“Yes, well, maybe next time you and your little friends will think twice about playing with sharp objects,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano sat down on the bed, still protesting. Miri ignored him and sent Rodrigo to fetch water. She took a mortar and pestle down from the shelf and began crushing leaves and seeds, whispering words in her own language as she worked to concoct her famous healing poultice.
“Did you find out anything about Alcazar?” Stephano asked, watching the proceedings with a gloomy air.
“Alcazar the baker has no brothers and his children are all daughters. Not a journeyman among them. The farrier is an orphan with no living relations. You were going to the docks to talk to the sailors. I don’t suppose you made it that far.”
“Rigo wanted to visit his tailor first,” said Stephano.
“As if that man didn’t have enough lavender waistcoats!” Miri said, sniffing in disdain, pounding the concoction vigorously.
“He ordered a suit of mourning clothes,” said Stephano quietly.
Miri stopped her work and turned to face him. Her voice was soft with pity and remorse. “There now! I had forgotten. His poor murdered father.”
“Don’t say anything to him, Miri. He doesn’t need us moping about.”
“I won’t. Still it must be hard-him not able to go to his own father’s funeral.”
Stephano shook his head. “All my fault.”
“It’s not, love,” said Miri, leaving her work to go comfort him. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “You know that.”
“I’d like to blame my mother, but it was my decision to come to Westfirth. And what good has it done us? We find out that Alcazar was most likely nabbed by Sir Henry Wallace and then I go and kill his agent, the one man who might have led us to Wallace. And now I’m not sure I want to find him or if I want him to find us. Even my mother fears him, and she fears nothing this side of Hell. Maybe we should give up, sail home.”
“As if you’d ever go back to your mother and tell her you failed.”
Miri gave Stephano a pat, then returned to her mixing, only to find Doctor Ellington with his head in the bowl and yellow poultice on his nose and whiskers.
“You wicked cat, get out of there!” Miri cried angrily, grabbing up a wooden spoon.
The Doctor saw Miri coming and lunged for safety. Miri made a swipe at him with the spoon, but missed. The cat landed on the deck, sneezed violently, and began rubbing frantically at his face with his paw. He sneezed again and dashed wildly from the room.
“You daft beast!” Miri called after him.
“Talking to me?” Rodrigo asked, wrestling with the water bucket and almost falling over the cat.
In answer, Miri put her arms around him, gave him a tender hug and kissed him on the cheek.
“What is that for?” Rodrigo asked, astonished.
“For being a daft beast,” Miri said.
She picked up the bowl and carried it over to Stephano, who was eyeing it grimly. “Bring the water over here, Rigo. And fetch the bandages.”
Rodrigo set down the bucket and, gagging, used his sleeve to cover his nose. Miri pulled off Stephano’s shirt and scooped up a glob of yellowish-gray goo.
“This is going to sting,” she warned.
“Don’t worry, Stephano” said Rodrigo in muffled tones. “You won’t feel a thing. The smell will knock you unconscious first.”
In the corridor outside the door, they could all hear the unmistakable sounds of a cat throwing up.
Gythe and Dag returned with Brother Barnaby late in the afternoon. Clocks all over the city were striking the hour of five when Miri and Rodrigo, who were entertaining Stephano, heard footfalls on the deck above. Stephano was sitting up in bed, playing a game of draughts with Rodrigo. At the sound of the monk’s voice, he grimaced.
“I’m already covered in yellow stinking goop. I don’t need God,” said Stephano irritably. “Send the monk away.”
“And hurt Gythe’s feelings? I will not and neither will you,” said Miri. “You’ll behave.”
“The good brother could say a prayer for Doctor Ellington,” suggested Rodrigo.
The cat sat huddled in an orange ball on the floor, his fur all askew. Hearing his name, he gave a pathetic meow.
“Greedy animal,” said Miri severely. “Serves him right for eating my poultice!”
The Doctor gave another pitiful yowl and began to heave, just as Brother Barnaby entered. He looked from the vomiting cat to Stephano, swathed in bandages and stinking to high heaven, to Rodrigo who had tied a handkerchief over his face to block out the smell.
