by Allison Pang
I can only nod at her, my eyes drawn to the doorway. “Do you think he’ll find Ghost?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Molly cocks a brow at me. “For your sake, you better hope he does.”
Hot water trickles over my shoulders and down my back, infusing me with warmth. But it’s hollow. Each sting of cut and bruise is a pinprick of a reminder that I’ve no right to enjoy any of it.
I’ve been taken to the bathhouse below the brothel. Upstairs, the evening crowd should have arrived by this time of night, filling the bar with the appreciative cheers of men applauding the way the ladies dance for them. But it’s all quiet, the evening’s events lending everything an air of melancholy.
The bathroom is sparse, with copper pipes heating the floor from below in what I can only assume is typical fashion. A wooden bench sits beside the pool, a pile of towels folded upon it. I sit on the steps, not daring to go much deeper than the third step down.
Copper Betty pours another basin of water over my hair, her robotic eyes somehow impatient. She gestures at the soap and then points to where the deep water foams and bubbles.
“No,” I tell her. “I can’t swim. I’ll not let you drown me for the sake of clean hair.”
The automaton shakes her head in mechanical exasperation, but I stay where I am. She’ll have to make do with me dunking in the shallow end. I have my doubts as to how clean I can actually be, soaking or not. The stink pipes leave a mark that is hard to rub off.
The soap is harsh but effective, and I scrape at the grime on my flesh with a wet cloth. Beneath the dirt, my skin’s true color appears, which is less of a dusky gray and more of a golden brown. I raise my arm to stare at the way it shines beneath the lantern light.Apparently satisfied, Copper Betty clanks away to fetch a large towel and gestures for me to get out of the water. She’s barely wrapped the towel around my shoulders when she starts dragging a comb through the tangle of my hair.
“Ow!” I cry. “Not so hard, you great metal monster!”
“Imagine how much worse it would be if we hadn’t cut it earlier,” Molly says, watching impassively from the doorway.
I flinch, hiding deeper into the towel. “So what now?”
“So now we wait. Dr. Barrows will try to find out whatever information he can through the . . . channels available to him.” Her tongue darts out and lingers in the corner of her mouth. “As will I. Once I’ve managed to clean up the mess the Inquestors left behind.”
She gives me a sour look and ushers me upstairs to my room. Copper Betty remains below to take care of my filthy clothing and has orders to bring up something for me to eat.
Molly leaves me alone in my bedroom, returning only to throw a nightgown at me. “This is the last one,” she warns. “Anything else and you’ll have to buy it yourself. I’m not a seamstress to outfit you.”
“Technically the last ones were from Dr. Barrows,” I point out absently, pulling the gown over my head. It’s too big and hangs down nearly to my ankles. “I look like the mast of a ship about to set sail.”
“You’re lucky I don’t put you to work down below. It will take me weeks before I can repair the damage those red-cloaked bastards did. They tore up every single one of my seat cushions. Every. Single. One.”
I sink onto the bed, her accusatory tone washing over me. “Dr. Barrows said they were looking for the dragon.”
“Not that they said so in so many words.” Molly’s eyes narrow. “Inquestor Caskers already knew we were aware of its existence the other night. This was a warning for me to keep my mouth shut.”
“But they were willing to burn down the museum. Why not this place?”
“Professional courtesy.” She sniffs, studying her perfectly polished nails with a tired smile. “I guard and sell many secrets here. They need me, as much as they hate to admit it. Besides, my girls only charge them half price for their services.”
“A lofty ambition, I’m sure.”
Molly shoots me a withering look. “Whatever you think about my profession, my girls are more than mere bed warmers.”
“Oh, aye,” I agree. “So they trade themselves for information.”
“Somewhat like that, yes.”
“Nice work if you can get it.” I pace to the window and glance down at the alley. Behind me, Molly coughs hard into her fist. “I’m not lying,” I snap. “You think I would turn down work that got me a warm bed and decent food? And for what? Spreading my legs for some Upper Tier fob with a wrinkly sad sausage for a cock? As opposed to going down to the Pits? Aye, I’d do it.”
