Umberland

by Wendy Spinale

  She stares at me with disbelief, shaking her head as if refusing to accept my words. “That’s not right. That’s not how this works. I’m meant to be the one who saves everyone.”

  “I know,” I say sadly.

  Suddenly, she looks up as something occurs to her. “What about you?” she demands.

  “What about me?” I reply. But I know. I know what she’s asking.

  “Pete,” she says, a warning in her voice. “Let me see your hands.”

  “Gwen, I’m fine.” I keep my hands in my lap.

  She shakes her head and grabs at my hands. I struggle, trying to pull away, but she’s worked free one of the gloves. The blisters on my fingers match hers. She shoots me a look I’ve never seen on her face before: sheer terror. I’m unsure what to say.

  She covers her mouth as she chokes back her cry.

  “Look, don’t worry about it. I’m fine,” I say, reaching for her.

  “Please just go away,” she says, turning her attention back to the stars.

  “Wait, Gwen,” I say, trying to bring her into my arms.

  She pulls away. “Go, Pete,” she whispers between sobs.

  My chest feels as if dozens of daggers pierce it. I stand, shove my hands back into my coat pockets, and take my time crossing her room. I stop at the door but don’t turn around.

  “I love you, Gwen. We’re going to be okay. Doc will find a cure,” I say.

  I wait, half expecting her to respond, but she doesn’t. It’s the first time since we arrived in Northumberland that she hasn’t told me she loves me, too. Her silence is far worse than her rejection. I glance over my shoulder, wondering if I should go back to her. Her eyes are fixed on the very stars that I promised were guiding her to safety, hope, and her next adventure. Stars that have betrayed her … and me.

  Torchlight casts dancing shadows on the cobblestone walkway as we venture deeper into the garden. Unlike the stench of rot that brews within the shantytown, the air here is filled with the overwhelming fragrance of flowers and forbidden fruit. Brightly colored toadstools dot the garden grounds. Pink trumpet flowers, purple foxglove, and brilliant red poppies grow in bunches on either side of the path. Shrubs filled with dark nightshade berries spill onto the walkway, desperately needing to be pruned. Katt pays no attention to them, her boots squishing their juice and leaving purple stains on the stone.

  The scent of sage trails behind her as she leads me down a network of pathways. I toss a look over my shoulder, wondering if I’d even be able to find my way back to the entrance, since tall trees provide a dense canopy.

  Breathless, I take in the sights. Regret catches in my throat as I realize I haven’t visited the garden in years. Too consumed with my duties as the duchess, I never had time, or at least I thought I didn’t have the time, for a walk through Alnwick’s historic Poison Garden.

  An exquisite turquoise-and-orange frog leaps from a boxwood shrub. Worried that it’ll become like one of the crushed nightshade berries, I lean over to pick it up.

  Katt glances over her shoulder and calls, “Tsk, tsk. Keep your hands to yourself. Even the critters in the Poison Garden are deadly.”

  I’m not sure what surprises me most: that out of kindness I nearly killed myself, or that Katt stopped me, at least this time. Silly, silly, Alyssa, I think, chastising myself. I’ll need to keep my wits about me here. I watch the frog leap across the pathway and into a small pond.

  “Stick to the path. Keep your hands, feet, nose, and whatever other body parts you have left to yourself,” she says, continuing on. Trails of smoke billow behind her like gray phantoms.

  As we move closer to the garden’s center, the music booms louder, the beat of drums pulsating in my bones, muscles, and chest. Finally, we reach a vast clearing, and it’s like I’ve stepped into a masquerade ball. People everywhere, dancing recklessly. A five-member band plays on a raised stage. Dressed in black coats and top hats adorned with copper buttons and buckles, they play their makeshift instruments made up of scrap metal, wire, and other gadgets. The drum set consists of overturned rubbish bins and dented pot lids. The band members’ eyes are lined in coal-black makeup, as are their lips.

  We work our way through the crowd. I am jostled among the guests. They stare at me with dilated eyes, pupils so small I can hardly see them. Some have teeth and lips stained black, reminding me of juice stains left from the deadly nightshade. Despite the chill in the air, they perspire heavily, tainting the heady smell of flowers with the stench of body odor. Katt passes through the throng with ease, unfazed by the smells and pawing hands.

