by Ada Palmer
“There you are!” Thisbe appeared behind Carlyle just as he opened it. “I told Chagatai we needed to head out. I’m on duty soon. Did you have a good snoop?”
Carlyle stood frozen, staring, unable to release the knob. “Their bedroom.”
“What?”
“This is J.E.D.D. Mason’s bedroom.”
Carlyle pulled the door back. A mattress with plain sheets lay on the floor, without blanket, pillow or bed frame. The closet door, ajar, revealed six shirts on hangers, the antique black He always wore. And nothing more.
“That’s kind of scary,” Thisbe admitted, checking the empty drawers. “Though it’s less scary knowing they don’t really live here.”
Carlyle stared in silence for some moments. “No. The rest of the rooms are comfortable, guest-ready. This … this has to be their preference.”
They thought on that for some moments, before Thisbe turned dark eyes again on the sensayer. “I could tell you almost lost it over what they said about Dominic.”
Carlyle flinched. “Sensayer and valet, and possessive, and probably a bash’mate too, or worse. All the earmarks of unhealthy. It would be scary anywhere, but, so close to major powers, a cult could be the kind of disaster we’re most afraid of. J.E.D.D. Mason has access to the Emperor. To Andō. To everything.”
Thisbe gave a long frown. “You’re right to be worried. And you’re right that it’s a First Law issue, but the danger of a cult is a lot more … long-term than the danger of eight hundred million cars all shutting down tomorrow, and also a lot less important than what threat this might pose to a certain kid. My questions trump yours, and you need to stay calm so I can keep coaxing out the answers we’re really here for. You jump on the conversation like that again and I’ll send you home and go to Paris on my own. Understood?”
Objections parted his lips, but stopped there. “Yes. You’re right.”
“Are you ready to go back in there? I’m sure I can coast on this bluff a while longer, but you look like you’re struggling.”
“I’m fine,” Carlyle resolved. “I’ll stay. Though this Blacklaw’s main feature seems to be knowing as little as possible about J.E.D.D. Mason’s family and political life. Should we move on toward Paris before someone catches us here?”
She considered, but shook her head, black hair flowing like oil. “I want to see if this roast really can lure in that Dominic. Plus our chef says there’s a step coming up which we can eat, not the final thing but an intermediate thing that involves almonds, and smells incredible.”
The growl of Carlyle’s tummy decided for him. “Excellent!”
“One thing.” She stopped him in the doorway. “After I’m done and satisfied with my investigation, then you report this to the Sensayer’s Conclave, not before. I don’t want people getting poked and clamming up, not with so much at risk.”
Carlyle winced as he described this part. “Of course, Thisbe. You have my word.”
It is possible to delete reports sent to the Conclave. It is not possible, amid the many lies, to be quite certain who saw it before Carlyle deleted it.
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
A Monster in the House
Gunfire could not have spooked me so completely as Bridger’s silence when I called to check on him after my hours in the Censor’s office. Night’s westward march had advanced from Tōgenkyō as far as Europe, and I had been ordered to get some hours’ sleep, but it did not occur to me that I was sacrificing something as I lied my way into a car. Bridger did not answer. The Major did not answer. No one answered for that agonizing hour’s flight across the unyielding Atlantic. Fears drowned me so completely I did not even mark when midnight touched Western Europe and set the Seven-Ten lists free into the world. I did not call Thisbe. I almost did, but what if it was something with her bash’? The thief again? Or the opposite, police? Those were my justifications. Really, I think, I was angry at Thisbe forcing out what I had hidden so long, my Tocqueville. It was the kind of anger we create to mask our guilt.
The cave was dark, but I found Bridger in Thisbe’s bedroom, huddling as a caged rat huddles in a sterile corner, praying in its tiny mind for some rag or scrap of newspaper to hide beneath. My arms were Bridger’s rag, and he hurled himself into their sanctuary hard enough to wind me.
“They were inside! Mycroft, they were inside!”
“Who? Who was inside? Inside what?”
