Plague of the Shattered

by E. E. Holmes

  He actually threw back his head and laughed. It was such a wonderful sound, when he let himself make it. “When have you ever seen me karate chop anyone? I don’t even know any karate!”

  “You don’t know karate?” I cried, throwing his hands off of mine. “What kind of bullshit Caomhnóir are you? I demand a replacement!”

  “Could a new Caomhnóir do this?” he asked, and planted a kiss on me that nearly knocked me flat. I reeled from it, for the brief moment it lasted, and then I felt a sinking sadness as the tingling pressure of the kiss receded from my lips. The kisses would be so few and far between while we were here. It only deepened my resentment of the place. Seriously, I wanted to kick the nearest bit of stone I could reach just to vent my frustrations.

  Finn could see the aggravation in my face. “I know,” he said. “I hate this, too.”

  “Did anyone… did you get the sense that anyone suspected anything?” I asked, dropping my voice to a faint whisper despite the fact that we’d already made sure of our absolute solitude.

  “No. I can’t imagine that anyone here would tip-toe around the suspicion that a Durupinen and a Caomhnóir were involved with each other. They would leap on it at once, like Seamus did when he first discovered us.”

  I shivered, maybe from the cold still radiating from Finn’s hand, but also from the awful chill of that memory. That interference on Seamus’s part had led to three heartbreaking years of distance between Finn and myself, distance that we’d only managed to bridge a few short weeks ago. “This was the biggest reason I didn’t want to come here. I hate having to stay away from you.”

  “As do I, love. As do I,” Finn whispered. He brought one of those achingly cold hands up to my face and ran a finger along the line of my jaw before leaning in and kissing me again. “But I would have had to come here anyway, for the Caomhnóir’s role in the Airechtas, so this time apart would have been inevitable. At least we have stolen moments like these to see us through. Have patience. A few more days and we’ll be home again.”

  “Yes, but even there we have to be so secretive,” I said, reaching for Finn’s hand and bringing it back to my cheek. “I hate that we can’t be open about this.”

  “I do, too,” Finn said. “It’s a terrible way to have to live. But what choice do we have?”

  A sudden sound at the end of the hallway caused us to leap apart. We stood, hearts thundering for a few moments, but no one appeared.

  “Coast is clear,” Finn said. He was back at his careful distance, his professionally indifferent expression back on his face. “I think it was just a door shutting.”

  I laughed sadly as I tugged at my own door. “A perfect metaphor,” I said.

  Eleanora: 6 April 1864

  6 April 1864

  Well, Little Book, I sit here by the fire in the drawing room, writing feverishly, much to the delight and satisfaction of my mother, who has insisted that keeping a diary will be beneficial to me. She does not mean beneficial to my health, or my happiness, or any other tangible part of my person. Rather, she means beneficial to our social and economic status. Puzzling, you say? Allow me to explain to you.

  I know many a fine young lady of substance who write in a diary almost nightly, but it is their custom to share their musings and compositions with their families. They sit in their drawing rooms on quiet evenings such as this one, reading aloud from their books so that their parents and siblings may remark upon their observations. It is meant, I suppose, to encourage intelligent conversation and to improve a young lady’s proclivity toward articulate self-expression. However, the reflections I record in you, Little Book, will most likely remain a cozy little confidence between the two of us.

  As she handed you to me this morning, my mother remarked, “You are entirely too free with your speech, Eleanora. You simply let fly with whatever thought resides in your head at the moment. It is terribly improper, and I fear that you will disgrace yourself publicly before you are safely married off. A loose tongue in the presence of the aristocracy is a social peril we cannot afford, my darling. And so, I thought this diary would serve a useful purpose in helping you to express these thoughts… silently.” And with that, she dropped you into my waiting hands.

  I had several thoughts in that moment that I had no desire to keep silent. But, as arguments with my mother are rarely, if ever, productive, I decided to swallow back my thoughts and thank her as politely as I could. I even managed a smile. Aren’t you proud of me, Little Book?