“Which is the patient?” Brother Barnaby asked.
Rodrigo and Stephano pointed to the cat.
Gythe entered the room and, picking up the poor Doctor, she pointed emphatically at Stephano.
“I’m fine, Gythe, really-”
Gythe looked to Brother Barnaby and then gestured again at Stephano, who opened his mouth, caught Miri’s eye, and meekly submitted to the monk’s examination.
“He has no fever. Your poultice is doing its work well, Mistress Miri,” said Brother Barnaby. “I could say a prayer…”
Stephano snorted. “If you’re going to say a prayer, Brother, say it for the black soul of the bastard I killed today.”
Brother Barnaby looked startled. A shadow crossed his face.
“He’s trying to shock you, Brother,” said Rodrigo. “The fight was a fair fight. The man he killed drew a pistol and tried to kill us.”
“I will pray for all of you,” Brother Barnaby said. Seeing Stephano grimace, the monk added with a gentle smile, “It won’t hurt, I promise.”
Stephano submitted to being prayed over with no very good grace. Miri stood close to him, ready to pinch him if he started to say anything untoward. She listened to the monk’s prayer, to him pouring his soul out to God, his voice fervent and passionate, and she stole a glance at her sister. Gythe was watching Brother Barnaby, pouring her soul out to him from her lustrous eyes.
Miri sighed deeply. She was a skilled healer. She could heal almost every kind of ache known to man except the terrible pain of a broken heart. Some men who had taken vows of celibacy might be tempted to break them for love of a woman. Brother Barnaby was not one of them. Her sister was going to be hurt. There was no way to avoid it.
“There, that wasn’t too bad, was it, Captain?” Brother Barnaby said soothingly when the prayer ended.
Stephano grunted and scratched.
“Damn stuff’s starting to itch,” he said.
“Your turn to draw a card,” said Rodrigo. “Would you like to join us, Brother?”
Gythe touched Brother Barnaby’s hand, making a sign to thank him. He gave her a smile and assured her the captain was going to be fine. She seemed about to say something else and Miri was wondering how to get the monk alone to talk to him when Dag provided the excuse.
“Hey, who poisoned my cat?” he yelled from the deck above.
“Go see to the Doctor, Gythe,” said Miri. “Tell Dag the wicked beast ate some of my potion and he will be fine once he gets it out of his system.”
Gythe cast a last, shy look at Brother Barnaby and then ran up the stairs to placate Dag and do what she could for the suffering cat. Stephano and Rodrigo went back to their game of draughts. Miri led the monk into the passageway. She noticed that he seemed downcast, preoccupied. His brow was furrowed, his eyes shadowed. He was about to climb the stairs leading to the deck above when Miri stopped him. She thought she knew what was wrong.
“Brother, I want to apologize for my sister,” said Miri, embarrassed. “I know she is making a nuisance of herself. She means no harm, truly. I will see to it that she does not continue to annoy you-”
She stopped talking because Brother Barnaby was regarding her in astonishment, clearly perplexed by her words.
“Your sister is not a nuisance, Mistress Miri. I was glad to come with her-”
“My sister is in love with you, Brother,” said Mi
ri bluntly.
He stared at her in round-eyed disbelief. His dark-complected face flushed darker in wonder and confusion.
“In love… with me.” He gave a shy smile and shook his head. “You must be mistaken, Mistress. How could Mistress Gythe be in love with me? She is as beautiful as an angel in a painting and I am… I am not well-favored.”
“You found Gythe in the darkness when she was lost and afraid, Brother. You must have looked very beautiful to her then.”
Brother Barnaby considered her words for his expression grew somber. Miri heard the pain in his voice.
“I am honored by your sister’s love,” he said at last. “Honored and undeserving of the honor.”
He raised his eyes to meet hers. Miri saw his faith, heard his commitment, deep and steadfast.
“I am given to God, Mistress Miri.”
Miri, who had been holding out a little sliver of hope, sighed deeply.