  We reach two tables filled with refreshments. Handwoven grass cloths drape both tables. One contains brightly decorated cakes and biscuits. The other table contains chrome teacups filled with a steaming dark brown liquid. With a sly smile, Katt offers me a cup.

  “Tea?” she asks brightly.

  Hesitantly, I take it, and breathe in the fragrant scent of floral blossoms. Chamomile, I think, but I’m not certain. Others around us down the liquid in their own cups, laughing and seeming entirely fine. Perhaps this is a test of sorts from Katt.

  As I tip the cup toward my lips to try just a small sip, a hand grips my shoulder and whirls me around, nearly spilling the hot liquid on me.

  “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you, lovie. Opium tea doesn’t seem like your poison of choice,” the boy in front of me says. The cup is taken from my hand and tossed over my shoulder, where it clatters against something metal behind me. A bronze embellished teacup is thrust into my hand. This time the liquid is clear and fragrance free.

  “Try this. You’ll thank me later.”

  My gaze darts from the cup to the boy. He is breathtaking. Black makeup lines his eyes, which are so gold they are as bright as polished coins. His beard is neatly trimmed, shaved close to his warm brown face. A burgundy coat with black lapels hugs his tall, muscular body tightly. Copper buttons adorn the cuffs of his sleeves, collar, and down the front of his coat. Thick bronze aviator goggles rest on the lip of his black top hat, covering a burgundy sash. I feel myself falter.

  The boy reaches for the brim of his hat and tilts his head in a bow. “Welcome to the Poison Garden. Maddox Hadder, at your service, Your Grace.” He exchanges a glance with Katt. “Seems even royalty can’t resist the pleasure my garden brings, but who am I to judge?”

  My breath catches before I regain my composure. The music, the refreshments, the purpose of this gathering … It stirs a moment of doubt within me and I regret not bringing help.

  I’ve heard rumors about the boy before me, but we have never met, at least not in person. Passing glances across the castle grounds was all that was afforded to me. Mingling with the laborers was frowned upon by my parents. Maddox was the garden’s caretaker, one of many whose job it was to keep the castle and its grounds running smoothly. That is, until madness struck and I no longer had time to be concerned about trivial tales of the boy who shut the garden gates, claiming the land as his own. Now this garden is his home, and I am not welcome here.

  “How do you do?” I say with a slight bow of my head. The ghostly voices of my parents chastise me for showing honor to a commoner such as him. However, their words no longer hold weight in my decisions. It’s a new world of chaos, and old social hierarchy has no place here.

  “How do I do what?” he asks, his brow creasing. He rubs the closely shaven scruff on his chin with his thumb and index finger, seeming confused.

  “I … I mean, how are you today?” I say, stumbling through my response.

  “Well, it’s hardly daytime anymore, so your question is irrelevant. That is, unless you want to know how my day was, which I assure you is definitely not a story you’d like to hear. Perhaps asking me how I am this evening would be a better question,” he says.

  “How are you this evening?” I ask, before finally noticing the devilish gleam in his eye. I feel like I’ve walked into a cat-and-mouse conversation and I’m the mouse.

  “What an absu
rd question to ask. We’re all doomed to die, me included. How do you think I am doing this evening? Drink up!” he says with a wave of his hand toward my cup.

  “What is it?” I ask, swirling the contents suspiciously, dizzy with our conversation.

  He gives me a crooked smile. “Water, of course,” he says, before racing up a set of steps two at a time that leads to a bizarre-looking throne. Its crooked frame leans to the right before curving back to center, giving it an odd S shape. Intricate carvings scrawl across its cherrywood armrests and seat back. Burgundy leather covers the cushion and the back of the chair. Each leg varies in length, making the chair wobble as he drops into it. He leans against one armrest and throws a leg over the other. Katt grins cheekily and leans on the chair, tracing a finger along his sinewy arm.

