The Resurrectionist of Caligo

by Wendy Trimboli

  Out on the street, Roger spent a few winkles on hot cross buns, eating two and pocketing one for later. He felt better with food in his stomach. More coins disappeared into the pocket of the boy who gave Roger’s boots a much-needed shine. From what was left of Dr Eldridge’s payment, Roger had just enough to pay the laundry to lease him the mute costume. He’d have to go without cash until he settled with Mr Grausam on the morrow. One missed supper wouldn’t do him in.

  He found the laundry in a dingy side street he didn’t frequent much. The building was cramped with washtubs where girls churned the clothes with large wooden paddles.

  “Ahoy hoy!” called Roger. The smell of ash-lye rekindled his headache. “I’m here for a set, all black.”

  “Mute, are you?” The head laundress, with arms like a stoker’s, snatched the ticket from his hand. “Girl! Bring out that set of afflictions for the–” She looked Roger up and down, pausing at his new hat and his contused face. “–for the man.” He was unworthy of the prefix “gentle”, apparently.

  The girl appeared from the back room, staggering under the mound of black material. “Your afflictions, sir.” She placed the articles on an ironing table as the head laundress read them off the list.

  “Frock coat, half-cape, silk cravat, wool trousers, crape hatband, calico weskit, all in black. That will be one and five, mister.”

  “Much obliged, mistress. And you, young miss.”

  Roger’s heart leapt to his throat when he met the girl’s eye. It was Ada. From the cemetery.

  She wore her dark hair pinned up, and a shapeless green smock that made her look like a single onion in a sack made for two dozen. “Or should I say… Ghostofmary.”

  The head laundress growled. “I tolerate no oaths under this roof.”

  “Apologies, mistress. Have you a spare room where I might trade out my togs? I’d hoped to leave my own to be cleaned, but I have no other change.”

  “You might make do in the yard. Ada will show you.”

  “You look a sad drip today, Ghostofmary,” whispered Roger as Ada preceded him wordlessly into the courtyard. His breath formed a white cloud. “You make a livelier ghost than a laundress. Give us a smile. Don’t you remember me?”

  “Here’s your changing curtain, mister sack-’em-up man.” Ada scowled and pointed to a sheet with two corners pinned to a clothesline. “Or whatever your name is, as you never did bother to tell.”

  “It’s Roger.” He tossed her his hat, then ducked behind the sheet and unbuttoned his coat. “Roger Weathersby. I’m sorry if I forgot to tell you before. Is that why you’re glum?”

  The other laundresses had noticed Roger’s entrance to the courtyard. Their muffled laughter grew, and a few bolder ones tried to peek behind the curtain while he was removing his shirt.

  “Roger, yeah?” called one lass with wild red curls. “Oh, I bet you do!”

  The girls burst into fresh peals of laughter. “Rogerin’ Roger!”

  Through a gap between the hanging sheets, Roger glimpsed Ada tossing a pebble at the laundry window. The head laundress emerged wielding a dolly stick and brought the yard to order. She herded the girls inside, leaving only Ada alone to hold the sheet so it wouldn’t billow in the wind.

  “They was trying to see your smallclothes,” said Ada in her same lifeless tone. “But I knows you haven’t got any.”

  “What?” Roger shivered. Quickly, he fastened the fall-front of the black trousers and pulled on the black shirt that smelled faintly of lye. “You didn’t see nothing. I was very discreet.”

  “I don’t have to see to know. You’ve a streak of dandy in you, mister sack-’em-up. If a working man spends his metal on silk hats an’ scarves, he must go as a pauper elsewhere. That’s what my mother taught me, anyhow.” At the mention of her mother, Ada sniffled.

  Roger let his half-tied cravat unravel from his neck. He knelt before the girl and clasped her hands between his.

  “What’s wrong, Ada?”

  Ada ducked her face away. “Your type waits with his shovel ready for them as falls ill.”

  “Ada!” Roger placed an awkward hand on her shoulder, but she shoved him off.

  “You’ll trade her in for a tailored weskit, won’t you? Like a scrap of tin jewelry to pawn.” On this last word Ada thumped Roger hard in the chest, then sobbed into her hands. This time when Roger gathered her to him, she pressed her tear-streaked face into his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry… about damping… your afflictions…” Ada moaned.

