by J.A. Clement
Chapter Seven
Nereia woke. Fever gripped her; everything was strange and unreal. She lay in a tawdry room she did not recognise. Was it the comfortable room of her childhood? No, this was not the home of those bittersweet memories, nor was it the room of a child. She ought to know where she was but she was lost and could not bring herself to care about it much.
She hurt all over. Why did she hurt so much? Her back burned. Every breath stabbed, and her limbs were sore. Black flecks swarmed before her eyes like buzzing flies and she lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Daylight again, and still the same room. Mary was sitting on the bed talking to her but Nereia could not make out the words. The light was too bright; it hurt her eyes. Her whole body ached.
A third awakening, and this time it was dark.
Thirst burned her throat worse than the fire in her back and the pain that gripped her body. The moonlight glinted on something on the dressing table against the wall. A jug. There would be water in the jug, and she was desperate for something to drink.
Her world narrowed to the water in the jug. Feebly she writhed out of the tangle of bed-sheets. She slid out of bed and crawled through a grey haze of pain towards the dressing table, each movement making her head swim. There was white material on one of her hands, wound around her fingers. As she made one hand move, one knee, the other hand, the other knee, the bandage was turning slowly red. She did not have the energy to think about that. She concentrated on moving her hands, her knees, to propel herself towards the water. When she reached the dressing table she pulled herself upright, reaching up and up to grasp the tabletop and get to the jug. She had to stop, dizzy and weak, but urgent thirst would not let her rest.
She would drink and then she would lie down and never get up again. Was that a window in front of her? Through it the sea, a dead tree stark against the white face of the moon, that dark figure, image of herself, standing unmercifully on the sand. It did not matter. She had to get to the water.
As she reached for the jug she knocked it over. The water spilled. She bent to suck it greedily from the table, but her knees gave way and she fell forward.
Her chest split with pain. Dizziness threw her to the floor and a voice spoke, saying “Not so.” She wondered briefly whether she had spoken aloud - it was her own voice - but darkness claimed her before she had time to question how that could be.
Back in Scarlock another day dawned and the town began to stir. In the bakery, Arram took loaves out of the oven with a long wooden paddle and arrayed them in baskets to cool. Niccolo was out with the little fisher-fleet, far out from the shore on the dawn-silvered water. Vansel watched the sunrise from the window of his poky room in the Mermaid Inn as he shaved in the hot water brought up to him by Jem, while Jack’s snores in the next room reverberated through the thin wall that separated them.
Blakey followed Copeland back from their usual morning visits, still wishing he could simply plant a knife in his boss’s back and have done, and in the living quarters above Mickel’s warehouse, that gentleman peered round the door into Bet’s room, saw she was still sleeping as limply as a child, and did his usual hop-and-skip down the crow-voiced floorboards of the stairs so as not to wake her as he went to prepare breakfast.
Up in her rooms at the Black Cat, Madam stretched luxuriously, if a little stiffly. The chambermaid built up the embers of the fire into a blaze and set a cup of chocolate on the dresser next to the bed, before going to the wardrobe to set out Madam’s clothes for the day.
The sun rose hesitantly, and with it came that sense that had gripped the town over the past couple of days, of suspense, something imminent.
“Good morning, Madam.” The chambermaid smiled.
“Good morning.”
“Looks like rain again, at the very least.”
“So it does.” Madam sipped at her chocolate. “If there’s going to be a storm I wish it would get on and break.”
“So do I, but it doesn’t feel quite like a normal storm. Enough to unsettle everyone though.” The girl paused. “Would you like the blue taffeta today?”
“Goodness, no, child! We’re not expecting that sort of company at the moment. The thick green dress with the piping will do admirably.”
Madam watched as the maid set out the dress and left. The girl was quite right about people being unsettled and edgy; the atmosphere was thick with it. There had not been the usual freshness and release after the last big storm either, the night Nereia and Mary came to the brothel.
Now she came to think of it, she couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the suspense had crept in but she certainly hadn’t been aware of it before then. Madam wrapped a shawl over her nightdress and sat at the dressing table to pin her hair up. She was getting fanciful in her old age.
She grinned suddenly at her reflection, revealing even white teeth. Her hair was not the lustrous strawberry blonde it had once been but it wasn’t showing the grey too much and given how careful she had been of her complexion, even on the long march from Tobelst, she was aging moderately well; old age was something of an exaggeration. And yet there was still this premonition - though premonition was not quite the right word - of something nearing, and she did not think it was a good thing.
Long ago she had learnt to trust her instincts, and they told her to be ready. Something was going to happen and although the time was not yet there, it was not far off. Madam knew that when events started rolling there was never much time for pause or reflection; only the quick reflex and unconscious knowledge of which way to jump that had served her so well in the past. There was no point worrying about that now though. She just had to get on with each day until that time came.
She sighed. So many years, so many casualties. Briefly she wondered what Pren would have made of it, had he lived to see the end of the battle, but such sentiment was unhelpful. She took a handful of hair-grips and arranged her hair into its usual becoming style.
The skeletal figure paced back and forth on the sand. Its seaweed hair flicked out behind it as it turned and though its face showed no expression, it clasped its hands briefly together, the sand-coloured muscles working under that strange skin of dark water. Normally emotionless, urgency quickened its pace. Lying on the sand beside it, another figure stirred, moaned; and then Nereia sat up and gasped.
“It doesn’t hurt… It doesn’t hurt…” she found herself muttering.
“In this place you have no injuries to hurt you,” her own voice agreed.
She twisted and was shocked to be confronted with the blackwater version of herself, as if she was looking in a smoke-darkened mirror. “Who… What are you? And where is this?”
The other Nereia considered this. “This place has many names. Some of your people would call this the afterlife.”
“Am I dead then? I don’t feel dead.” Nereia looked around at the pale sand, the hissing sea, the moon hanging low in a blank sky.
“You are not dead.”
