by J M Robison
He stops walking. I don’t move. Of course, he’s going to see me. He and his demon are going to grab me and drag me naked and painted white out of here. Strangely, my only concern about that is Brynn seeing me.
He starts walking again, away from me. His footsteps stop again, but I still wait for ten thundering heartbeats before exhaling through my mouth and opening my eye a mere slit.
Carlo is gone. He could be waiting just outside to call my bluff, so I wait longer still, and longer still, posed, white, and naked, in the middle of a room of plaster statues just like me. I hear footsteps again, only this time it’s a man descending a narrow stairway across from me. I didn’t see it in my hasty observance of the room earlier.
The man comes down and seats himself on a stool in front of a half-finished statue. I wait ten minutes hoping he’ll leave, but he doesn’t. By now the paint has mostly dried on my skin, and I try not thinking about how I’m ever to get it off again.
I run out of whatever emotion governs my precaution. I drop my pose and reach inside the tool crate for my clothes.
“E 'vivo!”
I look up at the man.
He’s standing and facing me, both hands pressed to his face. “La mia creazione è viva!”
His tone doesn’t strike me as being alarmed, but, rather, delighted and amazed. He continues to shout, “La mia creazione è viva!” as I yank clothes over skin dried with paint and walk out.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brynnella
I shouldn’t have shouted his name. Instincts and desperation kicked in, and I ruined it.
Carlo thrusts me into the carriage and slams the door. I’m reaching for the handle when the carriage bursts forward following the crack of a whip.
The door is locked, which I know is the work of his demon because this carriage has no locks. I kick at the door to break it down, but it holds. I look out the window, spying Zadicayn’s blue coat sprinting away with Carlo chasing.
Zadicayn doesn’t have his amulet. Joseara told me so last night. If Carlo’s demon is holding the door locked, then Carlo doesn’t have his magic, either. I force myself to find relief in that, despite shrieking and kicking at the walls and door to break either of them open. Nothing gives.
I’ve exhausted myself and screamed out my voice by the time the carriage pulls back into its grove of trees behind the stone fortress which is my prison. I keep trying the door. It holds fast. The carriage, or its driver, doesn’t move. Waiting for Carlo, no doubt. I’ll throw up if I find out Carlo captured my husband. He won’t be strong after I take his blood. My stomach threatens to throw up now just waiting for the news. The stress and anxiety send a buzzing through my brain, so it’s hard to focus on my reality. Desperate for an escape from it, I involuntarily think of dresses, parties, and humbug candy, just to keep myself from fainting.
The door is wrenched open, and my hoarse voice manages a startled gasp. Carlo motions for me to come out. Zadicayn is not with him. Maybe he put Zadicayn inside the fortress already, but I don’t see any joy in Carlo’s tight mouth and narrowed eyes. I have to believe if he’d captured Zadicayn, he’d have an infuriating grin and say something triumphant to me.
I’m dressed back down to the outfit I wore when I arrived in Rome and put back in my cell too small to contain my fears and anxiety. Despite everything that’s happened since my kidnap, I’m elated.
Because Zadicayn is in Rome. And he’s trying to get to me.
Chapter Thirty
Zadicayn
My room door is locked, so I knock.
Jaicom opens it. His eyes widen. “Bloody hell, Zadicayn. What happened?”
I shoulder my way into the room, skin stiff and crackling from the paint having dried a long time ago. I fight out of my long blue coat and tunic, dropping them both to the floor.
“Zadicayn?”
“I need…to get…this off.” I keep my tone even and direct to discourage Jaicom from finding amusement. “Can ye help me?”
“Is it…paint?”
“Yes.”
Seeing my white head, chest, and arms, his eyes drop lower. “How…much does the paint cover?”
“I just need it off my hands, neck, and head. I shall worry about the rest.”
“All…right.” He chews on his lip. I eye him down with a warning not to laugh. “All right. I will…need some things. I’ll be back. Can’t…you use your magic to take it off?”
“No.”
He doesn’t ask for an explanation. He nods, gathers his coat and hat, and closes the door behind him. I listen to his laughter as he walks down the hall.
I wait in miserable silence, the paint chaffing merrygalls between my thighs. Having a better understanding of current day English, I’ve no idea why my people called the sores merrygalls.
The sun slides ever deeper into the horizon, and I’m angry I’ve exhausted all my remaining time looking for either Brynn or my amulet. Seventeen nicks on my left arm from where I drew blood in hopes the magnetic pull would bring me to Joseara, certainly took me all around Rome, but no closer to her. The magnetic pull is a direct line, but that direct line would bring me straight into a long wall of buildings. And getting arrested for entering through one of the doors to take me behind the buildings, would be detrimental to further searching. I’d have to nick my arm again because by then the blood had dried.
Jaicom finally returns with a roughened stone, bottle of oil, and a grin. “You better tell me what happened.”
“Ye best knock that grin off, or I’ll punch it out.” Had I not just seen my wife–yet unable to reach her–I might find mirth in this, too. “I saw Brynn.”
His smile drops as if doused in cold water. “Where? How?”
