Her grandmother had never approved of their marriage, and during family luncheons she would often remark on Lady Brigitte’s inability to produce a second child. Still, Sibylla had news to share with Prince Henry, questions to ask, and the glimmer of a plan to keep her half-brother safe, if only her father would make the time for her. She couldn’t shake a lingering doubt that, since her parents had less to do with her upbringing than the queen, they considered her more of a distant relative than a daughter – one they liked but needn’t go out of their way to meet.
Lady Brigitte reached up to pat Sibylla’s cheek. “Really, no need to fuss. When I see him, I’ll tell him that, according to Sibet, the world will end if he doesn’t speak with her straightaway.” She stood and pecked Sibylla’s cheek, her skirts swishing as she left her game unfinished and her cards strewn across the table.
Sibylla watched her go with a defeated sigh. As usual she hadn’t been able to say half of what she wanted to her mother.
Since most of the staff didn’t recognize her, she was able to make a quick jaunt from the royal family’s private quarters to Malmouth’s more public wing without the requisite parade of footmen.
After securing the royal library’s copy of Khalishkan Attitudes and Greetings: A Resource from a shelf of foreign protocol books, Sibylla tucked herself into the deserted butler’s pantry that was her secondfavorite spot in Malmouth. She’d need to know more than how Khalishkans said hello if she wanted to persuade the emperor to permit a Myrcnian embassy within his country, but at least she could learn whether to bow, curtsy, or – she shuddered – embrace.
As she flipped open the book, the smell of food wafted in from the warming room. As a girl she had often spent the better part of a day in this abandoned nook, reading and avoiding her family or hiding with Roger. Located in a recess near the servant staircase, the pantry had redwood panels and shelves now empty of silver and porcelain. No matter the mood in the palace, Sibylla had always felt safe here.
Click-thud-thud click-thud-thud
At the sound of footsteps, Sibylla angled her head into the hall to see who approached. At the end of the corridor strutted Dr Lundfrigg, the royal physician she’d met at Helmscliff, once again dressed in a manner that affected wealth without understanding how to properly display it. This time he paired aubergine silk trousers with a pale blue wool waistcoat. His medical cane clicked in step with his black shoes.
What is he doing here? Sibylla snapped her book shut. She had no desire for another encounter with the royal physician but she was curious why he’d come to Malmouth. A sick royal family member, perhaps. He might even know the reason Edgar wouldn’t be standing behind the queen during the emperor’s greeting ceremony. Not that she’d be asking. She intended to avoid the gentleman.
Sibylla pressed herself toward the back of the nook, trying her best to dissolve into the red paneling.
Unfortunately Dr Lundfrigg had already noticed her. He stopped abruptly outside the pantry and bowed in her direction. “How fortunate to meet your highness.”
Sibylla forced a smile and stepped out to greet him. “Dr Lundfrigg.”
“Please, child. Your highness may think of me as you would an uncle. Or call me Finchy, as my closest friends do.”
“One uncle is more than enough.” She didn’t exactly have a warm relationship with Crown Prince Elfred. When they did speak, he usually harped on family marriage traditions and how he looked forward to her eventual children with Edgar.
Dr Lundfrigg tapped his cane. “I have to say I’m elated to find you here. You’ve saved me a most inconvenient trip, as I had already begun preparations for another visit to Helmscliff to finish your examination.”
If she had to converse with him after all, she might at least gather some useful gossip. “I’m unsure what needs examining, though I do wonder if you’ve come from seeing my cousin Edgar, or… the crown prince? Surely, you haven’t journeyed all the way to Malmouth merely to admire its hallways.”
Dr Lundfrigg leaned in close as if to divulge a secret, then answered coyly, “I’ve come for her royal majesty. A matter most private.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Everything concerning her royal majesty is serious.” Dr Lundfrigg’s expression bordered on playful. “I even had chance to mention that little trick of yours. I was quite charmed the other day by your… auditory air disturbance. I had to scour the records at St Harailt’s just to discover which relative passed it on.”
