Twig

by wildbow

  A knife, not a gun. Mauer’s foot went out, a leather shoe and one leg barring her way, so that she ran into his leg instead of escaping.

  With his overlarge hand, he grabbed her, and he pinned her against the seat of the chair, in a way that had her lying sideways across it.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait wait.”

  He drew the blade of the knife across her throat. Her eyes went wide at the initial leap of blood that appeared before her eyes.

  She hadn’t even had a plan for what to say.

  What could she say?

  If not the Infante, then—

  “Island,” she said, voice a squeak.

  He moved his overlarge hand and embedded the knife in her chest. The blow wasn’t remarkable on its own, but it felt like he’d used the giant hand to deliver it. All of the wind went out of her. Her heart strained to beat and failed the attempt. It failed the next, and then the next.

  With every failure to beat, more and more strength fled her. The amount of strength that seemed to pour out of her was surprising.

  “Gomer’s,” she managed, with a last gasp.

  But Gomer’s Island didn’t mean anything unto itself. That meant nothing to Mauer. It gave him no reason to spare her.

  “Missing children,” she said.

  Too late, she realized that she hadn’t actually said anything at all. Her lips had moved, but there had been no sound.

  A part of her reached out, emotionally, hoped, prayed, for Mauer to understand. It had nothing to do with sparing herself, finding a reason to make Mauer want to keep her alive. She simply wanted answers. She wanted Mauer’s curiosity to be piqued.

  Maybe he would choose Gomer’s Island for a place to hide out for the next stretch, and maybe, one shot in a million, he might find out something about the missing children.

  Perhaps there would be resolution there, and the children would be okay.

  That part of her wasn’t Evette. It wasn’t a bundled together mass of the behaviors and reckless thinking, nor any representation or fallout of the countless sessions of agony and disorientation that Sylvester had endured to gain what Wyvern had offered him.

  Hello, Sylvester, Evette thought. Nice of you to join us.

  Us.

  Lambs, catch me.

  ☙

  “Put the book down for one damn minute, Jamie,” Sylvester said.

  He had to dodge around the littler members of Lambsbridge, who were playing a violent variant on the game of tag, in order to reach the base of the tree, where Jamie sat. The rain was lighter today, but Jamie still needed the dense leaves of the tree to protect his book from the water.

  “Important bit,” a twelve year old Jamie said, scribbling something down, tongue sticking out between his lips. “Gimme a minute.”

  On the other side of the yard, Gordon roared as he lifted one of the smaller children over his head.

  Mary, still reticent, not wholly used to the group, hung back, at the furthest end of the yard. Her hands were clasped in front of her. As a indicator of how nervous and out of her element she might have felt, the hands were minor at best. The fact that she kept looking at Sylvester for reassurance was more telling.

  Sylvester met her eyes and smiled. She smiled back, and unclasped her hands.

  Lillian was beside her. Chattering madly about something.

  Sylvester turned his attention to Jamie, and plucked the book out of Jamie’s hands mid-word. The pen scratched against the paper in the process, no doubt drawing a long line down the page.

  “Give that back,” Jamie said.

  “I want to see what you’re saying,” Sylvester said.

  Jamie stood, reaching for the book. Sylvester blocked Jamie with his body, putting the book as far away as possible.

  “Don’t be a dick, Sylvester,” Gordon lectured him.

  Some of the other children picked up the cry of, “don’t be a dick!” It became a chant.

  “I’m not being a dick!” Sylvester protested. He mashed a hand into Jamie’s face, very intentionally making Jamie’s glasses sit ajar and smudging them, in an effort to keep the book away.

  Helen, who had been braiding one of the older girls’ hair on the back steps of the house, handed over her work in progress to another one of the girls, stood, and carefully dusted herself off before stalking in the direction of the two boys.

  “Drat and dang it,” Sylvester said, on seeing the approach.

  “Whatever she does to you, you deserve it,” Jamie said. He jabbed Sylvester in the kidney.

