CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Claire
Everyone over the age of thirty must think kids don't grow ears until they start shaving. I've heard adults talking about how spoiled I am plenty of times, and they're probably right. But I'm tired of being one of Terillium's spoiled daughters. I don't want any more furnished dollhouses or Connemara ponies or pink silk dresses with curled ribbons and bows or diamond stud earrings or whipped banana pies. I saw a picture in Papa's office one time, an elephant with ears so big he could fly. Maybe my ears are too small; maybe they'll grow so large that by the time anyone notices I have them, I can just fly away.
But I can't fly away, not yet at least. Until then, I guess I have to put up with Miss 1000-Times-More-Spoiled-Than-Me-Anastasia and her birthday party, pretending the smiling man with the skewer behind the cake isn't a murderer.
By nightfall, hundreds of servants had transformed our courtyard into the kind of birthday fantasy world that made regular old spoiling look like a night in the stocks. Cakes and cookies and treats hid around every corner; I didn't eat a single one. Pink and white lace draped from every balcony, but I thought they looked like the ones Papa used last year. Countless candles hung in overlapping rows filling the courtyards and gardens with flickering sparks; irresponsibly dangerous. Then there were the fire breathers and musicians and jugglers and story tellers and fat little women in scary masks and skinny tall women in scary masks and unicyclists and clowns and men on stilts surrounding me for as far as I could see in any direction. Boring.
All through the night, guests presented Anastasia with birthday gifts (you would think she was already Lictora with the way these people were acting) and, as was tradition, gave me matching presents. Papa insisted his daughters be spoiled equally. A dozen handmaids were standing by to whisk the gifts back to our rooms when we were done playing. I made up a story about not feeling well so I didn't have to open any of them. I didn't want to make the guests feel bad—it isn't their fault Papa's a murderer.
The party stretched on forever. I just wanted to go to bed. Papa filled the air with tiny floating sparkly lights that tasted like vanilla or banana or mango or chocolate if you caught one in your mouth—not that I tried to. Then there were the dancing ballerina dolls in the fountains. They twirled and spun, gliding out across the water's surface and no one could explain how. 'Just something I picked up in my travels.' And no party is complete without floating fire-lanterns.
At 9:00, as the bells that hung from our home's tallest tower rang, the dancing ballerinas paused their pirouettes. The candles and torches and floating lights dimmed, until the whole courtyard grew dusky as the jungle's under-canopy outside the city walls. The stars seemed bright as flames, until they too, seemed to dim, like layers of fog had rolled over us. It became so dark I couldn't even see my own hands in front of my face.
Folding my arms, I leaned against a lamp post. I had a headache and had seen the whole routine before. Everyone went silent as little flames appeared deep in the fountain bath. Though the water was only a few feet deep, it appeared as if the orbs were further away than the stars in the sky. Slowly, the flames grew brighter and brighter until the first fire-lantern broke the surface of the water, sending soft circular waves out like raindrops in a puddle.
Everyone gasped.
The fire-lantern, shaped like a ship, didn't stop. It emerged from the water, dry and burning bright. It took flight and sailed up into the sky above us. Why couldn't I have been born a firelamp?
Soon, a second, then a third and fourth fire-lantern joined the first until the sky was filled with warm flickering flames. That, however, was not why everyone watched with held breath. They were still waiting for the finale. With a fizzing crackle, the first floating lamp imploded, as if it had been swallowed by the night. Then it burst with a gut shaking boom into a canopy of shimmering sparks that fell around the entire party.
Everyone cheered at the sight. I plugged my ears. One by one, each fire-lantern followed the first. They began to explode faster and faster until the sky was filled with every color. Shapes of flowers and ships and scary creatures of the jungle devoured one another, falling like a fountain around us. The umbrella of radiance shone so bright it could have been noon on a summer day.
Then, right before the end, all of the ashes and sparks which had long since fallen to earth, shot up together as rays of white into the starless sky until the fire-lanterns themselves seemed to become shimmering stars. The party-goers seemed to be sucking up every last moment as if it might be the last night they had to live.
I busied myself making sure all my finger nails were exactly the same length. Finally, after what felt like hours, everyone roused from the trancelike state they had fallen into. The musicians struck up a tune. The ballerinas danced. And the party entered its second half. This night was never going to end.
Anastasia made me come with her—like always—quietly threatening Terisma on me while I slept. I followed as she danced in the courtyard, played in the garden mazes and under the stilts of the high-walkers, laughed at the clowns, and tried to distract the musicians from their sonatas—violin and bell melodies that sounded ghostly after what I learned about my Papa that morning.
