"Quillsh, I think you're absolutely off your rocker," Roger said for what seemed to be the trillionth time, glancing in his colleague's direction from the other side of their limousine. "Flying all the way out here? To some... godforsaken, outdated-"
"Roger, please," Quillsh replied, gently, waving off the criticism with his hand. "It's only a visit, nothing permanent."
"I know, Quillsh, but the things we've heard," Roger replied in mild concern, knitting his fingers together on his lap. "I think this one is positively beyond hope, even for you." Quillsh closed his eyes and smiled ever-so-slightly, knowingly.
"You've said that for several others, Roger," he said, opening his eyes and peering over his glasses; the light from the sparce lanterns outside illuminated his face with orange light for a brief moment, then plunged him in darkness again. "There's hope for these children yet, and this one is no exception."
"Yes, yes, I know, I know, but... you can't save them all, Quillsh," Roger replied, somewhat worriedly. His long-time friend's philanthropic activities were becoming somewhat bizarre in recent years, a fact that left him quite unsettled. Why he didn't settle for granting scholarships to promising students, make hefty donations to museums, or even settle for simply funding his orphanages was beyond him, but Quillsh was insistent of being hands-on in the care of children he sheltered with his establishments. After opening his first orphanage in England several decades past, he began to show an interest in especially aiding the ones he affectionately regarded as "difficult," although Roger would hardly choose so gentle a term to describe them; many a night he had to nurse the odd bite wound on an arm or hand, or clean up a shattered bowl cereal smattered against the wall during a temper tantrum.
And yet, Quillsh seemed to have the patience of a saint, continually dealing with these adversities, day after day, without complaint. It was hardly unusual, though, considering the time he had poured into creating the fantastic improvements to technology he had built his vast fortune on. "They'll canonize you any day now," he mumbled, caught up in his own string of thoughts.
"What was that, Roger?" Quillsh asked, and Roger shook his head.
"Nothing, nothing," he replied. "How much longer, do you suppose?"
The automobile stopped moving, almost in reply.
"It seems we've arrived," said Quillsh, as the chauffeur opened the door, and he smoothly exited with a grace that belied his age. "Come now, out we get. Quickly, let's get inside. I'm very excited about this one, and else I'll catch a cold out in this weather!"
"One thing at a time, my friend," Roger chuckled, and glanced at the institution they were visiting on that clear, November night. The stone building stood starkly against the crisp night sky, littered with stars. Light shone through a few of the barred windows, windows that looked out onto the barren landscape of mountain and pine.
"'St. Mary's Institute for the Mentally Unsound'," he read, noticing the metal plaque affixed to the front of the building as he followed Quillsh to the entrance. "'Established 1912, AD.' My goodness, what a place," he added, a note of disapproval in his voice.
"Hardly a home for a child," Quillsh noted, approaching the large wooden door, and firmly grasping the brass knocker. "Shall we see if anyone's home?"
Sighing in mild amusement and exasperation, Roger nodded, and the knocker was used three times. The door opened, and a weary-eyed woman stepped forth, dressed in jeans and a sweater, an identification tag clipped to her belt.
"Yes?" she asked. "Are you the representatives from the orphanage?"
"Yes, indeed, and you must be Miss Eleanor," Quillsh said graciously, bowing slightly. "We spoke on the phone."
"Yes, yes, come on in," the woman said, ushering them forward with her hand. "We were expecting you, although not quite this late. I suppose it's for the best, though... the kid barely sleeps at all."
"Really, now?" Quillsh said, curiously. "What do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" Eleanor echoed, leading them down the hallway, gliding sublimely on her way. "What I mean is that in all my time here, watching him, I've never seen him sleep at all. Not once! It's bizarre, to say the least."
"Intriguing," said Quillsh, and Roger sighed exasperatedly. "Where are you keeping him?"
"A private room in one of the sublevels; he tended not to respond when he was put near a window, he likes looking out of them," Eleanor replied, reaching a door and ushering downward. "We've been able to speak with him a little more, at least. We have no idea what to do with him, and with God as my witness, I hope that there's some hope left."
Leading them to a simple wooden door in the dark hallway, she opened it and stood aside, letting the gentlemen in before closing it behind her. They entered a small, dimly lit room with a plain lamp hanging unlit over a table, a few chairs arranged about it.
Embedded in a wall was a large sheet of glass, the light behind it providing a substantial glow, while a closed door beside it indicated there was a room beyond.
"Is the child in there?" Quillsh asked, gesturing in the direction of the extension, and Eleanor nodded. "Might I go inside and speak with him a moment?"
"I don't know..." she replied, biting her lip slightly and collecting her hands. "If you did go in, you'll come out disappointed; the boy will hardly-"
"I'm fully aware of that, my dear," Quillsh replied eloquently. "Please; mere observation, at least."
Eleanor nodded and crossed to the door, reaching in her pocket for a key, and opening the door. Nodding slightly, Quillsh entered the room, and the door closed behind him.
Roger borrowed a chair and sat by the glass, and observed that the room was painted a pure white color, stereotypically associated with insane asylums and other similar institutions. Looking beyond where he saw his friend walking, he searched the room for anything resembling a child.