“Then how can it be the afterlife? Or is this a dream?”
“It is not a dream.” The other reached down to help her to her feet. “But you are not really here yet. Only a part of you is here.”
“A part of me? And there’s a part that isn’t here? How many parts are there?”
“Many, for the moment. Later you will be one, but now you are many.”
Nereia struggled to make sense of this. “Do you mean when I die?”
“Yes.”
“So when we die we come here?”
“Many come here,” it replied. “Some are caught in your own world. Some do not die. But you – you come and go back.”
“What does that mean?” Nereia’s patience snapped. “You’re talking nonsense! Everybody dies!”
The other hesitated. “There are not the words in your language to differentiate. There are those who are like the elemen
ts. They do not die, but change and go on in their cycle. Then there are humans who come here. Some go straight into the sea. Others wander in the hills until their time is come. Some humans are afraid of the sea and make a way of keeping themselves from this place. It is futile as when the world ends, they will find themselves here. They only delay the inevitable. Every being that lives comes here at the end.”
“Why?” Nereia looked around again. In front of the moon a dead tree was silhouetted and the only movement she could see was the harsh grass on the dunes, undulating in the breeze like a silvery echo of the sea behind them. “Why here? What happens here?”
“The sea calls them. They came from the sea. They go back to the sea. And so they begin again.”
To Nereia’s right the waves crept up the beach and receded. They were so inky that it seemed strange that they did not dye the sand black. “When you go into the sea, what happens? Do you drown? Does it hurt?”
“You do not drown. You are washed away.”
“You’re washed away? How?”
“You dissolve. The parts that were you make part of the sea. Is that clearer?”
“Yes...” Nereia sat on the sand again, suddenly weary. “So does it hurt?”
“Yes.” The strange being considered. “Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. It has happened to you, though you do not remember it. Some people cannot bear the hurt and they come back out of the sea. They wander amongst the hills and they return. Sometimes it takes a lot of times before they can be dissolved properly. This is not right. I must explain and I cannot! But I will try.” The being came and sat on the sand near to Nereia, thinking for a moment before speaking with the most emotion she had heard from it so far.
“The world is getting old. People are forgetting their connections to each other and to the world. Badness is happening. This has made the sea very bitter and black. The sea should not be black. Before, the sun shone and the water splashed silver. Before, when you came here, you did not understand. There was no-one to pull you into the light and so you brought the darkness. Bitterness drowned the sea, and all the beings brought into the world from the bitterness made it more bitter. Now this is a place they fear. Before, it was a solace and a refuge. Now it is a terror. This is not the way it should be.”
“It isn’t?” Nereia was finding its fractured story difficult to understand but there was no doubting the intense sincerity of this creature with her own face, as it struggled to explain.
“You did not understand before, but you must understand now!” It got to its feet, gesturing at the frothing waves. “The sea must be made sweet. It cannot be allowed to go further into bitterness, or the world will become filled with beings made of this wrongness. You must help with this.”
“That’s a lot to take in all at once!” Nereia stood to confront it. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that the world is going wrong and that it’s my fault because of something I did? I’ve never been here before!”
“You have been here before many times,” the being contradicted.
“When?” She stared at it, a little frightened now.
“Once before as you are now, when this form that I wear was put together.” It looked at the sea. “Your memory of that is hazy, though.”
“That was real? That vision or whatever it was, in the room with Blakey? I thought it was a nightmare...”
“That was your first visit as you are now, but not your first visit. Before that, parts of you have passed through unawares; but the last time you were here completely was twenty-seven centuries ago.”
Nereia let out a laugh as unstoppable as a hiccup. “Don’t think I remember that far back!”
“No. You would not, but it is no less true for that.”
Nereia paced back and forth. This was ridiculous! It could not possibly be true... but something made her believe it, regardless. She didn’t like it at all, but this place felt so familiar and so true that she could not disregard it. She wanted to shout that it was nonsense but was absolutely convinced that it was not. “So what do I do? If this is something I did before, how do I undo it if I don’t remember anything at all about it?”
The being considered for a long moment. “I do not know how the damage is to be fixed; not yet. I need to know more. I will need your help to find out how the world has changed in twenty-seven centuries, and what has happened to old allies and enemies.”
“I doubt they’ll still be around.”
“Many of them have died and passed back into the seas here; but many have not come this way. I do not know why that is. And there are some who do not die and cannot get back here.”
“Do not die?” A shiver ran up Nereia’s back.
“There is much to find out. Can you make your decision?”
Deep down Nereia had already made her decision, but it was so irrational that she refused to accept it. “I need time. What you’ve told me is utterly incredible. How can I believe it?” Nereia came to a stop, looking out over the tortured sea.
“Are you not here?” Her twin gestured around them. “Do you not feel how it is not as it should be?”
“Yes, but… I might be going mad.”
“It might be true.”
“You might be a demon. If I’m not mad or hallucinating that means you’re real and if you’re real how on earth would I know that you mean well and are not some devil come for my soul?” The blackwater twin gazed at her impassively for a moment. It did not comment, and after a moment Nereia had to smile. “Well maybe that’s a bit melodramatic but surely you can see why I should worry?”
“I do not understand that you should worry when you know that this is the right thing to do – and you do know that, in your heart and blood and bones.” It held up a hand to forestall her interruption. “But I do understand that you want to make the choice, and this is a choice that only you can make. There will be other opportunities for us to talk. In the meantime it is necessary that I find out about your own world. I wish to offer you a trade.”
“A trade?” Nereia was dubious.
“Yes. The time will come, and it will be soon, when you will need to be able to react to events. You cannot do this with the injuries you have been left with. Your ribs are broken. Your fingers are shattered. You have internal hurts as well as the ones that you can see. Let me heal the more serious of your injuries, and take your time to make your mind up one way or the other. In return all I ask is that while you sleep you allow me the use of your eyes to look in the mirror.”