During the party, the house was off limits to anyone but a few servants, so Ani and I could have a place to rest. It was nearly time for cake when Anastasia decided she needed a break. She wanted to try on a new dress that shimmered like it was lit with flames.
Inside the house, the guests' noise was muffled behind the thick stone walls. Papa offered to give us both rides up to my sister's changing room. I refused, choosing to walk slowly up the stairs while he ran past me with giggling Ani on his back. I thought they resembled an ostrich with a fat pig riding on its back.
After he was done with Ani, I darted behind a bookshelf and snuck to the edge of the balcony just as my mother walked in. The entrance room was round, at least as tall as it was broad, with a white paneled, arch ceiling. Duckie called the style bar-oak, or something like that. It looked gaudy. Bright oil lamps lined the walls and one oiled-bronze chandelier, with hundreds of little flames, hung from the center of the arch above where I crouched. The servants set the lights to burn low at this time of night, so the room was dim and eerie. The marble floors, which helped keep the house cool in the summer, were covered with elaborately embroidered tapestries that Papa brought back with him from trips over seas. Two wide staircases made from paneled wood and platinum embedded stone curved up each side of the round room and met in the center, where I hid.
Not ten feet from me, standing next to a small hutch along the wall, I could see my mother frowning at Papa. "Is that behavior really appropriate for someone of your stature? And at your age? You could kill yourself."
"Ha. Imagine that?"
She didn't smile.
"I was just having some fun with my daughter," he replied. "You should try it sometime."
"You have enough fun for all three of us."
"Sorry." Papa held his arms up like a surrendering soldier. "Let's not argue about that again tonight, alright?"
He put his hand on her shoulder. She pulled away.
"What do you want from me?" Papa asked. "You have everything you've ever wanted. You live in the finest mansion for a thousand miles, your pantries are stuffed with the best food and wine, and you have a beautiful, healthy family. I return from months at sea, and you act like you didn't even miss—"
"If I wanted a fool to entertain me with platitudes, I certainly wouldn't have married one. You know why I'm upset."
Papa paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"I haven't decided yet..." he said.
Mother folded her arms under her breasts, making it look as if her dress's neckline was cut too low. "We can't keep living like this. You promised you would decide by the time you returned."
"It's not as simple as you think."
"Everyone is going to figure out that something is wrong eventually," Mother sa
id.
"I'm careful," he said without looking at her. "They won't figure it out."
"You're still giving your daughter rides up the stairs. If anyone did the math, they'd have to assume you're at least ninety years old. What are you going to do when they start asking questions?"
"You sound like the man who came to visit me today." Papa pulled a blade he often carried from his belt and placed it on the table. I had seen the knife before; Papa always got a gleam in his eye when he stared at it, like it was even more beautiful than Mother.
"I heard about him," Mother said as she eyed the blade. I wondered if she was jealous. "I don't like that man."
"No one does."
"What did he want?"
"He never changes. Thinks I should give it all up. Just like you."
Mother's eyes shot up at Papa as he polished the blade on his sleeve.
"I'm trying," he said, "but it's not as simple as you think."
Sighing, Mother leaned her back to the wall. Maybe if she didn't insist on women wearing those insufferable corsets, she could breathe easier.
"I'll never know why you don't get along with him better," Papa said. "You two agree on so much."
"I won't let you hurt this family just to protect your secrets. I'd rather you say good bye to us and leave, than leaving me to explain what's happened to you someday when you disappear on us."
I crept forward.
"You know I won't do that."
"The day will come eventually, and when it does I'll be left with the mess."
Papa tested the blade's edge and drew a drop of blood from his thumb. I gasped out loud then clamped my hands over my mouth to keep from making any more noise.
"Would you stop playing with that thing," Mother said. "Someone's going to get hurt." Papa made a look that seemed to say 'that's the point.' I'd never seen Papa bleed before, not even one time when he was bitten by a huge Doberman. Not even when a criminal tried to murder him with a fountain pen in the courthouse. The Bloodless, that's what the boys in town called him when they thought no one was listening; Anastasia said she heard Papa's veins were filled with the stuff stars were made of.
"I wonder what you're hiding from me sometimes," Mother said. "Can't you trust me with the truth?"
Papa opened his mouth, but stopped.
"You used to love me... or was that a lie too?"
"Of course not. I still love you—"
"Then fix this."
