A Skinful of Shadows

by Frances Hardinge

  Mistress Lightfoot! Your left hand!

  Makepeace jerked awake, and became aware that the fingers of her left hand were just releasing something soft. She halted, and immediately spotted her crumpled handkerchief on the ground, its whiteness vivid against the dark earth. She stopped and picked it up.

  Lady Morgan is still trying to leave our friends a trail, Makepeace remarked. Has she dropped anything else?

  I believe not, said the doctor. I have been watching out for such things.

  You must realize that this is hopeless, said another voice, as hard and level as a blade. It was the same voice Makepeace had heard forced out of her own throat back in Oxford, and she knew it must be Morgan. You cannot fight me forever.

  Yes, I can, answered Makepeace fiercely. I was fighting you even before I knew you were there. Now I do know, and now I have allies.

  You must sleep sometimes. Your attention will drift now and then. Even your accomplices cannot always watch for me. An absent-minded moment is all I need to seize mastery of your hands, or harm you, or make you whisper words you instantly forget.

  I could even trip you and dash your brains out if I wanted.

  Maybe, said Makepeace, but I do not think you will. Lord Fellmotte would not like it if you chipped his vessel, would he? And if I die, so do you.

  If it were not for me, you would be in the hands of the rebels already, said Morgan. Her voice was cold but not old, and Makepeace wondered whether she had died before her time. You have no idea how much I have helped you already. What do you think would become of you if I stopped helping?

  Who knows? Makepeace shrugged defiantly. Perhaps Parliament’s men will capture me, and torture the Fellmotte secrets out of me. How would you like that, my lady?

  I could start pruning your mind like a tree, suggested Morgan. How would you like that?

  Bear would never let you. Makepeace fought down her fear.

  That disgusting animal is an infestation, not a friend.

  He is worth a hundred of you! snapped Makepeace. When did you people decide that you were the only ones allowed second chances? You already had lives full of power, and riches! You had chances most people could only dream of!

  You have no idea how hard I worked to earn my immortality! Morgan sounded genuinely angry, her voice razor-sharp. I spent every second of my life slaving for the family, to make myself too valuable to lose. I had no life of my own. I earned my after-life. That was the bargain I made.

  Well, you never made a bargain with me, so it counts for nothing, said Makepeace curtly. I choose who lives in my head. And if you’re my enemy you have no place in it!

  Makepeace closed her eyes, trying to sense Morgan in the dark space of her own mind. Where was she? There! For a second there was a flicker in her mind’s eye – a foggy image of a sharp-faced woman, eyes gleaming amid pits of shadow.

  She tried to snatch at the ghost with her mind. Something slithered away into hiding, like a rat’s tail against her skin. Makepeace reached for the elusive tickle of otherness . . .

  . . . and then felt a shock of the mind, as if something had slammed in her face.

  There was a sudden feeling of anguished terror, and a searing, muddled blare of memories. She remembered darkness, screams, cobbles under her feet and blood like ink running down either side of an open eye.

  The spasm ended, and Makepeace found that she was on her knees, gasping.

  What happened? asked the doctor.

  I tried to catch Morgan. Makepeace picked herself up, still reeling from the mental blow, and put away her handkerchief. How does she hide from me? Where does she go?

  I am not completely sure, confessed Dr Quick, but there appears to be a part of your mind that is closed off from the rest. I think she is using it as her lair.

  After a couple of hours, Makepeace realized that the ground was steadily ascending, the little thickets and copses becoming less frequent.

  I think I know where we are, remarked the doctor. Unless I am mistaken, the town of Brill is at the very top of this hill.

  Then we need to be careful, said Makepeace. We must skirt round the town, and find out a farmhouse to the north.

  Take a new bearing, suggested the doctor, a touch more northerly, and I think we shall pass to the north of the town.

