by K. C. Lannon
He got up from his bed and began getting ready for the day. Although he would not be going in to work today, he dressed in his full uniform regardless.
Before leaving the room, he stopped short of buttoning his shirt fully, standing in front of the mirror above his dresser. His eyes narrowed on the red, corded scar tissue on his collarbone that extended down his chest and wrapped around his back. He prodded at the scar with his fingertips gently, the flesh blanching white under the pressure, but felt nothing but numbness; all the nerves in his skin in the scarred areas were burned away by the blast. He’d been luckier than most to find adequate cover during the Cataclysm, when the bombs had fallen on old London nearly thirty-eight years ago tomorrow.
Alan halted in the living room on his way out. He stood in front of the fireplace, staring at the line of his family photographs along the brick mantel. Picking one up, he held it in the light of the window. In the photo was a small boy, barely a year old, being held by his mother on the front steps of their London home. He knew the child to be himself, yet he felt no connection to the carefree boy. It was sunny; everyone was squinting or shading their eyes with their hands. Around them, two siblings were gathered. Their father was taking the photograph.
The woman seemed to be staring straight through the cracked glass, through time, even. The look in the woman’s blue eyes was telling: she knew what day tomorrow was. She knew, and she seemed to be asking what he would do about it to make it right. Every year, she asked. This time he finally had an answer for her. This time maybe she would rest.
The morning air was brisk and damp as Alan stepped outside and made his way to his vehicle parked behind the building. Dawn had arrived, and Alan could see the white sun through a layer of fog as he got into his car. He guessed it would be one of those rare but cherished sunny days once the morning mist cleared. Sunny weather would be perfect for where he was going. He hoped the sun would stay for the memorial tomorrow.
As Alan drove toward the gate, he spotted a man limping along the other side of the iron fence, slipping in and out of view like a ghost. Maybe he was a ghost. He was carrying a walking stick; every few paces, he would strike his stick against the metal fence, creating an echoing, bell-like chime. Alan leaned forward in his seat unconsciously, eyes widening. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he watched the figure headed back toward him.
As the man neared, Alan got a good look at him. His skin was a dark bronze, his dark brown hair was nearly hidden under the cap he wore, and he had a neatly kept beard. Recognition brought both relief and disbelief.
As Alan drove toward the gated exit, he rolled down his window to speak to the guard on duty. “How long has that vagrant been loitering around the building?”
“General.” The guard nodded respectfully, before shooting a look in the direction of the figure. “All morning. Said he needed to speak to your son. I told him he’d have to wait. Gave me this note to give to him.” He handed the note to Alan.
Alan scanned the writing and frowned. It was the name of a business in the city, with a date and time attached. He crumpled the note in his fist and tossed it in the back seat. “Whatever you do, do not let that man into this complex. His name is Marko, and he’s a known felon.”
The guard’s eyes widened.
“Which way did he come from?”
The guard pointed to a street that led to one of the rougher neighborhoods in the area, along with a field that was once home to a factory. It was now an empty lot with only the skeletal remains of the building left. Now it was used to harbor the homeless. Before the Fae had started using the place as a refuge, Alan had occasionally left blankets and clothing there.
He could not fathom why Marko had returned. Perhaps, even after Alan cost the man his career, home, and reputation, he still had not learned not to meddle in his affairs. Perhaps he needed a reminder.
He’d always assumed that Marko had something to do with Kallista’s absence. He knew that Marko never stopped wanting her, even after she broke off her engagement to Marko and married Alan instead. But after questioning him years ago and receiving no confirmation of his theory, Alan had given up on that lead.
Alan twisted his wedding band around his finger absently. He liked to believe that Kallista was with her family, that she was happy there. He liked to believe that she hadn’t lied to him and had taken his words seriously when he’d warned her not to do anything foolish, not to get in the way of his purpose. He liked to believe she was smarter than that, that she had some sense, some instinct of self-preservation.
As he exited the property, Alan grabbed his radio from the passenger seat and contacted one of the commanders. “Send a couple of soldiers to clear out the squatters from the field in Corwen again. There’ve been complaints of suspicious individuals.”
He wondered if Marko knew that contacting Iain would be a waste of his time. Whatever it was that Marko thought he could say to reach Iain, his loyal soldier would not believe the words of some stranger over his own father. Trust did not come easily to Iain. Alan knew he had nothing to worry about, and his chest swelled with pride for the first time in a while when he thought of his firstborn.
Alan drove a short distance before parking his car along the street by a pay phone and stepped out to make a call to his secretary. “Edith, I’m calling to inform you that I won’t be in for work today.”
“Hmm.” Edith was soft-spoken, but what she said was always clear and distinct, even over the phone. “So you’ll be working outside the office. Very well. I’ll cancel your appointments.” There was a pause, then she asked, “Where will you be going? I need a location, just in case.”
“It occurred to me how long it’s been since I’ve checked in on the Sisters at Trinity. I’d like to pay them a visit.”
“And I’m sure they’ve been terrorizing the locals in your absence,” Edith said. Alan knew she was being sarcastic, even though she seemed incapable of making her voice have a sarcastic or humorous tone of any kind—it always stayed soft and flat, like she was reading a book without intonation to someone aggrieved with a headache. “The villagers will bow to you in the streets as you drive up.”