“What?” Nereia was instinctively revolted.
“Once in your world I can see what is needful in the mirror, but I cannot do that from here. While you sleep, your body will sit up and open its eyes and I will look in the mirror. This is all. You will not feel it or be aware of it.”
“Is that like being possessed?”
“There are similarities, but the vital difference is that when you wish me to go, I will leave.”
Nereia hesitated. “I’m sorry. I can’t. It would be too wrong, too unnatural. It’s just not… I couldn’t.”
There was a long silence. The wind mourned, low and long.
“Will you think about it further? There is an urgent need for this,” the other Nereia pleaded, emotion leaching into its voice again. Salt spray clashed and fell upon them like tears.
“I… I can’t imagine changing my mind about this. It’s too alien to me. I don’t know. I can’t do it… but…”
“But?” It leapt upon that syllable.
“How can I allow you to invade me? How can I?”
The blackwater twin was still for a moment, its whole demeanour expressing bleakness; and then it turned away. “I have asked. You have given your answer. I cannot argue with you; but if you need me, call. I will come. And if you change your mind about your answer...”
“If I change my mind I will call you. I should go back now though.” Nereia was anxious to get away because she was mortally afraid that she might give in to th
at growing certainty that this was something she should allow.
“You will be in some pain when you return. It will not be pleasant. Your body has been badly injured and I cannot heal you from here. I am sorry.”
“I understand.” Behind Nereia the mirror appeared, showing the room. She stepped towards it, and there was a moment of dizziness instantly drowned by a wave of agony as she found herself slumped over the table. She could not breathe. Her lungs were filling. There was a metallic taste in her mouth and each attempt at a breath gurgled and stabbed. She coughed excruciatingly; blood spattered across the mirror and her knees would not hold her up.
Abruptly she knew that she should trust herself. Denial of this merging was against all her instincts and loss of control was not the issue now; survival was. She would be dead in moments. In a last flash of clarity, it all became very simple.
She was dying. She had promised to survive to look after Mary. If surviving meant she would have to agree to the other Nereia’s proposal, then so be it. She did not know if her blackwater twin could hear her thoughts, but as she slid down the table, gasping bloody froth, she reached out desperately for the mirror. The sharp cacophony of thoughts clanging through her mind became calm and quiet; then the pain receded and Nereia gave herself to unconsciousness.
“Madam! Madam!” Mary’s voice was shrill and worried, cutting through the early morning chill. As she reached the door it swung open to reveal that lady in shawl and nightdress, the last of her hairpins in her hand. “Madam, it’s Nereia!”
They reached the bedroom to find Nereia slumped on the floor in a pool of blood.
Madam knelt and felt for a pulse; then she sighed in relief. “Let’s get her onto the bed.”
They managed to manhandle Nereia back onto the mattress and Mary was sent for cloth and water. They cleaned the dried blood from her face and hand, and Madam carefully unwrapped the bandages from Nereia’s broken fingers. Gingerly she washed the fingers; then frowned. Rubbing a little harder now, she stopped and looked more carefully.
“Is she all right?”
Madam looked up and smiled a little absently. “I think so, Mary, but perhaps you’d go get Mickel anyway.”
Mary dressed quickly and dashed away. Madam watched her leave, and then looked more closely at Nereia’s hand. The fingers that had been broken and abused a couple of days previously were now whole and unmarked. Where the splinters of bone had protruded the flesh was whole. She lifted the girl’s arm; the burns remained and the knife-wounds on her back were still there, but both had lost their angry redness.
By the time Mickel arrived, Nereia was sleeping peacefully and it was clear that her fever had broken. Mickel checked the girl over and as he sat back, her eyes opened. For a moment she looked distant and sleepy, but gradually awareness seeped back into her gaze.
“Welcome back!” Mickel smiled. “How are you feeling?”
Nereia thought about this. “Wrung out…” She coughed a little and went on. “Sore. My back hurts, and my arms… oh, most of me.”
“How are your hands?”
“My hands? Only part of me that doesn’t hurt, I think.” She coughed again.
“And your ribs?”
“My ribs? Very well, the only other part of me that doesn’t hurt.” She smiled wanly.
“Good to hear.” Mickel stood. “Could you sleep?”
Nereia yawned. “I think so. I’m hardly awake…” She yawned again.
“Then do; it’s better than any medicine I can give you.” He glanced at Mary, who settled back in her chair by the bed. Satisfied that Nereia would be watched over, he left the room quietly and went to see Madam, now fully dressed and waiting in her parlour.
“Did you see her fingers?” she asked him as he entered the room.
“I did.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“She was lying in a pool of blood.”
“Her ribs are not hurting her, either.”
“They aren’t? But she could barely breathe!” Madam looked out of the window as she continued. “How does that happen? I don’t understand, Mickel.”
“It’s impossible. You saw her fingers as well as I. Bones don’t knit in a few days. Flesh doesn’t heal like that. It’s impossible.”
“And yet…”
“Yes, and yet.” He paced the room. “It makes no sense, no sense at all. If it wasn’t that you’d seen it, I’d be starting to wonder if I’d gone mad. But as it is there’s simply no explanation.”
“What should we do?” Madam stopped herself. “There’s nothing to do, is there? But it makes me profoundly uneasy.”
“Well, apart from being glad that she’s healing so fast, we should watch her. I know full well that the body can do amazing things, and many times I’ve seen incredible healing happen; but nothing like this, absolutely nothing.”
There was a silence, and then Madam shrugged. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”
Mickel hesitated, but there was nothing more to be said, so with a brief nod, he left.
Nereia awoke some time later, and stretched. It caught a little on her injured back but though her body was achy and uncomfortable, it was whole, broadly speaking. From the angle of the sun it was late morning. It meant little to her though. Now that they were in Copeland’s grip it was hard to believe that any good could come of it. Somewhere inside her something had died, and the gap seemed filled by cold, heavy steel. It did not cheer her, but at least she had the strength to go on living and to fight whatever battles were necessary to keep Mary safe and as happy as was possible in the circumstances.
