by C. M. Lind
Her eyes shot open. The epicene voice in her head awoke her. It was insistent and demanded her attention.
Why now? What does he need from you? The voice was usually weak and erratic, but it spoke as if fevered. It was agitated and defensive, as if it sensed danger.
“What does Conyers want from me?” she asked the man rowing, but directed it towards the stars above, still lying in the pooled water at the floor of the boat.
The man never slowed his pace. “That’s for the two of you to discuss.” His voice was a quiet grumble that was hard to hear over the water and thunder.
Perhaps the man was nothing but a lackey. Maybe he was a degenerate that Conyers paid for a mindless night errand. “Oh,” she let the loud utterance hang in the air. Her face was overtly smug. “I figured you were more than just an errand boy.”
This struck a chord with the man; his rowing faltered for a few seconds before he regained his rhythm. He said nothing to Vitoria.
Vitoria was delighted; she knew that she had upset the quiet man. She grabbed one of the hooks, fondly touching its handle. The smooth iron hook was rusted at the wooden, worn grip, but that didn’t diminish its beauty for her. She caressed it for a few moments before saying goodbye. She couldn’t keep evidence around, especially for sentimental reasons. And if the man rowing was part of a trap after all? She still had her lovely garrote to deal with him.
She dropped a hook into the turbulent water of the hungry harbor, and it disappeared from view the moment it dipped into the blackness. Sadly, she threw its companion in immediately after.
It took them nearly half an hour to make it back to the dock. The trip was quiet except for the racing voice in her head that never slowed. It continuously questioned the whole escape, Sylvaine, Conyers, and their motivations. Vitoria chose not to engage it, which agitated it even more.
Reaching the shore, Vitoria took it upon herself to help dock the boat, and then she hopped out. Her feet still throbbed from the escape, but they were chilled, and the ripping pain from before was more of a dull ache. She did not let it slow her. Her spirit had awaited its return to the city, and nothing would hinder her until she paid a certain someone back for her stay at The White Cliffs.
Sylvaine threw the rope over a nearby wooden pole before reaching out to pull himself out of the boat. He faltered for a moment, slipping on the wet dock. Vitoria reflexively went to steady him, grabbing his hand. It felt as if his skin was covered in hard lumps. She quickly let go once he was in control of himself again. He looked down, away from Vitoria, and then he walked past her down the dock.
Vitoria went with him, side by side; her bare feet audibly slapped against the wet wood. There were some workers and fishermen out, trying to get an early start for the next day since the worst of the storm had passed. Their lanterns lit Vitoria and Sylvaine’s way through the sprawling quayside.
Vitoria could see the stranger a bit better with the lanterns around them, even though he kept his hood up. He was very thin, lanky really. He was a bit on the tall side, approaching six feet, but it was hard to tell since he walked with his back hunched over. He kept his face turned away from her, and his hands were within the cloak. She couldn’t help but wonder how old the man must be to have such weathered hands and poor posture.
Is this how much he values you, to send the infirm to your aid? Why didn’t he come himself?
Vitoria tried to silence the voice, but its last jab alarmed her more than she liked to admit.
Sylvaine appeared to be leading them west, towards shops in the cramped lanes affectionately referred to as Powder Street. It was filled with apothecaries, alchemists, and beauticians. It was inexpensive and loved by the less than rich. There, people went for cure for colds, coughs, boils, and ugliness.
This isn’t home.
Vitoria stopped mid-stride in a fairly deep, dingy puddle. “Conyers’ place is south, not west. That’s where I am going.”
Sylvaine stopped but did not turn to face her. “No. I was told you are not to see him.”
Anger engulfed Vitoria in a blistering flash, but she pushed it away. “Who told you that?”
“Conyers.” He motioned with his head for her to follow him.
He’s abandoned you. You’re inconvenient to him. That’s why he left you there.
“Why?” Her question was louder than she intended, but no one was around to overhear the two.
