Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  Whatever this is.

  “Yes,” the doctor says. “It should have been fatal, but somehow he only nicked your lung. As long as you avoid infection, you should be fine, though your recovery may be slower than you want.”

  The words take a moment to sink in, but my emotions roll over me in an odd combination of mourning and exhilaration. I won’t break down over Sparrow here, not with them standing over me.

  “Then I’m free?” I ask. With both Rory and Caskers assuming my demise, I would be taken off the roster for the Pits. I would no longer be hunted for murder.

  I glance out the window. I can’t see Meridion’s shadow, but its presence beats through my bones. That much closer to freedom, though the price has already been too high.

  “Perhaps.” Molly glides closer to me. “But you owe me a debt, Raggy Maggy.”

  The doctor shakes his head. “One thing at a time, Molly. She has to get better first.”

  My upper lip curls at Molly’s words. “Debts are dangerous things. What is it you want from me? It’s not like I have anything of value.”

  Molly’s grin grows wider, her delicate pink tongue rolling over the points of her teeth. “What do you know of dragons?”

  “Dragons?”

  “Don’t play daft with me, girl. We all saw what you had in the bag.” She fixes me with a sharp stare, and I scowl.

  “That’s the extent of it,” I say finally, twisting the sheets between anxious fingers. My lungs feel full of ash as I stare at the chimney. “I found it. I was going to sell it, but now it’s gone. The end.”

  “Hmpf,” Molly says somewhat beneath her breath.

  The doctor lays a hand upon her wrist, and she goes silent. He gives me a strained smile, and again I can’t help but think I know him somehow. Some twitch of his lips or the smooth curve of his jaw, but then he moves and the moment is gone. I rub my temples against the rapid onset of an aching head.

  “We should let her rest,” the doctor says firmly. “Tomorrow will be for explanations and scheming. She’s got a long road ahead of her.”

  I don’t remotely like the sound of that. Even less the way she whispers in his ear as he ushers her out. She doesn’t touch him, but the jut of her chin indicates her frustration.

  The door clicks shut behind her. The doctor stares at it for a moment, his face devoid of expression. “She’s impatient.” He lets out a low chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “She’s waited quite some time for certain opportunities to present themselves. Things are lining up, and Molly’s eager to see her plots bear fruit.”

  “So happy to oblige,” I grouse.

  He raises a brow. “We’ll get along that much better without falsehoods between us . . . Mags, is it?”

  “Call me whatever you like,” I say, wincing when I attempt to turn onto my side again.

  “As you will, Mags. Rest now. I’ll have Copper Betty bring up some hot water later. Give you a chance to clean up.”

  Hot water. Clean up. Broth. The words seem foreign to me, pattering in my mind like rain, and I let them roll off just as easily. I don’t respond, and a moment later he’s gone, his footsteps creaking in the hallway.

  Finally alone, I let the tears fall. The awful hurt of Sparrow’s death rises up to the surface, leaking out of me in a wave of rage and sorrow. Inside me, a worm of self-loathing writhes.

  My fault. It’s all my fault . . .

  The doctor could offer me a thousand baths, and I’d never be able to wash this stain clean.

  “Death flower, death flower, how will you bloom? Will you be red, or will you be white, or will you be my doom?” I whisper the familiar nursery rhyme, one of Sparrow’s favorites. The words tremble as my memories slide over her face in those last moments. I might be alive, but nothing good will come of where I am—certainly not if I owe Molly Bell favors.

  And then there is Ghost. A loose string in the weaving with his offer of finding a buyer for the dragon. Not that it makes any difference now. But he would have seen what happened in the alley . . . Does he even know I’m still alive?

  I glance up at the window with its shining shaft of light. It’s crept up the floorboards, its golden corona flaring to life over the end of the mattress. In a short while it will bathe my feet in a yellow haze. I debate the wisdom of attempting to escape through the window, but it’s a futile idea. Even if I can fit through the pane, I’ve no clothes, no Warrens to return to, no jingle.

  No Sparrow.