“Indeed.” She fixes me with a sloe-eyed stare, but the laziness is deceptive, the way a cat is quiet before it pounces. “Where is the dragon now, Mags?”
I hesitate, not sure I want to tell her. I slump into the mattress. “I lost it,” I say finally. “When the Inquestors were chasing me.”
The lie slips from my tongue easily enough, but there’s a calculated gleam in Molly’s eyes that I don’t like.
“Well, maybe it’s for the best. I doubt the Inquestors would have been too friendly if they had found it here, secrets or no.” She taps her fan against her palm, staring out of the tiny window at something only she can see. “I suggest you get some rest while you can. I’ve a terrifying amount of work to do and I cannot be distracted by your whereabouts. If you might curtail your nocturnal activities and spare us any further wrath from those above, I’ll be quite in your debt.”
I stiffen at her tone but busy myself with lighting a fire in the fireplace, shifting the logs about until the blaze shakes the chill from the room.
A dull clanking from the hallway heralds Copper Betty’s appearance, complete with a tray from the kitchens. My stomach rumbles, loud enough for Molly to smirk at the sound.
“I’ll leave you to it. We’ll figure out what’s to be done in the morning. Perhaps Dr. Barrows will have had some luck finding Ghost.” And with that she strides out the door, leaving me to my own devices.
Copper Betty places the tray at the foot of the bed, staring blankly at me until I dismiss her. I fight the urge to slam the door behind her, unsure why she unnerves me so, but it’s easier to lose myself in shoveling a roll into my mouth than investigate my own shortcomings.
Ghost weighs heavy upon my thoughts, though, and before long I’m pacing a trench in the floorboards in front of the fireplace, replaying what happened over and over in my mind until I’m half-sick with the memories.
Somehow, I need a plan. Maybe Dr. Barrows will find his brother.
But maybe he won’t.
“He’s a Moon Child, after all,” I mutter at myself. “And it’s your fault. So it’s only fitting you try to find him in your own way.”
Satisfied with this, I retreat to the bed to eat another sweet roll. As much as I want to search for him immediately, going to ground here for the night is the best course of action.
“But tomorrow? Tomorrow’s a new day.”
Somehow saying it out loud only solidifies my resolve, as though the walls might take my words as commitment.
There’s no answer, and I don’t expect one. In the end, I turn off the lights and stare at the flickering of the fireplace until something like sleep swallows me up.
Maggy, Maggy quite contrary
How doth thy garden grow?
With zombie maids and bloody staves
And death flowers all in a row.
CHAPTER 11
“Wake up, Mags.”
There’s a light pressure on my face, and then I’m staring into the bloodshot eyes of Dr. Barrows. There’s a haggardness within that wasn’t there before; an empty despair clings to his skin with all the sharpness of stale smoke.
I struggle to sit up, wiping away the grit of sleep. Not that I’d gotten much. My chest aches as though suddenly remembering what had happened yesterday.
Ghost.
“Did you find him?” I only ask it out of courtesy. Surely if he had, the bitterness would not run so deep in his gaze.
“He was rounded up with several others by the Inquestors. Supposedly as suspects in the museum fire, but my usual sources are being rather tight-lipped with their information. Someone’s paying them off,” he says grimly. “I couldn’t even get the Chancellor to see me.”
I blink, thoughts churning. Fear makes me foolish, but Ghost won’t be helped if I lose my head about it now. “But why? They were just attacking us for standing there . . . and they were using Tithe wands.”
He sinks into the overstuffed chair, resting his temple upon his fingers. “I can’t possibly imagine what they’re trying to accomplish. To shut down the museum would be one thing . . . but this? It makes no sense at all.”
I bite my lower lip hard, drawing blood. “Archivist Chaunders? Did she survive?”
He nods slowly. “Yes. But she was very badly burned, Mags. They’re keeping her at the Salt Temple.”