  The sky was just beginning to pale in the east when Makepeace caught the smell of woodsmoke, courtesy of Bear’s sharp senses. She adjusted her course accordingly, and after a while glimpsed the farmhouse. There were a couple of low buildings, dank-thatched and grey-walled, backing on to a little paddock where a few skinny, threadbare chickens pecked at the dark rotting leaves in search of food. A rooster perched proudly at the summit of a large, overturned wheelbarrow.

  It was early for callers, but Makepeace could not wait for dawn. She rapped at the door, and was surprised when it was quickly yanked open. An old man peered out, holding the door open only a few inches. Makepeace could just make out his foot braced against the door, as though he thought she might shove her way in.

  ‘What do you want?’ His eyes were bright and antagonistic, his hands and arms still strong from years of work.

  ‘I’m looking for the Axeworth farm—’

  ‘You won’t find them here,’ the old man snapped. ‘This was their place, but they left a few days ago. Too much trouble here.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find them?’ asked Makepeace.

  ‘Try Banbury.’ The door slammed in her face. She knocked, then knocked again, but there was no reply.

  Hmm. The doctor’s voice was hesitant and wary. Lady Morgan . . . says that he is lying.

  Makepeace remembered all too well the Elders’ eerie ability to tell when somebody was lying. Morgan was not, of course, a very trustworthy source. She might be laying a trap of some sort. Then again, it was also possible that Morgan had her own reasons for wanting Makepeace to track down Symond. The canny Elder might still be hoping to reveal his location to the other Fellmottes.

  Makepeace took a few steps back, studying the house and garden.

  I think she’s right, Makepeace admitted after a few moments. If the Axeworths ran off, they left their chickens, their tools and two bundles of firewood. There’s a barrow over there they could have used to carry their heavy goods. Why would they leave it behind?

  The wind freshened for a moment, and it seemed to Makepeace that the grey sky became greyer, the damp of the air more insidious. There was a note in the wind. It was a little like the sound made by blowing across the neck of a glass bottle, except that Makepeace had the unpleasant feeling that she was the bottleneck. She flinched involuntarily, and put her hands over her ears.

  What is it? asked the doctor.

  There’s something . . . Makepeace was conflicted, trying to listen and trying not to listen. The faint, fluting note had a shape to it. As she listened, it wavered, wailed and became a repeated word.

  Hell . . . Hell . . . Hell . . .

  There’s a ghost here! said Makepeace urgently. We need to leave!

  But as she turned away from the house and took a step back towards the path, an invisible something threw itself against her. She could feel it beating against her mind like damp, mad wings. In shock, she threw up her arms in a useless attempt to defend herself, and recoiled a few steps into the garden.

  Chickens scattered. As she felt her heel thud against the wheelbarrow, Makepeace looked down, and froze.

  Whoever had tried to hide the body had not done a particularly good job. They had curled it up like an unborn babe, covered the bulk of it with the overturned wheelbarrow, and tried to hide those parts that stuck out with leaf mulch and moss. Through the twigs and dank leaves, Makepeace could clearly see a hand, mushroom-pale. It was an adult hand, but not a particularly old one, though calloused with use.

  The voice of the ghost was louder here, and Makepeace could hear the repeated word properly.

  Help . . . Help . . . Help . . .

  ‘Oh, you poor, sorry wretch,�
� she muttered, sadly. ‘Nobody can help you now.’

  ‘Hey!’ The old man was advancing, a gardening fork brandished in a threatening fashion. ‘What are you doing there? If you’re looking for something to steal you’re too late – we’re pared to the bone!’

  ‘No!’ Makepeace stared at the points of the fork, wondering if the corpse at her feet had holes in its chest to match those spikes. ‘I was just leaving!’

  The old man glanced at the barrow at her feet, then back at Makepeace’s face, and his expression crumpled.

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ he shouted. ‘Ann! Come out here!’

  A woman in her thirties ran out into the yard, took in the situation at a glance, and snatched a hand-scythe from a hook on the wall. Like the old man, she wore a tragic expression, made up of desperation, fear, anger and despair.

  There were vivid red smears on the woman’s left sleeve and across the front of her dress.

  That is fresh blood, the doctor said suddenly.

