by Evan Fuller
4
Coming To
Timothy thought he awoke several times, but he was never certain; the shapes of his caretakers played over him as though he was underwater, looking at objects beyond its surface. He wondered several times if he was dreaming, wondered once if he was dead. No, he told himself at last, I made it out. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into bottomless sleep.
When he finally stirred, the lamp in the room was out and the shades had been drawn. The nearest window was within reach of the bed; Timothy groped weakly for the drapes until light poured into the room. There was a glass of water on the little table next to the bed, half-consumed, and an open bottle of pills. Had he already been given medicine? He was feeling remarkably better than he had before. Timothy wondered whether this was the medicine he'd come to find. Though they'd been cleaned out, he saw that some of his sores were beginning to fester with infection from the filthy sewer water, but that he could live with that if the condition that had caused the sores in the first place was beginning to recede. Maybe his search was over and he was already on his way to getting better—he tried not to get his hopes up.
A chair sat by the bedside with clothing he didn't recognize awaiting him in a neatly folded pile, and Timothy realized that he was naked. Whoever had put him in the bed was probably washing the sewer water out of his clothes. Timothy wondered how long he had been down there, and how long he'd been asleep. He dressed slowly—the clothes were like nothing he had seen before—and walked to the door, placing an unsteady hand on the knob. The door had been left cracked, and it opened wider at his touch.
He was greeted by a shout of “The boy woke up!” and the questioning gaze of a beaming, platinum-haired young girl. She looked maybe ten years old, stick-thin, but her green eyes and enormous smile seemed to brighten the hall.
“Leave him alone, Geneva,” another voice responded from somewhere down the corridor. A boy stepped into view, perhaps a year or two older than Timothy. His face was day and night in one: black hair, longer than Timothy's but by no means long; stark white skin, and gray eyes that seemed to balance the two extremes. His features were soft, his expression reserved. Unlike the girl, he didn't look like he smiled much.
“It's okay,” Timothy said. The girl, Geneva, looked at the other boy with an air of vindication; he stuck his tongue out at her in mock hostility. “You can come this way,” the boy said to Timothy. “I'm sure you're hungry.”
Timothy nodded. He didn't bother to guess how long it had been since he'd eaten. He supposed he'd receive as much food as he needed here; for a moment he felt abashed by the idea.
After a staircase and a series of wide, decorated corridors—the size of the house was almost as stunning as its extravagance—Geneva and the boy led Timothy to the kitchen. The floors were made of white, polished stone, and the silverware the others set before Timothy shone in the glow of electric lights. He had never seen such wealth. “I'm goin' find Lydia,” Geneva announced. Timothy wondered who Lydia was.
The boy, who introduced himself as Oliver, gave Timothy a meal of bread with meat and something called cheese. The meat was different than any Timothy had tasted; he didn't like it, but he assumed he would learn not to mind it in time. When he asked Oliver what cheese was, the boy shrugged and said, “It's made from milk.”
Timothy would happily have found himself a gull instead, but he didn't want to refuse the hospitality. Besides, he'd lost his slingshot in the sewers, along with the rest of the items in his satchel. Oliver retrieved the bottle of medicine while Timothy was eating, and Timothy unquestioningly swallowed the pills Oliver gave him.
Timothy had finished his meal when Geneva came back into the room, accompanied by a woman who he guessed was twenty years old. She was petite, but her body was curved and soft, not like the women back home. She had bronze skin and big dark almond-shaped eyes; Timothy thought she was very pretty, but more than anything, he found her appearance intriguing. “Are you a pureblood?” he asked her.
The woman's laugh sounded a little forced; she seemed uneasy. “You could say that,” she said. “My name is Lydia. Do you remember me?”
Her question gave him pause, and after a moment a memory leapt back into his mind: in the blackness of the sewer, a voice. She had been with him in the tunnel. Timothy nodded.
“We had a bit of a hard time getting you out of there,” Lydia said. “But we're glad to have you with us, sir…?”
It took him a second to figure out what she was asking. “Timothy,” he stammered in reply. “And you don't have to call me sir; I'm a…I mean, you're—”
“A pureblood?” Lydia smiled. “I'm called a Farsi. We're actually one of four races here in Rittenhouse. But you'll figure out pretty soon that things like that that don't matter in this house.”
