The Dickens Mirror by Ilsa J. Bick Page A

memory, was scripted, written for her—perhaps even by her own father, who’d stuffed her full of these many voices and pieces—only so much ink on paper, with no substance. In a book, a character could
remember
 … but recall what? Life beyond the book? Absurd. “What do you want to talk about? I’ll be good, I’ll be …”
    “Wait,” Bode said as Meme brushed past. “Let me …”
    “What did I just say?” The underside of Kramer’s jaw was scarlet. “Be
silent
.”
    “Bode.” Meme’s voice was toneless. “She is not worth it. Please, back away.”
    “Don’t tell me what to do.” Exhaling in exasperation, Bode held his hands out to the other girl. “Meme, can’t you see? Scaring her like this, it’s not right.”
    “She is a patient, Bode.” Frowning, Meme threw the catches on Kramer’s bag. “We all do our duties.”
    “What’s wrong with you?” Bode gave Meme a wondering look. “Yes, you’re his assistant; we
all
deal with nutters every day, but even you got to see that kindness …”
    “Sometimes the kindest thing to do seems cruel but is necessary. What Meme
sees
is her
place
,” Kramer hissed. “As should you.”
    “My place?” Bode rounded on him. “Then what about yours? You’re a
doctor
. You’re supposed to heal, not bully.”
    Before Kramer could answer, Elizabeth heard a new and deeper voice rumble, “Is this how you people at Bethlem get on?”
    “Oh, bloody shite,” Kramer muttered, and turned a look over his shoulder. Following his gaze, she saw what the doctor had been too distracted to notice. Blocky as a monolith, Inspector Battle loomed in her doorway. Just beyond Battle’s left shoulder was Constable Doyle, looking decidedly pale and sweaty. Judging from the pewter smears under his eyes and the way he fidgeted, Doyle was as ill as she felt.
    “Treatment by committee?” Planting his huge fists on his hips, Battle leaned in and squinted as if inspecting a suspicious leg of mutton. “Well, you’re certainly living up to your nickname; this is positive bedlam. These are your creatures, Doctor. Control them.”
    “
Thank
you, Inspector. How good of you to remind me.” Kramer’s tone was brittle as hoar ice, and she could see the effort he put into grabbing back some nastier retort. “Now, if you will all let me get on with my
job
.”
    Bode tried again. “But sir …”
    “Bode.” Meme snatched at him. “Stop. Do not task him.”
    “Yes, you would do well to listen to her. You
overreach
, young man!” Graves snapped at the same moment that Weber grated, “Watch your mouth around Doctor, ya damned hobbledehoy.”
    Bode ignored them all. “Please, sir. I mean no disrespect, but I’m sure I can get her to cooperate. You saw before, yeah?”
    “Nonsense.” Kramer had his bag open now to reveal an array of gleaming instruments—scalpels, a saw, clamps—as well as glass tubes, steel syringes, and small brown phials filled with colored liquids. “The time for talk and persuasion is past. What she
needs
is for you to step aside and let me get on with what needs doing.”
    “Wait,” Bode began—and that was when Kramer uncoiled, fast as a snake, and cut a vicious backhanded slap to Bode’s jaw. The boy’s head whipped to one side, and as he staggered, Kramer bore down, shouting, “
I
am the physician here,
not
you!”
    “No!” Elizabeth shouted. It was one thing for Bode to reassure her; it was another for him to take a beating. This was her fight, not his. Why didn’t someone stop Kramer? That idiot Meme only stood there, eyes wide, hands to her mouth. From his place by the door, Battle was a stone. “Stop! He’s only trying to help me!”
    “This is
my
patient!” Kramer thundered at Bode. “
My
asylum,
my
charge, and I say what is right and what is not, do you hear?” The right half of Kramer’s face went the color of a ripe plum while the half-mask of tin hiding the left remained eerily like porcelain with its coat of faded