Page 6 of Of Faith and Fangs

“Of course she is,” Daddy interjected. “Whatever protection God has granted you is His alone to give or take away. It can’t be... borrowed.”

But something in the way Mr. Brown avoided my eyes made me wonder if he shared some of Mercy’s suspicions. If he too thought there was something unnatural about my immunity to consumption.

“You understand now,” Mr. Brown said, “why I’m so concerned. It’s not just her body dying—it’s her soul being corrupted. These delusions about ancient powers, about immortality...” He spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve tried everything. Scripture readings, prayers, even bringing our pastor to speak with her. Nothing reaches her.”

“And you think I can?” I asked, unable to keep the doubt from my voice.

“She dreamed of you specifically,” Mr. Brown reminded me. “And you have a way about you, Alice. A gentleness combined with strength. I fear in her deteriorated state she’s turned to delusions, but couldn’t God work through her delusions? Couldn’t he use you to show her that there’s a path to eternal life that doesn’t involve compromise with the devil?”

I wasn’t convinced—if only because this was a desperate move. If they had come to me weeks ago, perhaps I could have helped them reach her. This felt beyond me. But as I looked at Mr. Brown’s desperate face, at the family portrait showing Mercy as she once was—bright-eyed and full of life—I felt something stir within me. A sense of calling, perhaps. Or simple human compassion.

“I’ll go,” I said, more firmly this time. “Tomorrow morning, as agreed.”

Relief washed over Mr. Brown’s features. “Thank you. The sanatorium has been informed. They understand your true purpose, so the tonics they give you will be nothing at all—sugar and water. But you must play the part.”

“I understand.” I nodded, rising from my chair.

As I prepared to leave, my gaze was drawn to Mr. Brown’s bookshelf again. The leather-bound volume I’d noticed earlier was still partially visible, its spine adorned with symbols similar to those in Mercy’s letters. One symbol in particular caught my eye—a half-circle like a rising sun with rays extending outward. The same design I’d glimpsed on the medallion under Mr. Brown’s collar.

I moved closer, as if drawn by an unseen force. “What is that book?” I asked, pointing to it.

Mr. Brown stepped quickly between me and the shelf, his hand moving to cover the book. “Nothing that concerns you,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp. “Just... research.”

But there was something in his haste, something in the way his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, that raised questions I couldn’t articulate. Why would a church elder possess a book with occult symbols? And why hide it if it was merely for research?

“I see,” I said, though I didn’t. Not really.

“It’s getting late,” Daddy observed, glancing at the mantel clock. “Alice needs her rest before tomorrow.”

Mr. Brown nodded, visibly relieved. “Of course. I’ve kept you too long already.”

He walked us to the door, the tension in his shoulders easing only when we stepped onto the porch. “God be with you tomorrow, Alice,” he said. “Mercy may not make it easy for you, but remember—beneath the illness and the... confusion, my daughter is still in there somewhere.”

“I’ll remember,” I promised.

Chapter 3

The next morning was bitter as a mouthful of lye soap. Frost sheathed every window, the sun barely a rumor behind thick, ragged clouds. My father walked me to the carriage depot in silence; the only sounds the steady crunch of our boots and the nervous patter of my heart. Exeter’s streets looked even smaller in daylight, as though the cold had shrunk the houses in their frames. Not even the blackbirds sang.

We said our goodbyes with the stoicism of the freshly bereaved. Daddy pressed a paper-wrapped parcel of food into my hands, then clasped my shoulders so tightly I thought my bones would grind to powder. His eyes glimmered with pride and something darker—anxiety, or perhaps the fear that his daughter’s faith was a thing as fragile as a frozen pond.

“The Lord be with you,” he said, then made the sign of the cross on my forehead with a trembling thumb, a gesture half-remembered from his own Papist father.

“And also with you,” I whispered, head bowed.

The depot was a bleak single room with a bench along the wall and a battered stove that only succeeded in melting the ice nearest its feet. I waited alone. At ten precisely, a black carriage arrived, drawn by a pair of horses. The driver—a man as pale as wax—helped me in without a word.

I prayed the whole way to the sanatorium. Not for myself, but for Mercy, and for the strength to do what needed to be done. I prayed with the stubborn persistence of a weed in a graveyard. Every mile was a litany, every jostle of the carriage a punctuation. By the time the building came into view, my lips were numb from hushed recitation.

The sanatorium rose above the barren trees like a mausoleum built by madmen. Three stories of soot-stained brick, its windows narrow and barred, its roof a bald, shingled scalp. A small iron gate admitted us to the grounds, where a few stunted bushes clung to life beside a frozen fountain. There was no welcome, not even a caretaker sweeping the stoop. Just a bell-pull, which I tugged with reluctance.

The door swung open to reveal a nurse so tall and thin she looked like a jointed marionette. Her uniform was starched and white, her cap perched on a nest of greying hair. Her face was not unkind, but so impassive it might have been carved from tallow.

“Alice Bladewell,” she said, voice as cool as the air. “We’ve been expecting you. Follow me.”

The entryway smelled of coal smoke and something sharper: lye, perhaps. The floors were scrubbed to a dull shine, and every footstep echoed as if the building were hollow. I followed the nurse—Miss Hartwell, she introduced herself—past a series of doors, some marked with numbers, others left blank. There were no flowers, no paintings, nothing to soften the relentless geometry of the place.

“I trust you understand the purpose of your stay,” Miss Hartwell said, never slowing her stride. “You’re to provide company and spiritual counsel for Miss Brown. But you will also be subject to all standard protocols: morning inspection, medication, and so forth. Is that clear?”

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