He turned his head towards her, but he still kept the hood shrouding his features. “You are not to seek him out. You are not to visit him or mention him. You are to wait, rest, and heal until he contacts you.” His words were cold and curt, as if he was speaking to a slow-witted pariah, and Vitoria could tell he took great pleasure in wielding them.
Vitoria stood there, suddenly realizing her jaw was uncomfortably clenched. She regretted throwing the hooks into the harbor.
Sylvaine motioned again to follow.
“Where am I going then?” Vitoria made an active effort to keep her jaw relaxed.
“Aimee’s place.”
“Fine.” Vitoria caught up with Sylvaine and the two rapidly took off for Powder Street.
Vitoria was beyond angry. She would not see Conyers tonight. He had never visited her while in prison, nor even sent a letter. Although, if she couldn’t see him, Aimee was a tolerable keeper.
The wet and worn pair traveled in silence. They wound their way through the lonesome, dark side streets of the city, preferring to stay off main roads. There was no sign of anyone noticing Vitoria’s escape, but they weren’t going to push their luck. Sylvaine led the way, choosing the least traveled and lit paths.
The misty rain was ever present. The idea of infection briefly crossed Vitoria’s mind, but, overall, she was thankful for the weather. It meant less people were out in the streets. People who would question her wounds and lack of shoes.
It did not take long to make it to Turmont’s Tinctures—Aimee’s apothecary. A small battered sign was nailed over the door of the tall, slender, wooden building. The red paint of the letters had long ago faded, leaving the shadow of pink in its place. One would more than likely pass the weathered shop by without ever knowing it existed. But the locals knew of it, and the repeat business of the local customers was all Aimee needed or wanted.
Sylvaine hammered twice on the door—quick, sudden knocks. A second passed before the door was opened wide, showing a short, old woman draped in a beige, wool, knitted shawl. She gestured for them to enter. Sylvaine hesitated for a moment but went inside, and Vitoria quickly followed. Aimee slammed the door behind them, shutting out an incipient gust of wind.
Vitoria was back again at Turmont’s Tinctures, and it was a place she used to know well. It was the smell that she noticed first. While it had been years, it smelled the same. Heavy mint, lavender, rosemary, lemon, and sage overwhelmed her. Shelved around her were jars and vials, each with a written explanation of their extraordinary properties, asserting grand claims to those who used her perfumes, serums, and lotions. But those paltry concoctions were nothing compared to Aimee’s true business that happened behind the counter. What was created and sold back there was the reason Vitoria had ever met Aimee at all.
Vitoria was lost in the haze of fragrances when Aimee embraced her; the top of her head came to Vitoria’s chin. Vitoria took a second before limply embracing Aimee with her right arm. Her left awkwardly hung to her side, unsure what to do.
Aimee’s white, thinning hair smelled of rose and rosemary. At least some things had changed here, she thought. “I see you’re finally done with that awful lilac? It smelled like spoiled potatoes.”
“Do you like it then? I changed it for you. I know you hated it before, and I wanted you to be comfortable being back.” Aimee continued to squeeze Vitoria.
“It’s acceptable.” Vitoria gently pushed Aimee away.
Aimee looked the same. Deep wrinkles crisscrossed her face, the smile lines being the heaviest of all. Her nose was small; it always looked crinkled, as
if she smelled something off (the unfortunate result of a childhood scuffle so Aimee claimed). Her hair was getting thinner though, a small patch was particularly noticeable by her forehead; Vitoria could see her pink scalp prominently through the puffy white strands.
Aimee was smiling, ecstatic for Vitoria’s company. “Make yourself at home, both of you,” she glanced at Sylvaine and took the expression of a concerned mother. “Off with the wet cloak! Can’t have you getting ill. Put it by the fire.”
Sylvain attempted to object but was cut off even before he could begin.
“And no arguing, kid. You’re lucky I don’t wallop you! You took way too long bringing Vitoria back, and you had me worried! I was standing by the door for hours.” She shooed him with her hands. “Now move!”
Hearing Sylvaine addressed as “kid” surprised Vitoria, and she cocked her head to the side, scrutinizing him with renewed intensity.