  “Mourning clothes are meant to be cried upon.” Roger laid a hand on her head. “There now, take a deep breath. Better? Tell me about your mother. Where is she now?”

  Ada sniffed and wiped her face on her sleeve. “At Miss Estella’s.”

  “Is she a relative?”

  “A friend. From her work. But Ma’s got the burning. They won’t let her be a night faerie no more, because of what’s in her.”

  “Has a physician been sent for?”

  Ada glared at Roger as if he’d offered to get his shovel. Her words crackled like musket shots. “Doctors. Won’t. See. Whores. That is the law.”

  Roger flinched. “I could see her,” he suggested before he knew what he was saying.

  “Lots of gentlemen see her. Just not doctors. And you ain’t neither.”

  “No, but see, I’m learning to be one – a doctor I mean. You can take your gentlemen and hang ’em.”

  “You’ll be the one hanging,” snuffled Ada, but she gave a weak smile. Roger tried to remember what medical instruments lay strewn about his room, and whether they’d been recently cleaned. But he had no medicines, not even gin. From the sound of it, some tincture to ease the pain might be the only thing to do much good.

  “After this mute job, I’ll look for you at the necropolis gate. We’ll see your ma together. Gentlemen aren’t the only ones who know how to treat a lady, you’ll see.” Roger rummaged through the pockets of his old clothes. “Until tonight, here’s a hot cross bun for Ghostofmary. May she only haunt me half-heartedly.”

  “Dirty graverobber.” Ada knocked him hard in the shoulder, smiling, then devoured the bun in three bites.

  6

  Sibylla stiffened as Dr Lundfrigg, the new royal physician, set his bag on the card table and wet his fingers in a porcelain bowl of icewater. He flicked his fingers before removing the lower tube of his medical cane in a few practiced twists. While Lady Wayfeather acted as chaperone, watching from the corner of Sibylla’s bedroom for signs of gentlemanly misbehavior, the doctor attached the removable bell to an earpiece and constructed his stethoscope.

  By the cut of Dr Lundfrigg’s suit, Sibylla could tell he’d been knighted and given a well-paid position at court but had no idea how to dress. She jealously studied him, curious what the queen valued so much in this new doctor as to remove the previous royal physician from his post.

  His peach waistcoat bunched above his sallow pigskin trousers as he fiddled with his instruments, and he wore a cravat so festooned with lace and ruffles it looked like a swan had been stuffed neck-first down his collar. While obviously he had spent a considerable fortune at Butterwick’s Emporium for Gentlemen, he’d never fit in with the noble crowd. How mercilessly her cousins must mock him behind closed doors.

  “Are we feeling sprightly today, your highness?” He bowed, waiting for permission to approach. “No aches or sniffles? Any recent bouts of listlessness or hysteria that I should know of?”

  “None,” Sibylla said. “I’m sorry you had to make the journey from Caligo – I doubt you’ll find any maladies to excite you here. When I require a physician, I send for one.”

  Dr Lundfrigg leaned his ear toward Sibylla’s chest before remembering the apparatus in his hands. She breathed in and out at his command while counting the ridges in her room’s molding. The doctor hummed as he jotted notations into a slender black book that reminded her of journals Roger had once used to copy pages from medical texts she’d lent him from the royal li
brary.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “A lovely set of lungs indeed.”

  He lowered his stethoscope to her abdomen to listen to her internals. She doubted he’d hear anything through the layers of muslin and silk.

  “Have you been eating well? Do you have trouble sleeping?” A pocket mirror angled sunlight into her pupils. “Could you open your mouth, dear? Let’s have a look at that silver tongue of yours.”

  At last he pronounced her physical complete, then removed a box from his bag, opening it to reveal a syringe. Sibylla swallowed. The needle spanned the length of a palm, and the glass vial was the width of a jam jar.

  “I’ve no need of painkillers,” she interjected.

  “Oh no. Your highness misunderstands,” Dr Lundfrigg smiled. “I’ll merely be borrowing a sample of your blood.”

  Sibylla slipped back a step. “Why would you need such a thing?”

