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Charity Lewis' Personal Journal
November 21st, 1887
Boston, Massachusetts


I felt a bit faint after drinking the prescribed elixir, but my brother Adam has explained before that wearing a proper corset may cause this and that it is nothing to worry over. I was left alone after being given my dosage by Papa, to do needlework or engage in another such appropriate pasttime, but I confess I was wicked and chose to read one of my 'gruesome serials' instead. I know that they inflame the mind and will probably make my hysteria worse, but they are an addiction I cannot escape! Perhaps I ought to take opium nectar to cure me of my obsession: it works such wonders to alliviate dependance on liquor.

Still faint and with the room spinning in a slow, langorious manner, I perched myself in my sewing chair and slipped my forbidden book from its hiding place under the cushion. It was the fourth part of my favorite series, that of Marcus the darkly ravishing incubus. If Papa and Adam knew what I passed the time with so often when cloistered in my room, they would surely send for the priest to call the demons out! The spinning made picking out the words on the page a bit trying, but Tales of a Dark Soul is well worth the effort I expended to concentrate. As always my face became quite flushed from the exciting happenings to Marcus, and I was forced to hide the book again and go to the window to take air.

My room has two small windows, which are of a size to use an economy of glass and not allow an intruder to enter and harm me. In the past I have been upset that this constricts my view, but when the floor slowly tilted beneath my feet and I crashed against the glass, I was exceedingly pleased not to have enough room to fall through the panes and on to the street below. My hair was much woven through with glass, and my forehead took a few fine cuts, but I was otherwise unharmed. I collected the glass with not too many cuts to my hands, and then began to shed my shard-covered dress to change into the other that I own.

The buttons were very hard to undo at first, and my fingers kept getting caught in my laces. I became quite upset, which certainly means I require more of the solution to fully calm my hysteric tendencies. The room continued to spin, and slowly, which was simply infuriating. Dizziness is supposed to be fast and lurid, but mine was nigh stately. Stately! I am always so bloody calm I could not even ail properly! I tore at my clothes in frustration but they refuse to unbind me, and I would not call for my maid's attendance as there was a chance I'd replace my book incorrectly and had no wish to lose it. Liza's clever hands always pulled my buttons apart so quickly - why can I, a grown woman of seventeen remove my own blasted clothes?! I was so angry, I believe I smashed a lamp and possibly a small end table. I shall have to pay for them out of my dowary.

I expect I would have been trapped in my prison of cloth and glass forever (or at least until Adam came to find my for dinner), had not a kind young man stepped out of the shadows and kindly helped me to undress. He gave me the most impertinent looks the entire time, but my medicine made it so I was not concerned in the least. My forehead blazed and my vision was smeared like rain on glass at night, but that was surely just from falling into the window. My aide did appear not unlike how I invision the incubus from my books looks, but again, I had just bumped my head. Marcus is not a real person. My knight saw me to my bed, which all the dizziness made me wish to occupy despite the early hour, and tucked my in as I believe my dead mother once did. The kiss he gave me, however, was not of the sort any caregiver would bestow upon a child.

Papa and Adam were quite upset that I had undressed myself and broken the window so carelessly. I was in no state to argue, being rather burned up with fever and crumpled in with pain, so they gave me three draughts of Fowlers before locking me in until the morrow. I was dizzy again and it became hard to see, as my head pounded and water streamed from my forehead. I was pale and wretched, I am sure, and I could barely move. It was just as well my gentleman did not appear again. Truly.

Charity Lewis' Personal Journal
December 2nd, 1887
Boston, Massachusetts


I am sorry for not writing for the past few days, but I have had so little energy I could barely lift a pen. I would ask someone to dictate, but I do not wish to share my council with any of the others in my household. Fowler said he would be happy to lend me aid, but that he is only able to write in Latin. I am tempted to ask it of him anyway, even if that meant I could not read it without finding some pretext to become educated in the language myself: it would certainly ensure an extra bit of privacy for my writings.

