Children of the Fox

by Kevin Sands

  “No, that just tells me you’re preoccupied. There are two other things that say you’re nervous. First, your eyes keep darting to the window, as if dreading what you’re about to see outside.”

  She glanced toward the carriage window again, this time surprised, as she realized that’s exactly what she’d been doing.

  “Eyes tell you a lot,” I said. “Always watch them. But the final piece of this puzzle is your leg.”

  “My . . .” She looked—and saw the right side of her beige skirt shaking up and down. She stilled her leg, flustered.

  “That, right there,” I said, “is what really tipped me off.”

  “You can’t possibly have figured it out from that,” she protested. “What if I just like shaking my leg?”

  “Then it wouldn’t mean anything. But you don’t. You’re forgetting how much I’ve seen you. The airship, Mr. Solomon’s, the omnibus, the hotel. Not once did you ever look nervous. Not when you learned you were robbing the High Weaver. Not even when I caught you stealing. It wasn’t until I said where we were going that your mood changed. That tells me you’re afraid of the asylum.”

  Now she gave me that frozen-deer look, the one that said You really can read minds.

  “The thing is,” I said, “I know what’s bothering you, but I don’t know why. Could be anything. The highest percentage play is that you knew someone who went mad—a loved one, probably—and this is making you remember it. But you could just be afraid of the insane. Most people are.”

  She tilted her head, curious. “Could you find out?”

  “If I needed to. Let’s say I was playing a gaff on you. What I’d do is have a partner come up to us on the street, playing the madman. Then I’d watch you real close. Would you show compassion? Disgust? Fear? Your reaction would tell me what’s really bothering you. And that’s what I’d exploit.

  “That’s how it works, see? Pay attention to the details everyone misses. Prod your mark, force them to react. Then watch their behavior—but most important, watch for changes in behavior. That’s your key tell. When someone changes from how they usually behave, it’s the biggest sign of all.” I sat back in my seat. “You think that’s something, you should have seen the Old Man. He was so good, I’m still not sure he couldn’t read minds.”

  She looked puzzled. “Which old man?”

  “You call him the Architect.”

  “Mr. Solomon wasn’t making that up?” she said. “You really did work with him?”

  “Worked with him. Traveled with him. Lived with him. For eight years.”

  “What was he like?”

  I turned away, watched the city pass through the window. “Exactly what you’d think,” I said.

  * * *

  As the carriage rumbled on, I told Meriel what I had planned. Talking through the job made her less nervous, but as we got closer, her leg began shaking again. She noticed it herself this time and pressed her hand against her knee to stop it.

  Clarewell Sanatorium was located on the west side of the city, in a neighborhood that had long seen better days. Unfriendly eyes watched us from the windows as our carriage trundled through the narrowing streets. A group of children chased after us, begging for septs, and though I felt for them—I’d once been them—the role we were playing didn’t allow for that kind of charity.

  The asylum had once been a mansion, abandoned years ago by the owners for more pleasant grounds. The house was surrounded by an iron fence barbed with spikes at the top, the sharpened tips pointing inward. These weren’t meant to stop thieves getting in. They were there to keep inmates from getting out.

  As we approached the gates, the children stopped chasing the carriage. They watched us rumble away with wide eyes; one bolder girl shouted “Loony!” and ran off. When our carriage driver pulled on the reins, we could hear a shriek over the chuffing of the horses, coming from beyond the iron fence. Meriel leaned closer to me, and though I’d told her earlier that acting scared would fit our characters, she wasn’t playing.

  I steeled myself as we stepped from the carriage. Then we went inside.

  CHAPTER 13

  The admitting office was in the original entrance hall of the house. A desk with a black marble top spanned half the room. A nurse, plump in a white smock and bonnet, sat behind it. A staircase on the right led up to the second floor, a sign pointing the way to the physick’s offices.

  Behind the stairs were three other doors. All of them were iron, held shut with a sturdy padlock, a small grated window at eye level. Shouting echoed down one of the halls, a jabber of language I couldn’t understand. From the opposite wall came an intermittent scream.

  The nurse eyed our fine clothes curiously as we approached. “Can I help you?”

  I’d intended to act scared. As it turns out, like Meriel, I didn’t have to act.

  “I hope— I hope so,” I said, letting my voice stammer. “My name is Adam Shaw. This is my sister, Molly. We’ve come looking for our cousin.”

  “He’s a patient here?”

  “We’re not sure. He disappeared a while ago, but a friend told Mother he was brought here recently.”

  The nurse opened her ledger. “When was this?”

  “Around four days ago.”

  “His name?”

  “It’s Colin. But that’s . . . I mean . . . it’s very delicate.” I bit my lip, as if ashamed.

  “There’s no need for embarrassment,” the nurse said kindly. “We’re used to dealing with such troubles.”

  “Colin’s been ill a long time,” I said. “Mother told us he showed no sign of madness as a boy, but once he reached the age of decision . . .” I lowered my voice. “He began to hear people. Speaking to him. But not real people, you see.”

  The nurse nodded.

