Redlisted

by Sara Beaman

  Having satiated myself, I continued on to a street full of identical brownstones. It wasn’t difficult to determine which belonged to my patron: all but one of its windows were shuttered, and, despite the hour, candlelight flickered from the only open window.

  I walked up a brief flight of stairs to the front door, paused for a moment, then knocked twice. I folded my hands behind my back and looked at the tips of my shoes as I waited to be allowed inside, listening for footsteps. After quite a wait, the door opened. Standing inside the threshold was an adolescent girl, a mortal, her delicate features framed by twin black braids. She carried a candle in her left hand.

  “Are you Mr. Radcliffe?” She looked up at me with wide eyes.

  “I am, indeed.”

  She stepped sideways, making room for me to pass. “Please, come inside.”

  “Thank you, Miss...” I wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate to ask for her name.

  “My name is Mariah. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Radcliffe.”

  “Likewise,” I said, smiling without teeth.

  She shut the door behind us. “I’m Mr. Markham’s ward,” she said. “He was a friend of my father, before my parents passed away.”

  She shook her head. “It’s quite all right. Please, let me show you the guest room. May I take your luggage?”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary,” I frowned. “Is your guardian at home?”

  She led me to a flight of stairs. “I apologize. He’s visiting a colleague at the moment. We weren’t sure when to expect you,” she said. “He will be back by sunrise, of course.”

  “O—of course,” I said, taken aback by her apparent familiarity with our condition.

  Mariah showed me to a small room on the second floor. She lit an oil lamp on the bedside table with the flame of her candle, then lingered in the door frame as I set down my bags.

  “Are you hungry, Mr. Radcliffe?”

  I bit the inside of my lower lip. Was she offering for me to drink from her? “No, thank you, I’m quite all right.”

  “Would you like me to come for you when Mr. Markham returns?”

  “That would be excellent,” I said, struggling to maintain my composure. “Thank you.”

  “He will not be long, I hope. Please let me know if you need anything.”

  I nodded, wishing more than anything that she would stop making offers.

  With that, she slipped back into the hallway. I was glad for her absence.

  Waiting for Markham to return, I made a record of the night’s events in my journal, placing my hand against a blank page and imprinting it with a vision of my memories. When I finished with the manifestation, I opened the glass and shutters of the room’s only window. The summer wind smelled of smoke and horse droppings and reminded me of my loathing for cities.

  Soon the sky began to lighten, but the passage from night to day brought no sign of Markham’s return. I shuttered the windows in time to avoid the sunrise, perplexed.

  The Wardens hadn’t told me much about Zenas Markham. All I knew was that he was an illusionist, like myself, but far more accomplished than I was. The more I thought about his ward’s behavior, the less eager I was to meet him. It was difficult to imagine trusting a man who treated a child in such a way.

  Shortly after sunrise, Mariah returned to my room, knocking at the door despite it being open. “Mr. Radcliffe? I’m sorry to disturb you...”

  “Not at all,” I said, standing and meeting her at the door rather than inviting her inside. “Is everything all right?”

  She wrung her hands. “I must apologize. I just received a letter from Mr. Markham. It seems he was called out of town—something to do with his mother.”

  “I see.”

  “He should return within the week. I do hope this doesn’t inconvenience you.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not a problem. It will be a few days before my supplies arrive, in any case.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” she said.

  I nodded, waiting—hoping—for her to excuse herself.

  “Should I prepare your breakfast?”

  “Mariah,” I said, frowning, “do you realize what I—do you understand... the nature of the condition I share with your guardian?”

  “Of course,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

  I brought a hand to my mouth. “I—well, thank you for the offer, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Very well,” she said, interlacing her fingers behind her back. “In that case, please feel free to move about as you please. It’s quite safe. I’ve closed all the drapes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, smiling, then took her leave once more.

  I closed the door behind her and decided to spend the rest of the day asleep.

  ///

  I spent the next two nights in disguise, stalking Mirabel, gathering whatever information I could about her current projects. I could determine little about her research, aside from the fact that she was working with a man named William Dickson, a photographer in Edison’s employ, on something called the Panoptikon. I didn’t imagine she understood the reference—she had never had much interest in social reform—but I was unnerved by the discovery nevertheless.

  I spent my days in Markham’s brownstone, drafting a field report to send back to the Wardens and sleeping, doing my best to avoid the peculiar girl with the wide blue eyes.

  ///

  On the third night, a courier arrived at nightfall, bearing the crate with my painting materials. Mariah showed me to a space in Markham’s sitting room he had designated for the sessions, then watched me as I began reassembling the easel. I glanced around the room as I worked, hoping to avoid meeting her eyes. Scores of portraits hung on the walls, so many they nearly obscured the striped wallpaper behind. They were all of Mariah, every single one.

