The building in which the doctor kept his practice was shaky with age; the lamp outside guttered enticingly, luring citizens of a romantic bent off the street. Certainly, regardless of one’s nature, the inside of the building would be far preferable to the cold street. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The rain now dashing down on the cobbles—although surely expressive of the sorrow and torment that any number of penniless poets were living at that very moment—was soaking through the coat and dress of the only young lady foolish enough to venture out on such a night.

Claire Lovebough dug a small scrap of paper out of her pocket and squinted at the address written on it. This was the place, then. Breathing slowly to calm her nervous heart, she strode up to the door and knocked three times.

There was no answer. Willing her heart to beat less furiously, Claire knocked again.

The door opened with the barest hint of a creak. At once Claire realised why her heart had been so unruly – how could she have been such a fool? To go out alone on such a night, and to the house of a man she had never even met. . .

"May I help you?" The man’s voice was mild and friendly, but Claire did not even glance at him before turning away.

"No, no. I’m sorry, it’s so late—I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Forgive me," she muttered, feeling the heat of a horrified blush making its way up her breast. "I should go."

"Wait!" The man reached out to grab Claire’s arm, drawing her into the building. "Please, you’re wet through. If I can’t help you in any other way, at least let me send out for a cab. I can’t let you leave like this."

Claire looked into the man’s face and, despite the warning notes of her heart and conscience, allowed herself to be led through the door. The man’s face was as open and inviting as the room he brought her into: cornflower-blue eyes set behind a dreamer’s lashes, a straight nose and what Claire decided in a fit of frivolity to call a sensitive jaw. She felt her heart begin to drum a different beat.

The first thing that struck Claire about the room she stepped into was the heat. It wove its way around her body like a cat, finding the chinks in her armour of wool and cotton and warming her to her very bones. The man, still leading her by the elbow, set her down in an overstuffed chair by the fire.

"Now." He smiled, lips parting to reveal a set of very straight teeth. "I highly doubt that you have walked all the way to … this … district simply to knock at my door and rush off again."

"No, I—" Claire rummaged in her pocket again and held the scrap of paper up to the light. "My friend, Else, she told me about this place. She said that, that you—" she paused, unsure of how to go on. The topic was hardly one fit for polite conversation, after all.

"—that I can offer such aid that other practitioners of my art cannot?" The man settled himself into a matching armchair opposite Claire’s and looked at her over steepled fingers.

"Yes," Claire replied thankfully. "I—" she paused again. Doctor or not, she had come here unchaperoned. "I’m not sure, I, ahh—oh dear—"

Through some minor domestic miracle Claire managed to whip a handkerchief from her sleeve before the sneeze shook through her frame. She shivered; obviously the heat from the fire had not been as therapeutic as she had thought. "Oh, excuse me…"

"No, Miss—er. Please. Excuse me." The doctor stood. "I have hardly been a model host. Let me take your coat—thank you—and get you a hot drink. Tea?"

Please." Claire said. She was shivering again with the loss of her coat, but knew that the fire would dry her dress, and herself, more quickly without it. "Milk, two sugars."

"As you wish." The man smiled again as he crossed the room. While he fussed with the leaves and the pot Claire looked around the rest of the room, trying to get an idea of what manner of office it was. Certainly the table at which the doctor stood making the tea was an anomaly: there was no stove to heat the water, no icebox to keep the milk fresh. Claire could only presume that a man like her host would have no need of such mundane help. Her thought was proved true as the kettle began to boil in the man’s hand and she felt a thrill of excitement at the sight of—magic. Real magic, not the smoke and mirrors of street performers. Certainly nothing a respectable young lady should involve herself with.

Claire shrugged of her shadowy doubts and surveyed the rest of the room. The varnished floor was almost completely covered with richly woven rugs in blues, purples and greens. In the gaps, the wooden slats glistened with light reflected not only from the fire but also from the myriad gas lamps hung from the walls. The only evidence that this was not an ordinary drawing room was the small bottles nestled on a few tables that lurked around the edges of the room. The contents of these bottles—Claire squinted at them, trying to decide what colour the liquid was, before blaming poor light for her inability to do so—did not reflect one iota of the light cast by the lamps. Instead they seemed to absorb it, leaving the tops of the tables shrouded in heavy shadow.

"You’ve noticed my wares, I see."

