Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  Something heavy hits the sarcophagus and sound waves rumble over me. The marble box and I both quake under the impact. Oh the pain—the cold sharpness that crisscrosses my skull. And I’m nauseous, I have no equilibrium. It sounds as though the world is underwater, as if a lake swirls within my brain. I cover my head and find a sticky wetness about the sides of it. Blood.

  My eardrums have burst.

  34

  Quid est veritas?

  What is truth?

  The underwater sensation dissipates quickly, leaving my hearing raw and exposed, even more sensitive than before. Each noise is a hot poker. I try to shut off my ears, but I lack control over my own body. The blows against the marble continue, and I think I might die from the vicious sound waves until a gust of air rushes over me. The stone lid must have chipped, creating a small hole. I suck the beautiful oxygen into my lungs, and hear my rescuer breathing heavily outside. He must be strong to rain down such wrathful strokes.

  “Not long now,” the man says. “And you’ll be free.”

  Tears fill my eyes, and I wipe them away. ‘Not long now and you’ll be free?’ These are the nicest words he’s ever said, and one of the few times I’ve heard my father speak directly to me.

  Eventually he creates a big enough divot in the marble for him to stick his hand inside and take hold of the lid. He pushes with all his might and moves it back a bit—then he reaches inward. I feel him grip my feet and pull. My body scoots along until my legs are draped over the side of the sarcophagus. Father puts his hands around my waist and draws me out like an ungainly calf being extracted from its squalling mother.

  He sets me down and moves away quickly. “We’re even now,” he whispers.

  Even? What is he talking about?

  My father dusts off his clothes. “No more, Hester. I did what I could, and that’s the end of it.”

  How did he know I needed help?

  I reach toward my father, and he flinches, smelling strongly of fear. He drops something—his hammer, maybe—and turns for the door. I step to the side, right into his path.

  “I said we’re square. Move.”

  My entire life, I’ve wanted him to explain our relationship, to reveal why he couldn’t love me even a little. I step closer, and he sucks in his breath, as though he’s afraid I’ll hurt him.

  “Never much of a parent, I’ll admit that,” he says. “But you can imagine what it was like.”

  I shake my aching head. I still don’t understand.

  “Having your little girl tell you such horrible things. You’d talk about dead people with that voice, and it always came to pass. Always.”

  What’s that twitching sound? Is Father so scared he’s shaking? I breathe deeply and decide to take action. Powers above, don’t fail me. I’ll never get this chance again.

  Reaching out, I touch his cheek. “No!” he yells. “Stay back.”

  One of his memories fills my mind, not an image of murder or death. This experience happened long ago at The Revels, when I was very young. My present-day adult self stands at the door of the old nursery, watching the five-year-old me. The child I was is ill and feverish—her silver eyes glazed as she licks red, cracked lips.

  People within the house are weeping, mourning the loss of several servants to the sickness. Typhus, they say. Everyone fears for Mama’s survival. Scared and weak, Little Hester calls for her mother, but no one answers, so she switches to her father’s name. Grown me watches him stop at the nursery door. He observes the suffering five-year-old for a moment. The pillow under her head is wet with perspiration, and she begs Father for a drink.

  He doesn’t move, a look of revulsion crossing his angular features. “Get it water,” he says to a passing maid.

  Little Hester and I simultaneously inhale a coppery scent, and she begins to cry, knowing what it means. Father smells of blood. Of hatred. Of his hatred for her. The tears leave wet tracks upon her face, and she grows quiet.

  Mute from that day on.

  This is the reason I have been a prisoner of my own silence? The obstacle preventing me from having a voice all these years? Truth rattles through the adult me, settling in my heart. The vision ends, and I leave the psychic realm, plummeting back into the crypt.

  Father is still talking. “Blame myself, of course. Bringing such a creature into the world.”

  I shake my head. What a waste, Hester. Allowing one so unworthy to control you.

  Almost like a key being turned in a lock, I feel a small click in my throat, and I know without even trying that I can speak. Something inside me has broken loose and been healed at the same time. I’m free of more than a tomb.