  I guessed, replied Makepeace, as she backed a few steps.

  She was cornered. If she turned tail and fled through the garden, she would have to tear her way through the hedge at the back. If she darted for the path, she would have to dodge the weapons of the old man and the woman. Either way, she knew she was too exhausted to outrun them.

  Listen to me, said the doctor. The corpse under the barrow is nearly blue. That blood is fresh. It did not come from our dead man.

  Makepeace’s brow cleared, and she looked at the woman anew. ‘You’re injured,’ she said. ‘Or somebody in that house is, anyway.’ The old man and the woman exchanged glances.

  Help . . . Help . . . Help . . .

  ‘Let me see them,’ Makepeace said impulsively. ‘I can help them. My last master was a chirurgeon, and he taught me a few things. I have tools! I can show you!’

  There was a long pause, then the woman called Ann beckoned with her scythe.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  Dr Quick, thought Makepeace, I really hope you’re as good as they say.

  So . . . we are proposing to help these murderers? asked the doctor as they neared the door. We are not intending to run, then, once we are in front of the house?

  No, answered Makepeace.

  She knew that she was too tired to run, and she strongly suspected that Bear and the doctor were also drained by the efforts of the night. Besides, she had a presentiment that if she tried to flee, she would find herself with a faceful of ghost again. She had a new suspicion about its wishes.

  The little cottage was sparse and dark inside. The smell of blood hit Makepeace immediately, and for a moment reminded her of cutting up fresh hares and partridges in the Grizehayes kitchen. Underlying it, though, was another aroma, a sickly smell of rot.

  The source of the smell was obvious. A man the same age as Ann was huddled next to the embers of a fire, wrapped in blankets. He was pale and greasy-looking, and his left shoulder had been roughly bandaged with torn linen, which showed stains ranging from crimson to black.

  Well, that bandage will need to be changed for a start, said the doctor. There is all manner of nastiness there, I can smell it. Send somebody to boil some fresh linen. God’s own truth, I would boil the whole house if I could.

  ‘When did you take this hurt?’ asked Makepeace.

  ‘Two days ago.’ The patient’s eyes were watchful and a little feverish.

  Two days, and I’ll warrant the wound has not been properly cleaned, muttered the doctor. No wonder he has taken an infection. We’ll need to take a look at it.

  Makepeace reached towards the bandage, but the patient pulled back, eyeing her with fierce suspicion.

  ‘I think I see how it was,’ Makepeace said, slowly and deliberately. ‘Royalist soldiers and Parliament men found each other out and started killing each other, using your cottage for cover. They left a corpse behind, and one of them hurt you by mistake in the dark. That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

  Her three hosts glanced at each other.

  ‘That’s how it was,’ agreed the patient firmly, and some of the tension went out of the room. Makepeace peeled back the bandage, and struggled not to gag as a smell of rot filled the room. The wound was a long slit, the edges swollen and reddened.

  ‘His flesh is rotting,’ said Ann, who was hovering nearby.

  Ah, said the doctor, that is a sword cut. That young fellow under the barrow must have been a soldier, and he gave some account of himself before he met his end. No maggots yet, but a touch of gangrene. We’ll have to cut that out, and scour out the wound . . .

  Makepeace listened to his instructions, then turned to the patient’s family.

  ‘Boil some strips of fresh linen if you have them,’ she said, ‘and bring me some salt and vinegar.’

  Of course, the doctor remarked thoughtfully, if we could taste the patient’s urine, I could learn a lot from that.

  Not with my tongue, you don’t! Makepeace thought firmly. She had limits.

  Carefully she took Dr Quick’s box of tools out of her bag, trying not to let her hands shake. Biting her lip, she attempted to let the doctor take control of her hands.

  He had mastered her hands before, when he had spoonfed her during her stupor, but this time she was fully awake, and somehow that made things harder. Watching her own hands fumbling with the catch of the box without her controlling them sent a tingle of panic through her. The doctor seemed just as jittery.

