by Karen Brooks
Behind her, I could see Pillar.
'Pillar!' I pleaded. 'Please –'
But Pillar just stood there, his arms folded. I could even see the tears that filled his eyes. That was, until he turned around and, without a word, left the workshop.
The first few kicks hurt the most.
After that, I don't remember.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Baroque's letter
GIACONDA LOOKED UP FROM THE letter she was reading. 'Father! Baroque has found the child!' she exclaimed, before regaining her composure and continuing to read. 'At last! He has found the child,' she repeated quietly, her lips curled in satisfaction. 'Ah, he says here that he weaves his way into the community, just as we ordered.'
'Hopefully not so far that he contracts this Morto Assiderato,' said Ezzelino.
'Yes,' Giaconda said. 'After all the money we've given him and all the time we've invested in this.'
'What else does he say?'
Giaconda hid her smile. For all that her father pretended indifference, he was as keen to learn more of the boy as she was.
Her eyes flew down the page and she let out a long, satisfied sigh. 'We were right, father. He is an Estrattore!' She shook the letter triumphantly.
Her father sucked on his pipe, blowing clouds of smoke into the room. 'Possibly. Don't get your hopes up too high.' He nodded to her. 'Keep reading.'
Giaconda finished the letter and raised her head. She quickly explained the contents to her father. 'We have him. He is ours.'
'Well, well, well,' sighed Ezzelino. 'So the boy is being called an angel of mercy by the family of his chandler friend. I wonder how many others they've told?'
'Baroque doesn't say.' Giaconda scanned the contents again. 'Just that one of the women who lives in the house let it slip to the dottore who happened, over a few vinos, to mention it to him. But this missive is days old. The entire sestiere could know by now.'
At a nod from her father, she held the letter over the hearth, watching as the corner caught fire. The edges blackened before the flame spread and the paper crumbled.
'What do I tell Baroque now?'
'Nothing. He can neither send nor receive communiqués anymore. Not even the promise of a ducat could persuade a courier to travel between quartieri at this time. We were lucky to receive that.' He gestured to the burning letter. 'I don't know what Baroque paid to have it delivered.'
'I don't want to know,' agreed Giaconda. 'But whoever took his coin deceived him. It was days old.'
Ezzelino dismissed her observation with a wave of his hand. 'For now, we play a waiting game. Like Baroque, we are all victims to this disease.'
Giaconda hissed in exasperation. 'So close.'
'And yet not nearly close enough.'
'But at least Baroque is there, in the quartiere,' she added.
'For the time being.'
'What do you mean?'
'If the sickness does not claim him, then the boy will.'
Giaconda stared at her father in surprise. 'What do you mean? The boy is no murderer!'
'No, he isn't.'
She stood in front of her father and leant over, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, enclosing him. 'What are you up to, Papa?' she said softly, her face level with his.
Her father slowly drew on his pipe. 'When the usual avenues of communication reopen, you are to tell Baroque that he must kidnap the boy and bring him to us as soon as possible. No-one must see him. After he's successfully delivered our talented prize, Baroque, unfortunately, will meet an untimely end. No-one must know what we have – no-one.'
'I see,' Giaconda's lips curled. 'As you say, the boy will claim him.'
'In a manner of speaking.' He sent a puff of smoke directly into Giaconda's face.
Giaconda coughed and straightened, moving away to the window. 'I wish you wouldn't do that.'
'According to the dottore, it keeps the illness at bay.'
Giaconda snorted then coughed again. 'Nothing keeps the Morto Assiderato at bay, Papa. You know that.'
The old man stood up and stamped out the small fire in the grate. 'Nothing, it seems, but a young, untutored Estrattore.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The morning after
TALLOW WOKE TO SOMETHING SOFT and feathery tickling her face. She tried to brush it away, but her arm was too heavy. She forced her eyes open.
'Cane,' she croaked.
The dog gave a small yelp and then licked her. Once he started, he didn't stop.
'Hey, hey.' She shook her head, then groaned. Sharp pains shot through her skull, making her eyes burn and her temples throb. 'That's enough,' she said firmly and tried to lift him off her. 'That's enough.' With a last swipe of his tongue, Cane backed away and watched her, his tail sweeping the floor.
Tallow sat up slowly, grimacing with every movement, every intake of breath. It wasn't hard to remember why she was in this condition. She raised her hand carefully to her face and did an inventory: nose, most likely broken; cheek, shattered and split from nose to chin; teeth, loose but all there; eyes, one swollen and one coated with – she pulled her fingers away – blood. She probed further. The blood came from a long, deep gash that ran along the back of her head and above her eyebrow. She wiped her hand on her trousers and looked around for her spectacles. It was then she registered she was still in the workshop.