And then, he saw it: A small boy, huddled in the corner, glaring in rage, his hands cradling a pair of knees that were drawn up by the face.
His hair was black and unkempt, and the limbs left uncovered by the oversized tunic and pants were scrawny, and appeared unhealthily thin. Quillsh cautiously approached the child and stood there; the child stared back with wide, black eyes. For a moment, there was a connection between them, when Quillsh turned to take off his jacket and place it gently on the floor. Roger watched him bend to eye-level with the child, who pulled his arms and knees closer to him, and knit his small, bony toes together.
"I'm sorry if I'm prying," Eleanor said, standing at the other side of the glass to observe for herself what was going on, "but I'm not quite sure I understood what your complete aims were when we spoke on the phone last week. Are you planning to adopt the boy...?"
"Not adopt, persay," Roger explained, "I'm sorry if you're somewhat confused. No doubt you've heard of The Wammy's House?"
"Somewhat; it's on the news occasionally," Eleanor replied. "It's a group of international orphanages, right?"
"Correct," Roger nodded, glancing through the glass, where Quillsh and the child were still staring at each other. "He opened the first about... thirty years ago, was it? His wife died around then, and I believe she's the one that motivated him into it. There is a reason why it's called 'The Wammy's House' rather than the singular, after all."
"Yeah..." Eleanor said, in a hushed voice. "I didn't think that you'd be dealing with the mentally-"
"Not quite," Roger interrupted, adjusting his glasses a small amount. "Mentally-challenged is how most regard them, but when it comes to Quillsh..." He chuckled softly, seeing his friend change from a kneeling to a sitting position beyond the glass. "He prefers to call them 'difficult,' rather than 'challenged,'," he continued.
"But you still do, right?" the woman asked. "Care for orphans that require more-"
"Attention; yes, I suppose," Roger continued, interrupting her once again. "We hear about them through other hospitals and the rest of our orphanages; those cases are sent to our Winchester House, where he can work with them more... personally, I suppose."
"That sounds like a good plan," said Eleanor, somewhat nodding and agreeing with herself. "Mr. Wammy... he has a heart of gold, doesn't he?"
Roger chuckled softly, as Quillsh shifted his position slightly; the child mirrored him, almost, loosening the grip on his legs. "I suppose he does, I suppose he does," he said softly. "So, this child is an orphan. Do you happen to know of his past?"
"Oh, this one?" Eleanor said, glancing at the panel; it appeared that Quillsh was speaking to the child, who didn't seem to be listening. "Let's see... I think we received him from St. Matthew's just a month ago, and that's in... Wyoming, I think? I have no idea where he came from initially, or the circumstances of his... orphaned... state." She trailed off near the end of her sentence, thinking unnecessarily hard on the subject.
"Right..." Roger said thoughtfully, and Eleanor cradled her elbows in her hands as she glanced towards the exit.
"I suppose when you speak to Dr. Hammond, you can see all that information," she stated. "It's all in the charts, anyways."
"Eleanor, I thought you would be down here; the guests have arrived, I take it?"
A smooth voice came from the entrance as a doctor came into the room, clipboard in hand.
"Dr. Hammond, I presume?" Roger said, rising to shake the man's hand in greeting.
"Roger Cohen, as well?" Dr. Hammond replied, firmly grasping Roger's hand, a smile spreading on his thin lips. "Where is Mr. Wammy?"
"He is with the child, Doctor," Eleanor said gently, gesturing towards the panel of glass.
"Ah, so he is; how kind of him to be so compliant with the inconvenience of the time," Dr. Hammond said, absently tapping the clipboard with his pen. "I'd like to speak with him as soon as possible, about the current situation of things; open the door, and you may return to your room."
There was a soft tapping on the door to the extension, signaling that Quillsh had already finished his business with the child. Eleanor hurried to the door and opened it for him, and the middle-aged man stepped forth, his coat slung over one arm, and a pleasant smile on his face; after giving a curt "Good night," to all of them, she exited.
"Dr. Hammond, a pleasure to finally meet you," Wammy said, nodding and offering his hand for a handshake. "Shall we proceed with the negotiations? I'm quite happy to report that we may not have to stay long."
"Goodness," Roger remarked, "what's this about?"
"Roger, I do believe," Quillsh said quietly in passing, as he took a seat at the table with Dr. Hammond, "that I've found the one I've been waiting for."
"The 'one'?" Roger said, returning to his seat in mild confusion. "What are you talking about, Quillsh?"
"I'll get to that," Quillsh said, an air of mischievousness in his tone. "Dr. Hammond, my initial interests in the child have been justified, and more. I may ask that he accompany us back to England."
"Quillsh!" Roger exclaimed. "What brought this on?"
"You made a connection? You spoke?" Dr. Hammond said, mildly interested. "That's quite impressive, Mr. Wammy, but you do have a reputation for such things."
"I'm flattered, Dr. Hammond," Quillsh said humbly. "I see a great deal of promise for this one, and his behavior is manageable."
