As the professor began to list the attributes of Mrs. Downey’s son, Karigan saw clearly how the professor was trying to integrate her into his world. She was to make friends with Arhys. Boiled dinner was being struck from the menu. She was to be courted by the scions of Mill City’s Preferred families. He wanted her to forget where she came from and give up any notion of returning. In fact, he didn’t want her just to integrate, he wanted her to conform.
When he finished his litany of praises for the virtuous paragon of masculinity that was Master Downey, Karigan said, “You know, my father tried matching me with appropriate suitors, but it never went well.”
The professor froze, then looked this way and that to see who might have overheard. Perhaps she had spoken recklessly, but she was tired of the whole charade, and it wasn’t like she had named names. Whatever anyone knew, her fictional father might have tried to arrange a good marriage for Kari Goodgrave before she was put away in the asylum.
“I would be careful of your words, my dear,” the professor warned her, giving her a significant look.
Grott re-entered the dining room just then with a steaming bowl of soup, alleviating her need to respond. She waited for the soup to cool, and was glad she’d requested it. It was thick with chicken and vegetables, a good heartening meal for one who did not know how well she would eat after this night.
The professor did not speak while she ate, sunk deeply into his own thoughts, but by the time she was tilting the bowl to get at the last of the broth, he looked up at her, his expression plaintive.
“I just want you to be happy here, my dear.”
“I will be happy.” Just not here. “I am grateful for all you’ve done for me, Uncle.” And she meant it. But did he hear the underlying meaning to her words,? That these were words of farewell? She could not tell.
When she finished, she headed upstairs to await the midnight hour. She was intercepted by Mirriam who squinted at Karigan through her monocle.
“Miss Goodgrave.”
“Mirriam.” Karigan waited. Mirriam looked like she had something on her mind that needed saying.
“Well, now,” the housekeeper said on an exhalation, and much more softly than usual. “If that Tam Ryder of yours decides to go riding at odd hours, you best warn him to take care. He has been seen and not just by Luke.”
By the look Mirriam gave her, Karigan gleaned that the housekeeper was referring to herself. Stunned, Karigan blinked rapidly. “I—I will.”
“Good.” The monocle dropped to the end of its chain, and Mirriam turned to go then paused. Even more quietly she said, “Also, ask Tam to tell Mr. Harlowe to refrain from engaging in further taproom brawls. It is not becoming of a gentleman.”
Karigan nodded emphatically, wondering exactly what and how much Mirriam knew, and why she had not alerted the professor to Karigan’s late night excursion. It was clear Mirriam was aware of more going on, within and without her household, than was typical, but to what extent it was impossible to say, and to what ends it was impossible to ascertain. Everyone here seemed to have a secret agenda, even the housekeeper. Karigan watched after Mirriam as she made her way down the corridor, then called after her.
“Yes?” Mirriam turned, her usual severe expression on her face.
“Thank you. I just wanted to thank you for everything. And . . . good night.”
“Good night, Miss Goodgrave.” Mirriam turned to descend the stairs.
When the time came for Lorine to help Karigan prepare for bed, Karigan offered her a heartfelt good night as well, silently wishing the best for the former slave. Karigan had grown almost too comfortable in the professor’s house, eating good food and wearing fine dresses. She would miss the professor, Lorine, and Mirriam, and all the others, but not as much as she missed her own home.
She’d grown comfortable, but she’d also become a prisoner. A prisoner of the professor’s protection, as well as his time, and of the constraints of the empire. It was time to break bonds of all kinds.
She pulled the bedcovers up to her chin to await the striking of midnight.
ARHYS
Arhys had a room of her own, but it was not as big as Miss Goodgrave’s. Arhys had a bed to herself, but it was tiny compared to the one Miss Goodgrave got to sleep in. After the professor made Arhys go to her room, she had wailed and stomped and broken the dolls he had given her. They had real hair and porcelain faces and pretty dresses, but two now had cracked heads, and a ripped-off arm spilled sawdust across the floor. Now she didn’t even have her dollies to talk to. They were ruined, and it was all Miss Goodgrave’s fault. Miss Goodgrave had made her do it.
She’d also pulled all her dresses out of her wardrobe so that they were strewn about, and she stomped on them. She had swept her pretty toiletries off her dresser. She gouged at the plaster wall with a hair pick. She’d show them. She’d show them all.
The professor had been very stern with her. He’d ordered her to not tell anyone, no one at all, about the secret door that went to secret places. It was very important she keep the secret. He would buy her dresses if she was a good girl and kept it.
She’d promised, but it wasn’t fair. She wanted to go to secret places, too. She’d spotted the professor, Miss Goodgrave, and Mr. Harlowe going through the hidden passage in the library. It had been after her bedtime when she wasn’t supposed to be up, but sometimes she couldn’t sleep and was bored. She’d been in the parlor across from the library at the time, pretending to be taking tea with the important ladies of the city. When she heard footsteps, she turned off her light and hid and watched. She never figured out how they opened the secret door or where they went. What did they do when they got there, wherever there was? She wanted to know.