“She was with Carlo. The man who kidnapped her.” I sit on the bed. “Coming out of a dress shop. She looked beautiful. She saw me and shouted my name, but Carlo shoved her in the carriage, and the carriage took off.”
“Didn’t you use magic?”
That would be the obvious answer, and I fight to find the words to tell Jaicom I don’t have it. But I can’t, because though I can handle the devastating truth that I can’t win without my magic, I can’t bear Jaicom believing it, too.
“The Pope would be notified. I played it safer and…hid. I ran into a shop where naked statues are made and painted, and—”
“Now I know how far down the paint goes.” His eyes drop to my toes. “We’ll get it removed as best we can. Don’t want Brynn not recognizing you, yea?”
“Yea.”
“And, I’m sorry, Zadicayn. It’s still funny.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Darik
The brightening sun through the hole in the wall wakes me. There’s no moving without waking Joseara, so I get to my feet as quickly as I can. She mumbles and rolls onto her stomach, arms and legs stretched to take up all available space in the closet. I have to straddle her to reach into the cupboard, withdrawing my work clothes and setting them on top. The water closet down the hall has even less space, so there is no undressing in it.
“Joseara, cover your head.”
She does so.
I turn my back to her and take off my hood and mask to a spray of sweat and horrible morning breath. She tucks her knees into her chest to give me more room, though I’m inclined to believe it’s so I won’t step on her.
I undress and redress, tie my hair behind my head, and step over her. Thank goodness the door opens outward.
Elma will be waking shortly from down the hall. It’s my job to prep the shop before it opens, so all Elma has to do is unlock the door.
Morning moves onward. The first trip I make upstairs when a male customer walks in, shows me Joseara has left. She’s folded both blankets neatly on the floor with black string from what must have been her shirt, spelling the letter G on the top blanket. I’ll assume it stands for “grazie.” I’m relieved because last night was absolutely not the way I ever imagined sleeping with a woman. It did, however, test my c
uriosity about what a woman would think if I were to bring her into my hovel, and the truth of it wilts more than my hope.
Joseara hated it. I know she didn’t say so right out because she was being nice, but there is no having a romantic relationship with any woman as long as I sleep on the floor, drink fountain water out of an oil sack, and get thrashed by the Camorra. I didn’t even get aroused having her pressed up against me all night. So much for the shirtless version of myself rescuing a beautiful donzella. Really, any donzella would do. Just…
Suppose this experience saves me heartache from a romantic relationship I might have attempted in the future. I’ll probably have an accidental death before too long, anyway. Fall off a roof. Catch cholera. Run into the Camorra again. This sets the mood to hover above me like a dark cloud as I spend the rest of the day cleaning up, giving Elma an extra pair of hands in the clock she’s working on. She doesn’t question why I’m suddenly subdued. She has higher aspirations than me, too.
Today is busier than normal with high-class people buying out all Elma’s pocket watches; apparently for a big occasion happening at the Pantheon tomorrow night. Had I never met Joseara, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.
I tell Elma I will not be at work tomorrow. She responds with a backward wave of her hand.
The flow of customers slows toward the end of the day and, barring a handsome man seeking a clock worker to wed; it’s looking like Elma will close shop on time. Five o’clock hits and Elma turns the lock on the door, though I’m already walking upstairs. I enter my broom closet, the folded blankets a grim goodbye to a dream I entertained until this morning.
I dress out of my work clothes and into my usual dark attire, mask and hood included. Trusting Joseara hasn’t fed herself, I pack all of my food, the water, and tie it in a bundle with my blanket. I stick my head out the hole in the wall. The rain finally died throughout the day, though it’s left the brick and pipe wet and too slick for me to trust my weight on. I climb down instead of up, feet splashing into the pool of water beneath the drain pipe I used in my descent.
Elma coughed up three florins–half my pay, and three days early. Just enough to buy a tiny sample of olive oil and vinegar from the panetteria. Since sleeping arrangements failed, I can at least break even with a nice meal for Joseara, as I don’t know if I’m going to see her after tomorrow. It’s been nice to have a common friend, even if just for a day.
I turn the corner and damn near run into Luigi, whose walking toward me with another hooded Camorra I can’t name. My bandaged hand where Luigi stabbed it throbs in response, and with nowhere to hide, I turn around and run, my blanket-sack weighing me down, but I’ll take my chances and hold onto it.
Luigi turns the corner behind me, and I hear him shout, “Found him!” before hot feet pound after me.
Damnit. Cesare must not have believed I was a shade back from the dead to extract revenge. Well, I believe he was convinced, but Sigismondo wouldn’t have been. Now Sigismondo has his gang searching for me across the river and out of their territory. They are so close to my hovel. They’ve never come across the river before. I’m scared on a new level. If they find out where I live, I’ll have to move, and I’ll lose my job at the clock shop.
They pant heavily behind me. The rain all day has kept venders and walkers indoors, so the streets are mostly empty. I could have scrambled up a drain pipe as quick as a squirrel, but my blanket-sack holds the food I wanted to bring to Joseara.
