The Resurrectionist of Caligo

by Wendy Trimboli

  Plum-colored helleborus peeked from lingering clumps of snow. Sibylla wound through the maze of barren paths until she found herself before a particular tree. Her stomach churned. The gardeners should have chopped the thing down by now.

  The tree itself wasn’t the problem. The weeping ash sat in a line of gnarled old pears that hadn’t borne fruit since Prince Consort Barnaby died. Its branches drooped over the path, heavy with ice that forced her to duck if she didn’t want a bruise. As a little girl, she’d watched children play around this tree with sticks in their hands, assailing ruffians or assaulting warlords. It was also where Roger had first kissed her.

  A soft whistle-click to the back of Roger’s neck had sent a stack of sun-bleached petticoats he’d taken off the clothesline billowing in the breeze. As he gathered the laundry, she spied her own bloomers in the grass. With a distressed shriek, she lunged for them. Roger must have thought she wanted to start a game of hog-the-wash because he grinned and sprinted after her, chasing her through the gardens. At last he’d cornered her against the weeping ash with the bloomers still clutched to her chest. He wound his fingers in the lacy frills, ready to tug, then froze. Her face burned hot and her veins pulsed with bluish light.

  “These are mine,” she said, her voice tight.

  “I know.” He stroked her hair and traced her cheek with a callused finger. She dropped the bloomers to the ground. Her fingernails dug into the tree bark as he leaned in to kiss her neck, then her mouth. His lips had been chapped and his tongue tasted of salted haddock, but she still closed her eyes to savor the moment.

  The following summer, she’d met him again under the ash, this time to give him the royal library’s only copy of Hemon’s Studies of Medical Phenomena and Their Surgical Treatments.

  Of course, that was before the queen had paid Roger quite a sum to end his dalliance with her. Her stomach soured. He’d had no difficulty kissing Dorinda beneath these same drooping branches – Sibylla had seen it all from a hollow beside a gooseberry bush. She wondered if he had ever discovered the value of that rare medical volume. Perhaps he wouldn’t have agreed so hastily to the queen’s terms if he’d known.

  Sibylla kicked the ash’s trunk, succeeding merely in scuffing her boot. Removing her gloves, she flexed her fingers and inked a spiral of bees around the ash tree in an attempt to keep her eyes from watering. Despite being told whom she should love, she’d only fallen once. Roger had taken her heart and run off with it. And soon she might wed a man just to lower the market price of cheese abroad. Tears prickled behind her eyelids.

  Not that her first love had been all that forgiving. Over the years, she’d invented plenty of excuses for his silence, but now she had his letters – hateful, unremorseful boasts accompanied by inappropriate hatpins. With every pass around the tree her frustration grew until the branches of the weeping ash turned black from all the ink-bees drifting upward.

  The sound of a man loping down the path threw her off guard.

  Lieutenant Calloway’s bright cranberry uniform stood out from the soft gray mist and the browns of empty branches. Relieved to be woken from her moping, Sibylla almost waved. He bounded over a hedge as if charging an imaginary battlefield, though he could have simply crossed the gravel path where it cut through the boxwood.

  He’d settled his affairs at Helmscliff more quickly than she expected.

  His riding boots crunched on the frosted grass as he approached. He blushed and swept her hands into his, squeezing her bare icy fingers.

  Though not a cousin, nor servant, nor foreign diplomat, she admitted this young lieutenant did have a nice mustache. He’d even written her a love letter with impeccable penmanship. She absently wondered if it might be easier to run off with some soldier than to win over an emperor or cease pining after a medical student. She might kiss this man, and forget the others. Sibylla leaned in to find out.

  She expected him to say something, but his eyes only widened. His mustache tangled in her lips. After a moment’s hesitation, he kissed her back, his mouth insistent but gentle. She tasted a sweet sugar dusting on his blond bristles that suggested Lieutenant Calloway preferred breakfast in the Ibnovan style to the hearty veal sausage and white cheddar quiche she’d enjoyed that morning. Her fingers gripped his hips, and she allowed him to brazenly wrap his hands around her waist.