Well, if Miss Goodgrave got to sneak around, so did she. She’d show them. She’d show them all.
She picked among her rumpled dresses and found her coat. She pulled it on, then slipped her feet into her everyday shoes, not the nice shiny ones Mirriam said were only for special occasions. Then Arhys changed her mind and kicked off the old ones. She would wear the nice ones if she wanted to.
The eleven hour bell had rung. It was again past her bedtime, but it had never stopped her before. She crept out of her room, down the stairs, and to the front door. She turned the lock and let herself out.
She stood frozen on the front step. She had never gone out this late on her own. Never. She looked nervously up and down the street. The lamps were bright, but cast shadows against the houses and fences, beneath trees and shrubbery. Anything could hide in those shadows and leap out at her.
But the emperor wouldn’t let that happen, would he? That’s why there were so many Inspectors out at night, right? To keep away monsters and bad men? Reassured, she set off.
It took her longer than she thought, walking past so many houses with their darkened yards. Her good shoes hurt her feet, and she was sorry she hadn’t worn her old pair. Angry, she splashed in a muddy puddle.
It was not until she reached the last house at the end of the street that she finally encountered an Inspector patrolling with his Enforcer. The Enforcer shone dully beneath the light of a streetlamp.
“There, young miss, what are you doing out at this late hour?”
Arhys strode right up to him, faltering only when she neared the Enforcer. The Enforcer tilted its eyepiece so it could look down at her. The lens in its eye whirred as it focused on her.
I am not afraid, she told herself, but the Enforcer was so much bigger close up.
“Say,” the Inspector said, “aren’t you Arhys? The little girl who works at Professor Josston’s?”
She gazed up at the Inspector. He was impressive with his red uniform, shiny buttons, and the weapons on his belt. She recognized him—Inspector Gant. He’d come to the professor’s house before.
“Yes, sir,” she said as sweetly as she could manage. “There is
something I need to tell you. I want to tell you about the professor.”
FOUND
Karigan was out of bed before the first strike of the midnight bell faded. When she left her room that final time, she took nothing with her except the map of the Capital, the mirror shard, the bonewood, and a canvas satchel she’d found in the downstairs cloak room. She left behind the comfortable bed, the silly novels Mirriam had given her in her early days here, and a wardrobe filled with skillfully tailored dresses, hats, shoes, and gloves. And veils. Oh, yes, she was certainly leaving behind the veils.
She was well-practiced by now in sneaking around the house at the deepest hours of night, though she had been chagrined to learn that Mirriam and Arhys had both observed her nocturnal activities. She resolved to be extra careful, knowing the professor could also be prowling about on his own business.
Taper in hand, she descended the stairs, and crept into the library. Taking more care than usual, she made sure Arhys was nowhere to be found. Then she went to the dragon on the bookshelf, twisted its tail, and the secret passage opened. When the bookcase swung closed behind her, she finally felt totally committed. She would have to come back to the house one last time, however, because she believed the doors to the old mill were boarded shut and she could not exit through them. Plus, she needed Raven.
She hastily changed from her nightgown into her black swordswoman garb and began the long descent into the underground. This was her first time taking the route on her very own. Well, the first time had been sort of on her own. But she’d followed the professor and Cade, and they’d been awaiting her at the other end. What if the professor was there now? What if he came after her and found her in the old mill? Well, they’d have it out. He could not force her to stay and play his mad niece for the rest of her life. She’d rather live in the tombs.
If need be, she had the skills to extricate herself forcibly from the professor’s control, but she’d prefer an amicable parting. He’d been good to her. He had protected her and taken her into his home and his confidence. By sneaking out, she did not have to take the chance of a confrontation of any kind.
The underground was as she remembered—dark and haunting, the light of her taper reflecting on dusty windows. “I will see this the way it’s supposed to be when I get home,” she said, but her voice sounded tiny, doubtful.
She hurried on past the remains of the Cock and Hen, past the harness shop and all those buildings she had once known above ground and exposed to the sky.
• • •
Once she climbed up into the old mill, she had the sense of trespassing. The old building was dark. No one awaited her, no one had accompanied her or given her permission to enter. She felt uncomfortable and very alone as her feet clunked on wrought iron steps. Where once she’d been accustomed to being so often alone as a messenger, she had now become used to being around people in the professor’s house and escorted whenever she left. She’d been made too comfortable and protected. Perhaps less confident.
She shook her head. Hadn’t she gone to the Heroes Portal by herself last night? But she hadn’t had that sense of trespass . . .
She climbed past the yawning doorway of the second floor where Cade had done his weapons practice, honing his skills to become a Black Shield, and where the professor had lovingly preserved his library of damaged books. She did not stop for her destination lay on the third floor.
Once there, with the aid of her taper, she found the lever that illuminated the phosphorene lights. She set the taper aside and quickly oriented herself, striking off to find that one particular aisle that contained her personal belongings. She would not leave them behind—not her brooch, the moonstone, or the feather of the winter owl. Nor would she leave behind her uniform, tattered as it was. These things were hers. They allowed her to touch something real from her home.