  Sylvester, in turn, got Jamie into a headlock. He did his best to unseat Jamie’s glasses, which forced Jamie to have to catch the glasses and use up one hand.

  Jamie, with glasses and pen in the same hand, lightly stabbed Sylvester.

  “Ow! Uncalled for!”

  “Called for,” Gordon judged.

  “You can shut up, oaf!” Sylvester declared.

  “Oaf?”

  Jamie hooked one leg around his, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. With that done, Jamie tried to mash Sylvester’s face into the grass.

  Extending one leg out, Sylvester found the ink pot Jamie had been dipping into. In the midst of the struggle, face being ground into dirt, Sylvester caught the pot between two feet, and jerked it up and in Jamie’s direction.

  Jamie froze, releasing Sylvester.

  The ink had splattered all over Jamie’s back, the back of his head, and one shoulder. Some had gotten on Sylvester’s clothes, but he’d gotten Jamie far, far worse.

  Jamie’s jaw had dropped open.

  Sylvester let a grin spread across his face.

  Moving slowly, so as not to disturb the still image, he reached up and over, touching the ink at Jamie’s shoulder.

  So lightly it was little more than a tap, he planted an inky handprint on Jamie’s cheek.

  “What is wrong with you, you little goblin?” Lillian asked, horrified.

  “Poor Jamie!” Helen protested. “Sweet Jamie!”

  The children took up the cry, much as they’d taken up the call of ‘don’t be a dick’.

  Sylvester could see Mary’s expression, the awe and the horror and the confusion.

  Gordon stood off to the side with one hand at his mouth, hiding the smirk.

  “I won,” Sylvester said. “You always tell me I never ever won a fight, but this is a win! This has to be a win, that was perfect!”

  Jamie hit him in the ribs, adjusting position to better pin him down, and hit him again, harder.

  “I won!” Sy protested. “Tell them, Gordon!”

  Jamie pressed the heel of his hand into Sylvester’s face.

  “Tell them!”

  “You lost,” Gordon intoned.

  “No! No I didn’t!”

  “You lost because you were a jerk to your best friend—”

  “He can take it!”

  “—and because you’re getting your tiny ass beat right now.”

  “No! I delivered the finishing blow!” Sy protested, in futility. “It was glorious. You all saw it!”

  Lillian cut in, “You’re the worst, Sylvester.”

  “I’m the worst and I won!”

  Jamie shoved dirt and grass at Sy’s lips. Some slipped through, despite Sylvester’s attempts at keeping his mouth sealed shut.

  Sylvester caught a glimpse of Jamie’s face and he saw the smile.

  Spitting, twisting his head away, Sylvester said, “Jamie!”

  “What?”

  “Very sorry, good sir!”

  “You should be.”

  “Very sorry. I was wonder—pff! I was wondering if you might allow me to borrow your journal.”

  “After that display?”

  “Yes, kind sir. If it would be no trouble. You looked so happy while writing, and I was yearning, absolutely, positively yearning to know why.”

  Jamie finally relented. Sy lay on the ground, panting, while Jamie remained where he was.

  Sy looked at the others. Helen
had stopped a short distance away, and was trying to ease the worries of one of the youngest children that were somehow able to see past her mask, talking about simple things, while keeping only half an eye on Sylvester and Jamie.

  Gordon was talking to Mary, with Lillian close by, listening. He held a mallet that was part of one of the lawn games in one hand. It was very likely he was talking about the group dynamic.

  But, in the midst of that, almost absentmindedly, Gordon flipped the mallet into the air, so it spun end over end three times, before catching it by the handle again.

  In that show-offy little action, Gordon did far more to ease Mary’s worries about not fitting in than any number of words he might have offered. It showed crystal clear in her expression and body language.

  Gordon had won her over, just like that. But that was the sort of thing he did, with no apparent effort.

  Jamie interrupted the observations by dropping the heavy journal on the side of Sylvester’s head.