  But it was no good. Her heart didn’t burst in her chest, and his lips didn’t blot out the other kisses she’d shared beneath the ash’s bowed branches.

  Stiffly, she slipped out of his arms. As she straightened the pin in her hair and adjusted her collar, her mind kept returning to Roger. She should have slapped the lieutenant, or just herself for using him as a crutch to forget.

  Dazed, Lieutenant Calloway looked as if he’d been unseated from a horse. “I have the best news, my dear. But it’s taken all morning to find you. The queen’s Black Stallions will be in the parade.” They were part of the household cavalry – elite, hand-selected guards of the royal family – so their inclusion shouldn’t have been a surprise to the lieutenant.

  “Is that so?” she said to humor him.

  “I’ll be fitted with the cuirass this afternoon, in time for the emperor’s greeting procession.”

  Sibylla forced a smile. His bright, enthusiastic stare only confirmed she’d made a mistake out of weakness. Lieutenant Calloway moved closer, obviously wishing to continue their earlier sport, but Sibylla pressed a hand to his chest. His face turned such a bright red hue, she wondered what he imagined doing to her.

  “Sibylla.” A sudden call from across the frosted lawn interrupted them.

  Her mother. Lady Brigitte used the same tone when disapproving of her reading choices, her penchant for eating sweets after midnight, or her excessive drinking of spruce liquor.

  Lieutenant Calloway withdrew into a deferential bow. His flawless execution from ardent suitor to solicitous protector surpassed even Harrod’s talent for deception.

  “What a spitting image of your father, the great general of Mince.” Lady Brigitte playfully took stock of the young man. “Highspits certainly produces men of vigor.”

  “May my duties allow me to guard our most precious princess for many years to come.” Lieutenant Calloway clamped his fist to the chest of his jacket.

  Lady Brigitte winked at Sibylla. “The princess will be ever grateful. Now might I have a private moment with my daughter?”

  “As you wish, your grace.” He turned to Sibylla and snuck a smile. “Your highness.”

  The exuberant officer bounded down the tree-lined path.

  Lady Brigitte listened to his steps fade before speaking. “Even if he’s prominently placed in the queen’s Stallions, has an influential father, and is from one of the noble houses, try not to fall on your knees for him. I had no idea you had such affections.”

  The heat rose in Sibylla’s cheeks. “I don’t.” She observed her mother’s devilish smile. Lady Brigitte had seen them kissing by the tree.

  “Come now,” Lady Brigitte tsked. “Be proud you’ve finally mastered an instrument. Consider how difficult it is to find a man of his caliber. And his loyalty to you seems unyielding. You can always use good soldiers, Sibet.”

  Instead of defending herself, Sibylla dryly remarked, “Oh yes, I shall send him to conquer the color-chalked streets of Parney Avenue. He’ll return with ribbons of blue and sage.”

  “Such theatrics. Really, how did I raise such a firebrand?” Lady Brigitte snapped a low-hanging twig off the weeping ash. “As long as you remember that chivalrous men don’t bend. They break. And do take care how you address him in public.” Lady Brigitte whispered into Sibylla’s ear. “There’s nothing wrong with letting an officer into your drawers, as long as he knows when to pull out.”

  Having spent a great deal of her childhood in Ibnova, Lady Brigitte was blunter than most, but having a forthright mother had its advantages. Sibylla would never be so traumatized after her wedding night that she couldn’t attend public functions for
a year.

  “The parting of my thighs seems to be everyone’s favorite topic of late.”

  Lady Brigitte brushed a bit of snow off her shoulder. “The curse of our sex, I suppose. In any case, do you know how many servants are searching the palace for you? You’re late for your final fitting.”

  Sibylla had utterly forgotten.

  “Apparently no one considered you daft enough to be out wandering in the cold. I, on the other hand, know you would happily roll around in the snow naked if it meant avoiding your duties as princess.”

  “The queen must be livid.”

  “Luckily for my daughter, the queen is otherwise occupied with preparations.” Lady Brigitte flung her hands out to mimic the throwing of sparks. “The only one you’re inconveniencing is Dorinda.”