Sylvaine, having lost the battle with Aimee, slogged towards the large brick fireplace, but he still gave it a wide berth. He unclasped his cloak and threw the soggy, wet mess over a nearby metal rail used for such things. The cloak sizzled as it slapped over the hot metal, and the scent of wet wool hit Vitoria’s nose, overpowering the other fragrances of the shop—but only for a few moments.
Sylvaine wasn’t old at all; he was very young, perhaps fourteen or sixteen by Vitoria’s guess. He was skeletally thin, and he looked like he went without food too often when, and when it mattered most. But Vitoria first noticed his hands. What she thought felt weathered before, were dotted with blobs of scarred flesh, as if someone had sprinkled hot oil over them. He turned back to the women in the room. His back was stooped over, and he kept his eyes low.
“Look at him,” Aimee addressed Vitoria, “moping around because I yelled.” She turned back to Sylvaine, her face apologetic. “Sorry, darling. I should know better. I’ll make it up to you; I have more of that sweet beet juice you like.” Aimee turned around and headed towards the back of her shop.
Vitoria stepped up towards him, visibly appraising the lad. She took his cleft chin in her right hand and pushed his head up. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and slightly asymmetrical—not enough to be noticed at a glance, but on inspection it was obvious. His ashen hair was shaggy and uneven, clearly cut by his own hand when it became an annoyance.
Sylvaine pulled his face away from her and sat in a nearby chair, keeping the fireplace at a healthy distance. Vitoria suddenly thought she recognized the boy. Not that they had ever met before, but she recognized something in him, as if he were broken. She thought back at how she taunted him and wondered if she should feel remorse at such words.
Vitoria stepped towards the fire and sat close to the flames, eager to allow her hair and clothing to dry for a while. She occupied herself by stretching her hands and arms; they were still stiff from the descent of the prison and the rock climb to Sylvaine’s boat. Sylvaine stared at the floor, his arms crossed, never making a sound.
Look at how the boy pouts. It’s pathetic. Conyers has left you in the hands of a child.
Aimee returned, a cup in each hand. One was filled with the sweet juice that she had promised to Sylvaine and the other one water. She placed one into the boy’s hands, the other in Vitoria’s, and then she plopped into a soft, feather filled arm chair next to her, turning all her attention to her long absent friend. Aimee’s light, alert, hazel eyes stared at Vitoria’s, and Vitoria returned the gaze while drinking half the cup’s contents in one swig.
“It’s lovely to see you, darling, but why did you take so long to come home?” Aimee’s low, quiet voice always became louder when she said darling, as if stressing the word.
Vitoria noted that Aimee had said home. It bothered her more than she would have admitted to. “You’d have to ask Conyers that one.” There was a severity to her tone that could have hushed the loudest barroom.
“He never visits me anymore.” Aimee looked sincerely saddened, as if Conyers was dead instead of merely absent.
“I know the feeling.” Vitoria’s words were cold, no anger behind them; it was merely a statement of fact.
Aimee asked Vitoria about her night, and Vitoria told the story of her escape in a methodical way, beginning with Ulrich’s visit.
Sylvaine slowly and quietly nursed his dark purple juice throughout the tale, appearing entirely uninterested in the story. He yawned several times.
Aimee delighted in Vitoria’s tale, even without the glitz of proper storytelling. The woman’s imagination was grand. Her mind filled in the details; embellishing Vitoria’s plight the entire time with much fanfare.
When Vitoria first told of her injury at the metal staircase, Aimee was beside herself for not caring for Vitoria sooner. First she gave Vitoria double the normal dose of an opiate to help with the pain. Vitoria always needed more than the average person, at least double to feel the effect of anything. Aimee took great care cleaning the wounds of Vitoria’s feet, hands, abdomen and left calf with pungent grain alcohol before binding the wounds with fresh, clean linen.
By the time Aimee was almost finished with her dressings, Vitoria had concluded her tale, which ended with her meeting Sylvaine.