  “Ow. You sadist.”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to call anyone a sadist, Sy. Ever. It’s just not allowed. You’ve got that market locked up tight.”

  “As if I’m worse than some of the nobles or back alley lunatic doctors out there.”

  “You’re worse than all of the nobles put together,” Jamie said, climbing off of Sylvester. “Because at least they look pretty while they do horrible things to undeserving people. And you’re worse than the doctors, because at least they have talent.”

  Sy gasped, melodramatic.

  “Shut up and read while I figure out if this ink will rub off. You’re an absolute ass, for the record.”

  Sy happily sat up, scooted over to sit with his back to the stone wall that surrounded the yard, and placed the book across his lap.

  He paged through it, looking at the illustrations and the key words. Jamie was only a third of the way through this one. It started with the Snake Charmer, and moved on to the Bad Seeds. Then there was Mauer, their first mission with Mary…

  And finally, a page with a line running down a third of it. On that page, sketched out in thin black lines with lots of hash marks, there was a depiction of the scene in the yard. Mary standing in the corner, hesitant, Lillian chattering at her, Helen braiding Frances’ hair, and Gordon playing with the kids. Sylvester had a spot of his own, hanging from a branch, observing it all.

  He read the words.

  “Mary looks very tidy and fashionable, with lace at the edges of her clothes. I wish I could draw well enough to represent it, but words will have to do,” Sylvester said.

  “She does.”

  “You don’t call a girl tidy, Jamie. You call someone tidy if you’re trying to be polite about the fact that they’re not very pretty.”

  “Do you? Huh.”

  “May I make edits?” Sylvester asked.

  “I don’t see why not. You already added a long line down the page, and more ink to my clothes.”

  “Scratching out ‘very tidy’, and adding ‘rather pretty’.”

  “I’m fairly certain she heard that, Sy,” Jamie said, his voice quiet. “She jumped as if you’d pricked her.”

  In an equally quiet voice, Sylvester added, “What a darn shame. Good thing it’s the truth. Helen is all charms, no argument there.”

  He looked up at Helen, who had returned to braiding. She was some distance away, but she still looked up and winked. Sylvester grinned at her.

  “And Lillian?” Jamie asked.

  “Lillian… is doing a very serviceable job of entertaining our newest member. She’s not a complete disappointment.”

  “Don’t you dare put that in the book,” Jamie said. “That’s not right at all.”

  “Fine.”

  “If you’re actually sorry at all for getting ink on me, I want you to come up with something genuinely nice to say about her.”

  “What? That’s unreasonable and over the top, compared…”

  Jamie stared him down.

  “To…”

  Jamie continued to stare.

  “Fine. Fine. Lillian… makes a fine pair together with Mary. Her school uniform fits her as well as the lace does Mary, with sharp looks to match her talents as a student and medic.”

  “That was… better than expected.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And she glanced our way as you said that.”

  “Dang it. She heard?”

  “She heard.”

  “Dang it. Too late to redact?”

  “Too late.”

  Sylvester dutifully wrote down the bits. “Only thing I want to add about Gordon is that he was smirking after I got you with the ink.”

  “I’ll figure out where to work that in. But don’t get things out of order.”

  “Alright,” Sylvester said. He looked over the book one more time, then handed it back.

  “Thank you,” Jamie said.

  Sylvester bowed.

  “Don’t act like it was a great service you did me,” Jamie said. “I’m still miffed. And Ms. Earles is going to be too, when I go to scrub down and I turn the bathtub black.”

  “Why?” Sylvester asked.

  “Hm?”

  “Why this scene? You said it was an important bit.”

  “It’s a good day,” Jamie said. He found his seat again at the base of the tree, and carefully righted the ink pot, moving it aside. “It’s worth remembering.”

  “Hm,” Sylvester made a sound.

  He looked at Lillian and Mary.

