To my littles, CoCo and Peter Pan . . .
May you find your identity not in your past, your
present, or your future.
May you find your purpose not in yourself, your family,
or those who surround you.
May you know you were designed by a Creator, with great
attention to detail.
May you know Him, and by doing so, know yourself.
But here let me say one thing: From the moment I entered the
insane ward on the Island, I made no attempt to keep up the
assumed role of insanity. I talked and acted just as I do in
ordinary life. Yet strange to say, the more sanely I talked
and acted the crazier I was thought to be. . . .
Nellie Bly,
Ten Days in a Mad-House
Chapter 1 Thea Reed
Pleasant Valley northwoods of wisconsin, 1908
Melancholy was a condition of the spirit and the soul, but
also of the mind. Still, she'd never seen melancholy claim a
life and be the cause of a body laid to rest in permanent
sleep. At peace? One hoped. Prayed, if they were of that
bent. Regardless, as she positioned herself beside the
corpse, boxlike camera clutched to her chest, Thea Reed
found melancholy fascinating. For its persistent grip and
the power it held even unto death. That it could claim a
life was a horrifying mystery.
Memento mori was becoming less prominent in the
photographer's world, but the tradition still gripped those
of sentimental pandering. Rose Coyle was one of those. A
photograph to hold tight to as she posed beside her deceased
sister, frozen in time as if they both still lived. Though
tears welled in Rose's eyes, her shoulders remained stalwart.
Thea tucked away the ever-present nudge of guilt. The idea
she benefited monetarily from others' grief. It was a morbid
career she'd fallen into as a girl. A traveling photographer
and his wife needed a helper, the orphanage mistress had
told Thea. A decade later, she was now the photographer
while her benefactors were dead. But what choice did she
have? Only a leftover letter with miniscule clues gave Thea
any hint of her past. While the enticements of who Thea Reed
might really be had brought her here, to this town, Thea
knew dreams of a future were something women with roots and
ancestry concocted. Orphans played the hand they were dealt,
even if that hand was ghastly at its best.
Thea cast Rose a glance from the corner of her eye as she
carefully collected her photographic equipment. Rose was not
far in age from Thea, perhaps only a few years older. Well,
if one surmised merely by the porcelain complexion, the
unlined corners of the brilliant blue eyes, and the crow
black hair that swooped into a lustrous silken crown on
Rose's head. Thea shifted her gaze toward the other model,
giving Rose her distance and allowing her the privacy to dab
her eyes with a handkerchief bordered by purple tatting.
Thea flipped open the lid of the velvet-lined case that
housed her camera. She paused before lowering her precious
camera into its box. The deceased womanโMary Coyleโwas
nowhere near as striking as her older sister. Mary was
simple by comparison, and even in death, one could see that
in life she'd been pasty next to Rose. Ash blond hair, dull
due to the lack of life. Her lips a muted pink, her nose
dotted with freckles that now had no hope of ever
disappearing. Her body lay limp, propped into an upright
position by the aid of Thea's metal hanger that cuffed to
the corpse's arms and neck and helped her to stand like a
mannequin one might see in Miss Flannahan's Boutique four
towns over.
A sniffle jerked Thea's attention back to the living and
squelched the thoughts that made her mind spin like five
children's metal tops whirling across a wooden floor.
"I'm so sorry." Rose blinked quickly, yet the moisture on
her lashes only made her blue eyes larger and more
iridescent. Thea engaged in a twinge of inadequacy herself,
but then she ignored it like the little devil it was. Her
brown eyes and honey brown hair might be uninspiring next to
Rose, but she had life, whereasโThea finally rested her
camera in the boxโwhereas Rose had grief.
"There's nothing to apologize for." Thea had no struggle
infusing empathy into her voice. The entire afternoon had
been dreadful for Rose Coyle.
"But the photograph . . ." Rose's voice dwindled in a muted
whimper.
Thea buckled the camera case. "The photograph will be fine,
I promise."
She hoped. Rose had been so fidgety that keeping her
expression stoic for the time it took for the lens to expose
to light and capture the image made it almost definite the
photograph would turn out blurry. But, compared to a corpse,
any live human being would seem fidgety.
Thea swallowed her observation. She was used to the morbid,
the dead, but then the strange questions would come during
heightened times of distress and mostly when she was
disturbed. When ghosts lingered in the air, their skeletal-l
ike fingers stroking the back of Thea's neck. A taunt,
mingling with a subtle dare to find them. Catch them. If
only Thea could. Ghosts were never captured, or they would
be entrapped in tombs with their bodies. No, their spirits
roamed free, Thea had been taught. Some good, some
desperate, and someโ the worst sortโ wicked and evil.
