The Glass Sentence (The Mapmakers Trilogy)

by S. E. Grove

  “Fine, if you don’t want to believe me,” Theo shot back. “So what if I was going off on my own? What’s that to you?”

  “I—”

  “Your uncle can get new papers any time.” Theo took a deep breath. “I’m used to looking after myself, and that means worrying about myself first. You think I worried what would happen to Ehrlach without his caged pet? No. Where I come from you can’t think about other people first. It’s every man for himself.”

  “I see,” Sophia said, stung. “So I’m just like Ehrlach then—Shadrack is just like Ehrlach. Every man for himself. Is that what you were thinking when you saw them taking Shadrack away?”

  Theo paced angrily. “Yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking. One kid in feathers and five armed men. Not exactly good odds. I could have run into that mess, and right now I’d be wherever your uncle is. That would have been no help to either of us. Or I could have done what I did: watch what happened, stick around to tell you about it, and be here to help you get into the Baldlands.”

  “Why should you help me? You don’t even care what happened to Shadrack! You just want his papers.” Sophia clenched her fists to steady herself.

  Theo gave a sharp sigh of frustration. “Look, you’ve got the wrong idea. Yes—I’d rather do things on my own. That’s how I’ve always been, and I’m not going to apologize for it. But I keep my word. We agreed to help each other, and I’m going to stick to that. You can think what you like; I wasn’t going to take your uncle’s papers. I was just thinking about what would make getting to Nochtland easier.”

  Sophia stared at Theo—his brown eyes, narrowed to wary slits, his hands clenched—and she realized that she had no idea who he was. The sense of sudden familiarity, that she could trust him, that he could be a friend, evaporated. “You should go on your own,” she said out loud, her cheeks burning. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Right now it only makes sense for us to help each other. Come on, think about it,” Theo said in an appeasing tone. “Do you have any idea how to get to Nochtland from the border?”

  Sophia was silent. She felt a surge of panic at the thought. “Fine,” she said quietly.

  “Good,” Theo said. “Our agreement stands, then.” He smiled, every trace of anger suddenly gone from his face.

  Sophia took in his easy smile with indignation, giving him only a grimace in return. “Shadrack keeps his papers in a leather wallet in his vest,” she said softly. “And his lifewatch is on a chain clipped to his pocket. I’m sure he has them both.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned, her hair whisking across her shoulder, and stalked up to Mrs. Clay’s sitting room.

  Soon Theo joined her there, stretching out on the carpet beside the sofa. Sophia was still angry; she could feel the blood pounding in her temples. And she was anxious; she knew she had no better alternative, but the thought of relying on Theo, who now seemed so unpredictable and unknown, filled her with apprehension. She tried to calm herself by staring overhead at the slow rotation of the chimes. They reflected the pale light from the window, casting small glimmers on the wall and ceiling. After several minutes had passed, she heard Theo’s heavy breathing and knew that he was asleep. She cast a sharp glance in his direction. Every man for himself, Sophia thought bitterly. What kind of philosophy is that? Not the kind of philosophy that makes you want to rescue someone in a cage, that’s for sure. I wish I’d never even thought of helping him.

  — 8-Hour 35: Waking at Mrs. Clay’s—

  SOPHIA AWOKE WHEN the sun was already high. She checked her watch; it was past eight. Theo still lay fast asleep on the carpet, his face turned toward the wall. Sophia smelled eggs and coffee. In the kitchen, she found Mrs. Clay standing at the stove, quietly humming. With her hair in its usual tidy bun and her dress protected by an embroidered white apron, she seemed calm and well refreshed.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Clay,” Sophia said.

  “Good morning!” the housekeeper replied, turning to her. “Come have some breakfast. I’m feeling optimistic, Sophia.” She brought a pan of scrambled eggs from the stove and scooped a large portion onto Sophia’s plate. “I feel confident that the Fates will be assisting you.”