This was another revelation; Timothy wondered what, then, did matter here. “Are you the owner of the house?”
“No. The owner should be here shortly, and I'm sure when he gets home, the first thing he'll want to do is meet you. I do have a few questions, though. How did you find your way through the sewers?”
Timothy noticed that the others' attention grew more acute as they listened for his response; the boy, Oliver, leaned in slightly. “I had a map. I—I lost it in the water, though,” Timothy stammered, hoping he wasn't saying something wrong. “I met a man called the king, and he gave it to me when he told me to come here. He said if anyone can help me, it would be the person here.”
Lydia nodded, her expression hard for Timothy to discern. “Do you remember anything specific that this king said about the owner of the house?”
Timothy closed his eyes for a moment, straining to remember. He clenched his hands to still their soft trembling. “Um…the king said he was the only good man in Rittenhouse—the only kind man,” he corrected himself quickly.
There was visible relief in Lydia's answering smile. “In that case, you're welcome,” she said. “We have to be careful who we let into the house, but we trust the king's judgment.”
“So if you're not the owner,” Timothy asked, “what do you do here?” He realized a moment later that he might have sounded rude. “I mean—”
“Don't worry about it.” Lydia smiled again. “The story of how I got here actually isn't that much different from yours. I used to live in a city called Ambler; have you heard of it?”
Timothy had. “Like Rittenhouse, but way up north.”
Lydia nodded. “There were some problems there and I had to leave,” she said. “I was lucky enough to meet the king, and he sent me here.”
“What kind of problems?” Timothy asked. “I mean, I wouldn't want to leave a place like this if I was allowed there.”
Lydia paused until Geneva chimed in, “I met him too! He was a funny king.”
“So do you think he'll be able to help me find medicine?” Having woken to find himself already bathed, Timothy knew that these people had discovered his ailment. They seemed unafraid; they must be immune. He had heard that, once treated, people didn't catch the sickness again. He shot a hopeful glance at the bottle of pills on the table.
“Those pills should have you feeling better,” Lydia said, visibly relieved by the change of subject, “but they're not the cure for your sickness.” Timothy tried not to let his disappointment show in his expression. “Getting our hands on that will be harder. I don't want to promise you anything up front, but if there's any way to get you the medicine you need, you've come to the right place.” She sat in a chair opposite Timothy and rested her elbows on the clear glass table. “Most of the people who come here are sent by the king. He and the man of the house, who should really be here by now, are acquainted. In the meantime, why don't I give you a tour?”
“Okay.”
“Normally we all wash our own dishes, but since you've had a long day climbing out of the sewer and everything, we'll have Oliver handle yours.”
“Thanks, Lyd,” Oliver said dryly, snatching Timothy's plate
.
She smiled and gave a little bow. “Don't mention it.” Lydia turned back to Timothy. “There aren't too many rules here,” she said as she led him from the kitchen, “but the few we do have are important to remember. First, we're allowed in the back yard, but not the front. There's a wall surrounding the property, but the gate out front leaves a bit of the front face visible. I'm sure you realize discretion is very important.”
Behind them, the light in the kitchen was turned off, on, off again. “Oliver!” Lydia called. “You know he doesn't like it when you do that.”
“My hand slipped.” When the excuse garnered no response, he added, “I…okay.”
“Just don't get caught doing that when he's home.” To Timothy she said, “That's another important rule. Our host has an aversion to witchcraft. There's no curses or charms or anything of that nature allowed in the house, and if you do anything that might seem like a curse, any little rituals or other strange behavior, try your best to stop it while you're here. Call it a—”
“Phobia,” Oliver interjected from the kitchen.
“—strong preference.” Lydia waved a casual gesture in Oliver's direction. “The last thing you should know is that the top level is entirely off-limits. The current owner's second cousin lived here until he passed away three years ago, and a lot of personal documents and family possessions are stored up there. Besides that, you can go anywhere you'd like in the house. The first two levels and the basement are all open to you.”
Timothy nodded; everything sounded reasonable. And even if the rules had been much more stringent, he was in no position to bargain.
