Witchmark

by C. L. Polk

  “I need to select a print.”

  “You have work to do, then.”

  Avia huffed out a breath and marched across the room, the wheels on her trolley bag squeaking.

  “I’m Caroline Miller,” the little woman said. “You must be Tristan Hunter.”

  Tristan bent over her hand. “My companion is Dr. Miles Singer. He’s the official investigator of the case.”

  She gave me another look. “An army surgeon?”

  “I practice at Beauregard Veterans’, Mrs. Miller. Mr. Hunter brought Nick to my hospital.”

  “I see.”

  She let us into her office, a long, narrow space with a glass wall looking down at the staff desks. Her guest chairs were handsome, hand-carved wood with perfectly curved backs. I breathed a contented sigh before she pierced me with a look. “You squirmed like a worm on a hook out there. Why do you pursue this when the police claim there’s no evidence?”

  “The body was destroyed before I could examine it,” I said.

  “Mr. Elliot went on a number of journeys earlier in the year,” Tristan said. “Were they for his work here?”

  Mrs. Miller looked up at the ceiling and huffed. “Those blasted trips. I never should have agreed to them. He’d done his work in advance to take the time off and still make deadline. Now everyone on the leisure desk thinks they can dash off some drivel and go have a holiday.”

  “They were personal?” I asked. “Did he say what he was doing?”

  “He said he was doing some research for a new book.”

  Tristan broke in. “So he never offered you a story based on his research?”

  Mrs. Miller stared at Tristan. “What was he really doing on those trips?”

  “We’re not sure,” Tristan admitted. “Do you know where he went?”

  “You should ask Alice Farmer,” Mrs. Miller said. “She’s a typist, but if she had any hand at writing at all I’d give her a press card in an instant.”

  Tristan cocked his head. “That’s an interesting lament.”

  “She never forgets anything,” Mrs. Miller said, “but she can’t write. Too literal. She’s the one in the green blouse, at the corner.”

  * * *

  Alice Farmer’s forearms rippled with strength and dexterity as she typed a transcript. Her posture was perfect, upright and poised. She watched us approach—

  Well, me. She stared at me, her fingers never losing their tempo, reaching up to bat the platen back into place to conquer the next line. She didn’t even glance at the notes she transcribed. Her forehead furrowed with the permanent surprise of her eyebrows, her large eyes wide and brown. Staring. Only when we came close enough to offer our hands did she look away, shoulders rising in defense.

  I put my hand down, and so did Tristan.

  “Miss Farmer? I’m Tristan Hunter, and this is—”

  “I know who he is.” Her voice was soft, almost watery. “Everyone thinks you’re dead, Sir Christopher.”

  The room rocked.

  Tristan grabbed my elbow and held me steady. “How do you know him?”

  “The Kingston Royal Herald, Leafshed nineteen, in the fourth year of Queen Constantina’s rule. You appeared in a photograph with your father,” she said. “You cut the ribbon on the children’s garden in Hensley Park.” She tilted her head and squeezed her fingers together.

  I had cut the ribbon that day. I’d been six, and not yet a disappointment.

  “Dr. Miles Singer, at your service,” I said.

  “Nick had a picture of you,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Singer.”

  “He what?”

  Alice shifted out of her seat and walked with her head bowed to Nick’s desk. She slid open a drawer and handed me a photograph. I stood on the sidewalk next to the wrought iron fence of Beauregard, waiting on Robin to unchain her bicycle. The composition was slapdash, as if someone had simply pointed the camera at us and shot.

  “Leafshed sixteen,” Alice said. “It’s not a very good picture, but I knew you as soon as Nick showed it to me. He seemed surprised when I told him who you were. He even asked me if I was sure.”

  It explained how Nick had learned my name. Why the photo? It made sense if I assumed that Nick could see auras. He could have been at the hospital investigating the men and seen me there, taking the photograph as part of his quest for the truth.

  “Excuse me,” Alice said.

  We followed her back to her typewriter. Tristan held her chair for her and said, “Mrs. Miller told us you could answer some questions about Nick Elliot’s trips this year.”