  I give it up for now. The only glimmer of hope in this entire sordid mess is my supposed death. Freedom from Inquestor rule will undoubtedly have its perks, but until I get my bearings and figure out a real plan of survival, anything else will be folly. My side aches something fierce, burning skin along the jagged trail of stitches. I haven’t quite managed the strength to pull back the sheets to look at it yet.

  Not that it matters how it appears. It’s the stiffness that worries me, the sharp pain inside when I breathe. Dr. Barrows may be confident in his abilities, but proof will only come in time.

  My stomach rumbles, and I give up my fretting and drift off into another hazy sleep, dreaming of dancing over the rooftops, the wind in my hair, and Sparrow at my side.

  I wake up with my belly on fire.

  No, not my belly . . .

  I wriggle off the bed, ignoring the twinge in my side. Half-blind with the need to take a piss, I stagger to the door to try to find a water closet, a chamber pot, anything. Someone must be standing guard outside my door because the knob rattles beneath my hand, twisting against my fingers.

  I let go as Martika presses her way into the room, her face a study in severity. “Why are you out of bed?”

  “If you don’t fancy cleaning up a puddle of privy water, you best find me a pot to piss in, aye?” I gasp.

  “Come with me.”

  She briskly disappears into the hallway. I grit my teeth as my bladder spasms, hardly taking heed of where I’m going. A small door at the far end of the corridor opens to reveal the privy. I slam it shut in Martika’s face and bite my lip against a yelp as I relieve myself in the porcelain bowl.

  A moment later I realize I’m naked. The thought brings a half smile to my lips. It’s somehow fitting that I limp up the hallway to where Martika stands without a stitch on me. Her arms are crossed and there’s nothing humorous about her expression, which clearly takes my measure with every step.

  “What is that?” Martika points to the heart-shaped panel at the center of my breastbone as I shove my way past her. I don’t have to look down to see the metallic curve and the intricate filigree of silver and brass to know what she’s asking.

  “Nothing,” I say bluntly, laying my palm over it. Beneath my fingers, the vibration of the tick-thump beat is calm and quiet, reassuring me with its continued presence. I can almost hear Mad Brianna scolding me for revealing it, and I wince.

  Martika’s mouth purses, but she doesn’t press, waiting for me to wrap a blanket around my shoulders. “If the others have neglected to mention it, you are on this upper floor alone. No one else save Molly and myself know you are here, and it must remain that way.”

  “And Dr. Barrows, of course?”

  She scowls, impatient with my teasing. “And yes, the good doctor. But look here—I need you to be quiet. No trotting about, understood?”

  The Mother Clock rings out the hour in the distance, and the normalcy of the sound brings me back to myself. It’s late afternoon. My stomach rumbles again.

  “He said somewhat about broth and a bath. Who’s Copper Betty?” I intentionally ignore the last of her words, making it fairly plain her request will only go heeded if my demands are met. Even that is debatable, though, once I’m feeling better. But it’s a start. I’ve nowhere else to go anyway.

  “An automaton. She’s mute.” Martika’s head cocks as though she’s hearing something. “And here.” She steps aside as a female automaton clinks her way into the room.

  It’s the same automaton I’d seen s
erving drinks in front of the stage, in fact, but with clothes this time, including a much more sedate set of long skirts and petticoats, and high-heeled boots to go with her corset. The lights of her eyes blink in a friendly manner, and she gestures at me with the wooden tray in her hands. I smell it before she uncovers the dish—thick brown bread and a trencher of broth. A momentary glance below reveals what appears to be actual meat floating in the brine.

  My fingers twitch, and I fight to snatch it from her, the instinct to find some high, safe place in which to eat at war with the limitations of my body.

  In the end, I merely sag upon the bed, smiling weakly when she places the tray on the bedside table.

  Something about Martika softens. “I’ll talk to Molly about finding you some clothes.”

  “None of those fancy dresses, aye?” I call after her as she turns to go. I think she chuckles as she shuts the door, but it could have been the squeak of the hinges.

  The instant she’s gone, I scoop up the bread and tear into it with shaky hands. Copper Betty stares at me with the dull intelligence all automatons have.