  I suddenly felt I understood the nature of Markham’s relationship with the girl. It was not uncommon for our kind to groom our heirs from a young age. I’d never before objected to the idea; it seemed logical to offer the chance of eternal life to someone you’d already learned to care for. Confronted with the reality of the practice, however—and it was all I could imagine their arrangement to be—I found it revolting. Would he ask her to commit suicide once she’d reached a certain age, or would he murder her himself? How would he determine when the time was right? Would he expect her to continue on as his maidservant, or whatever she was to him, in perpetuity?

  I was so embroiled in distaste that when a second visitor arrived I welcomed the intrusion, despite the fact that it took the form of Mirabel. She entered through the front door without knocking. With a particularly sharp glare she whisked Mariah out of the sitting room.

  “You’ve been checking up after me, haven’t you, Julian?” she said. “Looking in to my research.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, turning back to the half- finished easel.

  “I’m not sure what you think you’ll accomplish by denying it.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I can only imagine the Wardens sent you, but I can’t see why they’d bother,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve been sending them regular reports for three years now.”

  I felt my mouth twitch, betraying my surprise.

  “Aha. I understand. This must have been at Desmond’s direct request.” She snorted. “You can tell him that any time he has a question about any of my technological advancements, he can feel free to speak with me directly. Do that, will you, for me? I know you’re fond of him. Tell him the longer he ignores me, the shorter his tenure will become.”

  “I appreciate the suggestion,” I said, keeping a straight face.

  She removed a pair of gloves from her handbag, pulling them on one at a time. “I can see you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,” she said. “I know how important your work is. After all, what would Markham do without one more of these in his collection?” She gestured grandly toward
s the portrait-saturated walls.

  I swallowed a retort. “Very well.”

  “Oh. One more thing,” she said, snapping the closure of her purse. “You’d be best served if you never return to New York.”

  With that, she showed herself out as abruptly as she’d entered.

  Her departure left me feeling directionless. How could I continue my investigation if she knew that I was spying on her? And what was the point, if she was already submitting reports to the Wardens? Was I to spend the rest of my summer here at Markham’s estate to finish out this contract, despite having only taken it as a front? The idea of being trapped here with the bizarre pair for months with nothing to occupy my time was daunting.

  I returned to my easel simply to have something to do. A few minutes later, Mariah slipped back into the room. She sunk down into high-backed chair and once again seized me with her eyes, seldom blinking.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “That was my daughter, Mirabel.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “I apologize for her behavior. I hope she didn’t frighten you.”

  “Not at all,” she said, shaking her head. “I thought she was very beautiful. I can see why you chose her.”

  I forced a polite smile.

  “I’m sorry,” Mariah said in a small voice. “I’ve said too much, haven’t I?”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Had Mirabel returned? That wouldn’t be like her. Perhaps it was Markham, returning earlier than expected? But why would he knock at his own door?

  Mariah rose and went to the door, opening it to reveal the silhouette of a thin, tall man whom I assumed was Zenas Markham. I put my work to the side and walked into the entryway, preparing to introduce myself, but as I caught a glimpse of the visitor’s face I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “May I help you, sir?” Mariah asked.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I’m looking for Mr. Julian Radcliffe. You haven’t seen him, by any chance?”

  “Of course. He’s in the drawing room. Please, come in,” she offered, stepping aside.

  His pale face was exactly as I remembered it; the same slight hollowness in the cheeks, the eyes that seemed lit from behind. My lips slowly parted with shock.

  “Julian,” he said. “I’m glad to see you are well.”

  Mariah shut the door. The sound of the latch clicking against the strikeplate brought me back to my senses.

  “Lucien?” I asked, my voice cracking. “I thought you were dead!”

  “I’ve heard that’s what Mother decided to tell you all when I failed to return to her enclave in Europe.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I hope I’m not imposing...”

  “No—no—not at all,” I stammered, shaking my head. “I’m being impolite. Mariah, this is my brother, Lucien Verlinden. Lucien, this is Mariah, Zenas Markham’s ward.” I gestured between the two.

  Mariah curtseyed. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Verlinden.”

  “Likewise,” he said, bowing his head. “Miss Mariah, I hate to be impolite, but would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Radcliffe in private?”

  “Of course,” she said, backing away. “Please call for me if you need anything.”

  She excused herself, leaving us alone in the entryway. I caught myself staring at him. I shook my head and tried my best to conceal my amazement.

  “What on earth happened?” I asked. “Where have you been all this time?”

  “I stowed away on a Dutch ship to Nagasaki,” he said, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. “I’ve been cooperating with the Warden installation there for quite some time. They’ve become increasingly anxious about Mother’s presence here in North America, so they sent me stateside by way of San Francisco.”

  “I—I can scarcely believe it,” I said, laughing. “I’m sorry. Please, let me show you to the drawing room.”

  “Thank you.”

  I led him into the room with the portraits. “Please excuse the, uh, the peculiar décor. It seems my host is particularly invested in his young ward.”

  “I see,” Lucien said, sitting down on the edge of the same chair Mariah had just vacated.

