As the group made its way to the patients’ rooms, Eve held her breath, wondering what outrageous thing Adam would say next. For the moment, he was behaving. Still, she knew better than to trust a placid demeanor, rather like the calm at sea before a storm. A tad impatiently she waited and watched, which made her even more annoyed.
“This is Sir Loring’s room,” she announced as they entered the large chamber where the vampire resided. A massive coffin twenty feet by fifteen lay in the center. Sir Loring, his fangs slightly exposed in his homely face, was standing beside it. Lovingly he patted some of his native soil, letting the grains run through his bony hands and into the bottom of the coffin. He glanced up, his long, lean face tense.
“Good evening, Sir Loring,” Eve began, her voice quietly reassuring. “These are the doctors I brought to visit with you. Remember we discussed their visit earlier?”
Dr. Crane started to close the door, but Sir Loring gasped, dropping the soil in his hands, his writhing fingers rising to create havoc amongst the pomaded gray curls atop his head.
“Don’t close it, please. Sir Loring likes a great deal of space,” Eve warned. “He is paranoid about closed-in areas.”
“Evidently,” Dr. Crane remarked, his owlish eyes wide with interest. He stared at the coffin. “I take it that was specially made for the circumstances of his phobia? The workmanship is quite impressive.”
The lanky vampire, with his slightly red eyes and long, sharp incisors, fidgeted nervously. “Yes, it is beautiful, a lovely coffin, and it’s mine. You can’t have it!” He flashed his fangs as an afterthought.
“We won’t take your coffin; I promise,” Eve remarked. She soothingly patted the vampire on the arm, while Adam took up a protective stance at her side. She glanced at him in surprise.
“Claustrophobic,” Dr. Sigmund pronounced.
“Yes,” Eve agreed. “Sir Loring can’t abide riding in carriages and won’t even go near a wardrobe.”
“You are only catering to his whims” Count Caligari scoffed. “That coffin is enormous. It’s more fit for an Egyptian King than this baronet. I find this placating treatment unusual and affettivo—pathetic. Spare the rod and spoil the vamp.”
“This is not some childish whim we are talking about, Count Caligari, but a debilitating fear. Once inside a closed-in space, Sir Loring begins to shriek and lose his breath. Er, I think we should continue this discussion outside,” she added coolly, noting the increasing agitation of her patient. Perhaps she had made a mistake, and these guest doctors were too much for Sir Loring’s skittish nerves. She certainly didn’t want to send the vampire into one of his fits.
Outside, in the dank limestone hallway, Count Caligari continued his criticism in the guise of advice. “How can you tell he loses his breath? He’s undead. Perhaps you have overreacted to his fear,” the count suggested patronizingly.
His question raised Eve’s ire, yet she betrayed very little of her agitation. She might not have the age or experience of the Italian count, but she was nobody’s fool. Still, the count’s criticisms were worrisome. If the good doctors also thought her methods were unworthy, would funding be denied?
She replied with false civility, “Before he came to me, Sir Loring hadn’t slept in ages. He was cranky, off his feed, and thoroughly agitated. Once he had his new coffin, he slept for four months. Upon awakening, he was in a much more pleasant mood. Less . . . snappish.”
“Balderdash, my good woman! How will he overcome his fear if you cater to his whims?” the count asked again, peering out from behind his jeweled monocle. Before she could answer, he continued with his unsolicited advice. “The mad should never be mollycoddled, but instead punished for their transgressions. Strict punishment results in better behavior.”
What a scary man, Eve thought reproachfully. The blood had rushed to her cheeks in vexation. She felt a great sorrow for his patients; after all, one didn’t throw out the vampire with the coffin.
“Hmm. I believe it is possible that Sir Loring could have a mother fixation. His need for her lost love and nurturing transformed with his vampirism into a fear of closed-in places,” Dr. Sigmund remarked thoughtfully.
“Why, yes! It is semplice—simple, no? Perhaps at his mother’s breast he felt smothered when she fed him, like a plump white pillow,” Count Caligari suggested, nodding.
Eve narrowed her eyes. Wasn’t that just like a man? Everything concerned breasts.
“I don’t think that is the answer to why Sir Loring is claustrophobic,” she said. “I think it relates to an incident in his childhood when he was locked in a closet for a day and night.”
