by wildbow
“If I find out that any of you approached her,” Ibott said, standing straighter as he addressed everyone else in the hallway, “I will end your careers or have you put down.”
A moment after that declaration, he knocked on the door and let himself into the big room.
Helen’s ears caught words that she wasn’t meant to hear.
“What a dick,” spoken from one of Jamie’s doctors to another.
“I’d kill for half of his talent,” was the reply.
Ibott was so clever a man, Helen knew, so talented, with the knowledge of whole teams of expert doctors. Knowledge was power, but he didn’t know how to use that power. He puffed himself up, threw his weight around, and achieved so little.
She didn’t love him, she didn’t respect him. But without him to manage the important parts, Helen’s feelings would be unregulated, her body would go askew, and pieces would stop fitting together in a way that let her be beautiful. There would be only cravings, and a broken, awkward body, with angular, distorted joints. Even her organs might fall into disarray.
Leaving wasn’t possible. If she left, she wouldn’t be herself.
Again, that spike of emotion, visions of squeezing people in ugly, unsatisfying ways, an arm around the head, using both hands to ineffectually tear at the chin, jaw and teeth at the bottom of someone’s mouth. A frustrated sort of destruction that would never satisfy.
She’d been stationed far enough away that she couldn’t talk to Lillian or Ashton. It bothered her, churning up that emotion and the images.
The sound of footsteps drew her attention. She fixated on the source. Lillian.
Ignoring Ibott’s orders and threats, Lillian crossed the hallway. She turned her head to look at the other doctors and experiments, paying attention to each one in turn. As if she was daring them, challenging them.
Lillian stood square in front of Helen, opened her jacket, and reached inside. Several napkins wrapped something soft and sweet. Much of it had squeezed out between the napkins. Helen worked to peel away the napkin.
“You squished it when you hugged me,” Lillian said, her voice a hush.
“I like squished things,” Helen said.
“I remembered you said that you never got sweets from Ibott, because he doesn’t bake, and we’re under house arrest, so I thought it might be a while, and—”
A noise made Lillian turn her head, nervous. Just someone coughing.
Lillian’s voice cracked a little, “—And that was a lovely hug, Helen. Thank you.”
Still unsure what to say, Helen put a hand behind Lillian’s neck, leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
That done, she dropped to a cross-legged sitting position in one fluid movement, hunched over the carrot cake.
She shut her eyes as she took a bite, finding and meeting cravings all at once. It was somehow better than it might feel to wrap herself around Mauer and twist his arms and legs off. Better than it would feel to squeeze Sy or Mary until they cracked and popped.
Lillian was such a dear, and this piece of squished cake helped Helen make sense of Lillian and how she could like Lillian so, yet not want to squish or bend Lillian in a hundred different ways. Even when she had to feel so very mixed up, Lillian cared about others. It made Helen feel better in ways that she hadn’t realized she felt bad, to know she’d made sense of this one small piece of the world.
Helen finished and licked the remnants of the cake from her fingers. She hadn’t lost a crumb, but she double checked anyway.
The door banged open. Ibott appeared, and Helen felt a bit sad at seeing him. Being here, even separated from the other Lambs, was better than being with only Ibott.
She started to rise to her feet. The act seemed to upset the already agitated Ibott.
“Stay there,” he snapped. “They want to talk to you. When you’re done, you’ll come straight to me.”
“Yes, professor,” she said, silently elated.
He hadn’t even made it all the way down the hall when others emerged from the room. Mary was one person, looking just as unhappy as Lillian, using crutches to walk.
Other professors and Academy types left after Mary did, taking their leave, many of them looking annoyed and upset.
Hayle was the last to exit. He beckoned Ashton and Helen to draw nearer.
The moment she was close enough, Helen wrapped her arms around Ashton from behind. He smelled so good, almost as good a smell as the cake was a taste. She could smell the puff of good things from him as he reacted happily to the contact, even if his acting was still so very terrible.
