This is what they saw:
3 September 1941
Bestwood-on-Trent, Nottinghamshire, England
You’re looking dreadfully chipper for this time of morning,” Aubrey T said from the doorway of the breakfast room. The window behind him framed a trimmed hedge and a flock of blackbirds.
Will looked up from his breakfast. “Today is an important day.” He shivered. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
Aubrey arched an eyebrow. He seated himself at the head of the long table. He lifted Will’s teacup, which was half-empty, and sniffed the contents. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass rosette window, shattering into little rainbows that danced around the room when Aubrey also inspected the teapot.
It was the same ritual he’d performed every morning for the past two months. And every morning Will felt the shame a little less acutely than the day before.
“I trust you find everything satisfactory?” he asked.
Aubrey harrumphed. He opened the newspaper tucked neatly at his seat. The two brothers sat quietly, Will eating and Aubrey reading, while blackbirds screeched to each other in a shrubbery beneath the window.
As a rule, Will avoided reading the papers. Too frequently they dampened the nation’s celebratory mood by mentioning the hundreds of Britons killed by pro-German saboteurs during the war, or calling for renewed efforts to find and punish the fifth columnists who had derailed trains, sunken ships, burned hospitals. The rhetoric was dying down, but it would forever be a sore spot on the British psyche.
The warlocks had returned to their secret, quiet little lives. They had gone into hiding.
Will called for Mr. Pantaiges, the current steward of Bestwood. Aubrey listened while Will described his plans for the day to Mr. Pantaiges.
Two hours later, Will stood panting in the glade where a natural spring gurgled up through cleft granite. He’d discarded his vest and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. His shirt was ruined, torn by the thorny brush through which he’d hacked a path wide enough for a wheelbarrow.
The exertion felt wonderful, like life was pumping through his body again. He relished the feel of sweat on his skin, the heave of his chest as he caught his breath, the rapid beating of his heart. Even the deep scratches on his hands and arms. Will imagined the sweat and blood wicking away any lingering traces of the poison in his body. Almost three months had passed since the phantom hunger had withered and died.
Will listened to the whooshing updraft from the bonfire. The blackbirds had fallen silent; they watched from the distant crenellations of Bestwood. His grandfather’s personal effects released an exhilarating heat as flames consumed the pile. The fire wouldn’t destroy everything, but Will would bury the ashes and anything left intact. The glade smelled of cleansing fire.
Mr. Pantaiges came crashing through the thicket, his wheelbarrow bouncing along the path of trimmings Will had left strewn through the surrounding copse. He set it down, close enough to the fire that Will could dump the contents into the fire: a walking stick, framed black-and-white photographs, and clothing.
“The last of it, sir.”
Will shook his head. “I want you to gather everything. Nothing is to be spared.”
“I understand, sir. With apologies, I am quite certain these are the very last of His Grace’s belongings, may he rest in peace. I’ve confirmed it personally, sir.”
Will sifted through the contents of the wheelbarrow. “His papers, too, Mr. Pantaiges.” Especially his papers.
“Ah,” said the majordomo. A moment of awkward hesitation passed before he continued. “I am afraid, sir, that the Admiralty men left nothing behind.”
The fire lost its warmth. Will shivered under a frisson of cold. He steadied himself on a granite outcropping and eased himself into a sitting position.
“What men, Mr. Pantaiges?” His voice was barely a whisper above the crackle of the bonfire and the faint booming of a distant surf.
“The men from the Admiralty, sir. They requisitioned all of the late Duke’s papers. For the war effort, they said. And His Grace, being very keen to do his part for the country, as I’m sure you know well, sir, was quite emphatic that we should pack up every last scrap of paper for them.”
“I see.” Will fought to catch his breath. “And when did this happen?”
“Many months ago, sir. This past winter.”
“Do you remember anything else about these men? Their appearances, or how they might have spoken?”
“No, sir. They seemed rather ordinary, if I may say so.” The majordomo paused. “There was one thing, sir. Struck me as a trifle odd at the time.”
“Tell me.”
“I remember they were very specific. They asked several times if His Grace had kept any notes on child rearing. Can you imagine that, sir?”
An old memory floated unbidden into Will’s mind, like a piece of flotsam carried on a rising tide. They’d been driving through the city, Pip at the wheel. Pip had asked about the lexicons, and Enochian, and how it all began. Will had tried to dodge the subject: I had this very same conversation yesterday. Can’t you have the old man explain it to you? Will had tasted his first pint that afternoon.
