Lumière (The Illumination Paradox)

by Garlick, Jacqueline E.

  “Yes, of course, unless that.” My arms cross over my chest. “What are you trying to keep from getting in?”

  He crosses his arms as well. “The roaming criminals, the cannibalistic Infirmed, and other undesirables of the woods.”

  “Human? You said human.” I breathe. “But what of the touch of the criminals, or the Infirmed? Are they not humans?”

  Urlick grimaces. “Once exposed to the Vapours, a person is forever changed. Right down to their molecular core.”

  I stare past him out the window at the Vapours still forming on the ridge. Pan. I close my eyes. Please let her be safe…

  “Now if you’re through with your interrogation, perhaps we could get on with breakfast?”

  He again tugs the points of his infernal waistcoat, then plops down in a chair at the opposite end of the table from me. A span of three feet of polished oak and a plume of unyielding silence grows fat between us. Iris finishes whipping the eggs.

  She pours them on the griddle and I stare at him through the sizzling mist that chokes the kitchen. How can one person be so incredibly tolerant one moment and so hard-hearted the next?

  A few moments later Iris serves us, then scuttles off to her apartment to eat alone. Her eyes avoid me, as they’ve done all morning, though I’m so desperate to extend her a heartfelt apology over what happened yesterday.

  She leaves us with a plate of bacon piled high—a favorite of Urlick’s, apparently—two plates full of slightly overcooked eggs, some toast, two glasses of milk, and no tea.

  Urlick groans at her oversight, hesitating a moment before he stands. Fetching two strange-looking mechanical teapot apparatuses, he plops them down, one in front of each of us, along with two cups and two saucers.

  I long to ask about the strange teapots, but think better of it after what happened yesterday.

  “I call them Teasmaids,” he says as he sits, flipping his coattails out behind him.

  “Your creation?” I ask, sneaking a piece of bacon.

  He nods, eyeing me hard. “They’re individual automated tea services.” His brows rise. “For when your hostess has been maimed by your guest.”

  “How clever.” I gnaw the strip of bacon, imagining it’s his head.

  He drops a lump of sugar into the bottom of his dry cup and my shoulders bounce at the sound. A shrill whistle sounds and the Teasmaids go off, Urlick’s features growing soft behind a flux of steam. I watch as the hinge at the side of the contraption activates, tilting the tiny copper pot up on its end.

  “Push your cup beneath it.” He demonstrates. “The spout, like this. Hurry!” he barks. “Before it pours out!” Like I’m some sort of idiot.

  I move just in time to collect the stream and am rewarded with a full cup of Earl Grey for my trouble, give or take a bit of sloshing. Pushing the Teasmaid back, I reach for the sugar and Urlick pounces, snatching the bowl from under my grasp.

  “Sit.” He motions to me like I’m a dog. How dare he?!

  I narrow my eyes, and sink slowly into my seat, annoyed. Doubly annoyed by the thought he’d serve himself first.

  He stares down the length of the table, pinching his right eye shut, working to square the handle of the sugar bowl with my cup.

  What on earth?

  Cocking the handle back like a medieval catapult, he lets it go, ejecting a cube of sugar skyward. End-over-end, it lopes across the table, landing in my cup with a splat. Tea spittoons upward like a geyser, soiling the tea doily, my sleeve, and a nearby chair.

  “One lump or two?” He grins.

  “One will do, thank you,” I say, blotting up the mess. “Dare I ask for cream?”

  He punches a button on the side of the creamer and a tiny set of wheels pops out the sides. Drawing the bowl back, he releases it as I wince in fear. The dish shoots forward, scuttling noisily down the length of the tabletop, then slows and parks itself directly in front of my cup. A bell pings, and the whole system lifts up off its wheelbase, delivering the perfect spot of cream before slithering back down into its carriage again.

  Urlick leans onto his elbows, all puffed up and grinning. “Impressive, don’t you think?”

  “I…”

  Something burps.

  I drop my eyes to the creamer, astonished.

  “Excuse me!” Urlick blurts.

