Chime

by Franny Billingsley

  “I’m awfully tired,” I said. “Can you be quick about it?”

  Poor Cecil, consumed by a grande passion, only to be told to compress his love manifesto into a haiku.

  “I won’t try to excuse my behavior,” he said. “It was despicable.”

  Or a limerick.

  There once was a rotter named Cecil,

  Whose Love Interest wished he could be still.

  Oh well. Unlike some, at least, I’ve never pretended to be a poet.

  Cecil clutched at his hair, although he would undoubtedly prefer that his biographers describe him as having rent his hair. The effect was not unattractive. “I can’t explain what came over me.”

  “I can.”

  He rent his dark tresses,

  Resulting in messes,

  Thus prompting his L.I. to flee till,

  she reached the end of the world and jumped off.

  Perhaps I have untapped potential.

  “You do understand! You know how it drives one mad.”

  “What does?”

  “Unrequited love,” said Cecil.

  “Unrequited lust, you mean.”

  “It’s no such thing!”

  “Really?” I said. “I can hardly take that as a compliment.”

  Cecil’s tongue stumbled over itself, trying to explain the fine distinction between passion and lust—

  “And drink,” I said.

  “Briony, please.” Cecil reached across the table.

  My hand jumped away of itself. “Don’t touch me!” My voice went funny, making us both pause and lean back.

  Cecil broke the silence. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Would you enjoy it if I were?”

  Of course I wasn’t afraid. I’d been afraid on Blackberry Night, but only in a primitive, reactive sort of way. The startle-fear of tripping on a stair, or hearing a noise in the dark.

  What could Fitz possibly have seen in him? They spent such a quantity of time together.

  “Whatever did you and Fitz talk about?”

  Cecil blinked, twice, as though that would help him catch up with the conversation. “We were drinking mates. We didn’t talk much.”

  “You can’t drink and talk at the same time?”

  “Oh, I showed Fitz a few things,” said Cecil. “He’s older than I, but less experienced in the ways of the world.”

  Fitz, less experienced? Fitz, who’s been to Paris and Vienna? “What ways?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Fitz,” said Cecil. “I want to talk about you, about us. First Eldric came, and now you’ve changed.”

  “You’re the one who’s changed.” I showed him the pale underside of my wrist, the bruises left by two fingers and a thumb.

  If there were such a thing as a vampire-puppy-dog, it would be Cecil. Big pleading eyes, asking for an ear-scratch and a nice warm bowl of blood.

  “Why don’t you have any bruises?” I said. The vampire-puppy-dog looked all about.

  “Eldric hit you hard.”

  “He hit me where you can’t see,” said Cecil at last.

  Where you can’t see? Most satisfactory!

  “Forget Eldric,” said Cecil. “I was useful to you, admit it.”

  “Useful?” I said. “How do you mean?”

  “Are you back to that game?” His eyes went narrow and chilly. Terrifying, I’m sure. “Pretending you never took me into your confidence about it.”

  “We’d get on better,” I said, “if you could tell me what the it is.”

  “I’d never have thought it of you,” he said. “I did it out of love.”

  Either I was mad, or Cecil was mad. I am not the sort of person to go mad, so the honors go to Cecil.

  “Look at you,” said Cecil. “That angel face, that lying tongue.”

  “What can I say to convince you that I’m utterly in the dark?”

  “You could start with the truth,” said Cecil.

  What a fine bit of irony: I tell the truth for once, but am thought to be lying. “Just tell me, Cecil! Then we’ll have something concrete to talk about.”

  Cecil shouted; his head and shoulders came at me across the table. I startle-jumped away, rammed into the back of the chair. It wasn’t real fear, just the startle-fear that helps you run fast when there’s danger about.

  I rose. “I can’t talk to you when you act like a spoiled child.”

  “You mind your tongue!”

  “Oh, I do,” I said. “I sharpen it every evening on your name.”

  “I could make things hot for you.” Cecil’s lips were bloodless. “I could make you squirm.”

  My hands were shaking. “Are you threatening me?” I clasped them behind my back.