He ignored her weak attempts at humor. “I think I may have found a potential candidate.”
“Magic at a nunnery? It’s like the Dark Ages all over again.” Edith sniffed. “Be sure to stop them from all that astronomy and chemistry they’re teaching. It can only be witchcraft.”
Alan hung up on her.
As he had predicted, the weather in the countryside was lovely. As he drove down a gravel road past bleating sheep, the sun broke through the clouds, and the city mist and smog seemed a world away, replaced by rolling green hills. He wondered why he didn’t travel to the countryside more often, but he already knew the answer: Fae. He could never take his sons to the country for an outing of more than an hour, and he hadn’t since they were still children. The only time had been when Kallista had been at the end of her tether with the boys, and she’d insisted they run around and get out all their energy in the fresh air.
Perhaps one day the land will be safe enough for that again.
Trinity orphanage came into view, and soon he was driving off the winding dirt road leading to it and parking in the grass next to the large front door. No sooner had he got out than the door sprung open, and Mother Cunigunde, accompanied by an Indian sister—Sister Teresa, he recalled—who was shamelessly staring, curious, grinning, walked out.
“General Callaghan, how pleasant to see you.” Mother Cunigunde almost smiled, gesturing him toward the door in a hospitable manner.
“Pleasant, yes,” Alan agreed, following her inside, heading down the hall toward her office. “The weather is quite pleasant, as well. I imagine the children will enjoy their time outside today.” He passed one of the stained glass windows, peering at the view through its multicolored lens. They turned into her office, and Sister Teresa closed the door halfway behind him.
Alan turned and st
ared at the chair in front of the Mother’s desk until she offered him a seat. “I’m afraid that the reason for my visit is less than pleasant,” he said, sitting down.
“Is something troubling you?” she asked, sitting upright but not stiffly.
“Oh, I doubt it’s of much concern. It’s just that I’ve run into one of your girls in the city. She found herself in a bit of trouble with the law, is all. Nothing to fret over, certainly.” Alan pretended to think for a moment. “I believe her name was Deirdre.”
“Yes, I suspected she might have some difficulty adjusting to city life. But that is exactly why I sent her there.” Mother folded her hands on her lap. “She’s the type that learns only from experience. And the only way she could learn what society expects of her is to go and live the life of an average city girl. But she doesn’t need taught twice. I suspect any trouble she had will never happen again.”
Alan’s gaze shifted to the little crucifix on the Mother’s desk, then back to her. “Now, I would hate for you to think I’m questioning your methods or the way you teach the children, so please, don’t think that when I say that I’m… confused by your statement.” He smiled thinly. “You knew full well from the start that she’d be a disruptive force in the city then? You knew since— Well, when did she arrive here?”
“A little less than seventeen years ago. And as I recall, you have two boys near her age, General.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you are familiar with giving them the freedom to make their own mistakes or earn their own triumphs? We never plan for them to choose the wrong thing. But we trust them to behave well, even when they are at fault. She is a lively girl but not an ill-intentioned or especially ill-mannered one. She would have made no mistakes greater than your own sons, I should guess. And you have yet to tell me what sort of disruption she caused.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a lively girl, Mother Cunigunde. But what about a girl who’s drawn inexplicably to a town of faeries and defies an enforced curfew to loaf about in said town, doing God knows what?”
She sighed. “General, we’ve raised girls who have turned out less than perfect in the past. Why, even one girl five years ago got caught up in a gang in Neo-London thanks to her no-good boyfriend and was put in jail for smuggling Pan. And yet I didn’t hear anything about that save for a letter from your secretary. Why are you here? Either Deirdre has done something far worse than stay out past her bedtime and roam about, like teenagers are wont to, or you’ve some other purpose for coming here. We’re both busy people; I’d appreciate it if you were forthright with me.”
“My purpose for coming here was merely to quell any concerns I had about the state of this facility and its staff. Unfortunately, my concerns have only increased,” Alan said slowly. “I’ll be needing all your paperwork on Deirdre.”
Alan stood and rested his hands on the desk, leaning across to meet Mother Cunigunde’s glare, asking in a low voice, “I wonder if you knew all along you had a Fae child living in your midst, interacting with unsuspecting human girls?”
“I’d appreciate evidence for such an accusation, General,” Mother replied casually, standing up and opening the nearest file cabinet. “At any rate, no evil faery can come within a mile of the church. You know that as well as I do.” She handed him the file.
Alan took the file from her. “When you have been studying and dealing with Fae as long as I have, there comes a point where you no longer need evidence to tell. All the evidence I need is here in this file. And when I do find it, I suspect the city will raise hell about it, if you’ll pardon my phrasing.”
Alan considered her comment on evil faeries—if such a concept could even be applied to their kind—and their aversion to churches for a moment, before chuckling lightly. “Imagine that,” he said, glancing at the sturdy, old walls of the building, “being held back by an idea, a fiction, an ideology they hold in contempt.”
Mother Cunigunde smiled thinly. “Shame they don’t give your armies the same respect.”