Talking of which, where was Mary? She turned over to find her sister sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, reading a book.
“Morning!” Mary smiled cautiously. “How are you today?”
Nereia had to delve into the depths of herself to remember what her normal manner should be. It felt oddly alien, but she smiled back. “Awake! But only just.”
“Would you like some breakfast or anything? There’s coffee downstairs if you’d like a cup.”
Nereia considered this. “I’d love some coffee, yes please.” Mary disappeared off down the stairs and Nereia got out of bed stiffly. She felt sticky and smelly and though it hurt, she struggled out of her nightdress and washed in the cold water in the jug by the washbasin. Some kind soul had left a clean shift by the side of the bed and by the time Mary got back, Nereia had changed into it.
“You are better!” Mary stopped at the door, delighted to see her sister out of bed. Nereia was starting to feel weary again, but much better for being clean. Mary sat her sister in the comfortable chair to drink coffee while she changed the sheets. “They didn’t want to move you and while you were asleep it seemed a pity to wake you, but seeing as you’re up anyway…”
Nereia looked round dubiously at the frilled, over-fancy room. “Mary, where on earth are we?”
Mary paused. “We’re in the Black Cat. Madam had a free room and she needed somewhere for... for Mickel to work.”
“Mickel?” Nereia set her cup down, puzzled. She could not understand how the little fence had been involved.
“He’s a doctor. They needed him to… to look at you…” Mary fought with tears for a moment, and then abruptly flung herself at her sister. “Reia… I was so worried… I was so scared you’d leave me… you were so badly hurt…” The two clung to each other, and Nereia stroked her sister’s hair, rocking her as she had when Mary was a little child. As the younger girl sobbed her heart out, Nereia felt her throat constrict with unshed tears; even in her deadness of heart she was not immune to this. All the world was irrelevant to her now, but Mary, never. Eventually the girl’s sobs calmed into hiccups and after a while, she relaxed.
“Mary… I need to know. Are you all right? They didn’t… hurt you?” Looking anxiously into the blues and purples of her sister’s bruised face, Nereia dared not say what she feared, but Mary ans
wered her meaning rather than her words.
“Blakey beat me. Not that.”
Nereia felt a little of the tension go out of her. She had needed to be sure.
“Reia, why on earth didn’t you tell me about any of this?” Mary pulled away to look her sister in the face. “About Copeland, and Blakey, and - We have relatives? About any of it? Why? I could have hidden from Copeland or lied to him or something. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nereia was staggered. This was the last thing she had expected her sister to say. “How could I have burdened you with all that? I know our life is not easy, but I thought that at least you could find some sort of content if you didn’t have to look across at the cliff every day and know that our own cousin was the one who had sold us out of house and home and was trying to push us into a life of dishonesty and shame…”
“Did you not think that I deserved the truth? Do you think I am so weak that I’d rather wander along in a happy daze not knowing anything about my family or why I’m here? Don’t you think you owe me that much respect?” Mary stood and strode over to the window.
Nereia was thunderstruck. “Gods… Mary, I never…” She went to stand beside her sister.
“Do you think I’m a child, to be patted on the head and told to play?”
“Well, yes, in all honesty.” Nereia wondered at her own stupidity, meeting the hurt look that turned upon her with a certain amount of embarrassment. “Yes, that was exactly what I thought. It strikes me that I have been stunningly stupid; but, you see, you’ve always been the baby and I’ve always had to provide for you.”
“Reia, I’m fourteen years old.” Mary looked pained.
“Ah, but in my head you’re six! Though for what it’s worth I think you’ve just managed to get through to me that that’s not the case any more. It’s a bit of a shock, to be honest.” Nereia sat down in the window seat, patting the cushion next to her. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything! Don’t you see, Reia, it’s all a part of my history; it’s part of who I am and I don’t even know about it. I want to know everything.”
“And you shall,” Nereia smiled, “though possibly not all at once! Where shall I start?”
“At the beginning.” Mary replied firmly. “Tell me about Mama and Papa, and how they died, and what happened afterwards. Tell me how we ended up living with the Widow Birchbeck, why we had to move into the stables, and… Oh, all of it.”
“Goodness! That’s going to take a while.” Nereia thought about this for a moment. “Well, the first thing you should know is that we have two surnames.”
“Two? Our father’s name was Belric, wasn’t it?” Mary was aghast to realise that even this most basic detail of her identity was not as she had thought.
“No, it’s an amalgamation of the two. Our father was Shantar; Raian Renderric was his name. When it became clear that war was on its way, he worked with the Mother of the Shantar to avert it. He travelled on her behalf to Mardon where he met with officials in the Mardonese anti-war faction, and in the course of his negotiations he met our mother, Mariana Belston. They fell in love.
“The two of them talked it over. They knew that neither family could have allowed the marriage because of the trouble they knew it would bring so one night, with help only from a few friends, Mama fled her family and Papa came to meet her. They promised to send messages through to both families at intervals and they travelled. Unfortunately, though the first thing they did was to get married, Mama’s family disowned her and when she became pregnant with me-” Nereia smiled, but Mary’s face was grave, her eyes far away as she listened, “they knew that they could not continue to wander. Mama wanted to settle, and find a home in which to bring up her family. It wasn’t necessarily wise, but Mama so rarely asked for anything that when she did, Papa could not bring himself to deny her what she wanted. And so they came to Scarlock, which was within reach of both families and near enough the borders that many of the town’s population already had Shantar blood so prejudice was not strong here. Their hope was that with time, once the war was over, Mama’s family would relent.
