main | table of contents The Reflecting Eye Copyright © 2003, S. Y. Affolee 3 Rothburne “I have a stash of Monteport maps on the shelf over there,” said Matthias as he pulled a re-warmed roast from the oven and began cutting it into slices. Verity had wandered back downstairs and to the back of the house where there was a dining room-kitchen combo. The back door overlooked a tiny shared back yard. The next door neighbor had planted a rosebush beside his door, but in the dimming winter afternoon, it looked more like the twisting snakes of a medusa’s tresses. The dining area itself was simple, a battered table with wood of questionable origin. There were four chairs and they were all mismatched. A shelf sat on the corner. The maps were on top. The first one showed all the roads on Monteport that spread out from the center like the spokes on a spider’s web. “Are you sure you want to leave this furniture here?” She tapped the table as her uncle brought out the dishes. “I’ve already sent the important stuff over to my new location,” he said, amused. “I figured you could use this stuff. I also left the majority of my books in the study—I’ve read all of them already and I also figured it would be nice to get an entire new set of books. Try some new stuff in my retirement years and all of that.” As they sat down to eat, he glanced pointedly at her bandaged wrists which were now exposed since she took off her coat. “What happened?” She gave him a shuttered look. “Nothing. It was just an accident.” “Verity…” “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her uncle sighed. “You’re going to be working at the Rothburne Institute, right? An acquaintance of mine says that a Doctor Miram Greene is pretty good. You might want to look him up.” “A general practitioner? I didn’t know general practitioners worked up there.” “I think he originally worked as one although he has specialized with working with psychiatry patients.” “I don’t think I need a shrink.” Matthias shrugged. “Anyways, I thought the Rothburne Institute was an independent entity that was founded by somebody named, well, Rothburne. How did you get transferred here?” “The system of hospitals back south recently acquired the Rothburne Institute. I worked in administration which was completely separate from the whole hospital setting, but I guess the higher ups decided that it would be a good idea to send me here to help the staff at Rothburne organize their archives in accordance to the rest of the system.” “Why send you? To be honest, I was rather surprised that you took me up on my offer for this apartment. I thought you were rather content where you were. Isn’t your boyfriend still down there?” She prided herself on keeping a relatively straight face. “We broke up. I was the only one in the department who didn’t have a family tying me down there and anyways, I’m eager to see new places.” “Monteport isn’t exactly new.” “It’s different.” After dinner, her uncle bid her a good night. He was going to catch the earliest cab out to the airport. He told her not to worry about him, that he would write or call her, and that she should get her sleep since she had traveled so much herself that day. Verity took the plastic covering off of her bed and laid out the clothes that she had brought with her in her duffle bag. She took a small pouch of toiletries, a towel, and a flannel nightgown and headed into the bathroom where she locked herself inside. She stared for a moment at the mirror above the sink. The pale faced woman stared back at her. Slowly, she unwrapped the bandages. Underneath, the skin was slightly lighter than the surrounding hand and arm. Faint white marks crisscrossed on the inside of her wrist. She closed her eyes and remembered him—sunny, charismatic, and at times evasive. During the entire six months that they had been together, he had never asked her to spend the night. And then she had discovered that reason for his vagueness when she had dropped by at his office as a surprise, only to find him standing at the edge of his desk, his “administrative assistant” on her knees, her mouth… Every thing had become fuzzy and she had staggered back home feeling empty as if a void had taken over her stomach and lungs. Even now, she felt that same void threatening to overcome her. She opened the toiletry bag and took out a small sharp hand knife. It took only a second after the touch of the blade for the blood to well up. It stung. At least now, she could actually feel something instead of that nothingness that threatened to turn her to stone. Verity turned on the faucet. And the water turned red. * * * The next morning, she discovered that Matthias was already gone. He had left a hastily handwritten note on the dining table with a farewell and information on his new address. The refrigerator, she discovered, contained exactly a half-empty milk carton, one egg, and a jar of mayonnaise. In a cupboard, there were two cans of soup and a box of cereal that was almost empty. She poured out the rest of the cereal and some milk, ate quickly, and grabbed her coat. As an afterthought, she took a map. She was going to the Rothburne Institute. She scraped the frost from the windshields and sat in her uncle’s car, now hers, waiting for the engine and the heat to get going. She looked at the map, noting that the Rothburne Institute was not far from Avtandil Road. It was just before the square and the college, across from the local hospital. She drove down Finsen to Main Street and spotted