"Tea?"
"Pardon?" Thea's head snapped up from her frozen state over
her camera case. But her eyes didn't meet with Rose's.
Instead, her gaze settled again on Mary Coyle, knowing she
would need to detach her from the frame.
"I wondered if you would stay for tea?" Rose had summoned
strength from deep within herself, it appeared. Tears had
dissipated, though every ounce of composure could not hide
the shadows that lingered under her eyes.
Thea nodded before she could consider, sympathy gaining the
better hand over sound judgment.
"Yes. Please." She bit her tongue.
No. Thank you.
Never mingle with a customer. It had been her benefactor,
Mr. Mendelsohn's instruction, and his wife's sternly
supported conviction. Thea usually heeded it.
Rose had already exited the parlor with a murmur. It was too
late and too rude to decline now. Thea should have finished
here, laid the burdensome body back on its temporary cot
before the undertaker came to prepare Mary Coyle for her
final rest and position her in a coffin. But now, tea it
would be, Thea supposed, which only meant squelching the
curiosity of Mary, her life, and subsequently her death,
would be more difficult.
It took time, but eventually Thea had freed Mary from the
trap of the photographic frame that held her prisoner. Laid
and covered, Thea stepped back.
"I'm sorry life was such despair," Thea whispered.
Mary did not answer.
Drawing in a deep breath and then expelling it slowly
between her lips, Thea gathered her equipment. She moved to
the parlor door, but that niggling senseโthat
feelingโgave her pause. She looked over her
shoulder. Mary hadn't moved. Of course she hadn't. Nor had
she spoken.
But oddly the black crepe shroud that covered a photograph
of Mary when she was very much alive had slipped down the
piano, onto its bench, and gathered in a filmy pile on the
floor. Thea stared at the photograph. Not one sibling but
two flanked Mary Coyle. All three of them smiling. All three
children in adolescence.
Thea nodded. She understood now.
Mary had been happy once.
Before death had come to play.
Rose was kindโand chatty. Likely to avoid the suffocating
weight of grief. Thea tried to be vague in her answers.
Yes, she was new to town. Yes, traveling photographers
sometimes knocked on doors to inquire if a service was
needed. No, she wasn't here to visit any family. No, she'd
never been this far north in Wisconsin before.
Thea cringed inwardly. It wasn't particularly true. She may
have been. As a youngster, before memories became firm
images in a person's mind. Just vague shadows. It was why
she'd come north, wasn't it? To clear the fog away from
those blurred recollections?
Of course, she'd not tell Rose that. Thea preferred
anonymity. For no other reason than that she was used to it,
it was comfortable, and if asked to define who she was, she
really had nothing substantial to offer.
Thea dabbed the cloth napkin against her lips. Rose met her
curious gaze over the rim of her teacup. Sadness still
lingered there, but Rose's dark brow winged upward in
question. Inviting and warm.
Thea accepted the unspoken invite. It was time to divert
Rose's polite curiosity with some of her own.
"I couldn't help but wonder, I noticed you had a brother."
She didn't reference the photograph she had re-shrouded
before leaving the parlor.
Rose lowered her teacup. "We still have a brother."
We. Poor Rose. Like Mary were still alive. There
was no past tense.
"Simeon." The name caressed from Rose's lips gently, with a
deep fondness that Thea couldn't relate to.
Rose smiled one of those bittersweet smiles as she ran her
fingertip around the edge of her teacup. "Simeon is my
younger brother, between Mary and I. He is . . . special."
Her interest more than piqued; Thea was also equally as
anticipatory of escaping the gloomy atmosphere and driving
away on her horse-l ed box wagon. She shifted on the hard
wooden chair. The lace tablecloth caught under her leg and
drew taut, making the china rattle. Thea made it her excuse
for escape.
"Thank you so much for the tea." Thea summoned every manner
Mrs. Mendelsohn had taught her in their short years together.
Rose drew a breath, shuddering only a tad. "And the photograph?"
Oh yes. Business. Thea gave Rose an approximate date. She
would need to find a satisfactory place to develop the
plates. Her wagon was equipped, but barely. Finding an
established portrait studio she could partner with was a
better option. She wasn't certain if that was normal, but it
had been Mr. Mendelsohn's way of doing business, and Thea
was well versed in it.
Rose led Thea to the front door, the wool carpet runner
beneath her feet silencing the footsteps that would have
otherwise echoed on the scuffed walnut floors. Always
observant, Thea noted the wallpaper was more faded by the
entryway than in the hall, which made sense considering the
windows that flanked the front door. Sunlight was sure to
drain color from the paper roses. Thea drew her attention
back to her client. Life had drained color from Rose Coyle.
