{Author's Note: No, I haven't forgotten Kael, I'm simply introducing some more characters. And for the record, it might be a while until chapter 3 is up..}
Lucy opened her eyes a crack; through the blur of eyelashes, she could make out the form of a nurse checking her IV, and making little checks on a clipboard. The visitor’s chair was empty. With a sigh of relief, Lucy opened her eyes all the way and sat up in the hospital bed, giving the startled nurse a thin smile.
“G’morning,” she said. Her voice crackled, and she swallowed painfully. “Could I get some water?” she croaked to the nurse.
The woman nodded and grinned, spreading her scarlet-painted lips wide. There was a spot of lipstick on her otherwise pearly teeth. “Of course, darling,” she said, softly but sunnily.
As she left the room, Lucy leaned back on the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling. There were disorganized black dots peppering the white linoleum—she had told herself years ago that, one day, she would manage to count all of them before being discharged. Countless visits to the hospital later, she still hadn’t succeeded.
Lucy was skinnier than was healthy for a girl her age—but that was the least of her problems. She had been born with a rare marrow deficiency that ate away at her; she was prone to sudden attacks of vertigo; and if she tried to eat any sort of fruit or vegetable, she would vomit until her entire body ached. Since birth, she had been fed a steady diet of supplements, experimental treatments, and unoptimistic “you’ll-pull-throughs”. She had undergone surgery after surgery after surgery, but little had improved.
All of her operations and check-ups were done here, at the Banser-Graham Clinic. The Clinic wasn’t designed like a hospital—it had a silk-smooth, navy blue bulk accented with black and gold. Black-and-white checkered tiling covered the floor of the lobby; smooth, white plaster and black-painted linoleum made the walls and floors of the hallways. The nurses and doctors all wore navy blue scrubs with little gold pins over their hearts, just above their nametags—the letters BG in a bold and detailed cursive, linking where the belly of the B met the back of the G.
Banser-Graham was small, but it was expensive, and for good reason. Founded by William Banser and his brother-in-law, Jacob Graham, the Clinic had been funded by aristocracy since birth. It catered primarily to those who had either high standing, or money, or both. Its specialties were discretion and the treatment of rare and-or unheard of cases. It had a Private Ward, where Lucy now lay, designed especially for those who, for whatever reason, wanted their presence in the Clinic to remain a secret. Its diagnosticians were geniuses, its surgeons master craftsmen—and yet, Lucy, for all her seventeen years of repeat visits, had not been cured.
The nurse, a glass of water in hand, returned to the room. Lucy turned her head to look at her—the woman was tall and buxom, her questionably-sized chest paired exquisitely with questionably blonde hair. The name Brenda was emblazoned both on her nametag and on a garish silver heart dangling from a chain around her neck.
Lucy sat back up and took the water from Brenda’s hand. She tossed her head back and gulped it greedily—the nurse laughed.
“I feel bad; were you really that dehydrated, darling?”
Lucy smiled, plucking the rim of the now-empty glass from her lips. “Nah. I get thirsty easily.” She paused. “I’m guessing my Gramma went home?”
“Yes—she left a message for you.” Brenda pulled a folded piece of white paper seemingly from thin air and pressed it into Lucy’s fingers. The girl unfolded it and stared blankly at her Gramma’s delicate handwriting. Relax, my dearest Lucy, it read. Call me when the doctors have declared you stable, and I’ll come to take you home. All my love; your Grandmother.
Lucy chuckled. Stable? She had only come to Banser-Graham for a simple stomach biopsy and a few blood tests—this was one of the few times where stability was guaranteed. “When can I be discharged?” she asked Brenda, “do you know?”
Brenda shrugged and gave another ruby-rimmed smile. “I’ll have to ask. But I’m sure you’re free to leave whenever you can—from what I can see,” she glanced over the documents on her clipboard, “there’s no reason for you to stay.”
Lucy nodded. “Could you pass me the phone?”
The nurse took the room’s requisite landline from its cradle and handed it to her. Lucy dialled her grandmother’s cell.
After two rings, the woman answered.