“I did not mean to wound you, Brother. I thought you should know. Gythe has never fallen in love with any man before. She is bound to be hurt.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in soft agony.
“No need to apologize, Brother. The good God knows it is not your fault,” said Miri.
They both walked up to the deck. Gythe was holding the miserable Doctor in her arms, petting him and rubbing her cheek against his. Her fair hair ruffled in the breeze and shone in the sun, gleaming like a halo around her head. Like an angel in a painting.
“It would be best if you did not see her again, Brother,” said Miri.
“I understand,” said Brother Barnaby unhappily. “I want to assure you that I truly never meant to be the cause of any harm to her.”
A bad business, Miri thought to herself. The monk has not escaped unscathed. He is hurt, knowing that he has inadvertently hurt her. Gythe saw her sister’s troubled gaze resting on her and looked from Miri to Brother Barnaby. She knew that they had been talking about her. Perhaps she even guessed what they had been saying. She kissed Doctor Ellington on the top of his head, handed him back to Dag, and then, with a defiant expression on her face, walked over to confront them. Brother Barnaby’s confusion increased as she approached.
“Captain de Guichen is doing well, Mistress Miri,” he said, his eyes on the deck. He began to sidle toward the gangplank. “I should take my leave.”
“Of course, Brother,” said Miri, hurrying him along. “Thank you for coming.”
Gythe planted herself in front of them. She gave Miri a reproachful look and, pointing to Brother Barnaby, she began to gesture, making signs with her hand. She placed her fingertips on his mouth and then touched her ears and then touched her forehead. She made the sign for “papa.” She clasped her arms around her, shivered as though in fear. She pointed again at Brother Barnaby.
“What is she saying?” he asked.
“Gythe tells me that you are afraid, Brother. Not for yourself. For Papa Jake. You’re afraid he is in danger.”
Brother Barnaby stared dumbfounded at Gythe. “That is true. I am afraid for Father Jacob. I believe him to be in great danger, but how could she know?”
“Who’s in danger?” Dag asked, coming to join them.
“Papa Jake,” said Miri. “At least, that’s what Gythe says.”
“It is true,” said Brother Barnaby. “Father Jacob received a note summoning him to a mysterious meeting at a dockyard near a street with a strange name-Bitter Taste or something like that-”
“Bitter End Lane,” said Dag, his expression darkening.
“Yes, that’s it. Why?” Brother Barnaby faltered. “What’s wrong?”
“Bitter End Lane is aptly named,” said Dag grimly. “People who go there have a bad habit of meeting a bitter end.”
“Then it is a trap!” Brother Barnaby said in dismay.
“It might be. Is Sir Ander with the priest?”
“Yes, of course. He would never leave him, and the note said Father Jacob could bring a friend.”
“Then there’s probably nothing amiss,” Dag said, though he was still clearly worried. “I’m thinking I should go check on them…”
He looked questioningly at Miri.
“A good idea,” said Miri. “What time was the meeting, Brother?”
“When the clock chimes six.”
Dag squinted at the sun. “We have time, then. Bitter End Lane is not far. I’ll fetch my musket. Gythe, dear, see to the Doctor for me.”
Gythe removed Doctor Ellington from Dag’s shoulder. The cat’s poor stomach was rumbling louder than he could purr, but the Doctor undoubtedly knew he was destined to go back in the storage closet and he dug his claws into the big man’s shoulder. Gythe was finally forced to seize hold of the cat by the scruff of the neck and pry him loose. He squirmed free of her grasp, jumped to the deck, and made a dash for his hiding place beneath the cannon.
“How could your sister know what I was thinking?” Brother Barnaby asked.
In answer, Gythe walked up to him and touched her fingers to his forehead. Taking up his hand, she placed his fingers on her forehead and smiled tremulously. Tears shimmered in her eyes. She made a motion as of leaving, and another as of staying.
“It’s called ‘sympathetic magic,’” said Rodrigo, coming up the stairs in time to overhear the end of the conversation. “A bit out of the ordinary, but not uncommon, particularly when you take into account the fact that Gythe is a savant and you, Brother, are an extremely talented healer. She formed a connection to you. It’s all about electricity, really.”