  Her gaze slid off to the side. “He traveled. Hedleigh, New Year three to seven, for personal reasons. Kirford, Snowglaze fourteen to nineteen, to write an article about southern glasshouse farming. Red Hawk, Firstgreen twenty to twenty-five, for personal reasons. Norton, Merrymonth four to nine, for the Peach Blossom Festival. Mary’s Wish, Summerstide eleven to sixteen. Personal reasons.” Her hands sprang free of each other, and she twisted her skirt in grasping fingers. “I should be working.”

  He’d gone somewhere recently. “Was that all?”

  “Bywell, Leafshed five to nine,” Alice gulped. “To see—to see his mother, Ann.”

  Tristan and I exchanged looks. “His mother.”

  Alice dropped her gaze to her hands, twisted together in knots. “He had all his work done. I typed all of his columns. He predicted the lovely gardens of the week perfectly, even when he wrote them three weeks early.”

  Tristan stirred beside me. “What was he like, Alice?”

  “He was kind.” Alice’s smile made her pretty. “If he wanted to look something up from a previous column, he’d ask me instead. I liked him.”

  “Did he change? Did he seem unhappy?”

  “He tried to hide it,” Alice said. “Maybe no one could tell.”

  “How long ago did he start hiding it?”

  “After he came back from Norton. He was quieter. He stopped smiling.”

  A few months. It could have been longer, but I trusted Miss Farmer’s memory.

  “If you remember anything else, Miss Farmer, will you inform me?” Tristan handed her a calling card on stiff cream paper with embossed borders.

  “Thank you for the card, Mr. Hunter. I will keep it. Goodbye, Dr. Singer.”

  Alice returned to her transcription, typing without referring to the original page.

  * * *

  We nodded to Mrs. Miller and left, unspeaking until we were alone in the elevator.

  “She didn’t call me Sir Tristan.”

  “She probably has the names of the peerage memorized,” I said. “Hunter’s not on it.”

  “There’s a connection between those towns,” Tristan said. “Find the connection, we find the reason for the visits.”

  “He kept what he was working on a secret,” I said. “Gold and Key rejected it, but someone stole it. Dead obvious he found something somebody didn’t want getting out.”

  “Someone with power and resources?”

  I thought of Sir Percy. I didn’t have proof. But if any of the Invisibles wanted an antiwar agitator with a press license dead, he was the most likely. How could I find evidence on him? I couldn’t get anywhere near him.

  But Tristan might. If we found enough to point toward Sir Percy, or more accurately, his underlings. “Have to be, wouldn’t it? I was robbed by a henchman; Nick’s flat was burgled, his body cleverly destroyed. … We have to find out what he was writing.”

  We emerged onto the street. No celebration here, but the block south of us was filled with people who sang and danced. Michael sat atop the carriage with a penny-book in hand, but he jumped down to open the coach door to us.

  “Thirty-nine twenty-one Magpie Road East, Michael.”

  “Sure, Doctor. I remember.”

  “If you want help packing your clothes, I can get in the way while trying to be helpful.” Tristan sprawled on the sprung and padded bench at the back of the coach. “Now, what do you say
to a bite? Mrs. Sparrow put a shoulder on the stove, and it should be ready to fall apart by now.”

  “I should stay home. I have … I have to do a healing tomorrow.”

  Tristan tilted his head. “You hide your gift, but you’re doing a healing.”

  I didn’t want to talk about this. A hot, sour lump swelled in my stomach, reached an acid hand up my throat as the carriage lurched into traffic. “My family.”

  “Ah.”

  It was a short ride home. Tristan put out a hand to stop me, reaching for his breast pocket.

  “I want to give you something.”

  I stared at the long iron key in his palm. “Your key?”

  “In case you need a refuge.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I expect it back on Firstday,” Tristan said. “For now, take it.”

  I took the key. It bore nicks and scrapes from years of use, heavy in my hand. I was welcome, any time of the day or night. Friends didn’t give over the keys to their homes.

