Lumière (The Illumination Paradox)

by Garlick, Jacqueline E.

  His whole face looks so strangely unnatural; I can’t imagine how it’s going to fool anyone. The skin is a jaundiced-peach in color, mixed with the stark white of his natural skin beneath. The mulberry birth stain on his cheek—he’s tried to disguise it beneath layers of extra wax injected with dark brown ink—has turned out looking more like a glob of raisins than the mole he intended. His painted blue eye skins blend with his own vibrant pink, turning his irises a deep shade of inhuman violet blue. I tremble, biting my lip to keep him from seeing my reaction, casting my eyes to the ground.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I look away, then back. “It’s just shocking to see you this way.”

  “You find this shocking?” Urlick almost laughs. “Over my face before!” He turns away, shaking his head. “You are a very strange girl, Eyelet Elsworth. A very strange one.”

  He tucks the box and tools back into his pack and when he turns around, I notice the mask has warmed to his face, the colors have become more realistic. But still, he’s not himself to me.

  “Your turn.” He motions toward the mask in my hand. “Just hold it close to your face; the mask knows what to do.”

  I look down at the mask in my hands and think of Ida, whether or not she’d approve of me borrowing her face. My mind drifts to my father, and I cringe at the idea of someone donning a wax replica of him without his permission.

  “Come on, Eyelet.” Urlick touches my shoulder. “We need to get going.”

  Bertie groans.

  I reach up, anxious, and place Ida’s likeness over mine. The jelly-like lining springs to life when it makes contact with my skin, eerily drawing me in. A moment later, it’s a part of me, moving as I move, grinning when I grin, grimacing as I grimace.

  Urlick helps me smooth down the bumps along the edge of my hairline, coaxing my bangs to drop naturally down over my forehead again. Pressing out the bubbles over my cheek, he caresses away the wrinkles from my chin.

  I look up, feeling sick yet weirdly grateful. Without her cover, there’s no question I’d be recognized in Brethren. “How do I look?”

  “Pretty good,” Urlick grins. “How does it feel?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I lick my lips, no longer my own, repulsed by their chalky paraffin taste.

  “And now for the finishing touch.” Urlick walks to his pack and back again, producing a brush and a tin of stage makeup. He stands back, dipping the brush in the tin. “Try not to smile,” he says, dusting my face in a layer of powder. I choke under the screen of dusty smoke, waving away the excess with a hand.

  “Now me,” he says, passing me the brush. “And make sure you cover everything.” Wax crinkles at the corners of his mouth as he talks. I reach up and work out the imperfections. He returns the favor, using his thumbs to get rid of stress splits in my lips, pressing each crevice delicately into place. His touch is so tender; so wonderfully caring. It’s hard to believe he raised himself.

  “There.” He finishes. “Now how about that makeup?”

  I reach up. My breath catches in my throat. The hairs on the back of my neck nettle as I dust his cheeks and coat his chin, the eyes of his father watching me the whole time. I try not to think of it, but it’s not his gaze—and the one that stares at me makes my skin crawl. It’s Urlick, I tell myself. It’s not his father; it’s him. I close my eyes to make it easier, imagining the real Urlick beneath the mask, trying not to think of the one I wear. “There,” I say when I’m finished. “All set.” I turn away.

  “Listen.” Urlick catches me softly by the arm, his voice soothing. He raises my chin until our eyes meet. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it has to be done. You know that, right?”

  “I do.”

  His eyes dart gently over my face and for the first time I see a hint of the warm Urlick I’ve come to know, behind the imposters’ eyes.

  We abandon Bertie at the edge of the quarry on the outskirts of town—much to his dismay—hiding him among the boulders on the far side of the tracks and cross, unnoticed at the checkpoint. Then we slink through the streets of Gears, an easy labyrinth under Urlick’s swift and skillful guidance, and dart up the back of the hillside toward the Academy, arriving breathless at its gate. Our fingers, numbed by the cold twisted iron of its sprawling ivy cage.