  As Sibylla dashed off in the direction of the palace, the shearing wind cut cold threads through the seams of her overcoat. Inconveniencing Dorinda was inconveniencing the queen. While seamstresses worked night and day to finish her dress for the spark and glow ceremony, she planned to spend the evening ensuring she could hold a strong light for tomorrow. With Prince Henry handling Dr Lundfrigg, the queen attempting to entertain the emperor, and Harrod off rescuing a stranger from the gallows, she’d started to feel adrift: like a minnow swimming in an ocean of stingrays. Any moment she could be stung.

  18

  Having remembered to stash the lockpicks from his garret in his jacket, Roger effortlessly cracked Harrod’s locked back door before dawn. If not for their uncomfortable relationship, he’d have suggested his brother install a more secure bolt. When Dawson unlocked the bedroom door at dawn, Roger was sprawled on his bed asleep.

  Dawson first set him to work on the stairs. Roger was crouched in the morning sunlight rubbing walnut oil on the banister spindles when Harrod breezed past him without a glance, on his way to the Naval Office. Roger leapt to his feet.

  “Captain Starkley, I know you’re busy, but I must speak with you.” Roger managed to add “sir” with barely a sneer.

  Harrod flinched. He halted on the landing below and turned.

  “I’ve a good idea who this strangler intends to murder next,” Roger said. “And if you’ll just help me find him – or her – I might clear my name. You know I’m no murderer, and I’m hardly a threat running loose on the street.”

  “Help you?” Harrod sniffed. “I expect you to grovel for forgiveness after what you pulled.”

  “After what I pulled?” Roger brandished his rag. “I’m here polishing your stairs, aren’t I? Just as you’ve always dreamed of. If you’re going to accuse me, then spit it out instead of prancing about like some fancy royal pony.”

  “I haven’t time for this.” Harrod sounded nearly as exhausted as

  Roger felt. “I’ll merely mention my disappointment in your nocturnal visits to a certain loathsome neighborhood. I’m more aware of your movements than you may think, and likewise your lecherous habits. I can’t even trust you for one night to do as you’re told, Merciful Mother help you. You still must survive five more days until the Binding. Don’t press your luck.”

  Roger stiffened. “I’m the only one who seems to give a damn that there’s still a killer on the streets. How long before he snuffs another precious life?”

  “If you knew what I had to…” Harrod sighed. “Your elusive killer is nothing but some fishwives’ fantasy, and not worth risking your neck. What must I do to get through to you?”

  Roger stood tall and pulled his shoulders back. “Just flog me already and get it over with. I’ll learn my rightful place eventually. Once I’ve brought the real strangler to justice.”

  “The archbishop was right. I should have locked you in the old basement coal-room. You’ll only get yourself killed if you aren’t literally tied down. That changes today. As for the flogging, there’s only one way to deal with petulant little boys who disobey direct orders.” Harrod stalked up the stairs toward him. “Only men get flogged.”

  He slapped Roger across the face with the flat of his palm, and all the force of a right hook. Roger reeled into the banister. His lungs stung like he’d breathed in a handful of iron filings.

  Harrod spoke through a clenched jaw. “The second day of probation: diligence.” He left Roger slumped on the stairs and clutching his oily rag.

  Harrod’s idea of diligence was an endless litany of chores to be completed by afternoon tea: scrubbing the front steps, beating the rugs, dusting the tops of bookshelves, scouring the pans – all under Dawson’s ever-present eyes. In the afternoon, Dawson instructed him to wash up and put on his footman’s livery. Harrod would be home for tea and Roger, as if living his worst nightmare, had to serve it. If Harrod thought this would put him off clearing his good name, he’d be disappointed soon enough.

  Roger lay out the tea service in the drawing room. The mindless rhythm brought him back to Malmouth Palace when he’d been a footman. He’d had to memorize how all the royals took their tea, but only Sibet’s remained in his head.

  Harrod tossed a pile of missives onto the table before collapsing into a chair and peeling open the seals of his correspondence with a butter knife.

  “May I pour the tea, sir?” Roger couldn’t help sounding snide. He sidled up to Harrod’s elbow and caught a glimpse of a lady’s lacy script.

