by Amy Cross
Reaching the cabinet, I look down at the book, and now I'm certain that the scratching sound seems to be coming from somewhere within its pages. I carefully open the cabinet and reach down, and then at the last moment I remember the gloves. Once I've slipped those onto my hands, I take hold of the book and turn to the next page that I have to work on, at which point the scratching sound immediately stops.
I settle the page down and stare at the lines of seemingly meaningless text. And then, once I've persuaded myself that the scratching sound was nothing to worry about, I slip the gloves off and set about memorizing the first part of the page.
Eight
“Magida lone. Vesti camache.”
I whisper the words over and over as I write them, trying to drum them into my head. I've been sitting here working for hours now, and I've already completed and double-checked one page while I'm nearly at the end of a second. I'm faster than last night, and that's without taking any short-cuts whatsoever, and I've got to admit that I'm getting a little more confident. At the same time, I'm constantly reminding myself that confidence might be an enemy in this kind of situation. It's not like I'm getting paid per page here.
“Magida lone. Vesita camache.”
***
“Damn it!”
Setting the finished page down, I head over to the book and check one of the lines, and I immediately get a sinking feeling as I see that, sure enough, I've managed to write 'Vesita camache' instead of 'Vesti camache'. Not only that, but I originally failed to spot the mistake and I sailed on to finish the whole rest of the page, wasting a good couple of hours purely because I got a few letters the wrong way round.
Taking the quill, I try to make a quick correction, in the hope that maybe I can fix this problem without having to start the page all over again. Pretty quickly, however, I realize that there's no hope, and I sigh as I force myself to accept that I've properly screwed up.
“Piece of sh...”
Picking up the now-ruined piece of paper, I take a step toward the door, but then I stop as I realize that maybe I don't actually have to go down to the furnace right now. I know Mr. Shawyer said that an abandoned page should be burned immediately, but the trudge down to the basement isn't exactly fun and I definitely don't like the climb back up that steep, long staircase.
I hesitate for a moment, before setting the page back on the desk and sitting down again. I know that the only error is at the bottom of the page, so I can just copy it over to the next blank sheet until I hit that point. I might be bending Mr. Shawyer's rules slightly, but I'm pretty sure that'll be fine so long as the end result is that the pages get done. And I really, really don't want to have to keep getting up and down to check the original document for each and every line, when I've already done that once for this particular page.
“Vesticular em iorti,” I read as I start copying the new page out again, going much faster now that I have a reference copy right here on the desk. “Midi locali, sembe carl. Noci shimbali no -”
Suddenly I spot something moving in the corner of my eye, and as I turn to look at the open doorway I half expect to see a figure standing out there on the landing.
I wait.
Nothing.
My heart is racing, however, and I swear that for a fraction of a second I spotted someone coming toward the room. There's not supposed to be anyone else here in the house tonight, but I'm certain that I saw the shape of a person.
I think it was a woman.
In fact, although I only saw the figure for a fraction of a second, I'm certain I made out the shape of an old-fashioned dress with a skirt running all the way to the floor.
I tell myself I should just get on with the page, and that obviously there was no-one, but after a moment I get to my feet and go over to the doorway. Purely to reassure myself, I lean out and look toward the top of the staircase, and I listen to the silence. Whereas earlier the lack of any noise was somewhat daunting, right now I'm kind of reassured as it becomes clear that there's definitely no-one here with me.
I must have just had a little wobble, that's all.
I want to call out, just to calm my nerves once and for all, but I hold back as I realize that I don't really want to disturb the silence. Finally, however, I tell myself that I'm letting myself get superstitious.
“Hello?” I say, not really raising my voice too much.
The only reply is absolute, abject silence. I look at the various closed doors on the other side of the landing, and then at the top of the staircase.
I need to call out again, but louder this time.
“Hello?” I shout. “Is anyone there?”
All I hear, of course, is silence. A vast, yawning silence that seems to fill the house completely.
“Stay cool, Mia,” I mutter, turning and heading back to the desk. “Try not to completely lose your mind.”
Still, as I sit down, I can't help glancing at the doorway one more time before I get back to work. Not because I expect to see some ghostly vision watching me, of course, but simply because I've never hallucinated before and I don't see why I'd start now. In the back of my mind, I'm worried that Salvatore might be trying to freak me out, and if that's the case then I really don't want to give him the satisfaction of throwing a wobbly. So I watch the door for a moment longer, and then I get back to the task of re-copying this entire page.
And this time, I refuse to make even a single mistake.
Once I've slipped my hands carefully into the leather gloves, I reach down and gently start turning to the next page in the book. I hear a faint creaking sound coming from the spine, but I'm very tentative as I slowly lay the next page flat, and then I pull my hands back and start removing the gloves. This time I remember to put them back in their proper place before closing the cabinet, and then I lean down to look at the new page's first line.
“Wanna lori som,” I read out loud.
Huh.
Whatever.