  My mother is watching me most carefully now, and the expression on her face is the absolute epitome of smugness. She does so love to be right that I did not have the heart to tell her that I had no interest in you at all, Little Book. I certainly don’t mean to insult you. You really are a lovely book. Your silk cover is quite pretty, and your pages are creamy and smooth. As books go, I’m sure you are delightful. But I harbour no desire whatsoever to record my thoughts within you. I do so merely to satisfy my audience, who is now sniffing loudly and trying to catch my eye, so that she may celebrate her victory over my free spirit. I am carefully avoiding her gaze. We cannot let her have all of the gratification. It sets a dangerous precedent for our future mother-daughter battles.

  The truth of the matter is, I have never felt compelled to write a thought when I was perfectly capable of speaking it aloud. This rendered me a less than satisfactory pupil in the eyes of my governess. But how else is one to become a part of the conversation, if one does not speak up? How is one to gain insight into one’s friends and acquaintances? How is one to find the answers to vexing questions if one does not ask them?

  There is another reason I feel so compelled to speak freely in company, and I must confess to you that this reason is rather shocking. The truth is, Little Book, that I must keep a large and terrifying secret every hour of every day. I often feel that the weight of it will crush me into nothingness. There is a crucial part of my very self that I am forbidden to ever reveal to anyone, not even my dearest friend or the man I wed.

  I am a Durupinen, my dear Little Book. I can converse with the dead, observe their clandestine rovings about the world, and someday I will aid them in their journey to the realm beyond our own.

  I have never seen these words written down before. I have been staring at them now for several long minutes, and I am fighting a strong impulse to rip them to shreds and throw them into the fire. Do you suppose that they are truer, that they hold even more power over me now that I have recorded them in this form? Or have I instead expelled them from me, drawn like poison from a wound?

  And now I must confess something else to you, and this confession comes as rather a surprise to me. Most unexpectedly, I find that I feel lighter after giving these words to you to hold, Little Book. You have lifted them from my shoulders, if even for a moment, and for that I must thank you. And, I suppose, thank my mother. It seems she was right, in a sense. You are most helpful, though not in the way that she intended you to be.

  And so, as much as it grieves me to bolster my mother’s sense of superiority, I believe I shall be writing in you regularly after all. How vexing.

  Eleanora

  3

  The Proposition

  “MILO, FOR THE LAST TIME, I am not giving you credit for the hair.”

  “This is utter betrayal. This is treason, I will have you know!” Milo cried.

  I dropped my newly dyed head into my hands. “Milo, you are not a monarch, therefore no one can actually commit treason against you. You do know this, right?”

  “Treason!” he hissed. “I’ve been saying for years—years—that you should lose the black and warm up your tones. In fact, every time I say, ‘Good morning,’ or ‘Hello,’ or ‘See you later,’ the subtext I’m screaming at you is ‘DYE YOUR DAMN HAIR!’”

  I shook my head. Every Durupinen in the castle had probably sensed the earsplitting shriek of delight that met me when I opened the bathroom door a few moments before to reveal to Hannah and Milo that I had dyed my hair. After
six years of jet black tresses, and more than a few life-altering experiences, I’d decided that I was ready for a change—only this time, it was a change that I actually had full control over, which was new and different for me, now that we were Durupinen. And, also a departure from recent tradition, I had made the decision without giving a good goddamn what anyone else might think about it. It had been liberating to see the rich brown color replace the signature black, and even more so to layer in the bright red highlights. It felt like I was stripping away some of the vestiges of the events that had so altered the course of my life. I watched them swirl down the drain in dark cloudy rivulets. Much like my recent tattoo, it was a symbolic way of reclaiming another part of my life.

  And apparently, of ruining Milo’s.

  “Milo, I’m not going to tell every person who compliments my hair that it was your idea. I’m just not going to do that,” I said wearily.

