Introductions First, My Dear.

Lights and a maggot.

Morticia: "The shoulders."
A flare of sharp lashes would uncover the charcoal hue to her eyes as she looked up to watch her so starkly, that the overhead light swinging to and fro above them was no match with its solid glare. Around them, there was a variety of sounds that echoed up and down the walls. Panting. The drawing of footsteps. Shuffling about. Tools being misplaced and assigned to different positions. The rummaging of the assistant's hands in his sodden pockets. And then the sounds that dare not say their names. It was a smoldering gray that approached the witnesses in the room, only to be wilted from its passive maroon welts en-scripted in the patient, herself. The wait was earnest in that they wanted to see to it that the welts smoldered down to pink, which they knew wouldn't be conveniently possible due to the common sense to her anatomy. But she didn't know that. She didn't know why she was truly punished. They did. And the headmistress had noted in the library shelves within the back of her head that they never recognize what they're in for, otherwise the process of interview was prone to become an invalid. The solid tone was a misunderstanding that brewed malice within itself to the deepest content of one's arousal toward the undefined manner, undefined predicaments, and certainly their situation that had yet to unfold to the arrangement predicted since the second they stepped into the odd conformity within the interview room.
"Assert your palms on the form of her shoulder blades tightly..."
Now the interview room was filthy. There was a stench in the air that was preserved with skin shell fragments, blood letting, and medicine outlawed on the first degree of murder. It was clambered about with all sorts of tools and necessities used to make up the foundation of the information gathering process. The intimidation was proven to show some signs that the room would break the patient itself. It had yet to be scrubbed by the Lady's tenants and yet to be blessed by their priest, who is on standby for reasons not to be shared in the presence of a health ridden person such as the Romani standing before the Mistress and her assistant. The girl, however, was no Romanian, nor was she a descendant of any Middle East breed, but she was simply a gypsy. A gypsy who had, in fact, come to the asylum on her own free will with nothing but a deck of cards to her name. No money, no herb, nothing but the materialism of her cards to guarantee that she had a parcel of her proof that she was a legitimate woman that had abandoned the very materialism. This was a very odd thing to conform to, considering one denies one's nature when they oblige in such risks that undo them in the most unkind of manners. Such as taking on an unfamiliar home, an unfamiliar agenda, and an unfamiliar Mistress.
"No. Not like that. You're being too lenient with her."
Adjusting her sharp glasses, Morticia observed the behavior her patient gave when ushering herself closer to the identified invalid. Pursing her apple burgundy lips together, the indicated line would finally curve into a satisfied smile, though promising in which it would indicate the most disturbing of thoughts. With a filter of her fingers through her ink blot hair, she twisted and turned a strand that eventually wafted itself up into a layered flare. With a clearing of her throat, she continued her little investigation.
"There we go... now let's get back on the topic"
And then resumed the entry-code process.
"Why are you here?"