Claire jumped. She had been so entranced by the glass vials that she had not noticed the doctor return to the fire, a cup of hot tea in each hand. "Oh! Yes, they’re … are they what you use for…?"

"For my doctoring?" A glint of amusement lit the man’s blue eyes. "Yes. But, really, we need not concern ourselves with that yet. You have not even told me your name."

"Claire Lovebough," Claire said automatically, then laughed nervously. "I do not know your name either, you know. Else only referred to you as ‘the doctor’."

"Yes, dear Else. I trust she is returned to health?" The man took a sip of tea as Claire nodded her assurance. "She was one of my more difficult customers, I must admit. Cancer of the brain is never a simple thing, even for me."

Claire nodded again, remembering the long months of pain her friend had suffered; the hundreds of remedies both scientific and spiritual that had failed, each leaving the girl weaker than before and some seeming even to leech her life away more quickly.

Then, one day, all of that had changed. A letter had arrived in the mail: a letter advertising one last cure. Almost out of hope, Else’s parents had contacted their mysterious benefactor, had dosed their only daughter with the medicine he provided despite believing that the next week would see their Else dead.

But she had not died. Each day had seen the roses bloom more red in her cheeks, her waking hours lengthen and her sleep more peaceful. The doctors—the scientific doctors—had pronounced her fully cured.

Else had kept the reason for her sudden change of fortune secret for months. She told Claire of the cause of her miraculous recovery only when Claire herself was in need.

"My name is Edward Northam. I don’t suppose I can convince you to address me as Edward?"

Claire flushed furiously, her heart knocking desperately beneath her bodice. "Certainly not, sir! Please, let us address the business at hand."

"My apologies. I did not mean to affront you, Miss Lovebough—my comment was in jest," Mr Northam said, his eyes glinting more wickedly than before. "Now. If you would enlighten me as to what exactly it is that ails you? My talents, you see, lie in the healing of illnesses—not the diagnosis of them."

"Of course," Claire replied. "It’s—my heart. I had an episode several months ago; I’ve only recently ended my convalescence. The doctors—the other doctors—say there is nothing that can be done."

She stopped, and glanced up. Dr Northam’s hands were folded before him, and he looked at her levelly. "Else said you could help me. Please. I can feel my heart so vividly now, and it scares me, it scares me so much when it beats slower, or faster, or jumps about, and the doctors said I could suffer another attack any day if I over-exert myself—"

"Hush, hush. Miss Lovebough, listen to me." Claire stared at the blond man in front of her, and then, confused at the concern in his eyes, put a hand up to her own face. It was flooded with tears.

"Oh, my … I’m so sorry. Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, Miss Lovebough. This is a terrible thing, and I will do my best to help you. And my help," he continued, staring deep into Claire’s eyes, "can always be depended upon as being the best available.

"Now—let me see." Claire turned in her seat as the doctor rose once again and made his way towards a table hidden in its own shadows. "Weakness of the heart; it is one of those things that seems terribly romantic, does it not? Until, of course, one discovers the realities of living with such a fault."

This was an opinion Claire herself had held ever since her mother had started introducing Claire’s illness along with her name at receptions. "Oh, yes. Everyone seems to think it is such a, a sweet and feminine thing. Would you believe that most people actually fail to realise that my condition has more dangerous consequences than just swooning when something shocks me?"

"It is always the case with people who are blessed with good health," said Dr Northam absently, running his fingers up and down the necks of several bottles. He looked back at her. "Please, you do not need to stay over there. My business is hardly so secret that I need hide everything away. See: each of these bottles contains a strengthening remedy for a particular part of the body. Here is one for the stomach, to protect from indigestion—a small inconvenience to most people, but it helps pay the bills."

Claire looked at the large glass bottle in shock. She knew the doctor’s fee was, while not exorbitant, certainly out of the range of any common family: but surely men and women of her own class would not resort to magic to heal such a trifling ill as an upset stomach?

And yet here she was, seeking magic herself. And she knew that several of her aunts and uncles suffered terribly from migraines and the like; and when more traditional remedies failed, who was to say they would not come even to a magician for relief?

"…and here, to ease arthritic pain. Ah! Here," the doctored eyes creased triumphantly and he beamed down at Claire. "To heal a weakened heart."

Claire took the proffered bottle. To her eyes, it was no different to any of the other bottles: the same dark, rich liquid sloshed in its belly as she tipped it to catch the light. This was in vain, of course. As she had noticed earlier, the potion seemed to snare the light from all around and turn it back on itself, turning the golden firelight into wreathing shadows.