  For the past little while, Mary had shown signs of insecurity that would fade only for a few moments, when he gave her close attention. A glance, close proximity. But that knot was unwinding. She was embroiled in a three way conversation with Gordon and Lillian, and there were only faint signs of discomfort.

  She would work out. She wasn’t close to Helen in the here and now, but she slept in Helen’s room. It would work out.

  He felt a pang of fondness, looking at them as a group.

  Even Lillian. A little. Ugh.

  “Jamie?”

  “Oh my lords,” Jamie said, without looking up from his book. “You’re going to pester me all day, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely. Absolutely. Are you going to add the scene with the scrap between you and me? With the ink? Is that part of the good day?”

  “Of course,” Jamie said.

  Sylvester smiled.

  “You dick.”

  ☙

  It was less a gasp and a lurch to step back from the darkness, and more an immense pressure, a terrible resistance, and finally pushing past a barrier, to stagger exhausted to the other side.

  “There we go,” Mauer said, his voice soft. “Gomorrah?”

  Evette shook her head, opening her mouth to ask a question, and found she didn’t have the strength.

  Her vision was blurry. She could see the equipment that was strung into and out of her chest. Sylvester’s chest. Two of Mauer’s doctors were working on the damage.

  Fought our way back. There we go.

  She felt profoundly lonely. Sylvester was somewhere in there, but he wasn’t showing himself, and the Lambs, spectre or no, weren’t there.

  “Gomer’s island,” Mauer tried. “Also known as Gomorrah. You mouthed two words, and it looked like missing children.”

  He lipreads.

  She nodded.

  “I do believe I know what you’re referring to,” Mauer said. “We’ll talk when you’re strong enough to speak.”

  Previous Next

  Thicker than Water—14.10

  “Why me?” Mary asked.

  Evette lay on the bed, working hard to breathe. Her vision had cleared up from what it had been, but that only let her see just how extensive the damage was. In the gloom, tubes ran in and out of Sylvester’s chest, leading to an external heart that lay on the table, pumping its mechanical rhythm. The heart was flesh and bone, the bone shell encapsulating the upper left quarter and the bottom right. With every beat, the
corners of the two quarters clicked together faintly.

  Two men were in the room, a rebellion doctor that stood by the window, smoking, and a soldier who had positioned himself by the door, so he could read by the shaft of light that came in through the crack in the door.

  “You’re working on making us available to you again,” Mary said.

  “Yes,” Evette murmured.

  “You could have picked anyone else for this. But you picked me.”

  “The mission comes first,” Evette said. “And you won’t lose track of that.”

  Mary, faceless and distorted around the edges, standing in the dark, turned her head, taking in the room.

  “Right?” Evette prompted Mary.

  “Yes.”

  Mary seemed angry, but Evette wasn’t willing to push it or wonder why.

  Better to muster her forces. Hours were passing, she was supposed to be checking in to rescue Shirley, and instead she was lying in a bed in a dark room with rain pattering against the window. Men’s voices in other rooms suggested an ongoing discussion between Mauer and his men. She couldn’t make out the words, or really distinguish Mauer’s voice from the others, but one speaker’s voice definitely set the pace for the others. There were longer pauses following it as others considered their words, and nobody interrupted or jumped in to add their thoughts to the tail end of any statements.

  As discussions went, it was serious and methodical.

  Mary spoke, looking in the general direction of the group of men in the other room, “Mauer isn’t cooperating. I’m not sure there is a mission at this point.”

  Evette looked at the shadowy lump that was the mechanical heart. It didn’t keep as steady a rhythm as she would have liked, and it made her feel particularly out of sorts as she felt her pulse maintain a different course than her thoughts and feelings did.

  “All part of the plan,” she murmured.

  “No it isn’t,” Mary said.

  “Don’t be that way, hon. You and I, we can learn to dance,” Evette said. “We could have gotten along.”

  “There’s something Sylvester and I share in common,” Mary said.

  “Yeah. Fine. I get it.”

  “If you’d existed, Sylvester wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have.”