Free Dead of Winter by Brian Moreland

outbursts.
    “Never seen such animal behavior before…” Doc listened to Zoé’s heartbeat. “Must be the heathen in her. And take a look at this.” He lifted up one of her eyelids. Zoé’s iris was covered in a gray membrane that looked like cataracts. “She may have gone blind from the blizzard. I won’t know till she wakes up. I gave her enough laudanum to keep her down till morning.” The old man sighed and looked across at Willow. “So, you’ve been having trouble sleeping?”
    She nodded, doing her best not to burst into tears. “Each night I toss and turn and wake up perspiring from a fever.” She didn’t mention her dreams about Tom Hatcher.
    Doc felt her forehead. “You don’t have a fever now. Worrying too much about the upcoming Christmas ball, lassie?”
    “I suppose.” She touched his wrist. “Doc, I was hoping you could fix me up with another cocktail. Something to give me sweet dreams.”
    The Irish doctor smiled. “I reckon I got something in me cabinet to bring peace to such a lovely lady.” As he left the room, Willow noticed a small doll sitting on a chair. It was a sad little thing—torn Indian dress, face covered in soot, half bald with a single tuft of black hair. Willow picked up the doll. Its reddish brown skin was made of leather so smooth it felt like human skin. The only remarkable quality was the doll’s single fiery green eye, like a cat’s. Willow cradled it. Dolls had a way of calming her nerves. Humming, she worked a knot out of the hair. She felt a strange sensation and realized Zoe’s pale eyes were half-open and staring blankly in her direction.
    “Zoé, are you awake?”
    The girl gave a slow nod.
    “It’s me, Willow. We met at the rendezvous party last summer, remember?”
    “I remember your perfume,” she said in a French accent. “You’re the lady who kissed my father.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Willow thought back to that night in July. Pierre Lamothe had pulled Willow into an empty bedchamber. The intoxicated French commander had been all hands and lips. Had the girl witnessed this?
    “You’re holding my doll, aren’t you?”
    Willow waved a hand in front of Zoé’s gaze. “Can you see me?”
    “No, but I know what you’re up to.”
    “I was just straightening her hair. She’s very pretty. What’s her name?”
    “Noël.”
    “That’s a lovely name. It’s the French word for ‘Christmas’”, isn’t it?”
    Zoé nodded. Those dull eyes staring through slits gave Willow the shivers. “You know, Zoé, I have a whole collection of dolls in my boudoir. Maybe after you get better, you can come over and see them.”
    “I’ve already seen them. Your favorite doll is named Maggie.”
    “How did you know that?”
    “I have a friend who talks to me when I dream. He calls me, ‘The Secret Keeper.’” The girl smiled. “He told me all your sinful little secrets.”
    Willow’s heart skipped. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
    “The wicked thing you did last summer. The man you dream about. Don’t worry, Willow, you’ll be with him soon.”
    Feeling goose bumps sprout up her arms, Willow backed out of the room and bumped into Doc Riley.
    “Whoa, hold up there, lassie. Everything okay?”
    “I need to get home.”
    “Don’t forget this.” Riley held up a vial of liquid. “I mixed you up a special concoction I give Myrna. Sends her right into dreamland.”
    She grabbed the vial. “Thank you, Doc.” She kissed his cheek.
    He blushed. “Now, don’t go letting Myrna see you do that. She’ll think we’re up to something.” He winked then looked into Zoé’s room. “I heard you talking. Did the girl wake up?” Her eyes were fully closed. Her bony wrists hung limp in the ropes that bound her to the bed.
    “No, that was just me talking to her doll.” As Willow left Hospital House, once again embraced by the bitter cold, she felt tormented by what Zoé said.
    Maggie talks to me when I sleep. She tells me your