  Focused on his reading, Harrod slid his teacup toward Roger, but angled the parchment away.

  As he reached for a plate of almond cakes, Harrod accidentally nudged his stack of letters off the table. One of them fell near Roger’s feet. He recognized Princess Sibylla’s inked seal and stooped to retrieve it.

  “Not that one.” Harrod rose from his chair.

  As Roger’s fingers brushed the parchment, the captain trod on his hand.

  Pinned to the ground, Roger was forced to look up at his brother. “I’m down here fetching your letters to be helpful. I didn’t realize it were also a hanging offence, sir.”

  “The only reason I haven’t strung you from the banister is because last night you somehow restrained yourself from visiting the necropolis, shovel in hand. Though that seems to be the only disgusting quarter you avoided.” Harrod shifted his weight. “Perhaps if you lost something you truly cherished…”

  The tendons of Roger’s fingers rolled flat against the bones. If Harrod applied any more pressure they would snap. A surgeon deprived of his good hand was no surgeon at all.

  “Enough!” he gasped. “I don’t much care for societal respect, but I aid folks in pain. If you don’t care to help me seek truth, then my afterhours business is none of yours. Your coin would be better spent on widows and orphans than hiring some blighter to follow me around.”

  Harrod snatched the letter off the floor. “Take a seat.”

  Hesitantly, Roger pulled out a chair.

  “I don’t waste funds tailing derelicts like you.” Harrod took his place at the table and draped his napkin in his lap. “All I need do is think to myself, where has that louse gotten off to? You might call it a powerful hunch.”

  Roger rubbed his sore hand. “A hunch? More like you was parsing the wares in Will-o’-the-Wisp Lane yourself.”

  Harrod snapped a brittle biscuit and drowned it in his tea. “Before we lost our mother, couldn’t I always track her down? Whether she’d gone to the garment district for new silks for her mistress, or the butcher’s for a crown roast. Even when I was at sea, I had an intuition as to her whereabouts. Almost as if I was holding a map in my head. And you’re just the same, Roger. I can find you anywhere.”

  “Now you’re so desperate to control me, you’re trying to make me believe you’ve got some ‘magic’ parlor tricks up your sleeve, just because you’re some toff’s bastard.” Roger gave a bitter laugh.

  “For a man of science, you have some fanciful notions. If you refuse to believe in magic, then yes, Roger, convince yourself I’ve hired a whole brigade to follow you about town and keep me abreast of your important doings. I used to think you particularly devoted to
our mother’s grave with all those cemetery visits, but now I know better. Hopefully, if you know why you cannot pull wool over my eyes, you will cease your ham-fisted attempts to do so. You’re a Straybound now. In service to the princess. It’s best you get comfortable with the idea.”

  “I’m not bound yet.” Roger sat, his mind processing, mouth clamped to contain a flood of scornful words. While he didn’t relish another humiliating slap, he wondered if his brother did worry for him, the way he’d worried for Ada when she’d vanished on Will-o’-the-Wisp Lane. And based on the broadsheets he’d glimpsed Dawson perusing, another girl had gone missing just last night – too young to be Celeste but close enough to set his heart racing with fear. This time no one suspected the Greyanchor Strangler; he was already arrested.

  Harrod crossed his legs patiently, and Roger tried to mirror his brother’s silence. He only lasted ten seconds.

  “I have a life outside these walls. I may not be a surgeon but even so, people depend on my medical services. ‘Diligence’ means keeping promises and mending those that need it. The real murderer is still out there, and here you sit with that smug face for having brought me to heel. I doubt you care about anything else, or anyone but yourself.”

  Harrod tore a watercress sandwich in half. “After all I’ve done – the positions I’ve found for you in the service of well-born families and which you ignored. You’re still sulking over boyish trivialities. What would her highness think?”

  Roger calmed himself with a deep breath. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful toward Sib… her highness, but I mean to do more than empty chamber pots as some bewitched slave. I’m a man of science like you said. And she knows I’m more than just a footman.”

  Harrod stared into his teacup. “I suppose the physician present at our mother’s death made an impression on your malleable young mind. Is there something you find romantic about soaking your shirt in human blood?”