Gythe blinked her eyes, bemused by this explanation, while Brother Barnaby seemed to find the part about electricity more alarming than helpful. They were interrupted by Dag coming up on deck with his musket, powder horn, bullets, and Stephano.
“I couldn’t stop him,” said Dag, catching Miri’s accusing look.
Stephano walked across the deck. He was favoring his bandaged thigh, but the wound had not been deep and he could walk easily enough. He was wearing only his trousers and more bandages wrapped around his ribs and his shoulder. He reeked of poultice. Rodrigo coughed and moved downwind.
“Dag says the priest could be in some sort of trouble,” said Stephano.
“It’s probably my imagination,” said Brother Barnaby, abashed.
“The brother and I will just go take a look,” said Dag.
“Fine,” said Stephano. “I’m going with you. Give me half a second to fetch my shirt and sword-”
He ran down below. Miri, her expression grim, walked over to the door, shut it, locked it, then planted herself in front of it and leaned against it. They could hear Stephano’s muffled swearing as he began beating on the door with his fists.
“Best hurry,” said Miri coolly, not moving.
Dag grinned and picked up his musket. He was already carrying two loaded pistols in his belt. He and Brother Barnaby left in haste. Miri watched the two depart, whispering a heartfelt prayer for their safety and for Papa Jake.
“And, Daiddo,” she added, referring to God by the Trundler’s affectionate term for “grandfather,” which is how she tended to think of Him, “if you could see to it that Brother Barnaby goes back to his monastery and stays there forever more, I would be eternally grateful.”
She opened the hatch. Stephano glared furiously at her. She herded him down the stairs.
“There, now,” she said, pointing to a splotch of blood spreading on the bandage around his shoulder. “You’ve broken open the wound. Gythe, I need your help.”
“The monk prayed over me,” Stephano said, as she began to strip off the bandages. “I’m fine.”
“Gythe,” Miri called, “I need you.”
No response. No sound of skirts rustling and feet running down. Miri’s heart lurched. She left Stephano and ran back up the stairs, shoving aside Rodrigo, who had been coming down to join them.
“Gythe!”
Her sister was not on deck.
Miri dashed back down the stairs. Stephano was arguing wi
th Rodrigo, who was trying to persuade him to go back to bed.
“Stephano, you have to stop her!” Miri cried. “Gythe’s gone after Brother Barnaby!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
We are all born with a spark of God’s grace within our souls. Those who follow the path of the Fallen have found ways to steal that spark and corrupt it to their dark purposes. Those who practice blood magic use the spark of life to power their evil spells.
– Saint Marie Elizabeth,
First Provost of the Arcanum
THE ARCHBISHOP LOANED SIR ANDER AND Father Jacob his carriage and driver to take them to the mysterious rendezvous. Father Jacob would have told the driver outright to take them to Bitter End Lane. The more prudent Sir Ander insisted that they find some place near the lane so that they could approach with caution, not leap straight into an ambush. The knight made inquiries among the soldiers manning the walls of the Old Fort and came up with a suitable location.
“Take us to the Dirk and Dragon on Silk Street,” Sir Ander said, assisting Father Jacob into the carriage.
The driver looked startled. “But that’s a tavern, sir.”
“A tavern filled with sinners needing to be saved, my son,” said Father Jacob solemnly.
The driver was dubious. The archbishop certainly never went near such places. He had no thought of questioning a priest of the Arcanum, however. He whipped up the horses, and the carriage rattled off.
Inside the carriage, Sir Ander sat bolt upright, perched on the edge of his seat, his back straight. He kept fast hold of the hand strap and stared grimly out the window. He was armed with his dragon pistol and one of his nonmagical pistols and his broadsword.
“You know I don’t like this,” he stated.
Father Jacob was relaxed, leaning back against the comfortable cushions, his legs crossed beneath the long, black cassock, his arms crossed over his chest. He was gazing out the window.
“You think I do?” he asked.
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