I exhale raggedly. If she’s under the mercy of the salt priests, there’s nothing to be done for her. “I want to go see her.”
He hesitates. “I’m not so sure that would be the best idea. The temple is bound to be crawling with Inquestors. If one of them recognizes you . . .”
“I don’t care,” I say, shaking my head almost violently. “She’s my friend. I’ve already lost two of my clan sisters, and Ghost, and now I’m about to lose her, too!” I choke on a sob.
And whose fault is that?
I swallow down a thick lump of anger at myself. “Please,” I whisper.
After wordlessly watching my sudden outburst, he sighs softly. “All right, Mags. Perhaps it might be better if I go with you, though. You might garner less attention that way.”
The warning beneath the words is clear. No rooftop dancing today. And what can I do but agree? Every decision I’ve made so far has been wrong.
A tired smile touches his lips, but his eyes remain empty. “Give me some time to break my fast and wash up. Try to find something suitable to wear to the temple, if you would?”
I glance down at my nightshirt and remember that the rest of my clothes were destroyed the night before. There’s little doubt as to what he means by suitable.
His mouth purses at my expression. “I’m sure Martika has a dress you can borrow. Let me see if I can talk her into it.”
My ears perk up at that, and I hear Ghost’s voice in my head, repeating that cryptic statement about who Martika really is, but I quench my curiosity quickly. My focus right now needs to be on providing comfort to my dying friend and finding Ghost. Secrets can come later.
I glance down at my hands, rubbing at the thick calluses on my thumbs. “I’m sorry . . . for everything.”
He squeezes my shoulder when he passes. “Me too.”
The scent of smoke still hangs thick around Market Square as Dr. Barrows and I emerge from the Conundrum. The Mother Clock bongs out the early morning hour with her usual low chimes as we walk. The sound feels heavier than it normally does somehow, sinking into my bones with a mocking rumble.
Vendors are out and about, greatly subdued as they wheel their wares through the streets to whatever spots they choose to claim for the day. Several Inquestors remain posted outside of the ruins of the haberdashery.
“To prevent additional looting,” Dr. Barrows notes.
The doctor is dressed in a long, brown wool coat and a scarf of cobalt silk about his neck. His derby hat is perched rakishly on his head, as though he couldn’t quite expend the energy to right it, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.
And I . . . I am wearing a skirt. Ill fitting and plain, it’s woven of dark-green wool and lace trim, seemingly borrowed from Martika’s closet. I escaped being tied into a corset by hiding within a loosely belted blouse and a hooded gray cloak that hangs to my ankles, hiding a multitude of fashion sins, including my lack of coiffure.
I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense anyway. The skirt itches me something terrible, and I can only squirm within its confines.
Dr. Barrows scans the crowds and raises a gloved hand. “Don’t fidget.”
“I can’t possibly walk to the temple in this,” I say, pulling the cloak tighter over my shoulders to hide the fact that I’m scratching at my arms.
“Indeed. And I’m far too tired to travel by foot at this point. Hence my hailing a cab.” He whistles shrilly a moment later when we reach the corner of the square, sighing when one of the horseless carriages pulls up from the queue.
It’s a worn contraption, probably built before Meridion made its first appearance. Great gouts of steam puff beneath its rusting metal belly, and the driver holds the side door open for us. Dr. Barrows nudges me inside.
The whole thing stinks of rotting leather and sagging cushions stuffed with horsehair. The bench creaks as I take a seat. Dr. Barrows explains something at the driver and climbs in to sit across from me.
I glance out the window, watching the streets slip by in a blur of foot traffic and the occasional vehicle. Not all the BrightStone streets can accommodate such inventions—and the Meridians have forbidden public carriages from entering the Upper Tier without a permit—but Market Square and the Theatre Quarter are open to transport.
Looking up at the rooftops, I can’t help but retrace my steps from the night before, a shiver taking root in my spine when we cross over the Everdark on the Sacred Bridge. BrightStone’s founder must have been a religious chap, given the names of the five main bridges of our city, but it all seems like a mockery to me.