I leaned against Thisbe’s bed so the boy’s weight would not topple me. He smelled of the sea, salt, and sun, good things to come between these shadows.
“In my cave! They went through and threw everything everywhere, and broke the dollhouse, and knocked Mommadoll’s kitchen over, and turned Boo’s bed upside down!”
Boo too jumped on me, frantic as dogs get when they sense panic but have nothing to growl at.
“Is anyone hurt? Was anyone seen?” I asked.
“Mommadoll got hurt. Mommadoll got a heavy box thrown on them and was stuck there pretending to be just a doll, for an hour, Mycroft! An hour!”
He opened his arms just enough for me to see her cradled there, her blond curls mussed by crook of his elbow. “I’m fine, honey,” she reassured, her smile never dimming. “It just twisted my shoulder a little bit. I’m fine. The important thing is that you weren’t there.”
“You weren’t there?” I repeated as I stroked his hair.
“I went swimming on the beach. Mommadoll was all alone with just a couple soldiers on watch!”
I hugged him as tightly as I could without smothering the doll in his arms. “It’s all right now.”
“But!”
“I’m here. I’ll take care of it. Whatever happens, so long as you’re not hurt, I can take care of it, I promise.” I wiped his tears with my fingers, and he granted me a smile. “What happened to your tracker?”
“I left it while I went to swim.” He saw the silent scolding on my face. “I know. But the Major says I shouldn’t turn it on again. The bad guy did something to it, the men on watch saw!”
“The Major’s right.” I held the child gently, feeling his trembling subside. But I did have to ask. “Was it Dominic Seneschal?”
The Major answered, seated with his men on a set of dice on the bedside table, just the right size to serve as stools. “Blacklaw, late twenties, sensayer’s scarf, antique French men’s costume, light skin, brown hair tied back, moves like a monster.”
“Dominic must have found something in this room when they searched before.” I gave Bridger’s shoulder a squeeze. “Was anything sitting out in the cave that was obviously miracled? Did Dominic take anything? Anything you’d made?”
“I was packing!” Sobs resurged. “I was packing like you said, just the important things, and they took my backpack! It was full! It had my drawings, and my red shirt, and my Robin Hood book, and the ammunition, all the army men’s ammunition, and Mommadoll’s best little frying pan, you remember the one you got her that’s just the right size?”
“We can get another one, sweetheart,” she reassured.
My mind inventoried what else the backpack must contain: hair, fingerprints. “The ammunition, was it already miracled?”
Bridger sniffed. “It wasn’t miracled yet, just lots of little paper guns and boxes, and some paper Healing Potion tubes, I made some ahead of time so I’ll be ready. I even have some in my pocket, see?” His trembling hand produced the now-crushed paper tube, already labeled.
“What about the resurrection potion you made for Private Pointer?”
“I have that safe in my shoe. But the No-No Box! They took the No-No Box!”
Thisbe’s voice rose behind me, as soft and sweet and threatening as I had ever heard it. “What’s the No-No Box?”
I turned to find her on the threshold, the click of her boots cold as the clatter of old bones.
Instinct made me clutch the boy more tightly. “That doesn’t matter right now.”
“More secrets?” She slipped off her fine jacket, and set down
the parcel of leftovers I did not yet realize was from Chagatai. “We were hunting Dominic Seneschal ourselves when we got the bleep that Bridger had come in here. I didn’t know you were here, though. Slipped our tracker again, have we?”
I cursed, spotting wide-eyed Carlyle behind her. The shadow of my hat would have been enough to conceal the absence of the tracker at my ear, but not now.
“Bridger isn’t up to dealing with you in one of your moods right now, Thisbe,” I warned. “Take a minute to relax, and take your boots off.”
“Why was Bridger packing?” She stepped toward me, enjoying the unease each step instilled. “You weren’t going to spirit Bridger off to J.E.D.D. Mason without telling us, were you?”
I helped Bridger sit beside me on the bed, so I could shield him from her glare. “Not to J.E.D.D. Mason, but this area isn’t safe anymore, not with this investigation. I have a safe house ready.”
