Give the Dark My Love

by Beth Revis

  “I told you everything in my letters.”

  She smiled at me, a weak little thing that barely curved her lips. “I want to know more. How did it feel to be there?”

  I shrugged. My fingers inched near the books under the bed. I needed to read more. Even if it was necromancy, even if it was forbidden . . .

  “Nessie, I need to work,” I said.

  Her body seemed to shrink. “I want to hear about your life there,” she said, her voice soft. “About the school and Grey and alchemy and . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. She could tell she didn’t have my attention. I looked up at her, guilt swimming inside me. “I want to help you,” I said. “I need to read more . . . Maybe there’s a way I can help you feel better. It . . . it must hurt.” My eyes dropped to her arm, hidden beneath the quilt.

  “I understand,” she said, and she left the room. I watched her go. Guilt crept through me, but I knew there would be time enough to tell Ernesta my stories later. When she was fully recovered and our parents were buried and we were freed from this house. I’d take her to Northface Harbor with me. She wouldn’t need my stories; she’d make her own.

  I retrieved the books from under the bed, skimming the pages for anything, anything at all that I could use.

  * * *

  • • •

  I fell asleep on the floor, my body curled around the books like a pillow.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning, I woke, my back stiff. I went to the room I shared with my sister.

  She wasn’t there.

  I went to the kitchen. Empty.

  There was only one other room in the house.

  When I pushed open the door to the front room, I was hit with the rotting smell of my parents. I gagged, but I turned my focus to Ernesta, who sat in the chair by the door, cradling her severed arm in her lap.

  “Nessie?” I whispered.

  She rocked in the chair. Her eyes were on my parents. The doors were barred and the windows covered, but flies had come anyway, buzzing around my parents’ corpses. My mother’s face was slack and shiny, a thin film of wax building on the surface. Papa’s body was bloated, pale on top, stained purple on the bottom. We’d weighed their eyelids down with buttons when we placed their bodies in the room, but one had slid away from Papa’s face. He had a strange, empty wink.

  “We should go,” I said.

  Nessie held out her arm to me. I’d wrapped the wound in thin bands of ripped cloth, but she had unwound it. And even though the room was dark, I could see the black creeping up her skin, swirling toward her heart.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Nedra

  I dragged Ernesta from the room and shut the door again.

  “We can fix this,” I said.

  “Are you going to hack more of me away?” Her voice was cold, emotionless. Tired.

  I ripped her shirt as I pulled it back, examining her as quickly as I could. My eyes traced the stain under her skin. One thin line reached all the way from her wound up her shoulder, swirling over her chest, sinking into her heart.

  “No,” I whispered. “No more amputation.”

  “I’m dead, aren’t I?” Her calm voice cut me to the core.

  “There’s a chance—”

  But I knew she didn’t believe me.

  “Go back to bed,” I demanded. “Rest. There is a chance. Not everyone dies from the plague.”

  She turned her glassy eyes to me. “You work with people who are sick every day in the city, don’t you?” she said. “And you don’t get sick.” Her gaze dropped to her arm.

  She didn’t say it, but we were both thinking it: It’s not fair.

  “Rest,” I said again. “I’ll find a way to help you.”

  I led her back to her bed, tucked her in. She was so weak she just shut her eyes, and in moments, her soft huffing breath told me she was truly asleep.

  I took a deep breath. I went back to the kitchen and fetched my golden crucible.

  I couldn’t take all her pain, but I could take some.

  My hands trembled, after. My skin felt like it was vibrating, shaking loose from my body. My bones felt too heavy, like they would sink into my muscle, like they would weigh down my bed, crack through the frame, sink into the earth.

  As soon as I was able, I stood. I paced.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I lit the oil lamps and candles we had left and I stared at the alchemy texts, flipping the pages so urgently they tore. I didn’t care. The books were only valuable if they could help me save her. Papa’s book was of no use. It had confirmed what Master Ostrum and I suspected—the plague was made by necromancy. But it gave no solution.

  Wellebourne’s journal showed more promise.

  There was a picture of a skull, its eye sockets empty, and it reminded me of the way my father’s one eye stared.

  I couldn’t let Nessie die. I needed her to live.

  I allowed myself to consider the horrible truth that she might not.

  And I opened the books again. Between them, there was enough. I need a crucible cage. I could use Master Ostrum’s. The ash of a human who loved me. Papa and Mama, dead in the front room.

  It was Papa’s book that revealed the third thing I needed. The words had been written as a warning, but I took them as instruction:

  All of alchemy operates on a balance. The price must be paid. For necromancy, the sacrifice is even greater than in other alchemies, because the reward is so much higher. Much has been written on the cost of ash and bone, flesh and blood.

  But there is a higher cost. A necromantic crucible will never be truly complete if it is not imbued with a soul. And if the necromancer does not supply one, the alchemy will still demand a price.

  It will take the necromancer’s soul.

  My eyes went to the hallway, to the door, to the room where my parents lay.

  I stood up. I got a knife.

  Before, I had to be Nedra the alchemist to do what needed to be done.

  Now I would be Nedra the necromancer.