She found the proper aisle, her steps quickening until they brought her to the table that held her belongings. She immediately pinned the brooch on. She’d forgotten how it felt, that slight weight against her chest. She slipped the moonstone into her trouser pocket. Next she traded the professor’s bonewood for her own. She had not appreciated the differences between the two before, for they were subtle. The professor’s lacked the black shield emblem on it, of course, and it had the patina and feel of age on it. Hers did not.
She then hesitated, wondering whether or not to take all the mirror shards with her. No, she would keep the one. The rest would remain, an enigma for the professor to ponder. Maybe they’d be forgotten with time, just like much of the rubbish in this room; rubbish the professor considered artifacts.
She carefully rolled the feather of the winter owl in the sleeve of her greatcoat, then stuffed her uniform into her satchel. She decided to leave her infantry boots behind. The muddy soaking they’d received in Blackveil had turned them stiff and hard as they dried in storage. They were cracking and smelled of mildew. She had no oil or time with which to recondition them, so in the future they would stay, one more enigma for the professor.
She turned to leave, and there he was standing in the aisle watching her—the professor. She was so startled she squawked and dropped her satchel. How had he crept up on her like that? She detected his smile beneath his ostentatious mustache and remembered that, like her, he’d had plenty of practice sneaking around at odd hours of the night.
“You—you followed me here?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. I wanted to see what you were up to.”
Karigan gestured at her satchel. “As you can see, I am collecting my things.”
“I do see, but you know it is safer for all of us if they remain here.”
“They can’t remain here,” Karigan replied.
“Why ever not?”
She strongly suspected he knew the answer. “Because I am not remaining here. I am leaving. I have to.”
The professor stepped closer. “You worry about your Eletian friend.”
Karigan nodded. “Yes. He, I believe, is my link to finding my way home.”
“Oh, my dear, I had so hoped you would settle here, become part of my family.” He shook his head sadly. “It has been a joy to have you. You reawakened my passion for learning about the old days, motivated me ever more to bring down the empire.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” Karigan said. She could not allow herself to feel guilty for leaving him. “You took me in, a stranger out of time, and allowed me to heal from my injuries. You’ve protected me from the empire and made for me a safe haven. But now it is time for me to go.”
“You are resolved to do this?”
Karigan nodded. “Yes. I want to put things right in my time so yours never has an emperor the likes of Xandis Pierce Amberhill.”
“You believe you can do this?”
“My king—King Zachary—he’s a good man, a good ruler, and he will hear what I have to say. If there is a way to prevent the empire from rising, he will find it.”
“Well then. I daresay you are resolved.”
“I am.”
His expression sagged. He looked suddenly older. “Do you think you could spare your uncle a hug before you strike off onto these new adventures?”
Karigan was relieved he had not fought her on this. Not much, at least. He must have seen that he could not contain her forever. He held his arms wide open for that hug. He still smiled, but his eyes looked sad. She had to admit her own eyes were feeling a little moist, too. She walked into his embrace, and he hugged her fiercely.
“I will think of you often,” she reassured him.
“I am sorry, my dear, so sorry.”
She started to pull away from him, but he shifted and the next thing she knew was a sharp pain stabbing into her upper arm.
“Ow! What?” She shoved him away and staggered. A syringe impaled her arm. She yanked it out and dropped it to the floor, the glass tube c
racking. Droplets of clear fluid stained the wooden floor.
What? She’d meant to say it aloud, but her mouth wasn’t working right, like in the dream she’d had of mirror eyes.
She wanted the professor to explain. She meant to grab him by the lapels of his tweed coat, but she staggered again, and when she tried to catch herself on a nearby shelf, her hands knocked over a stack of pottery and sent it smashing to the floor.
“Easy,” the professor said, reaching out to her. He’d become distorted in her vision, blurry and elongated. “It’s just morphia.”
Karigan leaned back against the shelving, trying to remain standing, but she sank toward the floor inch by inch.
“I will take good care of you,” the professor said, his voice sounding miles away.
She blinked, fighting to stay aware. Why? The word rang out in her mind but did not reach her lips. She knew the answer anyway—he could not allow her to leave. She had made the mistake of letting her guard down. She had trusted too much.
She was out before she hit the floor.
The professor grimaced as his shoe crunched on the shards of rare Second Age pottery, but it was a small sacrifice compared to what might happen if he allowed Karigan G’ladheon to leave. She would undoubtedly be captured, and she knew too much. He knelt beside her, relieved to see her breathing normally. The morphia had been left behind by Mender Samuels after Karigan had first arrived with her painful wounds. She had refused further injections after she regained consciousness, so there had been quite a bit left over.
The professor had not known the correct amount to administer, so he had filled the syringe and injected it all. He could keep Karigan dosed for a good long time. He would tell anyone who questioned him about her that she had relapsed into madness, but he hadn’t the heart to send her to the Mill City Asylum after her terrible experiences in the east.
He knew that those treated with morphia often developed a deep, addictive yearning for it. He would not have to force doses on her after a while. Before long, she would be begging him for it. It was all very simple, but regrettable. Still, it was a small price to pay for protecting his secrets.
Mirror Sight Page 47