  “Do you think so?” Sophia asked anxiously, taking a seat. Shadrack thought the Fates were a tolerable convention, at best, and a dangerous delusion, at worst. Sophia wanted to follow Shadrack’s example and scoff at such fancies, but part of her worried that the unjust removal of her parents rather verified the existence of those three cruel, arbitrary powers who spun sorrow and misfortune and death as easily as others spun cloth. The more Mrs. Clay had talked about them over the years, the more Sophia became convinced that the Fates were real, and they fashioned all the happenings of the world, weaving them into a pattern only the three of them could comprehend.

  “I have taken the liberty,” Mrs. Clay went on, pouring Sophia a cup of coffee, “of speaking with the Fates on your behalf.” She retrieved her sewing basket from the sideboard. “They really are the most difficult creatures.” She shook her head. “Totally heartless. They refused to say anything at all about Shadrack. But they seemed encouraging about your reaching Veressa. They were most insistent that I give you this.” She handed Sophia a spool of silver thread. “Who knows what they intend you to do with it,” she sighed. “They are fickle, at best—cruel at worst. But I have found that it is generally wise to do as they say when they make such specific recommendations.”

  “Thank you,” Sophia said with sincere gratitude. She tucked the spool into her pocket. “Perhaps they will help me along the way.”

  “Perhaps so. It’s the least I can do, dear, since I can’t go with you. Good morning, Theo,” she added.

  Sophia turned to see a sleepy-looking Theo in the kitchen doorway. She turned back to her plate with annoyance.

  “Good morning,” Theo replied.

  “I hope you slept well.”

  “Very well. The carpet was extremely comfortable. Were you discussing travel plans?” he asked, sitting down at the table.

  “We hadn’t begun. Would you like some eggs?” Mrs. Clay asked, going to the stove.

  “I’d love some, Mrs. Clay,” Theo said in his most courteous tone. Sophia stared into her cup. “We talked it over last night,” he went on comfortably, “and we’ve agreed to travel as far as Nochtland together. Right, Sophia?” He smiled at her.

  Sophia looked at him unsmilingly. “That’s what we agreed.”

  “I could travel as far as the border with you,” Mrs. Clay said uncertainly, handing Theo a full plate.

  “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Clay,” Sophia told her, “but the trip to New Orleans will be easy. We’ll probably just have to change trains once.” She did not add that it was the next part of the journey that worried her: where she was most needed, Mrs. Clay could not help. Maybe we’ll get to the border and Theo will just vanish, she thought.

  “They will check for papers on the train,” Mrs. Clay said. “I’ve heard that they’re putting foreigners on separate cars.”

  “Yes, but I’ll have my papers, and they won’t bother Theo if he’s with me,” Sophia said flatly. “It isn’t July fourth yet.”

  “Theo, do you need to get word to anyone? The trip to Nochtland will delay you by several weeks.”

  “My family’s not expecting me back for a while,” he replied easily.

  “And you’ll take care of Sophia once you reach the Baldlands?”

  “Of course. I’ve traveled that route dozens of times—no problem.”

  “It seems a terribly long way for you both to go alone,” Mrs. Clay said. She patted her bun and sighed. “If only I knew someone who lived near the border.”

  “The greatest help,” Sophia said, “would be to stay here in case Shadrack returns. Otherwise we’ll have no way of knowing.”

  “Thanks to him I now have papers and a lifewatch, so I can stay without concern. If something should happen in the next twenty hours, I will send letters by express pos
t to the first major station on your route.”

  With a train schedule from Shadrack’s study spread out across the kitchen table, they decided to take the train south through New Occident, all the way to Charleston, South Carolina, and then connect to a train heading west into New Akan. The journey would take several days. The train line ran only as far as New Orleans, and they would have to cross from New Occident into the Baldlands either on horse or on foot.

  Sophia looked apprehensively at the blank expanse that bordered New Akan to the west and south. She folded the map slowly. “We should pack,” she said. “Maybe we can catch the midday train to Charleston.”

  —9-Hour 03: Leaving for Charleston—

  SOPHIA RETRIEVED HER new pack from where she had left it by the front door. She had never imagined it would be put to use so soon. Pulling a small leather trunk out of the wardrobe in her bedroom, she began stowing her clothes, soap, a hairbrush, and a pair of blankets. Though her everyday boots were comfortable enough, she decided to take the laced leather shoes that she used during the school year for athletic competitions. If nothing else went as planned, at least she would be able to run as fast as her feet could carry her. Theo watched from the doorway. “You can borrow any shirts of Shadrack’s that fit,” she said, without looking up. “And his socks are in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. But you probably remember seeing them there yourself.”

