Lumière (The Illumination Paradox)

by Garlick, Jacqueline E.

  The stranger’s face appears over the top of the cab. His eyes are lit like flares. “For the love of God,” he cusses, teetering on hand and knee, then disappears, only to reappear a second later, the reins clenched between his teeth. “Give me your hand!” He reaches out for me.

  My heart staggers in my chest. “I can’t,” I shout up at him. “I won’t!”

  “You won’t?” His brows fold. “Are you mad?”

  My fingers slowly begin to slip from the seam; my heart squirrels into my throat.

  “You are in no position to be negotiating, now take my hand!” the stranger insists.

  “But—”

  “Take it!” he shouts. When I still don’t, he clamps his hand around my arm. “Now,” he says, “on the count of three, I’m going to pull you up—”

  “Oh no, you’re not!” I clench my teeth.

  “Then I’m going to let you down, which is it?”

  I drop my chin, surveying the speed of the terrain rolling beneath my feet. “Up,” I say, turning my chin toward him.

  “Rational choice,” the stranger says. “On the count of three. Ready?”

  The carriage hits a bump, tossing him haphazardly off to one side. “Confounded!” He struggles. The horse spooks, picking up speed, ripping the reins loose from the stranger’s teeth.

  My stomach sinks as his grip slips, then re-tightens around my knuckles, his legs floundering dangerously over the edge of the coach. He’s sprawled on his back, kicking and flailing until at last he thrusts into a roll, flopping onto his belly again.

  “Three!” he shouts, not yanking me up, but swinging me out and around the end of the carriage, kicking the side door open with his boot. Before I’ve had the chance to object he casts me deep inside the dark belly of the coach, slamming and locking the door behind me.

  Four

  Eyelet

  I land hard. My head strikes the object that fills the seat next to me, hidden behind the red velvet curtain. A trickle of blood snakes its way from my temple down my cheek and I reach up to tend to the gash, when the stranger cracks the whip. I’m thrown backward as the carriage jolts forward, carpets dropped down over the glass. The sound of hooves galloping over the cobblestones fills my ears as we rumble away from the city, out into the country, into the unknown.

  Where are we going? Where is he taking me? My head cranks around. Good Lord, what have I done?

  I rest my chin on the back of the seat, face pressed to the window glass, trembling, as I peer out from beneath the flapping carpet at the last sliver of Gears. The horizon fades into the rolling cloud and my stomach drops like a stone. My eyes warm at the thought of the stranger and I release a terrified breath. Who is he? What is he? I swallow. What was I thinking?

  I spin around and throw my head against the cushioned seat. Whatever happens now, I must be brave. Mother would want that from me. I must get through this on my own. I must not reveal who I am, or why I’ve come. I must stay solely focused on the machine. I’ve come all this way to use it, and use it I shall. I’ll let no one stop me.

  Once I’ve used it, things will be different. I will no longer be the leper I’ve been, but a lamb, with a new life just beginning.

  The light in my pendant catches my eye. It’s pulsing emerald light bathes the dark carriage in an eerie green glow. Something sparks, like a bolt of lightning within the tiny vial and I gasp. I roll the vial over in my fingers and it sparks again. It’s a charge—no, a tiny, bottled, candescent arc.

  The vial starts to pulse more quickly than before. The power of it warms my skin. How can the key to my future—to everyone’s future—be held here, in this tiny vessel of glass? And why does it contain an arc?

  Mother would have told me if she knew, wouldn’t she?

  She must not have known. But why wouldn’t Father have told her? I move my eyes to the ceiling, remembering.

  Perhaps there wasn’t time.

  Or perhaps it was too dangerous for her to know.

  I think about Father’s notebook, tucked safely down the side of my boot. He’d used Lumière as code in order to hide the Illuminator’s whereabouts from Smrt. What could he have hidden inside this glass?