Hayle looked at Lacey and Sylvester’s doctors, then heaved out a sigh. “As is so often the case with Sylvester, things have been rendered… very inconvenient.”
“Hear hear,” Lacey said, quiet enough that she probably thought only she could hear it.
Hayle spoke, “For those who don’t know, this should be commonly accepted knowledge amid the Academy and the Crown by tomorrow, because certain parties are going out of their way to broadcast it. The Baron Richmond is dead, as are his sisters, killed in his home territory of Warrick.”
Helen watched Lillian’s eyes widen.
“Mary professes to have gone after Sylvester, who went after the Baron as his last act before running off to places unknown. All signs point to Sylvester being the sole culprit in the Baron’s death, using poisons and almost going out of his way to sign the kill by using a crude overdose of Wyvern, of all things.
“The fact that Mary Cobourn returned and her involvement isn’t otherwise apparent is a point in her favor, as is the note we produced with her handwriting, several days ago. She will remains under suspicion, and a full investigation is still pending. Until some future date that we’ve yet to establish, likely four months to a year from now, the Lambsbridge program is on hold, and the Lambs will not participate in any investigations or activities. Lambs that wish to go anywhere but a home or a lab must be escorted. If any of you are found deviating from this, then we will have to assume the worst, terminate the program, and cancel your individual projects. Believe me when I say I don’t want to do this.”
Hayle looked at each Lamb in turn. Mary, Helen, Lillian, and Ashton.
Apparently satisfied by the degrees of seriousness he observed, he continued, “The Caterpillar project cannot be found, and we suspect he’s slipped away, using a keen memory of personnel, train, and other schedules to simply disappear on us. Given the chance he has departed to some other part of Radham, over distress about Sylvester and Mary’s disappearances, we’re giving him twenty-four hours to turn up. After that, he’ll be assumed a fugitive and traitor.
“As I said, Sylvester has a way of putting people in tough spots. A bounty has been placed on the head of Sylvester. I didn’t have a choice in this. Another bounty will soon be on Jamie’s head, if he doesn’t turn up. I’m left hoping that the bounties prove fruitful and that this situation sees an easy resolution, for your sakes and for mine. Do I expect it? No. More likely is that the Academy will have to rely on the Lambsbridge project to seek out enemies like Fray and now Sylvester as well. You can imagine my dilemma, because it is very, very hard to believe that you would give your all and hunt a former comrade.”
Lillian folded her arms, shrinking into herself a little. Mary let go of a crutch to reach out for Lillian’s hand, placing her hand over it.
“Find him. Bring him home. He will be imprisoned or restrained by some means, and will return to his position as one of the Lambs,” Hayle said. “Admittedly in a way that lets him coordinate, plan, and strategize, I’m sure he can adapt to a change of role, in that. By phone, radio, or other device, he can still play a part in your individual missions. You will be able to continue interacting with him and, if it’s even possible given how insufferable he is, enjoy his company. He will be safe, above all else, with my guarantee on that. Lillian will be set on her accelerated track to get her black coat, which Mary has mentioned is something Sy was upset abou
t, and the Lambs will remain together. The same holds true for Jamie. I’ve talked to Mary and I’ve observed the Lambs, and I believe this is something most or all of you want. It’s the best resolution I can give you.”
“What if we can’t find him?” Helen asked.
“Then it’s a dark mark against the Lambsbridge project,” Professor Hayle said. “I will be sent away, effectively demoted, and the Lambsbridge project will pass on to someone else, who will very probably cease all funding in favor of projects they have a personal stake in, and can claim full credit for.”
There were nods all around.
“Go. Back to your dormitory, to Lambsbridge, or to your respective professors. Helen, you’ll go back to Professor Ibott for the time being, at his insistence.”
“Yes, professor,” Helen said. Others echoed her.