  I look across the table, puzzled. I’m sure the noise did not come from him.

  The wheels on the creamer disappear, sucked into the sides of the carriage in one spring-loaded motion, and I jump.

  “Watch out for the handle!” Urlick warns, nearly jumping across the table. “Eyelet! Your hand!”

  I glance down, pulling my hand back just as the handle on the creamer swings, guillotine-like, and snaps into place. Had I not moved when I did, I could quite easily be missing a finger. I gasp, trying to appear unmoved, though the speed of my heart indicates otherwise.

  “Should I expect to be similarly surprised by everything in this house?”

  Urlick furrows his brows. “I should think you should expect no further surprises at all, considering you’re not to touch anything. Remember?”

  I narrow my eyes and reach for more bacon.

  “Ah ah ah ah…” He shoos me away. Reaching into his pocket, he produces what looks to be a telescope and leans back in his chair. The next thing I know, he’s cast the strange object out over the table like a fly fisherman would his line. The pole shoots forward, length after length appearing, each smaller than the last. A small mechanical hand appears at the end of the rod, a set of fingers wiggling over the bacon as they hover over the plate.

  “Crispy or not?”

  “Not,” I reply.

  “Not it is.” He pinches a clamp at his end of the rod and the fingers fly. Pinching the clamp again, the fingers close around a slightly soggy strip of bacon. “Good enough?” he grins, and I nod. The fingers swing forward, tossing the bacon onto my plate.

  I jump back, trying to avoid the spray of grease, but unfortunately if finds me, striping the front of my corset and chemise.

  “Would you like a second?” He smiles cheekily.

  “No, thank you.” I cross my arms.

  Cranking the side of the handle, he retracts the device, wiping the fingers clean with a napkin before dropping the gadget back into his pocket.

  I stare at him and he stares at me, neither one of us relenting.

  Picking up a piece of toast, he sinks his teeth into it dramatically, as if challenging me, lopping off a healthy-sized bite.

  I accept the challenge, picking up a slice of my own. I do the same, mimicking his bite, only doubling the size.

  Not to be outdone, he ratchets up the competition, this time devouring nearly a quarter of his toast in one bite.

  I stare at him, smirking, as he struggles to chew what’s in his mouth. Opening wider, I stuff nearly half my toast into mine—at which his falls open, a rather disturbing sight.

  He races to chew and swallow what’s in his mouth, as I chew beastly fast, scarfing down the other half of my toast before he has the chance to swallow his, throwing open my jaw and sticking out my tongue to prove myself victorious.

  He concedes, mid-swallow, and reaches for a glass of milk to help wash it down—challenging me again with his eyes as he gulps.

  I reach for my milk and gulp right along with him, draining my glass and slamming it down, mere seconds before his meets the table.

  “I win!” I stand.

  “You what?”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “No,” he snorts, struggling not to laugh. “Of course not—”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” He smiles, his eyes fixed on my cream-coated upper lip.

  “Clearly you wear the mark of the victor.” He motions as he snorts again.

  “Very well then,” I turn, exiting the kitchen, along with my moustache. “As long as we’ve got that straight.”

  I grab a tea towel from the rack in the back kitchen to wipe th
e moustache from my face, eyeing the door. “You’ll never be denied passage to any room in this house. Unless, of course, the deadbolt’s been tripped.”

  Yes of course, unless—

  I reach for the lock, tripping the bolt, staring at the slender nickel-coated bar that protrudes from the middle, the matching hole carved into the doorjamb on the opposite side. Gazing through the doorway at Urlick, I tear a small corner of fabric from the tea towel with my teeth and cram it up inside the hole.

  Eleven

  Eyelet

  “I trust you can find something to keep yourself occupied this morning?” Urlick glances at me as I return to the room.

  “Yes,” I say, eyeing the lock on the back kitchen door, as I slide back into my seat. “As a matter of fact, I’ve already got something planned.”

