The Deepest Night

by Shana Abe

  I floated, suspended, waiting for it to happen. That same distant part of me that had been horrified for Armand was now cringing at my own impending pain, but I wasn’t going to try to fly away or Turn to escape it. I was petrified and defiant, and if I’d been in my girl-shape, I’d likely have been huddled in a ball on the ground, covering my head with my hands. But what was done was done.

  So I floated.

  Slowly, beautifully, the shredded bits of Armand Louis sifted down around me, growing longer and denser until I was threaded through with him. Strands of his smoke coiling around mine, reshaping the mass of me until I was new and unknown, even to me.

  We twisted into helixes together. We joined and separated and joined once more, dancers on air. Dancers made of air.

  I thought, I never knew it could be like this, this coupling. I never guessed. I wish I’d known, I wish—

  No. I wasn’t going to waste the final few beats of my life wishing for impossible things.

  Armand slipped free of me, sinking down to the water. I remained where I was, still waiting for the stars to claim me as he drifted toward the shore.

  Eventually, since nothing else was happening, I drifted after him.

  He Turned to boy in the mud. He was flat on his back, his knees raised, eyes shut. But his chest was rising and falling. He lived.

  I returned my attention to the heavens. No songs now, only those brilliant flecks of light shining down.

  If they were giving me another hour with him—blimey, another few seconds—I’d take it. I hurried to his side and Turned to girl, kneeling by his head.

  “Armand?”

  He moaned, deep in his chest. I touched my hand to his hair.

  “Armand, how do you feel?”

  In response, he rolled over and vomited into the water.

  “Oh,” I whispered. I kept stroking his hair. It felt so soft against my skin. Had it always been like this?

  “That,” he announced, guttural, “was truly, profoundly vile.”

  “But you’re here. You’re alive. You’re going to be fine.”

  I said the words as if casting a spell. I said them and thought, This is so. This is what must be true. My life for yours.

  Armand rolled flat again. His eyes were red and watery.

  “Mind if we … walk back?”

  “No.” I shot a frightened look up at the stars. “No, don’t Turn again.”

  “If you insist,” he said weakly, and I helped him to his feet.

  Daylight came. I must have slept through a good portion of it, because by the time I opened my eyes, the world was mellow and golden, as if the sun was already dipping to kiss the horizon.

  I felt warm and comfortable. I was a lazy girl wrapped in woolly blankets and Jesse’s arms and—

  No, I wasn’t.

  I craned my head up. It was Armand holding me, not Jesse. He was awake, too, watching me. Our bodies were nestled close; he was the source of all that heat. Our legs had entangled.

  “You looked cold,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  It might have been true. All I had on was my shirt. The bedcovers had rumpled down by my waist.

  He was also wearing a shirt. I’d helped him into it last night after we’d made it back to the lodge. I remembered that. I remembered …

  Oh, crikey.

  I remembered it all. My warm lazy happiness swiftly evaporated.

  I had changed something. Maybe everything. Armand was going to live now, and I was not.

  It’s fine, it’s fine, I reminded myself, trying not to panic. A fair bargain. Worth it.

  So why was I still alive? Why was I burrowed here in this bed with him and those generous rays of golden sun? How much extra time were the stars going to allow me, anyway?

  Armand’s palm shifted against my shoulder, a sweet, familiar pressure. His lashes were long and ebony. A shadow of blue whiskers roughened the planes of his face. He held my eyes and gave the smallest smile. It was crooked, almost shy.

  Right then I made a choice. Until the stars summoned me, until my thread was severed, I was going to finish what I had come here to do. Because if I was going to leave this boy behind, the least I could do was leave him with his brother.

  “Was it only a dream?” he asked, losing the smile.

  “No.” I sat up and pushed away the covers. Mud had dried into flakes all around us, grayish brown smears ground into the sheets. “It was real.”

  “I Turned,” he said wonderingly. He picked up one of the flakes, which went to dust almost at once between his fingers. His eyes took on a fierce, faraway look. “I can’t … quite seem to recall most of it.”

  I was surprisingly disappointed. “Oh?”

  “Some. Perhaps you might fill in the gaps.”

  “Well …” I had to weigh my words; I didn’t want to accidentally let him know too much. I could barely stand to think about what I’d done. I definitely wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

  Mandy was waiting. My fingers found the bottom button of my shirt and began to pluck at it nervously.

  “I awoke, and you were gone. I found you over the lake, er, spinning.”

  “Spinning? Like a top?”

  I shook my head. “Like a gale. Like a windstorm that would consume the world.”

  “There was the mist,” he said abruptly. “And the funnel of water.”

  I glanced back at him. The fierce look hadn’t faded, but now it was directed at me.

  “That’s right. And then we—we danced a little.”

  “We did?”

  I shrugged, embarrassed. I’d never danced with a boy before. All my lessons at Iverson had partnered me with Stella, because we were closest in height, and we’d had to take turns at playing the man. To be granted permission to dance in public was one of the most coveted ambitions of any young woman of any class. But to have your first-ever dance be with a genuine lord, no matter what form we’d had at the time—

  I was sorry then that I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about it. I jolly well would’ve enjoyed the expression on Stella’s face. It might even have made up for all the times she’d trod on my toes.

