Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  “What’s all this?” Ghost reaches for them, flipping through the pages with a bemused smile.

  “If you’re going to be trotting about the Pits for any length of time, you might want to give those a read,” Archivist Chaunders says firmly. “These are my father’s notes; there’s a bit more to living underground than simply sneaking your way in.” She presses her lips together for a moment. “I don’t know what you’ll find down there, but if you at least understand the basics of surviving in the dark . . .” Her voice trails away, and she swallows hard. “Might help your chances, anyway.”

  I glance over at the pages Ghost has open, spotting diagrams and charts and other assorted information that I will undoubtedly need help understanding. But still. I give her a lopsided smile, but she leans forward in an uncharacteristic rush of maternal concern, her hand brushing the hair back from my face.

  “If you need help . . . anything at all,” she says fiercely. “Please, please come to me. We’ll figure something out.”

  I swallow the aching lump in my throat, scanning the shelves with their myriad artifacts. There’s far more information here that might help our cause than I will ever be able to look through. But . . . “I will. And perhaps if a Dr. Barrows should come here, you might let him have a bit of a look around?”

  Her gaze darts between me and Ghost and then comes to rest on the dragon, who preens upon my shoulder, ruffling its tiny claws in my pale hair. “Yes. If it means finding answers . . . ? Yes, of course.” The words slide out of her with a careful politeness, but beneath it all, I can sense anger at her past, a desperate need to know what happened. It slices through me, kindling an answering fire in kind, and for that brief span I can see her as the woman she had been, the lost look of terror upon her face.

  I can hardly bear it.

  “We should probably go.” Ghost echoes the sentiment, clearly recognizing my restlessness.

  “Aye,” I say softly, pulling my hood up and tucking the dragon well into the cloth shadows. I cradle the scrolls against my chest, careful not to ruin the fragile parchment. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

  Archivist Chaunders leads us to the exit at the back of the building and gives my hand a squeeze as Ghost and I slip out the door. “I look forward to it.”

  Blackbird, linnet bird, swallow, and swan

  Where do you fly to, where have you gone?

  My feathers have fallen, and my mate is long dead

  The trees are all bare, and I have no bed.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Ouch! Not so hard!”

  “Then stop squirming, Mags. The more you move, the longer this is going to take,” Dr. Barrows says with a long-suffering sigh.

  I’m stretched out on the mattress, trying to ignore the tiny pricks from the tattoo gun. My freshly removed stitches sit on a tray resting on the nightstand, fraying bits of catgut looking like so many desiccated worms.

  His tattooing is fast, as it should be. His glasses are pushed onto his brow, and his hands are steady as he manipulates the twin-coil tattoo gun with practiced ease. As tattoo equipment goes, it’s a rather expensive piece of hardware, but it doesn’t surprise me that he has one. Whatever his past, Dr. Barrows isn’t some common bonewitch. He’s been taught in a proper hospital, I’m sure of it.

  “Nearly done,” he murmurs.

  On the other side of the room, Molly’s face grows grim as Ghost relates what happened with the Inquestors at the museum. Her fan snaps out, and she taps her palm with it as she begins to pace. She pauses before the fireplace, baring her pointed teeth at the dragon lounging on the mantel. It puffs a smoke ring at her, and she snorts before turning to inspect the doctor’s work on my rib cage.

  “Gods, but you’re a bony thing. Forget sneaking about in the shadows. Get any thinner and you’ll be nothing more but a shadow yourself.”

  I shrug. “Think of all the money you’re saving when you feed me.”

  “I’d save that much more if you weren’t here at all,” she grumbles. “And if you’ve led the Inquestors back to my door with today’s foolishness . . .”

  I let her words roll over me, familiar enough with her now to know most of this is bluster. The sooner she yells at me, the quicker she gets over it and the quicker we can move on.

  Dr. Barrows wipes at the tattoo with an alcohol-soaked cloth, ignoring me when I mutter something rude at him. “You’re all set. I’ll give you a bandage to keep it covered for the next day or so. Try not to tear anything open in the meantime, yes?”

