Minda Webber - The Reinvented Miss Bluebeard

"Well, he doesn't need to be in some far-off land to work his inventions."

Eve did smile then. "It's true, my husband is a man of invention," she said slyly. "And his work is very important to him." Yes, Adam Griffin was a creation to rival one of Dr. Victor Frankenstein's. He was almost perfect. No fantasy could be better. "But I trust him. He's a good husband, a good doctor, and a good man. I am blessed and proud to be his wife, especially since he gives me the freedom to go about as I please and do the work I love."

"Hmph. Too much freedom, if ye ask me," Mrs. Fawlty said. "A wife needs her husband around to give her a shoulder to cry on and a good tussling in bed." She grinned, showing her buckteeth, meddling ways, and carnal nature. "Nothing like a good tupping first thing in the morning after your cup o' tea. And ye know how men are. They got their needs, they do. If ye're not there, then somebody else will supply the body. And you're nobody till a body loves you." Eve smiled again. She trusted Adam implicitly.

The next afternoon found Eve tapping her fingers nervously against the skull on her desk, wondering why it always wore such a sly grin. The skull of the notorious Henry Morgan had been a gift from her father when she was fourteen. If only she felt like smiling similarly. Unfortunately, there was no merriment to be had with the Captain's inopportune visit.

"Why must he come today?" she asked again, this time of the quixotic skull. "Today of all days." In less than five hours Eve would be hosting a dinner party of select patronage, guests who were some of the top-ranking doctors of the mind. These guests also happened to be the board of trustees for the Supernatural Science Foundation, which provided funding to certain paranormal medical institutes. In short, tonight she would be hosting a gathering of giants.

Giants. These men controlled the purse strings to all sorts of much-needed coin, and Eve hoped to impress them. She desperately needed the funding for her asylum.

Her inheritance was long gone, and many of her patients couldn't afford to pay much at all. The roof was leaking in the west wing, the wallpaper in many of the patients' rooms really could use refurbishing, and food to feed a variety of the mad was maddeningly expensive—which wasn't that surprising since she was treating everything from gargoyles to werewolves. But if funding didn't come in soon, she would be forced to turn away any other supernatural creatures who were seeking treatment. What would become of them if she couldn't provide a safe haven?

For the past fortnight she had worried so much, even going so far as to threaten her staff regarding the preparations for the solemn and supremely important occasion. This dinner tonight at the Towers was to be an elegant affair, with every course carefully selected. Eve had barely managed a wink of sleep last night, as she was more than a trifle concerned with the trifle… and the truffles… and the good doctors' opinions on her methods of treatment for her patients. She knew she was a fine doctor, and she espoused many of the new treatments for the mentally insane; however, she restricted the newer methods to a degree, believing that each patient deserved a treatment befitting not only their specific madness, but their species. She treated hotheaded merfolk and selkies to cold baths, but did not make other surly shape-shifters dip into icy waters. She had only once done a lobotomy, and only on a gargoyle in stone form who had too much on his mind. Restrictive jackets she used only on vampires with extreme oral fixations and in full bloodlust. Yes, her methods were different, but she was achieving results, and she hoped the other doctors would think so as well.

With great deliberation she had issued the invitations, hoping that the guests—Dr. Sigmund, Count Caligari, and Dr. Crane—might be able to contribute to the treatments of two of her more worrisome cases. But also, more important, she hoped they might provide much-needed funding for the Towers.

The doors flung back against the walls broke into her thoughts as Teeter tottered into the room. "Your visitor has arrived. Mr. Beard is here to see you, Dr. Eve," he pronounced.

Her father often used Mr. Beard as an alias, especially when in London, where he was wanted by the English government for crimes against the Crown on the high seas some three-score years ago. And although piracy was not the threat it had been in the 1700s, it was still enough of a concern to make certain Captain Bluebeard had a price on his head of twenty thousand pounds for capture, dead or alive. Twenty thousand was a tidy sum, even if her finicky father thought the amount on his head should be at least forty. That was a grievance he would usually raise after emptying a keg or two of rum.

Stopping her fingers from their repetitive drumming, Eve watched her father enter her study like a clipper ship under full sail, then waited for him to fire the opening volley. He had taught her well: Never fire until you see the whites of the skull and crossbones, and never let your enemies or friends see you sweat—not even when deep in the sweltering heat of the tropics.

This afternoon her father was wearing a blue velvet jacket with a blue carnation in his buttonhole. A large blue diamond earring twinkled from his ear. His blue eyes were large, and the corners were webbed with telltale lines of hard loving and living. He carried a cutlass and two pistols, both probably loaded.

Eve smiled as she stood to greet the wayward salt of the sea, scrutinizing him. His bluish-black hair was tied back in a queue, his beard neatly trimmed. He was a handsome man who still appeared to be in his late fifties, though with his werewolf ancestry he was much older.

The old pirate was dressed to the nines this afternoon, as befitted a gentleman, but a gentleman he was not; he was a wily old scalawag who gave no quarter and did not take mutiny lightly. And for the past twelve years, Eve had been the mutineer in his life. Her financial situation was getting desperate, but she'd never ask the Captain for help. He'd never share any of his ill-gotten gains, not without attaching conditions like babies galore and closing the asylum.

He came to a stop before her desk, rolling on bandy legs as if he were still stationed upon the deck of his ship. Glancing about, hands on hips, he grimly shook his head. "As always, I feel like I've blundered into a madhouse!"

Eve narrowed her eyes. So, this was his opening volley? "You have. But then, you're well acquainted with madness, aren't you? If I remember correctly, your first mate thinks he's a dog and is always barking at whales. Do you still have that same boatswain, the one who thinks he's the prince regent, having everyone curtsy to him?"

Squinting and growling, Captain Bluebeard snarled at her. "He's the best boatswain I've ever had, and you know me first mate's a weredog. I suppose ye be putting on airs now ye're all respectable."

Her return shot had drawn blood. Eve hid her smile. "And a fine weredog he is. I've always liked Mr. Collie."

Rolling his eyes, Bluebeard shook his head. "Don't try yer sweet talk now. It won't work," he said, then glanced around the room. "I can't believe me own daughter would choose to close herself up behind these dreary, dank walls. You should be sailing the oceans, with bluebirds of happiness flying high overhead, harboring in crystal-blue lagoons, the cries of gulls and a hearty crew of cutthroats yo-ho-hoing in yer ears."

"More like a bunch of drunken sots yo-ho-hoing about their bottles of rum," Eve retorted, a little stung by her father's scurvy tidings.

"Come now, lass. Ye must miss the sea. It's in yer blood, it is. Ye have a head on your pretty shoulders, lassie. It's past time you started using it, instead of mucking about in people's mad starts. Ye have such a flair with the cutlass, and can navigate a ship near better than meself. Nobody dead or alive can yell, 'Hoist up the mainsail' better than ye. You're wasting away here, Evie! Ye should be surrounded by sea chests filled with booty, the brisk salt breezes blowing through that mane of yours."