  She had enough bloodletting in her life already. With her chapel’s monstrance being used by bishops to give absolutions – spring, summer, autumn, and winter – drops of her blood mixed in wine graced the lips of countless Myrcnians, from cheating husbands and unfaithful wives to children who had lied about stealing pies.

  She must have grimaced, for Dr Lundfrigg attempted to reassure her. “As the royal physician, I am most keen to investigate the divine sanguine spirit. King Indulf was the last of your highness’ forbearers to embrace scientific advancements, and in the two hundred years since his reign, foolish superstition has stymied many fields of research. But I foresee the dawn of a new age of reason, where educated minds like yours will lead the people out of this darkness.”

  “While I appreciate your enthusiasm–” Sibylla took a step toward Lady Wayfeather “–let’s not hastily forget our lessons. King Indulf gave his hair and blood to his chemists to develop a healing potion, but instead the Doomsday Miasma was unleashed.” A permanent stain on magic and science relations took root in the royal court following the city’s fires. Even the office of royal physician had disappeared for over a century, to be reinstated at last by her great-great-grandmother Queen Mildred over the protests of the archbishop.

  “Surely your highness feels a moral obligation to the people beyond the mere parroting of ancient misunderstandings. The Miasma’s true causes are shrouded in history, and all primary accounts of the events are lost. Besides, modern research methods have advanced well beyond potion-brewing. Even her royal majesty the queen understands that.”

  Dr Lundfrigg may have been right to question the stories, but Sibylla’s stomach still churned with her recollection of last winter when blood ran down her skin in globs before the archbishop had collected enough to refill her chapel’s monstrance. As Dr Lundfrigg raised his needle, her tongue curled. Before she could stop herself, she snapped a shrill whistle-click with her tongue. A blast of sound shot from her lips like an arrow released from a bow and burst the vial of Dr Lundfrigg’s syringe. She’d meant to buffet his hand, not shatter the glass. When panicked her body often reacted defensively. Now shards littered the floor, and Dr Lundfrigg rubbed at his ear in obvious discomfort.

  Sibylla bit her lip. Unlike her glow and inking, she had less control over her whistle-click. The trait hadn’t shown itself in the family since her great-grandfather, so none of her relations could explain how to manipulate it. The queen herself had forbidden Sibylla from using it in the palace as she still remembered how her own father, King Rupert, whistle-clicked his mother, Queen Mildred, deaf during an argument over teacakes. Fortunately, Dr Lundfrigg appeared unscathed.

  He turned to Lady Wayfeather. “Madam, does her highness always react so negatively to sharp instruments?”

  He seemed more curious than angry, and Sibylla wondered if he’d ever witnessed magic up close. As the new royal physician, he must have examined her entire family by now. If only she’d inherited her father Prince Henry’s knack for tracking people over her great-grandfather King Rupert’s whistle-click, she wouldn’t be staring at a mess of broken glass. She watched with a twinge of compunction as Dr Lundfrigg retrieved the pieces from the carpet. A look of fascination lingered on his face until an interruption at the door startled them both.

  “If you please, your highness, she’s ready for you.” Lieutenant Calloway’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  “You didn’t come alone?”

  Still searching for errant glass shards, Dr Lundfrigg remained on one knee as though not wishing to tax himself by standing. “Not as such, I’m afraid.”

  Sibylla attempted to bury her excitement over the prospect of an unannounced visit. Her mother Lady Brigitte had been promising for months she’d pop by.

  “Should I tell her you’re not finished?” Lady Wayfeather’s mouth pinched as though she’d bitten into a salted prune. Telling royalty to wait rarely ended well.

  Dr Lundfrigg’s eyes flicked to his disassembled cane. Sibylla could see vials of drugs hidden inside its longest tube and wondered if he required the medical cane to walk. He hadn’t limped earlier. How odd to use secret compartments to carry supplies instead of his monogrammed physician’s bag.

  Nevertheless, she offered her hand to help him stand, but before she could touch him, he sprung nimbly to his feet.

  “Very unfortunate indeed.” Dr Lundfrigg brushed the dust from his trousers. His cheeks flushed red. “I thought I had more time with her highness, but perhaps we could finish on another day.”

