The Resurrectionist of Caligo

by Wendy Trimboli

  “Maybe when she gets cold, I’ll come for a warming visit.”

  They snickered. Sibylla had to bite her tongue, or the secret of their blood might spill from her mouth out of spite.

  “Will the pair of you never cease your teasing?”

  “I think we upset her.”

  “Better stop, Edmund. Edgar might take away your favorite badminton racket next.” Edward shoved an elbow into his brother’s side.

  Sibylla’s tongue curled, and only the chime of the arrival bell saved her cousins’ eardrums.

  The queen turned heads as she entered the parlor, resplendent in a gown of silver silk and lace with a plum-sized diamond pendant above her décolletage. Worried creases rimmed the queen’s eyes. But when she caught sight of Sibylla, her worry was replaced by a pleased smile – not the reaction Sibylla expected. Now if Sibylla wanted another word with Prince Henry, she had no choice but attend the opening ceremony.

  Resigned, Sibylla found her assigned place within the processional line and fell in behind Lady Brigitte. A fanfare of trumpets announced their entrance, and the crowd hushed. First the queen, then the crown prince and his family, passed through the parlor’s doors and into the majestic ballroom. Light from numerous candlelit chandeliers glinted off so many mirrored surfaces that Sibylla thought a gem had swallowed the room whole. Lady Brigitte winked over her shoulder, but Sibylla was searching the faces of the crowd. Harrod must be here. She couldn’t wait for some silly waltz. For once, she would ferret him out first.

  The queen began her welcome speech, and as her voice dipped and rose, the crowd parted. The emperor entered at the far side of the ballroom, wearing a formal dress uniform in elegant cream with pitch-black epaulets and an uncrowned topknot. On his chest glittered a silver star, the center of which held a winged horse. Sibylla’s pulse quickened. As they joined one another on the dais, the emperor and queen stood on an even footing.

  However, instead of introducing the traditional first waltz, the queen raised a hand for silence. She turned to motion Sibylla forward.

  An uncomfortable stillness filled the room to its vaulted ceiling, and Sibylla shivered. As she stepped between Edward and Edmund, she nearly stumbled into them. She hadn’t been warned she’d be performing any divine demonstrations. No one had told her anything. Glimpsing Edgar’s bewildered face, she realized none of them knew what the queen had in store either. Hands mortared against her stomach, Sibylla took her place beside the queen. She felt the weight of so many eyes on her, their curiosity almost palpable.

  “On this occasion,” the queen began, her voice wavering momentarily. “It pleases us to announce the engagement of our granddaughter, Princess Sibylla Celia Ingrid of Alabeth, to His Most Imperial Majesty, Emperor Timur of Khalishka. May this prosperous match strengthen, not only the bonds between our countries, but also the prosperity within and beyond our borders.”

  The collective gasp of the audience rose, and a smattering of applause radiated outward, followed by a shaky cheer. Sibylla dug her palms into her abdomen. She couldn’t move. Betrothals happened quietly, in a garden or drawing room, between two people. Hers had taken place in a ballroom with an audience and had caught her completely by surprise. Her mind went numb as though she’d fallen into a heavy slumber, except her eyes kept blinking. But he never asked. Her face prickled in shock. How could the queen announce an engagement when Timur had never proposed?

  “To mark this momentous day, may the dancing begin.”

  The custom of inviting the guests to dance was as tested and old as the Dams of Fourth Height, but when the queen took Archbishop Tittlebury’s hand for the first waltz, Sibylla felt her reality start to slip. The queen whirled as though ten years younger, floating on her frothy skirts from one end of the ballroom to the other. She moved so gracefully, yet the floor seemed unsteady beneath Sibylla’s own feet.

  A heady pall of perfume, spiced orchid and cinnamon, announced Lady Esther’s presence. She tugged Sibylla’s arm, pulling her away from the dance floor.

  “What did you do?” Lady Esther’s eyes brimmed with venom.

  “I don’t understand,” Sibylla choked. There hadn’t been time for seeds to blossom in the Khalishkan’s heart or branches to break in her own. She’d known for years the narrative of her future marriage, thanks to frequent reminders from the queen, Lady Esther, and Edgar himself.

  Even Archbishop Tittlebury had sanctified pairing the cousins. Yet, here they stood.