“A friend of theirs had been bequeathed a house and was anxious to sell it. Papa was a wealthy man, a good trader who had more than enough money to buy the house and keep Mama in style there. However, news reached them as they journeyed that enemies of Mama’s family were searching for them. As they were coming to a place where no-one knew them, they changed their names. By Mardonese law, they should have taken Papa’s name but it was too obviously Shantar. By Shantar law they should have taken Mama’s name, which they needed to hide, so they decided to mix the two names. By the time I was born we were the Belric family, and so we have stayed.”
“Wait a minute, if no-one knew us here, what about Mr. Copeland? He’s some kind of relation, you said?” Mary asked.
“He wasn’t here then. He turned up towards the end, near the time they died.” As Nereia continued with the tale the day became overcast and layer upon layer of thick grey clouds darkened and muffled the sky. A soft rain began to fall and outside the window, the slates of the town roofs became slick and shiny with the moisture.
She had not intended to tell Mary the whole story in one go, but the girl was persistent in her questions. They talked long into the day and cried together a little, not with passion, but with poignant regret for the loss of the family that Mary did not remember but still felt the lack of. Nereia only told the bare bones of the story, of the great storm which wrecked their parents’ ship and drowned her parents, and the subsequent rise of Copeland, but by the time they had finished she was exhausted and had to return to her bed. Mary sat in the window seat looking out into the harbour for a long time, her eyes far away and regretful.
Two days had passed since Nereia awoke, and three. She began to feel a little less leaden and to have a little more energy. On the fourth day she dressed herself and, with Mary, made her way downstairs. Various girls greeted her as they passed and as they descended the last flight of stairs to the ground floor, Nereia smiled at her sister. “You’ve been making friends!”
“They’ve been so nice to me.”
“I’m glad.”
As they reached the bottom of the stairs the parlour door opened. Madam came out, talking to someone behind her. “Obviously the decision is yours but if you want the dancing master to arrive sooner rather than later you will be wasting his time and your money. Nereia’s recovery will take more than a couple of days. Though she’s doing very well, there is no point in having him attend until Nereia is in a fit state to learn.”
Seeing the sisters, Madam halted abruptly but was shouldered out of the way by –
“Copeland,” said Nereia. Madam watched the humanity drain from her gaze, replaced by a dead blackness that made the older woman want to be anywhere but facing the girl. Mary’s face was full of confusion and unease.
“Nereia!” Copeland skittered back down the passageway a couple of steps, obviously taken off balance. “And - and how are your lessons going?”
“They have yet to start.” The words hung in the shadowed air.
“Ha! Well you should hurry up and learn things,” Copeland asserted, though his voice scaled rather higher than usual. “I’ll be sending you off to the big city soon – or had you forgotten that your sister’s future career depends on that?”
Mary cringed backwards as Nereia stepped deliberately across the passageway. “I had not forgotten. Nor will I.” The words fell into place like tombstones.
Copeland flinched away but she moved forward, backing him against the wall, and the darkness in her eyes became more intense. Without looking, her hand snaked out and grasped a heavy glass vase from the hall table. She pinned him to the wall with almost casual strength and he wriggled like a stuck beetle as she raised the vase to shatter it to a useably sharp edge. Madam kicked herself into action and grabbed onto it with both hands; that black glare swung round to rest on her, but she forced a smile.
“Nereia, I’m very fond of this. I was given it a long time ago by my father. Please put it down.”
“Reia...!” Mary’s whisper was so quiet that only her sister heard it.
There was a long, dangerous moment; and then Nereia blinked and let go, wearing a slightly puzzled look. She turned back to Copeland, continuing in a more normal voice, “I can’t enter into polite society like this, can I?” She raised her arm from his throat to show the red welts of the burns upon it. They were healing surprisingly fast but there was still a long way to go before they had faded.
“Well, I have wasted far too much time here.” Copeland scuttled along the wall away from her and the marks that he himself had inflicted. “I must be getting on; far more important things to deal with than one tardy woman...” He backed out the door and left, muttering.
Turning back to the others, Nereia was confronted by Mary’s white, fearful face.
“You would have really killed him there, wouldn’t you?” Madam’s voice was careful.
Nereia licked her lips. “I’m sorry?”
“You were about to attack him with the vase, weren’t you?”
Nereia went white. “When?”
“Don’t play games with me! Just then, when I had to pry the vase out of your grip!” Madam’s nervousness made her snappish.
Nereia froze, and appeared to be thinking. “Yes... Yes, I really was. Gods, have I made a mistake?” Without another word she hurried back up the stairs and locked herself in the bedroom. Mary followed, but her sister would not open the door to her and after a while she came back down to sit with Madam and help draw up the accounts, as much for the company as for something to do.
The following morning, Madam made her way to the kitchen. “Hanna, is Astrid about this morning?”
The maid curtsied. “Yes, Madam, she’s just gone to buy groceries.”
“Excellent; please tell her when she returns that she doesn’t need breakfast ready for another hour or so. I want to nip over and see how Bet’s getting on.”
“Yes, Madam.” The girl hesitated. “Madam... How is Bet? They’ve been asking, round the town.”
“They have, have they?” Madam filed this away to consider later. “The slash on Bet’s face is healing nicely now, Hanna. She’s still a little weak from the fever, but Mickel is taking good care of her and she’ll be out and about in no time. I’m sure she’d love to see you, a little later in the week perhaps?”
“Yes, Madam. Thank you Madam.” The chambermaid bobbed a curtsey and went to pass on the message, leaving Madam thoughtful as she donned her cloak and set off for Mickel’s warehouse.
So they were asking among themselves, were they? She had always been interested in the politics of power – it had saved her skin a few times before now – but this time she was getting caught up in it herself.
The girls’ attempt at escape had come at an interesting time. For years the townspeople had been so ground down that it seemed Copeland would be the dominant power here forever, but he had gone too far and squeezed them too hard, and now the mood was starting to change. It was interesting to notice that none of those with whom she was on slightly better terms had dared to ask after Bet or the sisters. Probably they thought that to ask was to ally themselves with one side or other of opposing forces. Madam was not as yet openly opposing Copeland, but evidently public sentiment felt that it was only a matter of time, and that told Madam that public sentiment considered the two of them almost on an equal footing. Food for thought indeed.