“I didn’t realize the royal physician had such interest in divine blessings. Your predecessors made sure to concern themselves with our daily health, not our magic. Let Archbishop Tittlebury measure otherworldly affairs.” Roger, too irreverent for his own good, had once argued with her biology tutor that the princess couldn’t glow by the grace of divinity alone. Now, she found herself chiding Dr Lundfrigg with the same speech. “An old friend of mine would say, aren’t you a man of science? Best to stay within your sphere, doctor.”
Dr Lundfrigg stroked his cane. “Of course. Naturally such things are beyond our understanding. I would never say otherwise, certainly not within her royal majesty’s walls. But alas, the pursuit of the unknown is my burden to bear, despite dangers of offending.”
“Careful. In Myrcnia, offenses given are never taken lightly.”
Questioning whether the royal family truly descended from a mythic water sprite could be construed as treason. She’d seen enough merfolk statues to reason a population must have existed under the sea long ago. Perhaps some had grown legs as she’d once dreamed of growing fins. But even she would never voice such an opinion.
“Yes, yes. I only say this because of your reputation as an intellect. At this rate I may have to visit Divine Maiden Sibylla’s chapel if I wish to procure a sample of your highness’ blood.”
“Are you in need of absolution?” Sibylla raised her fingers toward the doctor’s forehead. She kept her face dreadful and serious until Dr Lundfrigg met her eyes with a vehement stare.
“I thank your highness for the offer, but the only sin I’ve committed is my unwillingness to allow the poor to live untreated when there are so many advancements to be made on their behalf.”
Sibylla fidgeted uneasily until a familiar aroma offered her a reprieve from Dr Lundfrigg’s righteousness. “If I’m not mistaken, the gravy for this evening’s dinner has nearly finished heating. Perhaps another time.”
“Certainly, your highness. I hope soon to have a word about your mother’s Donnellan School for boys. I’m most interested in looking up its alumni. I understand Lady Brigitte still holds luncheons with various former students in Caligo.”
Sibylla studied Dr Lundfrigg with an unfaltering eye. His interest in Donnellan School for boys meant one thing: the queen had discovered where her half-brother had been educated. From what Sibylla had been told by Lady Brigitte, a respectable Myrcnian couple that had emigrated to Ibnova lent the royal bastard their name, and as far as school records were concerned, he was like any other son of a rich family living abroad. The couple had even passed away in the intervening years.
So why then did the queen think her royal physician could sniff out Sibylla’s half-brother where Dorinda must have already failed? A list of names would tell Dr Lundfrigg nothing, and he couldn’t exactly place a wooden depressor to their tongues and have them glow for him.
Sibylla stiffened her shoulders. “Unfortunately so many of the students don’t attend.”
“How tedious it will be, then, to give them all physicals.” Dr Lundfrigg dragged his cane across the floor as if solving an equation, then dipped his head toward Sibylla. “Ah, but I shouldn’t keep your highness from her dinner preparations.”
As Dr Lundfrigg headed off, Sibylla nervously inked a bee that barely held its shape. Dr Lundfrigg seemed oddly keen for royal blood samples, and now she had a strong hunch that this “physical” of Donnellan alumni would involve drawing their blood, too. If this royal physician could discover a bastard’s identity by bl
ood alone, then he was far more dangerous than Dorinda. She inked a larger bee that scudded after Dr Lundfrigg’s retreating figure. Let him try. She’d render him deaf before he could collect a drop of her brother’s blood.
15
Harrod’s butler Dawson escorted Roger to a simple, spacious room – at least compared to his garret – located in the servants’ quarters of Harrod’s townhome. As soon as he was alone, Roger tossed the hideous livery coat over a chair and threw himself on the narrow bed.
To demonstrate gratitude toward Sibylla for saving his neck, Harrod had given Roger a journal in which he was expected to write five pages each day of probation like some wayward schoolboy. Roger would rather have shoved those pencils up the real Strangler’s nose. He flipped open the journal and stared at the blank page. In a flurry he scribbled: I AM NOT A MURDERER. He repeated the sentence until he met his page quota.