  “Ned?” Ernesta’s voice was weak as she sat up in bed, calling after me as I strode down the hall. “Neddie?”

  I kicked away the oilcloth that had blocked the stench from the front room and swung open the door. I stared straight ahead, but my nostrils flared with the acrid, sickeningly sweet smell of rotting flesh. I forced my head to tilt down, my eyes to focus on the bodies.

  Specimens.

  Not bodies.

  Not Mama and Papa.

  “Neddie?” Ernesta asked, more urgently this time. She’d gotten up and stood outside the front room, propping herself up against the wall for support. Fear filled her eyes.

  I ignored her as I knelt down beside my mother’s body.

  Here, the necromantic texts diverged. Master Ostrum’s book spoke of carving the runes directly into the flesh of the dead. Papa’s book said they should be sealed with the necromancer’s blood. I decided to do both.

  “Nedra!” Ernesta cried as I pressed the tip of the blade onto my mother’s forehead. She had been dead long enough that her blood was thick and oozing, like syrup. I worked quickly, slicing the skin in the shape of the rune for Death. Then I shifted, pulling off the thin cloth of her chemise and exposing her breast as I carved the rune for Life over her heart. I turned the blade to my own hand, pushing the point into the pad of my fingertip until my skin burst. The bright red was vivid against the almost black blood of my dead mother. I retraced the open lines on her skin with my own blood, smearing the two together.

  Ernesta said something else, but she was so quiet I did not hear her.

  I stepped over my mother’s body and knelt beside Papa.

  A sharp pain sliced into my gut, and black stars danced behind my eyes.

  Not Papa, not Papa.

/>   The specimen.

  My hands shook as I carved more runes into his dead flesh. Mama would provide the blood for the crucible; Papa the soul. The rune for Hope on his head, Love on her heart. I had to pierce my finger again and force the blood out to retrace the symbols.

  I stood up, letting the knife lie on the floor between the two bodies.

  The iron within a human body is limited, but the runes will enable the trace amounts to be easily discovered amid the ash, Master Ostrum’s book had said.

  The soul will cling to the ash until it is forged within the crucible cage, Papa’s book had said.

  Now I needed a fire.

  “Nedra!” Ernesta screamed as I moved past her, gathering armfuls of Papa’s books. “What are you doing?”

  I dumped the books onto Mama and Papa’s bodies. I closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth, grateful that the pages shrouded their faces. More. I needed more. I ran back to the hallway, my movements frantic. Books spilled out of my arms. Fairy tales with happily ever afters. Children’s stories about rabbits and frogs, the margins filled with doodles drawn by my sister and me. The poetry my mother loved so much. Plays from the mainland, histories of the Empire, maps of the world.

  Ernesta shrank away from me, her eyes wide and fearful.

  You’ll see, I thought. This will save you.

  Leather-bound books with gilt edging on the pages spilled over my mother’s legs. The spine of an ancient text broke as I tossed the book, the pages fluttering like butterflies.

  And then a spark, a flame, a fire. I expected the smoke, the heat.

  I didn’t expect the smell.

  But I stood there and watched. I knew what had to be done.

  Ernesta watched me watching it all burn.

  Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the crackling of our world catching ablaze.

  FORTY-SIX

  Nedra

  Timbers creaked.

  “Nedra? Ned? We have to . . .” Ernesta’s fingers on my arm were as light as a butterfly’s touch, but I could feel the urgency within them.

  My home is on fire, a part of me thought, the part of Nedra that wasn’t an alchemist or a necromancer. What have I done?

  My heart leapt into my throat. “We have to get out of here,” I told Ernesta, clutching her shoulders.

  She nodded, eyes wide. “I know,” she gasped. “Come on.”

  She tugged at me with her remaining arm, but I jerked away, rushing to our bedroom. I could feel the heat through the walls; I choked on the air. Hastily, I grabbed my bag and the golden crucible, Master Ostrum’s book and Papa’s. Ernesta was already in the kitchen, her hand on the back door.

  “What if—” she started, but I barreled past her, throwing open the door.

  There were people in our yard—neighbors, villagers—the ones who were left, who hadn’t yet died of the spreading plague. No one threw rocks at us to go back inside, but no one moved to stop the fire either. Our house was by itself, no risk of the flames jumping to burn another home.

  And it was too late anyway. All the houses were illuminated by the flickering orange of our fire—and all of their windows were covered in black cloth. Beyond, I was sure black bunting hid the carmellinas carved on the gates that led to our town. Almost everyone was gone. Anyone left alive now would leave, drift away like petals scattered by a cold wind.

  Ernesta cried. Eventually she turned away from me, curling up amid the books in Papa’s wagon after feeding a hungry Jojo some musty oats from the bin.

  I stayed. I watched it burn. And even before all of the embers died down, I sifted through the ashy remains of the only home I knew.

  There, amid the blackened timbers and soot-stained stones of the hearth, were two red outlines where my parents’ bodies had been, the runes of Death and Life and Love and Hope glittering like rubies and glowing with an ethereal light.

  I sifted through the ash, picking up every trace of my parents that remained, the tiny bits of blood iron ore imbued already with an alchemy I should never have attempted.