"And—this will help? This will heal me?" Claire couldn’t keep an edge of panic out of her voice as she felt her heart beat another nervous tattoo against her breast.

"Trust me."

Claire met Dr Northam’s eyes with her own. She didn’t know why, but in this moment, she did trust him, and the trust had more to do with the sincerity in those blue eyes than the evidence of Else’s recovery.

Else…

"Oh, my goodness," Claire spluttered, unwillingly tearing her eyes away from the man in front of her. "I—whatever is the time? I was to meet my friend at the theatre this evening, I’ve spent longer here than I thought I would, I—"

"Miss Lovebough, please. It’s perfectly all right. If you will allow me to send for a cab, I will wrap this for you and you can be on your way." Dr Northam gently prised the bottle from Claire’s fingers and, trailing shadows, walked over to an alcove Claire had missed in her inspection of the room. She waited quietly while the doctor made the call and a few minutes later accepted the now wrapped bottle with a quiet word of thanks. The doctor had parcelled the medicine in a box covered with plain brown paper, a disguise for which she was grateful.

"One last thing, Miss Lovebough," said Dr Northam as he handed Claire her coat, still slightly damp despite the fire’s heat. "On the matter of payment? My fees are, regrettably, a little higher than those of others in my profession, but I would be perfectly happy to send you the bill later if you don’t have the money on you at this time."

"That would be best, I think." Claire thought for a minute, then pulled a small case from her coat pocket. "Here, take one of my cards. The address is on the back—only, if you please, make out a bill for a, a hat, or a pair of shoes. If my mother found out—"

"Rest assured, I will be very discreet." An amused half-smile danced around Edward Northam’s lips as something occurred to him. "For a young lady with a heart condition, you seem remarkably willing to put yourself in positions of possible instability. Walking here in the rain, visiting what I admit is a somewhat shady-looking business without a chaperone, and all at night; these are all actions which I would have thought to be inductive of a somewhat heightened heart-rate: something which a recent convalescent such as yourself should be avoiding."

Claire paused before answering. His words held some weight, certainly. Three months ago, she would have been too timid to have even stepped over the threshold of her home without the arm of a friend of a sister to lead her onwards. But things had changed since then. Claire had changed.

"I thought ... I thought that, if this was what I was supposed to do, then I would complete my journey safely." She smiled wryly. "After all, surely it is better to risk one’s life to save it than to lie in a darkened room, afraid of your own body and waiting day after day for the world to fade around you?"

The smile faded from Northam’s face and he stared at her soberly. He opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it.

Claire fastened the buttons on her coat. "Good bye, Dr Northam. Thank you for all your help." She pulled her gloves on slowly, hoping he would say something that could keep her inside a moment longer. The cab was here already—how it had managed to arrive so quickly, she had no idea—but it could wait. Cabbies in the commercial district were well used to waiting after dawdling females, after all.

She did not wait in vain. After a brief and embarrassed cough, the doctor said:

"Miss Lovebough? I, ah ... your visit here was so brief, I have been unable to explain to you the more, ah, intricate details of the cure you purchased. There is a list of instructions in the box along with the medicine, of course, and I daresay you will be able to finish it, but—I would recommend you return. For an update on your wellbeing, that I may be sure I have done all I can for you. May I make you an appointment for next week?"

"But of course!" Claire’s face lit up with her smile. She did not need to refer to her diary to answer this question; she was allowed, in her weakened state, only a single outing a week. Her trip to the theatre with Else was to be this week’s treat, and now it seemed she would be late for it. This fact did not bother her conscience as much as she knew it should. Let Else wait, just this once. "Saturday afternoon, perhaps?"

"That will be fine," Dr Northam replied, his own face breaking into a smile. Claire had a small suspicion that the two of them must look a little foolish, standing grinning at one another so. "Should I write you a—"

"No, no." Claire waved her hand in the direction of the waiting cab. The horses were getting frisky, and she really should be on her way—if only to regale Else with a gushing account of the evening’s events. "I am sure I will not forget it! Good night, Dr Northam."

"Good night, Miss Lovebough."

Claire fairly skipped over to the waiting cab; her heart mimicked her, and she had a little trouble convincing it to calm down. It seemed she was about to exchange one trouble of the heart for another; but this second trouble, she decided, would be far more pleasurable.