  “Aye.” I roll off my bed to inspect the tattoo in the standing mirror. His mark is a salmon, a tiny thing with scales of exquisite detail. Of all the tattoos I’ve received, this one stands out with a level of artistry none of my other marks remotely possess. I trace my fingers over it, remembering my studies of the Meridion doctor marks, and the realization hits me instantly.

  He’s a Meridian.

  I nearly say it aloud, my tongue burning with the urge to set the words free. But what if I’m wrong? It’s not the first time I’ve jumped to conclusions. His skin doesn’t shine or shimmer like that of Architect Jacobs.

  But still. All his seemingly innate knowledge of the Rot, his suspicions of the Meridians. Perhaps there truly is more to his intentions than simple rebellion. And more importantly, why is he here instead of on Meridion?

  I tear myself away from the mirror to find Ghost leaning against the fireplace, his arms crossed. Molly shakes her head at him, and he open his mouth as though to snap at her. I wave my fingers at them to catch their attention.

  “Listen, if you’re that worried about the Inquestors finding us here, why not let Ghost and I leave altogether? Just to lie low for a day or so—I’m sure we can manage that much.” My gaze flicks to Molly, but her mouth creases. Annoyance grinds in my guts, and I let my shirt drop, scowling at her. “I’m healed up now, and if we don’t return here, well there’s nothing to trace back to you, aye?”

  Molly points her fan at me. “How do we know you won’t run off and leave us in a lurch?”

  “You don’t,” I state. “You just have to trust I have some honor, even being what I am.”

  Her lips stretch over her pointed teeth, leaving a smear of crimson across them. Lipstick surely, but the effect is as disturbing as if it were actual blood.

  “Do you want me to find a way into the Pits or not?” I finally ask, frustration making my voice prickly. “Inquestors or no, Ghost and I turned up just fine. And I found us some maps.”

  The doctor glances sharply at Ghost. “Maps?”

  I point to the mantel where I laid the scrolls earlier, my dragon watching over them with a guarded expression. “And notebooks written by one of the original miners. Forgot to mention that part of today’s adventures.” I nudge the dragon away from the mantel to retrieve them.

  Ghost ducks his head beneath the doctor’s sudden scrutiny, and I wonder at the annoyance in Dr. Barrows’s eyes. Is it simple irritation at my words or something more?

  “Mags had the idea of asking the archivist of the museum for maps of the Pits, or the mines beforehand as it turned out.” Ghost takes the scrolls from me and hands them to Dr. Barrows.

  “You discussed our plans with someone else?” Molly’s worry lines deepen. “I knew this was a bad idea,” she barks at the doctor. “You and your lofty ideals will bring this down upon our heads!”

  I wave her off. “Archivist Chaunders knows me from long before this. I’d trust her with my life.”

  “Bully for you.” Molly shakes her head. “I’ve no intention of trusting her with mine.”

  “She doesn’t really know the details,” Ghost says, as though to draw Molly’s wrath away from me. It even works for a short moment as her fan flits out at him like the irritated twitch of a cat’s tail.

  “Except the bit about seeing the dragon,” I say, unable to leave it alone.

  Color flares in Molly’s cheeks, and she storms from the room, the tension rolling about her in a thunderous miasma.<
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  “Now you’ve done it.” Dr. Barrows sighs, but he doesn’t seem too put out by it. Instead, he unrolls the maps on the floor and kneels for a better look, making enthusiastic sounds in the back of his throat as he studies them. “The archivist, you say? I’ve never been able to get anything of real value from her—nothing she was willing to discuss with me, at any rate.”

  “Yes. I had an . . . an understanding of sorts with her. But she’s willing to help you out some now, if you want to see what other information she has. She said something about a sample of the Rot, too.”

  His head jerks up, eyes burning with sudden interest. “Truly?”

  “I told her you’d most likely stop by,” I explain when his expression grows thoughtful. “Should be worth a few days on our own, right?”

  He pauses. “Given what you’ve already managed to do, I’ll admit it’s tempting. But we can’t just have you out there running wild. If you’d been caught today, we would have had no idea. And we’ve still a few additional lessons to cover.”

  A sigh escapes me, and I decide it’s not worth fighting the point. It’s not like he can really keep me here, anyway. If he wants to pretend otherwise, I’ll let him for now.