  “Rather a dance,” I amended. “That’s what I’d call it, anyway. You don’t remember flying?”

  He sat up, his brows knit. Blots of mud stained the back of his shirt, too. “I remember the pain. I remember tearing about, unable to …”

  I tugged and tugged at the button.

  “I remember the colors of the stars. How they were every color I’d ever seen, and more. Colors I can’t even name.” That hint of slow wonder crept back into his tone. “How exquisite they were. How they sang, and how I hoped they’d never stop.”

  “What did they sing to you?”

  “Just come.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked at me askance from beneath those black lashes. “I remember you as well. Now I do. I remember sensing you below me. Wanting to be with you so badly that I ached. Even more than the pain—more than the songs—I ached. And then it happened. I came down and we …” The crooked smile returned. “As you said, Lora. We danced.”

  The button popped free. I cupped it in the heart of my palm.

  Armand said, “I suppose I wanted it badly enough, eh? To be with you. To live. That’s what saved me.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That must have been it.”

  At Blisshaven, at Moor Gate, I used to make bargains with myself all the time. Lonely little if this, then that deals to help me endure.

  If I keep my shirtwaist clean all day, I can read an extra chapter of my book tonight.

  If I can dodge Billy Patrick’s pinches, I can think about my parents before going to sleep.

  If I can snatch a piece of bread at tea, I
can pretend it’s cake. White cake, with pink and silver frosting.

  If I make it past Lizzie and her lot down the hall, I can imagine I’m the queen. They’ll be my slaves.

  If I live through this session with The Machine, I’ll find a way out of here. Tonight I’ll find a way out.

  If I don’t mention my pact with the stars to Armand or anyone else, never ever, I can stay a while longer. Exist a while longer.

  Perchance we never really outgrow our childhoods. Not the worst of them.

  Chapter 26

  Mr. Hunter kept a trunk full of spare clothing in the second bedroom. He was a bigger bloke than either of us, but we both got fresh shirts and trousers, and Armand a new leather coat. They were winter clothes, woolens and heavy twills, but I thought that a good thing. The sky was a much colder place than the ground, even in high summer.

  Armand had gone through every book in the case searching for clues about where we were and had come up empty-handed.

  “Philosophy, agriculture, crime novels. Quite a few monographs on waterfowl and guns.”

  “Imagine that,” I said, gnawing at the last strip of venison.

  “But this chap hasn’t kept so much as a scrap of newspaper, local or otherwise. We could be anywhere.”

  “Anywhere in Germany,” I corrected him.

  He was seated by the crystal goblets, a book in each hand. Splintered light from the goblets threw prisms across him, across the pages of the books. He frowned down at them, then up at me.

  “Right. Anywhere in Germany. But until we figure out exactly where, we don’t know which way to go to reach Schloss des Mondes.”

  “I’ll Turn to smoke and locate the nearest village. Sneak down there, find a daily or a placard, something with a name on it, then come back to you. Will that help?”

  “It might,” he said, “except that it won’t be necessary, since I’m coming with you.”

  “You can’t. I can’t travel as a dragon in daylight, Armand, and I don’t think either of us is up for another hours-long hike through the woods.”

  His brows arched. He looked at me without speaking.

  “And you can’t Turn!” I burst out, more strongly than I’d meant to. “I mean, it’s too soon for you,” I added, calmer. “There’s likely to be more pain, isn’t there? And what if you can’t hold it? What if you Turn back in midair? What am I supposed to do then?”

  “What if you can’t hold it?” he countered, closing both books.

  “I’m better at this than you are!”

  “Only more practiced.”

  “Precisely.” I folded my arms across my chest. “So I’m the obvious choice to go.”

  “No. We’re a pair, remember? We stick together. That’s the way it’s meant to be.”

  I laughed, but it was mostly angry. “You can’t stop me from doing what I want.”

  “And,” he said quietly, rising to his feet, “you cannot stop me, either, Eleanore. Not any longer.”

  Stalemate. This was my thanks for sacrificing my life for his. He’d survived one Turn and was now convinced he was the master of it. Born into wealth, coddled by society, Lord Armand had always been granted power over whatever—or whomever—he desired. How could I have forgotten it?

  We glared at each other as the light grew softer and the prisms laid their rainbows long across the empty chair.

  “What if you Turn into a dragon?” I asked. “Right there, in the middle of town. What if that happens, your mighty lordship?”

  It had taken days after my first Turn into smoke to make myself a dragon. It might be the same for Armand. It might not. I’d thought the world topsy-turvy last night. Today it was positively upside down, inside out, and sideways.

  “Then let’s hope I’m as lovely a dragon as you are,” he replied. “I’ll stun them into submission with my overwhelming splendor.”

  “You’re cracked.”

  “No.” He came forward, took up my hand. I half expected him to kiss it, shake it, something—but he only held on. “Merely stubborn. Heart-kin to you.”

  Heart-kin. Kin of the heart.

  Was that why I was so afraid for him?