  Lovers did. “I can’t—”

  Tristan met my eyes, caught my hand in his. “Miles. Use it. We have work to do. Frostnight is coming. It’s easier this way.”

  Frostnight would be here too soon. “I’ll take it.”

  Tension melted from his shoulders. “And use it.”

  “I will. As soon as I’m done.”

  “People will wonder after the coach,” Tristan said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  SIXTEEN

  Binding

  I took the key from my pocket and laid it on my bedside table to rest next to my windup clock set for five am. It caught a sliver of the light from the street as I closed my eyes and slept, and it was still there come morning, free of illusion or trickery. It weighted my trouser pocket as I toasted bread, the first to rise on Sixthday, awake even before Mrs. Bass came down to open the boardinghouse doors.

  “Dr. Singer.” She stood in the threshold of the kitchen, head cocked, but she came forward to accept a freshly burped cup of coffee. She sipped, and nodded at the quality of my brew.

  “Do you have an extra shift at the hospital?”

  “Just an early day,” I said, my fingertips pressing into the whiteware mug, gathering up its warmth.

  “Will your friend’s fine carriage be picking you up?” She raised her coffee mug. “I never had a gentleman living under my roof before you.”

  “I’m not a gentleman any longer, Mrs. Bass.”

  “Some things you can’t shed like an old coat, Doctor.” Mrs. Bass smiled at me. “If you need to move suddenly, I understand.”

  She finished her cup and headed for the hall, and I followed after. Mrs. Bass unlocked the front door, and beyond the weekend edition of the Star, a heavy, steel-sprung landau bearing the Hensley seal waited at the end of the walk. Four blindered and crested black carriage horses stood quietly, matched as peas in a pod.

  Mrs. Bass looked back at me. “I believe that’s for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bass.” I bent and retrieved the Star for her before I stepped over the threshold and down the walk.

  “Dr. Singer.”

  I stopped. “Mrs. Bass?”

  She held the paper with white knuckles, gazing at the carriage. “Be careful. You and Dame Grace.”

  “Mrs. Bass?”

  She gave me a tense smile and swung the door shut.

  “Do you require assistance?”

  The footman had snuck up on me. I gave him my bag and led the way to the landau. This was the old family carriage, refurbished to look as it had a dozen years ago. Grace blinked at me, and took her feet off the opposite bench to let me sit. “What in the name of the gods are you wearing?”

  She regarded my tweed jacket and flat cap with astonishment.

  “Working clothes.” Some imp of rebellion had guided my hand in dressing—instead of my good gray flannel suit, I wore a tweed check made on a machine to average measurements. The shoulders fit, the body billowed, and the check on the trousers didn’t quite match.

  It wasn’t that bad.

  Grace wrinkled her nose. “You live in a single room and dress yourself in rags. I thought the suit you wore to the luncheon was a bit dated, but you look a laborer in that thing.”

  Unfair. I wasn’t wearing a neckerchief, and the suit had a waistcoat. “I think we should talk about something else.”

  “I brought you breakfast.” Grace gestured to the basket on the opposite seat, and I sat beside it, lifting the lid.

  Grace rapped the roof of the coach and it shuddered into motion. I regarded my breakfast with pinched lips. Forced strawberries from a glasshouse, suspended in cultured double cream. Knots of egg-bread stuffed with eggs, bits of mushroom, sausage, and cheese. My mouth watered. A stack of pink bacon, drizzled with sweet mustard sauce.

  This was a disaster.

  “This was my favorite breakfast.”

  She smiled, proud and fond. “I remember.”

  “Grace…” She’d only meant to make me happy. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

  “Oh Miles, please. No more of your ridiculous self-denial. Eat your breakfast.”

  “You banished the servants from the house,” I explained. “And then you had Cook make young Master Christopher’s favorite breakfast, to take with you before the crack of dawn.”

  “Oh.” Grace’s mouth turned down. She worried at her lip. “Do you think she figured it out?”

  “She’d try to cheer me up with my favorites.” I used to hide in her kitchen on bad days. On the worst days, I wouldn’t want to leave at all.