“So you run and leave me in the hot seat?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mycroft. You were trying to take Bridger off somewhere and hide them from me.”
I found myself wondering why I was so frightened as the witch loomed close. Was it pathological? She seemed a witch to me in all senses then, a good witch, bad witch, weaver of curses, stalker of children, solver of problems, healer, black widow, conjurer, the devil’s whore who chews through mortal mates, an old maid too, young but on course to bloom into that unmarried, ungrounded, uncontrolled old crone which drove past societies to purge with fire or bind in nunneries those thorny women wedlock could not hold. I had come to her with Bridger years ago, just as a village girl might have, desperate to conceal a child born out of wedlock, turning to the midwife who is something more than midwife after dark. Now this same protector-friend loomed before me, like the boogeymen kids fear before they learn real dangers. Was it all in my mind? Her threat? Her craft?
Yes, Mycroft, it was. Remember, thou art mad.
Am I?
Indeed, thou art. Thou provest it often, and if thou doubtest now, read over thy descriptions of this woman, from the incipit to here. Hexes and witchcraft, would Reason use these words? Would I?
You are right, reader. Apologies. You corrected me about this once before, but sometimes, in this hazy present, I forget.
Is that apology sincere?
Sincere? Of course, dear master. All these labors are for you. If you are not satisf—
Then act on it.
How?
Stop calling her a witch. Thy common biases are distraction enough without these fever dreams. Say ‘she’ if thou must, but no more superstitions. Even thy barely enlightened Patriarch was civilized enough to fear no witches. Follow his good example.
I hesitate, reader. I find Thisbe’s masks and layers difficult to describe already. It will be much harder without the frame through which I myself understand her, or try to. But I will attempt, reader, I promise you, my fragile, failing best.
“I’ll bring Bridger back later,” I pledged. “In a week, a month, when this is over. If you don’t know where the safe house is then Dominic can’t force it out of you.”
Thisbe laughed aloud. “Mycroft, you just confessed you place J.E.D.D. Mason above even the Major. They’ll have a far easier time forcing it out of you.”
“Quit being stupid, Thisbe!” Bridger piped up, glaring at her, bold as day, over my shoulder. “Mommadoll’s hurt and the scary person might know about me. This isn’t the time to be mad at Mycroft!”
Thisbe was all smiles in an instant, and the room filled with the scent of warmth and mothering. “Bridger, honey, Mycroft and I both want what’s best for you, but it’s hard when Mycroft won’t be honest with the rest of us. They’re sincere, but they don’t always know what’s best.”
The Major rose from his die-stool. “Bridger’s right this time, Thisbe. There’s a shadow over your house. We can’t let that fall over Bridger, whatever the cost.”
Thisbe flinched, a real flinch as his reprimand reminded her how precariously things were teetering.
“Major,” I asked, “you had men on watch when Dominic came, yes? What did Dominic do?”
We all looked to Lieutenant Aimer, who is usually in charge in the Major’s absence. “The intruder ransacked the place pretty thoroughly,” he answered, his tiny voice a few horrors lighter than the Major’s, but still rich with experience. “I’m sure it was clear a child has lived there a long time, and likes dolls. They took a lot: old drawings, books, a hairbrush, and they scanned things, took photographs, samples of dirt, swatches off the sofa, so they must have skin, and Boo’s fur.”
“My hairs too, I imagine,” I added. “I’ll be questioned next.” I was almost ready to laugh. “You may be right, Thisbe, I have become the weakest link.”
“No!” Bridger dug his fingers into my uniform. “Mycroft, you can’t go away!”
“I wo—” I stopped myself mid-promise. “I’ll always come back, you know that, even when I go away for little patches.”
He had no words for me, just wide, desperate eyes.
“Will Dominic tell J.E.D.D. Mason about this?” Thisbe asked.
“Dominic? Not right away, not after seeing the No-No Box.”
Another glint of accusation in her eyes. “No more secrets, Mycroft. What is the No-No Box?”
Bridger shrank against me. “It’s bad.”
