fine except for this headache.”
Thornhollow laughed, a full sound that echoed off the windows and made Grace smile in its unmitigated loudness.
“Grace,” he said. “Not only do you have a unique gift suited for these dark purposes, but I think your nature is as well.”
“And what becomes of a girl such as that?” Grace said, her tone somber.
Thornhollow’s smile fell. “I admit I didn’t have a lot of time to think ahead when we scuttled you out of Boston. The staff here believes you are a patient under my express care who I have done an experimental surgery on. The charade of muteness is one you will have to maintain. For that I apologize. I’m the only person who can know that you have use of your voice and mind. If anyone were to suspect who you really are—”
“I understand,” Grace said. “I don’t mind being silent in exchange for what I’ve been delivered from.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’ll be no kind of existence for you.”
“No,” she said. “What I came from was no kind of existence.”
“Not much of a compliment, since you were living in a dungeon.”
“That’s not what I was referring to, Doctor,” Grace said, but her thoughts had drifted back to the darkness of the asylum and Falsteed’s voice comforting her.
“Well”—Thornhollow brought his hands together in a clap—“it’s been a long night, to say the least. You should get to your bed. I’ll let the staff know that you were out assisting me and should be allowed to sl—”
“Doctor, why was Falsteed in the asylum?” Grace asked suddenly.
“For a girl of good breeding you certainly do interrupt often.”
“And your answer?”
“I . . .” Thornhollow ran the toe of his shoe over a spot on the floor. “I’m not sure I should provide it.”
“Why?” Grace demanded. “Falsteed was my friend.”
“Which is why I’m not sure I should answer you.”
“I’m hardly naive. Falsteed was not only an inmate but one relegated to the bowels of the dungeon. I know he must have done something horrid at one time. I would know what it was.”
Thornhollow sighed and looked at the floor. “You’ve had all the benefits of a good life. I suppose you’ve been inoculated against smallpox?”
“I . . .” Grace trailed off, suspicious. “Yes.”
“Do you know much about what the smallpox vaccination does?”
“No,” she said. “Only that once I’m inoculated I cannot catch the disease.”
Thornhollow nodded. “It’s a simple enough concept. Once your body is exposed to certain illnesses it learns how to fight them and remembers so that you cannot be afflicted again. The smallpox vaccination is actually a bit of cowpox entered into your body at a low dose. Your body reacts, learns to fight it, and while you may get a headache or slight fever, you will never be afflicted by the more lethal cousin, smallpox.
“While medical science has come far and accomplished much, there is little we can do against the malignant beast of cancer. Falsteed has lost more than a few patients to the monster, and I’m afraid he developed a . . . bit of an obsession.”
“I hardly think he can be called obsessive by wanting to treat the afflicted,” Grace said.
“It is not treatment Falsteed delivers. When he was still a free man practicing his trade, Falsteed was known for searching out those who suffered from cancerous tumors. He performed surgeries for free, his only payment being that he kept the offending growth.”
Grace shrugged. “Where is the crime in that?”
“And then he ate them,” Thornhollow said.
Grace felt the blood flow from her face. “He did what?”
“He ate them,” Thornhollow repeated. “In a foolhardy attempt to inoculate himself against cancer. His actions landed him in the asylum, and I don’t mind saying that he rightly belongs there.”
“Dear God,” Grace said, her hands fluttering to her face. “But he saved me.”
“He did,” Thornhollow said. “And despite these things, he is your friend and you owe him much.” The doctor came to the side of her chair, resting a hand on the back of her head. “These are your friends now, Grace Mae. A madman who eats cancer in the dark and another who searches for a different kind of killer, the kind who smiles at you in the light of day. This is your new life. I hope you can stand it.”
FIFTEEN
“She’s wakin’.” An Irish lilt drifted into Grace’s dreams, followed by a much softer voice.
“String says to let her sleep.”
“Stuff you an’ your string.”
A slight gasp followed that comment and Grace felt herself