They came for the Doctor the next day. He was sipping his morning tea when he saw two boys through the window.
They stopped their horses at his door and leapt from the saddles.
The Doctor was irritated at first.
Everybody knew he detested being called on without an appointment, and the hour was far too early.
Then he saw the expression on their faces and lost his appetite.
The boys rushed into the cottage without knocking, pleading with the Doctor to come with them.
He recognized them as stable hands in service to the Patron, and their white faces and hollowed eyes implied something terrible.
He didn’t ask questions, for inquiry might send them into hysteria. The Doctor was swift, grabbing his coat and bag, and telling his wife there was a crisis and to attend to the patients until his return.
The two boys climbed atop one horse, leaving him the other.
They weren’t timid about running their mount fast, but the Doctor stayed with them.
During his ride, he detected the scent of peaches lingering weeks after they were plucked from the avenue trees. Then the aroma became sickly at the garden of withered lilies.
Something was horribly wrong.
The manor had not been a joyous place since the death of their Patroness, but there had always been the motion and noise of activity.
Now everything was quiet.
A few servants waited before the front door, the personal maid to the Patron’s daughter, the Cook, and the man in charge of the stables.
The rounded features of the lady’s maid were swollen, tears streaking her cheeks. The Cook’s face, which she often boasted turned red from the stove fires, was the color of ashes.
The head of the stables was composed, but the anguish in his eyes seared through the elderly Doctor when they shook hands.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We don’t know, Doctor,” the other replied. “I think it’s best to just show you.”
They entered the house.
The stillness inside was eerie. Instead of the bustle of servants and tenant farmers and visiting patrons from neighboring counties, there was nothing but the muffled sounds of weeping.
The walls seemed to close in on the Doctor. This grief was fresh, raw. He could feel the sorrow throughout the house as he followed the stable hand upstairs to what he recognized as the daughter’s room.
The Doctor gasped at what he saw inside.
The creamy white quilts on the bed were soaked with blood, cascading down one side to make a small pool beneath. He had to fight the urge to retch, unable to speak until he steadied himself.
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone,” the stable hand replied.
“One of the boys had a tale about her running off in the middle of the night on a giant stallion, the wild gray colt that ran away from here several years ago. He swears he saw her blow something that dazzled around the beast and say ‘immortal like me.’ And he claims there was blood all over her face and gown.”
“Well she can’t have gone far. Shouldn’t we send for the Lawman?”
“I suppose we could. But if what the boy says is true, that won’t do any good. I saw that stallion last year at the river. He’s a monster of a horse.”
“And where is…”
The stable hand squeezed his eyes shut, but a stream of tears escaped. Breathing deeply until he regained his composure, he opened his eyes and beckoned the Doctor to follow.
The Doctor was relieved at first when he came into the study and saw the Patron sitting in his chair.
Then he looked into the glazed eyes staring right through him, noted the slack jaw and witless expression.
His heart ached at the sight of him, and the Doctor had to fight back his own tears while searching through his bag.
He took his time preparing his instruments, not starting his examination until he recovered his poise.
The Patron was quite robust, showing the health of a man half his age until the Doctor felt for a pulse and found nothing. He froze, his mind reeling over the telltale mark of the Sorcerer of the Caverns.
But that was impossible, for the Sorcerer preyed on young women.
“Patron, what happened to you?”
“Eh…” he said, his voice ravaged. “Eh…la bandita stole my heart…”
The Doctor frowned and shook his head.
“I don’t understand. Who is this Ella Bandita?”
The Patron looked confused at the name. Then his face cleared for a moment, a spark of intelligence flashing in his eyes only to become nothing.
“Ella Bandita…” the Patron said, nodding and his voice dropped to a whisper. His left eye welled with single tear which fell down his cheek.
“Ella Bandita,” he repeated. “She’s my daughter.”
The Patron stood up.
The Doctor watched him leave, scarcely able to believe it was the Patron he saw.
His gait was almost silent, too soft to leave an echo.
The Doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head, his hand shaking while making the sign of the cross; only a thought kept intruding on his prayer.
The Patron had finally given his daughter a name.
