“Yes, Messiah?” they chant as a crowd, raising their heads.
“Look up, you idiots, I need your attention, now.” I fold my arms and they fall through.
One has the gall to hiccup-laugh.
I raise a brow and dip the other, grasping him inside a seething look. “Before the storm, I sent you out on a very important mission. Who among you has news?”
Their heads swing. They evaluate each other like the dolts and doltresses they are. Their white, burning eyes are tinged with fear and confusion.
What a band of fools.
“Speak up,” I bark and jerk toward them. “I want to know what’s happened. Why have so few of you returned to me? Where are the rest of you?”
“Caught up in the force field,” one answers bravely. “Their bodies went up in smoke like cloth.”
I scowl at the speaker. “So they’ve got it working again?”
“Unfortunately so,” a waif of a wraith says, scratching her charcoaled butt.
Damn that clever Urlick. Damn him.
“All right. Enough. Tell me what I want to hear. What did you find out? Were you able to reach Urlick? Did you deliver my message?”
Their waving, cowardly chins drop.
“What is it? What’s the matter? Is Eyelet dead?” Oh, good God, no, that can’t have happened— I clutch my thumping chest.
“No, Messiah. She lives,” one of the group addresses me weakly.
“Thank goodness.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Though I don’t know how. She lay turning blue, coughing up her own lungs, as I fled.”
“That is the word on the streets, Messiah.” A half-turned wraith twists his tissue hands and lowers his head.
“Though we are not completely sure it’s truth,” butts in another with half a nose and one ear missing.
“What?” I spin in a dizzying circle. “Why? What are you talking about?”
He bends his head this way and that. “Well, some said yes she was alive and some said no. Before we sucked out their brains, of course.” He cackles.
I quash his humour with a burning look.
“Truth is, we couldn’t get anyone to really verify what was happening,” he adds.
“So, you just left her there, lingering. Even though I told you if she was alive to bring her to me.”
“We couldn’t find her, Messiah,” the cackler speaks up. “No one seems to know where she is.”
“She’s somehow missing but still alive?” I strike out, clutching him by his holey throat. “How could it even be possible that she lives when I am in possession of this!” I yank the chain and vial containing the antidote from between my breasts and hold it out. The pendant swings from its glistening chain, mesmerizing the fool at the end of it.
“Because...”—he gulps—“we found this.” He holds up a scrap of crimson cloth embroidered with the finest lock of golden thread. The thread is torn away from the fabric. Its broken end whirls in a tiny wispy circle, dancing in the forest’s breeze.
I try to touch it, to clasp the dancing wisp and extinguish it between my fingers like a flame, but cannot.
“What is this?”
“Evidence that she lives.”
“How?”
“It’s proof she’s been visited by the healer from the North,” the waif of a wraith says.
I stare long and hard at she who dares to spew this insanity.
“They claim a single touch from him can bring you back from anything,” the waif of a wraith adds.
“What?”
“It’s true, Messiah,” the cackler speaks up. “That is what they say.”
“Then why are you all here and not in the North? Why have you not brought him to me?”
“Because, Messiah, he does not serve the cursed, only the living.”
I grab the cackling wraith hard by the scruff. “He’ll serve whoever I tell him to. Now, do not waste another second of my time.” I cast him away into a tree. “Go find him and bring him to me!”
The wraith springs back to the ground and draws himself back together. “I’m afraid we can’t, Messiah.”
I glare.
“No one knows where he is. He can’t be summoned.” The wraith gulps. “He chooses who he serves.”
“Then how do I make myself a choice?” I snarl, my fangs snapping close to his worn-paper-like face.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible either, Messiah.”
“Nonsense.” I twist, sailing over the forest floor. “There must be a way. Elsewise, how would he have shown up for—” My chest heaves, my mind spins. “Urlick.
Somehow, I’ve got to get to Urlick.”
Chapter Eleven
Eyelet
I STRUGGLE TO A SIT and reach for my clothes. Urlick doesn’t think I should be going, but I am. They will not inter sweet Cordelia to the ground without me there to pay my respects. Especially after she sacrificed her life to save Urlick’s for me.
I shuffle over to the left of the bed and the room spins. I’m still woozy from the procedure. It’s as though my head and my body each have a mind of their own—as if they are no longer in sync, but rather at odds with one another. The alchemist assured me that this too shall pass. He just did not indicate when.
If I’m to leave tomorrow for the forest, I’ll need to practice faking normalcy. What better occasion to start than a funeral?
I grab the bedpost and slowly rise, my legs like creamed jelly beneath me. Tiny roaming spots float aggravatingly in and out of my vision, traipsing past like tufts of black cloud. I wonder for a moment if they are left over signs of the exposure.
But what exposure? From the ray, or something worse?
I try to blink them away, but I’m unsuccessful. They continue to float out in front of my vision, tainting everything I see. If the symptoms are to clear, perhaps they will leave too. In the meantime, I try not to be unnerved by their slinking, smoky presence.
“You’re up?” Livinea presses her porcelain face through the slight crack she’s jimmied in the door.
“Just barely, but yes.”