  We’re alone, thank goodness. The streets around the school are empty. Only a few widows, on their way to the market for high tea. Everyone else is consumed by daily duties. We’ve arrived at the perfect time of day.

  “What now?” Urlick looks at me through a veil of painted aspiration.

  “Now to get past the keepers.” I point.

  Urlick’s eyes follow my hand down the hillside to the front of the school, stopping on the pair of mechanical ravens that tower above the entrance about fifty meters away. “Simon and Edgar?” he says, returning his gaze to me.

  “In the flesh. Or should I say metal.”

  A blanket of fog rolls between us, rendering the Academy and Urlick briefly invisible. The skies overhead come alive with the sound of real ravens, their cries slicing through the air. Urlick looks up, alarmed by the shrillness of their voices.

  “There must be a dozen of them.” Urlick squints to see them.

  “No, there should only be nine.” I look up.

  “What did you say?”

  “Pan, and Archie, and seven more,” I say, grinning.

  “How do you know this?”

  “They’re friends of my mother’s,” I say.

  “Friends?” Urlick looks troubled.

  I swallow, worried that I’ve said too much. But he’s bound to find out sooner or later anyway, and by look of the approaching flock, it’s going to be sooner for sure. “My mother was gifted a raven as a child,” I continue. “It was a very different time then. She taught it to talk and they’ve been inseparable since.”

  “Your mother taught a raven to speak?”

  “Yes.” I look up. “For which she was hanged in the square.”

  He swallows.

  “Some of the townspeople caught her talking to the bird and had her arrested. She was unjustly accused of being a Valkyrie, possessed of Wickedry, and thus she was disposed of—but it wasn’t true.” My voice increases. “It was all a lie. She wasn’t any such thing. My mother was a gentle, honest soul.”

  “And you?” he stares at me. “They believe you’re one too, don’t they? That’s why they’re after you.”

  I bite my lip and drop my chin to my chest. “Yes, that’s why I jumped your coach, to flee Brethren.” There’s more to it, but this half-truth will have to do for now, for I can’t bring myself to tell him the rest of the story.

  The flock of ravens above drops from the clouds, breaking the tension between us. They hover in a tight circle around my shoulders, chattering in my face, and for the first time ever I’m not annoyed. “Archie!” I reach out and stroke his neck. “Oh, Archie, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

  Urlick ducks and shoos them away. I laugh at how flustered he appears.

  Archie caws, and Urlick bolts back. “Don’t worry.” I stroke Urlick’s arm. “He won’t hurt you.”

  Urlick stares at the bird, and then at me, and I’m afraid I know what he’s thinking. He’s judging me, just as everyone always has all my life.

  I so hoped he’d be different.

  “This is your mother’s constant companion?”

  “No.” I laugh. “This is just Archie.” I turn back to the birds. “Where is Pan?” I ask. ”Why isn’t she with you?” I hold my breath, terrified of Archie’s answer, knowing the last time I saw her how close she winged to death.

  Archie caws, tipping his wings to the park on my left. Through a gash in the cloud cover a black shadow appears, weaving its way through a skeleton of trees. “Pan!” I shriek, and race down the hillside. “Pan! It’s you!”

  Urlick trundles after me looking bewildered.

  Pan swoops in, fluttering close to greet me, rolling he
r head and feathers up against my cheeks. “Oh, Pan, I was so worried about you,” I giggle, bending my neck against her tickling feathers. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

  Pan lands gently on my shoulder, snuggling her head up against my neck, and I catch a glimpse of Urlick looking sorely perplexed. “Oh, how rude of me,” I breathe. “Pan, this is Urlick. Urlick, this is Pan. My mother’s bird, the one she taught to speak.” I gesture between the two of them.

  Pan nods her head, then curtseys, one wing outstretched.

  Urlick can’t help himself: he laughs. “It’s as if she really knows what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course she does. I told you, my mother taught her to speak.”

  “Teaching a bird to mimic a few human sounds is one thing, having it understand what’s being said is quite another.”

