key turned in the cell door, the judge was just pronouncing the sentence for the twentieth time since his incarceration. At first he ignored it, until the guard barked:
"On your feet. You have a visitor."
"Milo?" he asked, sitting up. As the visitor walked through the door Tobin could see his guess was wrong: it was not his brother but the earl. "Have you come to get me out of here, sir?" he inquired timidly.
The earl looked down on him and smiled coldly. "In a manner of speaking, boy. In a manner of speaking." He shook his head sadly. "What have you done?"
"I haven't done anything, sir. I swear I didn't kill her."
"I never wanted you in my house. I only invited your brother, but your father insisted, said you had never been separated before. I should have stood my ground but I was afraid he might prevent Milo coming and I couldn't have that. When you decided to try for the university I thought that might be enough to keep you out of my hair, but still you stuck your nose in things that don't concern you."
"I...I don't understand."
The earl reached into his pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper which he held out. Tobin took them gingerly and unfolded them slowly. Each one had a sketch: one of Rosney, one of himself.
"What are these?"
"Police sketches of two men who were seen talking to a criminal wanted for helping a sorceress steal some important documents. This was a sensitive matter and I was assisting the police in their search. Naturally I recognised one of those faces instantly."
"What about... the other one?" Tobin asked, suddenly worried there was a more sinister reason for Rosney's absence.
"He's well known to the police and under observation, as is the girl. They do not bother me really; even if people do believe her more civil unrest only aids my cause."
"So, if Ramae isn't really a problem, why am I here? I don't really care if the sorceresses aren't real. I just want to go to university and be an engineer. Please, the entrance exams are only three days away."
The earl shook his head. "You are here, because it is convenient for me. I cannot have anyone getting in the way of what I have been carefully creating; and having a scapegoat for the death of the young sorceress is useful too. However, while I would shed no tear if you were to hang, I do not think your brother would deal with your death quite so easily. So another solution is in order." He turned and rapped sharply on the cell door. "You can take him away now. I have said my piece."
The door opened again and two men entered, dressed in the uniform of hospital orderlies. One of them was carrying something that turned out to be a straight-jacket when he held it out.
"Who are these people?" Tobin demanded. "Where are you taking me?" He took a step backwards and tripped over the bunk.
"Be careful," the earl said softly from the doorway. "The boy is clearly very disturbed."
The orderlies stepped forward, slowly but purposefully.
"Come on now lad, we don't want to hurt you. You cooperate with us and this will go much easier for you."
Tobin found his feet but there was nothing but wall behind him. "What are you going to do with me?" He watched as the continued their way towards him, the straight-jacket open and ready. He had no chance of fighting them: he was unarmed and outnumbered. Neither of them were huge men but they were each twice the size of Tobin.
"We're going to take you to the asylum," the one with the jacket answered. "You're mad, you see. Sane people don't slit the throats of young women. It's for your own good, really. The doctors there can help you."
He made a lunge for Tobin, who ducked under his arm and made a dash for the door. The second man had predicted this and was waiting. He grabbed the boy with one arm and pinned his arms behind his back with the other. Tobin struggled, but was unable to break free of his grip. He wormed forward and, on instinct more than thought, sunk his teeth into the meat of the man's forearm. He cried out but did not loose his grip.
"Bloody loonies! They all bite, don't they?"
"True that. You'd think you'd have learnt by now."
The second one drew a cosh and struck Tobin hard across the back of the head. The room span and then faded to black as the two men finished tightening the straps on the straight jacket.
Bryony was coming down the narrow staircase behind the theater when she heard noise from down below. She tensed, knowing she was the only one who would be up at this time. She was unafraid; an opportunistic burglar would be no match for her if she got the jump on him. But it was the principle of it that drew her ire. The theater was not just her home, it was her sanctuary. The idea of someone violating it made furious.
She crept back upstairs and fetched the heavy stone water jug from her bedroom and made her way back down to the kitchen where the noises were coming from. Whoever it was was making no effort to be quiet, rattling through the cupboards and draws. She wondered for a moment if perhaps it was one of the other residents, but it seemed unlikely. None of the other girls ever rose before she did; Madam Black was always the last to bed; and Rosney, well Rosney hadn't been home in days.
She slipped silently down the stairs to the kitchen door and hefted her weapon. The cold winter followed by the spring of unrest had made people bold, made them cruel. The audiences over the last couple of months had been consistently poor. You always had bad days, but they were much harder to work with at the moment, grabby and rude. 'The city's gone mad' Tobin had said and she found it hard to disagree. It wasn't anyone person, it was something that affected the whole place and everything in it.
A crash from in the room followed by muttered swearing brought her back to her purpose. Bryony raised the jug and kicked open the door, bursting in after it. The invader was kneeling down on the far side of the table picking something off the floor. As he raised his head she threw the jug. Just before it left her fingers she realised who it was and managed to divert the missile's path just enough to miss his head and shatter harmlessly against the cupboard behind him.