  I turn to the heap of metal sitting next to me, concealed behind the drape. Just as I’m poised to pull back the curtain, a surge of silver prickles in my veins. A lightning bolt of it this time, rising steadily, yanking at my breath. Burning bread. I smell burning bread. My warning, the only warning I ever get before the silver drags me under. It’s a grand mal seizure this time, not just a petit one like the one that struck me back at the hedges. I’ll not escape its venomous strike.

  No. Please. No. I clutch the seat, trying to quell my fear. I’ve never gone through a grand mal seizure alone. My mother’s always been there. The petit ones I can handle, I’ve trained myself how; but a full-blown seizure without assistance, or anyone to hide the fact…

  I may not even survive it.

  I start to tremble, the silver invading, first my lips, then my entire jaw. It won’t be long now. I can feel it, the heaviness inside my organs, the softening of my limbs. I can try to fight it, but it’s no use. The demon that lurks within me controls me now.

  Clinging to the last fragments of my consciousness, I panic, clawing at the seat. What if the stranger overhears me moaning and stops, only to discover me collapsed and gyrating about on the floor of his carriage, mouth agape, tongue exposed—frothing?

  What then?

  What if he thinks I’m Mad—or worse? What if he deems me a Cantationer possessed of demonic thought, and hands me over to the authorities for the practice of Wickedry, before I’ve even had the chance to wake up?

  I can’t let that happen. He can’t see me. He must not hear.

  With the last shred of my strength, I tear my gloves from my hands, ball them, and stuff them in my mouth just as the silver pulls me under. My body quakes. I writhe down the seat onto the floorboards, my face mashed against the red velvet cushion, buttons etching lines into my cheeks.

  Inside the heavy smoke that muddles my brain I see him—my father—standing next to my machine.

  The Illuminator.

  The one he invented solely for me. To try and put an end to this madness that plagues me. To save me from a life locked up in an asylum.

  The one he sold,

  Before he bothered to fix me.

  Then died,

  And left me here,

  Still defective.

  To fight this demon,

  All alone.

  The smoke in my mind turns from grey to black, the world around me erasing...slowly…

  I wish you’d never invented it,

  Never sought a solution—

  Never let me believe there was hope…

  I wish I’d never been born defective,

  I wish I’d never been born at all…

  I wish I could reverse everything—

  Everything, that’s happened…

  PART TWO

  Five

  Urlick

  I squint, guiding the carriage through the dark, dank, criminal woods, drifting through fog as thick as pudding in spots. Nothing but the clomp of Clementine’s hooves and the jingle of her tack to keep me company. Not so much as a whimper out of the stowaway cargo in back.

  I hope she’s still alive.

  I look over my shoulder, at the silent carriage bobbing along behind, seeing the girl’s face as she clung to the roof—the sheer grit and determination in her eyes. What kind of a girl acts like that? Forcing her way up onto the property of a total stranger, hiking up her skirts and running at the speed of a broke rhythm racehorse? Better still, what kind of a girl dares to wander the markets of Gears without a chaperone? Clearly, one that doesn’t know any better.

  I wonder where she’s from. Certainly not Gears. It has to be Brethren, there’s no other choice. What could she be running from, a waif like that? What could she possibly have done to drive her to flee the safety of her world for the
likes of this one? I look around. No one in his or her right mind would intentionally do that.

  “Oh, good, Lord,” I gasp. “Please don’t tell me.” Clementine whinnies. “I haven’t just kidnapped a girl, have I?”

  Clementine swings her long sad face around and sighs heavily.

  “You’re right,” I say. “She came of her own volition, didn’t she? Didn’t she? You’ll vouch for me, won’t you old girl?”

  Clementine snorts.

  “Good, as long as we’re in agreement.” I pull on the reins, bringing her to a stop in front of the barn outside the house, feeling the rush of worried heat subside from my cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to be home. Then it dawns on me. What am I going to do with the girl now? I can’t possibly let her in the house.

  I swing down from the coachbox into a pool of swirling fog, patting Clementine on the haunches. Evening mist hangs thick from her nostrils. Vapours crowd the summit of the escarpment on the horizon.

