UPDATE:  This therapist is no longer taking new patients. Please send new patients to the next session, starting Wednesday, January 21. All patients still in Dr. Long's waiting room as of the time of this update (1:30 pm, January 20) will be seen by Dr. Long, who begs you to be patient. (Ahem, pun entirely accidental...)

***

The therapist's office looks like it has been furnished with leftover props from the set of a Chinese period movie. Celadon vases are ranked behind protective glass like rows of fat little soldiers; one earth-toned urn from the Ching dynasty occupies a place of honor on a pedastal. A windblown dragon flows around its curves and appears to be trying to bite its own tail. A large terracotta horse stands in one corner, stiff and regal, and in another, a set of ivory and onyx Mah-jongg tiles is scattered carelessly on a lacquered table. One wall is devoted to swords and spears; another to a collection of painted fans.

Dr. Long stands before a mirror. The mirror is round, its elmwood frame painted with characters of gold on a red background. It has been long since she regarded herself in this mirror. It is not a comfortable place to look.

The door to the office opens. A second later there is an enormous crash and the sound of breaking glass.

Miss Andrews, the receptionist, is standing in the doorway, looking both chagrined and stunned. At her feet the tea service lies in a jumble of broken blue porcelein and soggy carpet. But she does not appear to notice it. Instead, she is staring at Dr. Long.

"Oh dear," Dr. Long murmurs. "I forget you aren't used to this…" She turns away from the mirror and with a few practiced motions, puts her appearance in order, and then takes a seat in an antique Chinese chair. She is a slim and elegant woman, dressed in emerald silk with her black hair pulled back in a graceful ponytail. Her features are very Oriental and very lovely, though her tilted eyes are not brown but a deep green.

"And why should I be?" Miss Andrews replies acerbically. She is thirtyish, blonde, and severe, the type who never looks wrinkled even at the end of a long day. "Now then, the waiting room is filling up and I've got to get this cleaned up."

"Don't bother." Dr. Long waggles one red-taloned fingernail and the tea service promptly reassembles itself.

Miss Andrews pales slightly, but hides her discomfiture by stooping to pick up the service and carry it to the tea table. A little wisp of steam curls up from the mouth of the pot. "You won't find broken hearts and souls so easy to mend now, will you? I always wondered why one such as you would take up therapy."

"Oh, but it's obvious. I live for secrets. And we all have them…don't we, Adele?" Dr. Long smiles like a cat who's just figured out where the cream is kept.

Miss Andrews looks faintly nervous. "I have no secrets, of course. None that would interest you. But yours would send them screaming from the room, I have no doubt."

"Fortunately, I'm not here to tell them my secrets, am I? Now send in the first patient. Tell them to introduce themselves and explain why they have come. Then we'll see what I can mend...and maybe what I can break?"

Visit The Stone River

Careful to wait until his courtiers were busy at the gaming tables or gathered around the blazing fireplaces in the large room of Whitehall Palace, King Charles made good his escape.  Once changed into common clothing: black velvet britches, white shirt with much less lace at the cuff than he normally wore, a simple and neat cravat and a gold waistcoat.  Over it he slung his long dark cloak - the one with out the actuall gold thread embroidery.  This one had only touches of gold in its' brocade, but it was the plainest he had!  He sent a young page off with a message that summoned a chair , and that he ordered to let him off at Charing Cross. From there he headed down Fleet Street.   Thick London fog swept in off the river, growing heavier and heavier and soon obsured all around him   .......

*************

Charles finally came to the end of the heavy fog to find himself in front of a building that was definitely not part of his city, by any stretch of the imagination.  Windows high above him blazed with the light of a hundred candles each, although he was fairly certain it was going to be those strange burning globes he found within.  The street was deserted as he ventured into the building and found a sign in the lobby that had the name he was looking for.  He found the door labeled ‘stairway’ and started upwards.    It took him some time to reach the designated level and find the correct door – but there he hesitated.  Who was this ‘Doctor Long’,” he wondered warily.

He cautiously entered the large room to find several settees and chairs about the room that was furnished entirely from what looked like a very profitable trip by a whole fleet of ships to the East Indies and back!  Japanned tables and chairs, urns and vases, even pictures on the wall, all from the Far East – it must have cost a fortune to bring it all, he thought!  So, this doctor made himself a decent living, that much was obvious – and he must have very good connections with the shipping companies as well.  He would have to remember to ask James just how well the East India Company was doing these days!

He considered the other people in the room, and smiled as he recognized some of them.  Ah, apparently this was the right place.  He hoped no one was seriously or actually ill – just the thought of leeches being applied to anyone made his stomach a bit churlish.  He was careful not to knock over anything with the long sword he wore under his cloak, and sat down near the two who were playing some sort of game with tiles on a black lacquered table. 