This illness has been terribly taxing on my health, which I suppose is to be expected, but my doctor seems quite suprised. Hysteria is an ailment of the mind, after all, and characterized by too much energy instead of too little. My maid thinks there is a chance it is my medicine as I seem to her to be most tired after I have taken my daily dose, but the physician assured her this was not the case. There is nothing harmful in medicine, he said: if there were it could not be called an elixir, could it. Liza remains unconvinced, but Adam and Papa believe the doctor is right, so he must be. They are men, after all. They understand such things.

Still, the medical man does not think my lack of energy is normal or a beneficial thing, and may indeed by a symptom of an even greater illness that somehow manifested itself in the form of hysteria and so hid from his view. He has asked to have me moved to the local Christian hospital for a few days of observation and consultation with other physicians. Secretly, I must admit that I am glad to do this even if Adam and Papa grumble about the exspense: it is good to no longer be a patient that feels ignored by her caregiver. This will surely sort out my problem and see me into the arms of blissful health once more.

In truth, the only moments of my confinement I have regretted are those where I am too weak to record a few thoughts in this tome. Otherwise I have been quite well-cared for, both Liza and Fowler fussing over me in shifts through out the day. Who is Fowler, you may well ask. It is the quite ironic name of my young man, as I must admit I think of him now, who first aided me in my time of need and has seen to me ever since. He is a peculiar fellow, but very dear to my heart nonetheless. He dresses more and more after the fashion of a Knight of the Crusades, which I find quite dashing and far more appealing than the stuffy, binding nature of male fashions these days. He is truly what Marcus would have been, had he escaped the kiss of the fatal succubus and remained man instead of damned. Fowler entertains me with all sorts of stories, and speaks of fighting dragons and rescuing damsels as if he has just returned from such adventures! A master storyteller, to be sure. He continues to be rather insolent and forward, often finding excuses to grasp my hand or manuever me into resting against his shoulder, but he has never done more than this and so worries are from my mind. He seems to genuinely care after my well-being, and listens to my words as if he were a sister as opposed to a suitor. He speaks ill of my father and brother, and I do chastize him for it, but I think that comes from not seeing them at their best and Fowler having his Code of Chivalry to live by. He such a delightful creature, I almost do not mind that he steals a kiss every night before he bids me good dreams.

Perhaps when I am well he will ask Papa for my hand, and we will marry. He has promised that some day he will teach me to ride.

By Recommendation of one Nurse Matilda Ecckleston
December 3rd, 1887
Boston, Massachusetts


On the Subject of the Medicinal Dosage of Miss Charity Lewis,

Dr. Embers, I have been watching this poor girl as asked, and for the life of me could not at first determine what it was that was treating her so poorly. I then read over Dr. Lazarus' note, and was shocked to discover he had prescribed her Fowler's Solution! That nasty tonic is nigh unto a poison, and here he was pouring it down her throat at least once a day! I have taken it from her in hopes this will see Miss Lewis to good health. It was odd, but she seemed most distressed when I denied her her dose. Truly a victim of hysteria, the poor thing. Ought to be given a "reliever", so she can heal up instead of falling apart.

Regards,
Matilda Ecckleston, R.N.

By Recommendation of one Doctor Harry Embers
December 5th, 1887
Boston, Massachusetts


This notice states that Miss Charity Lewis, my daughter, is given into the care and keeping of the masters of Happy Home to do with as they please. Keep her well, sirs, and see to her health. Payment for her stay will be sent once a year by the state.

Signed,
John Lewis

Witnessed,
Adam Lewis

Charity Lewis and Fowler at Happy Home
December 6th, 1887
Happy Home, Boston, Massachusetts

With four sequential sharp, matching cracks, her nails pierced the red skin of the chilly apple. A belated fifth nail made it sound remarkably like gunshots, emanating from where Alethea sat, waiting for her cousin to return from her checkup. As if the medicine Malifer was taking was helping with her- her delusions. Alethea's cousin had always been insane, and all of her prior experiences only backed up the blind girl's conviction.