  “How did you seduce him?” Lady Esther demanded, as if Sibylla could bend the Emperor of Khalishka to her will, or convince the queen to give up reinforcing tradition.

  “I didn’t. That night on the town, we had kidney-beef stew and discussed Marlowe’s Menagerie’s collection of vultures.” And marriage pledges didn’t typically follow “romantic” outings to undertakers and butcher shop garrets, either.

  “If I’m to believe he fell for you because of stew and squawking birds, Helmscliff has made you mad. Khalishkans see us as nothing more than wand-waving magicians, claiming our right to rule while pulling doves from hats, and here you’ve managed to enspell one.” Lady Esther’s needle-like fingernails dug into Sibylla’s skin. “Did your mother teach you some trick?”

  “My mother?” Sibylla wrenched her arm free, shoving Lady Esther back. Her hand curled into a fist. Then someone touched her upper back, fingers hot against her bare skin. The emperor had snuck up behind her like a cat on silent paws.

  Lady Esther’s eyes widened. She stumbled on her words. “My congratulations,” she stuttered, “though your imperial majesty might wish to change his mind after so hasty an announcement.”

  His hand lingering on Sibylla’s back, Emperor Timur inclined his head with a smile. “I am surprised your aunt thinks so little of you, dear cicada, to suggest I would not have fallen of my own accord. I am a man of deep conviction.” His fingertips danced on the back of her neck, sending prickles – and a rippling light – down her arms. “Myrcnians are a most peculiar lot,” he continued as he scanned the dancers stepping in time to the waltz. “Why do you all insist on making each other so miserable?”

  “You…” Lady Esther jabbed a finger at the emperor. “You… you cabbage-fed reprobate!”

  “Lady Esther,” Sibylla coldly admonished. “I do believe you’ve forgotten with whom you speak. Perhaps you should get yourself some punch before you cause any further humiliations.”

  Lady Esther flinched as though Sibylla had struck her. She retreated, first backing into Crown Prince Elfred and then Edgar, while the emperor laughed. Edgar caught hold of his mother, and a small giggle of hysteria escaped Sibylla’s own lips. No Harrod, no Roger, but somehow she’d managed an engagement to the Emperor of Khalishka. She masked her mouth with her hand. As she stifled her outburst, Timur produced a velvet-lined jewelry box and opened it before her eyes.

  “Consider this my pledge,” he said, fastening a delicate chain around Sibylla’s throat. “Something worthy of my betrothed.”

  She turned the pendant in her hand – a black and white onyx goshawk set in an oval of blue enamel. Gold and diamond florets made a glittering border. Sibylla suspected the cost of it could fund the construction of a small bridge. A pinch at the base of her neck made her jump.

  Still holding the pendant dumbstruck, she asked, “Why would you do this?”

  Timur gazed in Edgar’s direction. “Look at his face, crushed like the pulp of a stem tomato. Yours, on the other hand, is a lovely shade. Did you secure more pine liquor for us?”

  “Engaged…” She hadn’t yet come to terms with having a Straybound, and now this. “You might have asked me before announcing to the world.” She wasn’t certain she could have refused, or that she would have.

  “When you first smiled at me, I was uncertain. You proved more convincing after a night of drinking. With that Myrcnian glow of yours, your song is quite clear for any man with eyes. Although I may need to arrange a few lessons in guarding secrets.” He teasingly entwined hi
s fingers with hers, and she looked down at the bluish glimmer along her wrists. “Your lack of discretion certainly gave me the advantage in negotiations with the queen.”

  Timur had seen many things the day they spent together, but surely nothing to convince the queen to commit her granddaughter to a foreign alliance. Sibylla’s stomach turned queasy over what she may have said. He let go of her hand, allowing her to breathe again. Inches from her, well groomed and self-possessed, he intimidated her. She couldn’t manage one man, let alone a second.

  Still, the betrothal couldn’t last. Sibylla bitterly regretted not telling the queen of her cousins’ non-royal bloodline that morning. Soon, she would quash the engagement with one fell secret. Could Myrcnia even weather such a calamity?

  “I have something else for you, from Lady Brigitte.” He handed her a dance engagement card in the shape of a hand fan and decorated with names to indicate her partners for each dance. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. “I’ve made sure I’m your last.”

