CHAPTER 2 1865

1865

6 January 1865

Another patient died in the night. I'd been treating her with the same potion I intend for Alice. I had been quite certain she was improving with each subsequent vial, so this development is quite vexing. Perhaps the stronger mixture was too much for her chronically weak chest. A little more experimentation is in order before I feed this serum to Alice.

"A little less laudanum and a little more camphor might have spared her." -13/12/73

22 January 1865

The bleeding doesn't appear to be causing a significant change, except for the increased pallor of her complexion. Contrasted against her drab rags, she's turned an uncanny shade of ivory. The bloodletting will prime her constitution for my restorative potion.

18 February 1865

Three amputations in a week - that's a high number, for any hospital. I dream of wiggling stumps and splintery crutches. I mumble a prayer of thanks to Napoleon's surgeon - how terrible the screams must have been before he discovered the technique for painless amputation.

I can't seem to escape the chloroform's cloying odor.

23 February 1865

Through the windows of my laboratory, I can glimpse the garden ward. Nurse D- is leading a group of children to the airing room. I listen to great shuffling of feet on the pebble path. Will Alice, I wonder, ever stroll the grounds with the others? Will she ever regain her senses? Or, for the rest of her days will she remain cloistered behind these thick, grey walls? Based on her progress so far, it seems futile to hold out much hope for a cure.

"Little could I have imagined her mind would eventually gambol in unimaginable forests and gardens." -27/1/74

24 February 1865

In the first months of her treatment, a surgeon by the name of Grantham took particular interest in Alice's case. He viewed her early reluctance to rejoin society as quite normal considering what she'd been through. The all-consuming fire. The loss of one's entire family. The shattered and scorched body. It's quite natural for anyone, let alone a child, to give way under such strain.

Yet, as the months passed, and as Grantham became more familiar with Alice, he began to comprehend that her problems were a manifestation of a far graver trauma. Bones eventually mended, as did the seared flesh; yet Alice remained locked away in her cocoon. Unfortunate chap, this Grantham. Seems like he had a collapse of his own. One day he was going about his hospital routine, perambulating amongst the feeble and infirm. The next day, though no one knows why, he turned up every bit as diseased as one of his patients, speaking gibberish and smashing apothecary jars. I've seen it happen here where doctors pass over to the other side, and, frankly, I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often. At any rate, Grantham's tale concludes with a particularly grisly accident with a surgical implement.

23 March 1865

Nothing seems to aggravate the girl. I've tried restraint — handcuffs, leg-locks and straightjackets. I've tried solitary confinement. On the other hand, I've allowed her to smell freedom, leaving her for hours at a time unattended in the garden. Yet nothing stirs her. I still have a number of methods, some of which I haven't engaged in since the old days, but I'm beginning to doubt anything can bring about a change in this one.

1 April 1865

Each year on this peculiar day I pause — exactly at noon according to my pocket-watch — to ponder the absurdity of such a day. Is it not ironic that we here should celebrate a holiday dedicated to fools?

The girl has shut down completely. If it were possible, I'd say Alice has retreated even further into what the European practitioners of psychiatry call her "psyche." I'll keep trying different methods, but unless there's some sort of marked improvement, there's no reason to hope. I'll document progress... if indeed there ever is any progress.