"Rosney? What are you doing here?"
He picked himself off the floor, dusting shards of pottery from his hair. "I live here, remember?" he retorted, sitting down at the table. "Would you mind not making any more loud noises, please?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't realise it was you. I thought you were a burglar. Where have you been? No one has seen you for three days."
He sighed. "I don't remember much of it. I think I was drinking pretty heavily for at least two of them. Then I must have gone to sleep under a bush in the park. Someone stole my hat," he added sadly.
"You're lucky that's all they stole," she told him, setting down a mug of tea in front of him. "The city is an ugly place right now, Little Brother."#
He said nothing but stared morosely at the drink in front of him. She say down next to him.
"Is this because of what happened to Tobin?"
He nodded. "I just don't know what to do, Bryony. I shouldn't have walked away when the police came, but getting myself arrested wouldn't have achieved anything either. I went to talk to Mum, but the graveyard was the wrong place to go. So I went and got drunk and that hadn't done anything but give a splitting headache and loose my hat. I've just never been in... I mean, I've never had a friend facing the gallows before."
"Then you haven't heard?"
"Heard what? Oh please don't tell me I'm too late." The thought that Tobin might have been executed while he was in a drunken stupor made his heart skip a beat.
"No, no. Quite the opposite in fact. He's been declared insane; they moved him from the prison to the asylum yesterday. It was in the papers. It's not freedom, but at least he's not facing the rope now, right?"
Rosney felt his heartbeat returning to normal, but he could feel no relief. He had walked past the dark, imposing building that housed the city's mental asylum several times and each time he had felt a very strong desire to get out of the area as soon as possible. Whatever anyone claimed, it was not a place where people went to be helped. They were sent there to be forgotten: an embarrassing problem swept under the rug. He stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"To stop feeling sorry for myself and see my friend."
She frowned. "You're about to do something stupid, aren't you?"
"Who me? You know me, I'm never rash or impulsive. Look, I'm just going to see him, for now. After that, well, we'll see."
She did not seem in anyway comforted by this. "You shouldn't get to deeply involved in this," she warned.
"It's too late, I'm already in over my head. I promise I'll be careful; it won't do either of us any good if I'm not."
He left before Bryony could say anything else. He was grateful it was her he had run into and not Madam Black. He was still not yet ready to face her after the argument they had had. He was glad Katja had not been there to see that. He missed the little girl; he could have talked to her. She might not have understood everything, but she would have listened without judgement.
It was around mid-morning, and the streets were busy, but people seemed mostly to be getting on with their lives and ignoring everyone else around them. That had been no further riots since the one a few weeks previously, but Bryony had been correct to say the city was ugly right now. The slightest thing could set of an argument.
He purchased a few things as he walked that might be useful in case he could not talk his way in; it was always better to be prepared for the worst. His plan was to not cause any trouble, just assess the situation, but part of him hoped he would be challenged. A fight would feel satisfying today. Of course, it would be no good if he lost.
The asylum was located in the north of the city, well away from the homes and business of decent folk. It was set in a couple of acres of grounds, all surrounded by high stone walls. The building itself was made of the same material as the walls: a stone the same colour as a stormy sky. Small barred windows were dotted frequently along the walls, with larger ones on the ground floor. There were some larger windows under the gabled roof and a couple of skylights too. In his mind's eye the building looked like some many-eyed creature, watching in all directions while it bided its time.
He walked once around the walls, noting their rough, cracked appearance. He was confident he could scale them if it got to the point where the front door was no longer an option. There was only one main entrance to the asylum through the black wrought iron gates at the front. There were two sets of gates: a large pair for vehicles, which were locked shut with a heavy padlock; and a smaller one for human traffic set into the wall next to it. This one was unlocked and marked "Visitors". A small alms box was fixed to the wall next to it, the writing long since faded away from its wooden lid.
The gravel of the driveway was scuffed up in many places, showing the tracks of carriages and the footprints of the men who had come from them. Some of the tracks were indistinct, as if their creator had been dragged and there were even patches of dried blood that had not yet been washed away by rain. Forcing several unpleasant scenarios out of his mind, Rosney pushed open the front door.
The asylum reception was a small room with a couple of chairs and a table. Slightly wilted flowers drooped in a vase on a yellowed doily. At the far end was a solid door with a heavy lock. To the left was a partition which separated a small office off from the main room. Mostly it was glass, with a door on the left and a small space maybe one foot high by two wide to allow the woman sat inside to communicate with visitors. She looked up as Rosney closed the door behind him.
"Can I help you?" She inquired politely.
"Er, yes." He walked over to the office. "I was hoping I could see one of the patients here, Tobin Whitlaw. I understand he was brought in yesterday."