  “What if I am?”

  What a stupid question. “Then I shan’t bother to stay.” I walked off, but he shouted after me.

  “I’ll expose you, I swear I will. You don’t believe I will, but just you wait. One of these days, there will come a knock at the door, and what will you think when you open it to see the constable on the other side?” And more of the same, much more.

  I was halfway across the square before he stopped shouting.

  Dr. Rannigan had come and gone, leaving gloomy news and gloomy fathers. I found it hard to attend to what Mr. Clayborne told me. I felt as though I were listening to him through the wrong end of a telescope. My startle-fear still hung about, which was distracting. Go away! I told it. I don’t need you anymore.

  “Pearl told me something,” I said. “She says Leanne’s visits tire him.”

  There! I’d achieved one happy result. No visits from Leanne, for the present. Not until he improved. Mr. Clayborne himself said so.

  And still the startle-fear hung on. It had outlived its purpose, which was to help a person spring into action, spear the woolly mammoth, stake the vampire-puppy-dog. But it didn’t help a person understand how she caused Eldric to fall ill. If I knew how I’d done it, perhaps I could reverse it.

  I don’t need you any longer, I told the startle-fear.

  It didn’t care.

  You’ve become a nuisance.

  It didn’t care.

  You are no longer adaptive. Have you never heard of Mr. Darwin?

  It hadn’t.

  Ignore it, Briony. You shall have to adapt instead. Think! Stepmother was ill; Eldric is ill. Eldric looks just as Stepmother did, like an egg without a yolk. Stepmother fell ill because you called Mucky Face, and Mucky Face injured her spine. Eldric fell ill because—because why?

  What did I do?

  Dr. Rannigan confessed to being astonished. How could Eldric have made a full recovery in only two days? This had been the damndest season for illnesses, he said. The swamp cough comes and goes. The egg-with-no-yolk illness comes and goes. He didn’t know what the egg illness was, mind you. He’d seen it only in our family. When Father grew ill, when I grew ill. Eldric’s case reminded him particularly of the late Mrs. Larkin’s illness, how with her too the disease came and went. Her decline was slower than Eldric’s, but she’d surely have died of it if there hadn’t been, oh, you know, the unfortunate incident with the arsenic.

  I heard Eldric come down the corridor to the library. It’s astonishing that one can recognize a person merely by the way his shoe meets the floor. Now his hand touched the library doorknob, now the door whispered across the carpet. “It’s dark in here.”

  I’d left the lamps dark in case my face betrayed me. I wasn’t as sure of my Briony mask as I’d once been. Rain rattled at the windows, coals spat in the hearth. I sat on the carpet, in the shadows. I reserved the spatter of firelight for Eldric.

  “You’re looking very well,” I said. One couldn’t say the roses had come back to his cheeks—he wasn’t a pinkish person—but he’d gone gold again.

  You’re looking very well. How stupid you sound, Briony! You speak just as Father might.

  “I am entirely well,” said Eldric, “which has Dr. Rannigan exploring first one theory, then another, trying to u
nderstand. But not being a man of science, I don’t care about understanding. I simply want to go outside and break a few windows.”

  Say something, Briony; say something! The Briony mask always had something tart or amusing to say, but the underneath Briony could think of nothing. The clock tut-tutted in the silence. How slowly it spoke, so slowly that between tick and tock came the sharp silvery plink of rain on glass.

  “I’m glad you’re better,” I said, which was trite but true.

  Better, he was better! As soon as I said the word, I felt relief. For once in my life, I felt relief. It came as a melted-butter drizzle down the back of my legs. It pooled in my knees. Perhaps that’s why people’s knees grow weak.

  “I was a little dishonest with you,” said Eldric. “In order to tell you what’s on my mind, I have to bring up Blackberry Night.”

  Blackberry Night. On came the crimson tide. I leaned forward to stir the coals; my hair fell over my face.

  “It’s uncanny,” said Eldric, “how you’ve adapted to using your left hand.”

  I had to be careful. I’d been giving my left hand too much liberty.