  “Step aside,” my father says. “I won’t do more.”

  I turn my iridescent gaze in his direction. “You’ve done quite enough,” I reply in that voice.

  He dashes out the door, scared as hell.

  I eventually find his sledgehammer. It’s a smaller version of the tool than I imagined. Heavy but not unmanageable, considering the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I heft it to my shoulder, step out of the room of death, and begin my journey to High Street. The churchyard smells mossy and the grass is wet beneath my boots. Walking carefully, I turn east and ascend a small hill, banging into a wooden structure at the top.

  Drop the hammer, and check inside, you dunce. Get yourself a stick.

  After entering the shack, I nearly fall over an axe. I feel my way around, finding shovels, long-handled clippers, and rope. It’s the groundskeeper’s hut, it would seem. Discovering a half-broken rake, I stomp on the handle, until the rod separates from the tines. Voila, a cane! It prevents me from falling over tombstones, but my progress is still slow. Especially with the added weight of the sledgehammer. I test my hearing ability as I walk—it’s better, almost normal now. The extreme sensitivity has faded and I can extend reception and subdue it. Deo favente. Sometimes it’s good to have a Roman goddess on your side.

  I sense a presence behind me, smell chimney smoke and unwashed skin. Definitely a woman—part Beelzebub, part wilderness-dwelling peasant. “Mary Arden,” I croak, throat sore.

  “Good,” she replies. “You’re speaking at last.”

  Gesturing in the direction of the train station, I take a step forward. “Help me. Scarlett’s getting away.”

  “He doesn’t leave for a while yet. Let’s talk a spell.”

  Mary Arden links her arm with mine, her stench wafting around me. We follow a path that intersects the city park. “You’re in my debt now, dearie. My old friend Carver told me you were in trouble over at the crypt, and I sent your father right away. Didn’t want to go at first, but I made him do it. I’ll expect a favor for that one.”

  Did she say Carver, as in Carver the gambling ghost? My Carver is her old friend? Blast him! He’s more like her spy, I’d warrant. Well that explains his absences over long periods. Confound it, I knew he was seeing someone else.

  Swallowing against my burning vocal chords, I turn away. “No favors. Father said we’re square.”

  Mary Arden laughs. “John always was squeamish, even as a child. Likes things easy and explainable. Magic’s to be avoided at all costs.”

  “You know him, too?”

  “Of course I do, ducky. He’s my brother.”

  We reach the park gazebo where this whole episode began for me on All Hallows Eve last year, when David Thornhill touched my wrist, and I saw him throw Freckles to her death. Mary Arden follows me into the vacant structure. I prop the cane and sledgehammer against the wall and cross my arms. “Let me be sure I heard correctly. You are… my aunt?”

  She seems amused by the question. “We’re quite a family—all of us endowed with supernatural talent.”

  I can’t help snorting at this. “Father’s not supernatural.”

  “John doesn’t like to admit it, but he has the Gift of the Phoenix. He will always rise from the ashes and reinvent himself—find new success and prosperity.”

  She turns telepathic
in an instant. All true words, daughter of Rome. You know it, too.

  Wishing her out of my head, I stick to speech even though it’s painful. “How did you make him save me?”

  “Why, by Compulsion, dear. You know that as well. I have a smattering of gifts, some less than benevolent.”

  “Dark skills?”

  Mary Arden pats my arm. “Don’t worry, Hester. I won’t use them on you. I’ll need your help one day.”

  “Why does Scarlett want me dead so badly? Don’t say it’s because of my gifts. I won’t believe it.”

  “Your relationship goes much deeper than you realize. Before Scarlett’s mother married Mr. Lennox, Marie-Louise had a brief affair with a Welsh miner who’d struck it rich. A man we both know quite well.”

  I reach for the gazebo railing and sit down on a bench, letting it all sink in. My father, the same John Grayson that I’ve grown up with, had an affair. With Marie-Louise Lennox, the woman who committed suicide last November. The idea of him having an illicit affair with anyone seems ludicrous. And a trifle repugnant. But having met the vulnerable Marie-Louise, my heart goes out to her.