  I pay her no mind when she leaves, nor when she returns with a ewer of steaming water and several towels, instead focusing on gulping down huge bites without chewing and chasing them down with sips of broth straight from the bowl. The blanket slips from my shoulders, but I don’t care because I’ve never tasted anything so good and its warmth floods my belly. My limbs tremble from holding up the bowl, but I drink the broth down until there’s nothing left.

  My stomach protests noisily, burbling, but the fullness is pleasant and I sigh, waving Copper Betty off when she attempts to dip one of the towels in the water for me.

  I stand, letting the blanket fall to the floor. A mirror on the far wall captures my movements as I approach the table with the ewer. Copper Betty shifts, her bronzed face expressionless. I wonder what she sees.

  I don’t have to look at my reflection to know what I look like. Tall and thin, with sinewy arms and legs made for dancing on the rooftops, sliding through tunnels, and slipping into the fog with all the grace of a creature made of moonlight.

  Molly called me a broomstick in smallclothes, and she’s right. I’ve nearly no breasts, and my hips jut from my skin like bony tent pegs in a circus made of flesh.

  The water in the bowl turns rusty as I bathe, the filth of the alley and Sparrow’s death rinsing away. I don’t linger on the jagged stitches sticking out of my rib cage like the legs of a black beetle.

  My hair hangs in loose tangles, but it shines in the mirror, picking up the light from the window so that it almost glows with a silver luster. It’s odd to have it hanging free like this, and I struggle with the urge to bind it up and conceal it beneath my old cap.

  A swift knock announces Molly Bell’s presence, and she sweeps into the room as I finish toweling off. She lays whatever clothing she’s brought on the bed.

  “We don’t have much in the way of trousers. At least none that you’d want to be wearing, I’m sure.”

  I shrug at her and give a wan smile. “I stole my boots from a dead whore. So long as it’s not a dress, I’ll manage.”

  A derisive bark of laughter escapes her, and I hide my agitation by pulling on the trousers. They hang off me something awful, nearly sliding off my hips and tenting over my feet. I’ll need a rope to belt them up if I actually want to walk anywhere. I wriggle into the shirt, unsurprised at the way it drapes over my shoulders, the neckline threatening to swallow me.

  The mirror isn’t any kinder when I look into it, the bruising of my broken nose shining like a mottled beacon. “Broomstick, aye,” I mutter, my legs beginning to quake with weakness.

  Molly’s eyes narrow at Copper Betty. “Why don’t you go and fetch our good doctor?”

  The automaton nods stiffly and disappears. I stare at Molly for a moment longer and then take a seat on the stool in front of the vanity. She paces around the room slowly, circling me like a shark. Her fingers flex almost as though she’s mentally counting.

  “What did you do with it? The architect’s credit chit?” I mean for it to be a distraction. Her gaze makes me nervous.

  She snorts. “Looking for a cut, are you?”

  “Well, I did bring it to you, aye? It would go a long way to not being so dependent on . . . on you.” Or a clan . . . But still. I thrust my chin toward the door. “Maybe you should use it to get your broken automaton fixed?”

  Molly’s stare grows chilly. “Copper Betty was a gift from a rather special patron, one most dearly earned. And I’ve no wish to have her repaired. I deal in secrets; what use is she if she can be questioned? It’s not like she can feel anything, now is it?”

  I can only shake my head at this, no answer on my tongue. And yet my thoughts travel back to that little dragon who so clearly did feel, or at least grasp enough of its own situation that it chose to flee from the Inquestors.

  “At any rate, the chit went to Inquestor Caskers,” Molly says and purses her mouth. “Part bribe, part returning something owed to him. As long as he continues looking the other way from this establishment, we’ll be all set.”

  A beesting of anger pricks me. The money would have gone to the Banshees if I’d been faster or more clever.

  “I give up,” I say. “What is it you want from me?”

  Molly smiles her toothy smile at me. “Why, for you to get better, of course. And then you’ll be heading into the Pits.”

  I blink, confusion washing over me. “The hells I am. What makes you think I’d agree to something like that?”