  Sibylla had no desire to dance. She intended to throw the fan aside when her eye noticed Lady Brigitte’s hand – or rather her ink – had crossed out one gentleman and replaced him with another. There, number twelve… Harrod’s name had been inked in.

  She stared at the fan in indecision. Harrod was the only guarantee she had of saving Roger, and he had been handed to her on a dance card. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. She could manage her other concerns later. For now, she prayed Roger could survive a few more waltzes.

  35

  “Open up.” Someone clenched Roger’s jaw and forced it open.

  Roger snapped back into himself. He still couldn’t move even an eyelid. A lit lamp sat in the grass near his feet. Reins jingled nearby as a browsing horse shook its head. When had the sun set?

  Fatigue saturated him, as if he’d been submerged in a bog. Someone had propped him up with his back against a cold stone. The Necropolis Hill sloped to overlook the starry glints of Caligo’s gaslamps, and beyond them the flat, black sea.

  A woman leaned over him, concealed in shadow. She tipped the contents of a globe-shaped bottle down his throat, and he choked on the bitter iron taste of blood. With effort, he pivoted his head away. His neck felt stiff as a rusty hinge. Cold blood sloshed his chin and waistcoat.

  Where was Ada? His last memory had been of her dragging him down the path. His lips formed words, but it took three tries to break the seal of his bottled voice.

  “Sibet?”

  “Is that your pet name for your duckling of a patroness?” Light angled across the woman’s face as she leaned back. A severe bun pulled her face tight. She wore a trim riding habit with a high collar like a constable’s, yet had darkened her eyes with kohl as doxies often did. He knew that mocking voice from somewhere, years ago.

  “What a stallion you must be, to have earned her reprieve,” the woman continued. “We are chosen to serve for our particular skills. As you have not the look of a cold killer, your talents evidently lie elsewhere.”

  “We?” Roger rasped. “You’re Straybound, too?”

  “Have a care.” Her eyes glinted as she placed a finger to his lips. Her leathered gloves smelled of horse and sweat. “It is impolite to speak such words. Never flaunt your station. We are but replaceable pawns in their grand schemes. Announce your position at your own peril. Now, one more swallow.” She pinched his nose and held the bottle to his lips. “Behold, the blessing of the Divine Maiden Sibylla.” Her voice twisted mordantly. “Receive it with humility to save your own miserable life, lest I slash your throat and feed you through the slit.”

  Roger obeyed with a shudder. He recognized the glass bottle, faceted like a cut ruby, as the centerpiece of the monstrance in Sibylla’s chapel. His stomach contracted. He had to drink it if he wanted to live long enough to reveal his findings. It took all his concentration not to spew the stuff right back in this woman’s face – and invite a shivving, no doubt.

  Warmth trickled back into his limbs.

  “Adulterated as this stuff is, you might make it to morning,” she said. “Usually the blood is warm and fresh. You’ll learn to crave it soon enough.”

  Roger squinted to see clearer in the dim light. “I remember you. The queen’s maid. Dorinda.”

  “Roger, was it?”

  “Aye, you remember well. But I can’t loll about here sharing memories. I must see the princess.” He shook his legs to get the blood moving, still too weak to attempt standing.

  “I never forget the mouths I’ve kissed in service of her royal majesty,” said Dorinda as she packed the monstrance’s centerpiece away in her satchel. She did not share Roger’s desire to move quickly. “Such a willing young buck you were, as if you couldn’t wait to get her highness’ taste off your tongue.”

  Roger’s face grew hot. “I could never have her. That were clear enough, but just knowing don’t douse the flames. Hush money ain’t no pail of cold water.”

  “Neither was the flogging nor prison, apparently. But now I suppose she can lock you away in her boudoir, as I can’t imagine you’re good for anything else. Indeed, her highness is most merciful.” Dorinda looked him up and down. “I trust her taste is just a shade… necrophilic.”

  Roger ran an unsteady hand through his hair, knocking out bits of sawdust. Mud caked his front, and his clothes gave off the mildewed reek of the tomb. He still couldn’t stand, but she didn’t seem inclined to help him to his feet.

  “I must thank you for the timely rescue.” With a grimace, he once again tried and failed to pull himself up to a standing position using the gravestone for support.