~*~

"Claire, this is sheer torture. Tell me now!" Else Chadwick drummed her fingers against the side of the chair as she glared at her friend. "You promised you would."

Claire laughed at the other girl’s eagerness. "Hush, Else. Drink your tea. I—no, no more biscuits, thank you, Mary. You may leave us." Dismissing the maid with what Else thought was an irritatingly slow wave of her hand, Claire took a delicate sip of tea. "Really, Else, do you actually think I forgot what I said? No, I will tell you. But you haven’t even asked me how my day has been—"

"Oh, Claire!" Else almost screamed in frustration. "I’m not interested in how your day has been, I’m interested in how your yesterday was! For goodness’ sake, I hardly noticed the play last night I was so intrigued by your mysterious little adventure, and I’ve been completely useless all morning what with wondering about it so will you please, please, please tell me what happened? I shall simply die if you do not."

"Oh, very well," Claire said, chuckling. "If you insist…"

To the chink of teacups on saucers Claire gave Else a brief version of the events of the previous night. Unsatisfied, the older girl demanded that Claire repeat the story twice more, each time with a more detailed description of the blond young doctor and his lingering gazes. When she had finally heard enough, Else leaned back into her seat with a sigh.

"Oh, he is lovely, isn’t he? Honestly, I sometimes think I might start complaining of migraines again if I thought Mama would take me to see him for it…"

"Else!" Claire slapped a hand to her face in mock horror. "What a terrible thing to say! Why, I’m half inclined to inform Thomas of your faithlessness at once!"

"Claire, you wouldn’t!" The blood rushed from Else’s face, but returned along with a boatload of very unladylike giggles when she saw Claire’s grin. "Oh, goodness. You are too cruel. Now," Else leaned forward conspiratorially. "Have you tried it yet?"

"Oh, yes."

Claire let out her breath slowly, slowly as she remembered. She had returned home late at night, Else’s persistent entreaties that Claire tell her what had happened now, now now still ringing in her ears. Her heartbeat drumming dangerously she had raced to her room and locked the door behind her; once their, much to her annoyance, she had to wait several minutes for her hands to stop shaking before she was able to unwrap the precious package.

Finally, the moment of truth had arrived. Despite everything, a twinge of doubt still gnawed at the back of her mind. What if it didn’t work? What if this was some trick—some fraudulent attempt to swindle the ill out of their money?

But he had not asked for cash. He had let her go without even demanding a deposit, trusting her to make good on her purchase.

Steeling herself, Claire had followed the instructions to a word. Half a glass of the dark potion diluted with the same amount of water, the shadows slowly mingling with the clear liquid like smoke in the breeze. She had lifted the glass to her lips and paused for just a second before tipping its contents down her throat.

The mixture left a taste of copper and honey in her mouth but she didn’t notice it, during that first swallow. That mouthful seemed to expand as soon as it passed her lips, choking her, filling her veins with acid and her bones with ice until every fibre in her body ached with sensation. As she fell helplessly to the floor, Claire had seen shadows gather at the corners of her eyes and had cursed her stupidity, cursed the uneven thunder of her heart…

And had woken up.

"It is a little unnerving, isn’t it?" Else’s eyes shone with her own memories. "Don’t worry. The first time is always the worst. Law of Diminishing Returns, and all that."

Smiling wanly, Claire took a warming gulp of tea. Unnerving was something of an understatement: she had thought she was dying, by God!

And yet—already, she could feel an improvement. She had woken that morning rested and calm. Even the horrifying memory of collapsing the night before had not unsettled the steady beat of her heart. Her smile became warmer.

"Well, frightful though the treatment is, at least I have good reason to survive it," she remarked lightly. "Doctor Northam insisted I return next week for a check-up, and I would so hate to disappoint him for so trivial a reason as having died the night before."

"Oh, Claire, don’t be silly." Else carefully set down her cup. "Now, would I be correct in assuming you will need a companion on your outing?"

~*~

"Else, when you said you’d accompany me, I thought that at the very least you’d come up to the door." Saturday had dawned clear and frosty, and Claire shivered in the weak afternoon sun. "This is ridiculous. I can’t visit him alone a second time, you know that."

"I’ll only be on the next street, Claire. The milliner’s holding an order for me that I have to pick up, the most darling little cap I’ve ever seen."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, but was hushed by Else’s upraised hand. "You’ll be past fashionably late if you don’t go now." Else smiled indulgently, and added, "If, by some strange coincidence, anyone does find out you were there alone—for heaven’s sake, Claire, he’s a doctor! Simply say that you felt uncomfortable discussing certain things with another person in the room. Now, go."