Madam huddled her cloak more closely about her and walked on, considering how to play her cards next.
Up in the Mermaid, Vansel finished his ablutions and set his shaving gear neatly back in its box. Brought up on a ship, he was automatically tidy, the way that those used to minimal storage often are. He set the box in the drawer and wiped the splashed surfaces of his chest-of-drawers with the dry end of the towel before hanging it over the rail to dry. Then he donned his shirt and went downstairs, still tucking it in.
“Morning lad.” Jem saluted him from the quiet, beer-smelling taproom. “You’ll be wanting your breakfast, I shouldn’t wonder?”
“You know me too well, Jem! What have you got for me today?”
“Same as ever; bacon, eggs, bread fried in dripping – and in return for a half-bottle of your finest brandy, one of the farmers has brought something to put a smile on your face, I’ll warrant!”
“No, really?” Vansel laughed. “Jem, if you’re teasing me I’ll never forgive you!”
“No word of a lie, son! We have mushrooms, fried in butter, no less.” The beaming landlord hesitated as a thought struck him. “So, will I be saving some for my Lord Jack?”
“No, the deuce with Lord Jack!” Vansel grinned. “Jack won’t be down for hours, and by that time there won’t be so much as a whiff of mushroom to give it away.”
He followed the burly man into the kitchen where Jem’s wife Esme fussed over him like the little boy he had been when first they met; which, thought Vansel with affectionate amusement, was quite probably how she still saw him. She seated him at their own kitchen table, brewed up coffee, banished Jem back to cleaning the taproom with a promise to call him when the food was ready and put her mighty frying pan on to warm. For a relatively slight woman, Esme had slender but extremely strong arms, mostly due to the fact that she routinely cooked in the largest cast-iron frying pan that Vansel had ever seen. As a child he had been deeply offended to find that while Esme hefted it around with ease and a certain amount of grace, he himself had been unable to do more than lift it off the table briefly, and that using both hands.
She added butter to the pan and let it heat till it turned brown, just the way Vansel liked it. Then she added thick rashers of bacon and the large circles of the mushrooms. As she bustled about cutting slices of good nutty bread to go with it, Vansel sipped his coffee and watched in appreciation. He rarely managed to spend much time here but this unassuming couple and their slightly decrepit inn were more homelike to him than Jack’s stately pile could ever be, despite the unalloyed welcome he got from that august family.
Jem popped his head around the door again, drawn by the delicious smells to check she had not forgotten to call him. Esme scolded affectionately and made to chase him from the kitchen with a rolling pin. Jem fled as if terrified, and Vansel shook his head, much amused.
Shortly he found a huge plate in front of him, piled with three slices of bacon, two eggs, doorsteps of fried bread, crisp, golden and sizzling; and of course generous helpings of mushrooms. She put out similar portions for her husband and herself, and the three of them ate with gusto and a certain amount of good-natured bickering.
Eventually Vansel pushed back his plate, saying “Esme, my dear, you are a queen among cooks! That was delicious.”
She acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod. “So what are you planning for today? Is there still no word from Alaric?”
“None,” Vansel replied. “I wasn’t expecting him to be particularly speedy – he has, shall we say, something of a delicate cargo on hand, and taking a cart down a mountain is never going to be quick, but all the same I have been expecting him for a few days now. We’ve had a couple of messages through and it sounds to have all got a bit complicated – but you know Alaric, he’s probably holed up somewhere with one, if not two women, doing his own particular brand of time-killing.”
“You’re worried about him. Is it the Colonel again? Alaric may be a bit outlandish to look at, but he has plenty of sense. He’ll drop the cargo and run if he has to, and with a head start no-one will find him.”
“That’s the problem.” Vansel shook his head. “He can’t drop the cargo and run, and I’m worried that the cargo will get in his way.”
“Goodness! Is it so very precious then?”
“Irreplaceable, and secured by a note of honour in my father’s handwriting.” The three of them fell silen
t at this.
“Well, maybe he’s just late.” Esme’s voice held more hope than conviction.
“Maybe, but from the reports it sounds as if he’s being chased at that end, and I can’t get word to him to let him know that Colonel Lowry is supposed to be headed this way.”
“He is?” Jem was concerned. The Colonel had a particular grudge against Vansel and his crew of smugglers, and had made it his mission to catch up with them ever since they had stumbled across his plan to interrogate a young woman he considered a spy. The fact that she was a relative of his hated enemy, Lord Faramond, was particularly pleasing to him and so when Vansel and his crew had seen fit to rescue her, prove her innocence and restore her to her family, the resultant scandal had nearly ruined what little social standing he had retained after the war.
“He may be arriving any day now and here I am, stranded without my ship and saddled with my Lord Apricot Lace upstairs! As if it wasn’t enough that the Colonel might catch us, to be able to mire Lord Faramond and cast Kathleen into doubt all in one fell swoop would make his day. And that’s assuming that Alaric arrives here with the cargo in one piece!”
“What will you do?”
“The same as yesterday and the day before.” Vansel shrugged. “Go see if Mickel’s contacts have any news; go and check all the usual places for signs, and if there is nothing, wait. And try to keep Jack out of trouble whilst simultaneously preventing Mickel from mounting a mutiny against Copeland.”
Esme’s laugh had a worried edge. “Enough to keep you busy, then!”
Vansel grimaced in agreement. He was not happy with the situation but there was little he could do. He stretched and stood up rather reluctantly. “You two are busy and I should be on my way. If by some unlikely chance Jack should stir, tell him I’ll be back around midday.” He would check on Mickel first and then – he paused to let himself out, waving back at Esme – then go on to the various places in which Alaric might have left some kind of sign if he didn’t feel he could bring the Mother to the Mermaid.