  “Forgive me for being a nosy parkerius,” said Eldric, “but I wanted to know if you’ve seen Cecil since Blackberry Night?”

  “It’s nosy parkerium,” I said. “Twelfth declension, you know.”

  “Never mind that,” said Eldric. “I can’t stop fretting about Cecil.”

  Cecil? Of all the things I imagined he might want to talk about, I never imagined Cecil.

  “Don’t worry about him,” I said, although I thought of the day before yesterday, of how strangely Cecil had acted, of his oblique references and veiled threats. “I can wrap him round my little finger.”

  “I didn’t observe the finger-wrap technique on Blackberry Night,” said Eldric. “I keep thinking about what might have happened if I hadn’t come along.”

  “And I keep thinking how stupid it all was,” I said. “Stupid that you had to come along and rescue me. Stupid that I practiced boxing with you all those times, but I couldn’t punch Cecil, not even once.”

  “Boxing’s not that straightforward,” said Eldric. “You can practice and practice, but the real experience will always be different. Lots of things are like that, actually. It reminds me of the time I first visited Paris.”

  “Lucky thing!” I said.

  “On the boat over, I practiced French conversations with myself. I’d say to some imaginary Frenchman, ‘The restaurant Chez Julien, she is, if I do not mistake myself, down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, to the right?’

  “The Frenchman would obligingly say, ‘Yes, monsieur. The restaurant, she is down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, to the right.’ And sometimes he’d add, ‘Might I remark, monsieur, what very good French you speak.’ ”

  Chez Julien. How I longed to visit a city where the very names of the restaurants were spoken in music.

  “But the reality was quite different,” said Eldric. “To this imaginary Frenchman I’d say, ‘The restaurant Chez Julien, she is, if I do not mistake myself, down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, to the right?’

  “But he’d reply, ‘La plume de ma boulevard, elle est dans la rue de ma tante, monsieur, et vous êtes très ooh-la-la.’ ”

  I laughed.

  “I’d thank him politely, then consult my map.”

  “You’re saying that I can’t win a real fight without first losing some real fights?”

  “I’m saying that a beginner can’t expect to perform as well in real life as she might in practice,” said Eldric. “Practice is predictable; real life isn’t.”

  “Can you practice with me unpredictably?” I said. “Predictably unpredictably, I mean?”

  “I can,” said Eldric, “but let’s not leave the subject of Cecil just yet.”

  The door was ajar. The Brownie squeezed through and swung across the carpet on his double-hinged legs. Had Eldric left the door ajar on purpose? To make sure we weren’t quite private? Oh, dear.

  The Brownie settled at my side, folding his legs every which way.

  “Please listen to what I have to say about Cecil,” said Eldric. “I see you aren’t afraid of him, but I wonder if you should be.”

  It was raining harder than before. Shards of sky pounded down the chimney. They set the logs to hissing.

  Are you afraid of me? That’s what Cecil had said, as we sat outside the Alehouse. I’d startle-jumped back. Are you afraid?

  “He hurt my wrist.” But that was not what I meant to say. My voice went high and whiny. What silliness was this? Did I think I could be a baby again? Grow up, Briony.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  I produced my wrist with the finger-shaped bruises.

  “Bastard!” It was not exactly what one might say to a baby, but it was comforting.

  We sat in silence a long time. Eldric stoked the fire. The flames leapt up and admired themselves in the brass grate. “I wonder if you know quite everything about Cecil,” said Eldric at last. “He’s fond of drink, as you know.”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t like to give away his secrets, but it’s not only drink that affects him.”

  Oh! That was interesting. “Opium?”

  “Not quite that benign,” said Eldric.

  “Morphine?”

  “Not quite that bad,” said Eldric.

  “Then tell me!”

  “Arsenic,” said Eldric.

  Arsenic. Cecil took arsenic. Fitz took arsenic. That was doubtless why they spent such a deal of time together.

  Pearl came in to light the lamps.

  “I should not like to see you alone with him again. He’s lost control, at least where you’re concerned.”