“Hello; this is Ilsa Vesper speaking.”
“Hey, Gramma, it’s me.”
“Lucy? Oh, good morning, sweetheart! Is everything in order?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. The nurse is gonna ask whether I can go or not, but, apparently, they’ve done everything they wanted to do.”
“How did the tests go?”
“Hold on, I’ll ask.” Lucy put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked Brenda—“Can I see that clipboard? My Gramma wants to know how the tests went.”
The nurse complied. Lucy looked over the sheets attached. She nodded. “Huh.” She took her hand away and answered her grandmother’s question. “The good news is that I’m not dying. The bad news is that I’m no better than I was when I got here.”
“Don’t be vague; you know that Doctor Lyeman will tell me everything when I get there, anyways.”
“I’m not trying to be vague. I just saw the results—nothing new, nothing better.”
“Well, then… I’ll come pick you up. You’re sure you feel all right, Lucy?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. See you later?”
“I’ll be there in an hour. I love you, baby.”
“Love you too, Gramma.”
⥈
Below the storage basement of the Banser-Graham Clinic, there was a secret ward. It was privately funded, privately run, and in no ways affiliated with either Mr. Banser or Mr. Graham—at least, not to anyone’s knowledge. Few knew about the ward; those who did either ran the place… or generously donated their bodies for the ward’s research. Whatever went on down there was nobody’s business—the people who had founded it had managed to stay well under the radar. Their only motivation for placing the ward under the Banser-Graham building was the steady access to medicine, drugs, and corrupt doctors.
It was there that James Buckley and Arthur Manning, the Ebon Witch’s faithful surgeon and not-so-faithful analyst, were taking their lunch break.
As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Buckley and Manning worked full-time at Banser-Graham—their work for the Witch was, for obvious reasons, kept a secret. Buckley, being a perpetual bachelor and a generally repulsive person, was under no pressure from family or friends to reveal the truth behind his nightly antics. He was lucky. Manning was slightly less repulsive, and a much better liar than Buckley—as a result, not only was he still on good terms with his family, but he was married, with children. Jennifer Manning spent many sleepless nights fretting over the apparent overworking of her husband. Their son, Tucker, cared little for the man—nearly twenty years old, he could still count on both hands the number of times his father had spoken to him without some sort of prompt from Jennifer.
At about the same time as Lucy was dialling her grandmother’s number in the Clinic above, Buckley and Manning were seated in the mess hall of the Witch’s ward. Manning sipped an espresso latte in between bites of a recently reheated helping of meat casserole. Buckley munched a roast beef sandwich. A glob of mayonnaise fell from between the bread slices and splattered on his scrubs. “Goddammit!” he yelped. “That’s gonna stain!” He grabbed for a napkin and began dabbing at the oily mess.
Manning smirked. “You’re amazing, Buck. How is it you aren’t married?”
“I got turned off the idea ages ago.”
“By what?’
Buckley grinned, “You and Jen.”
He laughed, and Manning rolled his eyes. “Nice, Buck, very nice. Now, remind me—who dated Jen back when she was a hot intern?”
“Me.”
“And who dumped you when she quit to become a teacher?”
Buck sighed, “Jen.”
“And who’s getting a little something special from this self-same Jen when he goes home early tonight?”
“The mailman.”
“Oh, shut up, Buckley.”
The two men chuckled into their food. Buckley cleared his throat. “So you’re going home early?”
“Yup,” Manning, done with his casserole, closed the tupperware container and ran a hand through his greying ginger hair with a satisfied moan. “The Ebon Bitch finally gave in. You know, my kid’s going to Trade School right now, and I haven’t even been home long enough to find out what he’s studying!”
“Well, boss-lady does like to keep long hours…”
“She overworks me, Buckley. Hell, Tucker barely knows me, I haven’t had any alone time with Jen in ages, and it’s all because of her. Unlike some guys, I actually like my family, Buck—but how the hell are they supposed to know that when I’m stuck here all the time?”
Buckley shrugged. “Get ‘em some really nice stuff for their birthdays.”
