Illusions of Fate (9 page)

“
I
am saving your life!”

“You were ready to give in! I saved my own life. You are simply keeping me company on this leg of my escape.” Sir Bird caws brokenly in support of my statements.

One of the birds dives at us and smashes against an unseen barrier, exploding in a poof of feathers that turns into ash. “And how,” Finn says, huffing with anger or exertion, his cane still tracing patterns into the air, “do you intend to evade the flock of familiars even now conveying our every move?”

“I can’t do
all
the work! Surely if you are so important as to merit the smashing of my every finger, you can figure this out.”

“Stop!” he says. I fear he is going to leave me, but he nods. “Here, this should work.” He traces a rectangle onto the blank space of a head-high wall, then knocks the tip of his cane on it three times in rapid succession. The wall melts away and, instead of a view into the small front lot of the house, it opens into blackness.

He ducks to go through, then looks back and sees my hesitation. “Trust me?”

“Of course I don’t.” I grit my teeth and swish sideways past him, but I miscalculate the width of the door and brush my ruined hand against the brick. I cry out, the pain intensified to a blinding wave.

This time when his arms come around me, lifting and cradling, I do not object. He hurries down a flight of stairs in the pitch black. The wall seals behind us, cutting off the harsh screams of the birds. At the bottom, Finn taps his cane against the wall and a line of sconces burst into flame, illuminating a stone tunnel with periodic holes in the ceiling. It drips with the slick collection of water from the cobbled stones of the street above us. Finn’s fine shoes
splosh
through the accumulated slush and stone-strained filth.

“Not far now,” he says.

“I can walk.” I do not want to, of course, but most of the dizziness has passed and the pain has dulled to merely overwhelming.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I need you close for this next part anyhow. And will you please get rid of the bird.”

I cradle Sir Bird closer to my chest. “You will have to get rid of me first.” Sir Bird squawks loudly.

“Accursed stubborn creature.”

“He is not accursed!”

“I was speaking of you.”

He stops and I brace myself to be dropped, but he shifts me with the gentlest of movements to free his cane for wider access. I turn to see a circle, inscribed with patterns, burned into the wall. Beneath us, a wider circle glows faintly under the streaming water Finn stands in.

“Running water helps,” he says as if that is any explanation at all. “But I cannot have any part of you outside of the circle. If you would stand on my feet and”—he pauses and looks down as though unwilling to meet my gaze—“wrap your arms around me in as tight an embrace you can manage without pain, that should be enough.”

“Must we?”

I do not know why this sounds more intimate than being carried in his arms, but my cheeks burn. He nods and removes his arm from beneath the bend of my knees, easing me down until my toes meet the water and the tops of his shoes. Keeping Sir Bird between us and angling my hand so that it touches nothing, I wrap my free arm around Finn, trying not to note the smooth muscles of his back beneath his long, black overcoat.

“If you could—that is, would you mind terribly—tucking your head in as well?”

I close my eyes and lean in. My head fits right at the hollow of his neck, and the image of his collarbone springs unbidden into my mind. My breath must catch because he murmurs about having hurt me again. I shake my head, pressing it closer into his neck. “It’s fine,” I whisper, not trusting my voice.

“This won’t be painful, but you will be disoriented. Try not to let go when it’s finished. I fear you would fall.”

I nod into his neck, his pulse beneath my cheek.

He whispers a series of foreign words, and we are swept away, twirling and tumbling in a rush of water that is neither cold nor wet. It takes me several seconds to realize I am still upright, clinging to Finn, and even longer to process that we are not in any river, nor are we in the sewer system, but rather in a bright room where every square foot is covered in books—crammed on shelves, piled on tables and chairs and couches, strewn haphazardly in teetering stacks on the floor.

“You’re trembling.” Finn’s voice is a low song beside my ear, and I know I should let him go, but the commands refuse to transfer from my brain to my arm.

“Here is the back of the couch. Use it to steady yourself. I’m going to clear a spot for you to lie down.” He’s careful and gentle, as though addressing a spooked animal.

I nod and pull my head away from his neck, keeping my eyes down. I cannot look him in the face, not so soon. I shift to lean against the couch, and he slowly releases me. I sway but manage to stay upright, and he darts out of view. The sound of books being flung to the floor punctuates an otherwise silent room.

“How are you?” I whisper to Sir Bird.

He is breathing, I can feel it, but I have no knowledge of normal bird breathing, much less magical bird breathing, to determine whether it is too fast or too slow. It is easier, though, to focus on the bird rather than let my mind dwell on my own pain.

“Here,” Finn says. His arm is around my shoulders again, and he guides me around the couch to where I can sit. I don’t want to lie down. It feels too vulnerable, too personal, and brings to mind the other strange couch I woke up on today.

The coffee table.

The hammer.

“Are you going to be sick?” He sounds alarmed.

I lie down and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel fingers reaching to take Sir Bird and flex my arm instinctively.

“I promise not to harm your beastly little friend. But I need your hand. Will you trust me?”

This time I nod, and his hands are soft as he lifts Sir Bird away. “I have my eye on you,” he says in a low, menacing tone, and I am relieved to hear Sir Bird caw ill-naturedly in return.

Something warm and comfortingly heavy is placed over my waist and legs. I am shivering, shaking all over. Now that I no longer need to run, my body is shutting down.

“Your hand.” Finn’s voice is cold. I’ve done something to anger him, and I open my eyes, confused. He’s kneeling next to me, fingers outstretched, just barely above my injuries. They shake until he draws them into a fist. “I will kill him.”

“Wait your turn,” I try to say, but my voice breaks and I seal my lips shut.