Timothy followed Lydia down to the basement, which he noticed was decidedly less pristine than the first floor. The vast central room, which he thought must span more than half of the house's total layout, had no carpet, nor was it adorned with the gleaming hardwood or stone of the rooms upstairs. The bare cement floor that ran from one brick wall to the other was decorated only by countless marks from spilled paint. Beneath the tables and easels that stood in the room's center, white paper had been lain in a rather feeble attempt to catch further spills, but the paint had escaped it in several places. “The house's new owner is a painter,” Lydia explained, “as I'm sure you can tell.” Timothy had never heard of such a profession. “When he's home, a lot of his time is spent down here. He inherited the house only a couple years ago, and he says the upstairs is gaudy.” Timothy couldn't disagree.
Both ends of the enormous space were occupied by furniture which, though it appeared expensive to Timothy's sensibilities, was nothing compared to the pieces upstairs either in its extravagance or the care that had been taken to preserve it. Paint spills were fewer on the chairs and couches than on the floor, but only by a small margin. One cluster of furniture was positioned around a low table, and what looked like a small kitchen had been set up on the wall behind the space. Timothy saw a large white box that he recognized as a refrigerator.
The rooms on the first floor, it turned out, were much less varied. There was a study with three walls of bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, a drawing room for entertaining company, and a vast dining room that led into the kitchen Timothy had already seen. All of these rooms were in immaculate condition, and it appeared that none of them, save the study, received any use at all. “The bedrooms are on the next floor; you've already seen yours. Feel free to open the blinds; all the windows in this house have been refitted with glass that's impossible to see through from outside.” She smiled. “Two years ago, we knocked the old windows all out during a bad storm so we'd have an excuse for the replacement. That was fun.”
“You've lived here for two years?” Timothy asked.
“I came here two years ago,” Lydia said, “but I actually don't live here anymore.” She paused to make sure Geneva wasn't within earshot: the girl could be heard in another room, asking Oliver a question. “This isn't possible for most people who come here, but I got a bit lucky. Since I'm a Farsi, we were able to make an alibi for me. I reentered the city with a fake name, saying I was from Ambler but not that I was exiled—kicked out,” she added, in case Timothy was unfamiliar with the word “exile.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “I'm employed here as a housekeeper, which gives me some income and an excuse to be here every day. My real job is to help out with looking after the other strays who come here—and now you, too.” She lowered her voice again. “I don't know what we're going to do for the others. They both came from situations where they probably wouldn't have survived, and at least they're safe and healthy here. But they'll never be able to integrate into life here like I have…they'll never even be able to go out into the streets safely. Oliver's caught onto this, but Geneva still has no idea.”
“I have parents outside,” Timothy said. “They sent me to find the king when I got sick, since they couldn't do anything to help and they have five other children to look after. This place seems really nice, but I'm really only here to get medicine. After that, I have to get back to my family. I'm old enough that I'd be finding food for my brothers and sisters if I was well.”
Lydia nodded, her expression one of sympathy mixed with relief. “I don't like the idea of sending you back out there,” she said, “but yours is at least a problem we can hopefully solve. The other two don't have anything to go back to. Geneva's parents were poppy gum workers, which is bad enough, but they were both killed while they were transporting a harvest. And Oliver—”
Lydia was interrupted by the sound from the other room; the front door had opened. “Sounds like he's finally home,” she said. “Let me go talk to him for a minute to let him know you're here. He'll want to meet you.”
Lydia walked out of the study in the direction of the foyer, and a moment later Timothy heard her voice conversing with a stranger's. He couldn't make out most of the words, but he had a sudden feeling that his fate was being decided. Did this man ever turn people away? Timothy tried not to think about it, so of course it was the only thing he could think of.
After an interminable minute, Lydia reentered the study, smiling. She was followed by a much younger, slighter man than Timothy had imagined. He stood taller than either Timothy or Lydia, but he was certainly not tall; form-fitting clothing revealed slender limbs and an almost immaterial torso. Even his pale face was thin; he had regal cheekbones and a long nose, knotted where it had apparently been broken and never healed correctly. His eyes, sharp and nearly black, shone beneath thick brows, and his head was crowned by dark, chaotic hair that hung almost to his shoulders. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Timothy,” he said, stepping forward to offer a bony hand. “I'm Emery Scott Esposti, and this is my house.”