A familiar looking young man nearby nodded a greeting which he returned.  He shifted the pouch he wore at his waist and from it removed the deck of cards that was poking him in the ribs and transferred it to a better pocket.   He picked up a wooden ball of some sort from the low table beside him.  The ball had parts that moved across its surface section by section when he tried to slide them around.  A puzzle of some kind he guessed and heard something small rattle inside it as he turned it over curiously.

Brother Fidelis looks around furtively. He double-checkes his hand-written note again, but yes, he was in the right place. Hesitantly he approaches the receptionist, who regards him cooly. "Ahm, I think I've got an appointment. My name is Brother Fidelis". He wishes he had time to change into something more none-descript, instead of his priest outfit but he had been called to an impromptu baptism in the early morning, which had turned into hasty last rites for the mother. He really prefers weddings. The cool blonde confirms his appointment and waves him to take a seat. Gratefully he sinks into the chair. Plenty of other clients, he notes, some distinctly odd looking. Not wishing to engage into conversation he picks up some strange home-improvement magazine. It's fascinating, really. Not that he needs the advice, monks cells tend to be pretty bare, and only have a crucifix as decoration, but at least this should mean he can stay awake.

"Brother Fidelis?" someone says to him, and "Brother Fidelis?" repeated in stronger tones. The receptionist is standing beside him. "Umm, yes?" Apparently the home-improvements weren't riveting enough. He sincerely hopes he didn't snore. " Dr Long will see you now," she says. Scrambling from his seat, Fidelis wonders why he decided to come in the first place, he would much rather catch up on sleep. He follows her to the therapist offices, which seems filled with strange looking ornaments. The therapist herself looks even stranger. He had heard of people looking like that, but didn't quite believe it. To underplay his surprise he launched into his introduction. "Emm, the Lady from outside said I should introduce myself. My name is Brother Fidelis, or I should say Father Fidelis, since I now work as a priest, but I still haven't quite got used to calling myself Father. I keep thinking they are talking to somebody quite different. I was referred to you, you see, because people keep saying I have issues. Not quite sure what they mean, but thought I might as well come along. Can't do any harm, right? So, em, yes, here I am."

Dr. Long's surprise is so great that she rises from her chair. "Sir," she says, inclining her head to the precise degree required of one personage of power to another. "I am honored. Will you not be seated?"

The old man stops in mid-sentence, mouth agape. Then he indulges in a great coughing fit, in the process setting the silk drapes on fire. By the time Dr. Long puts out the fire and a very harrassed-looking Miss Andrews bustles in to turn off the smoke alarm, the old man who calls himself Saerowyn is attempting to slip out the door.

"Sir!" Dr. Long says. "Please stay. I require something of you."

Saerowyn turns, his expression smoothing into guilelessness. "A love potion, did you say?"

Miss Andrews gives Dr. Long a shocked look before departing. She closes the door a little too firmly.

"Sir. Please sit down."

Saerowyn accepts the chair she offers, perching on the edge like a bird about to take wing.

Dr. Long takes her own seat again. "Sir. You are a man of great power."

Saerowyn nods eagerly, waving his arms about. "Yes, yes. I can make you a potion, or a charm, or--"

"Not that kind of power. You are hiding what you truly are."

Saerowyn is silent for a moment. The slightly goofy expression vanishes. "So are you. What could one such as you possibly want of me?"

Dr. Long smiles wistfully. "I am trapped and I want you to set me free."

Saerowyn draws himself erect. "Who is imprisoning you? That she-dragon out there? I'll deal with her--Where's that dratted Gentyl? Never around when you need a good hand with a sword..."

Dr. Long seems very amused. "Sir. No. Miss Andrews is many things but she is not a dragon. She is quite human, in fact. No, what I need is buried deep inside you. You must find it for me."

"Inside...me?"

"Yes. You must reveal the real you. And to begin that journey...you must tell me what you are most afraid of. The thing that is so frightening you would not dare tell anyone." She smiles again, with great charm. "Except me."

Visit The Stone River

Oh! my eyes! What purgatory is this? Was not the afterlife filled with dull  light? This is not what she expected, but at least she can no longer hear the din of crowds along the Tyburn Road.

Her eyes grow accustomed to the colors. But she must have gotten it wrong -- entered the wrong door. This must be Lady Barrington's salon, surely. A last treat before hell. She'd always wanted to be invited, but never was. They hated her. No. It couldn't be a salon. There were no discussions. No music. No food or brandy. This was no salon.