She looked at Cane. 'How did you get in here?' She turned her head. The door was ajar. How long had she been there?
Using the table, she drew herself up and squinted at the light coming in the high windows. It looked to be early morning. But it was hard to tell. The glass was dirty and the light dull and diffused. She clicked her fingers and Cane came to her side.
'How long have you been here? How long have I been here?' She pulled gently on his ears. 'If Quinn finds you, we'll both be worse off than I am now.'
She began to laugh but a broken cough quickly replaced the laughter. It had been a while since she'd received a beating. She'd almost forgotten the aftermath – the agony of healing, of remembering.
She started searching for her glasses.
It didn't take long.
A shattered piece of glass caught the dim light. With a groan, Tallow dropped to her knees and picked up the twisted frame and honey shards. 'Look at this,' she said, holding the pieces towards Cane. 'So much for my days of freedom. Unless Katina comes home soon, I'll be no better off than I was before.' She placed the broken spectacles on the bench and stood up again.
Glancing towards the door, she grimaced. 'I guess I'd better go upstairs and face them.' Bitter images of Pillar turning aside while she was beaten darted around the edges of her mind. Why had Pillar let Quinn do this to her? She drew a shuddering breath, and almost called out as it pinched her ribs. Why didn't he stop Quinn? She knew he was upset with her for leaving the house, for entering a quartiere rife with sickness, but hadn't he also smelled the candle? He could have said something. But he didn't. In leaving, he'd condoned her punishment.
Why?
Knowing she was only delaying a confrontation, she forced herself to limp across the workroom floor, through the shop and up the kitchen stairs.
Before she had even entered the kitchen, she was aware of a cold, unnatural stillness that permeated the room. Behind her, Cane whined.
There was no-one in the kitchen. The curtain across Pillar's bedroom area was open and she could see that the covers had been removed from the bed. She made her way to the table and was about to sit down when she heard mumbled voices. They came from Quinn's room. Without knocking, she entered.
The room was dark and, despite the warmth outside, so cold that Tallow's breath frosted with each step she took. Pillar sat on the edge of his mother's bed. Quinn lay completely still under layers of blankets. Her neck and face were alabaster white and the skin had lost its loose, fleshy look. Instead, it looked as though her features were carved from ice. The fingers wrapped around the edges of her blankets were the same – h
ard, stiff and devoid of warmth or life, like a marble statue had been placed in the bed.
The stench of sickness almost overwhelmed Tallow. She retched.
Pillar swung around.
'Get out, Tallow,' he said.
Quinn groaned. 'My head!'
'What's wrong?' Tallow ignored Pillar and stepped further into the room. A rush light spat and dripped by the bed. From its small nimbus, Tallow could see the rigidity of Quinn's skin, the ghostly pallor of her flesh.
'I said, get out!'
Quinn had the illness. It was like nothing Tallow had ever seen before. Morto Assiderato, indeed.
The creatures must have touched her.
All of Tallow's anger and despair fled. She limped to Pillar's side. 'Pillar! I can help! Let me burn a candle for her, please!'
Shockingly, Quinn looked much worse up close. The disease had ravaged the old woman's body. Wherever Tallow looked, her skin was ivory white and rock hard. Quinn's breath escaped in a rush of opaque mist, curling around her head, clouding the old woman's vision. But worse, oozing out of her mouth was a pale liquid. It ran in rivulets down her neck, pooling behind her head and onto the pillow. It was from this that the stench arose. Tallow placed gentle fingers on Quinn's hands and then drew them away in fright. For all the appearance of being frozen, her skin was burning!
Quinn coughed and spat, a huge dollop of sputum dribbling onto the pillow. 'You just can't do what you're told, can you, missy?' she growled. 'You never listened to me, or to him, just did what you liked. And look what's happened. And now you want to fix it – when what you should have done was obey in the first place! Haven't you done enough already? Look at me. I'm hot and cold – frozen solid on the outside, while my insides boil away.' More stinking liquid poured out of her mouth as she spoke.
'Tell her, Pillar,' said Tallow, shaking Pillar by the shoulders. 'Tell her what my candles can do.' Her tears were falling freely now. No-one deserved this sort of death – not even Quinn.
'Tell her what, Tallow?' said Pillar wearily. 'That you didn't bring this disease here? Do you want me to tell her that?'
'But I didn't –' Tallow paused. Surely Pillar didn't really believe that her visit to the Chandlers Quartiere meant she'd brought this into the house. Why, it didn't work like that. It was the creatures, their touch. She wasn't responsible, was she?