  “It won’t be long now before they spill down over the hillside, eh girl?” I stare up at the swirling clouds, willing them away. “Wretched things, contaminating everything in their path.” I tug at her laces. “Blasted Vapours. And their deathly tentacles.”

  Clementine snorts again.

  My eyes drift onto the handle of the carriage. “You don’t suppose she’s died back there? She hasn’t made a sound in clicks.” Clementine whinnies, stretching her lips back toward the door. “I know, I know. I’ll let her out, don’t worry”—I pull on a strap—“as soon as I figure out the best way to go about it.”

  The stowaway stirs inside the carriage, sending me shuffling backward, my spine slapping up against Clementine’s withers. My heart rattles like a bag full of snakes. Never in all my life have I been this nervous.

  What’s the matter with me? What do I care what this stranger thinks? Besides, it’s not like she’s in any position to judge. She’s the one who forced her way into my carriage, I’ve not invited her here. I tug at the tails of my waistcoat. And why my carriage? There were plenty of carriages parked in the square. What made her gravitate to this old square box?

  Clementine reaches around, nudges me with her muzzle. “Don’t push me,” I shove her off, “I’m getting to it.” I drop the reins, suck in a breath, and head for the carriage door, my hands wet inside my gloves.

  The buggy wobbles side to side. I hesitate, just outside the door. Shivering in the damp morning light, low mist curling about my feet, my hand hovers centimeters above the handle.

  Perhaps it’d be best if I just throw it open. Expose her to my ugliness straight away. Or will that be too much? I turn and pace. Will she die of fright at the sight of me? I turn again. Oh, good Lord, get on with it, will you? She’s not a monster. She’s just a girl.

  Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t already seen me. She looked me straight in the eyes. That much I know. Even so, has she really seen me? Had the chance to take me all in? And if she has, what must she think?

  Clementine shuffles her feet, growing impatient. The carriage lurches again.

  I close my eyes and fling open the door.

  The stranger gasps.

  I look to see her staring at me through eyes round and full as a harvest moon. She peeps, a startled fledgling in a nest of darkness.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and throw out my hand. “May I?”

  She lunges backward. “May you what?”

  “Help you from the carriage, of course.”

  Long black lashes bat over caramel-colored eyes so striking I can hardly pull mine away.

  “No thank you.” She slides forward, averting her gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

  Creamy white hands grip the sides of the door, with nails as round and delicate as rosebuds. She exits toe first, followed by a lanky leg covered in a stretch of thigh-high spat-style stocking. The kind sophisticates wear. A ruse of buttons runs up the stocking’s side. Lace trims its top. A plume of emerald green skirts billows from the mouth of the carriage next, featuring a center skirt cut so shockingly short, a flash of bare leg winks between the finished edge and the top of her stocking—not that I’m noticing. I can’t help but wonder, do all Brethren girls where their skirts so scandalously short?

  She turns and swipes her lavish cranberry bustle out the door. It falls, adorning her bottom in layers of velvet, so rich, so plush, it looks as though she’s stepped straight out of the palace court. Granted, I don’t know much about women’s clothing, but I know no one in all of Gears or the Follies dresses so.

  Good God . I gulp. Don’t tell me I’ve kidnapped royalty. I’m both a kidnapper and a thief.

  Don’t be silly. I’ve kidnapped no one. She came of her own volition.

  Didn’t she?

  My eyes fall to her mud-caked hems, the lace on her sleeves stained in what appears to be…

  Good Lord, is that blood?

  She straightens, her bosoms bubbling up against the border of her low-cut chemise—not that I’m noticing. A tinge of heat rises in my cheeks. I tug down the tips of my waistcoat and avert my eyes. That’s when I notice it. The necklace she wears around her neck. A vial of something pulsing green, on an emerald-and-ebony beaded chain. I’ve never seen anything like it. I must ask her what that is. The vial rolls, lodging low between her breasts. Embarrassed, I dash my eyes away. Later, of course. Not now. I swallow. That would be ridiculous.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “What’s happened to your gloves?” I say, noticing them balled in her fist.