A woman is seated behind a table watching her. An odd sort, but she'd seen women like that before in London. From the far east, she had heard. She admired them for their bravery  -- to travel so far from home, but she'd never been in a room with one before though. Would she even understand her speech?

She speaks loudly, to make sure. "Do you speak English?" The woman does not respond.

"In that case, you are a toad in human clothing and this is most grotesque room I've ever been in." Still nothing and she shakes her head resigned to give the woman her name as directed.

"Very well, I'm told I must tell you my name, although I don't see why. You probably won't understand me. Nevertheless, I will tell you, if only to be done with this. My name is Swithun Cooper. Late of London. Not a whore. There, you have it now. All laid out for you to judge me." Watch your tone, Swithun.  The woman may not understand English, but she could certainly judge her on temper. She remembers the insult to Mr. Humphrey Gibbs. Within seconds he had his hands at her throat. On impulse, she drops the posy she still held in her hands and lifts feels for her to neck. Her precious neck - now rutted with twisted hemp. Even in death, her stubbornness shows itself and the words don't catch in her throat as they should. She thought she'd grown more careful. This won't do. This won't do at all. "I apologize, madam. I have a bit of a headache today."

Why does this woman not speak? Why does she stare so? Is she repulsed by the rope around my neck? The grey sack I wear? Do I have the stink on Newgate upon me still? She thinks I don't belong in this room of colors. That's it.  I should tell her of the days I wore yellow silk and jewels from the across the sea. How men fought for my attention. But I mustn't think of that now. Vanity was always my one true flaw. Well ... vanity and the ability to lie without flinching. I was a whore after all, but only once, so it can't count against me. I wonder if she knows.

I should sit - wait for her to speak or  wait for someone to come for me. She spies a number of red silk cushions on the floor and moves toward them. They are embroidered with sea monsters in colorful threads and she is reminded of the old map she saw in Mr. Chandler's study. "Here be dragons," it said. This must be the edge of the world, but she thought they sorted all that out. Men. They always get it wrong. She reaches to touch the silk if only to remember the feel of it against her skin, but the woman coughs and shakes her head. Swithun slumps to the floor like a spoiled child and waits. I suppose I must be repulsive, but  purgatory is worse than Newgate.

A Twist of Rotten Silk

The smell of scorched silk lingers in the air like cheap incense. He reaches a trembling hand out to pour some tea. His fingers curl around the delicate china cup and he raises it cautiously to his lips as if it requires great effort. The woman leans back in her chair, a pleasant, indulgent smile on her lips. She could have been a church sister accustomed to tending addled children. But she isn't. Her patience comes from one who has lived long and seen much.

“Do you have some cakes? I like cakes. Raisin cakes are nice, but lemon cakes are the best, don't you think?”

She quirks an eyebrow at him.

Clever girl.

He sets the cup down and fingers the embroidery on his sleeves. Stags moving through a forest with wolves taking their scent. Birds sitting in the tree branches while a squirrel clings to a tree trunk. A rabbit hides under the brush at the tree base. She is no rabbit to be frightened away, but is she the wolf?

He turns to the urn and whispers a cant.

Come, little one. Tell me of your mistress.

The dragon stretches and blinks, then uncurls from the urn and flies to his shoulder. He gazes at her and then nuzzles Saerowyn's jaw.

Great power. Feral power, but more.

He once again takes up the teacup. His hands are steady and sure this time. His gaze meets hers.

“I should fear you.”

Her smile is genuine. “And why is that, Saerowyn?”

“Because power such as yours is to be feared at the most and greatly respected at the least. To what ends do you wield it? That is the question.”

She shrugs and pours herself some tea.

“What do I fear?” He sips the tea, pondering the question he would not have dared ask himself. “Failure.”

“What kind of failure? I am not the only one who commands power. Why do you fear this above all things?”

“Because if I fail, a way of life may pass for those I care about. If I fail the service of a thousand years has been for naught. Those who went before me will count for nothing. I will be the one who betrayed the trust. By honor bound will mean nothing. If I fail, those I love the most will pay the price.”

((Wow. That made me think.))

Good grief.  Of all the ordeals.

Caitlin opened the door and was hit by Little China, or at least that was the initial thought that crossed her mind.  Books threatening to slide out of her arms, she hurried to the beautifully carved desk and the comparably beautiful and stiff receptionist.  She had the look of past beauty, slowly beginning to fade, leaving the hardened expression of that acceptance.

"Um, Caitlin Thompson?" she said it like her own identity was a question.  Perfect time to get philosophical.  