The woman pulled out a large book and flicked through it. "And what is your relation to the patient?" she asked without looking up.
"I'm his brother, Milo," he lied smoothly.
She stopped paging through the book and ran her finger down the writing on a particular page. "I'm sorry sir, but I an afraid your brother is not permitted visitors at the moment."
"Do you know when I might be able to see him?"
"It is up to the doctor I'm afraid. Maybe come back in a week," she suggested. "You have to understand we must put the patients' interests first. They need rest, quiet and consistency. For a very disturbed mind, the sudden appearance of a person, no matter how well meaning, can be very damaging. I can get the doctor to come and speak with you, but he won't be free until later this afternoon."
Rosney sighed. "No, it's fine, I understand."
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr Whitlaw?"
He had started to walk away but turned back. "Yes, perhaps you could do something for me." He fiddled with something in his pocket and then held it out through the gap towards her. "Could you tell me, does this smell like chloroform to you?"
Instinctively, the woman had leant forward to sniff the rag before she realised what he had said. Quickly, Rosney reached through and grabbed her hair with one hand, pushing her into the rag until she stopped struggling. When she slumped against the desk he put the rag back in his pocket and picked the lock on the door, letting himself into the office. Rifling through the desk draws he found a set of keys which he pocketed. Looking at the book on the desk he established Tobin was in room nineteen. Before he left, he gagged the woman and hand-cuffed her to the desk.
"Nothing personal, I hope you understand," he muttered as he closed the door behind him.
Finding the right key to open the big door was easy: there was only one large enough to fit in the lock. He opened the door and stepped through into a long dark corridor. Two windows to his right should have provided adequate light, but they were so filthy he suspected they had never been cleaned in the asylum's history. Up ahead the passage turned and was lit by small gas lights. It was cold, and vaguely damp, and together with the gloom added to the impression that the house was actually underground.
There was a door to his left that said "Doctors Offices" and one next to it that read "Cleaning supplies". He walked on a bit further until he came to another junction. The left branch was labelled "Treatment Rooms" while straight ahead and to the right were both signed "Patient Rooms". Mentally tossing a coin, he turned right and found himself in a corridor of doors, each with a small barred window.
Each room was numbered, so it was easy to find room nineteen. He tried each of the remaining keys in the lock but none if them turned. He could probably pick it, but he was not sure how much time he had before someone either came round here or discovered the poor woman in the office. He peered through the small window. The room beyond was dark, and he could not see anything beyond the narrow patch of light.
"Tobin? Are you in there?"
There was silence for a moment, then a small voice answered:
"Milo?"
"No it's me, Rosney."
"Ros? Please, you've got to help me get out if here. They keep telling me I'm mad. I'm not mad, I swear I'm not and I didn't touch that girl. You've got to believe me." There was a frantic note to his voice.
"I believe you. But it's not going to be easy to just walk you out of here right now."
There was a sob from the other side of the wall. "Please! I can't take it in here. Even the cell with the rats was better than this. They keep telling me I'm mad, I'm sick. They say they're trying to make me well, with drugs and … worse. But I'm not mad so what is it doing to me? But if I try and resist, they just hold me down. And at night... the noises from the other patients. Please Ros, if I'm not mad I will if I stay here.”
Rosney heard the sound of footsteps, some way off yet but getting closer. “I didn't say I'd leave you here, did I? I'll come back and get you out, but if I try it now, it's likely they're going to lock both of us up.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After midnight, when it's all quiet. I promise. Just hold on until then.”
There was no answer from the cell. Rosney made his way back the way he had come, away from the approaching guard. When he reached the end of the cells, he did not head back to the main door, but instead headed out through a side door to the grounds. There was no sign that the woman had been discovered, but he decided it was better not to take the risk. He made it across the poorly maintained lawn and was halfway up the wall before he heard the shrill whistles that signaled his handiwork had been discovered. Hoping it did not make any trouble for the actual inmates, he dropped over the wall and headed back towards the city.
There were three people he needed to speak to and convince them to assist him tonight. He started with the one who was furtherest away, heading across the city and up the big hill to the finer houses. It took some convincing to get the stony faced butler to let him into the house, but when it became clear that Rosney was not going away he was led into a small study and told to wait.
There were two leather chairs in the study, neither of which looked uncomfortable, but Rosney found himself pacing across the soft carpet instead. There was a long wait before the door was opened again and Milo entered.
"You," he said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Well, this is starting well, Rosney thought. Out loud he said "I came to talk to you about your brother. We've got to do something to help him."
Milo sighed and sat down heavily. "Oh yes. What a good idea, why didn't I think of that?" He rolled his eyes. "What do you think I have doing? I've been speaking to everyone I know, calling in every favour I can. I've even tried to get an audience with the king. But none of it has done any good. The only thing we've been able to achieve is getting him committed to the asylum."