"Manageable... the definition of that word changes from day to day," Roger chuckled, in somewhat of a jest. Quillsh chuckled gently in recognition.
"So you wish to bring the child with you?" Dr. Hammond asked, pursing his fingers together. "I'm fully aware that the facilities of your Winchester House are some the best."
"We do pride ourselves in that, sir," said Quillsh, modestly gazing at his lap. "I must say that the boy will thrive much better in our environment than constant transfers between hospitals and institutions. It's the best for him."
"That's all well and good, except for one thing," Dr. Hammond said, chuckling somewhat as he gazed over the chart. "You should rechoose your pronouns, I think."
"Pronouns?" Roger echoed, greatly confused. "What do you mean, Dr. Hammond?"
"The child is a girl," Dr. Hammond said gently. "An easy mistake to make, but the chromosomes don't lie."
Wammy and Roger sat there in slight shock, and each turned to take another glance at the child in the corner, that they were certain was male; there were no discernible female characteristics, other than the slightly long black hair. Was there a mistake? And yet...
"Goodness, I feel oddly surprised," Quillsh said, taking off his glasses and wiping them; his eyes appeared quite small without the glasses to frame them.
"I can't tell at all..." Roger said, bewildered.
"That won't change your decision, will it, Mr. Wammy?" Dr. Hammond asked, and Quillsh shook his head firmly.
"Not in the least. It's just somewhat of a surprising discovery, Doctor; I would never have suspected," he said. "In the realm of the brain, gender is of minimal importance."
"Eleanor didn't refer to her as a boy in front of you, did she?" Dr. Hammond said, somewhat disdainfully.
"Come to think of it, I believe she did," Roger said thoughtfully, prompting a slight sigh out of the doctor.
"She doesn't spend much time down here, don't mind that," he said. "Not many of the faculty know. She denies being female insistently, from what we can get out of her. Mr. Wammy, were you able to speak with her?"
"Only a small amount," Quillsh replied. "Tell me, is there any significance to the letter 'L'?"
"Did she tell you that?" Dr. Hammond asked, and Quillsh nodded. "It's her name; her preferred name, anyways," he replied, pointing at something on the clipboard. "Elle Lawliet is her birth name, but she prefers to spell it with a single letter, rather than E-L-L-E. She's very aversive to gender-specific words and such. A letter is much more asexual than a name, after all."
"Interesting," Roger said, glancing at the child once more. She stared back without emotion, and it sent chills down his spine, so he focused himself on the conversation. "How old is she?" he asked. "It's quite difficult to tell."
"According to our records, she is... 7 years old, as of last month," Hammond reported. "We have her birth certificate in our records."
"Ah, that's right," Quillsh said thoughtfully. "Tell me, do you know what orphaned her?"
"Mm... I believe that she was given up for adoption, Mr. Wammy," he replied. "It's the best guess I can make; we have very little information on her. The whereabouts of her parents are unknown."
"Tragic," Quillsh said, poignantly. "Was it due to her-"
"I highly suspect that it's because of her behavioral differences, Mr. Wammy," Dr. Hammond interjected. "She has proven very difficult to other institutes, and I was very thankful that you agreed to come for a consultation, of sorts. We weren't causing any positive change, at any rate."
"My pleasure, Doctor," said Quillsh, pleasantly. "Helping these children is my life's work, and I place more importance in them than my own inventions."
Dr. Hammond and Roger both laughed a little at this statement, and Quillsh joined them.
"Do tell me, how might we arrange for her transport into England?" Wammy asked. "Does she require special treatment?"
"Constant observation would be desirable," Dr. Hammond said thoughtfully. "She can be somewhat unpredictable, especially when it comes to moving vehicles and such. I think that a comfortable transport would be best for her. Her transfer from St. Michael's was done in a cushioned vehicle; she seemed somewhat partial to it."
"How about... we try regular transport, for once?" offered Quillsh. "I see no reason why not."
Dr. Hammond thought on this for quite some time, fiddling with his pen, before looking up.
"If you believe that to be best, Mr. Wammy, then by all means," he said, rising from his chair. "At the moment, I think, rest would be a better thing to be preoccupied with than transportation. I'll have paperwork for a transfer completed by tomorrow morning."
"Excellent!" Quillsh said, his face practically illuminated with happiness. "Are the rooms I requested available?"
"Of course they are," Dr. Hammond said, smiling. "I'll show you there myself, Mr. Wammy."
As the men began up the stairs, Roger turned around to glance at the glass wall yet again.
"Tell me... does he, er, she not sleep, as Eleanor said?" he asked. "Shouldn't we turn off the lights for her?"
"Elle strongly dislikes darkness, Mr. Cohen," Dr. Hammond said smoothly. "She finds sleep in her own time, you don't need to worry about her until she is in your care and keeping."
Somewhat uneasily, Roger laughed. And still, the girl stared out into nothingness, the recesses of her mind imagining strange and wonderful things, stacking higher, higher into the air.
A small smile crept up on her thin face, and L closed her eyes; she lulled against the corner in sleep, while Roger and Wammy were shown to their accommodations.
"Fascinating," she said, with a satisfied sigh, and did not wake until morning.