“Was he searching for his chamber pot?” Dr. Sigmund questioned. When everyone stared at him, he shrugged. “Perhaps Sir Loring has a case of coffin envy. Apparently his must be bigger than any others,” he amended.
“I’ll certainly take that theory into consideration,” Eve replied.
She wanted to roll her eyes. If men weren’t talking about breasts, they were all up about that other major concern of their lives. Men, she thought snidely; their arrogance and their strange preoccupation with that hanging appendage between their legs were beyond her. Frankly she wondered what all the fuss was about. Dr. Sigmund was way off course in thinking any sensible female would ever envy the ridiculous-looking appendage. In fact, she would rather walk the plank than have that thing sticking out between her legs, leading her about, pointing the way like a deformed compass.
“I think the massive coffin is quite ingenious,” Dr. Crane remarked, clearly hoping to curry Eve’s favor, and Adam found himself fighting a real urge to box the man’s ears. Deciding that a bit of friendly intimidation was in order, he stepped up behind Eve and began glaring at the wereowl over her shoulder. Dr. Crane stepped back a few paces.
Oblivious, Eve smiled at Dr. Crane, and at her behest the small group walked up a slight incline to another room. She fought her annoyance, her thoughts tumbling chaotically in her brain. She was extremely proud of her work. Sir Loring had made remarkable progress since she’d started treating him. Unfortunately, Dr. Sigmund—whom she truly admired—and Count Caligari—whom she found rather despicable—both seemed less than inclined to give her work a glowing recommendation. At least Dr. Crane showed interest in and respect for what she was attempting here at the Towers.
Noticing Eve’s bleak expression, Adam moved to stand near her. “My wife has been writing to me regarding her progress with Sir Loring, and I am astounded at how much better the vampire is doing. Before she treated him, he would run screaming from a room if he even saw a coffin inside.”
Eve glanced askance at him. She had never written any such faradiddle to him, since she had never written to him in her life. How did one correspond with a figment of one’s imagination?
Adam only winked. “Since his family makes coffins, this was killing the old family business, I must say.”
Eve pinched him under the arm, and he whispered with aggrieved dignity, “There’s absolutely no need for violence, my dear.”
She pinched him harder, a steely glint in her eyes. But he ignored her and finished, “Now Sir Loring can not only enter a room with a coffin, but sleeps in one! My wife has worked miracles with her chimney-sweeping cures—or rather, with vampires, we call her sessions coffin sweeping.”
“Chimney sweeping?” Dr. Sigmund echoed curiously. He studied Eve, a perplexed furrow between his brows. “Please explain, Dr. Griffin. You must relieve an old man’s curiosity.”
Eve’s smile was brittle. Tiny slivers of apprehension flooded her, because she had no idea what this demented stranger was babbling about. Chimney sweeping? If she were one of her patients, she’d diagnose a full-blown case of hysteria.
“Oh, please let Dr. Griffin explain,” she said. “He is, after all, the one who helped me craft these theories.”
Adam shot her a glance. “My wife is too modest. It was her theory first.”
“But you have a way with words, Adam. You tell them.”
He acknowledged her avoidance with a wink, wanting to kiss her senseless. He had known Bluebeard’s daughter could handle a tricky maneuver or two. He was no doctor, yet he couldn’t let Eve be made to look a fool; that was why he’d spoken up. Fortunately, he was blessed with the Irish gift of blarney. “Er, well, it’s like this. ‘Chimney sweeping’ is cleaning the mind of all the cobwebs—rather like sweeping out a chimney, only in this case we are brain sweeps. It’s a repeated therapy where the patient talks all night or day, simply conversing for a long, long time.”
As Eve listened, she couldn’t help but be a tad impressed. This Adam character certainly had a way with words. Whoever he was or wasn’t, he was quick on his feet, just like her good old da.
“I see. Then it’s much like your wife’s Verbal Intercourse treatment,” Dr. Sigmund remarked. He gave a nod of his head, pleased at making the connection so swiftly.
Adam caught a glimpse of his wife’s fleeting admiration. Even so, he felt some little demon urging him to provoke her further. He found he couldn’t resist. “I know, and I must say that my wife’s intercourse therapy has always aroused my interest. It keeps me up nights, I must say.”