I turn to go back to the desk, but at the last moment I'm suddenly not sure whether that first words was spelled with one 'n' or two.
Sighing, I walk back to the cabinet and lean over. I can see my own reflection in the glass as I read the line again.
“Wanna lori som. Fine. Whatever the hell that means.”
Heading over to the desk, I take a seat and immediately start writing, and – as is my habit now – I mutter the words under my breath as I go.
“Wanna loris som,” I say out loud, writing each letter with great care.
It feels odd to write past the margins, all the way to the edge of the page, but that's how the original book is presented so I guess I have to do the same thing. Still, the process goes against the grain and makes me feel pretty uncomfortable, and I figure maybe I have some mild OCD. And then, just as I'm about to go back to the book, I glance at the line I just wrote and feel a flicker of concern.
“Wanna loris som?” I whisper, before getting to my feet and going back to the original text.
I look down at the book.
“Piece of...”
Sighing, I realize I've screwed up again. This jobs is starting to get more than a little repetitive. I head back to the copy and double-check, and I see for certain that I somehow wrote 'Wanna loris som' instead of 'Wanna lori som'. The difference is tiny, and for a moment I consider just carrying on and hoping that nobody notices. After all, the mistake is at the very end of a page that I've spent the best part of half an hour copying, and I really don't want to do all that work again. I could just keep working and hope that Mr. Shawyer doesn't notice, but...
No.
No, I can't possibly do that.
Sighing again, I remove the page and turn to head out of the room. I really don't fancy the trip all the way down to the basement furnace, however, so I stop in the doorway and look out for a moment toward the top of the stairs. Sure, Mr. Shawyer told me to burn any abandoned pages as soon as possible, but he won't be back for hours and hours and I figure it'll be okay so long as ev
erything's order by the time he arrives. I briefly reconsider, telling myself that I should stick to the rules, but finally I head back to the desk and set the error-stricken sheet down.
Rather than going back and forth several more times to copy the page, I figure I'll just work from the version I already made, and I'll just make sure to get that last section right this time. I mean, who cares? Who'll even know?
Nine
“Huh?”
Startled, I open my eyes and immediately find that I'm leaning down with the left side of my face pressed against the desk. I blink once, then twice, and finally I realize that I must have fallen asleep.
I sit up, just as I hear the sound of the house's large front door being swung shut.
“Damn it!” I gasp, frantically getting to my feet and looking around the room.
Checking my watch, I see that it's exactly seven o'clock in the morning, which means that Mr. Shawyer has returned. I think I must have worked solidly until about three, and then I remember closing my eyes for a few seconds and telling myself that I'd just take a short break. Then, I must have dozed off completely and ended up falling properly asleep. Looking down, I see that I haven't completed nearly so many pages as I should, and a moment later I hear the sound of Mr. Shawyer starting to make his way up the stairs.
“Nuts!”
I start rushing around, trying to put everything in order. I check that the book is in its proper state, and then I briefly tidy the desk. Once that's done, and with the sound of Mr. Shawyer's footsteps getting closer and closer to the top of the stairs, I rub my eyes in the hope that I can look more awake. Then, just when I think everything's fine, I spot the error-pocked page that I meant to take down to the furnace.
“Ms. Culper?”
I grab the page and scrunch it up, quickly shoving it into my back pocket before turning just as Mr. Shawyer reaches the door.
“Good morning,” he continues, before offering that same faint half nod that he always gives me in the mornings. “I trust that the night went well?”
“Couldn't be better,” I reply, although I'm pretty sure that I sound flustered.
“Some fresh pages, I see,” he says, coming over to the desk and looking down at my night's work.
“I didn't get as much done as I wanted,” I tell him. “I'm sorry, I just -”
“It's fine,” he purrs, as he reaches down and picks up one of my finished pages. “Speed is not the most essential factor in this endeavor, Ms. Culper. Accuracy is what we're looking for. Accuracy and adherence to the few rules that are in place.” He glances at me. “Did you make many mistakes during this particular night?”
“No,” I reply quickly, before realizing that perhaps that sounds a little unlikely. “A few.”
“And they were disposed of in the proper manner?”
I nod, while making a mental note to go down to the basement as I leave the building.
“Then I look forward to seeing you this evening,” he continues. “I must say, Ms. Culper, I'm pleasantly surprised by your progress.”
“I'm really sorry I didn't get much done this time,” I tell him.
I wait, but he seems to be completely focused on the pages, and I start to realize that maybe he's happy with what I managed. After all, he doesn't know that I fell asleep for a few hours, and I'll just have to work extra hard tonight to make up for what the pages that I didn't get done this time.
“I must apologize,” he says, suddenly coming over to me and handing me my money for the night's work. “I almost forgot to give you this.”
“Thank you,” I reply, feeling a little bad for taking the money. Still, I'm so close to having enough for Myrtle's operation, so I can't afford to be too honorable. I'll just make it up tonight. “I'll see you later.”