The doctor’s practice looked positively quaint in the white light of day, and even more inviting than it had the night before. Taking a deep breath of the frigid air, Claire carefully made her way across the icy street and knocked on the door. She knocked three times, just as she had on that cold, stormy night. The door opened.

"Miss Lovebough?"

Warmth blossomed in Claire’s breast at the sight of the young man. His face had been in her thoughts each night as she felt the restorative magic of his potion coursing through her body, but to see it again in the flesh brought a flush to her cheeks. "Good afternoon, Dr Northam. I trust you have been well this last week?"

The doctor ushered her in and closed the door softly behind them. The room seemed larger in the daylight, the richness of the rugs made wan and the shadows around the walls less ponderous. After a moment, Claire realised why: although the tables remained, the glass bottles with their wondrous contents had disappeared. Thinking about this, she almost missed Northam’s response to her question.

"…not as well as I would have liked, Miss Lovebough. There have been several incidents of an unforeseen nature which have, regrettably, meant that I may be unable to offer you a second prescription." He paused, and straightened his crooked collar with a slightly shaking hand. "Of course, if you are still suffering greatly, I will do my utmost to accommodate you, but…"

"That is quite all right, Dr Northam. I already feel that your … your magic … has done me a world of good." Claire’s voice stuttered treacherously over the mention of the supernatural cause of her returned health, but she was determined to go on. As the young man offered her a chair, she continued, "I realise that your particular area of expertise may—"

"I do beg your pardon, Miss Lovebough." Startled by Dr Northam’s sharp tone, Claire looked up to see the man swaying where he stood. "I—am somewhat indisposed this afternoon. I do not wish to—if we could keep this appointment short, I would be much obliged."

Claire cursed herself silently. She had noticed his hand shaking when he had greeted her: how could she have not realised he was ill? Exhausted, most likely. Now that she knew what to look for, she saw that his blue eyes were shadowed and sunken, his brow greyed with fatigue. Oh fool, fool! Her cheeks now flushing with shame and anger at herself, Claire stood and, despite the man’s protestations, helped Dr Northam into the seat he had taken the week before. He rose again almost at once.

"Please, Dr Northam, I must insist you sit down. You hardly seem to be in any fit shape to—"

"Do excuse me…" Horrified, Claire watched the young doctor stagger from the room. Of all the possible ways she had envisioned this visit ending, the thought of seeing her benefactor abandon the room in a state of near collapse had never crossed her mind!

The minutes passed in agony as Claire debated with herself whether she should follow him. Although she longed to be of some assistance, his sudden exit clearly indicated that he wished to be left alone. He was a magician, after all; surely he had some means of healing himself?

But he had said that there was no medicine left, and he had looked so tired, so far beyond the border of exhaustion that his will was all that held him up…

Something fell to the floor with a resounding crash on the other side of the door. Her resolve instantly strengthened, Claire rushed across the room—

—and cannoned straight into the doctor.

"Miss Lovebough!"

"Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, please forgive me ... I thought..." Claire’s hands shook abominably as she smoothed her dress, her hair, her sleeves, her eyes anywhere but on the man she had quite literally run into. "It’s just—you were gone so long, and I thought I heard..."

She glanced upwards and was mortified to see a hint of embarrassed red colouring Dr Northam’s face. "It was a, a bookshelf. I, um, stumbled into it, and it fell. I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to disturb you."

Claire stared at the floor, her tongue too thick to stumble its way around words and her heart pounding in her ears. Harder and harder her pulse beat, until the sound of it filled her head. She did not see or hear the door behind Edward open—or the shadowy figure that stepped through it.

"I hope you can forgive me, Miss Lovebough, for my rudeness. I should not have left you so abruptly. I thought I was falling ill, and I—but I am well now. Shall we resume our conversation? I will fetch some tea..." A nervous smile hovered around Dr Northam’s lips. "I’m not exactly presenting myself well to you, am I? Last week I left you to shiver in your coat and today I leave you completely."

"It doesn’t matter, truly, Dr Northam." Claire looked up shyly. "Actually, I—look out!"