We take a sharp left after the bridge, skimming alongside the river until the cab comes to a sudden halt, the brakes squealing in seeming horror as they’re applied hard enough to finally tip me off the bench. Dr. Barrows moves to catch me but doesn’t manage it until after I’ve nearly cracked my nose on a low-hanging handle. I straighten my skirts, trying to descend from the carriage without looking like I’ve been tumbled.
The cabbie holds his hand out, but I leave it to Dr. Barrows to pay him. It’s not like I have any jingle anyway. Instead, I study the crushed white shells crunching beneath my feet.
The carriage steams off, backfiring twice as it disappears, and is swallowed up in the remaining haze. “I wasn’t sure if you’d have him wait,” I say, crouching down for a better look at the shells and marveling at their brightness. I can only guess how nothing tarnishes them, even here.
“Yes, well. We can certainly pick up another one later. Let’s see how this goes first.” He tugs me to my feet.
I nod and let him lead me to the entrance of the temple. The main doors are recessed quite far into the building itself, past a series of yellowed pillars shot through with veins of copper. An awning of weathered metal hangs over the walkway, pockets of corrosion evident everywhere I look.
A single Inquestor stands beside the main door, her crimson robes stark against the pillars. She draws her spine straight as we approach, but Dr. Barrows takes my arm as though he is merely escorting me.
“State your business here,” the Inquestor says softly, her gaze sliding between me and the doctor. I refuse to cringe before her bold stare.
“We have come to pay our respects to the archivist,” Dr. Barrows says. “She is an associate of ours.”
“Is she now?” The Inquestor spits the words like she’s tasted something foul, and I know she’ll never let us in. But the door creaks open and the wizened face of a salt priest peers out, rheumy eyes squinting at our presence.
“What’s all this, then?” he asks.
“Visitors for the archivist,” the Inquestor reports smoothly. “Claim to be associates.”
The salt priest grunts. “What of it? The temple is for any who wish to seek solace within her walls. The end to this poor woman’s suffering can’t come too soon. Surely you have it in your heart to grant her a few final moments among friends?”
I must have made some small sound of distress because the salt priest opens the door wider, his gray robes billowing in a sudden updraft. “Come in, my dear.”
Dr. Barrows w
astes no time and steers me forward, one hand splayed against my back. The Inquestor sniffs as we pass but makes no move to block our way. An uneasy relief floods through me when the priest closes the door behind us. I have no love for the salt priests or their sea gods, either, though, and the clink of the door closing only sounds like a cage locking.
An odd dampness clings to the inner walls of the temple, and a moment later I spy a large bubbling pool in the center of the rotunda. Intricate knotted carvings curve around the border of the pool as foam swirls within.
Another salt priest stands before it, an acolyte dressed in faded blue robes. He stirs a driftwood paddle clockwise in some esoteric fashion. He’s a younger man, with only the mere tufts of a beard sprouting from his cheeks, but his face brightens when he sees us.
“Would you like a closer look?” The acolyte gestures me forward. “A saltwater spring allows us to purify all those who seek the wisdom of the gods.”
“No,” I say.
Disappointment tightens the corners of his mouth.
“But thank you,” I add. No sense in aggravating them when they’re actually trying to help, I suppose.
The old priest who let us in tugs at my cloak with a trembling hand. “This way to see your friend. We have her in the Room of Respite.”
“That sounds promising,” I mutter darkly, but it’s the fear of what I’ll see that spurs me to say it.
If the salt priest heard me he gives no sign, leading us around a curved passage made of bleached limestone. Myriad fossilized shells wink from within the porous walls. I suppose it’s meant to be pretty, but I suppress a shudder, imagining death by slow suffocation only to have my bones put on display like some morbid peep show.
Several arched doorways branch away from the hallway. Other rooms of healing, perhaps, but the drawn curtains that flutter at our passing remind me of shrouds.