the college. At the square, where Main Street intersected with Avtandil Road, she took a left. The Rothburne Institute was on a small hill of its own surrounded by small, squat evergreen shrubs. The institute was a manor of granite. In the early history of the city, it had been the home of a wealthy aristocrat from overseas named Rothburne. Only later had that aristocrat’s descendants moved elsewhere and decided to donate the massive estate to the city. Monteport had decided to turn it into a sanitorium. Verity parked the car in a lot at the base of the hill and climbed up to the front. The door was unpolished and roughly carved. She pulled it open with some effort and stepped inside, into a warm, brightly lit atrium—pristine and white. Several couches, armchairs, and a coffee table stacked with magazines were located at the end of the room near several corridors branching off into the rest of the institute. Near the door was a welcoming station. A woman with platinum blonde hair frozen in a large wave over her forehead by stiff hair spray and bright red lipstick looked up as Verity approached. “Good morning. Do you have an appointment?” “I’m Verity Tage. I’m the new archivist.” The woman smiled. “Ah. Welcome to Rothburne!” She waved a brunette with glasses over. “We were actually expecting you tomorrow, but this is excellent as well. I’m Georgette Lane.” “Patrice Blakely.” Verity dutifully shook their hands and smiled. “Good to meet you.” “Patrice, could you take the desk for a moment as I show Verity around?” said Georgette. Patrice nodded. “Sure.” Georgette walked around the station and waved toward the corridors. “The archive for all of Rothburne’s records are downstairs. Bob and Quinn has been in charge of those for the past ten years. I’m sure they’ll show you all the ropes. The administration and some of the doctors’ offices are located on this floor and all the patient rooms are on the floors above. But most of the time, you wouldn’t even notice that this is a hospital at all.” “How busy does it get during the year?” “Oh, it’s pretty stable during the winter, but most of our patients are admitted during the fall, believe it or not. Perhaps in the colder months when everyone is staying inside they realize that they don’t really want to be around their ailing relatives all the time.” Georgette shrugged. “But who knows. That’s just my guess.” As they passed the waiting area, a man sitting on one of the chairs looked up and locked his gaze to Verity. For that moment, she felt something sharp, as if someone had poked her skin with a pin. His hair was dark and longish, curling past his ear. His jaw was strongly angled and clean-shaven, and his skin appeared as smooth as a woman’s after she has applied face cream. Although at the distance, she could not tell the color of his eyes, his look was intense as if he were some dark judge. He looked familiar as if she had glimpsed a picture of him somewhere years ago in a newspaper or the back of a book. But Georgette was still chatting and she turned back to her temporary tour guide, his face disappearing from her vision, as they headed into one of the corridors and then to a stairwell that led down. At the base of the stairs was a door that led into a wide room. The front was occupied with a few lower shelves holding medical references and three tables with chairs for visitors who wanted to do research. On one side was a panel of glass which showed three small offices, one which was not occupied, and a conference room. The other side of the room was filled with rows of large shelves containing records, books, and documents. Georgette waved to the two people in the offices who moved out into the main part of the room. “Well, I’ll leave you too it,” the blonde told her. “If you want any help about the rest of Rothburne, just call me up.” As Georgette left, Verity briefly surveyed these two other Rothburne employees. The shorter man was round about the middle, the stomach spilling over his belt. He wore a plaid shirt and corduroy pants and he was balding. He squinted at her and then pulled out a pair of chunky glasses from his breast pocket to get a better look. The taller man was willowy slim, his long graying hair tied to the nape of his neck. He wore all black—black turtleneck, black pants, black shoes. He pulled out a case from his back pocket, opened it, and deposited some wire-frame glasses on his nose. She held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Verity.” “Ah, the new archivist,” said the taller man. “Not what I was expecting,” grumped the shorter man. The taller man shot the shorter man an exasperated look. “I’m Quinn. This is Bob.” She shook their hands. “You can take the empty office. It used to be Alan’s, but he retired a couple months ago.” “He got tired with dealing with all the crazies around this place,” muttered Bob. “Crazies?” Verity echoed. “Now, now, we wouldn’t want to scare Verity off prematurely. There’s nothing to be worried about,” said Quinn. “Some of the patients like to visit the archives, that’s all. Some of them just have the quaint notions that some of the stories about Monteport are true and they come down here to do their research. No harm done.” Bob shrugged, but gave a weary smile. “Quinn’s very sympathetic and patient.” Verity nodded, not quite sure how to reply to that. Instead, she said, “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like it very much if you showed me around so I can familiarize myself with how you do things.”