"And that's not much of an achievement," Rosney added. "He might not have a noose around his neck, but that place will kill him just the same."
"So what exactly is it that you want me to do?" He demanded. There was no anger in his voice, just exhausted exasperation. It was clear from his face that he had not slept in days and probably had not eaten much either.
"I want you to help me break him out of there."
"Oh." Milo stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. When?"
"That was easier than I thought," Rosney admitted. "I said I'd go back tonight. It's not much time, but he's not doing well in that place."
"It won't be the first time I've done something rash for my brother's sake," Milo admitted with a wan smile. "You've seen him then? How is he?"
"I spoke to him, before I came up here. I couldn't see him, it was too dark in that place. He's as you would expect, really: scared, mostly. I'll meet you at midnight, at the theater."
Milo stood up. "Look, there's something I need to ask you first. Don't take this the wrong way, but what's in it for you? If you're hoping for a reward, I'd like to know up-front."
Rosney shook his head. "It's nothing like that. Your brother saved my skin not long ago, I owe him for that. And even without that, Tobin is my friend, I can't just stand by and do nothing." He grinned. "You don't have to worry, my intentions towards your little brother are entirely honorable."
Milo stared at him.
"Sorry, I tend to joke when I'm nervous. Milo, just be careful. Don't reveal this to anyone, no matter how much you think you trust them. What happened to Tobin was not an accident."
Milo nodded silently
I've made good progress on one cosplay, need to make sure I don't end up letting it get over-taken by other things! I've only got a few plans for the year so far: Sleigh from Super Robot wars, Isabella from Dragon Age II for early in the year and Beast for Ame. Definitely tempted to do something from Redwall, probably Cluny the rat, but not sure if I'll get that done this year.
Christmas was lovely, just me and my parents so very nice and quiet. Took the opertunity to try out my new lens taking pictures of squirrels in the winter gardens in Bournemouth and ducks on Holly Hill Christmas day. Also managed to get another chapter written, so I've posted that below. I suspect it's going to work out as chapter 9, and follows directly from the last update. I'm currently filling in the gaps so should have chapters seven and eight up sometime over the next month or so. Then I think there is only one or two more chapters and epilogues and the story should be finished. The next stage after that is getting it suitable for competition entry which is going to involve two big tasks - building it up to at least eighty thousand words and fitting it into actual eighteenth century London, in order to fit in with the criteria.
He was stood in the dock, unable to do anything more than listen as the evidence that would decide his fate was given. He was wearing a new suit, bought especially for the occasion, no doubt. It was expensive, he was sure: fine black wool, with a crisp linen shirt. They had let him wash for the first time since his incarceration, but it was not the comfort he had expected it to be.
Clothes to be buried in, he realised suddenly. They've already come to a conclusion, before I even stepped through the door. Indeed, as the verdict was read out it became clear most of the courtroom had reached the same conclusion. When the word "guilty" was pronounced there were no cries, exclamations or gasps. They all expected it, Tobin thought. Every man here thinks me a murderer.
The judge banged his gravell. "Tobin Whitlaw, for the murder of the Blackwater sorceress, I sentence you to be hung by the neck until dead. This is to be carried out immediately."
Two police officers tried to lead him from the dock, but he found he had quite forgotten how to use his legs. He stumbled and with his hands cuffed behind his back he was unable to stop himself falling. He ended up at the bottom of the steps in a crumpled heap. Someone laughed harshly.
The two officers dragged him to his feet and man-handled him out of the building. He stepped, blinking, into the beautiful spring sunshine. He was in the wide forum, standing before the dark wooden gallows. A crowd was assembled for the spectacle of his death, enthusiasticly calling for justice to be done.
He could do nothing but allow himself to be lead up the steps to the rope. Even if he believed he had any chance if escape from here, where could he go? No one would harbour a man they believed had slit a girl's throat, and it seemed everyone believed that, even his own family.
As he made his way up to the platform, he was able to look out over the crowd and see people he recognised. Near the front were the Earl and his family; Felicity was jeering, smiling even. Nearby were several sorceressess who shared her opinion of his fate. He looked out further, hoping to see a friendlier face; hoping to see Rosney. He caught a glimpse of someone who might have been him, but the man's back was turned and he was walking away.
He did not want to face his family, but when he saw them he could not look away. They were standing at the front of the crowd, almost directly below him. Milo was turned away, his face buried in his father's side. He will be all alone now, Tobin thought. Once there were three of us, but he is the last one left. His father was watching him, however, with eyes cold and emotionless. He did not seem angry, or even disappointed. When the hangman placed the black velvet bag over his head Tobin was grateful for being spared those staring eyes.