  The nearest village seemed very near indeed, especially from the air. It lay approximately ten miles beyond the opposite shore of the lake, an attractive collection of brick buildings and cobblestone lanes. In its middle was a wide, fine square with a statue of a man holding aloft something that might have been a club.

  We floated over it, two patches of haze against the blue sky, absolutely unnoticed.

  I’d made Armand Turn twice at the lodge before we’d left. He’d been right, of course: Now that he could transform into smoke, I couldn’t truly stop him from following me anywhere, but at least he’d decided to humor me and practice the Turns.

  I didn’t think the stars were going to steal him now, not really. Better that he be able to remain smoke with me than to suddenly manifest as a clothesless young man in the middle of a crowd.

  The first time he’d Turned back into a human, he’d thrown up again, making a mess of the kitchen floor.

  The second time, he’d held it in, but only barely—I could tell.

  He’d refused a third practice, looking daggers at me from behind one of the reading chairs. It was clear I wasn’t going to budge him.

  “We’re wasting time. It’s already past six. We need to get going.”

  “All right. Stay thin,” I said, and then thought better of it. “Not too thin, though. Thin enough to escape scrutiny. Not so thin that you—you blow away.”

  “Blow away?”

  “Disperse. Pull apart.”

  Once more, that arched-eyebrow look.

  “Just do as I do,” I growled.

  “As you wish, love.”

  “I wish you’d stay here and let me take care of this.”

  “Nearly as you wish, then.”

  Closer inspection of the statue in the square revealed that the man was holding up a spyglass. Since there wasn’t an ocean anywhere nearby, I assumed it was meant for the stars. Perhaps this was a learned place. Perhaps the people here had their own special kinship with the inhabitants of the heavens.

  If I could have shivered, I would have. Instead, I glided toward a whitewashed stall along one of the streets displaying broadsheets and periodicals. A collection of men and women loitered in front of it, some of them smoking.

  Armand and I mingled with the blue-gray miasma rising up from the cigarettes and cigars.

  Most of the people were clutching the same edition of a broadsheet, talking to each other excitedly. I couldn’t understand what they were saying; then I glimpsed the broadsheet, and realized I didn’t need to understand.

  Ein Drache! blared the headline.

  Beneath it was an illustration of a monster. It was exceedingly scary, with bulging eyes and savage, needle-pointed teeth. Flames were shooting from its mouth. Its tail was some sort of a cannon, its wings resembled those of an aeroplane, and the entire thing appeared to be cut up into segments joined by fancy clockwork gears and machinery.

  It was a mechanical dragon.

  It was me.

  I sank closer, caught between outrage and flattery.

  I hoped my eyes didn’t bulge like that. I knew they got the rest of it wrong. But still, there I was. Soldiers had been drawn at my feet, firing up at me bravely.

  That company from the village. Those soldiers who’d run. That’s who they were supposed to be.

  I was so enthralled with it that when the man I’d been hovering over folded up the paper and tucked it under his arm, I was annoyed. I moved over to the next man, who was still reading, and only then noticed that Armand was missing.

  I made myself go still. I wanted to shoot upward, around. I wanted to
fly, and fly hard. But if he’d been overcome and had to Turn back into his human shape somewhere, I needed to find him without drawing anyone’s attention.

  I inched away, away from the stall. I went as thin as I dared and cast out my senses, searching for him.

  People everywhere. Horses and carriages. A smattering of automobiles. Dogs, cats. Stoves stoked hot for dinners. Lives lived behind closed doors, the war so far away. The forest so near.

  For some reason, I kept envisioning pastries. Delicious berry-chocolate-vanilla-pear-plum-cream pastries …

  No, I need Armand.

  Yeasty dough. Crumbly crusts.

  Armand!

  Apples and icing.

  Strudel.

  There was a bakery at the opposite end of the square. It had a garish orange awning and spotless windows that gleamed. Figures moved around inside, lost to shadows.

  One of them had to be Mandy.

  I flowed to the doorway, seeped through a crack between the door and the jamb. A man in an apron stood behind the counter, a young mother with a child attached to each hand before him, perusing trays of bread. The smaller child was bouncing on her toes and squeaking something in a treble, eager voice. Her free hand was pointing at the iced strudels, and bloody Armand was nowhere in sight, not as smoke or a boy or anything.

  But he was here. I could feel him.

  The baker reached over the counter to hand the little girl a bite of sweet. She accepted it with another happy squeak.

  Below them, I realized. Below me. That’s where he was.

  I examined the floorboards, which seemed too tightly set to slip though. Would there be a basement down there? A door leading to it?

  The answer was yes to both. Off to the right behind the counter was the door, slightly agape. I hovered against the ceiling a moment, judging, then—as the baker was handing a sweet to the other child, and the mother was settling her chosen loaf into her basket—I zipped past them, squeezing through the gap of the door.

  Tight wooden stairs, no lamps or any light but for what came from a single small window up near the ceiling. I flowed down into the chamber, which I realized must be where the baking was done. There were vats of flour and molasses and salt, bowls of dough rising with dampened cloths covering swollen tops, an icebox, and an oven in the wall composed of blackened bricks and a blackened iron door.