Only the sapphire of her eyes and the coal black of her hair
and lashes saved her from being ghostly.
"My brother will give you your partial payment." Rose
hesitated, and her voice dropped into a wispy tone. "He's
good with numbers."
"And I shall find him where?" Thea ventured.
Rose's fingers flew to her neckline, fidgeting with the lace
at her throat. The only bit of adornment on her otherwise
black silk mourning dress. She seemed taken aback by the
question.
"Your brotherโSimeon?" Thea pressed.
"Yes." Rose gave her head a little shake, but her eyes grew
dull and vacant. She dropped her hand from her throat.
"Simeon will be in his workshop."
An uneasy sensation coursed through Thea. Not unlike the one
in the parlor. As if they were being watchedโas if
Mary
watched them. A common superstition but one Thea found
immensely hard to shake.
She nodded, grappling for the doorknob. She wished to leave
now. She had no more courage left to cast a final glance
into the parlor, where Mary Coyle lay, and no bravery to
investigate Rose's sorrowing face again.
Thea's fingers brushed Rose's as they'd already turned the
knob and opened the door. She snatched her hand away and
edged past Rose, catching a whiff of perfume. Thea turned to
bid Rose farewell, but Rose was already closing the front
door, her face slowly disappearing as the crack between the
door and frame shut.
Tiny bumps raised on Thea's arms. She observed her horse and
wagon. She could just leave. Avoid the
special
Simeon Coyleโwhatever that inferredโand be rid of this
creepy house and its inhabitants. There had been a tiny
glimpse of fear in Rose's eyes just as the door closed. Fear
of her brother perhaps? Or something greater and more
threatening than the melancholy that had wasted away Mary Coyle?
She needed the money. With that determination, Thea made her
way over a stone path through flower gardens of summer
growth. Chives with bristly purple blossoms, lavender bushes
lending a distinct scent in the air, both calming and
pungent, and a mishmash of wildflowers waving in the slight
breeze. The path passed through a gate and then it was gone.
Only dirt and patchy grass led Thea to the door of the shed,
Simeon Coyle's workshop.
Thea knocked firmly on the door. A sparrow fluttered above
her and landed on the peak of the roof. It cocked its head
to the right and danced a fidgety little waltz across the
ridgepole.
Thea met the beady eyes and didn't miss the sparrow's quick
nod before it fluttered away.
Mr. Mendelsohn had believed spirits sometimes took the form
of other creatures. Perhaps it was Mary Coyle giving her
approval to stand before her brother's place of work. Or,
Thea blinked as the door began to open, superstitions
shouldn't be taken so far. Thea knew little of God, but Mrs.
Mendelsohn had argued with her husband many times that a
human simply did not return as an animal. It was ungodly and
sacrilegious.
Much as Rose had closed the door, Simeon Coyle opened his.
With a nervous suspicion in squinting gray eyes. Brown hair
the color of tree bark straggled over his forehead in
straight strands parted down the middle. He eyed Thea.
Perhaps he'd not seen a stranger in his entire life? His
eyes looked her up and down, until finally he opened the
door enough for her to see his whole body.
Simeon Coyle did not step from his shed. Nor did he speak.
His jaw was square, his shoulders lean with suspenders
spanning over them, and he was only slightly taller than
she. There was nothing remarkable about him. Nothing at all.
They stared at each other.
Simeon, waiting.
Thea, tongue-tied.
There was something about Simeon Coyle. His sharp, observant
gaze conflicted with the hollow expression on his face.
She cleared her throat, trying to find her voice.
He blinked.
Thea stumbled back a step. She was losing her senses,
surely! Yet she would vow there was an instant tugging of
souls between her and Simeon Coyle, with inexplicable reason
other than an innate comprehension that they shared
something unspoken. Something yet to be definedโif they gave
it opportunity.
"I've come only for money." Thea's words bridged the space
between them. Words that eliminated the invisible thread
between them that made no logical sense.
Simeon blinked, his face pulled into a scowl, making his one
eye close like he was winking. But Thea was certain he
wasn't. Just as quickly, his muscles relaxed, and his
expression returned to a quiet study of her. A movement
caught her attention, and Simeon's hand stretched forward.
In his grip, a coin in half payment for the photograph. Thea
reached for it, and he released the money.
Without another word, Simeon Coyle closed the door. The
latch clicked quietly as he reentered his shed. But, Thea
could not chase away the feeling that a door had also opened
into the secret places inside of her, and Simeon Coyle had
unassumingly walked right in.
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