He felt them place the noose around his neck, the rope course and rough. Somewhere to his right a drum sounded, and the crowd went silent. Then the hangman threw the switch to release the trapdoor.
He woke, as he always did at this point in the dream. The sunshine was gone, along with the jeering crowds and gallows. Now he was back in the small, cold cell, curled up on the narrow bunk. He sat up slowly, muscles cramped and painful, and looked down at the floor. A rat that had been snuffling through the filthy straw caught him looking at it and dived into a hole on the far wall.
Tobin shuddered, feeling sick. He hated the tiny cell with the small north-facing window that let in barely any light; he hated feeling abandoned and alone: he had seen no one he recognised since his incarceration; he hated feeling so dirty, not being able to change clothes or even wash; but mostly he hated the rats. He was terrified of them. Mrs Hale had once remarked that rats would eat anything and he could not shake the idea that they were waiting to eat him. It had got to the point where he could no longer bare to put his feet down from the bunk, just in case.
The cell was about six foot long by four wide and bare apart from a narrow bunk and a bucket. He was still wearing the same clothes he had be wearing when he was arrested, so as well as the disgusting human smells, there was the faint scent of smoke. Not the pleasant smoke of a coal engine, but the smell of destruction. He still did not understand why Mattias Holt had tried to kill them in that room, nor why the police did not seem to care. They had not cared much about anything but getting him to confess.
The inspector who had interviewed him had at first seemed pleasant, implying it was a merely a formality to clear up a mistake, but as time went on it became clear this had been ruse to lull him into a false sense of security. The inspector had started talking about eye-witnesses who had seen Tobin around the scene of the murder. He demanded to know what business a ward of the earl would have in the back streets of the city. He wanted to know everything about Mattias Holt and why Tobin had been speaking with him.
Tobin had tried to explain that he had never actually spoken to Holt and in fact Holt had tried to burn them alive, but the man would not listen. After pleading with him until his throat was raw, the man had left the room and Tobin wondered if he had finally got the truth. When he came back he was carrying a small bundle of rags which he set on the table and began to slowly unwrap. Soon Tobin could see it was not rags but a shirt, soiled with mud and blood.
"This was found on the grounds of the Earl's estate," the inspector had explained. "Do you recognise it?"
"Yes. It's mine." He answered slowly. The room, which until this point had seemed hot and stuffy now felt cold as ice.
The inspector had not replied until he had finished unwrapping and revealed what was hidden in its a heart: a knife with a long sharp blade, also covered in dried blood.
"Can you explain why your shirt came to be buried under a rosebush, wrapped around a knife that matches the description of the one used to slit the throat of a young women two weeks ago?"
He could not, of course. He had been given a confession to sign, but he had refused. Whatever they had, however bad it looked, he had not killed that sorceress. The innocence were always set free in the end in books and at that time he had believed the same would happen to him. But that was days ago and no one had come to put things right. And while he told himself out loud that it was only a matter of time, his dreams suggested deep down, even he did not believe it.
The fact no one had come to visit confirmed it. He could pretend he had lost track of the days and Milo was still out of the city with Felicity, but some one should have been by now, surely. He expected to see Rosney appear the cell window, but he never did. He had walked away when police came though, Tobin thought. Why should he come back now? He curled back up on the bunk and closed his eyes. There was nothing to do but sleep until the trial.
When the key turned in the cell door, the judge was just pronouncing the sentence for the twentieth time since his incarceration. At first he ignored it, until the guard barked:
"On your feet. You have a visitor."
"Milo?" he asked, sitting up. As the visitor walked through the door Tobin could see his guess was wrong: it was not his brother but the earl. "Have you come to get me out of here, sir?" he inquired timidly.
The earl looked down on him and smiled coldly. "In a manner of speaking, boy. In a manner of speaking." He shook his head sadly. "What have you done?"
"I haven't done anything, sir. I swear I didn't kill her."
"I never wanted you in my house. I only invited your brother, but your father insisted, said you had never been separated before. I should have stood my ground but I was afraid he might prevent Milo coming and I couldn't have that. When you decided to try for the university I thought that might be enough to keep you out of my hair, but still you stuck your nose in things that don't concern you."
"I...I don't understand."
The earl reached into his pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper which he held out. Tobin took them gingerly and unfolded them slowly. Each one had a sketch: one of Rosney, one of himself.
"What are these?"
"Police sketches of two men who were seen talking to a criminal wanted for helping a sorceress steal some important documents. This was a sensitive matter and I was assisting the police in their search. Naturally I recognised one of those faces instantly."
"What about... the other one?" Tobin asked, suddenly worried there was a more sinister reason for Rosney's absence.
"He's well known to the police and under observation, as is the girl. They do not bother me really; even if people do believe her more civil unrest only aids my cause."
