"Palace Macabre Ch.3" by H. Coyne

"My High Artificer"

Otto and I flanked the Doctor as we walked him down the stairs. He leaned mostly on that tiny angel, who against all appearances, could keep him steady.

"Ah thank you, Otto," he murmured when we reached the chess board floor, "I'll take Ms. Anya's arm the rest of the way, if she allows me."

My smile was my answer. The pair of us strolled through the maze of nigh identical halls until we reached a green paneled door. The floor before it had a star like a compass pieced together in the tile.

"Remember the star here and you will never forget which door is the lab. There are many green doors like this, but only one star. And beyond this door is the safest room in the house. Only three of us know can open it, four when I add your bio print."

It unsettled me that he thought it important that I know what room was the safest. Safe from what?

At the Doctor's touch, the thick metal door opened with a hiss of air allowing us into a lab crowded with black countertops and squat machines. Its walls were orderly cupboards of glass beakers and plastics. Floating in the center of the room was a black figure with its back to us. Metal tentacles bloomed from its torso. They were winding and flicking about the shelves wrapped around beakers and operating humming machines.

The Doctor called out to it, ""Vivaldi. Come meet my new nurse!". The arms retracted instantly into its black robe, and it turned towards us with serpentine grace.

I was met with a porcelain mask achingly and frighteningly beautiful; so white – so cold and fixed in a Mona Lisa expression of eerie calm.

The Machine had an eldritch grace in its spider soft movements. I wanted to touch the awful object but was afraid. I had more cause for fear when he spoke.

"Who is this, Doctor?"

If Michelangelo's David possessed a voice, it would be this one. It was angelic, but of the daunting Biblical angels that said "Fear not" at their approach, not the insipid things on Christmas trees.

He did not wait to be addressed like other automatons, but confronted me.

"Well?"

"Anya. I'm a nurse, here to help around the manor."

With nothing but grandfatherly ease, the Doctor entered the conversation, gently placing a hand on Vivaldi's shoulder.

"Ah yes, Vivaldi. Anya will be with us for a time. I was hoping she would be able to give you a hand, and it will be nice to have such a lovely young lady about the house."

"Lovely?" Vivaldi replied. It was a metallic and cruel question. I was not lovely and I knew it.

The kindly Doctor sashayed to my side, saying warmly, "Yes, like a little bird, a swallow or sparrow."

He took my hand and placed it in the crook of his arm.

 "Come, come, my dear, if you will help support an old man, we shall tour the lab a bit. Have you ever done any research, made gels, counted colonies or things of that sort?"

I nodded mutely, still looking back at the horrible, white face. I recovered myself to murmur, "When I was an undergrad I did workstudy in pathology labs, so I know a little."

"That is more than enough knowledge, Anya. You are quite well rounded, my dear, if I do say so myself."

"Thank you, Doctor Stradi."

The golden voice diffused across my shoulders, "I don't need help in the labs, Doctor. I'm sure our guest would prefer a more pleasant pastime than dissections and making gels."

The Doctor rumbled a laugh, "I'm sure she would. Mind, Anya, I think you capable, but Vivaldi is correct. I hope your time will be dominated by sweeter duties than this lab can afford."

"I am at your discretion under the contract, Doctor." I answered.

"Ah, we need not bring up the business end. You are young blood and it would be a shame to hide you in our basement. Perhaps tomorrow Vivaldi will introduce you to some of the patients, I prefer to call them my guests, and Vivaldi will relinquish the arrangement of my nasty pills to you. I loathe the taste of some, but a gentler nurse in you, Anya, will serve as my spoonful of sugar."

"I will try my best, Doctor. Perhaps some nutritional recommendations as well?" The old man looked flustered a bit, as if I had just stolen his birthday cake.

"I promise your palette will not suffer. I never skip dessert."

He sighed roundly, but agreed, "I leave my table in your hands. Vivaldi, make sure she sees the gardens as well."

Vivaldi's tone was still perfect in its evenness, "I'm sure she can enjoy those without my assistance, or with another escort. I have much to do."

"She could, but I'm asking you to do it. Don't mind him Anya." The Doctor leaned in conspiratorily, "He's a little choleric is all."

I nodded, embarrassed by Vivaldi's stare as he listened openly to the Doctor's comments.

"Vivaldi," the Doctor continued, "A little rut in your schedule will not bring the building down around our ears. Might do you some good."

"Alright, Doctor." Vivaldi inched nearer to me, "I will see you at seven in the morning tomorrow. Until then, good evening, Doctor and Miss Anya."

Everyone came and went so suddenly in this place. At least Vivaldi said goodnight before floating out.

As I thought of seven and a day spent with that cold marionette, dread coiled my insides. A dread that would stalk me to my overwrought and overstuffed bed and creep into the crevices of my mind.