  “And then he began to call himself by different names,” I said, “and he wouldn’t answer to ‘Colin’ anymore. Honestly, we don’t know what name he’s using.”

  “That’s not uncommon,” the nurse said. “Perhaps a description . . . ?”

  I spread my hands helplessly. “We haven’t seen him in years. The last time, he looked like he’d been living in the woods. But his eyes . . . I know I’d recognize them if I saw them. Would it be possible for us to examine the recently admitted?”

  This was the tricky part. What I was asking for was odd, and now she was wavering, not quite sure if she should grant my request. How to get past this? The Old Man had taught me, long ago.

  The easiest way to get a thing from someone is to turn what you want into something they want.

  Before the nurse could deny us, I said, “We’re so hoping Colin is here. Mother sent a small stipend to ensure he’s well cared for.”

  Now it was Meriel’s turn. She opened her purse and let the nurse glimpse inside. Her eyes widened when she saw the thousand crowns I’d taken from our expenses. This was a massive donation for a sanatorium—and the nurse would be commended for bringing it in.

  She smiled. “I’ll fetch the physick.”

  * * *

  Dr. Kelley was a haggard-looking man in his early thirties, jaw unshaven, the knot in his cravat half-unraveled. He had a sad sort of air about him: idealistic enough to still care for his patients but experienced enough to realize he’d never be able to fix them.

  Flanked by a tall, burly man with one eyebrow and a truncheon, Dr. Kelley unlocked the door to the left and motioned for us to follow him. “This is where we keep the new cases.”

  He led us down the corridor. While the admitting office had maintained some semblance of appearance, here the mansion really showed its age. Floral wallpaper peeled in sections, drooping from water-stained plaster underneath. A sour smell filled the air, an odd blend of septic lemon and mildew.

  The corridor ended in another iron door, already open, a second club-wielding attendant standing watch. The room beyond, o
nce the dining hall, now housed an infirmary. Inside lay eighteen narrow beds, bunched close together, barely any room to move between them.

  Most of the beds were full. One man paced back and forth before his, asking “Where is it? Where is it?” over and over again. An older fellow sat on the floor and howled like a wounded dog.

  Meriel linked her arm in mine, face pale. I could feel her fingers trembling in the crook of my elbow. Or maybe that was me.

  “Do you see your cousin?” Dr. Kelley said.

  I made a show of peering around the room. “It’s so hard to tell.” Then, as if it had just occurred to me, I said, “You know, there was this one name Colin used most. Let me try it.”

  I raised my voice. “Mr. Solomon? Mr. Solomon Weaver? We’ve come for the Eye.”

  When a person hears something familiar, there’s a moment of recognition. It may linger awhile or show only as a brief flash in the expression, but it’s there. It makes surprise the easiest thing to read, because the body reacts before the mind can hide.

  So, as I called out, I watched the faces of the inmates. Most of them ignored me, staring off into space. Six turned my way. In five, I saw nothing, just the dull expression of medicated illness.

  But there was one. Four beds down, on the left, a man looked at me.

  I’d hoped for recognition. What I saw, instead, was terror.

  CHAPTER 14

  The look the man gave me made my guts twist.

  “That’s him,” I told the doctor, genuinely rattled. “That’s our cousin.”

  “Ah,” he said regretfully. “Mr. . . . Shaw, was it? A difficult case.”

  The man in the bed—our thief—was in terrible shape. He’d been stripped of his clothes and was now dressed in a simple smock, grayed with age and frayed around the collar. A bandage was wrapped around his head. Near his right temple, a splotch of blood had seeped through, staining the cloth.

  The man writhed on the mattress, trying to get away, moaning. Leather straps bound his wrists and ankles to the frame.

  “Why is he tied like that?” Meriel said, upset.

  “For his own safety,” Dr. Kelley said. “The wound on his head was by his own hand.”

  Meriel’s voice quavered. “He did that to himself?”

  The doctor nodded. “He pried a nail from his bed and tried to drill a hole in his skull. As for why . . .” He shrugged, resigned. “Trying to get the voices in his head out, I imagine.”

  Horrified, Meriel covered her mouth. She was tugging my elbow, a subconscious desire to flee. I’d have run out with her gladly, but I needed to talk to the thief. And I needed to do it alone.

  “Would it be all right if I visited with him?” I said. “My sister will handle the arrangements for our donation.”

  “Of course,” he said. “But do try not to agitate him.”

  I didn’t have high hopes for that. Dr. Kelley escorted Meriel from the ward. The guard who’d come with us remained, standing a respectful distance away.

  Cautiously, I approached the mad thief’s bed. He watched me, eyes afraid.

  I held out my hands and spoke softly. “It’s all right. Mr. Solomon sent me to see if you’re well. If you needed anything.”

  The man stared at me.

  I knelt beside the bed. It smelled musty, like the sheets were decades old. “What’s your name?”

  Still no answer. I tried again. “I’m Cal. I’m in the business, like you.” If he retained any of his former self, he’d know what I meant. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Seamus,” the man whispered. He searched my face. “Are you real?”

  “Yes. See?”