Hold steady, Eve told herself silently; don’t fire your cannons yet. “Lord love a duck,” she muttered to herself. Boiling in oil, walking the plank, fifty lashes tied to a mast, and being fed to the sharks—absolutely none of these punishments was enough for the devious, demented deviant before her. Just get through the dinner party and then you’ll get the answers you need, she added. Totally ignoring Adam, she marched up to the next patient’s door and inclined her head toward the heavy oak. “Here we go.”
All eyes swung to the door. “And this room is held by whom?” Dr. Crane asked.
“This particular patient is a werewolf who has delusions. Mr. Pryce sometimes thinks he’s a common housefly,” Eve explained.
“I can imagine he’s quite the desperate housefly,” Adam remarked with a strange gleam in his eye. “One night you’re a four-footed wolf running free; the next you’re a flying pest.”
Eve knocked on the door, wishing it were Adam’s fat head. “Mr. Pryce, we’re here to see you. I have brought the guests I spoke to you about.”
Opening the door, Eve walked in. The room was disorderly, but the others followed closely behind, their curiosity piqued.
Mr. Pryce, a rather sallow-faced man with thinning hair, was not handsome at the best of times. At present he was on his hands and knees, his scrawny buttocks thrust up in the air. He made a buzzing noise as he licked a substance off his table.
Wandering over, Adam glanced down at the sticky golden goo. “I see it’s true. You do catch more flies with honey. And there’s always a Pryce to pay.”
Eve sent him a speaking glance, which clearly indicated for him to shut his mouth. He obliged momentarily, since he was fascinated by her patient.
“Cos’e’questo?” Count Caligari questioned, and then, realizing he had spoken in Italian, repeated his words. “What’s this, a fly?”
“Yes,” Eve said, “so it will do precious little good to try to communicate with him.”
“Fascinating!” Dr. Sigmund cried as he eyed the man before him like a bug under glass, even if he was a werewolf on a table. “Does he ever talk when he’s like this? Does he hear voices, or the call of the wild in this altered state? What’s the buzz?”
“The buzz? When he is in this altered state, he only makes that odd humming noise, as you can hear.”
“Yes, I see,” Dr. Sigmund remarked, staring at the wiry little man on the table. “Not in essence moonstruck. When he is in possession of himself, what has he revealed of his relationship with the chamber pot? What do you know about his potty training?”
Eve shook her head. “His potty training was perfectly normal. I talked with his mother about it.”
Adam couldn’t help himself. “Is the mother a fly-by-night insect as well?” he asked. He hadn’t been so amused since he helped sink the Flying Dutchman with the Dutchman aboard. “Does being bugger-all run in the family?” As he looked at Eve’s glaring face, the word mulish came to mind.
“Of course not! His mother is perfectly normal.”
Adam grinned at her reply. For most humans, werewolfism wasn’t a normal state.
They all walked out and back down the hall, and Eve said, “Mr. Pryce is quite a nice man when he is not in his insect delusion, or tearing up the countryside as a wolf. He has few debilitating fears . . . except for the conservatory.”
“Fear of the conservatory?” Dr. Crane questioned, arching his neck.
“We have several large Venus flytraps in the conservatory,” Eve answered. “I thought of getting rid of them, but I . . . didn’t want to pamper the patients’ phobias to excess,” she added, not altogether truthfully. The last part of her statement had been added strictly for the odious count’s beastly benefit. Her mother had brought those flytraps from Greece to celebrate Eve’s tenth birthday. The two women had decorated them with tiny silver bells and pink seashells, but the flytraps had eaten them, mistaking the decorations for lunch. Eve and her mother had laughed for hours. Therefore, Eve would never get rid of the flytraps, not even for a patient.
Adam’s face broke into a wide grin, and there was more than a trace of laughter in his voice. “Yes, I can see where those plants might be a problem.”
“You have the compassion of a goat,” Eve hissed at him softly.
He turned and smiled. “I know you are wishing me to Jericho right now, but the trip would take me away from you. And I don’t want to deprive you of my company any longer,” he replied.
“You’re utterly maddening. Impossible! Just wait until I get you alone!”
Adam found the threat terribly interesting. “I wait with bated breath.”
He didn’t have to wait long. Dr. Sigmund soon took his leave, telling them all that the funding committee would be making its decision in the upcoming weeks, and then all the guests said farewell.
Adam heard the front doors bang closed as Eve ushered him into her study. She slammed that door herself, and turned to face him. A lesser man would have taken flight at the look of utter fury in her eyes.
He grinned, for he was not a lesser man.