"So, if Ramae isn't really a problem, why am I here? I don't really care if the sorceresses aren't real. I just want to go to university and be an engineer. Please, the entrance exams are only three days away."
The earl shook his head. "You are here, because it is convenient for me. I cannot have anyone getting in the way of what I have been carefully creating; and having a scapegoat for the death of the young sorceress is useful too. However, while I would shed no tear if you were to hang, I do not think your brother would deal with your death quite so easily. So another solution is in order." He turned and rapped sharply on the cell door. "You can take him away now. I have said my piece."
The door opened again and two men entered, dressed in the uniform of hospital orderlies. One of them was carrying something that turned out to be a straight-jacket when he held it out.
"Who are these people?" Tobin demanded. "Where are you taking me?" He took a step backwards and tripped over the bunk.
"Be careful," the earl said softly from the doorway. "The boy is clearly very disturbed."
The orderlies stepped forward, slowly but purposefully.
"Come on now lad, we don't want to hurt you. You cooperate with us and this will go much easier for you."
Tobin found his feet but there was nothing but wall behind him. "What are you going to do with me?" He watched as the continued their way towards him, the straight-jacket open and ready. He had no chance of fighting them: he was unarmed and outnumbered. Neither of them were huge men but they were each twice the size of Tobin.
"We're going to take you to the asylum," the one with the jacket answered. "You're mad, you see. Sane people don't slit the throats of young women. It's for your own good, really. The doctors there can help you."
He made a lunge for Tobin, who ducked under his arm and made a dash for the door. The second man had predicted this and was waiting. He grabbed the boy with one arm and pinned his arms behind his back with the other. Tobin struggled, but was unable to break free of his grip. He wormed forward and, on instinct more than thought, sunk his teeth into the meat of the man's forearm. He cried out but did not loose his grip.
"Bloody loonies! They all bite, don't they?"
"True that. You'd think you'd have learnt by now."
The second one drew a cosh and struck Tobin hard across the back of the head. The room span and then faded to black as the two men finished tightening the straps on the straight jacket.
Bryony was coming down the narrow staircase behind the theater when she heard noise from down below. She tensed, knowing she was the only one who would be up at this time. She was unafraid; an opportunistic burglar would be no match for her if she got the jump on him. But it was the principle of it that drew her ire. The theater was not just her home, it was her sanctuary. The idea of someone violating it made furious.
She crept back upstairs and fetched the heavy stone water jug from her bedroom and made her way back down to the kitchen where the noises were coming from. Whoever it was was making no effort to be quiet, rattling through the cupboards and draws. She wondered for a moment if perhaps it was one of the other residents, but it seemed unlikely. None of the other girls ever rose before she did; Madam Black was always the last to bed; and Rosney, well Rosney hadn't been home in days.
She slipped silently down the stairs to the kitchen door and hefted her weapon. The cold winter followed by the spring of unrest had made people bold, made them cruel. The audiences over the last couple of months had been consistently poor. You always had bad days, but they were much harder to work with at the moment, grabby and rude. 'The city's gone mad' Tobin had said and she found it hard to disagree. It wasn't anyone person, it was something that affected the whole place and everything in it.
A crash from in the room followed by muttered swearing brought her back to her purpose. Bryony raised the jug and kicked open the door, bursting in after it. The invader was kneeling down on the far side of the table picking something off the floor. As he raised his head she threw the jug. Just before it left her fingers she realised who it was and managed to divert the missile's path just enough to miss his head and shatter harmlessly against the cupboard behind him.
"Rosney? What are you doing here?"
He picked himself off the floor, dusting shards of pottery from his hair. "I live here, remember?" he retorted, sitting down at the table. "Would you mind not making any more loud noises, please?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't realise it was you. I thought you were a burglar. Where have you been? No one has seen you for three days."
He sighed. "I don't remember much of it. I think I was drinking pretty heavily for at least two of them. Then I must have gone to sleep under a bush in the park. Someone stole my hat," he added sadly.
"You're lucky that's all they stole," she told him, setting down a mug of tea in front of him. "The city is an ugly place right now, Little Brother."#
He said nothing but stared morosely at the drink in front of him. She say down next to him.
"Is this because of what happened to Tobin?"
He nodded. "I just don't know what to do, Bryony. I shouldn't have walked away when the police came, but getting myself arrested wouldn't have achieved anything either. I went to talk to Mum, but the graveyard was the wrong place to go. So I went and got drunk and that hadn't done anything but give a splitting headache and loose my hat. I've just never been in... I mean, I've never had a friend facing the gallows before."
"Then you haven't heard?"
"Heard what? Oh please don't tell me I'm too late." The thought that Tobin might have been executed while he was in a drunken stupor made his heart skip a beat.
"No, no. Quite the opposite in fact. He's been declared insane; they moved him from the prison to the asylum yesterday. It was in the papers. It's not freedom, but at least he's not facing the rope now, right?"