  Dorinda frowned. “I’d have let you die. It is tradition after the Binding for the unrepentant man to learn the consequences of defying his patron. But I had orders. A certain naval captain implored her royal majesty on your behalf. Captain Starkley even told me where to find you. He certainly has great sway over her royal majesty’s feelings.”

  So Harrod had come through after all. Roger vowed to try to thank him the next time they met. First, he had to make it back to the palace. Then he’d expose Dr Lundfrigg for the monster that he was, to Sibylla, the queen, and anyone else who might listen. He just needed to regain control of his legs.

  A faint wail rose from the stones behind them, carried by the wind. The horse huffed through widened nostrils and skittered off into the dark. Roger craned his neck to see over the gravestone. A shadowy figure came bounding over the hill, wailing and keening as it wove between the stones. A long lace veil billowed out behind.

  Ada! Roger sank back with relief against the headstone. He knew that sound well enough.

  “Get your hands off my sack-’em-up man!” Ada shrieked, bounding onto one of the headstones, where she balanced with outstretched arms. “I am Ghostofmary. I shall lop off your fingers and stick ’em up your nose if you dare resurrect him!”

  Dorinda’s icy line of a mouth split into a grin. “Ah, but I already have.”

  Ada brandished a hand-trowel like a sword. She leaped from the stone and, skidding up to Roger, pounded his chest. Pale lines streaked her cheeks where tears had washed away the grime.

  “I thought you was dead.” She bundled her long lace train and laid it on the ground between them. “See? I ran up to my crypt to fetch your shroud.” Then she held up the trowel. “And after I wrapped you, I planned to bury you right here. You’re the kind that likes a good view.”

  “That were right thoughtful of you, Ghost,” said Roger, and pressed her thin hand to his cheek. Some feeling had returned to his skin despite the numbing wind.

  Ada dabbed at the blood on his chin with the corner of the shroud. “Though if I were bigger and stronger, I’d have sold you to the sawbones in Mouthstreet for the price of a ’gazy pie.”

  “How touching.” A man’s baritone startled them both. The speaker stepped out of the darkness, his spectacles glinting in the lamplight. Roger recognized him with a start – the barrister Mr Murray, a bogeyman from th
e past. At least, his arrest felt distant now. Roger tried to stand but slumped sideways against the headstone. Where had Dorinda gone? Her lamp remained, set on the base of an ornate stone urn, and he could hear the jingle of her horse’s bridle somewhere down the hill.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Weathersby,” said Mr Murray. His manicured sideburns looked like two black cleavers on his chiseled face. “I knew I would find you. I shouldn’t be surprised you made off with the bonnets. Where are they?”

  Ada placed herself between them like a guard dog.

  “Bonnets? What rubbish are you spouting off this time?” Roger pulled himself to his feet and took a wobbly step forward. “I don’t bloody well care about your ladies’ hats. How did you find me here?” He’d figured out Dr Lundfrigg’s and Nail’s part in the murders but had forgotten the lawyer who’d ensured his conviction as the Greyanchor Strangler. This bastard was in on it, too.

  Mr Murray pointed to the muddy path where Ada had dragged him. “You left a track wider than an ox cart.” He pulled the fur collar of his expensive coat tight against the wind. “First you resurrect a body you never should have, then you return to the scene of the crime for the rest of it. Enough games. Whoever your patron is, they’ve lost. Now, the mushrooms. Nail told me he had killed a thief, but when I arrived I found the door open and the prize stock missing. Tell me where you stashed it before I’m forced to do something unpleasant.”

  Always the opportunist, Nail must have absconded with Celeste intending to pin the theft on him.

  “I never took your mushrooms,” Roger spat. “Best you ask Nail. He’s told me plenty of lies already, and now he’s told you some, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was halfway to Khalishka.”

  “You’re the only liar here, but I’ll have you screaming the truth soon enough.” Mr Murray advanced, a thin, silver pen-like implement in one hand.

  Roger puffed up his chest. “Did Dr Lundfrigg put an advertisement in The Speculum for lackeys and lickspittles? Just how many of you blighters work for him? Even if I knew where Nail took your bonnets, I’d sooner tear out my own tongue than help you.”