  “Very kind of you,” Theo said with a smile, acknowledging the barb. “So you’re still mad?”

  “I am fine,” Sophia said, pushing down on the blankets so that they fit.

  “All right, if you say so. I’ll be back in a bit—I have to get some shoes.”

  Sophia closed her trunk and opened her pack. Sewn from durable, waterproof canvas, it had multiple pockets inside and out. She tucked her pencils, erasers, and a ruler into the pockets. She took a spare pillowcase from her wardrobe, wrapped the glass map in it and put it inside her current drawing notebook alongside Shadrack’s note. The book and atlas fit nicely. Steeling herself, she went once more to Shadrack’s room and opened the bureau drawer where he kept their currency. After folding the bills into a small leather purse beside her identity papers and her lifewatch, she closed the bureau. She tidied the drawers that Theo had left open and straightened the bed. Then, with one last look around the room, she slung the pack’s straps over her shoulders and headed downstairs to find maps for their trip to Nochtland.

  When Theo returned, he was wearing a pair of handsome brown boots that looked worn but well cared for. He seemed very pleased with himself. “Where’d you get those?” Sophia asked suspiciously.

  “Nice, aren’t they? I went around the block until I found a cobbler, and then I just went in and told him that I’d paid for and left a pair of size ten boots there months earlier and had lost the slip. He searched around in the back room and came back with these. He said he’d been on the verge of throwing them away!”

  “Well, I hope someone doesn’t stop you on the street and ask for them back,” she said tersely. She carefully rolled the maps that lay before her on the table and placed them in the new roll-tube. “I have plenty of maps for the rail journey, and I found a map of Nochtland, but there’s nothing with enough detail for the border and nothing for the whole piece of the Baldlands between the border and Nochtland.”

  “I told you—I know that part,” Theo said. “No need for a map.”

  They heard steps on the stairs. “I’ve packed you some food,” said Mrs. Clay as she entered, handing Theo a basket that appeared full to the brim. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.” Her eyes grew teary. “I’m sorry, Sophia dear, for all of this.” She cleared her throat. “Are you packed?”

  “We’re ready to go,” Sophia said.

  Mrs. Clay embraced her warmly. “Do be careful, dear. Don’t worry about me or the house—we’ll be fine. Just take care. I have your schedule, and I’ll be here to tell Shadrack what happened should he return.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Clay.”

  The housekeeper shook hands with Theo. “You must take care of each other,” she said. “And may the Fates look after you well.”

  10

  The White Chapel

  1891, June 21: Shadrack Missing (Day 1)

  Most people believe that The Chronicles of the Great Disruption were written by a charlatan, a false prophet: a man who called himself Amitto and who, in the early days after the Disruption, decided to take advantage of the widespread fear and panic. They contain little detail and little substance: vague words of war and death and miracles. But in some circles the Chronicles have acquired credibility, and Amitto’s followers, particularly those of the Nihilismian sect, claim that the Chronicles hold not only the true history of the Great Disruption but also true prophecies.

  —From Shadrack Elli’s History of the New World

  ON A HIGH hill surrounded by pines at the northern edge of New Occident stood a sprawling stone mansion bleached white by the sun. The mansion’s windows sparkled in the bright light, and the silver weathervanes on its peaked gables gleamed. A dirt road with a single rail track wove through the pines and up the hill, circling at the entrance. There was no movement along the track. A few crows flapped lazily up through the pines toward a stone cross on the mansion’s highest peak. At one end of the mansion, connected by a narrow archway, stood a chapel. The crows wheeled and cawed and then came to rest on its stone cross. As they claimed their perch, the entire scene became one of perfect stillness—even peace. The pine trees, the streaming sunlight, the pale mansion, all formed a serene landscape. But inside the chapel there was no stillness. In the cavernous vault, a purposeful movement was gathering momentum.