She sat on a small couch, letting her heels brush against the violin case. The silk of her baby blue, Victorian-esque dress rustled against the soft cotton of her seat. She raised the apple to her mouth and took a bite, then turned to face down the hallway. Footsteps had been approaching from that direction, and Alethea was curious to hear who it was.

Charity drifted down the length hallway in a happy haze, noticing nothing but the feel of Fowler's hand in hers. He had woken her with a kiss that morning, snuggled against her in her small bed wearing far less than was decent even for sleep. She'd blushed and looked away, missing his smile but catching his laugh. He'd turned her face back and kissed her again, before releasing her and leaving the bed to dress. Belting a sword and scabbard over his tunic, he'd politely offered her a hand up and aid in dressing. She'd known she was wicked to accept his aid, but it was nearly impossible to do up all the buttons that ran down the back of her dress by herself. As it was her beau seemed to struggle with them, taking far longer than Mary ever had to secure them.

After that he'd led her out of her room, insisting that she allow him to show her the building. When ever had he had time to see it?

There were definately two sets of footsteps. But, as far as she could tell, there was no accompanying swish of clothing for the second set. Nor was there a clank of armor, as some inmates insisted on wearing. In fact, unless the second set of footsteps was nude, she was hearing things. She heaved a sigh and stood, lifting her violin case with her. "Who's there?" she said, her voice rather melancholy. The tenor of her voice matched her appearance, that of an angel, albeit an angel with extremely short hair. "Please identify yourself, it's only polite."

Charity stopped, fingers tightening on Fowlers as her other hand clung to his arm. He chuckled and tweaked her nose. "Say hello."

She shook her head, stubborn in her fright. He grinned wickedly, leaning over and pressing hot lips to her neck. Charity yelped audibly, going quickly red. "Stop that!"

Charity hissed quietly at her companion, trying to chastize him but not succeeding. As was the usual state of things, her knight simply looked amused. Turning the seated girl, she curtsied politely and explained. "I was not speaking to you but to my... friend, Fowler. He has terrible manners sometimes." Hopefully she had not seen everything.

"Just a friend?" her gentleman asked, pretending to be hurt as he slipped an arm about her waist. "Surely I am more than that?"

"There's no one there," Alethea said, her voice holding a tone of finality. "At least, not that I can see... though I can't really see anything." Her fingers- the onces not ensconced in her apple- drifted to near-invisible scars on and across her misted green eyes. "Although I can't hear your mister Fowler, either. Perhaps I am going deaf." It was entirely possible, knowing her horrid luck.

Charity's hand flew to her mouth in suprise, as she watched the girl more closely and realized her injuries had made her blind. The poor thing! What horrid person would toss a dear child like that in here?

Fowler sniffed, somewhat insulted over being dismissed. "I don't have to pay for it anyway."

The young woman gave her beau a sidewise glance, wondering whatever it was he could be talking about.

He gestured to the other's clothes. "Don't you see?"

She focused on the fabric in front of her, finding it a richer thing than she would ever have been permited to wear at home. Somewhat oddly cut, as well. It seemed a modern fashion...

"She's a seamstress, Charity."

"You are talking nonsense." she informed him with a sigh, turning back to the girl and smiling. "I am sorry about him. My name is Charity Lewis. I am quite pleased to make your aquaintance."

Alethea smiled, though it was slightly more of a grimace. Obviously this girl was one of the poor people stuck in here. Maybe she'd become friends with Malifer, she though sardonically. "And you as well, Miss Lewis. My name is Alethea Parris," she said in response, almost automatically. She dropped a nearly-perfect one-handed curtsy, her other hand being full of red apple.

A redhead appeared over Alethea's shoulder. "Cousin Aleth," Malifer said, her own delusion shadowing her. "We're almost set to go." The teenager was dressed in black pants and a white blouse, her hair cropped almost shorter than her cousin's, though it had a rat-tail in the back that reached to the small of her back. "Quell and I will meet you back here, don't you dare move. Dad would kill me if I lost you. You know you're his wet dream." Her face ripped into a sneer as she brushed past Charity; Quell remained behind, having run into Fowler.

