The Royal Sorceress by Christopher Nuttall

young ladies are often involved. If you want to stay in the carriage…”
    Gwen shook her head, firmly. “I’m coming,” she said. “Where are we?”
    Master Thomas helped her down to the pavement. They were standing in front of a large brick building, situated on the northern outskirts of London. A high fence, topped with unpleasant-looking spikes, sealed off the building from the rest of the city. She could see a handful of people walking on the grass inside the fence, their faces downcast and sad. It looked more like a prison than a reputable home.
    “This place has no name,” Master Thomas admitted. He led the way to the gatehouse, where a burly man scrutinised both of them before allowing them entry through the double gates. It was starting to look more and more like a prison. “I think most of the nobility are a little ashamed of it. They wouldn’t want anyone to know what happens inside these walls.”
    Inside, Gwen felt a prickling feeling at the back of her neck. The handful of people on the grass seemed to be paying no attention to the two guests. For a moment, she wondered if they were revenants rather than living beings, but they didn’t seem to be dead. Their eyes were strange, almost as if they couldn’t focus on anything. She shuddered as she saw spit falling from their mouths. Master Thomas caught her arm and led her away from the strangers, up towards the huge doors. A man wearing a white coat greeted them and invited them inside.
    “Ward Four,” Master Thomas said, bluntly. “At once, if you please...”
    Gwen stared around her. Inside, the hallways appeared to be quite deserted. An unpleasant stench hung in the air, suggesting meat that was on the verge of rotting off the bone. The white-painted corridors were blank, illuminated only by gas lamps hanging from the ceiling. As they walked down the corridors, she glanced into a side room and saw a young lady, naked to the waist, chained to a chair. Her eyes were savage and, as she met Gwen’s stare, she yanked at her chains and started forward. Gwen was halfway through preparing a magical defence when she realised that the chains had held. Even so, she didn’t want to turn her back on the woman. What, she asked herself, was wrong with her?
    “This place is a madhouse,” the attendant said, noticing her puzzlement. Master Thomas frowned in a manner that promised trouble for the attendant, if he said much more. “The gentry send their mistakes here to be held away from public view…”
    “Every family has someone who isn’t right in the head,” Master Thomas rumbled, his voice drowning out the attendant’s comments. “The ones who are too dangerous or too embarrassing to be let out in public are sent here, where they are treated to the best of our ability.”
    “But none of them are ever healed,” the attendant said. “They live out their lives within these four walls and no one ever sees them again.”
    Gwen was shocked. She’d heard rumours, allusions she hadn’t fully understood – until now. It seemed that every aristocratic family produced at least one person who couldn’t wipe their mouth in public, let alone look after themselves, but she’d never realised what happened to them. Everyone involved had to keep it quiet, or there would be an almighty scandal. Hadn’t there been rumours about George III during the regency? His son might have had him committed to a madhouse, if he hadn’t been the King. Parliament would never have stood for it.
    Master Thomas stepped back and caught her hand. “The first time I came here, I had nightmares for weeks,” he said. “If you want to back out now…”
    “No,” Gwen said. “I won’t let this beat me.”
    “Then prepare yourself,” Master Thomas said. “Remember who you are.”
    The attendant threw open the door to Ward Four and ushered them inside. It hit Gwen at once, a deafening babble that seemed to appear inside her head without going through her ears first. She put up