  Molly frowns, clearly not expecting my refusal. “You owe me your life.”

  “It’s not like I asked you save me. I’m not going.” My eyes dart toward the hallway behind Molly. Injury or not, there are other bonewitches out there.

  Molly slams the door. “Oh, no you don’t. You owe me.” Her teeth click shut on her last words, as though the matter is settled.

  “If you think a locked door is enough to stop me, you’re daft.” I glance at the window and up to the vaulted ceiling where a rusted skylight lets in a scant shaft of afternoon sun. “I can be out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and you can’t do a thing to stop me.”

  It’s not quite a bluff. Without my wound, it would be an easy task, but if I’m desperate enough, I’ll try it. I bare my teeth in a snarl. “You want something stolen or vandalized, or someone to tap-dance on the roof of the Mother Clock, I’m your girl, but the Pits are off-limits. I’m not a bird to sing for your pleasure, nor to die for it.”

  The door knob jiggles, interrupting what is probably going to be a horrific row between me and Molly. Dr. Barrows pauses when he sees us, a brow cocked in my direction. “Something I should know?”

  “There’s no reasoning with her,” Molly snaps. “I did not put my reputation and business on the line so this . . . this Moon Child could throw my charity back in my face.”

  “And I’m not going into the Pits for the sake of the rags I’m wearing,” I retort.

  Dr. Barrows sighs. “It’s not what you think, Mags. Did you even give her a chance to explain?”

  “Waste of time, all of it.” Molly throws her arms up in the air and wheels out of the room. Dr. Barrows follows suit, shutting the door behind him, but there’s enough of a gap for me to hear their hushed tones in the hallway. I tiptoe across the floor so I can hear better.

  “What did you expect, Molly? You can’t treat her like a prisoner, dropping mysterious hints here and there, and not expect her to be spooked. These Moon Children have spent their entire lives knowing they’ll be Tithed at some point. Surely it would be better to offer up our reasons first?”

  “Then you do it, if you’re so keen on keeping her around,” Molly mutters at him. “Might be easier to just start over and find someone else.”

  His voice drops lower. “Oh no. There’s more to this than just our plans. Explain to me how that girl has a piece of Meridian technology welded to her flesh? That heart on her c
hest? That’s d’Arc’s work—I’d stake my life on it.”

  Fear strikes me at his words, even as I resign myself to their ulterior motives, whatever they are. I press my hand against the panel in my chest. Whatever did he mean, Meridian tech? Even Mad Brianna had never told me where the thing had come from.

  “Wishful thinking,” Molly says, but there’s a hint of doubt there that makes me wonder.

  Gods, I want no part of this, and I’m not sticking around a moment longer. With my luck, Molly will call the Inquestors on me and I’ll be right back where I was.

  I head toward the window next to the fireplace, cursing under my breath when I realize it’s locked. Nailed shut, in fact. My thoughts scatter in a sudden panic. Break the glass? Or . . . My eyes roll up to the rusty skylight.

  My fine words to Molly aside, it’s pretty high up and my ways of getting there are limited. But the door is still mostly shut, and it looks sturdy enough. . .

  Launching myself at the door, the ball of my foot finds purchase on the knob, thrusting me upward to the lintel. I cling for a second, using my momentum to propel me toward the rafters. My tattered fingernails dig into the wood, and I swing my weight forward.

  Pain floods my side as I twist and nearly fall, and somehow, I find myself wedged on top of a beam. I suck in a sharp breath when I feel the dampness upon my fingers, pulling at the shirt to reveal fresh blood. “Dammit.”

  Just one more hop to reach the skylight. The pain cramps tighter, the shirt sticking to my wound. If I time it right, I’ll be able to balance on the side of the chimney, my feet against the wall. I swallow down the aching wretch of pain.

  Something rips open when I jump this time, and my right arm is nearly numb with agony. My fingers slide down the brick even as my naked toes scratch into the grit. The skylight is closed and heavy with rust, but the latch turns beneath the pressure of my fingers until it gives way and the window flips open with a bang. The cool air rushes past me, sending goose bumps skittering down my spine.