The door creaks wide and Livinea drifts into the room. She’s covered in black from head to toe and buttoned right up to the neck, her normal flamboyant style set aside for the occasion. She wears a modest hat, her face covered by a veil. Even her hands are black-gloved.
I manage a half-smile, though my heart is so heavy, I’m amazed I’m able to pull it off. All morning, all I could think of was Cordelia, the little red-headed waif of a child whose young life was filled with so much despair.
Not unlike my own.
“Just thought I’d pop in tuh see if you needed any ‘elp dressin’.” Livinea’s white teeth shine through the drape of black.
“My corset might prove a challenge, yes,” I say.
I let Livinea help me out of my nightclothes and into my bloomers. I manage to drop the chemise over my own head.
I cling to the bedposts, as Livinea snugs up my corset and starts securing the laces. “They say Urlick’s sprung for a state’s burial for her.” She places her knee in the centre of my back and yanks. “At the real fine cemetery at the edge of town.”
I waver back and forth, grasping tighter to the bedposts as she works her way down the laces. “It’ll be the nicest thing that’s ever happened to that child.”
“Aye.” Livinea grunts. She ties the bottom laces, dips down to bring my skirts up, and fastens them about my waist. “Was she really to be used as an experiment?” she asks as she turns me cautiously around.
“Sadly, yes.” I stroke the hair from my eyes, hoping my vision catches up with the rotation. I’m so very dizzy. I realize I’m already perspiring and I haven’t even attempted movement yet.
“Good job Urlick’s father couldn’t bring himself to it.” She buttons my throat panel and puffs my mutton sleeve. “Or we wouldn’t have known the lovely little doll.”
I think about that a moment—whether he’d really done her a service, or whether killing her migh
t have been the more humane thing to do. She’d suffered so. Her episodes were so much more destructive than my own.
Then again, had someone made that same decision for me, I’d not be standing here now.
I think about the differences in our episodes. How vastly they varied. Yet I wouldn’t trade life now, despite the episodes, for anything. I think about the plant in the terrarium room, and the power of restoration it had on both of us. I think about how, if I could only bottle that somehow, perhaps no one would ever have to suffer an episode again.
All this time, I’ve been searching for a machine that does more harm than good, when really the answer to my problem was just a garden away—held under lock and key by a political conspiracy.
I wonder how many other illnesses they have the power to eradicate, but don’t. How many sufferers they’d prefer to institutionalize and use as guinea pigs. Perhaps, as first lady under Urlick’s reign, that’s something I can change. I draw in a deep breath, invigorated by the idea.
I shall do it. I shall make that my mission and name it after Cordelia.
“You all right? Not too tight is it?” Livinea bats her long lashes.
“No.” I stare at my lucky self in the corner mirror, looking down at the modest two-piece black mourning suit with its brocade collar “It’s fine.” I smooth out the peplum skirt. “Everything’ll be just fine.”
Chapter Twelve
Urlick
EYELET IS A HEART-STOPPER, even at a gravesite. I don’t know how much more love I could harbour for a woman.
Her frailness worries me. If there’s anything Eyelet has never been, it’s a frail woman. In fact, she’s rather a tigress.
The Vicar calls for prayer, and she leans against me. Just the movement of lowering her head has her nearly toppling. I take her hand and squeeze it tight, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the gloved surface. She smiles at me, and I use her elbow to steady her at my side.
She waves in time with the gentle breeze as the Vicar speaks, her body not firmly planted on the ground. If she’s this easily disturbed by a waft of wind, a slight turn of her head, how on earth are we to make this journey tomorrow?
The more I think of it, the more I think she should be left behind. She is not strong enough to fight her own fight. I know in her heart she believes she is, but in my heart, I don’t believe it’s wise. I cannot bear to lose her a second time, out in the woods where there will be no salvation from a laboratory.
I must talk some sense into her, after the burial, or we shall be interring her next. I gulp, swallowing down that wicked idea, and bravely raise my chin.
They loosen the ropes to lower Cordelia into the ground, and I heave in a breath, struggling to hold back the urge to spill my tears as her coffin disappears beneath the ground.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” The Vicar swings his lantern of incense. The mild smell of spices mingles with that of Brethren air, slightly tainted by an invader. I turn my head, detecting its presence.
Vapours. They’re seeping through again.
A thin oily ribbon snakes past the gravesite, tugged along on the wind. Nervous eyes track its scent. None among us moves.
“Go gentle my child into the great sleep.” The Vicar raises his hand, crossing it. “After death, no reviving; after the grave, no meeting again.”
Eyelet’s head pops up, her eyes wide, as if that should not have been said. “That’s not true,” she whispers to me urgently. “That is simply not truth.”
I shush her. “It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.” She’s shaking. “I promised Cordelia she would always live. Right here.” She pats her heart. “Now and forever.”
“It’s not the same—”
“Of course it’s not, because he speaks an untruth!” She glares at the Vicar, his volume escalating and drowning out the end of his last statement.
He turns his head, and she glowers at him, then spins on her heels and stalks away before I’ve the chance to help support her balance.
