Free The Medea Complex by Rachel Florence Roberts Page B

hat-stand.” Just like the candles light, our conversation is blown out. He
has dismissed me as easily as he would crush a roach.
    Loathe as I am to do as he asks, I oblige him, suddenly
eager to be away from him, to be home. Home?
    I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw something.
    He looks at me.
    “Do I amuse you, Mr Stanbury?”
    “Not at all,” I say, still contemplating his last words as
he rises slowly to his feet, and takes the cane from me. “I simply had a bit of
dust up my nose, that's all.” A cracking sounds comes from somewhere within him
when he stands, and I wonder how he moves at all, yet he manages to hobble over
to the door unattended.
    “Blasted thing, dust. Well, I can only imagine how hard it
must be living in a house with no woman to do the housework for you.” He shrugs
on his coat, eyeing me.
    “I have servants, Mr Tumsbridge.”
    He looks perplexed for a moment, and then laughs.
    “Of course you do, of course. How could that possibly have
escaped me? My friend, I do believe my mind is going. Used to be as sharp as a
pin, I did. Now,” he puffs out his cheeks, looking around him sadly. “Well,
now...I'm just a used up bag o' bones, as they say. Can't see straight, and now
I can't think straight. But mind me, my friend, I know all about the leprous
arm of the law. And I'm telling you, you're done for if you stay in that house
and don't divorce that woman.” He turns and opens the door, a blast of icy wind
whipping into the office. “If you think things are looking bad for you now,
trust me and heed this warning: they will get a whole lot worse for you.”
    Is that a threat?
    “Mr Tums-”
    “Come my friend, please. I don't want a snow drift in my
office come morning. Look, I suppose there is a very slight, unlikely chance
that your wife will get well, be released from the asylum, you'll have another
child together; a son, who won’t die, Lord Damsbridge will die before him and
you'll be happy as a king. But I don't expect it, and neither should you. You
really should take the advice of an old man who has seen everything and heard
even more. Truly. At this point, you have everything to lose, and nothing to
gain.”
    We make our way down the stone steps, snow crunching
underfoot. I pull my thin overcoat tighter around me, shivering.
    “I see you are set in your ways. I'm sorry I couldn't help
you.” He lifts his hat. “Good evening to you, my friend.” He starts walking
away from me, whistling a familiar tune, yet one I am unable to place. I grit
my teeth when suddenly he stops, and calls to me.
    “By the way, my friend, our little conversation is free.”
His laugh echoes through the empty street as the blizzard swallows him whole;
the dim glow of muffled gas-lights hanging abstractly, dejectedly, in the air.
     
     

Damned Witch
     
    Anne
    November 5th, 1885
    Royal Bethlem Hospital
     
     
    What was I thinking?
    That uneducated oaf of a man didn't have a clue what we
would do once we were outside the main doorway. Standing there grinning at each
other on the stone steps, the cold air refreshing in its recent rarity, we
descended together, arm-in-arm. Our grins expanded ever wider once our feet
touched upon the wet grass. However, mine faded as I quickly realized that
neither he nor I had known what to expect. We must have looked like fools just
standing there, immobile. What did we expect: an open door that led us straight
onto a road? A carriage waiting for us, perhaps?  I remember looking at the
gate: a large, imposing, locked gate, that would be impossible to climb, and
high walls surrounding a square courtyard.
    Not even a glimmer of freedom.
    Yet, free people walk on the other side of those walls.
    Aggravated by this notion, I looked at him.
    “Well?”
    “No need t' look at me so expectantly, girl. I haven' t'
clue either.”
    A whistle blew from behind us, and I knew we had been found.
I didn't fancy being put into the sack again, so I simply turned around, sat