  Lady Wayfeather fastened her hands to her waist and fixed Dr Lundfrigg with her most apologetic expression. “I suppose I could have a room prepared for an overnight stay. If you’ll wait in the parlor, I’ll see the cook about refreshments.”

  Dr Lundfrigg lifted his watch from a velvet ribbon at his waist. He shook his head. “I regret I must conclude my visit. I’ve certain other blooms to attend to back in the city. As it stands, I’ll be riding through the night simply to arrive on schedule for my morning rounds at St Colthorpe’s charity ward.”

  As he reassembled his cane, he lowered his voice so no one but Sibylla could hear. “Should we meet again, your highness, I can promise a most interesting discussion. What a waste to be languishing out here, when you obviously have so much to offer.”

  He bent into a polite bow before following Lady Wayfeather into the hall.

  Despite the urgency of Dr Lundfrigg’s departure, it was some time before anyone came to see Sibylla. She pulled at the cream lace pleated around her waist while her insides wore into frayed knots. Sibylla had not seen her mother since she’d been banished to Helmscliff, as Lady Brigitte considered Tyanny Valley too close to be of interest and too far to be worth a day trip. Sibylla’s latest correspondence – a collection of puns extolling the virtues of mothers and daughters – must have finally persuaded Lady Brigitte to visit.

  Sibylla contemplated the appropriate greeting for a mother she hadn’t seen in years, but hadn’t decided between a kiss and a curtsy when a knock at the door brought her hands to her sides. A woman entered wearing a green wool cloak mottled by melted snow.

  At once, Sibylla recognized the queen’s hand, for Dorinda was much more than a maid. She was her royal majesty’s Straybound. This grotesque tradition of indenturing murderers to individual members of the royal family had existed long before Caligo’s cobbled streets. For centuries, kings, queens, princes, and princesses had all used these unfortunate tools to carry out their sordid ambitions. But unlike countless other Straybound, discarded per royal exigency or whim, Dorinda had accompanied the queen for a full decade now, outliving her predecessors by years.

  This cold wraith of a woman spoke with the queen’s authority, even when addressing a princess. She was also the woman who had kissed Roger beneath the weeping ash and stuffed a royal bribe into his trousers. She must have been in her thirties by now. Though petite in size, her presence – rather like a wasp that had flown into a crowded room – was impossible to ignore.

  An uncontrollable glow lit Sibylla’s veins. She feared whatever
reason the queen had sent Dorinda to Helmscliff. Straybound never went far from their masters, as they were bound by the church to serve their patrons through ancient blood rites. If those rites weren’t renewed daily, then the Straybound risked a painful death. The queen must have taken drastic measures for Dorinda to make the two-day round trip to Helmscliff. Somewhere on Dorinda’s immaculate person would be a flask of the queen’s blood for her to ingest.

  Dorinda tugged off her cloak, uncovering her blonde, tightly-pinned hair and a white blouse buttoned up to her neck to hide the tattoo of royal indentureship. Though the tattoo branding could be easily revealed, Straybound usually assisted their magical patrons privately, often conducting themselves outside the law, and committing on behalf of their owners all manner of sins, like seducing the princess’ paramour and convincing him to abandon her. They could be anyone: the corner shop butcher who chatted over cuts of veal or the queen’s assistant who managed the daily schedule of maids. Only when they chose to reveal their tattooed necks, usually when nabbed by the law for conducting illegal activities on behalf of their royal owner, did the constables and guardsmen know to look the other way.

  Dorinda answered to no one save the queen herself, and as such she seemed to enjoy the discomfort she caused Sibylla. She perched on the settee, smiling. “Shall you at least greet me properly, your highness?” Years of serving as the queen’s voice in all matters had made Dorinda immune to protocol.

  “No one mentioned you’d be visiting.” Sibylla stood, as though height gave her the upper hand. “Why did Grandmother send you?”

  “Why on earth would her royal majesty send me?”

  “Perhaps she’s given up on the idea of holding me here until I agree to marry Edgar,” Sibylla shrugged. Dorinda would only say as much as she wanted, whether Sibylla stamped her feet or filled the room with screams. To counter this, Sibylla had perfected the art of dismissive oblige.