  Mary Arden continues with her narrative. “Their liaison began before he met your mother. John told Marie-Louise he would never marry a poor girl like her, and when she found herself in the family way, she wed Lennox. He was a cruel man and abused Marie-Louise and her son terribly. James Scarlett isn’t one to forgive and forget—especially where his parents and half-sister are concerned.”

  I’m his half-sister? “But he’s descended from Archimendax, not Veritas.”

  “Oh you’re wrong, Hester. He’s descended from both—Veritas, through your father, and Archimendax, on his mother’s side. A unique and lethal mixture.”

  It makes sense, actually. Why Scarlett is so difficult to read…and so powerful…and why he has a vendetta against me. Truth heats my bones, and I know Mary Arden is right. Although I do not trust her beyond the basic facts of the story.

  “Fine,” I say, picking up the sledgehammer and cane. “We should go—”

  “I cannot, Hester. Scarlett has shielded himself against my powers. Whatever magic I cast upon him will be thrown back at me a hundred fold. I will not help you in this fight, but the shielding has cost Scarlett dearly. His strength is less than before.”

  He was stronger? His abilities greater than they are now? Well, that’s just bloody wonderful. I nod and make for the stairs of the gazebo, feeling the weight of my burden. She walks with me to High Street.

  “What can he do?” I ask, unsure I want the answer.

  Mary Arden sighs sadly. “It’s not that Scarlett has a large number of gifts. But truth and falsehood each have great power, don’t they? Mix them together and you’ve got a dangerous weapon. Beware the Serpent’s Tongue, Hester. Unlike Compulsion, it’s subtle and can be sustained indefinitely. And he has some elemental powers.”

  I drop my pitiful sledgehammer and rake/cane on the sidewalk, lean forward and rest my hands on my thighs. Don’t throw up. Don’t have an apoplexy. Breathe.

  “No reason to fret, child.” My aunt whacks me on the back. “Fragile nerves never won battles of magic! It’s boldness that’s called for.” She picks up the hammer and cane and pushes them into my hands. “Now where was I?”

  No place good. “The Serpent’s Tongue?” I reply.

  “Oh, yes! Scarlett mixes reality and illusion, lies with half-truths. Beguiling, coaxing. He can have no happiness of his own, and therefore, seeks the misery and dominion of others. Strike him now, or he’ll kill all those you hold dear.”

  As he did mine, she whispers in my head.

  The impact of her words hits me. I turn toward Mary Arden. “Will you teach me how to shield them? Keep my friends safe?”

  “Triumph today, and shielding will be unnecessary. There’s quite a price involved, anyway. I’m not sure you’d be willing to pay it.”

  Her words cause a shiver of alarm to run the length of my spine, and I wonder if she’s using Compulsion on me. Maybe it’s her hope that Scarlett and I kill each other. Two birds with one stone.

  “What about those elemental powers you mentioned he possessed?” I ask.

  But the old woman seems not to hear my question and leaves me without saying farewell. Just a pat on my shoulder and a vague reminder. Remember that favor you owe me. I’ll be in touch.

  A gust of wind tosses my skirts, thunder rumbles, a few raindrops fall. The air crackles with supernatural energy as I hasten toward my fate. As though they sense a whopper of a storm brewing, the people of Stonehenge scramble inside. I hear merchants pack up their wares, and shoe-shine men gather their brushes. The usual crowds head home to supper, or to the Red Rooster for a drink. Tourists take refuge in their hotels.

  Wishing I could hide with them, I cross the nearly deserted street. I extend my hearing despite the noisy weather, and determine the number of souls at the station ahead. Thankfully, only a handful of people are waiting for the last two trains. Rounding a corner, I bump smack into Tom. Of all the places for him to be. Why here and now?

  “I’ll be damned,” Tom says, half drunk. “Come to give me a goodbye kiss?”

  I push him away with my rake/cane. “No.”

  “Heavens lass, you spoke. Soft-like but I heard you.” He whistles, takes a step closer. “Dress covered with dust and carrying a hammer. Trouble at home, Mrs. Kelly?”