  She poured paraffin into one of the lamps.

  “Why does a person take arsenic?”

  “It depends on the person,” said Eldric. “Women used to take it for their hair and especially for their skin, which it apparently renders very white and clear.”

  “And if you’re a man?”

  He paused while Pearl filled the other lamp and bustled out again.

  “It has the reputation of boosting a man’s—oh, how shall I put it? A man’s virility.”

  I leaned forward again with the poker, my hair shielding my face.

  “Never have coals been stirred so well,” said Eldric.

  “Never has a young lady been put so often to the blush,” I said. “It’s rather ungentlemanly of you.”

  I thought he would laugh, but he said, “It’s quite a difficult conversation.”

  I nodded, sorting through my thoughts. Remember what Father had said about Fitz? About not leaving me alone with him? The effect of arsenic on men—that was surely the reason.

  I could have gone on to consider I’d done Father an injustice. I’d thought what he’d said all puff and nonsense. But there were other things tugging at my attention. The smell of paraffin. I gave it a good sniff; it ignited memories of the library fire.

  It brought it all back: the spark, the whoosh, the flames, the fire, the flames playing over the books, munching at the titles—The Reed Spirits, The Strangers, Mucky Face. The fire liked them all. It didn’t care that it had only my stories to eat, that the proper books had been ruined in the flood. It brought back the sound of Stepmother’s pink satin house shoes click-clacking on the floor.

  Did I never wonder how Stepmother managed to rise from her bed, thinking to save me from the fire? How could she have, with that injury to her spine?

  Did I never wonder what I was doing? How I could burn the stories of the Bleeding Hearts and the Strangers and so many others of the Old Ones?

  Why would I burn my stories?

  Why would I thrust my hand into the fire?

  Stop, Briony: You did no such thing!

  I tried to banish the memory, but my mind hung on to the image of my left hand diving into the flames.

  Stop remembering! But I couldn’t stop.

  “So do you?” said Eldric.
>
  “Do I what?”

  Memory is a queer thing. The smell of paraffin—why would I remember that? I’d called up the fire; I wouldn’t have needed paraffin.

  “You haven’t been listening at all!” said Eldric.

  Why would I remember putting my hand into the flames, when what happened is that the fire blazed out of control? It grew faster, burnt hotter than I could manage.

  My memories had grown distorted over time. But I had them, at least: I remembered calling up the fire, I remembered turning Mucky Face against Stepmother, I remembered turning the wind against Rose. But I don’t remember turning anything against Eldric.

  “Please listen!” Eldric leaned forward. “You want to watch out for Cecil.”

  What had I done to make Eldric so ill?

  I didn’t care about Cecil. I only wished I could tell Eldric that what he wanted was to watch out for me.

  23

  Awkwardissimus

  The members of the Fraternitus were assembled. The members of the Fraternitus were boxing. Or at least, one of its members was boxing. The other was trying to catch her breath.

  “This is a terrible idea,” I said. Or rather, I tried to say it but mostly, I panted. “Bad boys should only ever fight predictable fights.”

  “Unpredictable fights take a lot of practice,” said Eldric. “You’re doing very well.”

  “Liar!”

  Eldric laughed. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. “And the worst of it is, you’re fresh as a daisy.”

  One daisy petal: I love him. Another daisy petal: I love him not. Shut up, Briony!

  The October evening was chilly, but the longer we fought, the more clothes I shed. An unpredictable fight is terrifically warming. I now wore the fewest garments consistent with modesty, a pair of trousers and a sort of shirt with no sleeves that looked more than anything like an undergarment. Tiddy Rex had lent them to me.

  Darling Tiddy Rex!

  In an unpredictable fight, a person’s always darting about. She punches at a person, but it turns out he’s no longer there. She blocks a kick from the right, but she’s surprised by an uppercut from the left. She thought she was a wolfgirl who could run forever. But the wolfgirl has never darted and dodged. The wolfgirl is ready to give up after five minutes. But she’s proud and carries on, and now she thinks she may need to be carried home.