So I run. I run a lot, given my job description, and I’m wittier on this side of the river as to where to run to ditch them, so it’s not hard for me to lose them around three corners and up a narrow stairway down an alley. I sprint up the steps into the church of Saint Augustine and dive through the big open green door. The long-vaulted nave affords enough space for alcoves in the wall where I’m able to squeeze into one behind a statue. Lighting is dim, and having come from the brightness outside, they’re not going to see me until their eyes adjust, which they may not have enough patience for if they aren’t completely sure I’m in here.
I’m wheezing, air coming out in ragged exhales and desperate inhales, lungs crushed beneath the fold of my body to fit in the space. I count five minutes. And ten. I stay longer, all the while giving myself time to absolutely realize no woman is going to marry me, if only for the very reason that I cannot keep her safe.
I rest my head against the marble wall, searching for a saint to plead to, but I feel I’ve used up all my chances under Saint Ivo. He must collude with the other saints, saying, “I’ve already saved his poor ass once from death. You don’t want to take another chance on him, trust me.”
This puts yet a darker mood on me, a sensation I am not familiar with. I conclude it’s only because my life has been shaken up by the introduction of a magical place called the Fae Realm–which I’m willing to believe, in my desperate state of needing something fresh and new in my life–and a masked English girl who knows spells. After knowing all that, it’s harder coming back to what I’ve been doing for thirteen years against the different Roman gangs who have come and gone.
An hour or so passes, and though people come in and out of the church, none of them are the Camorra. They could be waiting outside to jump me. I feel if my life is going to end by them anyway, it might as well be now.
Unfolding myself out of my hiding, I secure my blanket-sack and walk outside. I don’t see the Camorra. I climb onto the nearest roof just in case and travel above Rome.
I arrive at Piazza della Rotonda, wondering where Joseara might have parked herself. If she’s anything like me, she’d be on a roof overlooking everything, so she’ll see Zadicayn as soon as he makes himself known. The best spot on the rooftops to do that is on the Galleria del Temp to the right of the Pantheon, which overlooks the piazza. I navigate that way. I’ll be content to watch for her if she isn’t there.
I climb onto a tall and slanted roof across the narrow road from the block of buildings I’m heading to. It’s a far jump, so I throw my blanket-sack across the way. The bread is bound to be smashed a bit. Coiling, I spring forward, hands first across the space, and latch onto the edge of the roof as my feet and knees slam into the side. I grit my teeth and hoist my elbows up and over.
Boards stretch between buildings for the certain paths I frequently take, but I don’t have any of that here. On my feet, I continue my up and down the path over eaves, gables, dormers, and private rooftops, until I reach the spot I would choose if I were watching for someone to cross into the piazza.
Joseara is already there, watchful over the edge. I grin beneath my mask. If she would’ve grown up with me in Rome, we would have made quite the pair.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Joseara
“Joseara.”
I look behind me, smiling because he rolled the “r” in my English name. Darik waves. It’s good he warned me. Otherwise I might’ve used a relocation spell to throw him off the roof. He’s been very kind to me. I don’t want to do that to him.
He’s wearing his hood and mask again, and I feel it’s in retaliation against me because I won’t remove mine. He drops down next to me and unties the blanket he had knotted to work as a sack. The bread inside has been smashed despite the hardened crust–flakes of it stick to the fibers of the wool blanket. The water bag appears intact, though it sweats.
“Hungry?” he asks.
Did I stare at the bread that long, or is this a general question? “Yes.”
“I brought you a treat. Vinegar, oil, and bread. Is this familiar in England?”
I shake my head.
He hands me half the loaf and two drams he pulls out of his pocket. “Tear off a chunk and drip it with both the oil and vinegar.” He indicates which dram holds which.
I sit up and accept the bread. Hunger anymore has become just another sensation in my body. I it ignore when I need to. I always hungered in the Fae Realm. The difference is this hunger will eventually kill me. I tear off a chunk and drop oil and
vinegar on it, tucking it beneath my mask to chew.
“This is good,” I say while chewing. “Grazie.” I roll the “r” this time, if badly.
He nods, chewing beneath his own mask. I’m thrilled he’d join me. I’m thrilled he found me. I didn’t tell him exactly where I would be in relation to the Pantheon, because I didn’t know myself at the time. It’s nice being in the company of someone who seems to understand me on a certain level. I never had a–dare I say–friend like this in Valemorren.
Brynn was a good friend, but she was restricted to curfew and protocol, and the times she did see me it was with the vagrant disregard of all those. Then she married, and moved into Zadicayn’s castle and had his babies, and moved on with the life I wanted. It’s nice to connect with someone nearly homeless and banned from society like me.
We eat in silence. I keep a vigilant watch over the square below.
“What does Zadicayn look like?” he asks while he chews.
“About your height. Not as muscular.” My heart skips a beat as I realize what I just said about Darik’s own muscles. He looks up at me. I blush furiously beneath the mask. I rush on. “Black hair he keeps spiked on top, and a ponytail at the base of his head. He was wearing a long blue coat last I saw him, though it’s not based off any current-day English fashion.”
The bread finished, he brushes his hands together and lies on his stomach next to me. “So, you find him and then what?”
“I return his amulet, so we can take him back to the castle and rescue Brynn.”
“And then what?”