“It’s a box Bridger kept, with things in it from the trash that should never, ever be miracled. A crucifix, a globe, a Buddha statue, a doomsday device from an old comic book, a devil mask, a toy bomb, some pictures of old paintings that show God or Satan, a black rubber ball.”
“Why a ball?” Thisbe asked it, looking from me to Carlyle, who was already lost in terrifying thoughts. Be happy, reader, you have the luxury of not believing in Bridger’s power: to you these possibilities are still abstract.
I heard a little squeak from Bridger’s throat, and renewed my hug. “Bridger thinks of it as a toy black hole. Bye-bye planet. There’s also one of Cato’s old Science Museum toys in there that’s supposed to be a model of the Big Bang. The No-No Box wasn’t my idea and I didn’t encourage it, but I do think it’s good for Bridger to think about how serious their powers are.”
“If you thought it was a fine thing, why did you hide it from me?” Thisbe snapped.
“I didn’t want to talk about it!” the child answered, sparing me the necessity. “It’s scary and I don’t like it.”
Carlyle’s fingers dug into the battered knit of his sensayer’s scarf. “And Dominic has this box now? Complete with icons and crucifix?”
Possible disasters schooled through my mind. “It’s not … it’s not proof of anything, but it will excite Dominic. A lot.” I took a deep breath. “But Dominic won’t go to J.E.D.D. Mason with something touching on theology, not until Dominic’s one hundred percent sure what’s going on. That’s probably why Dominic’s gone missing, actually, to figure it out before facing son Maître again. You won’t appreciate the gravity of it, but this is the first time since J.E.D.D. Mason was born that Dominic’s gone missing like this. He won’t show his face to Them again until he’s sure of what he’s found.”
“He?” Thisbe repeated. “Mycroft, isn’t Dominic…”
I had not noticed my slip. “What?”
“Never mind. How long have you been involved with these people? Years?”
“This isn’t about me, Thisbe,” I dodged. “We need to get Bridger out of here.”
“Not with you until you answer.”
“Are you part of the cult?” In his way, Carlyle tried to ask it gently.
“What?”
Carlyle brushed back his straying hair to bare a gentle, coaxing smile. “There’s a secret religious group going on here, yes? Are you part of it?”
“No!” I answered. “Well … no.”
Thisbe took a grim pace closer. “That’s not an answer.”
“I can’t.”
“The truth.”
; “I can’t.”
“The truth!”
“By law I can’t!” I nodded toward the sensayer. “My sensayer is aware of everything, and keeping a careful watch on me. I—”
“Shhh!” The Major’s hiss silenced us all, and his fast gesture sent his men under the cover of a chocolate wrapper. “Someone’s at the inner door.”
“Is someone there?” Thisbe called, her voice musically loud to cover the footsteps as I helped Bridger to the closet.
“It’s me, Thiz.” It was Ockham’s voice, neither hostile nor friendly. He must have been just beyond the door, at the foot of the stairwell to the Mukta hall above. “I know you have someone in there with you.”
Thisbe was only half-relieved to find it was her brother. “Sorry, should have logged it.”
“I haven’t been listening in, I just came down. Look, Thiz, I give you every reasonable liberty, but we talked about this, when you bring danger on this bash’ it has to stop.”
Thisbe shooed Boo toward me, the dog’s fast breaths harsh in the hush. “I know, Ockham. This isn’t anything dangerous. I’m being careful.”
Ockham took a deep breath. “¿True or false? ¿Whatever you’re doing is making the investigators of the Seven-Ten list break-in more suspicious of this house?”
Thisbe hid behind the oil-rich cascade of her black hair. “A little true. But I’m taking care of it. I’m—we’re discussing changes to keep this from affecting the bash’ anymore. In a little while it’ll be totally cleared away. Trust me.”
“¿True or false?” Ockham asked again. “You’ve brought our new sensayer here five times in three days, and you’ve been lying about why.”
We within traded guilty glances. I don’t think any of us realized we had been quite so clumsy.
“The Conclave checks, Thisbe,” he pressed. “A sensayer is not a safe mark for you.”