“Will you let me fix them?”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I would not let a doctor within twenty feet of your fingers. I can make them right again.”

“Will it hurt?” I hate that tears pool in my eyes, but I cannot help it.

He nods. “It will. Terribly. But only for a moment.”

“Couldn’t you knock me over the head with something first?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Then I would have to fix your head, too, and I’m much better with fingers.”

I take a deep breath and hold out my hand. I cannot move it past my wrist.

He surveys the damage. Then he reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a black satin, wrist-length glove. “I already made it,” he says. “As soon as he started . . . well, I wanted to be ready when I got into the house. I didn’t count on you meeting me at the porch.”

He sets the glove down next to me and then looks into my eyes. “It may be best not to watch.”

“You cannot compete with any of the horrors today has already delivered. I’d prefer to see.”

This time the sad smile makes it to his eyes. He reaches out like he would tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, but stops short and turns back to his work. “Very well. Take a deep breath. On the count of three—”

I draw in the deepest breath I can, holding it, watching and waiting for him to start twisting and popping my fingers back into place. He picks up the glove, then says, “One . . . two . . .”

Without warning, he pulls the glove over my hand. I scream and kick out, catching him on the chin with my knee, but as soon as the pain registers it is gone, replaced by a strange, crawling, cold sensation, prickling beneath my skin.

I stop midscream and look in wonder at the glove, perfectly fit like a second skin, each finger straight and placed as though they had never known a hammer. I brace myself, then wiggle my hand to find that there is no pain at all, and each finger bends where a finger ought to.

“Now.” Finn rubs his chin where I struck him. “Are you ready for an explanation?”

Eleven

I NOD, DISTRACTED, STILL FLEXING MY FINGERS
with wonder. I broke a toe once, when I was six or seven, and even after my friends popped it back into place, it ached for months. Wanting to look at my fingers to see if the discoloration and splits in the skin have mended as well, I move to tug off the glove.

“No! Don’t do that!” Finn grabs my gloved hand and holds it protectively in both of his. “You cannot remove it.”

“Ever?”

“No, no, not that long. But it must stay in place until everything has settled. Can you feel it? The sort of itching crawl beneath your skin?”

I nod. It’s like pins and needles, the way my foot feels when I’ve been reading with it tucked under me for too long. But colder. “What is it?”

“Magic.” But the word sounds tired and ordinary coming out of his mouth. I know I should be shocked, disbelieving, but after everything I have seen and been through, it’s a relief. I’m not losing my mind.

I shake my hand as though I can dislodge the sensation there. “I am not sure I like it, but it’s better than the pain. You’ve felt it before?”

His eyes focused on nothing, one corner of his lips pulls up. “Every waking hour throughout my entire body.”

“Well, a glove and a strange sensation is more than a fair trade. Thank you.”

“I am—you must know how sorry I am for all of this.”

“Yes, though what ‘all of this’ is I cannot begin to fathom.” Needing some fidget to break eye contact—his dark eyes are piercing, and I begin to feel those strange pins and needles across my whole body under their gaze—I pull off my regular glove, wrinkling my nose at the filth caked there. It is then that I’m finally aware enough to take into account the relative state of my clothes and person.

The dress is snagged and torn. The skirts around my knees are black with grime, and I want nothing more than to be shot of it and the associations with the man who sent it to me.

“This is an explanation best made in clean, dry clothes, worn over full stomachs,” Finn says, anticipating my discomfort. “Though I have no women’s clothing here, I’m afraid.”

“I should wonder greatly if you did.” I smile, attempting levity, and then realize I know next to nothing about him. He could be married. He certainly wouldn’t be the first married Alben man to pursue a Melenese mistress.

“How old are you?” I blurt out.

“I am the oldest nineteen-year-old alive,” he says, smiling sadly. “This way.” He waits for me to stand, watching to see how steady I am. I’m pleased to be able to walk more or less confidently. He leads me out a door—which does not disappear, I have kept half an eye on it the whole time—and into an electric lantern–lit hall. I look down both ends, but it stretches beyond what I can see, blurring far sooner than it should. I cannot make out how many doors there are, and they seem too close together to lead to any rooms other than closets.

Finn opens one onto a washroom. It’s generously sized, bigger than my room at the hotel, and far larger than the doors in the hallway would account for. But inside, the walls are free from extra doors, a pale blue color with waist-high wainscoting.

This house makes me dizzy.

I decide to willfully ignore the problem of the doors and inspect the washroom, instead. There’s a claw-foot bath, and a pillar washbasin against the wall, complete with in-room faucet. Running water! A large, gilt mirror hangs above a dressing table and a plush chair. Against the far wall is a window, through which I can see branches of a tree and the late afternoon sky.

“Towels, here.” He opens an armoire. “And a clean nightshirt with a dressing robe. I am sorry I cannot offer better, and that it’s not pressed.”

“It’s fine, thank you.” Something nags at me, however, and though it should be the least of my worries, I cannot help but ask. “What will you tell the servants?”

“I keep secrets in this house. I have found that one can either keep secrets or keep servants. The two are incompatible. I’ll leave you to it, and prepare a luncheon in the library.” He closes the door quietly behind himself, and I turn the lock.

As I struggle to undo the lacings of my corset, I look out the window, needing distractions. Odd. The windows in the library were streaming warm golden light, but this window overlooks a tree-lined park, the day drizzling and gray as it was when we fled the nightmare man’s house. I suppose I should no longer expect anything in the world to make sense, but I find this annoying in the extreme. Other memories demand to be felt, tugging at the edge of my mind and emotions, but I cling to the annoyance so I can delay addressing what the nightmare man did to me.