  “They’ve become soiled, I’m afraid,” she says, hiding them in her skirts.

  “Where are we?” she demands, turning her attention to the escarpment, her gaze tracing it from mount to base and back again. Wisps of nutmeg and crimson hair frame her face, where her upsweep has become all unswept. She brushes a rouge strand from her eyes and I’m rendered breathless.

  “Home,” I say, pulling myself back into the moment.

  “Home?” she repeats, sounding a mite frazzled. “And where might home be, specifically?”

  “Ramshackle Follies—”

  “Ramshackle Follies!” Her head swings around. “The Ramshackle Follies?” Her mouth falls agape.

  “Yes.”

  “The Follies that lie beyond the limits of the Commonwealth, where—?”

  “Those would be the ones.”

  She falls back on her heels and twists her hands together. “I see.” She exhales. “Very well then,” she narrows her eyes and addresses me firmly. “It seems I’ve made a grave mistake. I’ll need you to return me to the marketplace, immediately.” She raises her skirts and tromps back toward the carriage, the heel of her right boot wobbling. “Perhaps I can hire someone to fetch the machine for me…” she mumbles.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, I need to be getting back to the city.”

  I chuckle, which sharpens her copper eyes even more.

  “Do you find my plight amusing?”

  “No, it’s just—” I stammer.

  “Fine then,” she starts away. “If you won’t take me, I guess I’ll just have to walk.”

  I laugh. “You’ll not get far in those.” I point to her wobbly heel. “And then there’s always the criminals.” I turn my back.

  “Criminals?” She falters, halting mid-step.

  “The woods are full of them,” I say, loosening Clementine’s tack. “Not to mention the Infirmed.” She turns, her eyes wide and lily white through the grey trolling fog. “You know, those mentally incapacitated creatures even the asylums won’t accept?” She swallows. “The discards of your society deposited here by your beloved Commonwealth. Thrown from passing steamploughs in the night, or strung up by their necks in the trees and left for dead.” I slip the harness from Clementine’s back. “Trouble is, some die...and others don’t.”

  Her eyes grow wide as saucers under tea.

  “And if the criminals don’t get you, the Vapours will.”

  “The Vapours?”<
br />
  I gesture behind me, at the roiling dark mist that hovers over the escarpment’s mount. “Random clouds of gas that roll the hillsides out here, asphyxiating all in their path. Surely you’ve heard of them,” I jest, knowing full well Brethren’s Ruler erected giant scrubbers—known as booms—years ago, to filtrate the air around the entire perimeter of Brethren, protecting its people from the toxic effects of the Vapours...leaving the citizens of Gears and the Follies to fend for themselves. “The Vapours are particularly lethal in late summer”—I lean toward her—“which it currently is. And particularly severe during half-to-full-moon phases”—I whisper—“which are due now, any day.”

  She scuttles closer.

  “But don’t let me deter you.” I loosen Clementine’s halter and let it drop from her face. “If you really need to get back to Gears, you’d best get going.”

  Her face prunes.

  I grin as I turn my back to her.

  “Perhaps it would be best then if I stayed.”

  Her words catch me. “Who said anything about staying?” I whirl back around.

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “And why not?”

  I crinkle my brows. “Considering you basically shanghaied my carriage, I think perhaps you should divulge your name first.”

  Her lips pull into a firm thin line.

  “Fine.” I loosen another strap on Clementine’s back. “What do you say we both reveal on the count of three? Ready? One. Two. Thr—”

  “Eyelet Emiline Elsworth!” she blurts.

  I grin, saying nothing.

  She scowls. “A man of your word, I see.” She turns on her heel and starts away.

  “Now, where are you going?” I call after her.

  “Well, you can’t expect me accept the hospitality of a person I can’t even trust.”