The count drew his rotund little body up to all of its five-foot-seven-inch height, a scowl on his features. "Pray disregard his comments. My books are as well received—if not more so," he added with an unflappable air. "My latest, Practical Magic for the Abnormal Paranormal, won critical acclaim."
"A lot of hocus-pocus, I rather thought." Crane clearly knew the count well, for he was inured to Caligari's condescension. He turned his attention back to Eve. "Now, really. Why haven't I seen you around and about before now?"
"You wouldn't know brilliance if it swept you off your taloned feet!" Caligari ejaculated.
Eve smiled politely at them both, praying to defuse the tense situation. "Dr. Crane, I fear I haven't been in London all that long—a little less than three years—and have been much occupied with running the Towers and treating my patients."
He bowed slightly at her words, and Eve noticed that at least Dr. Crane didn't creak.
"I am glad to finally make your acquaintance," he said, "and am eager, quite eager, to hear of your work." Dr. Crane paused momentarily, then remembered, his round eyes joyous at his recalclass="underline" "Ah, Verbal Intercourse is your theory, is it not?"
Trying hard not to preen, Eve ignored the word emphasis and the gleam of sexual interest in both doctors' eyes, and focused on her growing reputation.
Count Caligari seemed to have forgotten his anger at Dr. Crane's slights. He added, "Yes! A method that I hear is similar to Dr. Sigmund's own treatments."
Dr. Sigmund, upon hearing his name, left his wife's side. He was an older man, in his mid-fifties, with an ancestry that included trolls and endowed him with a bushy head of long white hair, a thick white moustache, and a tall but bulky body. He also had a troll's dark brown eyes—eyes so deep brown that they appeared black. With relish, the noted psychiatrist entered the conversation.
"Yes, of course. I was fortunate to study with Charcow on hysteria and engaging the mind over matter and madness. From reading your hypothesis, Dr. Griffin, I find that your Verbal Intercourse is similar to my own sessions. My Id and TAT therapies are world-renowned, and used by many a modern psychiatrist. I find it quite useful to let the patients converse about themselves and their dreams or fantasies. One can never tell what nonsense or revelations might be revealed from the foggy mists of their ravaged, demented minds. As well you know, the journey from the outer limits of our consciousness to the inner limits of our most secret places can be through a hell filled with fire and brimstone."
"Yes, without dreams where would the arts be today—or music, for that matter?" Nodding, Eve eagerly continued, feeling a need to impress this most famous of all modern psychiatrists. "I have read all six of your books, Doctor, and always enjoy your articles in the Journal." She looked enthusiastically forward to Dr. Sigmund's articles, although she did not agree with everything the respected doctor said. Still, she did admire his verve and his devotion to duty. He also was quick to try new methods, and to discount those that didn't work while advancing those that did.
Dr. Sigmund gave a brisk nod, quite used to the homage of the masses.
"Please don't keep me in suspense. Have you read my books also, Dr. Griffin?" Dr. Crane asked, eyeing her delectable décolleté.
Of course I have, Eve thought smugly, keeping her face a mask of polite interest. To know one's enemy had been a lesson drummed into her at an early age by her father, along with the "Be Prepared" pirate motto. Although these men weren't exactly enemies, they were at least opponents. They held the purse strings to the foundation's coins. Coins she desperately needed to help with her work.
"I have, and I was quite impressed with your work on the lineage of the weredodo, citing that constant inbreeding has caused these werebirds to have more feathers than wit."
Ruefully, Dr. Crane shook his head. "Sad but true. In-breeding has left them with madness, bird-wittedness, and an unfortunate few live births. I imagine we will see the extinction of the weredodo before the twentieth century comes to pass. So sad, the loss of any of my feathered friends."
The conversation progressed into the myriad difficulties faced by wereshifters who were birds, and Eve soon heard the dinner bell tinkle, announcing that the food was ready to be served. As she was about to suggest that they all go into the dining room, the blue salon's doors slammed open against the wall. Dr. Sigmund jumped a little, and Count Caligari sneered.
"Did you ring?" Teeter asked the room at large. "Heavens! Has Hugo escaped again?"
Trying to hide the blush starting up her neck, Eve shook her head. "It was the dinner bell, Teeter!" Repressing the urge to add, You old fool, she gave him a look that promised dire retribution later. She should really sack him, but he was good with patients, and nobody was a better gardener than his cousin. And wherever Teeter went, so, regrettably, did Totter, since the two had been raised like brothers by their grandfather.
"Dinner. Shall we retire to the dining hall?"
"Jolly good, I'm quite famished," Dr. Crane said calmly. Noting Eve's dismay, he added, "Pray drop your distress, my dear. My own butler is dreadfully correct. Of course, my stable master is a horror—refuses to clean the eaves in the barn half the time. Eaves, where I love to roost on eves of the full moon. I detest messy nests," he groused. "I seriously doubt anyone's home runs like clockwork these days. And as your husband is absent, I'm quite sure you are struggling to stay afloat without him. You must miss a man around the old asylum."
Eve appreciated his helping relieve an awkward situation, yet wanted to kick him in the shins for the remark about her husband. "How polite you are to relieve my feminine sensibilities!" she said. At the same time she was thinking that tomorrow she would lock Teeter in his room for a month with only bread and water. No, that was too nice. She'd lock him the bell tower with Hugo. Her smile widened.
Extending his arm, Dr. Crane asked, "Well, my little dove, shall I escort you to dinner?"
Taking his arm, she nodded. The two of them chatted about the asylum as they led the other guests, following Eve's butler, who lurched into the dining room.
Once they were seated, it wasn't long before the guests' previously stilted conversation became highly entertaining. Eve was greatly relieved as the doctors discussed various treatments and lamented certain patients. Mesmer's hypnosis therapy was discussed and dissected, a subject she particularly found fascinating.
Her guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, Eve decided happily. The doctors' wives were rather quiet, but the food was excellent, in spite of the burned bits, and the conversation was riveting. The seas were smooth sailing, with no skulls and crossbones looming ugly on the horizon—with the exception of the soused butler, who continued to totter about the room, his eyes slightly glazed. Eve's mood lightened, and her blue eyes sparkled.
After the way the day began, Eve had quite feared for the night, but it appeared that her fears were unfounded and she could relax; the ill winds had receded from her sails. If the rest of the night went as well, she would be content. Providing no new disaster arrived, she just might receive some of the funding she needed.
A strong masculine voice suddenly interrupted the conversation. "Hello, my darling Eve."
Eve choked a little on her wine. Hastily she set her glass down and glanced up in surprise. Who was this man, and what was he doing at her dinner party uninvited? And how had he known her name? Appalled, and yet at the same time intrigued, she assessed the fine specimen standing just inside the doorway to the dining room.