"Hello there," he said pleasantly to Charity. "Nice to see there are others with a decent sense of fashion." The blonde hallucination straightened his cassock and continued on his way, leaving the original three alone.

Alethea didn't seem to have noticed anything, even though Quell had also run into her.

"Excuse me," Charity said without a trace of irony, trying to step back but Fowler's arm around her waist stopping her. He nodded to Quell but his eyes were narrowed and unhappy. He was rather possessive of his young woman.

"Goodness, whoever was that?" she asked Alethea as she watched the rude fellow's retreating back. "Not your cousin, I hope?"

Alethea nodded. "She's not exactly the nicest person I know," she said dryly. "When her father took me in, she wasn't so very happy. We have to share a room, you see." She paused, taking a conservative bite of her apple. If she had not been blind, she would have seemed to be studying Charity. "So... what kind of things do you like to do?" Her voice was more hesitant now.

"Read and write, mostly. I must confess to finding sewing incredibly tedious." Charity's favorite thing, of course, had been watching the world pass below her window, but even a shut-in like herself knew just how pitiful this sounded.

Always one to know her moods, Fowler smiled kissed her hand. "You're not a seamstress, it's true."

She furrowed her brow, head tilting slightly to the side. There was something in the way he said that word that implied he meant something far different than most.

Her smile drifted back, much truer. "Oh, really? What do you like to read, Charity? I mostly play music, but I've been reading a lot of a story called Angel Sanctuary. It's very good, if slightly melodramatic." Alethea resettled her skirt. "Have you read Twilight, by Stephenie Meyer? It's..." Here she hesitated, looking around as if for Malifer. "...it's a vampire story," she admitted. Her pale cheeks blushed a pale pink. Her uncle didn't really like romance novels, and Twilight was through-and-through a dark romance story.

"A vampire story!" the girl said excitedly, nigh unto squealing. Fowler gave her an amused look. "I adore Dark Fiction. Particularly the novels concerning Marcus of Lesande, who is an incubus."

She sighed, leaning into her male escort. "He is so terribly romantic."

She tilted her head. "I've never read about him," she said in great curiousity. "I guess I'll just have to hope they have a copy in Braille somewhere." Alethea smiled, just barely a little wider than before. "Do you like music?"

"Brail?" Charity asked, tilting her head and slipping the unknown word across her tongue. "Is that a special language of sorts?"

"Sounds French." Fowler murmured, moving behind her so he could nuzzle her neck with less effort.

"Do I like music? I cannot say, for I have heard very little of it in my life. My mother used to sing to me when I was very young, but Papa and Adam never liked phonographs." she admitted haltingly, disliking the necessity to reveal another shortcoming but seeing no other choice but honesty.

Alethea avoided the rather painful question about the written language of the blind. "It's... how I read," was all she said, crouching to pick up her dark leather violin case and opening it.

"I play," she said, wrapping her fingers around the neck of her dark-colored instrument. "My brother is a musician, as well. Edward is much better than me; he can sing and play, though it seems the comes much more naturally to me than to him." The brunette couldn't conceal just a tiny trace of pride from her face and voice. "Maybe someday I'll play for you," she demurred, slowly placing her treasure back into the case, but not closing it.

"Maybe I'll bring you a copy of Twilight if I come back," she continued. "Would you like that?"

"I would adore both occurances." she responded warmly, avoiding the first subject smoothly when Alethea showed signs of not wanting to discuss it. Avoidance was a skill any Victorian possessed in spades. "It is very kind of you to offer."

"Ask her where she's going." Fowler urged, working his fingers along her sides to relieve the pain from the corset that dug into her flesh. "Mayhap we might join her."

She carefully plucked a string, bringing up a pure, clear mid C. "I'm glad. Music is... sophisticated." There weren't enough words in the English language to describe how she felt towards music. "Do you want to go to the lounge with me? I would really like to avoid Malifer, if I can. She's rather mad at me."