"I've done everything I can." Papa stabbed the blade into the table. "You think the stone walls I built around this mansion are just to keep the cannibals out?"
"I don't care about a fence."
"You're protected here."
Mother's eyes narrowed and she spoke quietly. "From secrets?"
"No one cares about hiding the truth more than I do."
"I'm not sure anymore," Mother said. "I know you can hear the people whispering. Sometimes, I actually think you like it. You want them to know."
She turned and walked to the door, but Papa reached out and clutched her hand.
"You're right. It's hard for me..." He paused. "But, I made a decision while I was away. I took measures to ensure my family will be secure forever. I'm close to giving it up; I just need a little more time."
What measures? Killing Evan Burl? Is that what would keep us safe?
"And in the meantime?"
"I gave Claire something today. She's as protected as she can be."
She walked to the door. "It's time for the cake. Are you sure it's big enough?"
I startled at the sound of the door slamming shut. Mother didn't even ask. She didn't care that Papa had ordered a boy's execution. Papa lifted the pea coat from the chair where I'd draped it that afternoon. Slipping the coat on, he pulled out a bundle of loose pages from the desk drawer. He flipped through them, stopped to lick his finger, then turned one more. He sucked in a short breath. I watched his eyes dart across the same page three times. He slumped against the wall, sighed, then stared across the room. The clock behind me ticked off two whole minutes before Papa moved. I was beginning to think he might have fallen asleep when he stood suddenly. He felt in each pocket of his coat, one by one. I realized I'd forgotten to put the book I'd stolen back. I scanned behind me, trying to think of where I could run.
"Claire!" Papa yelled.
I heard his boots pounding up the stairs. Stuffed in my stocking, the book felt hot against my skin.
"Where are you, Claire?"
Pushing my shoulders back, I stood up straight.
"Yes Father?" I tried to use the expression my Mother wore whenever she argued with him.
His eyebrows furrowed. "Have you been hiding up here?"
"Yes." I took a step back.
"And you heard what your mother and I spoke about?"
"Yes," I said, tilting my chin up, resolved not to show my fear.
"Tell me the truth. Did you find a little brown book in my jacket?"
An itch grew where the book touched my skin.
"I won't be angry if you tell me the truth now," he said. "I just need that book."
No turning back now. "I don't know what you're talking about."
His bright eyes flicked back and forth, like he could read my deepest secrets by staring straight through my skull, but I was determined not to look away.
"Come here child," he said, beckoning to me as he sat on a chair at the top of the stairs. I obeyed, trying not to shake.
"When I was young like you, figuring right from wrong was simple. But as I grew older, I realized some people seem good when in reality they are not." He placed a hand on my knee, as if to comfort me, but might it be to keep me from running away? "And some scary people are actually good. When you are a child, it can be hard to sort the scary people from the good ones."
Papa's other hand was behind his back. I pictured the dagger. Was he holding it now, ready to slit my throat if he discovered what I knew? I wanted to call for Mother or Ani or the servants, but he could smother me before the words left my mouth. I swallowed. "Which kind are you?"
"Neither." He furrowed his forehead. "I need you to trust me."
I took a breath. "Yes, Papa."
"That's good. But there's one more thing." He glanced in the direction of my ankle, where the book was hidden. "If you happen to find that book, and if I'm no longer able to carry out what it commands, will you promise to see it done?"
I imagined him tightening his grip on the sable knife. If I didn't agree, he would kill me.
"I'm trusting you to be Lictora one day. That day may come sooner than any of us expect. I have to believe you'll do what needs to be done."
I pictured him slumped against the wall and reading those loose pages. What did he read that upset him so much? And why was he talking suddenly about me being Lictora sooner than we expect?
"That's good." He patted my head and I thought I saw him slip the blade in his belt. "Black and white worlds are the luxury of children. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you so, but better to learn from your Papa. Life's a much crueler teacher."
I stood.
"Now don't worry about this anymore. Go and enjoy the party."
I heard his boots on the stairs as I shuffled to the banister. Papa strode into the night, leaving the huge doors open behind him. I gazed down and saw the black dagger, sticking straight up out of the table. I shuddered. The front door swung in the breeze, creaking softly. I pulled the leather book out and stared at it.
But something had changed. Over the time code, an inky print smudged across the page—made by the finger of someone who had another copy of this exact same book. I ran to a writing hutch and spilled a bottle of quills. Dipping one in the ink, I began to write.
Is someone there?
Evan Burl and the Falling, Vol. 1-2 Page 28