At the warehouse, Mickel and Bet had just finished breakfast when there was a knock at the door. Mickel opened it to find Madam on the doorstep, clasping her cloak to herself against the wind.
“Madam; do come in.” He gestured her into the warehouse and up the stairs. “Bet is by the fire; come and warm yourself.”
“I will, thank you Mickel. That wind is bitter.” She followed him into the living quarters.
“Bet, Madam is here to see you.”
Madam looked at the girl, whose face was starting to heal. The finely-sewn gash across her face was uncovered as Mickel was about to change the bandages. It was seeping a little and looked hot and angry, but it had improved a great deal. The edges of the wound had started to knit a little but she could see it was pulling slightly at the lower edge of her jaw, where eating and speaking kept moving the flesh.
“Madam,” Bet greeted her. “It’s good of you to keep coming.”
“Your scar is looking a great deal better, my dear.” She leaned closer to look, noting that Bet flinched away. “Mickel did a good job with his stitching. In a couple of months when the redness fades, you’ll hardly know it’s there.”
“I’ll always know it’s there,” answered Bet softly. There was a moment’s silence.
“Hanna was asking after you. I told her that she could come and see you in a few days.”
“I don’t want to see her! I don’t want to see anyone!” Bet broke out, startling them. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m here!”
Madam gazed at the girl compassionately. “Most of the town knows you are here. It was inevitable, when many of them saw what happened.”
“What about – him?” The girl shivered. “Does he know I’m here?”
“I couldn’t say for sure,” Mickel answered slowly, “but I would hazard that if he is interested he will know, or at least Blakey will.”
“But if he knows I’m here he can come back and find me.” Bet shivered, huddling her arms around herself. “Mr Copeland is frightening, he always has been; but when he did this he wasn’t like normal. There was something in his eyes. I dream it sometimes - not Mr Copeland, just the eyes - following me in the dark...” She fell silent. The fire spat. “You have to get me out of here,” she breathed. “I can’t stay, I can’t...”
“You will stay here until your wound is healed and your health is mended,” Mickel insisted. “After that, we’ll see.”
“Well I can hardly go back to whoring, can I?”
“Do stop acting like a drama queen, Bet!” The girl was as shocked as if Madam had slapped her. Mickel opened his mouth to protest but Madam did not pause. “You got a slash to the face; unfortunate and painful, definitely, but hardly the end of the world. In a year the only one who will be conscious of it is you, if you still choose to be. You’re young enough to heal properly. I have seen people with their guts hanging out who had much worse medical treatment than you and still managed to heal and go on to lead normal lives. You have had a bad experience and a painful one but when it comes down to it, your face will be slightly marked when you blush. That, my girl is hardly the end of the world.”
“You have seen such wounds?” mused Mickel.
“I was at Tobelst.”
“Ah. Bet, I’m afraid Madam is right. You must try to be positive or you are merely persuading yourself into a world of bitterness.” He patted his lame leg. “I do know a little about it, my dear.”
Bet looked from one to the other and for a long time she was silent; but she was an intelligent girl. “I will try, but Madam, I’m so frightened of seeing Mr Copeland again.”
“My dear, we are all frightened of one thing or another most of the time. It doesn’t go away, but after a while you get so used to it that you hardly notice it and, when you do, it’s such a familiar feeling that it doesn’t have much impact. The worst bit of it is now, while it’s still new and shocking. But I will tell you this, my girl.” She leant forward as if taking them into her confidence. “You’re going to face that fear, and you’re going to accept it and realise that when the time comes, you might be so scared you can hardly think straight but you will do what you have to do, regardless. That decision is a kind of strength in itself. You will realise that all alone and with no-one else to help you, you can stand on your own two feet. And the great thing about that is that you won’t be alone because when the time comes, if nobody else stands with you, I will.”
“And I,” affirmed Mickel.
Bet looked from one to the other, then hid her face in her hands for a few moments. “You are too good to me,” she whispered. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t be silly, child!” Madam smiled, a little touched. “We of Scarlock, we stick together. That is how we survive. Now, take your pretty face out of your hands and let Mickel see to it. Hanna will be coming to see you later in the week and most of the town has been asking after you, by all accounts, so I will be happy to report that you are on the mend. Your wound is looking better, though I shouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t feel it.”
Bet made a face but caught herself. “It’s not very comfortable but Mickel’s salves help a lot. It feels tight and hot but it doesn’t burn quite so much as before.”
“It’s a lot less swollen and I think the infection’s gone,” Mickel agreed. “We’re just waiting for it to close up a bit more, and when the flesh is knitted I’ll take out the stitches.”
Madam turned to Mickel. “Your help is so valuable, Mickel. We could have done with it years ago. There have been so many times when we have needed medical expertise and the local doctors have declined to come.”
There was a short pause. Mickel could not bring himself to ignore the veiled plea. “I can’t promise anything; it depends on what’s happening here, but should you need a doctor, send to me. I may not always be able to come, but I’ll do what I can.”
Madam smiled. “Thank you, Mickel. You don’t know w
hat that means to us.”
“Unfortunately, I think I do,” he mused, almost to himself.
Shortly after, Madam said her goodbyes. Mickel saw her to the door and was about to close it when Vansel turned the corner and raised a hand in greeting. Mickel paused to let his friend into the warehouse.
“Mickel, any news?”
“Yes; but first I need to see to Bet. Come up and chat till I’ve seen to her dressing and we can talk business afterwards.”
Vansel greeted Bet and watched with interest while Mickel saw to her, impressed despite himself. He had not seen Mickel working as a doctor for many years and the little man’s deftness and ease with his patient obviously inspired confidence in her. It was good to see after the terrible self-doubt that Mickel had been a prey to for all this time. How strange that necessity had forced the little man back into practice after all the persuasion and discussion and rationalising had had no effect! Vansel was pleased to see it, though. Mickel had lost such a lot that day, and the practice of a skill that he loved was not the most insignificant of his losses.