The Lambs departed, making their way to the exit of Claret Hall. The doctors and professors who oversaw their individual projects hung back, talking among one another about the future of the project as a whole, and of the individual projects. Mary’s crutches clacked against the wooden floor as she moved with more force and anger than necessary.
“He’s a bastard,” Mary said.
There was no question or wondering about who she was referring to.
“He was so torn up,” Lillian said, quiet. “I’m so very angry at him, and I feel so bad for him at the same time. I can’t imagine how I’ll ever do what Hayle is suggesting and hunt him down.”
“It feels strange, hearing people talk,” Ashton said. “Because I expect him to say something mean or funny, but he doesn’t.”
“We all miss him,” Lillian said. “But yes, he’s a bastard. I don’t think there’s any argument on that.”
Helen and Lillian worked together to open the doors for Mary to pass through. They formed a group outside of Claret Hall. They were each going in individual directions. Mary to the doctor for her leg, Lillian to the dormitory, Helen to professor Ibott, and Ashton to Lambsbridge or an appointment.
“How are you, Helen?” Lillian asked. Ashton, still in Helen’s embrace, craned his head up to look at his big sister.
Helen offered her best smile. “How am I ever? I liked the cake. I would give you all of the best hugs in the world if you could sneak me more. I think my days to come will be cakeless.”
“About Sylvester, I mean,” Lillian said, quiet.
“I want to hunt him, a little,” Helen said, studying her own feelings. “I’ve always wanted to and it feels a little like I’m allowed to now, and that’s a little fun. But the professor took away some of my cravings because he said my limbic glands were taking in too much and accumulating too much. Even though he was wrong.”
“Your limbic glands?” Lillian asked.
“Yes,” Helen said. She knew Lillian had read the notes necessary to understand her biology and better do field care.
“Were your cravings severe?” Lillian asked.
“No, no they weren’t.”
“Okay,” Lillian said. “Your glands are supposed to process emotion. If it’s not cravings… is it possible you’re sad?”
Helen blinked, cocking her head to one side, and flashed a smile. “I don’t think I get sad, like that.”
“What are you feeling, then? I’m trying to decide if I should tell you to tell Ibott.”
Helen reached up to her chest, and dug her fingernails into cloth and flesh, twisting as if she could somehow demonstrate the sensations that were just sitting there, so easy to ignore but so very big. “I’m feeling… I’m feeling like things are complicated and they’re all snarly and big inside of me, like a tree with hooks for branches, and it’s all caught up in my organs and tugging things wrong, but they’re ideas as much as emotions. I don’t think it’s sad. It’s not the opposite of the good feeling that comes with bending people into impossible shapes or eating good food.”
“Could you say…” Lillian ventured, “That you’re troubled?”
Troubled.
Troubled was a good word. Helen dug her fingers in deeper, twisting at fabric even more, then let her hands drop.
She nodded, feeling her hair bounce with the motion.
“I think we’re all troubled,” Mary said, with anger still in her voice. She stared down at the ground, as if she was imagining Sylvester lying there.
“I’ll get you some sweets when I can,” Lillian said. “If that helps.”
Helen nodded fiercely.
“And Mary, we need to talk, about a lot of things,” Lillian said. “Come to my room, later? If you can? I’ll see if I can be the person that looks after your leg, so we can spend more time together.”
Mary nodded, still not making eye contact. So angry. So very angry and bitter.
Lillian reached out to rub Mary’s shoulder. It seemed to prompt a response, opening the door for Mary to talk.
“The other bad seeds,” Mary said. “My brothers, Percy called them. When it mattered, they abandoned me. They were a group, and I was on my own, and they made decisions without consulting me. Percy told me he cared, and then he walked away.”
“And Sylvester did the same thing,” Lillian said, her voice tight.
Mary nodded, blinking hard.
“Come to my room tonight,” Lillian said. “We’ll talk.”