  Your hands are too small, he was muttering, and too clumsy. How can I make precise cuts with these . . . blundering meat gloves?

  Makepeace’s hands took hold of a small bladed tool, dropped it, then picked it up again. Her fingers were shaking more than ever. The metal felt strange and cold in her grip.

  She watched her own hand carefully extend the tool towards the wound, the very tip of the blade used to gently ease back the edge of the cut. It made her feel sick to watch it, and to be so close to the wound. The tool was too sharp, the angle wrong, the flesh too vulnerable. Despite herself she flinched, and snatched back control of her hand. The tool twitched and nicked the edge of the wound, and the patient gave a hiss of pain.

  For God’s sake, do you want me to do this or not? If you fight me for control of your hands, we may kill this man! You need to trust me!

  ‘Sorry,’ Makepeace whispered aloud. Despite the cool room, she could feel the tickle of sweat running down her back.

  She released three long, slow breaths, and then let the doctor take control of her hands.

  As she watched, Makepeace tried to pretend that the hands belonged to somebody else. That helped a little. Somebody was demonstrating surgery to her, and she needed to watch every moment, even when her stomach curdled. Nonetheless, she had to grit her teeth as the discoloured flesh was carefully cut away, and tweezers used to remove tiny clotted rags from the wound, presumably fragments of the patient’s sleeve.

  ‘He’s bleeding again,’ Ann said nervously.

  ‘That is as it should be.’ Makepeace parroted the voice in her mind. ‘The blood will help wash out the wound.’ She braced herself as she prepared the swab of salt and vinegar. ‘I am very sorry . . . but this will probably hurt a good deal.’

  The next two minutes involved a lot of screaming, and by the end of it Makepeace was wondering whether chirurgeons ever threw up. By the time the wound was bandaged again in fresh linen, Makepeace was feeling drained and shaky. The old man brought her a bowl of gruel, but a few minutes passed before her stomach was steady enough for her to eat it.

  Afterwards, Ann offered her a bed, and Makepeace accepted it. She guessed that she would not be allowed to leave until it became clear whether her ministrations had done the patient any good. If she was going to be a prisoner, she decided she might as well get some sleep at the same time.

  He may well die despite our efforts, the doctor said quietly. I think I should warn you of this now. I am very good at what I do, but my job is hard and a sword’s task is easy. Humans are fr
agile things, and breaking us is far easier than fixing us. Since the start of this war, most of my patients have died.

  The army knows that often there is nothing to be done. I do not think these people will be so understanding. Mistress Lightfoot, you will need a plan for our escape should that man be carried off to the arms of the Almighty.

  But Bear had other ideas. He was tired, and now was the time to sleep. There was a beautiful, brute simplicity to it. When sleep came for Makepeace, it felt a little like sinking into warm folds of dark fur.

  Makepeace woke hours later, feeling more clear-headed than she had in a long while. A thin, milky sunlight filtered through the open door.

  Ann brought her more gruel, a little bread and some good news. The patient was still weak, but his pulse less ‘wild’, and his fever fading.

  ‘Those tools,’ said Ann. ‘I suppose the chirurgeon died and left them to you.’ Her tone was cloudy with deliberately unasked questions.

  ‘Yes,’ said Makepeace, meeting her eye. ‘That’s exactly how it was.’

  When she joined the rest of the family in the main room, the mood was less antagonistic. As she suspected, they were the Axeworth family, the very people she had been seeking.

  ‘I need your help,’ she explained. ‘I know messages are dropped here – letters for a Mistress Hannah Wise. Do you know where they’re taken, after they leave here?’

  Again there was an indecisive exchange of looks, and this time it was the old man who answered.

  ‘We’ll tell you. After all, we won’t be handling those messages any more. We’ll be leaving here as soon as my son is well enough to travel. We’re not supposed to know where the letters go, but the messenger who picks them up is fond of a drop or two.’ He mimed downing a drink. ‘There’s a house by the name of Whitehollow. That’s where he drops them off.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’ asked Makepeace eagerly.