Charity sighed, enchanted by the single note. It would be all too easy to follow this lovely, torn girl to wherever she bid. At least at first.

Her beau sensed her withdrawl and shook his head. "You ought to take her up on it. You could use the company."

She smiled faintly at him. "You are all the company I need."

Remembering her manners, Charity turned back to her female companion, "Thank you for the kind offer, but I am afraid I must beg out of such travels. I am still rather ill from my... my sufferings. I should not over-tax myself."

Alethea sighed. "Oh, well," she said as she closed the lid. "They have a very good vending machine there." She took another bite of her apple as she made sure all locks were exactly in place on her beloved violin. She was thinking of other things to ask this girl- though she wasn't really into the mood to talk, as she almost never was, she did want to get to know her better. Several of them, such as 'why are you here' and 'what happened to your family', made her blush with shame even just thinking about asking Charity. With almost embarrassing slowness and care, she placed the case carefully on the ground to buy time.

"Do you know what day it is?" she asked suddenly, not having access to a calendar or watch.

Charity had been just about to ask what a "machine of vending" was, but the girl's question distracted her. She closed her eyes for a moment, doing her best to estimate by counting back to the first definite date in her memory. "December 6th, I believe. It is still 1887, but only just."

Fowler desperately wanted to tag along with Alethea and see what things there were to be seen, but he could tell his lady was in no mood to do so. Ah well. Gathering up her hand, he put it through his arm and moved to lead her away. "Shall we retire?"

"Yes, we shall." Charity said quietly, flashing him a brilliant smile. "Good day, Alethea. It was wonderful to make your aquainance."

The pair walked back to her room, arm in arm and wrapped in a comfortable silence.

Alethea paused as they walked away, furrowing her eyebrows for the effect. "But it's 2006!" she called after them. Her cousin swept by and collected the young violinist, departing quickly.

"She's a crazy, Aleth," Malifer said airily. "Don't worry about her little idiosyncracies."

"It's Alethea."

Charity Lewis' Personal Journal
December 25th, 1887
Boston, Massachusetts


No one truly needs jewelry in the deepest sense of the word. It makes a fine currency for women in terms of both social cues and payment when taken to the pawnbroker, but still it is not truly required the way food, water, and shelter are. There are many things I would part with jewelry to keep, and have rarely owned any myself. Papa did not like me to adorn myself for reasons of "propriety" which I now know the truth of, but I was permitted to keep the silver hair pin Mother gave to me before she passed. I wore it once, I think, to my Confirmation at the church. Otherwise, it is more of a pretty thing to look at. I have always thought that I shall use it to pin my veil on my wedding day, and Fowler agrees that it is a fine idea.

Now, though, I have a new piece of decoration I shall not part with lightly. It is a small, simple, fine little pale gold ring that fits my finger perfectly and is demure enough not to flash without cause. On the outside, it is a plain band, and a heart is engraved within so that it can only be viewed when the ring is not worn. I treasure it so because it sits on my left fourth finger, and my dear Knight was the one to give it to me to mark our engagement.

He did not give it to me directly, as is his way, but instead had a nurse deliver it one morning saying that a box with my name written on it had been found, perhaps left by my former maid. I found it more difficult than I used to to smile and agree with her instead explaining the reality of my confinement, but managed. Fowler says I should have been an actress, but does not mean it in a cruel way. I accepted the box, waited until she was gone, and opened it. The ring was lovely, and I sat alone marvelling at it for some minutes until my Knight joined me in the room.

"Who would give me a ring?" I asked him.

"Perhaps it is your ring and was lost?" he replied lightly, coming to sit next to me on the bed.

"I have never owned any rings," I said, smiling over it, "I would remember."

"Surely it has been your ring for some time. We have been engage for some months, have we not?"

It took me some moments to understand, but when I realized this was his way of giving me an engagement ring to make our ensuing union proper, I acted in a quite unladylike manner to express my joy. Fowler did not seem to mind.