  I remained standing, too full of manic energy to sit. “You should have let me know you had returned to America,” I blurted out.

  “I apologize. I could not. We’re concerned about our written correspondence being intercepted. It seems that Mnemosyne’s influence has compromised the Watchers of the Americas at several levels. I’m sad to admit that our Mirabel has played quite a significant part in that subversion. I’ve been trailing her for a little over two years now—that’s how I found you.”

  “I... I see. I had no idea.”

  Lucien nodded. “I can’t pretend to understand what Mirabel has done. I can’t see why she’d be willing to assist Mnemosyne, all the while thinking I died at her hands. I suppose I have no right to feel betrayed—I’ve been in hiding for so long—but nevertheless...”

  I swallowed hard, looking at my feet.

  “Julian,” he continued, his voice thin, “you and she—did you ever...” His mouth puckered, as if he’d tasted something vile.

  “No. Most certainly not.”

  “I’m sorry to have asked. I’m glad to hear one of you retains some shred of loyalty.”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded.

  “What do you plan to do now?” I asked. “What is there to be done, if Mnemosyne is so deeply entwined in the Wardens’ affairs?”

  “That’s exactly why I’m so glad I’ve been able to find you,” he said. “I recently discovered the whereabouts of her American enclave—in rural Georgia, not far from the port city of Savannah.”

  “That’s very interesting,” I said, trying not to sound rude, “but what does it have to do with me?”

  “I want us to go there together and confront her,” he said, rising from his chair. “You might be the only one in the family who can stand against her. You’re the only one who can resist her commands.”

  “Your confidence is admirable, but I—I think it would be foolish to underestimate her,” I said. “Won’t she literally see us coming from miles away?”

  “She will see me, and me alone. She can’t track you. None of us can.”

  I stared out the window, pressing my knuckles against my lips.

  He walked across the room to stand at my side. “What do you say?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Even if she allows me inside the enclave, what will I do once I’m there? Even with my wards in place...”

  He folded his arms across his chest and waited for me to continue.

  “What could I possibly do to her?” I brought the heels of my hands to my temples.

  “I understand your reluctance,” he said. “Perhaps it would encourage you to know that this isn’t the first coup I’ve attempted?”

  “It isn’t?”

  “It’s the third. The first was in the Middle Ages. It was a disaster, and I’m lucky to have come away from it without attracting her suspicion.” He smiled slightly. “The second was not too long before your initiation. That time, I very nearly succeeded.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I couldn’t risk her finding out,” he said, his gaze distant. “But this time—this time could be different. It is possible for us to defeat her, I swear to you.”

  I inhaled sharply, lightheaded, drunk on the idea.

  He smiled, an uncharacteristically devious quirk at the corners of his lips. “I will share the memory of that second attempt with you, if you’ll allow it,” he said. “Of course, you’ll need to lower your wards...”

  My head started shaking of its own accord.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “That’s not it,” I protested, “it’s just...” I couldn't finish.

  “Whatever the reason, I promise you, it will make no difference to me.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’
m sure I’ve witnessed secrets far more wretched than whatever it is you hide from the world.”

  The sincerity in his eyes was agonizing.

  “Very well,” I said, my voice shaking.

  I set my jaw and performed the gestures that would render my mind bare. He smiled once more as the wards dropped, once again with that same delicate hint of self-satisfaction.

  “Turn towards me,” he said.

  An electric current ran up my spine as I complied.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, my lips barely able to form the words.

  “Don’t be nervous—the ritual is brief.”

  He placed a hand on my other shoulder and closed his eyes. His dark eyelashes wavered ever so slightly as his fingertips traveled up the sides of my neck to the helixes of my ears.

  “Lucien?” My own voice sounded distant.

  He traced a path across my brow, then drew his fingers downwards, coaxing my eyelids shut. His fingertips passed over my nostrils to rest on my bottom lip, where he paused.

  It felt as if my heart started beating once more in that instant—in that final moment before the drawing room was drowned out in frenetic, kaleidoscopic sensation. It overtook my ears first—a grandiose cacophony, pulsing and swelling, seventeen orchestras warming up their instruments inside the belly of a whale. The darkness behind my eyelids peeled away to reveal a florid vista lit to blinding brightness by a terrible golden sun. The scent of heliotrope filled my nostrils. The taste of blood hit my tongue, filled my mouth. My skin burned with stimulation from the inside out. From miles away, I could hear myself start to laugh hysterically, but I was equally seized with the urge to cry out in pain.

  I lost all sense of time, place, and space. The lurid landscape darkened, the sun turned black, and beneath my feet a yawning abyss opened, infinite in its depth and breadth. It spoke treacherous oaths through a thousand tongueless mouths, condemning me, threatening to consume me. It reached out to embrace me in its tendrils of obliteration, lacerating my flesh, disintegrating my consciousness. Engulfed in blackness, I beheld a sightless vision of the womb of the leviathan, and the thousand mouths of the abyss spoke their names to me in turn.