  Ernesta was asleep as the sun rose over our village. No one else was around. I wondered how many dead were in each house, rotting as the survivors fled. I wondered if there were people trapped inside, like Nessie and I had been, waiting in a hollow building with the hollow shells of their now-deceased family members in rooms that stank of rot. Would they come out? Would they be driven mad? Would they hope to leave but feel the black stain of the plague creeping over their bodies?

  I paused, turning to check on Ernesta. Her skin was clammy, paler now, the black streaks in her blood like ink beneath her skin.

  “I’ll take care of you,” I promised.

  Jojo was nervous, her hooves stamping the ground, her nostrils flaring. I clucked at her, and she leapt forward, eager to leave. Ernesta moaned as the cart jostled her. I patted her back once, then turned toward the road.

  We had a long way yet to go.

  * * *

  • • •

  I stopped the cart twice before we reached Hart. Both times I led Jojo off the main road, hidden behind trees, and I took some of Nessie’s pain for myself. Although I had my parents’ ashes now—enough, I hoped, to make an iron crucible—a small part of me still believed I might not have to use them. A living Ernesta was better than one raised from the dead.

  It took all day to get from my parents’ house back to Hart and the main harbor in the north. A crowd gathered near the dock, people jeering and throwing rocks at the large, flat-bottomed ferry. One was already halfway across the bay, and I thought I recognized the driver who had brought me home, taking a boat of dead to the graves. The other boat was painted in black tar, and it would be going to the hospital.

  “Get out!” a man in the crowd shouted, hurtling a heavy stone at the boat. “No more sick here! Quit bringing the illness to Hart!”

  “We’re going!” the skipper bellowed.

  I stood up in my cart. “Wait!” I screamed. “Wait!”

  The people nearest me turned, rage in their faces. “She’s sick!” someone shouted, and a rock thudded against the book cart. More damn stones. I could go the rest of my life without seeing another rock.

  Ignoring the crowd, I scrambled to the back of the cart, dragging Ernesta up. A few people stood their ground, screaming obscenities at us, but most backed away at Ernesta’s evident illness. Jeers of “Get out!” and “Go!” followed us as we stumbled toward the end of the dock.

  The boat was crowded, and people lay or sat as they could. I shoved an old man down the bench and pushed Ernesta into the space he vacated. Before the too-eager skipper could push off from the dock, I leapt into the boat, the angry mob still shouting behind us.

  “Is it like this every time?” I gasped as waves beat on the hull.

  “Nah,” the skipper said, not looking at me. “Just bad now. Won’t have to worry about it soon. This is the last boat for a while.”

  I let those words sink in. Last boat? Was the plague lessening now that it had taken so much from me already? Did that mean Yūgen was reopening?

  Ernesta groaned, her body shivering. A pang of remorse shot through me—since the fire, the one thing Ernesta had was the quilt my mother had made for her. In my haste, I’d left it on the book cart. I looked behind us. The people on the dock had already unhitched Jojo, letting her run away. The cart was in flames.

  One more piece of home gone.

  I clenched my teeth and turned toward the quarantine hospital. I still had Ernesta.

  That was enough.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Nedra

  Potion makers and aides waited at the stone steps. The skipper hailed them as the boat bumped against the edge. Ernesta groaned.

  “They’ll help you,” I whispered in her ear.

  I struggled to stand on the rocking boat, Nessie’s limp bod
y and my bag weighing me down. Hands reached out, and someone helped pull Ernesta and me onto the steps.

  The aides quickly separated people into groups, sending some immediately onto another boat. I guessed the quarantine hospital was so crowded they had to open another treatment center on the mainland. I kept my head down, following Ernesta as we went up the steps.

  I’d been to this hospital dozens of times, but never as a patient, with a patient. Even though I knew the building well, knew where we were being taken and why, I felt scared. In the foyer, we were pulled into a tight circle, and aides dusted us all with cans of berrilias powder to prevent the spread of lice.

  A cloud of white dust blew into my face, and I stepped back, choking and wiping it from my skin.

  “Nedra?” the aide said.

  “Nedra Brysstain?” another said, turning.

  I knew these people. One was Fare, a potion maker who often worked in the factories; the other was Alric, a fairly new aide who came to the hospital for his mission work.

  “You’re sick?” Alric asked as Fare reached forward, wiping white powder from my arms, looking for the stain of the plague on my skin.

  “No—” I said, still choking from the dust. “My sister.” I turned to Ernesta. Powder clung to her, but she made no effort to wipe it away.

  Alric and Fare exchanged a look.

  “Please,” I said. “Can you see to it that she’s taken care of?”

  Alric started to speak, but Fare gripped his arm, her fingernails digging into his skin. “Alric, you take—”

  “Ernesta,” I supplied. “Ernesta Brysstain.”

  “Get her some tincture of blue ivy,” Fare said.

  Alric looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he nodded and led Ernesta away.

  “I’ll be back!” I shouted behind her. I turned to Fare. “Thank you.” I knew all too well how limited their supply of tincture of blue ivy was.