And he remembered another, more recent conversation with Marsh. Have you heard anything about some work going on downstairs? At the Admiralty.
He stood. “That will be all, Mr. Pantaiges. Please tell my brother I’ve gone to London for the day.”
The renovations had been so thorough that Will hardly recognized the space. The basement beneath Milkweed HQ had been rebuilt. Gone were the mildewed storerooms, the brick arches, the warren of corridors. They had been replaced with what appeared to be rows of bank vaults.
A pair of the heaviest steel doors Will had ever seen sectioned off each corridor. Lush, deep-pile chenille carpeting covered every inch of the corridors themselves, floor to ceiling, including the widely spaced doorways lining each wall.
The carpeting, he knew, was there to absorb sound. He knew it because of the placards, posted everywhere:
SILENCE, PLEASE!
CONVERSATION IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN AT ALL TIMES!
ABSOLUTELY NO LANGUAGE PERMITTED ON THE PREMISES!
But the insulation wasn’t perfect. If Will strained enough, he could discern the wailing of hungry babies.
He knew that if he waited, sooner or later the wet nurses would arrive, perhaps under armed escort, to enter the vaults. But he already knew what the vaults held.
Newborns, not more than a few months old.
War orphans.
3 September 1941
Walworth, London, England
The vines were thick and sturdy, their tomatoes tiny pale-green bulbs that would swell and redden into autumn. Marsh slowly worked down the row, inspecting every leaf for signs of blight or infestation. He trimmed a shoot edged with brown. The wet, loamy smell of the opened vine mixed with the aroma of Liv’s bread baking in the kitchen.
Homemade bread was the only kind to be had in these first months after the war. Nobody complained. People were too busy celebrating. The war was over, and Britain had survived. No more air raids, no more gas masks. Life had mostly returned to normal.
But the rationing had become stricter. Bread was just one of many items that had been added to the list of rationed goods. Goods that would be sent to the Continent in a desperate attempt to feed the millions left starving by the unnatural winter. He knew, from listening to the wireless, that Stalin had invited Churchill and Roosevelt to Paris to discuss the situation.
He also knew that the Japanese had gobbled up the Kamchatka Peninsula and Sakhalin Island while the Soviets were busy dealing with scattered pockets of Nazi resistance in Europe. He wondered if that would be on the table for discussion in Paris. Churchill would have to step carefully around the issue, because—
No. Marsh grabbed the reins of his runaway mind, forced his galloping thoughts to a halt. It’s not my problem any longer. I don’t do that work anymore.
I’m done.
&nbs
p; He would need to find a new situation soon. Before long, they’d have another mouth to feed. But he’d postponed the search for employment as long as possible. The summer had been for him and Liv. Marsh was back with the love of his life, and together they were building a new family.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him. A shadow covered the sun, a miniature eclipse where he kneeled among the plants. For an instant, he tensed, remembering a ghostly figure in the shadows of St. James’ Park. But he shook it off.
No. It’s not my problem any longer.
“I’ll be right in, Liv.” Marsh trimmed another shoot, inhaling deeply. He smiled. “Can’t wait for that bread.”
“Patience never was one of your virtues, Pip.”
Marsh started, turned. Will stood just outside the plantings, silhouetted by the sun.
“Will! This is a surprise,” Marsh said as he climbed to his feet, slapping the soil from his dungarees. “When did you get here? I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“It requires a lot of pruning,” said Will, pointing at the vines.
Marsh said, “Not so much as I feared. They’re—” He stopped himself, alarmed by the quaver in Will’s voice, his tremorous hand. His old friend looked rumpled, gray. Oh, no. “What requires pruning, Will?”
“Children. Many, many children.” Will’s breath stank of juniper berries. “Lean harvest, you know.” He giggled.
We’d heard Will was improving. But he’s hardly coherent. He’s fallen, hard. Marsh took him gently by the arm. “Let’s go inside. I think we should call Aubrey.”
This one is my problem. My fault.
He pulled Will’s arm over his shoulder and led him toward the house. Liv must have glimpsed them from the kitchen, because she stepped outside as they approached. “Will! It’s so good to see you! It’s been ages.”
“Olivia.” Will staggered against Marsh before righting himself. Liv made brief eye contact with Marsh, and he saw the frown of concern tugging at her freckles.
Will doffed his bowler and performed an unsteady bow. “You are a vision as always, my dear,” he said, looking her up and down. His eyes widened when he saw the slight bulge of her stomach.
