by Iva Viddal
October grimaced at the sound and waited a moment to be sure that it hadn’t awoken the Doctors, but the building remained still, so they moved on.
There, just where Ron had said it would be, was an enormous wardrobe. In the light of the candle, its massive black frame projected a monstrous shadow across the back wall, and it seemed to shiver as they approached it. Ted examined its lock carefully, asking October to hold the candle nearer the keyhole so that he might see better. The lock itself was nearly the size of a human head, and the locking mechanism itself looked impossibly complex to October. Ted tapped it with a blade, paused, and then suddenly and decisively stabbed its keyhole with his index finger. The lock popped soundlessly open.
October smiled. He held the candle out to Ted, who gingerly took it between two shaking blades. Then October reached up and slowly, quietly, pulled the wardrobe doors open. The grin fell from his face.
Objects lined every shelf. Eyeglasses and roller skates, saw blades and wooden spoons, birds’ beaks and light bulbs—everything in piles that threatened to spill from the wardrobe.
“They’re all Purposes,” whispered Ted. His voice quivered.
October couldn’t speak.
“They took them all.” Ted trembled, aghast. “Mapple and Leech—they must have taken all of these Purposes. It’s like a—a collection of horrors.”
October’s stomach clenched, and he lifted two trowels from the middle shelf. These, he knew, must once have been someone’s hands. Behind them, a detached radio dial and camera flashbulb were covered in a thick layer of dust. His hands moved down the shelf, lifting a small set of antlers and moving a baker’s rolling pin. There were at least two dozen items on this shelf alone, but none of them was what he was looking for.
He moved on to another shelf, tenderly handling a small pair of bat wings and passing by a collection of screwdrivers. He knew that what he was looking for had to be there somewhere. He worked quickly, moving from object to object, shelf to shelf.
At last, a small box caught his attention. It looked vaguely familiar, as though he had seen it in a dream—or perhaps as a very young child. He picked it up and held it to the candlelight. It was painted red, and a flock of birds had been carved into its lid. He was sure he had seen it somewhere before. He turned it over and its contents clinked faintly. Initials were carved into the bottom of the box:
V.L.O.
October nearly dropped it. He couldn’t breathe, and his hands shook.
V.L.O. It was his mother’s box. Violetta Luminosa Oscuridad, his mother.
He leaned over as a wave of dizziness overtook him. This was not what he had expected to find. Why was the box in Doctor Mapple’s possession?
October didn’t want to lift the box’s lid, but he was sure now that what he was looking for would be found inside.
“Oct, are you okay?” Ted whispered.
October forced himself upright and took several deep, slow breaths. He nodded. Then he opened the box.
Six yellowed teeth lay nestled in it. Four square incisors. And two fangs.
They were his father’s.
He took one of the fangs between his fingers and held it near the candle’s flame. There were no saw marks on it, as Doctor Mapple had claimed.
He held the other one against the light, and then the incisors, too, just to be sure. There were no saw marks on any of them.
“He lied,” October whispered. “Doctor Mapple lied. I knew it. My father would never have lied about this. But he—Doctor Mapple did not want to save my father. He could have, but he did not.” He paused as a quiet sob tore through him. “The Doctors have been taking people’s Purposes. My father is not the only one. There have been so many.”
He closed the box and tucked it carefully inside his suit jacket, close to his heart.
“I’m so sorry, Oct.” Tears fell from Ted’s eyes as he swept the candle along the shelves. The lost Purposes glinted in the pale light. “Who did these belong to?” he asked the wardrobe, knowing he would receive no answer.
“Let’s go,” October said. “We have someone to save before we can decide what to do about this.”
They locked the wardrobe, and after one final glance back at it, they slipped quietly out of the room of horrors.
25
Ichora’s Love Note
With the evidence from the wardrobe stored safely in his pocket, October led Ted back into Doctor Mapple’s dark office. The candle between Ted’s blades flickered behind October’s back and cast a shadow across the room. The giant shadow-man lurched and swayed, his limbs pouring darkness over the Doctor’s desk. The effect was eerie and made October’s heart flutter nervously against his ribs.
According to Ron’s plan, they should now head directly to the Sanatorium tower and rescue Nerma. “Don’t waste a second,” Ron had warned. “Leech is a notorious day owl, and Mapple’s known to wake early in the evening.” The sooner October and Ted completed their mission, the better.
But something on Doctor Mapple’s desk drew October’s attention. In the center of the desk was a haphazard stack of file folders, some thin and others quite thick. In the candle’s unsteady light, a name jumped out at October from the top file. Written in a firm hand upon the file’s tab was Bardry’s full name: Bardrius J. Garausch. This was not the name what drew October’s attention, however. What made him stop in his tracks was a partial name that peeked out from midway down the stack.
Drac— Oscu—
October beckoned for Ted to bring the light closer and slid the file out from the stack. Dracula Q. Oscuridad was written upon it in the same firm hand. With shaking hands, October opened it. There were perhaps fifty sheets of paper inside, and he knew he had very little time, so he began to rifle through them quickly. The first page was merely a form for an updated address, labeled: “Invalid Registry, Form B.” In his father’s neat hand was written, “Stone cottage, Serpent’s Stream, No Man’s Land.”
Behind this form was an account of his father’s expenses. This confused October, but he moved on. On the third sheet, he froze. It was, of all unexpected things, a party invitation. Inscribed across the silky parchment in ornate calligraphy, it read:
To Doctor Wyrman Mapple,
Your gorious presence is humbly requested
At the inauguration of
Dracula Quantavius Oscuridad
As Senior Doctor of Medical Philosophy
To the Village of Small Hours.
Sunday, the 22nd of December,
Grackleswot Abbey.
“Your father was going to be Mapple and Leech’s boss!” Ted exclaimed, gasping.
October nodded silently. His mind was racing, but he moved on to the next sheet. This was the one he had been hoping to find when the file first caught his eye.
It was a medical document, Form 7E: Determination of Soundness of Mind and Purpose. October scanned it and found that it listed the details of his father’s accident: his fall, the injury to his mouth and teeth, his request to have the teeth replaced in his mouth. With the same strong handwriting that labeled the file folders, the document read, “Patient shows no signs of self-harm. Teeth/fangs have clearly been broken in an accident.” It was signed “W.H. