Dietrich slowly walked around the small room, looking out all the windows. “Amazing. This is your secret place?”
I nodded. “For the past two years. The only other people I’ve brought here are Thea and Raymond, but usually it’s just me. It’s easier to visit at night—less chance of other visitors or the gardeners noticing someone is inside.” I found my favorite spot on the window bench. “Have a seat.” I patted the space next to me.
When he joined me and set his hat on the ledge next to him, I turned off the torch and stowed it in a pocket in my skirt. The room was dark, but the moon and city lights from all the windows cast faint shadows on the stone floor.
It was so quiet I could hear us breathing. I felt Dietrich’s magic, but I also felt his sorrow. It made him more human, and that made it easier for me to tolerate the presence of his magic, at least for now.
The stillness felt like a soft blanket wrapping us up in secrets.
I almost couldn’t bear to break it, but at last I whispered, “Dietrich, are you going to talk to me?”
He turned toward me, resting his arm on the window ledge. He laid his head on his arm and looked out the glass at the darkened gardens spread below. “My sister Alyce was a vicimorph like you,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “She had vicicorpus magic—shape changing magic.”
So that was the other shape changer he had known before me. It made his calling me “little sister” make more sense. I didn’t interrupt, but I leaned on the window ledge as well so our faces were on the same level.
“She was six and I was seven when we discovered we had this special bond that made her able to turn into any creature we could imagine.”
“You were able to do full shape shifts that young?” I hadn’t meant to say anything, but this tidbit was so incredible, I couldn’t help myself.
He smiled grimly. “We were both prodigies. My father was a technomancer with a special affinity for silver. It made him a very good miner, and he was a foreman in a silver mine in northern Cymru. My mother spun yarn and made lace, and she was a gifted healer. When my parents realized that Alyce and I had this gift, they gave us the silver chain my father had made for my mother for their wedding. He split it in two so we could be mentally connected when we used our magic.”
“You still have your part of the chain, don’t you?” I asked. “You still use it.”
“I have both pieces.”
Instinctively, I knew I wasn’t going to like the reason why.
“My parents contacted the Caerdydd Theater in southern Cymru to see if we could begin early as apprentices. They sent Theatrical Guild members to visit and confirm that Alyce and I were truly gifted. The theater was thrilled about us and offered to send my parents monthly support until we were old enough to join the apprentice program. But my parents had to sign a contract promising our apprenticeship to that theater and no other. We also had to promise to keep our abilities secret and to not continue working our magic together.”
“Why couldn’t you do magic together anymore?”
“Because we were very close as brother and sister, and the Guild was worried that our magic might bond, especially since we were doing very advanced magic without any formal training.”
That surprised me. For some reason, I had always assumed that bonded magic between presul and vicimorph only happened if the two were romantically involved with each other. I didn’t know a brother and sister could bond too. “I take it things didn’t work out as planned?”
His eyes took on a faraway look. “When I was eight, my father died in a mine collapse,” he continued. “Two months later, there was an influenza outbreak in the village. My mother worked so hard to heal everyone else that she finally became ill herself and we lost her, too.”
My heart ached for him, but I didn’t know what to say. Such tragedy was all too usual for most apprentices. “What happened to you and your sister?”
“There were actually five of us: my sisters Alyce, Gwynn, and baby Bertrys, and my brother Friedrich and I. We were all sent to the workhouse. I tried to tell them to contact the Caerdydd Theater, but I couldn’t find the contract and Alyce and I were too scared to show the workhouse matron our magic for fear the theater would refuse us for breaking our promise.”
“But they wouldn’t have—you were too special. They had to have known that.”
Regret shadowed his face. “Yes, they knew that. But I was only eight, and Alyce was seven. We didn’t understand. We were scared and grieving our parents. And the workhouse matron refused to believe that we were already contracted to the theater. The four of us older children were taken to the workhouse. Bertrys was only eight months old, and she was taken in by a middle class family who couldn’t have children of their own.”
“What was the workhouse like?”
He gave a small shrug. “Not the worst workhouse in the empire, but we were separated into different wards—boys and girls. All our belongings were taken from us, so Alyce and I hid our chains under our tongues during the intake. Then we wore them around our ankles under our stockings so they wouldn’t be taken from us. We were able to communicate with each other that way.”
I reached for his free hand. Everyone knew workhouses were terrible places—bleak and lonely. “What happened then?”
He squeezed my hand. “The boys’ ward was not a good place. Lots of bullies and we could be beaten for disobeying the rules or not finishing our work. Some of the boys were too weak to do the work they were being made to do, and sometimes they’d get picked on by the bullies. I started helping them get their work done because I couldn’t bear to see them beaten. And I fought the bullies too.”
I somehow wasn’t surprised. Dietrich was just that kind of boy to defend the weak. “Did you win?”
He smiled a little. “Sometimes. But mostly, I just got in trouble. If I couldn’t prevent a weaker boy from getting beaten, I volunteered to take the beating myself.”
My throat tightened, and tears prickled against my eyes. “And you were only eight years old.”
“Alyce begged me to behave, but I just remember feeling angry at the injustice of all of it. She and Gwynn became ill, and Friedrich was tormented daily by the other boys because he wet the bed. He was only five, but it didn’t matter to them.”
My heart clenched. It was all so horrible and unfair. I gripped his hand tighter. “What did you do?”
“Alyce and I began plotting a way to escape. The only way to leave the workhouse was for a parent or other adult with custody to retrieve us. So I told Alyce she would have to shapeshift into our mother and come get us.”
I inhaled. “That’s terribly difficult! Especially for children to do.”
“It was gut-wrenching, both for our magic and for our emotions. I had turned her into a bird to escape the workhouse and to search for women’s clothes to steal. By the time she returned to the workhouse, we had her in the shape of our mother. She was dead, so we were free to duplicate her as precisely as we could. When I first saw her, I started crying. So did Friedrich and Gwynn. We all knew it wasn’t Mam, but Alyce and I had done a good job and it was as if she’d been brought back to life.”
My flesh shivered into goosebumps. For the first time all evening, a thin thread of fear wound around my heart. I’d never heard of a presul who, at such a young age, was so powerful he could re-create his own dead mother. “Did it work?” I finally said.
“Yes. The workhouse matron was frantic that she couldn’t find Alyce, but we promised we’d return the next day for her. Of course, we never did.”
“What about the baby?”
“We tried the same trick with Bertrys’ new family, but they weren’t so easy to convince. When they threatened to alert the police, Alyce and I knew we had to leave Bertrys behind. Our only consolation was that the family seemed to truly care for her. They treated her well.”
The grief in his voice told me that even though it had been years, that moment still haunted him.
&n
bsp; “Where did you go?”
“I had a fool notion that we would just walk to Caerdydd. I didn’t realize it was over a hundred and fifty miles away, through the remotest and wildest part of Cymru. We sometimes hitched a ride with a peddler or farmer, but for the most part, we avoided people because we could have been sent back to the workhouse if anyone found out we were on our own. It was a foolish plan.”
“You were only eight.”
His face hardened. “Yes, and my immaturity got my brother killed. We’d been traveling several days, and he stepped in a badger trap. His leg was wounded, and infection set in before we could reach a farm. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, gripping his hand even tighter.
His expression was hollow, his voice dull. “I carried his body until we found a farm. The farmer and his wife were kind enough to help us bury him.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that now, at least in my head. But a piece of my heart refuses to listen.”
I understood that problem only too well. Sympathy for Dietrich, for the child he’d been, washed over me. I wanted so badly to be able to do something for him, to take away the hurt.
He stared out the window. “Gwynn had never really recovered from being ill in the workhouse. And we didn’t know enough about nature to know what plants we could eat and which ones we couldn’t. Mam had taught us a little about where to find herbs and which mushrooms were edible. But we went hungry most of the time. One night, it was so bad, Alyce offered to shift into a rabbit so Gwynn and I could eat her.”
I gasped.
He smiled, his eyes still sad. “I wouldn’t hear of it, of course. And now I know it wasn’t even possible. But that was how Alyce was—generous and brave and selfless.”
“Like her brother.”
He rubbed his thumb across the back of my hand but didn’t respond. “We did finally reach Caerdydd. I’d never seen such a big city. I had no idea of all the dangers there or where the theater was. There were lots of people ready to exploit three small children on their own—the street gangs were the worst.”
I nodded. We all knew about the street children, no matter the city. Probably half our apprentices used to be among them. “How did you reach the theater?”
“By that time, Gwynn was so weak, Alyce and I had to take turns carrying her. She was three years old and sick and miserable. I remember it seemed like she cried all the time until she became too weak. I was sure she’d die too before we could find the theater.”
I sensed the worst part of the story was approaching, and my body tensed, waiting.
“We finally got directions for the theater and were on our way. Then three older boys, nearly men, cornered us in an alley to force us to join a children’s gang. I carried Gwynn, and Alyce hid behind a pile of crates and trash. She told me to turn her into a dog.” He drew a deep breath. “I did.”
“What happened?”
“She raced from behind the crates and attacked the three boys. She was magnificent and fierce, snarling and snapping like a wolf. I ran, with Gwynn in my arms, and I thought Alyce would follow me.”
There was a silence. I couldn’t bring myself to speak.
His hand trembled. “I heard a gunshot. I turned around, and Alyce was lying on the bricks in a pool of her own blood. When they shot her, she’d regained her own form. I felt the magic between us break, and I knew I’d lost her.”
Tears blurred my eyes. “Oh god,” I breathed.
“I raced back to her and knelt beside her, screaming. The boys looked horrified and scared, and they ran. Soon rozzers came, but I wouldn’t leave with them. I stayed with Alyce until the end. I told her I was so sorry, that I hadn’t meant for her to get hurt. You know what she said?”
I shook my head, rubbing away tears with my sleeve.
“She wouldn’t let me blame myself. She said, ‘We were a team. I was just as tough.’ And she said she loved me.” His voice broke, and he closed his eyes, looking weary.
I couldn’t speak. Nothing I could think of felt right to say. No words could take away that kind of pain.
He finally continued. “The rozzers took Gwynn and me to the theater, and the manager met us. I found out he’d been searching for us shortly after my parents had died because the support money was being returned to the theater. When he heard we’d been sent to the workhouse, he visited there himself—three days after we had escaped.”
My heart ached at the realization of what that had meant. If they had stayed only three more days, none of this tragedy would have happened. Alyce and Friedrich would still be alive.
His eyes met mine, and I could see the truth reflected in them. Knowing what his childish actions had cost haunted him even now.
When he continued, his voice was steady but low. “The manager and his wife were very kind to me. They took me into the apprentice program, and they even commissioned a special bench to be placed in their Green Room in honor of Alyce. They also sent for a healer for Gwynn.”
“So she survived?”
He nodded. “When the healer touched Gwynn, she realized that Gwynn had healing magic too. I don’t know if my Mam knew that or not. It usually isn’t traceable in a child so young, but Alyce and I were unusual that way as well. The healer offered to raise Gwynn and send her to the Healing Arts apprentice school in Aldwych when she was old enough.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Yes. She’s an amazing woman. Very kind. She did her best to let me see Gwynn as often as possible while I was an apprentice. But you know how apprenticeship is—you don’t have a lot of contact with your family.”
“No, true.”
“She moved to Aldwych when Gwynn was ten and put her into the healing arts apprentice program here. That was five years ago. I haven’t seen her since.”
“That’s sad.”
“I used to write her letters, but she was too young to write back. Sometimes, I’d get a drawing. I’ve kept them all. She’s my last relative, other than Bertrys. But I doubt I will ever get to know her at all.”
I had a flash of insight. “Is that why you came to Aldwych? To be near Gwynn?”
He smiled. “I loved the Caerdydd Theater. I finished my apprenticeship early and they hired me immediately. They were like family to me. But when the Alchemy Empire Theater contacted me earlier this year to offer me the position here, I knew I had to take it. I need to know my sister. I need to have some sort of family that’s mine. But she hardly knows me after all these years.”
“I understand.” And I did. It was why I felt so attached to Nadine. Even if it turned out she wasn’t actually my mother, she was the closest thing I had to one, and I treasured her. “Is she well? Did you hear bad news about her? Is that why you were upset tonight?”
“No, she’s well. But I had written to her, months ago, when I first arrived. I’d received no response.” He let go of my hand and reached into the inside pocket of his frock coat. He pulled out a letter. “Finally, today this came.”
He handed it to me, nodding for me to read it. I took out my torch and unfolded the letter.
Dear Dietrich, it read, in a girlishly neat hand, I am sorry for being so slow to reply to your letter. I’m glad to hear you have a new position at the Alchemy Empire Theater. I always knew you would be successful with your work.
I have thought a lot about your request to see me, and it makes me glad to know that you have such an affection for me.
But I am afraid I must say no. I’m so sorry. I know this will hurt you, and you seem like a kind person. I know you want to be my brother. Or rather, you are my brother.
How do I explain this when I barely understand it myself? In our studies, we learn that we have to be whole and healthy ourselves before we can heal others. I’m trying to learn to do that. But it is difficult when I am reminded of a tragedy I cannot even remember. You know me as your sister, and I will always be grateful for how you saved my life. But I don’t
know you as my brother, not really. And I don’t have any memories at all of our other siblings who are lost to us.
Perhaps it’s cold-hearted to say this, but I prefer it to be that way for now. Maybe when I’m older and done with my apprenticeship, then I will be able to learn to love you as my brother. But right now, it’s too much. In my heart, I am the only child of Lucy Davies, and I want it to remain that way for the near future.
Please try to understand.
Sincerely,
Gwynn Davies
I reread it, trying to make the words less harsh, less painful. But the reality wouldn’t go away. “Dietrich,” I whispered, my heart breaking for him.
His eyes blazed with pain and fury. “I carried her for miles. Alyce died to save her and me. I left my home in Caerdydd and moved here, for her. And she doesn’t want to see me.”
I touched his face. He closed his eyes, breathing unsteadily. The ache of his sister’s rejection radiated from him. I wrapped my arms around him and held him close to me.
His arms tightened around my waist, and he buried his face against my shoulder. I didn’t know what to do—comforting was not really my strength. But I pictured Nadine, and did what she would do. Rocking him gently, I smoothed his hair with my hands. He breathed deeply, slowly, as if he were fighting to keep control of his emotions.
“She’s not heartless,” he said against my neck. “She didn’t want to hurt me. I should have guessed how she was feeling—if she’d wanted to contact me, she could have written more often. But I was blind to it. I just wanted to believe that she felt the same way I did.”
I held him closer, wishing I could block out all the hurt and sadness. Something fierce and protective rose up in me. Dietrich was my friend now. Nobody should hurt him. Not ever. I knew the pain of loss, too. In our own ways, we understood each other.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, and he grabbed me tighter. We sat like that for a long time, not speaking. Just taking comfort in each other, knowing we were not alone.
Chapter Twenty
Chains of Silver: a YA Theater Steampunk Novel (Alchemy Empire Book 1) Page 17