Rosney felt his heartbeat returning to normal, but he could feel no relief. He had walked past the dark, imposing building that housed the city's mental asylum several times and each time he had felt a very strong desire to get out of the area as soon as possible. Whatever anyone claimed, it was not a place where people went to be helped. They were sent there to be forgotten: an embarrassing problem swept under the rug. He stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"To stop feeling sorry for myself and see my friend."
She frowned. "You're about to do something stupid, aren't you?"
"Who me? You know me, I'm never rash or impulsive. Look, I'm just going to see him, for now. After that, well, we'll see."
She did not seem in anyway comforted by this. "You shouldn't get to deeply involved in this," she warned.
"It's too late, I'm already in over my head. I promise I'll be careful; it won't do either of us any good if I'm not."
He left before Bryony could say anything else. He was grateful it was her he had run into and not Madam Black. He was still not yet ready to face her after the argument they had had. He was glad Katja had not been there to see that. He missed the little girl; he could have talked to her. She might not have understood everything, but she would have listened without judgement.
It was around mid-morning, and the streets were busy, but people seemed mostly to be getting on with their lives and ignoring everyone else around them. That had been no further riots since the one a few weeks previously, but Bryony had been correct to say the city was ugly right now. The slightest thing could set of an argument.
He purchased a few things as he walked that might be useful in case he could not talk his way in; it was always better to be prepared for the worst. His plan was to not cause any trouble, just assess the situation, but part of him hoped he would be challenged. A fight would feel satisfying today. Of course, it would be no good if he lost.
The asylum was located in the north of the city, well away from the homes and business of decent folk. It was set in a couple of acres of grounds, all surrounded by high stone walls. The building itself was made of the same material as the walls: a stone the same colour as a stormy sky. Small barred windows were dotted frequently along the walls, with larger ones on the ground floor. There were some larger windows under the gabled roof and a couple of skylights too. In his mind's eye the building looked like some many-eyed creature, watching in all directions while it bided its time.
He walked once around the walls, noting their rough, cracked appearance. He was confident he could scale them if it got to the point where the front door was no longer an option. There was only one main entrance to the asylum through the black wrought iron gates at the front. There were two sets of gates: a large pair for vehicles, which were locked shut with a heavy padlock; and a smaller one for human traffic set into the wall next to it. This one was unlocked and marked "Visitors". A small alms box was fixed to the wall next to it, the writing long since faded away from its wooden lid.
The gravel of the driveway was scuffed up in many places, showing the tracks of carriages and the footprints of the men who had come from them. Some of the tracks were indistinct, as if their creator had been dragged and there were even patches of dried blood that had not yet been washed away by rain. Forcing several unpleasant scenarios out of his mind, Rosney pushed open the front door.
The asylum reception was a small room with a couple of chairs and a table. Slightly wilted flowers drooped in a vase on a yellowed doily. At the far end was a solid door with a heavy lock. To the left was a partition which separated a small office off from the main room. Mostly it was glass, with a door on the left and a small space maybe one foot high by two wide to allow the woman sat inside to communicate with visitors. She looked up as Rosney closed the door behind him.
"Can I help you?" She inquired politely.
"Er, yes." He walked over to the office. "I was hoping I could see one of the patients here, Tobin Whitlaw. I understand he was brought in yesterday."
The woman pulled out a large book and flicked through it. "And what is your relation to the patient?" she asked without looking up.
"I'm his brother, Milo," he lied smoothly.
She stopped paging through the book and ran her finger down the writing on a particular page. "I'm sorry sir, but I an afraid your brother is not permitted visitors at the moment."
"Do you know when I might be able to see him?"
"It is up to the doctor I'm afraid. Maybe come back in a week," she suggested. "You have to understand we must put the patients' interests first. They need rest, quiet and consistency. For a very disturbed mind, the sudden appearance of a person, no matter how well meaning, can be very damaging. I can get the doctor to come and speak with you, but he won't be free until later this afternoon."
Rosney sighed. "No, it's fine, I understand."
"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr Whitlaw?"
He had started to walk away but turned back. "Yes, perhaps you could do something for me." He fiddled with something in his pocket and then held it out through the gap towards her. "Could you tell me, does this smell like chloroform to you?"
Instinctively, the woman had leant forward to sniff the rag before she realised what he had said. Quickly, Rosney reached through and grabbed her hair with one hand, pushing her into the rag until she stopped struggling. When she slumped against the desk he put the rag back in his pocket and picked the lock on the door, letting himself into the office. Rifling through the desk draws he found a set of keys which he pocketed. Looking at the book on the desk he established Tobin was in room nineteen. Before he left, he gagged the woman and hand-cuffed her to the desk.