Mr. Shawyer goes straight back to the desk, and it's clear that he's fascinated by the pages. I don't want to disturb him, so I turn and make my way out of the room, and then I head down the stairs. I still feel a little groggy, but I know I'll have to get some proper sleep today so that I'm raring to go later. Truth be told, yesterday I only slept in fits and starts, so I guess I wasn't properly prepared. Tonight I'll be better.
Stopping at the foot of the stairs, I suddenly remember the scrunched-up page in my back pocket.
Going down to the basement feels like quite a trek, but I tell myself that I should probably stick to all the rules. I head over to the door that leads beneath the hallway, and then I carefully pick my way down the narrow, winding stairs. As I walk, I take the page from my pocket. A few minutes later I finally reach the basement and make my way toward the furnace, only to stop in my tracks as soon as I see that Salvatore has the gate open and is reaching into the contraption.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like I'm doing?” he replies.
“Why isn't the furnace burning?”
“Because it's gone seven.”
“What do you -”
“It's not needed in the day,” he explains, sounding a little as if he's having to explain things to a child, “so I take the opportunity to clean it. If I don't clean it, it gets clogged.” He leans a little further in. “Although it doesn't seem as if there's anything new in here today. Did you manage the whole night without making any mistakes.”
“Yep,” I reply, while surreptitiously slipping the page back into my pocket. I don't think he noticed. “Neat, huh?”
He eyes me with a hint of suspicion, and then he nods slowly.
“Mistakes are okay,” he says, “so long as you deal with them properly.”
“I know.”
“They just have to go into the -”
“I know,” I say again, and now it's my time to do the interrupting. “I just didn't make any, okay? Is that really so hard to believe?”
“Not at all,” he replies, before pausing for a moment. “So what are you doing down here?”
“I heard a noise,” I tell him. “I thought I'd come and check it out.”
“Now you know. It's me.”
“I can see that.”
“How's it going up there?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn't it?”
“No reason.”
“You think I'm going to screw up?” I ask.
“I didn't say that.”
“But you're thinking it.”
“With all due respect,” he replies, “you don't know what I'm thinking.” He pauses. “That's probably for the best.”
“I'm going to have the whole book copied before you know it,” I tell him.
“Sure.”
“You really don't believe me, do you?”
“It's not that,” he replies, “it's just, you're not the first person to say that. And I have to be honest, other people haven't usually managed to get too far.”
“I'm not other people,” I point out.
“No,” he says, furrowing his brow slightly, “I can see that.”
I wait, but then I realize that the conversation has probably come to a natural end.
“See you tonight,” I add, before turning and heading back to the stairs.
He doesn't reply, and by the time I start heading back up to the hallway I can already hear him getting back to work. Something about that Salvatore guy really bugs me, and I can't shake the feeling that he's constantly looking down on me, as if he keeps expecting me to make some kind of screw-up. Well, I'm gonna show him, 'cause I'm gonna get that entire book copied, and I won't let him see any mistakes that I might make. In fact, I might even try to empty the furnace in the mornings myself, just so that he never finds so much as the tiniest smidgen of burned paper in there. Maybe that'll wipe the stupid, supercilious expression off his face.
Once I'm outside, I find that a light rain is falling, and the London morning has turned cold. I zip my coat shut, before making my way along the narrow street. And as I go, I can't help thinking about Salvatore, and about how I'm goin
g to prove to him that I can get this entire job done. I can't wait to see the look on his face at the end.
As I walk away, I toss the junk page into a bin.
Ten
“I don't like some of these numbers,” the vet says as she peers at the screen in her office. “I'm not sure that her current medication levels are working. We're going to have to increase her dosages slightly.”
“Whatever it takes,” I reply, as I reach down and stroke Myrtle. She's resting on the vet's examination table, and I can tell that the journey down here has really weakened her. “I can't let anything happen to her.”
The vet comes over and sets some glass bottles in front of me.
“Don't let anyone know, okay?” she says, lowering her voice. “I should charge you extra, but I can slip a few to you. My boss is a tight-ass, but he doesn't run an inventory every single day. And if he notices, I'll tell him that I dropped a tray.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I can pay!”
“Can you?” she replies. “Myrtle, I know we've had this conversation before, but sooner or later you're going to have to make a decision. If Myrtle doesn't have her operation within the next couple of months, she's only going to end up living in pain. Is that what you want?”
“No,” I reply, “which is why I'm going to get the money for the operation.”
“You've been saying that for -”
“I'm almost there!” I add, cutting her off. I can feel tears in my eyes. “I just need a few more weeks. I'll have the money by the end of the month.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm positive.”
“Because...”
She glances over her shoulder, as if she's worried that we might be overheard, and then she turns to me again.
“I've been thinking,” she continues, “and I think I've come up with a solution. Mia, I can take Myrtle in today and have her prepped, and I can carry out the operation tomorrow. That's not the problem. The problem comes when she leaves here, because that's when my boss will notice all the drugs and equipment that I've used. That's when you need to pay.”