Manning rubbed his temples and groaned, his eyes trained skyward. “Did I really expect good family advice from Jimmy ‘Herpes’ Buckley?”
“Dumb if you did.”
“Shut up.”
⥈
Ilsa Vesper, wearing an eggplant pencil skirt and a matching blazer over a metallic gold blouse, barged into Lucy’s room unceremoniously. She gave her granddaughter a broad grin and sighed luxuriously as she settled down in the visitor’s chair.
“Your paperwork is being finalized, and then we can go,” she said. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, honey?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. How’s your day been?” Lucy smiled. Ilsa had a tendency to assume the worst, even when presented with good news.
“Terrible. I spent most of the morning worrying about you—but the museum isn’t going to curate itself, is it? I had just secured a date to meet with this up-and-coming new artist, Jean Lefevre, when you called.”
“Oh; what does he do?”
“Sculptures,” Ilsa’s eyes misted over. “Some of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. All done in clay, you know—the man is a genius.”
Lucy grinned. “I’ll have to see them, then.”
Brenda, clipboard in hand, returned to the room. “You’ve been discharged, darling,” she said, offering the clipboard and pen to Ilsa. “Just sign there, ma’am…,” when the older woman was finished, the nurse gave the clipboard to Lucy. “You sign here, sweetheart.” She tapped a dotted line on an all-too-familiar discharge form with a manicured nail—Ilsa’s signature dominated the line above. Lucy quickly scrawled her initials and Brenda took the clipboard back. As if on cue, a weedy-looking male nurse rolled a wheelchair into the room.
“Oh, Ewan,” Brenda beamed at him. “You’re early! She isn’t even dressed, yet.”
Ewan flushed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Harding said to come up.”
“Well… wait a moment.” Brenda turned to Lucy. “You’ll have to change behind the screen,” she indicated a divider screen in the corner.
Lucy shrugged. “‘Kay,”
Brenda and Ilsa both lunged for the bed, to help Lucy to her feet. She waved them off, swinging her legs on to the floor. “I’m okay, I’m okay! I can still walk, you know.”
She wobbled as she walked, having been in bed for the past twenty-four hours, but her gait was sturdy. Once behind the screen, Lucy found her clothes folded neatly on a stool, as they always were. She sighed as she slipped out of her hospital gown and pulled on her familiar threadbare jeans. It was rare for her to wear anything that shabby (though she liked the feel of lived-in clothes, she hated when they looked lived-in)—there were holes in both knees and the colour was all but gone. Lucy only wore those jeans on days when she felt sick, and when she paid a visit to Banser-Graham. They felt comfortable, they felt safe. They smelt of home; of lemon-scented fabric softeners and the sandalwood incense that Ilsa had the maid burn in every room on cleaning days. Wearing them at the Clinic helped her forget the unpleasant reason why she was there.
Fully dressed, Lucy emerged from behind the screen. Saying a quick goodbye to Brenda, she sat down in the wheelchair and let Ewan roll her out, Ilsa never more than a step behind them. When the elevator stopped at the ground-floor level of Banser-Graham Clinic, Lucy caught the eye of a middle-aged man with greying ginger hair as he passed them. He smiled at her wanly, and she returned it, even as his eyes trailed elsewhere.
Ilsa prodded Ewan. “Take us to the Backdoor,” she whispered. The “Backdoor” exit, which was really just a fire-escape that opened on to a second parking lot, was for those who really didn’t want to be seen. Its parking lot could only be seen from one street—an unfortunate alleyway that marked the beginning of a labyrinthine grid leading to the main road. Anyone who wanted to visit Banser-Graham in secret needed only to park there. Ilsa and Lucy used the Backdoor route every time they came to the Clinic. They passed through the familiar door and into the familiar grey parking lot, where Ilsa’s so-called “discreet” car (a black, beat-up model she only used when driving Lucy to and from the Clinic) was waiting for them.
Lucy stood up, and Ewan took the wheelchair back inside without a word. As Ilsa and her granddaughter got into the “discreet” car and began to drive away, Lucy turned her head to take a good look at Banser-Graham—and to vainly pray that that had been her last visit.