  “Well I assure you, Pan does both.” His brows rise. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No. Not exactly—” He tugs at his waistcoat.

  “You think Pan’s nothing but a common house parrot, don’t you?”

  He yanks on the points of his waistcoat again.

  “What would you say if I told you she can talk on her own? Without prompting?”

  “I’d say you’ve snorted in a few too many Vapours.”

  “Really? Say something to him, Pan.” Pan says nothing—just stares. “Go ahead, you have my permission, tell him what you think.” She cocks her head but remains silent.

  “This is ridiculous,” Urlick says. “She’s not going to speak unless you speak first. There’s no magic to it.”

  “There’s no what?”

  “You heard me.” He pulls a hand through his hair. “All this nonsense about brilliant birds and floating worlds!”

  Floating worlds? I never said anything about a floating world.

  “Come on. We’ve got an Academy to break into, or have you forgotten?” He turns and stalks away up the hill.

  “This from a man who crafts enchanted teapots, winged messengers, and a bewitched coach that can park itself?” I call after him.

  He swings around, his lips pursed. “Those are inventions. That’s completely different—”

  “How so?” I poke my nose out at him.

  “It just is.”

  “You know what I think?” I move toward him. “I think you’re afraid. Just like all the cowardly professors at the Academy, unwilling to acknowledge there might be powers at work in this universe that science can’t explain.”

  “You know what I think?” He whirls around, wagging his finger. “I think you a fool—”

  “Really,” I gnash my teeth. “Well, I think you insufferably close-minded!” Pan lifts from my shoulder as I turn and stalk away.

  “Eyelet!” He hesitates. “Eyelet, wait, please.” He chases after me. “Eyelet, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.” He lowers his head. “It’s just that”—he paces—“if magic really did exist, I would never have been born looking like this and my mother wouldn’t have died giving birth to me. Ida and Iris would have been normal and Crazy Legs would have arms, don’t you see?”

  I swallow.

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve called upon the powers of magic in my life to right the wrongs of it,” he continues. “To save my father, to spare Ida, to silence Cordelia’s screams! And—just as reason would dictate—it never once worked!” He bares his teeth. “Because Magic. Doesn’t. EXIST!”

  Pan takes to the air, swooping above our heads, startled and cawing, as Urlick turns his back.

  “That’s not true, Urlick,” I call after him, my voice wavering. “And you know it. A little bit of magic exists in everyone’s heart. Even yours!” My words tug at his step. “Otherwise you could never have designed a cycle with wings, in the hope that one day, the two of you could fly.”

  He turns briefly, a hesitant look on his face.

  Pan jumps from my shoulder and wings through the trees.

  “Where is she going?”

  “I don’t know.” I look up. “Pan!” I chase after her. “Pan, come back!”

  She circles with something in her bill, swoops down and drops it at Urlick’s feet.

  “What is it?” He turns to me.

  “I’m guessing it’s a bit of magic,” I say.

  Thirty two

  Urlick

  Eyelet races over, snatching the small cotton pouch up from the ground. She loosens the ribbon that binds the top.

  “Should we be opening this?” I say, as she dumps the contents into her palm—a fat package with distinctive markings—then passes me the empty pouch. I’m almost afraid to take it from her. All this talk of Valkyries and tongued birds has me on edge. I’m not even sure I know who she is anymore.

  “Careful,” I say, as she breaks the wax seal. “That looks rather official. Even royal, perhaps.”

  “Relax,” She smirks. “It’s my father’s.”

  “Your father’s? But how’s that possible. I thought you said he was dead.”

  “He is. This is from his royal stash.”

  “His what?” I spin around. “I knew it. I was right. I’ve gone and kidnapped royalty! I am both a kidnapper and a thief—”

  “Please, don’t flatter yourself.” Eyelet laughs. “My father was only the Royal Science Ambassador of the Academy, serving under Brethren’s Ruler. So technically, you’ve only kidnapped the daughter of a royal slave.”

  “Oh, well, that makes it so much better.”