  I took his hand. His skin was cold and clammy. Seamus looked down, wrists bound to the bed, marveling at my touch.

  “I thought nothing was real,” he said. “Or . . . everything was?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “He’ll show you.”

  “Who? Mr. Solomon?”

  “He didn’t want me. Do you see?”

  I didn’t see at all. Though I was starting to believe he wasn’t talking about Mr. Solomon. Maybe . . . the High Weaver?

  I tried a different tack. “Mr. Solomon said you went to the High Weaver’s house. He said you and your friends disarmed most of the traps.”

  “No traps anymore,” Seamus said. “Poof. All gone.”

  So that part was true. “And what happened to your friends?”

  “No friends anymore. Poof. All gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Checker was frozen. Shattered like ice. Starling, too. Crack and crumble, she did.”

  It sounded like they got caught in the High Weaver’s wards. Frozen to death, then shattered. The image made me shudder.

  “Pepper and Squeak got left behind,” Seamus said. His voice lowered to a whisper. “They weren’t invited.”

  “Invited where?”

  “Down.”

  “Down where?”

  “To sea.”

  “Which sea?” I thought about it, confused. “Or do you mean they weren’t invited to see? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” he said. “Or maybe you won’t. I did. And now I don’t.”

  He cackled. There was something in his laughter. Madness, but . . . not madness. I was sure he was trying to tell me something. I just couldn’t understand what.

  “Your friends disarmed the traps,” I said. “But there was one left, wasn’t there?”

  “Oh yes. The biggest trap of all.”

  “Mr. Solomon said it had something to do with a child.”

  His eyes focused back on me. “A . . . child? Is that what he wants?”

  “Who? The High Weaver? Are you talking about the High Weaver?”

  “He’s the one. The one who showed me. But he showed me too much.”

  “Too much what?”

  “These memories. I don’t want them. Can you take them out?”

  “I—”

  His fingers tightened on mine. “Please. Can you take them out? Take them out.”

  His grip tightened, crushing my knuckles. I tried to pull away.

  “Take them out,” he moaned. “Take them out.”

  He squeezed harder. I bent over in agony, bones near cracking. I grabbed his wrist, managed to wrench myself loose. I tumbled backward, losing my feet, and crashed to the floor.

  Seamus tore against his restraints, reaching for me. The guard rushed forward, calling for help. I pushed away, scrambling backward. I heard the clang of a distant door, the thunder of boots running toward us. And above it all, the thief’s voice rose, higher and higher, until his screams threatened to burst my ears.

  “Take them out take them out take them out take them out TAKE THEM OUT TAKE THEM OUT TAKE THEM OUT—”

  I fled.

  CHAPTER 15

  Meriel said nothing.

  We sat in silence as the carriage returned to the Broken Bow. Meriel stared out the window, jaw tight.

  Something about the asylum had hit her hard inside. The Old Man would have had me pry, find out what troubled her and lock it away, in case I needed to use it against her in the future. I could practically see him puffing on his pipe.

  That’s the smart play, he said.

  Probably. But I didn’t want to do that. Instead, I let her find her composure, then, once in our hotel room, said, “You did good back there.”

  “I did nothing,” Meriel snapped. “Just acted like a scared little girl.”

  “Which was exactly what you were supposed to be. Doesn’t matter whether your feelings were real or fake. You played the gaff and you played it well. Good job.”

  She looked at me sharply, to see if I was mocking her.

  “I mean it,” I said.

  She stu
died me a moment longer, then flushed and gave a curt nod. “So what did you find out?”

  I told her about my conversation with the thief. “I think he was talking about the High Weaver. I think he ran into Darragh himself.”

  “And Darragh . . . ?” She wiggled her fingers.

  “Maybe. Seamus said he ‘showed him too much.’ ”

  She frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Something about memories. Whatever it was, whatever he saw . . . it shattered the man’s mind.”

  “That’s the final trap, then?” Meriel said it matter-of-factly, but talk of Seamus had her leg shaking again. “Getting past the High Weaver?”

  I wasn’t sure. I was starting to realize we had no idea what to think. Just yesterday, I’d have said such magic was impossible. But after seeing Mr. Solomon’s dagger trap, and Seamus’s broken mind, it was becoming clear the Old Man had left an enormous gap in my education. It made me wonder again about Foxtail. Of all of us, that girl must know something about enchantments. Her mask was living proof. I’d have to ask her about it.

  In the meantime, something else was bothering me. “Mr. Solomon said he put our team together because Seamus told him the final trap could only be evaded by a child. But when I asked Seamus about it, he seemed almost surprised that I’d suggested it.”

  “You think Mr. Solomon was lying?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t. I’d swear he believes he needs a child to take the Eye.”

  “Well, Mr. Solomon is a Weaver. He probably knows lots of things we don’t.”

  “Sure, but why not tell us? Why make up a story?”

  Meriel shrugged. “Weaver secrets.”

  She didn’t seem concerned. With the horror of the asylum behind us, her bravado was returning. Mine wasn’t.

  None of this was making any sense. We needed more time to be certain.

  And time was the one thing we didn’t have.

  * * *