“Bless that darling Ulrich; he takes such good care of you.”
“Ulrich was paid to take care of me, Aimee. I’m a job to him.”
“Darling, Conyers only paid him for the first week. Ulrich refused to take any more after that. He said it was against his conscious to accept the money. But Conyers is still an honorable man; he’s been dropping a few golden petals a week at the temple without Ulrich’s knowledge.”
Vitoria was hit by the news. She was instantly confused and thought quickly about the times she had spoken to Ulrich. He had come every week to bring her food, news, and pleasant conversation. She wondered why he never told her—or what his motivations really were.
“But there is one thing you left out, darling,” Aimee sat on the floor next to Vitoria, fastening the last piece of bandage on the woman’s left hand, oblivious to Vitoria’s plainly confused face. “Why? Why now are you free? What will you do?”
Vitoria snapped out of her state, telling herself that now was no time to dwell on such thoughts. She placed her long emptied cup down. She would talk to Ulrich herself later. “I don’t know yet,” Vitoria looked at Sylvaine.
“I mean beyond whatever Conyers wants for you, what will you do? What do you choose to do?”
Vitoria was becoming agitated at the persistent socializing, regardless of the opiates kicking in. “It is irrelevant at the moment. I need to know what Conyers wants. Boy, tell me.”
“Vitoria, be more polite,” said Aimee. “He’s Conyers apprentice, and he’s a good enough lad.”
How long did Conyers wait until he found himself another apprentice? Perhaps he had one picked out before you were even gone.
“I was told to bring you here to rest and regain your strength. That is what you are to focus on now, so relax.”
She glared. Having a child tell her to relax made her muscles tighten, and her fists were far too eager to answer the slight. “You will tell me more. Now.”
Aimee’s smile went away; she relocated herself to the nearby arm chair she originally was sitting in. She folded her hands and placed them in her lap. “Sylvaine, my darling, it is rude what you are doing. I understand you probably have not been told much, but you will tell Vitoria something of what you know.” Even when Aimee’s voice was kind, there was always a sense of divine commandment in her words.
Sylvaine relented, defeated yet again by Aimee. He looked up at the crone, speaking more to her than Vitoria, “She is to kill someone. Yes, what a big mystery. A criminal escapes to kill someone! You think she could’ve figured that one out.”
“Sylvaine, you’re being rude,” Aimee chastised him as if he were her own grandson.
Vitoria’s thoughts couldn’t help but ridicule the lad, brought to heel by words from an old woman.
“Conyers
is going to. Apparently, it’s something that he’s known about for a while. In exchange, she will target someone important.”
“Thank you, darling.” Aimee’s smile returned.
That caught Vitoria’s attention. Sylvaine’s words replayed again in her mind: “give her something she wants” and “he’s known about for a while.”
Aimee spoke with Sylvaine about his journey on the boat, asking him all sorts of annoying pleasantries. Vitoria didn’t listen; their words were pointless.
What do you want? The scattered, epicene voice suddenly became tangible and strong. It insisted that Vitoria answer.
Vitoria was astonished at the voice’s power, and she responded in an instant. I wanted my freedom, and I have it, she answered.
But do you?
Shut it, of course I do.
You didn’t choose to come here though. We wanted to go home.
Vitoria barely recognized the thing in her head; its tone was dark, becoming more masculine throughout the exchange.
That’s irrelevant, she thought, it is safe enough here and Conyers wants something.
But that’s not the question. What do you want?
Aimee continued her banter with Sylvaine, discussing local business; the rosemary scents seemed to be out of fashion as of late, much to her dismay. She already had bottled fifty vials of assorted scents using it. Sylvaine listened intently; he seemed to want to please the old woman.
He can’t give you real freedom, if that is what you are pretending to want. You always jump when he says so.
Shut it, she demanded. Vitoria couldn’t think with it speaking so loud, but it wouldn’t quiet like she had commanded it to do in the past. Her thoughts and the voice rushed over the other, creating a ghastly cacophony that overwhelmed her.