Meanwhile his thoughts drifted to his precarious situation. With only five days to clear his name, he had to convince the courts he was innocent beyond all doubt – or be bound to Princess Sibylla forever. Once he’d brought the real strangler to light, even the archbishop might change his tune. But, until then, one slip-up and he’d be hanged at Old Grim. He had to tread lightly. Perhaps playing Harrod’s lackey wouldn’t be so bad for a day or two, though he chafed to leave this prison. A man of science needed the freedom to investigate, even unearth a few stiffs, to figure out who had framed him before it was too late.
Nighttime was best for wily evasions so he slept through the rest of afternoon. By the time Dawson returned, the orange glare of the gaslamps shone in from the street below. The butler set a tray of tea, cabbage soup, and bread on the dresser.
Roger sat up on the bed and gave the butler a cheerful smile. “Thank you. My last jailer weren’t so thoughtful.”
Dawson ignored him. “I’ll be locking you up fer the night.”
“Locking me up? When I called you a jailer, I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Just normal procedure ’round here when we take in new help off the street. How do we know you won’t steal off into the night with the silver?”
“Point taken,” Roger muttered.
“If this were the Whalestooth brig, you’d get beetlecakes and saltwater tea,” snapped Dawson. “Eat up. Tomorrow you start pulling yer weight ’round here.” After shaking out and hanging Roger’s crumpled livery coat, he left and locked the door behind him.
Roger sat on the edge of the bed and drank his soup straight from the bowl. As he chewed the bread broiled in garlic butter, the smell triggered a memory. He froze with the bread half in his mouth.
Ghostofmary. Ada. She’d have given up on him by now. He didn’t doubt Ada could handle herself, but if she continued haunting graveyards and Will-o’-the-Wisp Lane, she’d end up more of a ghost than she already was. With the real Greyanchor Strangler still at large, Ada’s mother was still in danger, too. Maybe he could scrounge up a hospital admittance slip for Celeste. She’d be under constant observation and receive better care than he could provide.
Night had fallen; his body was rested and his stomach full. Roger jammed the rest of the bread in his mouth and examined the door. If only the key had been in the lock, he might have pushed it out with a pin and caught it on the tray slid under the door. But it was not, and this lock mechanism required a more sophisticated tool, a diamond pick perhaps, to open. The window, however, was merely latched.
He opened the third-story window, then paused. Was he really planning to pull one over on Harrod so soon? He hadn’t thought this through. His brother would be livid.
“If he finds out,” Roger said between clenched teeth. Either way, Harrod would be more lenient than the law. He decided he’d rather be flogged for clandestine doctoring than executed for crimes he’d only partially committed.
Then there was the question of his clothes. He had only the servant garments Dawson had given him. The gaudy livery coat would draw attention in public. He lifted the coat from the chair and examined its black lining – by turning the garment inside-out he might be less noticeable. He pulled it on. Though he wouldn’t be dressed for the weather, it would have to do.
Roger leaned precariously through a little window and reached for the crown molding that edged the roof. He held his breath and hauled his legs through the tight opening, letting them dangle free, then inched his hands along the gutter toward a lead pipe that channeled rainwater into a barrel below. He nearly lost his grip as his fingers went numb with cold. With a final swing he hurled himself at the pipe. His hands slipped on the wet metal and he careered down faster than expected. A yew bush broke his slide, and he landed uninjured in the back garden.
He glanced back at the lit windows. If he thought too hard about another arrest and his emasculated corpse on display, he’d turn back. He tucked his chin into his collar and headed in the direction of his garret. Once he’d rustled up some coin to pay for medicaments, he’d check in on Celeste at Eglantine’s Den of Delights.
Within the hour Roger stood in front of the butcher’s shop on Suet Street, in a dingy Caligo neighborhood far from the lamp-lined streets where Harrod lived. He craned his head up at his attic garret window. All was dark. The boards creaked under his feet as he ascended the winding stairs. When he reached the first landing, Mrs Carver’s door opened a crack and the landlady peered suspiciously out at him. The smell of stewed beef liver drifted from her room.