Her warning was too late. The figure lurched forward and lashed out with a length of metal piping. The weapon struck Dr Northam on the side of the head with a sickening thud that left him reeling and Claire shrieking in terror as the figure swung again. Edward Northam fell to the floor and lay still.

Claire stumbled back against the wall, her throat too tight with fear to scream for help again. The figure, however, seemed not to notice her; its attention was fully held by the still body of Dr Northam. Her breathing ragged, Claire stared dumbly at the doctor’s attacker.

It was ... a woman. Sticklike limbs and a back curved like a bow, but there was something in the bones of the face, some last shred of femininity remaining in the incised waist and prominent cheekbones of this ... creature. An oily tangle of dirty blonde hair fell past the creature’s bony shoulders. Claire was reminded of the inmates of a hospital that her father, ever the amateur student of psychology, had taken her to as a girl: those pitiful remnants of humanity had huddled unwashed and unloved in the corners of their cells, screaming or muttering of the world’s sins. This woman, too, muttered, although Claire could not hear the words.

A madwoman. An escapee, Claire thought, and shuddered. Worse, the lunatic was armed; and even now, to Claire’s horror, she raised the metal pipe above her head and advanced upon the stricken man once more.

"No!" Claire ran forward and grabbed at the piping just as the madwoman swung it down for a third blow. As the two struggled against each other, Claire caught the eyes of the other woman.

Her eyes were not mad. Their blue depths held none of the flickering paranoia of the old hospital’s screaming patients, none of the dead terror of the huddled, white-garbed demons. Instead, the woman’s eyes were dark with fury—a knowing, fearless, and old anger that shocked Claire with its intensity. Numbed, she released the metal pipe—and fell to the ground, winded, as the woman thrust it into her stomach with strength belying her thin arms.

Terrified and unable to draw breath, let alone speak or cry out, Claire felt an icy shiver run down her back as she watched the lunatic creature raise her arms for a final blow—

And slowly lower them again. Claire fought to breathe as the strange woman stared down at her in wonderment, the anger in her eyes fading to confusion.

"You’re a ... girl," the woman said, her voice a low croak. "Just a girl..."

Claire licked her lips nervously. She could feel her lungs loosening, letting precious oxygen into her body, but her heart quailed and shook weakly in her chest at the thought of standing up and confronting the madwoman. Beside her, a thread of blood dripped down Dr Northam’s cheek.

"Why did you help him?" The woman sounded almost childlike in her bewilderment, and Claire wondered if she had misread the sanity in her eyes. "He had blue eyes yes and they’re lovely, but I had blue eyes once, and he always said my hair would catch me a husband but he caught me instead ... you have pretty hair, little girl, and your eyes are dark like bloodstains…"

Claire scrambled backwards as the woman suddenly dropped into a crouch, snatching at Claire’s hair with a bony hand. Her twig-like fingers wrapping themselves lovingly around an unravelled tress and the woman’s ramblings became louder.

"You’ll help me, won’t you? You will, you must; see … I hit him with my stick and he’ll stay broken because I won’t touch him. No one can make me or I’ll hit them too and they’ll bleed all dark like your eyes and he’s gone, now, he won’t bleed me out any more and I shall have bright hair again..."

"What—who are you? What are you talking about?" The woman’s fingers felt like dry bones as they caressed Claire’s hair, holding it away from her head and stroking it softly, and Claire wasn’t sure she’d heard her questions. "Why—ugh!"

Claire bit off a scream as the woman tightened her grip cruelly, tearing at her hair. Eyes bright and, Claire saw with a sinking stomach, now completely devoid of any last vestige of sanity, the woman snarled:

"He stole my power! He locked me up, locked me up inside my head with his tricks and his pills and dragged it out of me for his bottles and he wouldn’t let me wake up but I did. I did … and I hurt him but he made me sleep again and he took it from me and healed himself but he won’t do it again, he won’t make me sleep with the needles and the bottles…"

The woman’s voice trailed off again, but the anger remained fixed in her eyes. Refusing to believe what she thought the madwoman—obviously a lunatic, her nonsensical ramblings were evidence enough of that—was trying to say, Claire tried to pull away but the woman’s grip stayed firm.

"Let me go!"

"You’ll help me, won’t you. You’ll help me make him sleep forever..."

"No!" Claire shouted. The sound of it seemed to echo around the room, and Claire prayed someone on the street would hear it. Choking back a sob, she scratched at the woman’s hand, grabbed at it, tore it from her head. She had to get away, had to get help for Dr Northam, had to believe the blood coursing down the side of his face meant that he still lived.

