The Key Lady
The key keeper has always been a woman. No rule says a man can’t do the job, but no man ever does. The Asylum needs many locks and, therefore, many keys. The keys never be lost, never be bribed, never be borrowed. No copies of the keys exist.
Once in the history of the Asylum a key was lost. That door has never again opened. What was on the other side of the door has faded from memory. Or perhaps blocked out.
One inmate worries a great deal about fire. Could the Key Lady unlock every door in time? If you ask the Key Lady directly, she shrugs and reminds you that matches are forbidden on the grounds.
No one knows when the Key Lady sleeps. Every day, any time a nurse or doctor or orderly need a door unlocked, she arrives, neat and straight. She doesn’t smile or chat. No one knows her name.
The most maddening sound, all the inmates say–is the sound of the keys jangling in the hall.
As we come up the Solstice, someone plans to steal a key. Just one. With so many, who could notice one? And in a place like the Asylum, the Solstice is a very busy night. I’ve heard the thief plans to use a bucket of water. The thief says in the right light, the Key Lady looks green.
But a key is no broom. You can’t ride it over the walls.
This isn’t really a story–but it is about the location of the series. Well, maybe I’m not really writing stories.
At least I’m writing.