  Milo huffed. “Well then, I am just going to have to do it myself. And I can’t believe you went with that shade of red, it’s got way too much violet in it. I can’t believe you didn’t go to a colorist to do this!”

  “We’re in the middle of the countryside in a castle full of ghosts, Milo. My professional stylist options were limited. I needed a change. It was either this or a new tattoo, and I’ve heard it’s generally frowned upon to attempt those on yourself.”

  “Hair color is not a DIY project either, sweetness!” Milo cried. “I mean, consult me on the shade, at least! You’ve gone way too cool for your skin tone, especially with all the black you insist on wearing!”

  “Wait, so you’re saying I chose the wrong color and you still want credit?” I asked.

  “I’m saying that when someone—as in, me—has an inspired idea to raise your fashion game, you have to let him execute it properly, and then give him credit! It’s like at awards shows! What’s the first thing every interviewer asks a woman on the red carpet?”

  “Something sexist that makes her want to claw her own eyes out?” I suggested. Hannah snorted.

  Milo ignored my joke and plowed on as though I hadn’t answered. “They ask her who she’s wearing! Because it’s all about making a statement, and the maker of the statement matters!”

  I stared at Milo. He was getting weirdly upset about this, more than just his usual display of sass. His energy was pulsing with something deeper, something that was seeping through our connection and pricking at the corners of my eyes, as though I were about to cry. Hannah had noticed it, too. Her smile had vanished from her face.

  “Okay, I give!” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “Full credit to you, to anyone who notices.”

  Milo took a deep breath and folded his arms, looking satisfied. “Well, good. Because absolutely everyone, living and dead, will notice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to tell the floaters to be on the lookout for your new locks. Creating a healthy buzz beforehand will boost the wow-factor when they finally see you. And for God’s sake, try to wear something blue today. It will make your highlights pop.” He vanished on the spot.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I asked Hannah.

  “I don’t know!” Hannah replied, looking mystified. “He gives fashion advice all the time. I never saw him get upset about it before, not really. I’ll ask him about it later.”

  “Yeah, better you than me,” I said.

  “I really like your hair though, Jess. It looks nice on you.”

  I turned to face the mirror on the wall. “Yeah, I like it, too, I think. It was time for a change. Plus, we look more like sisters now, don’t you think.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. “Ugh, I didn’t think of that. It’s going to be a lot harder now, denying that we’re related when you embarrass me in public.”

  I spun around and gasped. “Hannah Ballard, that was sassy! You just sassed me!”

  She grinned mischievously. “I spend entirely too much time with you and Milo. The sass was bound to wear off on me eventually.” She turned and pointed to the wall by my bed. “Another one, huh?”

  I looked where she was pointing. “Yeah.” Another psychic drawing hung taped to my wall. It had happened again in the middle of the night. I’d woken already sitting up straight, hand aching, head pounding, with a strange, overheated feeling, like I had a fever.

  “Isn’t that the same girl as the last sketch?” Hannah asked.

  “The very same. She’s very persistent, but she’s not giving me much to work with,” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “She’s not giving me any sense of what it is she wants—no clues, no context. She just sort of… stares at me. It’s like I’m seeing her, but there’s no message she’s trying to send.”

  “Hmmm,” Hannah said thoughtfully, looking at the girl again. “Maybe she doesn’t know what she wants yet?”

  “Well, I wish she would make up her mind before interrupting my sleep again,” I grumbled. I crossed the room, pulled the picture off of my wall, and shoved it under the bed with the other one.

  One spirit’s face was replaced with another as Milo sailed clean back through the wall.

  “Have you finished announcing my new coiffure from the top of the highest towers?” I asked him, tempering the sarcasm with a smile, just in case he was still upset.

  Milo attempted half a smile in return, but then his face settled back into an uncharacteristically serious expression. “I came back to give you a message. From Carrick.”

  Hannah looked up sharply. “From Carrick?”