Alan mirrored her expression. “I’ll be on my way now that I have everything I came for. I’ll leave you to enjoy this nice weather while it lasts.” He reached the door and opened it, nodding to Sister Teresa standing just outside. “I’m certain I’ll be back to chat with you again soon. I can only hope my next visit will be just as pleasant.”
Alan waited until he reached his car before opening the file and scanning its contents. Most of the information was inconsequential, but he knew exactly what to look for. He was distracted by the small square headshot of her that was attached with a paperclip: a round smiling face dotted with freckles, red hair that extended far out of frame, blue eyes so light they could be purple…
“You’ve always been into trouble then, Deirdre?” Alan asked her photograph. His pulse began to quicken as he scanned the document faster and faster, absorbing the information. He felt a rush of excitement.
He let out a breathy laugh, then tut-tutted disapprovingly. “Oh dear… sneaking outside, sulking indoors, refusing to eat certain foods, a penchant for mischief…” It all sounded quite normal fare for a British child, but all together, it formed an image in Alan’s mind of a classic case of a faery growing up within the human fold. “Those girls must have hated you a lot to lock you up like that. Your reaction was quite severe. I expect you had it coming.”
Now, he merely had to confirm his theory with a test, of sorts. Before Alan set the file aside, after a moment of hesitation, he took the photograph from the folder and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
Chapter Ten
As Deirdre had hoped, Ms. Becket had not noticed her absence. After getting ice for her ankle, Deirdre occupied herself by chatting to the younger girls, who all seemed to find her a bit weird and funny. More than once, Deirdre had the odd feeling that she was being made fun of, but she didn’t care; it was better than being alone.
Ms. Becket demanded lights be out at nine p.m. sharp. That didn’t bother Deirdre, though it did take her longer than usual to fall asleep. She was used to sharing a room with at least five other girls; the room was too quiet, too still. She found herself even missing Louise, who had earned the nickname “Buzz Saw Louise.”
The next morning she practically jumped out of bed; sunlight was streaming through her window, and she felt so refreshed, her ankle entirely pain-free, she was certain she must have slept in close to noon. But when she checked the small clock in her room, it was not even eight a.m. After sighing despondently and moping around for a moment, she got dressed and rushed downstairs without bothering to brush her hair.
As Deirdre bounded down the stairs three at a time, a robe-clad Ms. Becket gave her a look of horrified bemusement.
“When’s breakfast?” Deirdre asked, clasping her hands and grinning.
“On Saturdays, we fend for ourselves in the dorms, even me.” She gestured to the kitchen. “There’s plenty in the pantry.”
When Deirdre dashed out of the kitchen a minute later with a plate laden with bread and cheese and leaped onto the seat across from her, Ms. Becket said, “Someone sure is chipper. Got a date already?”
“No, I’m just meeting someone at one, at some café.” She frowned. “Where is the café?”
“I can give you directions. Who are you meeting?”
“James, a boy who goes to the school.”
Ms. Becket nodded her head approvingly. “So it’s a date.”
Deirdre giggled. “No, that’d be weird.”
“A lot of men fancy redheads, or so I’ve been told. He probably thinks it’s a date.”
“But he’s young! I mean, he can’t be older than thirteen… maybe fourteen…”
“Thirteen-year-olds go on dates, Red.”
Her eyes widened as she gaped. “Seriously? That is so weird! Why would their parents let them waste their time like that?”
Ms. Becket just shrugged noncommittally, though she began watching Deirdre, especially as the girl silently prayed over her meal, as though she were a mildl
y interesting sideshow at a circus.
After she finished and Ms. Becket began to pour herself a fresh cup of tea (she didn’t offer any to Deirdre), the teacher said, “You were out late last night. I assume you’ll be more careful to be in before it’s dark in the future?”
Deirdre nodded. “I really did think I had more time. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“I should hope so.”
“There sure are a lot of rules in the city, aren’t there?”
“I suppose.” Ms. Becket paused to sip on her tea, then gestured down at the newspaper. “Most of them are justified; it’s a bloody mess in here and outside. Did you hear about that monster yesterday?”
“Monster?”
“One nearly got to the city walls. Horrible, isn’t it? It’s all King Eadred’s fault.”
Deirdre furrowed her brow; she was unused to hearing adults talk this way about authority figures. “Why is it his fault?”
Asking this was a mistake, as it prompted Ms. Becket to launch into a lengthy list of grievances about her sovereign ruler. She had opinions about everything: the way he ran the military, the way he handled city policy, the way he handled the budget, his hairstyle, the fact that he knew a little bit of Welsh, etc. etc. etc. Soon Deirdre began to nod in reply without really listening, partially because she didn’t understand most of it and partially because she didn’t know if she believed Ms. Becket. The nuns almost never even mentioned politics, and the villagers had their complaints, but they were mostly about taxes. Some of Ms. Becket’s concerns seemed both unrealistic and nitpicky—who cared about the age median in parliament or whether or not the king wore real fur coats as opposed to faux fur?
When Ms. Becket stopped to take another sip of tea, Deirdre asked, “Do you ever see him around the city?”