  “So, what brings you to my garden of sin? You hardly look sick enough to procure my services,” Maddox says, gently brushing the lavender petals of a low-hanging wisteria vine from the enormous plant that serves as a canopy over his seat.

  I think of the sores growing along my hands and feet, slowly climbing my limbs, but say nothing. I’ve told no one how far it’s been spreading—I’ll not confess to these two.

  “I’d wager that the duchess has finally come to the conclusion that we’re all as good as dead and she’s coming to you for assistance,” Katt says smugly.

  Narrowing my gaze, I lock eyes with her. She isn’t the Katt I once knew, who was carefree and lovely. This Katt, this is someone entirely different, whom I hardly recognize. I set my teacup down on the table before I climb the first two steps. Katt wields her sword and steps in front of Maddox, blocking my view of him.

  “No one approaches Maddox unless invited to do so,” Katt says with a growl. Slowly, I retreat, my fingers grazing the hilt of my own sword. Katt returns to her spot, and she begins to file her long fingernails. They look more like claws, thick and chiseled down into sharp points. Suddenly, I miss the girl I used to have tea parties with. Giggling and eating tiny cakes together while pretending to be ladies of the high court. Or dreaming up pranks to play on her older sister. Judging by the flaky skin on Katt’s hands, she is well into the middle stage of the disease. Like those who surround me, she, too, will eventually succumb to the poison.

  “It’s true, I’ve come seeking your help,” I say, forcing my voice to sound humble.

  Maddox leaps from his chair, removes his top hat, and bows. “How can I be of assistance, Your Grace?”

  I hesitate, surprised by his eagerness to help. It’s my fault his garden is full of dying people. He himself is probably dying, too.

  Rolling my shoulders back, I remind myself of my title. While I am only sixteen, I still must give the air of authority even though I am no less frightened than everyone else. “The Horologia illness is not what we were seeing in the early days after the bombing of London. With the introduction of the antidote, we believe that it has become something altogether different.”

  “Yes, yes, get on with it,” Maddox says with a wave of his hand.

  Startled, I clear my throat and continue. “Although those affected are living longer, the side effects are … ” I don’t finish my sentence. Struck mute by Katt’s piercing glare, I take another step back.

  “Are what, Your Grace?” she sneers, holding up her flaky, scabbed hand. “Worse than death? These people,” she says, gesturing to the partygoers, “my sister, your Queen, are dying. Meanwhile, you’re hiding behind stuffy stone walls playing royalty, waiting for some child prodigy and a dying professor to come up with a solution. We need real answers, not empty promises.” Katt hurls her dagger at my feet.

  Maddox places a hand on her shoulder. “Katt, go take a smoke break.”

  Reluctantly, she trudges over and retrieves her knife. She bumps my shoulder hard as she passes by, nearly knocking me down. Katt joins the crowd dancing in the center of the garden. She takes a puff from the hookah and a sensuous smile grows on her face. She sways to the music, seeming oblivious to the kids around her. My heart feels as if it’s being ripped apart as I watch my childhood friend become a shadow of the girl she once was.

  Maddox takes my elbow and gently leads me up the stairs. “Let her go. She’ll be fine.”

  “Why won’t she just come back and take the crown? It belongs to her anyway,” I say, sitting on a stool that Maddox pulls up for me.

  “And do what, Your Grace? How will being the Queen of England help any of these people?” Maddox asks, resettling into his elaborate seat.

  Several responses come to mind, but he’s absolutely right. There is nothing more that she could do as the Queen. Perhaps being with the people, offering them companionship, an ear, joy—even if it’s only for a fleeting moment—is more merciful than vigilantly seeking a cure. I glance back at Katt, her arms lifted in the air as she dances to the beat of a rhythmic song in the middle of sick but smiling people.

  “They seem content, even happy,” I say, taken in by the expressions on their faces.

  “Don’t let them fool you. We’re all losing it here. I’m mad. You’re mad. They’re all mad.” His gold gaze scans the crowd before it meets mine.

  “How do you know I’m mad?” I ask, hiding my gloved hands behind my back.