“Mr Weathersby?” she whispered, as if afraid of being overheard. “You vanished days ago. Then I saw your name in the broadsheets, your likeness too. It said that a Roger Weathersby were the Greyanchor Strangler, sentenced to hang.” A note of fear hung in her voice, and he imagined her holding a cleaver behind her back.
Though his pulse pounded his skull, Roger put on his most charming smile. “Do I look like a strangler shackled in a cell, Mrs Carver? I were only at my brother’s funeral. You remember – that fancy naval man came by to say he was lost at sea. Besides, Weathersby’s a common enough name, and half the men in Caligo are Roger something or other.”
Mrs Carver thrust a folded broadsheet through the cracked door. “You’ll agree the likeness is uncanny. It’s even got your zigzag.”
Roger touched the neckcloth covering his tattoos, wondering when Mrs Carver could have glimpsed his old prison mark. He unfolded the broadsheet to study the pen and ink portrait, purported to be Roger Weathersby, Greyanchor Strangler.
“A good likeness indeed,” he said dryly. “They even remembered to add horns. But the chin is all wrong.”
“You’re right.” She relaxed somewhat. “Weathersby is a common enough name. I’m sorry to have vexed you. My condolences about your brother.”
“No bother, Mrs Carver. I bid you good night.”
Roger turned to climb the stairs, but she clutched his sleeve.
“Not to cause more fuss, but there’s been something… queer about your garret these past few nights.”
“Queer? The unusual quiet has caused you alarm.”
Mrs Carver opened her door wide enough to fit her shoulders through. “Oh no. I swear I’ve heard strange noises on the stairs. Miss Agnes next door said she saw a pale glow floating about in the window last night. I took a candle upstairs to see, but it were snuffed out by a draft. I then had such a feeling of dread, I rushed down straightaways. Something were chucking pebbles and such at my back. Be on your guard.” She handed him a half-burned candle. “I shall stop by the Chapel of Solemnlych tomorrow, to ask for an exorcism,” she whispered.
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs Carver. You know I’m a man of science.” Roger feigned nonchalance. “Though if you have any garlic on you, I’d be much obliged.”
Mrs Carver nodded. She ducked inside and returned with a full bulb of garlic. Roger broke off a clove, peeled it, and placed it in his mouth.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” He thanked her with a bow and continued up the stairs, candle in hand.
The stairwell spiraled in
to darkness, and he climbed with quiet footfalls. As he rounded the final curve, his eye caught something that gave him pause. The door to his garret was ajar. Hadn’t he closed and locked it the last time he’d been here?
“Ahoy hoy!” he called.
No response. Those superstitious ladies must have caught a glimpse of his luminescent jars through the window and let their imaginations run to Greyanchor and back. Roger placed his hand on the door. He heard a rustling within – rats after his cat carcass? Maybe he’d left the window open by accident.
Roger bit down on the garlic and flung open the door. In the dull light of his candle, the room appeared in the same state he’d left it, with jars on shelves he’d fastened to the canted ceiling, and the blanket in a heap on his cot. Yet the smell of the place was off. Then he noticed the empty bucket beside the door. His dead cat must have wandered away on ghostly paws.
A weight attached itself to Roger’s back. He dropped the candle and the room went dark. A rope pulled tight across his throat. He wrenched it free, but small hands and arms grasped his face and neck.
“I’ll teach you to break your promises, sack-’em-up man!” shrieked a voice.
Roger threw himself on the cot. The sagging mattress smelled like lye and necropolis lavender.
“Have you been living in my room, Ghostofmary?” he said through the crook of his elbow as she pummeled his shoulders.
“Aye. And I sold your disgusting cat to the bone-rag man for a winkle.”
“I planned to put that cat to use for science.”
“It were rotten.” Ada knocked Roger a final time, then collapsed on the cot next to him.
Roger fumbled for his tinderbox to light the candle. “Have you… heard anything about me, Ghost? In the broadsheets, or maybe songs?”
“I heard you was a poxy rotten slime-tongued liar who breaks his promises.”
Roger exhaled in relief. Some day he’d thank the balladeer who’d chosen a lesser known tune to accompany his prose. “The Greyanchor Strangler” was no “Poison Mary.”
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 15