'Yes, you did,' said Quinn forcefully. 'One way or another you did – you and your candles.' A gurgling began in her throat, turning into a moist cough that spattered the sheets. Pillar sat her up and wringing out a damp cloth, wiped her face. 'What they bring, they also take away. I knew my good fortune wouldn't last. You've got your wish.'
'No, that's not true –' began Tallow. Then she stopped herself. She had wished Quinn dead any number of times, but not like this. 'I want to help you, Quinn, please, please let me. Pillar, make her listen to me. You have to, you must!'
Quinn raised her dark, filmy eyes to Pillar's and searched his face, a crooked smile splitting her face. 'What are you going to tell her, son?' Pillar's mouth worked awkwardly for a moment before the words exploded.
'Get out, Tallow,' he said savagely. 'There's not a thing you can do now.' Pillar finally met Tallow's helpless stare.
'But I can! My candles will help. Or let me extract and distil! Anything –'
Quinn began to shake uncontrollably. 'You heard him, Tallow. My son has made his decision. If you won't listen to me, then listen to him. Get out.' She began to wheeze, long aspirations that made her chest rise and fall rapidly. 'I said she'd be the death of us, Pillar, didn't I? Defend her now, if you dare. Defend her now!'
'Pillar! Please.' Tallow wrung her hands, tears flowing down her face.
'For once, Tallow – do what you're told!' Pillar shouted.
Tallow stumbled backwards. He'd never spoken to her like that before.
Without another word, she turned and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
FOUR HOURS LATER, QUINN WAS dead.
Pillar emerged from the room, his face streaked with tears, his shirt stained with his mother's fluids. He looked at Tallow sitting quietly by the empty hearth, the dog at her feet. He saw her bruised and cut face, her matted hair and dirty shirt. He saw the hope in her eyes turn to sorrow.
Unable to bear the compassion he saw there, he sank into a chair and rested his head on the table.
The tears came slowly at first, but when they started, they wouldn't – couldn't – stop.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Pillar's choice
I DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO console Pillar. Nor did I know how to reconcile his anger with me over the loss of Quinn. On the one hand, I knew that not having her in my life would complicate it less. The threats, the beatings, the abuse whenever I was around her were now things of the past. But Quinn had not deserved to die like that.
The sexton came that night and took the body away.
Pillar and I sat in silence in the kitchen. We neither ate nor looked at each other. He drank the vino quickly, I more slowly. The smell of corruption lay heavy in the room. I wanted to open the window, but I knew that Pillar wouldn't allow it. I longed for my attic refuge.
When Pillar finally rose, I saw with some surprise that he went to his mother's room. He was claiming it for his own. The bed had been stripped, the sheets taken away with Quinn. He shut the door behind him. As soon as it was quiet, I crept downstairs to the shop. Cane followed me hesitantly, the clattering of his claws on the wooden floor breaking the all-consuming quiet.
'I guess you can go where you like now, boy,' I said, ruffling his coat to reassure him.
The box of remnants was where I'd left it, on the shop counter. I reached in and grabbed a handful. Then I went and retrieved the tinderbox from the workshop. I remembered the candles Pillar had salvaged from the workshop, the ones he said were for emergencies. Didn't his mother's illness count? I searched for them. They weren't hard to find. They were in the box reserved for kindling. I pulled out two and carried them up to my room.
Pillar may have had doubts about the candles, but I didn't. Not any more. I lit one carefully, standing over the wick and inhaling the fumes.
The last thing I recalled as I fell onto my bed was that my head didn't seem to ache nearly as much as it should have.
I AWOKE LATE THE NEXT morning, my head thick with the soup of sleep. Beside me Cane twitched in his dreams. I lay there for a moment, not wanting to disturb him. I slowly took in the events of the night before. So much had happened. Quinn was dead. Pillar was bereft. He was also very, very angry with me.
I could feel that my life was about to change again. But it was changing in a way that not even I could have imagined.
As I lay there, my head felt clear and my ribs didn't pull with every breath I took. I touched my chest carefully. It wasn't sore. I probed my face, stroking my cheek, the side of my nose, feeling where the gash on my head had been. I ran the tips of my fingers over my eyes. Nothing. Not a thing. Not one pain. Not one piece of broken skin.
I sat up and threw back my blankets. Cane twisted and sat up, looking at me accusingly.
'Sorry, boy,' I said, examining my legs and arms. I pulled up my nightshirt. All the bruises that had dotted my torso had gone. Even an old scar, earned from a thrown candlestick years before, had disappeared.