  “Not your business anymore.”

  Tom grabs my hand. “Don’t run off just yet. Let’s shake at least.”

  The sledgehammer strikes the ground, but I barely notice. Memories are being passed to Tom through our old telepathic connection. I cannot move an inch—we are grafted together at the palm. He sees our childhood, the time we spent together growing up, the cases we solved, his death, and revival. The vision ends with my visits to his hospital bed last December, and then I pull my hand away, barely daring to hope. Is this the answer? Will the old Tom return?

  “What in hell?” he says, breathing fast.

  Beneath the liquor, Tom smells of fear and confusion. No love, no happiness at being reunited with me. Instead, he seems like a bewildered stranger observing another man’s life, not his own past. I sense that this other Tom is a decent person despite the drinking and bitterness. Scared he’s delusional, not entirely convinced that what he saw was real, but good deep down. I could try telepathy. That might convince him of his history, make him believe.

  And then he’d insist on helping me fight Scarlett.

  Let the man go, Hester. He needs to leave Stonehenge before it kills him for good. My chest feels hot and jumpy inside. I once imagined our names figuratively carved there on my heart. Like the initials Tom whittled across tree trunks when we were little.

  “You’re a Visionary,” he mumbles. “And I’m the Interpreter.”

  Tom takes something from his back pocket. A flask? Yes, smells like gin. He has a healthy swig. “Am I crazy? Did I imagine all that?”

  Let him go now. You can. “Imagine what?” I reply a moment later. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “The vision. It happened when we shook hands. You had to have seen it.”

  I gasp, pretending offense. “Does it look like I have visions? It isn’t very kind to tease a blind woman.”

  A door in the station house opens, and Mrs. Craddock calls for Tom. “Go to her,” I rasp, picking up my hammer. “And stop drinking so much. It’s addled your wits.”

  He doesn’t follow when I walk away. As the distance between us grows, I hear the entire Craddock family board their train and head for California.

  Goodbye, Tom. Deus benedicite.

  35

  Veritas lux mea.

  The truth is my light.

  Two people are waiting on the platform with James Scarlett. Standing a good distance from my enemy, they laugh together and puff on expensive cigars—their reward for a job well done. I know these charming fellows—they kidnapped me. Over the fall of raindrops, I gather a pict
ure of my surroundings through sound, graphing even the tiniest details. An insect flutters its wing, water runs down a broken pipe inside the depot wall, a mouse crawls near the tracks. I memorize the space in my head, and slip my cane under an empty bench. This is the farthest platform from the station, for the privately-owned railway cars. We shouldn’t be disturbed here.

  Still laughing, the first brute doesn’t even notice I am behind him until I slam the sledgehammer into the side of his knee. Bones and cartilage snap and pop, sounding like water on a hot skillet. The man gives a shriek and crumples. Before the second fellow turns around, I hit him on the head with the handle and he goes down as well. Oh shut up, will you? He’s crying so loud, I hit him again, and the kidnapper loses consciousness. Heart’s still beating, breathing’s all right. Recovery is likely. I point my weapon at the fellow with the knee injury and he turns quiet, crawls over to the wall. Smart man.

  Footsteps, soft clapping. “Brava, Hester,” Scarlett says. “I was going to fire them anyway.” He stops several feet from me. “Never took you for the violent type, but I must say, you handle yourself in a scrape.”

  No scent or emotion coming from Scarlett. Just like the night we met at Griffin House, he has no tells.

  “It’s come in handy lately,” I say.

  My half-brother laughs at my hoarse voice. “Baby sister, that’s marvelous. You’re speaking again.”

  Would people stop talking about my talking? “Spare me your false praise.”

  “It’s not false at all. You have my respect. I’ve had fun, hearing about your escape from Harrow, Faust, and Swinton. Why, that sounds like a law firm.”

  A droll villain, just what I need. The connection with Harrow is obvious, but how does Scarlett know the two from Ironwood? I lift the hammer to my shoulder, listening for his goons, making sure they’re still down. “Why not leave me alone?”