"Of course." the receptionist smiled, a cold edge in her tone.  Maybe she could get free therapy for working here.  Looks like she needs it.

She handed Caitlin a clipboard with paperwork and motioned to the seats behind them.

Caitlin turned and took a seat next to a chubby woman in a tight suit, smiling cordially.  Surveying the room, it occurred to her that the room looked like nothing more than a hodgepodge of classic literature.  A man with shifty eyes and long grizzled hair surveyed her, sending chills down her back, while another, dressed in an expensive looking cloak reached to brush a smudge off his shoes, lace cuffs falling over small, feminine hands.  

This was all beginning to seem like a horrible joke, candid cameras hiding behind the huge vases.  Name and vital information filled in, she hesitated over the 'primary complaint' section.  She felt obligated to check a box, making herself feel better suited to the group by identifying with some form of an emotional ailment.

Depressed?  No, just stressed.

Suicidal?  Hardly.  It took much more effort to survive.

Eating disorder?  Did forgetting to eat count?  Her stomach growled in recognition.

Lonely?  Ouch.  Chase's face flashed to her mind before she could stop it.  There should be some kind of disclaimer on these form, she thought, but what had she expected therapy to be about?  Just avoid any questions about _him_.

Maybe it would have been better just to take the dumb general psych class.  Yeah right, she thought to herself, when would that be?  Her schedule was packed beyond belief already, so the offer of a psychology credit in exchange for 3 therapy sessions was music to her ears and relief to her fingers.

Caitlin set her textbooks down between her and the woman with the timid smile and nervous hands.  Paperwork turned in, she sighed.  There was nothing more to do now but wait.  She tried to pass the time studying but couldn't seem to concentrate in these surroundings.  Instead, her mind roved over the group, imagining what boxes they had checked.  The woman next to her occasionally looked down at the open book, curiosity in her eyes, fingers twiddling together fidgeting.  Caitlin thought to strike up a conversation, but where to begin?

Hi there I'm, Caitlin, an over worked stressed out student that can't seem to get someone else's boyfriend out of her mind.  And you?  Bipolar?  Suicidal?  No no, I know, insomnia?

Dr. Long makes an apologetic gesture toward the wet stain on the carpet. "Pay it no mind, Mr. Rivers. I'm afraid the elderly gentleman before you had a little accident. I should never have asked him to pour tea."

A tea service sits on a table nearby, cheerful in blue-patterned porcelain and appearing entirely intact. Nathan Rivers gives it a puzzled look, then folds himself into the offered chair. The therapist is a looker, he thinks. He wonders if she's married. No sign of a ring. Nice tits. Great legs.

"...Mr. Rivers?"

He starts guiltily. "Sorry, ma'am." Her eyes are green. So odd in an Asian person. Green like jade. Green like the jungles of Nam.

"You are uncomfortable, Mr. Rivers."

Well, of course he is. Damned waste of time, this is.

"Would you like some tea?"

He attempts a laugh. "I like coffee, ma'am."

"Oh?" Dr. Long presses a buzzer and the blonde receptionist appears.

"Bring Mr. Rivers some coffee, Adele."

"How does he like it?"

Dr. Long turns expectantly to Nathan. The blonde watches him, too, one trim brow lifted.

"Hot, black, and sweet as love," Nathan says with a straight face.

The blonde eyes him briefly -- is she thawing a bit around the edges? -- before brushing past him -- now that was deliberate, he's sure -- to leave the office. She returns quickly, bearing a steaming mug of coffee.

Nathan leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling the mug in his hands. Time to take the upper hand. "Look. I want to talk about--"

"Kissing," Dr. Long says.

The mug slips from his fingers and lands with a splat of black coffee on the carpet. 

Dr. Long suppresses a small sigh. "Tell me, please, Mr. Rivers, about the last time you kissed a woman."

Visit The Stone River

Dr. Long studies Mrs. Chandler. "This is what you'd like to discuss? How to recover from the loss of your husband? How to care for an abused child?"

Mrs. Chandler swallows nervously. "Ah...well, yes. I--I don't feel--"

"It's all very simple, really," Dr. Long interrupts smoothly. "In the first case, time is the only healer. In the second, love is the only solution. There now. Wasn't that simple?"

Mrs. Chandler looks as if she can't decide whether to be indignant or crushed. "It's...it's not simple at all."

"Oh, but it is. Simple, and very difficult. But we're going to talk about something else today."

"We are? But I wanted to discuss--"

"Yes. But what I want to hear is what you don't want to discuss."

Mrs. Chandler opens her mouth. Closes it again.

Dr. Long smiles. "While you're thinking about it, would you like some tea?" 

Visit The Stone River