  I check over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching. Though trees hide us, I’m still worried we’ll be discovered. And now with the royal pot.

  “Not to worry, my father was stripped of that post shortly before he passed away,” Eyelet continues, “Besides, you’ve kidnapped nothing. If anything, it was I who commandeered your coach.” She grins, eying me hard.

  “Here, hold this,” she says, turning her eyes skyward, rolling the contents of the pouch around in her hand.

  “Why? What are you doing?”

  Pan swoops in again, dropping a second item. I duck. Eyelet laughs. I swear the two of them are enjoying this.

  The item billows down on the breeze, its gilded edges glinting in the grey of the day, coming to rest in Eyelet’s hands.

  “And what, pray tell, is that?” I snatch a roll of parchment paper, tied in a red velvet ribbon, from her hand.

  “A smudging,” she says, snatching it back.

  “A what?”

  “A magical message—”

  “Why of course.”

  She pinches me. “Ouch!”

  She casts off the ribbon and unrolls it.

  “A magical message that says…?” I hover in high anticipation over her shoulder. “Nothing. Well, there you have it.” I rock back on my heels. “What a brilliant bird, she’s dropped you a blank piece of paper.”

  “To the naked eye, yes.”

  Eyelet throws her hand out in front of my face, catching another pouch from Pan.

  I watch as she struggles to loosen the knot on the top of the pouch’s drawstring. “If it’s magic, shouldn’t it come with a wand or something?”

  She smirks. “Here,” she says, finally tearing it open. “Shut up and strike these.” She hands me a couple of dark rocks. “But not until I say.” She stops me from rolling them together. “And whatever you do, don’t drop them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they won’t light if they’re wet.”

  “Light?”

  “They’re flints,” she says. I scowl. “To make fi-re with.” She mocks me.

  “Oh, yes...yes, of course.” I tug at my waistcoat, feeling a bit daft, confident that was the object of her game. “And that?” I nod to the herb in her hand she’s busy twisting around the end of a stick. “What is that?”

  “Mugwort,” she says plainly, as if it’s something you come across every day. Of course. Mugwort. What else would it be?

  I check again over my shoulder as she bites off the end and spits.<
br />
  “Bitter.” She excuses her unladylike behavior.

  I’ve never seen this side of Eyelet before, and I must say, I kind of like it.

  “Mugwort’s used to stimulate psychic awareness and prophetic dreams”—she turns to me—“which, of course, you’d know nothing about.”

  I smirk. “And this?” I hold up the small bit of root from the first bag she asked me to hold.

  “That’s Osha. We’re to burn it after the smudging to rid ourselves of any evil influences.”

  “Of course.” I roll my eyes.

  “Perhaps I should wrap you up in it, instead?”

  “Funny.” I crinkle my nose.

  “Strike them, will you?”

  “What?”

  “The flints.”

  “Don’t you think lighting a fire might bring attention to us?”

  “Just strike the flints, will you please?” She coaxes me with her chin.

  I take the flints in my hands and strike them hard. Eyelet raises the herb end of the stick up to the sparks. The aged Mugwort bursts into an inferno, comparable to that of the Great Fire of London. “Good Lord!” I panic, jumping back. The flame burns high and quick, from orange to black in seconds. A sweet mare’s tail of charcoal smoke pours from what remains of the withering nest.

  “Hurry!” she shouts. “Get the scroll!”

  I stumble into action, swooping for it.

  “Now quickly roll it out over top!”

  I do as she says and Eyelet steps forward, passing the smoldering stick under the page. She works her way from the bottom to the top corner of the paper. Smoke slowly penetrates the paper’s pores, releasing a hand-scrawled message into the air.

  “It’s from my father,” Eyelet gasps. “I recognize the writing. Quick!” She launches to her toes. “Help me decipher what it says!”

  Each puff billows up into fat, swirling, spiraling letters that hang for a moment then sizzle into ashes, dissolving into nothingness before our eyes.

  She breaks away, leaving me to hold the paper, etching the message with what’s left of the stick into the dirt at her feet.