  “Excellent.” He scarfs down his tea and rises to his feet. “Then I’ll see you for lunch at noon, before my tutor arrives—”

  “Tutor?” I stand, not really meaning to, but rather out of reaction. “A tutor? Here? In the bowels of the Earth at the farthest recesses of the Commonwealth?” It just comes out, before I’ve the chance to think about it, but honestly, who would be insane enough to take a job like that? It was Urlick who said this was the perfect place for someone on the lam to hide. And now he’s gone and invited in a visitor.

  “Yes, tutor.” He looks angry.

  My heart trembles in my chest. What if this tutor is from Brethren? What if it’s someone who’ll recognize me? What then? What do I do then? “Would this be someone from the Academy?” I squeak, breathless.

  “No.” He tugs as his waistcoat points. “She’s an itinerant. Living locally. But every bit as good as any employed behind the gates of your beloved Academy, I can assure you that! Why?” His brows twist in that ugly way they do when I’ve frustrated him. Which is most of the time, I’m afraid.

  “No reason,” I say, my voice meek.

  His stares at me through narrowed eyes.

  “I’m sure she’s wonderful,” I gulp, trying to restore the nerve I’ve just obviously stomped on.

  Urlick’s lips grow pursed. He clenches his fists at his sides. His white cheek flushes red. “You are really something, you know that?” He turns and grips the door handle and gives it a twist, like a bear would the neck of fragile rabbit. “Oh...

  I almost forgot.” He hesitates. “Iris would like her clothes back. You’ll find yours hanging on the back of the door of the loo off the kitchen there.” He flips his head. “All clean and pressed.”

  My head swivels to the door and back again.

  “You can leave hers folded on the chair. She’ll be down shortly to collect them.” He whisks through the door.

  “How shortly?” I blurt, without thinking.

  Urlick turns back, tossing me a dagger of a look. “What does it matter how long she takes? Do have plans to go somewhere?”

  “Don’t be so silly,” I stammer, “of course not.” I roll the sweat from my hands off on my skirts. “It’s just that, I wouldn’t want to be tardy and hold up her day. Especially after what’s already happened between us.” I lilt my voice at the end of the sentence, but it doesn’t seem to have worked.

  Urlick lowers his brows and stares at me. Perspiration curls the hairs at the back of my neck. “How considerate of you,” he finally says, then disappears through the doorway.

  I lean, calling after him. “I’ll be sure to thank her.”

  Why can’t I just shut up?

  My voice halts his step. He juts his chin back through the door. “No thanks necessary,” he snaps.

  He closes the door with extra force. Turbines churn under his hand. He shuffles away—then shuffles back, tripping the dead bolt.

  I grin as the hammer slides only partway into the hole, falling silently as it jams into the cloth.

  I turn and race for the loo, snag my clothes from the hanger and dress as fast as I can, discarding Iris’s clothing onto the chair in the corner, and bolt for the door, rattling the handle and jimmying the lock, until at last the door falls open.

  Twelve

  Urlick

  I lock the door and charge the length of the underground corridor, agitation driving my step. The clomp of my heels thunders off the walls. My pulse echoes in my ears.

  Why must she always be so difficult? Why can’t she just follow instructions? Is it too much to ask for her to know her place?

  I drag a heavy hand through my hair.

  I would have thought she’d been taught basic manners, having been reared in Brethren. Huh! I yank at my waistcoat. And I thought myself uncivilized.

  I swipe a torch from the wall and swing it in front of me. Water splotches from the roof threaten to douse it out as I round the corner and clatter down the stairs.

  A tutor? She’d said, in that innocent voice. Clearly she was mocking me. A tutor. Of course! Why not a tutor?! Am I that undeserving?

  My chin snaps up. What must she think of me?

  What do I care what she thinks of me?

  I should put her out. That’s what I should do. See how she likes it out there with the Vapours. Perhaps then she’d follow my rules!

  What are you thinking? I gasp. You can’t put her out. She’d die in a matter of days.

  Are you that angry, you want her dead?

  Urlick Babbit, you animal, you.

  I swallow.

  I storm up the corridor, turning left at the forks. All right, so I don’t want her dead. I just want her to stop asking so many blessed questions. All that fuss this morning over windows and doors. Must she know absolutely everything?