"No! Don’t touch me, don’t, it hurts I won’t heal you I won’t don’t you touch me! No, no, no, no more, no more..."

Claire watched on in astonishment as the woman shrank away from her touch. She had scratched the woman, yes, but her nails had not been sharp enough to draw blood. Yet the woman was practically cowering from her, covering her face with her hands and rocking back and forth. She may have even been crying, but Claire was certain no tears could possibly break through the anger and violence in those eyes.

"Hngh…" Dr Northam’s eyes flickered as he groaned and Claire’s heart leapt into her throat. He was alive. Slowly, trying not to attract the keening woman’s attention, Claire moved her hand until it just brushed against his right shoulder. She could run now, she thought; but she would not. She would not abandon Edward.

"…no, no, she won’t help me, she has blood in her eyes and her heart and she touched me, she tried to take it from me, she won’t help me, no, not that one, she stole from me…"

Her voice cracked as she spat out the last three words and lunged at Claire. Taken aback by the woman’s renewed ferocity, Claire was only just able to bring up her arm in time to block the metal piping as it hissed towards her throat. Eyes stinging with the pain, Claire kicked out at the woman as she was hauled upright, but to no avail. The fever of madness that now lit up the woman’s eyes gave her more strength than Claire could fight against, and she gasped as the woman pinned her to the wall with the pipe against her neck.

"Stop it," Claire forced out. The woman’s grey face wavered in front of her as she choked for breath. "I’m ... I’m sorry..."

In an instant the pressure was gone, and Claire thought for a moment that it had been her words that had convinced her attacker to release her. Then she saw that Edward was standing up, holding the strange woman tightly against him with her arms pinned to her sides.

The woman looked up at him as though in a dream. "Edward?"

"Angela, what are you doing?" Edward’s voice was soft and calm, and he stroked the woman’s hair as she spoke to her. "You’re hurting people. You know you’re not supposed to do that."

"Edward. … I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it please don’t make me sleep again please don’t…"

"Hush, hush," Edward murmured as he took his hand from Angela’s hair and pulled something from his pocket—a syringe. "Don’t be scared, Angela."

Claire winced as Edward brought his hand up to the woman’s neck and injected her in one swift, dispassionate movement. The woman—Angela—gasped, and sagged in Edward’s arms. Lowering her to the floor, Edward turned to Claire.

"Miss Lovebough, are you—my god. Your forehead." Claire put a hand to her face and felt a warm wetness under her fingers. Blood, she thought. The woman had torn out a hunk of her hair.

"Edwa—Dr. Northam, who is this woman?" Claire asked, her voice shaking.

The doctor sighed, and stared down at the motionless woman with a strange expression on her face. "Her name is Angela. She was—she is my sister." He continued hurriedly as Claire gasped in shock. "Miss Lovebough, you must understand. What you saw was not Angela. All the anger, all the violence—she has changed, since we began this. Let me tell you."

Claire stood in silence as the doctor told her his story: how his sister had discovered that she was a healer, that she could fix injuries and illnesses with a single touch. She had asked her brother to help her, to use his knowledge of human anatomy to help her be able to help more people.

And he had discovered the potency of Angela’s blood as a restorative. Claire’s stomach turned as she remembered the thick potion she had taken.

"You see, this is what she would have wanted. Keeping her asleep allows her to replenish her energy and the means for us to continue our service." Blood, Claire thought. Bloody eyes. "You must understand. We help so many people; she would agree with me, if she was still herself."

Claire stared down at the frail body at Edward’s feet. She tried to think of what it would be like to be kept in a sleep like death eternal; but she could not. She could only think of the blood on Edward’s brow, of the strong and regular beat of her heart; and of Else, all-bright eyes and laughter now that she was well again.

She helped Edward carry Angela’s limp body down the stairs, into a room rimmed with shelf upon shelf of empty glass bottles. She helped arrange the sleeping woman on the thin bed, smoothing her hair on the hard pillow. But she closed her eyes when Edward stuck the hollow needles into his sister’s white arms.

Claire’s heart almost failed her as, averting her eyes from the sight of Angela’s blood coursing through glass tubes into glass bottles, she saw that the healer’s face was wet with tears. But the room was warm, and the tears soon evaporated.

Claire’s heart stayed strong, and she knew that from now on, she would never need to fear its weakness again.