"Nothing personal, I hope you understand," he muttered as he closed the door behind him.
Finding the right key to open the big door was easy: there was only one large enough to fit in the lock. He opened the door and stepped through into a long dark corridor. Two windows to his right should have provided adequate light, but they were so filthy he suspected they had never been cleaned in the asylum's history. Up ahead the passage turned and was lit by small gas lights. It was cold, and vaguely damp, and together with the gloom added to the impression that the house was actually underground.
There was a door to his left that said "Doctors Offices" and one next to it that read "Cleaning supplies". He walked on a bit further until he came to another junction. The left branch was labelled "Treatment Rooms" while straight ahead and to the right were both signed "Patient Rooms". Mentally tossing a coin, he turned right and found himself in a corridor of doors, each with a small barred window.
Each room was numbered, so it was easy to find room nineteen. He tried each of the remaining keys in the lock but none if them turned. He could probably pick it, but he was not sure how much time he had before someone either came round here or discovered the poor woman in the office. He peered through the small window. The room beyond was dark, and he could not see anything beyond the narrow patch of light.
"Tobin? Are you in there?"
There was silence for a moment, then a small voice answered:
"Milo?"
"No it's me, Rosney."
"Ros? Please, you've got to help me get out if here. They keep telling me I'm mad. I'm not mad, I swear I'm not and I didn't touch that girl. You've got to believe me." There was a frantic note to his voice.
"I believe you. But it's not going to be easy to just walk you out of here right now."
There was a sob from the other side of the wall. "Please! I can't take it in here. Even the cell with the rats was better than this. They keep telling me I'm mad, I'm sick. They say they're trying to make me well, with drugs and … worse. But I'm not mad so what is it doing to me? But if I try and resist, they just hold me down. And at night... the noises from the other patients. Please Ros, if I'm not mad I will if I stay here.”
Rosney heard the sound of footsteps, some way off yet but getting closer. “I didn't say I'd leave you here, did I? I'll come back and get you out, but if I try it now, it's likely they're going to lock both of us up.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After midnight, when it's all quiet. I promise. Just hold on until then.”
There was no answer from the cell. Rosney made his way back the way he had come, away from the approaching guard. When he reached the end of the cells, he did not head back to the main door, but instead headed out through a side door to the grounds. There was no sign that the woman had been discovered, but he decided it was better not to take the risk. He made it across the poorly maintained lawn and was halfway up the wall before he heard the shrill whistles that signaled his handiwork had been discovered. Hoping it did not make any trouble for the actual inmates, he dropped over the wall and headed back towards the city.
There were three people he needed to speak to and convince them to assist him tonight. He started with the one who was furtherest away, heading across the city and up the big hill to the finer houses. It took some convincing to get the stony faced butler to let him into the house, but when it became clear that Rosney was not going away he was led into a small study and told to wait.
There were two leather chairs in the study, neither of which looked uncomfortable, but Rosney found himself pacing across the soft carpet instead. There was a long wait before the door was opened again and Milo entered.
"You," he said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Well, this is starting well, Rosney thought. Out loud he said "I came to talk to you about your brother. We've got to do something to help him."
Milo sighed and sat down heavily. "Oh yes. What a good idea, why didn't I think of that?" He rolled his eyes. "What do you think I have doing? I've been speaking to everyone I know, calling in every favour I can. I've even tried to get an audience with the king. But none of it has done any good. The only thing we've been able to achieve is getting him committed to the asylum."
"And that's not much of an achievement," Rosney added. "He might not have a noose around his neck, but that place will kill him just the same."
"So what exactly is it that you want me to do?" He demanded. There was no anger in his voice, just exhausted exasperation. It was clear from his face that he had not slept in days and probably had not eaten much either.
"I want you to help me break him out of there."
"Oh." Milo stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. When?"
"That was easier than I thought," Rosney admitted. "I said I'd go back tonight. It's not much time, but he's not doing well in that place."
"It won't be the first time I've done something rash for my brother's sake," Milo admitted with a wan smile. "You've seen him then? How is he?"
"I spoke to him, before I came up here. I couldn't see him, it was too dark in that place. He's as you would expect, really: scared, mostly. I'll meet you at midnight, at the theater."
Milo stood up. "Look, there's something I need to ask you first. Don't take this the wrong way, but what's in it for you? If you're hoping for a reward, I'd like to know up-front."
Rosney shook his head. "It's nothing like that. Your brother saved my skin not long ago, I owe him for that. And even without that, Tobin is my friend, I can't just stand by and do nothing." He grinned. "You don't have to worry, my intentions towards your little brother are entirely honorable."
Milo stared at him.
"Sorry, I tend to joke when I'm nervous. Milo, just be careful. Don't reveal this to anyone, no matter how much you think you trust them. What happened to Tobin was not an accident."
Milo nodded silently