  “You must be,” says Maddox; his brow creases as if I’ve asked the silliest of questions. “Why else would you risk entering the Poison Garden? You know very well why my guests come. These people, this is their last night. The last time they’ll smile, partake of good food and drink, console one another … breathe. By morning they’ll all be dead, and tomorrow’s guests’ entrance fee is a simple one: to help dispose of the bodies.”

  Maddox nods to the large bonfire in the center of the dance floor. I hadn’t noticed it before, but what I once thought were tree stumps and large sections of wood aren’t anything of the sort. Instead, blackened bodies lean against one another, serving as the tinder for the huge fire roaring into the night sky. Horrified, I clasp my mouth, biting back the urge to vomit as I tear my gaze from the pile of burning corpses. Pressing too hard, a sharp pain rockets through my index finger and up my arm. When I pull my hand back, a crimson stain blossoms on my white glove.

  I’ve never been sick enough to seek Maddox’s help, but for how much longer? Eventually, we’ll all just be tinder for the bonfire. With the Professor gone, there is no hope for a temporary remedy to keep us all going like she provided when she was the gatekeeper for those sick kids exiting Everland. She’s the only one who kept any of us alive with her treatments. When she died, we all signed our own death certificates. What’s left? We’re destined to become ghosts of our former selves. Maddox is right. Soon enough, we’ll all go mad unless something is done. Unless I get the apple and Doc can create the cure.

  “When did they lose hope?” I ask, a wave of despair washing over me.

  “Probably when the pain started, when the transformation began,” Maddox says. He tugs at the fingertips of his glove, gracefully removing it. The limb he holds in front of me is not a hand at all. It’s not even human. Scales weeping with an oil-like liquid cover what should be his skin. His fingers extend out, long and adorned with razor-like claws protruding from each finger.

  Gasping in horror, I bolt from my seat. Realizing I never should have come this far beyond the gates of the garden, I stumble down the stairs, tripping over the last step. I land face-first in the dirt. When I lift my head, the eyes of dozens of kids watch me, cackling at my mishap.

  Scrambling to my feet, I run as fast as I can toward the entrance. His voice chases me, as if he’s merely a few steps away. When I peer over my shoulder, there is no one there.

  I dash down numerous paths, lost.

  After several long moments, I find myself at a small clearing with a simple bench. The copper armrests are green with patina, making the bench blend in with the rest of the foliage. I sit, looking for a moment of peace, trying to catch my breath. The swift beat of my heart collides with the pulse of the garden’s drums. I gl
ance toward the empty road I’ve just come from. Maddox is nowhere in sight, and his voice is nothing but a whisper in the breeze.

  “Where are you running off to?” Maddox asks in my ear.

  Jumping to my feet, I whirl toward his voice, drawing my sword and aiming at the boy who sits calmly on the bench. While I am winded, he acts as if he’s been waiting here all along for me, one arm thrown over the back of the bench and legs casually crossed.

  “You didn’t even thank me for my hospitality,” he says, and leans toward me. “I repeat: What is it you want from me, Your Grace? Why have you come to my garden?”

  As his gold eyes fix on mine, my insides tremble. Instinct implores me to run again, but I can’t. I need his help. I have to get what I’ve come for: information on the poison apple.

  “There might be a way to find a cure,” I say, hope lightening my voice.

  His gaze darts toward mine and he sits a little straighter. “Is that so? And what does this have to do with me?”

  Taking in a breath, I sheathe my sword. “The Professor, she was the one who identified the disease and was working on a cure before she died. Her notes indicate that she was missing a single ingredient to produce the cure for the Horologia virus.” I shake my head. “No, not a virus. A poison.”

  “It’s a poison? Very interesting. And just what might that ingredient be?” Maddox asks, rubbing the scruff of his chin thoughtfully.

  “An apple,” I say, watching for his reaction.

  The corners of Maddox’s mouth tip in a knowing smile.

  “You know of it?” I ask.

  Maddox smirks before he stands and heads down the path, leaving me alone on the bench. Surprised by his abrupt departure, I chase after him, doubling my pace in order to keep in step with his long strides.

  “Wait! What about the apple? Is it here in the garden?” I ask.