“All done.” Mickel sat back and smiled at Bet. “We’ll leave you here for a bit. I have a bit of business to discuss with Vansel here.”
“I know, I know, too complex for a woman’s tiny mind...”
“I never said that; I never will,” he admonished, “and if I thought you were serious we might have words on the subject!”
“Oh, get on with you!” Bet was trying not to smile. “I’ll finish the coffee if that’s all right?”
“Help yourself!”
As the two of them retreated, Bet picked up paper and pencil from the table next to her, to resume the drawing with which she whiled away these unaccustomed hours of idleness.
Vansel and Mickel took the usual seats in the little office near the front of the warehouse, with its view over the harbour.
“What will you do with her when she’s better?” asked Vansel. “Does she have family nearby?”
“Not that she would go back to. That’s how she ended up in the whorehouse - fewer beatings, better food, and the chance of an education if she wanted it. There are beatings aplenty unfortunately, and worse, but it’s safer than the back-alley business you get elsewhere. Madam has seen to that at least.” Mickel shook his head. “I don’t know what to do with Bet, in all honesty. She’s had a nasty shock to the system and the fever hasn’t helped, but she’ll be healed enough to not need me watching over her soon. I don’t think she would go back to the brothel, though. She’s terrified of meeting Copeland again, and if she wants to get out of it I’ll help her any way I can.”
“Well, that’s a problem for another day.” Vansel sat forward in his chair. “My problem right now is Alaric. What have you heard?”
“Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Spit it out, Mickel, I’m not twelve years old now!” His friend merely cocked an eyebrow at him. “Fine! Bad news. Give me the bad news first.”
“Very well, but you’re not going to like it.”
“That does happen quite often with bad news.” Vansel had a feeling he knew what was coming.
“The Colonel is headed this way with several hundred men. They’ve arranged a supply chain going on as far as Scarlock, for an indeterminate amount of time and with the possibility of extending it if they have to move on in a hurry. The message was delayed as my contact was ill but my best guess is that they’ll be with us any day. The other point of interest is that my contacts over towards the Shantar border have had word that a detachment of the border troops are heading over to Scarlock, also for an undetermined amount of time and also with the option to go mobile should it be necessary.”
“Damn it, Mickel!” Vansel thumped the arm of his chair. “They’re after the Mother!”
“But they haven’t found her yet, or they’d converge here and simply take her back to Mardon,” Mickel pointed out. “The good news is that Alaric and party boarded the Susan, lost the pursuit temporarily and have made it over here. I checked the drop boxes and he left sign that they are all here and in hiding.”
“Thank you, Mickel. That is good news!” Vansel grinned, much cheered by this information. “A detachment of soldiers... It should take them a couple of days to organise transport, I’d’ve thought, so with a bit of luck we can meet up, load up the brandy from Jem’s basement and be away off to Mardon before they get here. Then the Colonel can act as welcoming committee for the Border-troops - and can you just see his face?” He chuckled. “I’ll go back to the Mermaid. Alaric may have left word with Jem and if the Colonel’s due, we need to get Jack packed up and ready to dash.”
“Jem had the brandy all bound and stacked behind some barrels of distinctly inferior wine so they should be ready to go whenever you want them. A few trips should do the trick if you’ve no other luggage.”
“Not that simple if they’ve been shipping horses in the Susan.” Vansel wrinkled his nose. “I’m hoping they’ll have finished with the cleaning before we get there, to be honest. The smell gets to you after a few days.”
“You might have to live with it; the Colonel won’t necessarily wait on your convenience.”
“And don’t I know it?” As Vansel spoke there was a great banging at the front door.
Mickel peered out of the window. “Soldiers! Upstairs, quick! Bet will hide you in the cupboard if necessary. I’ll get rid of them as soon as I can.”
Vansel fled up the stairs, creaking every board on the way, then the little merchant limped over to the door.
“Finally!” Two soldiers shouldered their way in. “Are you going to keep us outside all day, man? The wind is freezing!”
“I’d be surprised if you get any custom at all if you’re not open at this time of the morning!”
Mickel glared at them with his best appearance of bleariness. “If you’d drunk as much wine as I did last night you’d not be at your best either. Are you buying or harassing?”
“Make yourself comfortable? Certainly I will, thank you.” the first soldier said caustically, seating himself by the door. “Get your paper and pencil, old man, or your slate and chalk, whatever they use in this backwater. We have orders to find food fit for a Colonel, his officers and the rank and file, respectively. We were directed to you by our suppliers in Mardon and we can pretty much take everything you have and more.”
Mickel stumped over to the cupboard and made a great show of digging out his order books to give him a moment to think. The soldiers would not be leaving for a while and the troops were getting nearer with every second. “Coffee?”
They took him up on it eagerly and he nipped up the stairs. Bet sat, nervous, on the end of the sofa and relaxed visibly to see him. “Bet, could you put some coffee on for our guests, please?” he said loudly enough to be heard, then hissed “I can’t explain now but we need your help.”
“What do you need?”
“The soldiers may recognise Vansel and they must not catch him. He needs to get back to the Mermaid to warn Lord Jack that the Colonel is coming, and to pass on a message to someone else. It is really important that he gets out of here without being seen.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“I know you haven’t been outside since you were hurt, but the only way we can let him out is the hidden door round the back, the one that comes out in the broom cupboard this side.”
“I know the one.”
“I need you to come through with the coffee, say that you are going to the baker’s or wherever, and go round the back of the warehouse and open the trapdoor. I know you’re afraid but I don’t think you’ll meet anyone more threatening than the soldiers. Can you do it?”
Bet hesitated for a long moment - the idea of leaving this safe haven frightened her - but she owed a lot to this man. “Yes, I’ll do it.” Mickel exhaled in relief.
“Go,” she whispered, and watched him return to the soldiers pa
cing restlessly below.