  Shadrack sat alone, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles bound to the legs of the chair. He was staring up at the ceiling, his head resting against the cool stone wall behind him. The floor had long since been cleared of its pews, so that the chapel appeared more a workroom than a place of worship. Shelves weighed down by thousands of books lined its walls, and the numerous long tables were covered with piles of paper and open books and ink bottles. At the front of the chapel, where the altar would have been, stood a huge, black furnace. The furnace was, at the moment, unlit. It stood quietly in the company of its bellows and tongs and a pair of charred leather gloves. From the tools and materials scattered around it, the furnace appeared to have a single purpose: making glass.

  Shadrack watched the furnace’s creations circling silently through the chapel vault far above him: hundreds of large glass globes in a gliding constellation, controlled by a single mechanism that rose up from the center of the floor. The metal gears connecting them—not unlike those of a clock, to Shadrack’s inexpert eye—must have been well-oiled, because they emitted no sound. He watched the globes’ smooth, endless rotations. He had been staring for hours.

  The globes’ surfaces were not still. Each seemed to shiver with a perpetual motion that appeared almost lifelike. The light streaming through the stained-glass windows reflected off them onto the stone walls and ceiling. They were too high up for Shadrack to see clearly, but this delicate trembling only added to their beauty. As they dipped closer, the globes seemed at times to reveal subtle shapes or expressions. Shadrack felt certain that if he watched for long enough, the pattern they traced would become clear.

  He was also trying with all his might to stay awake. He had not slept since leaving the house on East Ending Street. In part, he had been trying to work out who had taken him captive. The men who had seized him were Nihilismians. It was evident from the amulets that hung from their necks: small or large, metal or wood or carved stone, they all bore the distinctive open-hand symbol. But they were unlike any other followers of Amitto that Shadrack had ever known, and he speculated that they belonged to some obscure, militant sect; for apart from the amulets, they all carried iron grappling hooks. Shadrack could tell by the way they used their weapons in the rooms of his house that they were practiced. Most disturbingly, the silent men all
bore the same unusual scars: lines that stretched from the corners of their mouths, across their cheeks, to the tops of their ears. They were gruesome, unchanging, artificial grins, etched onto unsmiling faces.

  Once Shadrack had persuaded them that they had found what they were looking for, they had ended their assault on the house and retreated into unresponsive silence. The ride out of Boston in the coach had been a long one, and he had tried—with only partial success—to map the route. It had been difficult once they blindfolded him and placed him in a railway car, but his inner compass told him that they had traveled north several hours, and from the occasional gust of cold wind he suspected that they were no more than an hour or two south of the Prehistoric Snows.

  All the anger he had felt when they first captured him had slowly faded during the day-long journey. It had changed to a sharp-edged attentiveness. The night air, as they emerged from the railcar, had felt cool but still summery. He had smelled pine and moss. The scarred Nihilismians had brought him directly from the railway car to the chapel, tied him to a chair, and removed his blindfold. Then they had disappeared. The slow movement of the globes had soothed the remaining sting of his anger, and now he felt only an intense curiosity as to his circumstances and surroundings. His captivity had become another exploration.

  As he stared at the globes, he suddenly heard a door open somewhere near the altar. He turned to look. Two of the men entered the chapel, followed by a woman wearing a cream-colored dress with tightly buttoned sleeves. A blond linen veil hid her features entirely. As she approached with a quick, easy step, Shadrack tried to make out what he could from her bearing without being able to see her face.

  The woman stopped a few feet away from him. “I have found you at the end of a long search, Shadrack Elli. But not the Tracing Glass that I sought—where is it?”

  The moment Shadrack heard the woman speak, the meaning of her words became indistinct. Her voice was beautiful—and familiar: low, gentle, and even, with a slight accent that he could not place. Though her words betrayed no emotion, their sound threw him into a tempest of inchoate memories. He had heard her voice before; he knew this woman. And she must know him, too; why else hide her face behind the blond veil? But despite the rushing sense of familiarity, he could not remember who she was. Shadrack roused himself, trying to shake off the feeling that had taken hold. He told himself to concentrate and to give nothing away in his reply. “I’m sorry. I gave your men what they asked me for. I don’t know what glass you mean.”