“He—” Mary started. She cleared her throat. “I understand why he did it, I think. A lot of things he said before he actually shot me, it made sense when I realized he was agonizing over it. That he felt bad and he knew exactly what he was doing to me, to you, and to us. But he still did it, because… remember when Jamie told him he needed to be selfish?”
There were some nods.
“He might have excuses, but he’s still a bastard for doing it like this,” Lillian said, very firmly. “And if we have to hunt him and drag him back, he deserves it. But we have a little while to figure it out, and to see how much worse this gets.”
Previous Next
Cut to the Quick—11.1
“Look at the chair you’re sitting in right now,” I said. “Now, this might sound silly, but I want you to imagine there are lines of strength running through it. Close your eyes for me. Visualize the chair. Where is it strongest? When someone sits in it, where are the stresses? Where would you draw the lines, if you were just drawing the imaginary bones of the armchair?”
I watched as Shirley closed her eyes. I could see how tense she was. Her back didn’t even touch the chair back.
“Um,” she said. She moved her hands, twisting around. She indicated the chair back, the arms. “I think here and here? And the legs? I don’t really get it.”
“No, you’re right,” I said. “Where are the lines of strength in your body? It’s cheating if we think of your skeleton, so I want you to imagine one line running from your right hand to your shoulder, curving down to extend to your left leg, and another from your left hand to your right leg. Imagine it, as strongly as you can.”
“I’m imagining it,” Shirley said.
“Can I touch you, to guide you?” I asked.
“Most men don’t ask before touching me,” she said, opening her eyes. “They pay after.”
“Eyes closed,” I said, chastizing her. She obeyed. “Imagine the lines.”
“Okay.”
“What color are they?”
“Um. Yellow? Why?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. Shirley was a pixie of a girl, barely nineteen, petite, with a smaller chest than most girls of her profession, and some amazing legs. Her black hair was shorter than mine, but a headband gave her a feminine touch. I liked her eyes most, though. They were large and expressive.
Interesting that she thought of herself as yellow. It didn’t mean anything, and it got her thinking about the lines again. “I’ll ask again, since I didn’t get an answer. May I touch you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said. I touched her shoulders firmly, and urged her to lean back. “Relax, keep imagining the lines, and
lean back, feel the chair back against the small of your back and your shoulderblades. The lines of the chair and the lines of your upper body are more in alignment, aren’t they? Almost like you can imagine them as two pieces of a whole?”
“Yes.”
“And…” I said, putting two fingers on the back of one knee. I felt her move it as I used the bare minimum of strength, until her thighs were crossed, one foot dangling, “For your lower body, I want you to figure out where your leg goes, so it’s in alignment with the chair’s arm and leg. Keep those eyes closed.”
She moved her leg to the side, so the foot was at the base of the leg. After a moment, she shifted position, so only her toes were on the floor, her heel resting against the leg. It had the same effect as being in heels, elongating her already long legs. It also had the effect of raising her knees, which was a tantalizing thing when she wore a short dress.
Movement off to one side caught my eye. There were four young women, two young men and one Jamie gathered at the entrance of the room, watching. A young woman standing in the doorway was changing her posture to better pose herself at the doorway. Listening and learning. We had an audience.
“Someone could paint a picture of you right now, Shirley,” one of the women at the door said.
Shirley’s eyes opened.
Before her focus was lost, I gave an instruction, “Relax your shoulders and let your arm down so—”
She dropped her arm, draping it along the chair’s.
“—Like that. Perfect,” I said.
Shirley gave me a smile. When I smiled back, she looked away, suddenly self-conscious.
“Why are you running away from me?” I asked. “Eye contact. When you’re working, If you’re here or you’re outside, you’re going to want to pick out customers, instead of having them pick you, right?”
She frowned a little.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s the job, isn’t it?” she asked. “The customers choose. Even here.”
I dropped down to sit on the coffee table, across from her. “From here on out, you choose. I know you had a bad run. You got hurt, you want to keep doing this, but you’re still afraid.”