  “Fine. I’ll spend some time looking over the maps, at least. But give me something else to read other than alphabet primers. Something with meaning . . . Something like D’Arc’s Manifesto.” I’m not even sure why I say it, except that Ghost has apparently read it and the fact that it’s forbidden intrigues me. I’m tired of being fed answers without context.

  Something odd flashes across his face, and he stiffens. “Out of the question. It will be too difficult for you, for one thing . . . and you’re assuming I even possess a copy. Which I do not.”

  I suspect he’s lying, but he rolls the maps back into tight scrolls and hands them to me before I can say anything else. “This was a brilliant idea, Mags. I truly mean that. Perhaps it is time to widen our nets as we search for answers. A pity there’s so much risk involved.”

  “Information isn’t worth anything if there’s no risk to get it.” I bristle, irritation making my temper prickle.

  Ghost steps on my foot, interrupting me before I can say anything else. “If you really won’t allow us to leave, at least give us the means to disguise ourselves.” He runs a finger through his pale hair for emphasis and winks sideways at me. “Just in case.”

  Dr. Barrows gives Ghost a sour look but finally nods. “You’re probably right. Haircuts and dye jobs, if nothing else. I’ll have Martika see to it shortly.”

  Pale locks of hair shine in the basin where they fall, fluttering in time to the snip, snip of Martika’s scissors behind me. My heart gives an awkward lurch when I see it, simply because it seems so wrong that it should be there. I shut my eyes against it, and Martika snorts.

  “I didn’t intend for you to shear me like a sheep,” I grouse.

  “Ah, well, there isn’t enough of the dye to do all of it if we leave it the way it is.”

  I grow nervous as the pile grows thicker. “Stop. You’re cutting it all.” I glance in the mirror, not quite recognizing the face reflected there. My hair had reached my waist when it was loose, and now . . .

  “I look like a lion dandy.”

  “Dandelion,” Molly corrects me from the doorway, clearly amused at my discomfort. “I’m sure it will be fine once we darken it up some. And it’s still long enough to cover that brand on your neck.”

  “If you say so.” Martika stirs a paintbrush in a little pot of an oily liquid, and it oozes with a foul stench. My nose wrinkles. “Forget hiding. They’ll smell us coming a mile away.”

  “They already could,” Martika mutters under her breath, earning a dirty look from me. But she’s started brushing the dye onto my hair, carefully working around the still healing wound where the bullet grazed my scalp.

  “What’s in that stuff?” I ask.

  “It’s ink,” Martika says. “Now hold still, and keep your eyes closed. It will burn like the hells if any drips. Think we’ll do your brows, too.” The brush traces my eyebrows, pulling slightly. The acrid sting of the ink’s odor makes my eyes water, and I blink against tears.

  Sparrow and I tried dying our hair a few times, but boot black only lasts for a short while. Something about the texture doesn’t want to hold color. Not to mention the Inquestors tend to frown on Moon Children hiding what we are; it usually meant a beating from Rory, at the very least.

  “There now,” Martika says. “Let’s leave it wrapped up in that towel for a bit to give the ink time to set. You can open your eyes, Mags.”

  I do so, fighting the urge to shake like a dog. I reach up with my hands to rub at my brows, snarling when Martika gently slaps them away. “You’ll smear it.”

  “This better work.” I scowl at Ghost as he saunters in with a crooked smile and bangs of burnished chestnut. The tips of his fingers are stained and there’s an ink smear on his chin, but he’s otherwise unscathed.

  “Where is Dr. Barrows?” I realize I haven’t seen him in the last few hours.

  “He’s got his own duties to attend to,” Martika interjects smoothly, and I catch a strange look between her and Molly.

  More secrets, but I decide I won’t worry about them now. Maybe Ghost will spill once we’re alone.

  A wet dribble of ink slides out from underneath the towel. “Is this nearly done?”

  “Should be close enough.” Martika waves me over to a steaming basin of water. “We’ll need to squeeze out the excess.”