“Eyelet!” I call and jog after her. “Eyelet, please…”
“You can stay and support his thinking, but I will not.” She whirls around, her hands firmly clasped in front of her. “In my heart, she will always live, thus she will always be, and I won’t let him take that away from her.” Her voice is cutting, yet pulling apart. Tears thread uneasily through it.
“Eyelet.”
She turns, her jaw set, her angled eyes dragging from me. “Our time together may be short, but life is not short for those who believe. I refuse to exonerate any opposing rhetoric. Cordelia may have passed, but she has not died.”
She storms away, and I detect a slight cave of her chest as she catches her sobs. She throws open the door to the castle, passes through, and slams it shut behind her.
I can’t help but wonder, is she really talking of Cordelia, or transposing herself into Cordelia’s shoes? Could it be that Eyelet fears the finality of this moment creeping upon her? A well of emotions clogs up my throat. She’s right. Our time here is very short. One must take every precaution to relish every precious moment of it. No plan or desire should be ever let to seed.
I look back at the mound of dirt that will blanket Cordelia soon.
I must not let the grass turn to dirt beneath my feet.
Chapter Thirteen
Urlick
I’M ABLE TO SNEAK into C.L.’s room, undetected, and poke him in the chest…a stranger in his room after midnight. Thank God I’m not a murderer.
He wakes with a start, all crazy eyes and flailing legs, ready for a fight. What he lacks in arm strength, he makes up for in readied toes.
“Who is it? What chu want?” His head twists about, searching for the intruder through the darkness of the room.
“Shhhhh!” I draw the aether lamp closer to my face so he can see who it is.
“Urlick?” His expression curls up into a question.
My breath clouds before my face. The rooms of the castle are vast and hollow, and the stone construction makes them very cold. There are few windows, and those that do exist are draped in great, gothic stone cornices, forming rather dark and ominous porches over them. Though it’s a castle, by design it could be mistaken for a morgue.
“I’ve just come to get you out of bed. Now, get up.” I slide across the threshold and head toward the massive wardrobe at the back of the room.
“Why? What’s happened?” C.L. sits up abruptly, blinking.
“There’s been a change in plans.”
“But I thought you and Eyelet agreed yuh’d be leavin’ in the morning.” C.L.’s gaze tracks me.
“We are.” I place down the lamp on a night table and throw back the wardrobe doors. “Which makes my current mission even more critical.”
“Mission?” He looks at me, confused.
“It’s a surprise. Now, get that arse of yours out of bed and stop asking me questions, will you?” I yank the clothes over the racks. “We haven’t got much time to make you look the part. Or me either, for that matter.” I smile at him over my shoulder.
“You mean…”
I smile harder.
“Aaaaahhhh, I knew it!” C.L. slaps a foot to the bedrail and sprouts a snaggled-toothed grin. “I knew it. I just knew it. Livinea was right—”
“Shhhhh!” I need him to lower his voice, or he’ll ruin the secret. “Now, I’ll need you to dress in something highly presentable.” I tug through the clothing rack, still unable to select something. “A coat with tails, preferably.” I consider one, then wonder about the sleeves. “Perhaps just a vest and ascot.” I think better of it. “And be sure to slick down that crazy hair of yours, will you? Maybe even part it to one side?” I glance back at what’s left of his wiry nest of hair.
“This should do.” I toss a selection of clothing on the bed. “Get dressed and meet me at the fireplace in the Great Hall in about twenty minutes’ time.” I collect my lamp off the floor and head out of the room, adding, “And don’t
get yourself discovered beforehand.”
“Right, sir.” C.L. nods, and bursts from the sheets.
“Oh good Lord!” I shield my eyes with a quick hand. “Do you always sleep in the buff?”
C.L. glances down, not even attempting to modestly cover himself up. “Is there any other way, sir?”
“Never mind.”
I fling open the door and float up the hallway. I could have done without seeing that.
The door to Masheck’s room could use a might bit of grease, but still he doesn’t wake up. I creep up to the side of his bed. He’s snoring. I hold out the lamp, keeping my distance, and poke him in the chest. He jolts upright, his right hook barely chaffing my jaw line. If I’d been an inch closer, I’d have lost my head.
I raise my arms. “Remind me to share a room with you if we’re ever under threat of attack.”
He squints, recognizes me, and lowers his fists. “Sorry, sir. I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” I shake off the bounding deer in my heart.
Masheck rubs the sleep from his eyes and focuses in on me through the aether-squelched darkness. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’d do me a favour?”
From there, I tiptoe into Livinea’s room, feeling a little strange creeping into a lady’s room this late at night. I’m worried, considering Livinea’s malady, that she might get the wrong impression.
God knows, even without the malady she might.
The room is quiet, save for the tender purr of Livinea asleep. Neither the creak of the door or the sudden thrust of the lock has woken her up. I suppose she’d had to sleep through worse cooped up in MadHouse Brink for half her life. This is likely the best night of sleep she’s ever had.
I sidle up to the edge of her bed and stand there quietly, trying to figure out the best way to wake her. She looks like a kitten, all curled in a ball on the corner of the mattress. She appears so small inside the great poster bed, head on the silk pillow, creamy white hands tucked under her chin.
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