  What about that necklace of hers? Why is she allowed to evade that subject? Yet, I’m expected to be an open book when it comes to anything about me?

  I round the corner and nearly slip in the wet. My eyes squint to slits.

  What goes on in that silly head of hers, I wonder?

  Why is she really here?

  Surely it wasn’t a mistake her jumping on my coach.

  Why can she hold secrets and I can’t?

  I reach for the switch on the door when I get to it, using my night vision monocle to dial in the combination.

  Why must women be so puzzling? Why can’t they be straightforward like men? Why can’t she just stay put and mind her own business? Is that so much to ask?

  The breaker sounds and the door swings open. I duck, entering the final stage of the tunnel, and traipse down the dim, narrow hall.

  What’s most puzzling about all of this is that, despite how much she annoys me...I find myself strangely drawn to her.

  Something clunks behind me and I swing around, sweeping the torchlight back and forth across the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Iris?” I call into the darkness. “Is that you?”

  Nothing, just the hiss of the torchlight in my hand.

  I turn and carry on.

  Thirteen

  Eyelet

  I snake down the back stairs and along the corridor, chasing the tiny ball of torchlight swinging in Urlick’s hand—trying my best to keep enough distance between us so I’m not discovered, listening to the beat of his shoes as they fall hard against the stone. My breath forms crystals in the mist. Water drips from the ceiling, plunking cold on my head. An icy draft tunnels at my back. It’s damp down here and getting darker by the minute. An old cavern carved deep into rock.

  I put out my hands, feeling my way along the slimy lining of the cavern’s belly, shoulders shivering, feeling rather lost. I come across a fork in the tunnel and I don’t know which way to go. “Urlick,” I whisper, having lost sight of him. A tiny white cloud precipitates from my lips, turning into a clot of frozen mist.

  I stand still, rubbing my arms, listening for the stride of his shoes striking stone. But I hear nothing, only the drip of the water leaking through the cracks in the rock overhead. What have I done? I shiver. Where do I go from here? I bite my lip as I look around. Left or right, which is correct?

  I was so convi
nced he’d lead to my father’s machine; I lost all sense in the matter. I’ve gone and followed a stranger down the throat of a dark, ugly cave, only to become lost—without even so much as a lantern in hand.

  I reach up to find a spider traipsing through my hair. A quiver of nerves shoots up my spine. I strip it away, running in place to keep myself from screaming. My hands flail at my sides.

  For a fragment of a moment, I think about turning back, but then the stubborn part of me refuses. The machine has to be down here. Somewhere. I know it is. Why else would Urlick journey into the depths of such a place? What could he be doing down here that required such secret, if not reassembling my father’s machine?

  I step forward, choosing left over right, praying my instincts are correct, when a glimmer of light catches my eye up the corridor. Collecting my skirts, I chase after it, bursting up the puddle-dotted floor. It’s not yellow like the torchlight, but rather a glistening shade of silvery-black, flickering in and out through the darkness. I move quickly, but softly enough for my boots not to be heard, hoping to reach the glimmer before it flickers, then fades to black. The corridor once again falls dark.

  I gasp, arriving at the spot where I last saw the light, and run my hand over the wall. It’s cool to the touch, damp and sweaty, just like the others—only as I move farther along my fingers catch on the lip of what feels like a rail of steel. I follow it up the wall, surprised when it curves around in a giant circle. Jumping my fingers over the rail, I run my hands over the inside. The surface is rough and scaly, like the bottom of a cast-iron pot. At the center of it there’s a handle.

  I’ve found a door, a huge one—more like a hatch on a boat, but a door nonetheless—embedded into the side of the stone wall.

  I look up to see two large metal springs hovering over my head in the darkness, flanked on either side by a scaffold of pulley-fed gears. Metal ropes feed between the two structures, up and over a giant support beam mounted above the middle of the door. Attached to the top is some sort of chrono-metered device. I brace a boot against the wall and pull myself up. It’s ticking. The device is ticking—measuring time right down to the nanosecond, in a backward countdown from one hundred.