  I sit on the stool, nearly wriggling as she unwraps the towel and blots at my face before taking a comb to my still-damp hair. I catch a shadowed reflection in the mirror, and then Martika’s body blocks my view as she fusses with my locks for a few minutes.

  “Hmm. It doesn’t appear to have taken all the way,” she says, “but there’s no more ink left to try it again.”

  “I’ve become a regular piebald pony for my troubles, aye?”

  “It doesn’t look bad. It’s really just a stripe here in the front.”

  Ghost’s mouth twitches. “Suppose that makes you more of a skunk or a badger, then. Suits your temperament better anyway.” He easily avoids the comb when I chuck it at him.

  I stand up to get a better look at the results. It takes me a minute to recognize my face. So long hidden by a tangle of milk-white hair, my chin and my cheeks jut from the shadows of a careless mop top of the deepest black that curves past my jaw and just below my shoulders. Well, except for the silver streak to the right, emerging from my bangs and tucking artfully behind my ear.

  A lump grows in my throat. I can barely remember what color my hair was before the metamorphosis into Moon Child, but it doesn’t really matter. For this moment I can only see what I might have been if the circumstances of my birth were different. The potential of finally being seen as an actual person looms in front of me with terrible clarity.

  “Something wrong?” Molly cocks her head at me, breaking my stare.

  “It’s nothing.” I suck in a deep breath and pretend to wipe at the stained skin at my hairline.

  Martika gives me a satisfied nod, gathering her supplies. Copper Betty appears a moment later to help clean up, and all three women depart in silence.

  Ghost lingers in my doorway as though struggling to find something to say. “It’s only hair, you know. It will grow back.”

  “I know.” I shake out my newly shortened tresses, disliking the lightness of it. Restless, I pace in front of the dying embers in the fireplace. “Feel a bit naked without it, is all.”

  “Wait here a moment.” Ghost ducks out the door.

  I continue to wear a trench in the floor, staring out the little window with increased longing. I need a place to think, somewhere that isn’t constrained by this room and its walls and its secrets. I had pried the nails out of the windowsill days ago in a fit of boredom, and I slide the window open to let the cool winter air roll through the room and over my face.

&nbs
p; The dragon lands on my shoulder, its sharp claws digging into my skin, and whirs a hot puff in my ear.

  “Aye.” An easy swing of my legs and I scramble to stand on the sill, using the brickwork and the shutters to clamber to the roof. I’m not dressed for the night chill, but goose bumps are a welcome distraction as I settle against the chimney.

  My fingers twitch for a smoke, but I content myself with watching the fog drift past the waning moon.

  “Are you up there, Mags?” Ghost’s voice whispers up at me from the window.

  I reply with a soft whistle when I hear him climb up to join me.

  “You’re going to have to teach me those signals,” he says, squatting down to my level. “Much easier than using words.”

  “I suppose.” I glance up at him. “Would have thought you’d have picked it up by now, lurking about in the shadows as you do.”

  “Some,” he admits. “Enough for a vague understanding, but there are some I don’t know.” He lets out a questioning trill.

  My mouth purses. I mimic it but draw out the last note a few seconds longer. “You have to roll your tongue at the end there.”

  He brightens and repeats it, doing better this time. “What’s it mean?”

  “It depends. Each clan has their own signals, though there are some that are the same no matter what clan you belong to: Danger. All clear. That kind of thing. And Sparrow and I had a few we just made up when we didn’t want anyone else to know what we were doing. But in this case, you asked me if I fancied a shag,” I deadpan.

  A huff of laughter wheezes out of him. “Not something I would have guessed.”

  “Well, if I said no—” I let out a short piping twwisht “—probably not. But I’m pretty sure you’d figure it out if I were so inclined.”

  “No doubt,” he counters, amusement lighting up his eyes. “I’ll keep that one in mind for later, shall I?”

  I snort, unsure if he’s teasing me or actually inquiring. I suppress a shiver at the cold breeze sliding down the back of my shirt. For all my dislike of the Pits, I hate waiting even more. Frustrated, I tap my head on the back of the chimney. “Shagging aside, there’s been too much talk and not enough action, if you ask me. I just want to get this over with. The sooner I’m down there, the sooner I’m back, aye?”