He turned. “Pip?” His breath stung Marsh’s eyes.
“We’re starting another family, Will. Starting over.”
A dark reflection clouded Will’s eyes, as though he were looking at something vast and dangerous. Marsh recognized the shadow, a legacy of Milkweed. The unhealthy pallor in Will’s face deepened. Marsh saw he carried a wire-bound manuscript: a copy of the master lexicon.
“Unborn child,” Will whispered. He trailed off, his lips moving soundlessly. He turned to look at Liv again, mumbling to himself. “Soul.”
“We’ve been discussing names,” said Liv with forced joviality. “We thought that—”
“You have to get rid of it,” he blurted. “Get rid of that baby. I know a doctor. . . .”
Liv’s mouth fell open. Her hands went to her stomach, and she took a step back, the hurt plain on her face.
Marsh grabbed Will’s elbow, spun him around. “What did you just say to my wife?”
“Pip . . .” Will wept incoherently.
Marsh took a deep breath, thought of Liv, and quelled his anger. He put a hand on Will’s elbow. “What’s wrong, Will? Tell me what happened.”
But Will only shook his head, inconsolable, lost in a private anguish. He teetered for a moment before managing to right himself. “It won’t hurt.” He lurched toward the house. “I know how to drown the pain. I’ll teach you.”
Marsh sidestepped and positioned himself between Will and Liv. In a low voice, so that Liv wouldn’t hear him, he said, “I’m trying to help you. But if you won’t let me do that, you have to leave.”
Will stopped, studied Marsh with glassy eyes. Then he started forward again, still weeping. “Babies. Monsters. All of them.”
Now he was rambling. Will was utterly gone, making no sense. And he was upsetting Liv.
Marsh blocked him again. “I mean it, Will. Leave. Now.” The last came out as a growl.
Will pointed past Marsh’s shoulder, toward Liv. Now he wailed openly. “Kill it, Olivia! Kill that thing growing inside you—”
That was all he said, because Marsh let his anger fly. There was a dull thud, and then Will collapsed into the tomato vines in a rumpled heap. A flock of blackbirds leapt for the sky with a commotion of flapping wings.
Behind them, Liv gasped. “Oh . . .”
Marsh massaged his aching hand. “Don’t come back, Will,” he said. “Stay away from my family.”
Will gaped up at him, hand to his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped. The tears on his face glistened in the sunlight. So did the trickle of blood under his nose. He lurched to his feet, awkwardly collecting his hat and the lexicon from where they had fallen. For one long moment he stared past Marsh at Liv. The expression on his face was unreadable.
Hoping he wouldn’t have to hit Will again, especially in front of Liv, Marsh tensed. But then Will shook his head sadly, turned, and stumbled for the garden gate.
Marsh waited until it latched shut. Then he put an arm around his wife.
“I wish you hadn’t done that. He’s our friend.”
“I’m sorry, Liv. I was afraid he’d hurt you.”
“Poor Will,” she said. “How did this happen to him?”
“Let’s go inside. It’s over now,” said Marsh.
He was sorry about Will. But Marsh had his family and his garden, and he needed nothing more to be happy.
3 September 1941
Somewhere in the USSR
They were on the move again. It happened every few weeks. Klaus didn’t know why, or where they’d go this time. All he knew was that each move took them farther east.
While others struck the camp, two soldiers motioned with their rifles, gesturing Klaus into yet another truck. Klaus knew that if he didn’t cooperate, they’d connect the wires in his cranium to the AC generator again. The last time, he’d fractured a rib during the convulsions.
He climbed aboard the truck and took a seat on the hard bench next to Gretel, who was already seated and shackled. A soldier fastened manacles to Klaus’s wrists and ankles, then locked his chains to an iron ring on the floor.
If only he had a battery . . . All he needed was a fraction of a second. A fraction of a second, the merest tickle of current, and he and Gretel could be free.
Klaus tried for the thousandth time to call up his Willenskräfte, to rouse that dormant part of his mind where the Götterelektron flowed. But it was useless. Without a battery, he was just another man.
Their captors dismantled the camp with swift efficiency. The truck rumbled to life. The captives’ chains jingled as the truck bounced along a dirt road through a vast forest. Ravens flitted through the trees, flashes of black amongst the play of sunlight and shadow.
Klaus sighed, exhausted from his futile effort. He slumped on the bench with head hung low. Gretel patted him on the knee.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.
She leaned close. Her breath tickled his ear.
“Incoming,” she whispered.
The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds Page 35