  Milo shrugged apologetically. “Yeah. He cornered me out on the grounds. He wants you to meet him in the entrance hall as soon as you can. He’s waiting for you there.”

  Hannah and I stared at each other. Everything inside my body seemed to have twisted into a tight, painful knot. Carrick. Our father. Well, the ghost of our father, but that was the only way we’d ever known him.

  “Why?” I asked sharply. “Why does he want to see us, did he say?”

  Milo shook his head, and his expression was knowingly sympathetic. I could feel waves of empathy rolling in through our connection, washing over me, trying to soothe me. “He didn’t say. He just said he needed to see you, and could I please go find you to deliver the message.”

  “Well,” Hannah said, and I could hear the struggle raging behind her voice. “I guess we should get going, then. I’m sure he wouldn’t have sent for us if it wasn’t important.”

  “Right. Yeah, obviously,” I said. I looked down at the bathrobe I was still wearing. “Just give me a minute to get changed and we can go.”

  Milo nodded. “I’ll let him know you’re on your way,” he said. “Just give my energy a little tug if you need me, okay, sweetness?” he added, winking at Hannah.

  She smiled weakly at him. “Yeah, okay.”

  Milo turned back to me and pointed imperiously to my suitcase. “Don’t forget. Blue.”

  §

  Carrick was waiting for us in the entrance hall, just as Milo had promised. He hovered by the fireplace, staring into the fire as though each leaping flame held a sentence he longed to read. He wasn’t easy to see at first; the glow of the fire outshone him, so that he seemed to fade into the wall behind him.

  We walked over to him—Hannah just behind me—and stood for a moment, waiting for him to notice us. When he didn’t, I cleared my throat.

  “Uh, Carrick? Hi,” I said, ever a masterclass of awkwardness.

  He looked up, almost startled, and straightened up like we had announced a military inspection. “Jess. Hannah. Milo found you then, did he? Excellent,” he replied. I could hear him struggling against the formality in his voice. “I… that is… it’s nice to see you both.”

  “You, too,” I said, because that that’s what you were supposed to say. The truth was that I didn’t know if it was nice to see him or not. Mostly what I felt whenever I was around him was an unsettling mixture of discomfort, curiosity, and anger. I forgave myself this confusion, though, because perhaps never i
n the history of the world was there a father-daughter relationship so fraught with strange and unfortunate circumstances as ours, starting with the fact that I’d only ever known him as a ghost.

  All of this rose up between us like a wall in the few moments of silence that had followed my reply, a wall that Carrick valiantly attempted to scale as he said, “I… well, I’ve come because Finvarra sent me, but… that is to say, I was glad of the excuse. I would have sought you out myself before long.”

  “Yeah, we would have come to find you, too,” Hannah said. Maybe it was her loss of direct emotional connection with our mother, but speaking to him seemed to come much more easily to her than it did to me.

  There was a long awkward pause, made more awkward by the fact that Carrick had a habit of bouncing on the balls of his heels when he was nervous. I decided to take pity on him and speak before he turned into a ghostly pogo stick.

  “So, you said that Finvarra sent you to find us?” I prompted.

  “Yes!” Carrick seized on the question like a drowning man to a lifeboat. “Yes, she has expressed a wish to see the two of you in her office. I volunteered to track you down and escort you there.”

  Hannah and I looked at each other in surprise. “She wants to see us? Why?” I asked, trying to sound less nervous than I felt.

  “I must admit, she did not confide her motives to me, merely the request to see you. Would you be so kind as to follow me to her office, please?” Carrick asked. He was certainly endeavoring to keep his tone friendlier than any other Caomhnóir in this place was bothering to do. I’d rarely heard the word “please” from any other member of our over-protective brotherhood, but then again, I didn’t get the impression that we had much of a choice but to follow him.

  “Uh, sure. We don’t have to be anywhere we need to be right now,” I said.

  “Very good, then,” Carrick said, and he started marching down the hallway.