  “I’ll tell her to keep quiet.”

  “Then she’ll know she was right.”

  “I didn’t mean to—” Grace sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t mean any harm.” I took up a silver spoon and ate my breakfast. The strawberries, all three of the stuffed egg-buns, every scrap of bacon. Grace was slack-jawed by the time I was finished.

  “Healing drains me, like storm-singing drains you,” I said. “Magic’s magic. Even second-rate tricks.”

  “I know,” she said. “Secondary powers have their own value. But yours is— They should have treated you better, Miles. They should treat all the Secondaries better.”

  “Oh come on, Grace. We’re housed. We’re clothed. We live in luxury, don’t we? Shouldn’t we be grateful?”

  “Don’t snap at me, Miles. I understand what it’s like.”

  “You don’t. You imagine. You sympathize. But you can’t understand.”

  Grace looked out the windows at Kingston, growing sleeker and wealthier with every turn of the coach’s wheels. We were past Wellston Triangle and into Halston Park. Tristan’s front door was somewhere behind us.

  “We’re nearly home,” Grace said.

  My breakfast weighed down my stomach.

  * * *

  The Western Point is a park with houses scattered inside it. The roads curved around trees so enormous that you needed ten men to circle a trunk with clasped hands. Between them, long rolling lawns and formal gardens carpeted the grounds around massive homes built well back from the roads. The satisfied neighborhoods west of 15th couldn’t hope to match the grandeur and privacy of the Western Point, claimed entirely by the Hundred Families. The apples planted here were a deep wine red, their flesh acid and perfect for pie and cider. Did Grace still love apples, or had she outgrown them?

  I looked back at the woman who sprawled comfortably in her seat. I didn’t know my sister. She’d still been so young when I left, about to come out to society and take on some of Father’s responsibilities with government.

  The coach slowed and turned, wiping my thoughts away. Hensley House dozed in the sunrise, rose and amber light falling on the stables behind us. I craned my neck. Small windows lined this side of the house, bunched together so each narrow servant’s room would have their own. We exited the carriage, and Grace opened the servants’ door herself. I lingered to touch the hand-hewn gray stone, surprised when I felt not
hing. I had once lived here, but this wasn’t my home.

  The servants had been given the morning off. Most weren’t here. The rest were enjoying luxurious sleep. I set my feet carefully on these steps, quiet as a mouse until we walked on hand-knotted carpets woven with interlocking squares. I passed my old bedroom without turning my head and walked between small tables supporting clear glass statuettes of my forebears—Great-grandmother Fiona and Grandpa Miles centered on pedestals a little higher than the rest, to mark how they had ascended to the highest position among the Invisibles. Father’s statuette stood high as well. There wasn’t one for my sister, as she wasn’t yet thirty. My mother had never had one made.

  Grace stopped, and we occupied ourselves with listening to the quiet. She pressed light fingers on the door lever, and we crept inside.

  I should have expected it.

  The man who lay sleeping on the left side of the wide, heavy bed dominating the master chamber was … old. His hair was frosted by age, the bristle of his beard snowy white. He loomed so huge in my memory. This man was thin, wasted, the lines on his face deepened with a year of painful dying.

  I studied his mind, the sparks of thought and response slow with the deep relaxation of sleep, with none of the animation that indicated dreaming. I had to sit beside him, touch him, keep him asleep while I worked, but I stared instead. So old. How could it be, that my father was dying? For even after I worked on his lungs, the machine of his body was running down. I could give him a year. Perhaps two. I would leave here and never speak to him, never let him know I lived. This was what had become of the giant who overshadowed my life? He looked so … small. So frail. But the growths inside his lungs were strong. They grew. They thrived, some large as the end of my thumb, others merely specks, but too many and too strong. I couldn’t save him, but I could buy Grace some time.

  I needed to get on with it and didn’t want to be in the same room with this man any longer than necessary. I let my fingertips rest on the exposed part of his breastbone and worked off breakfast. It was too much. I was too late. If I’d seen this a year ago …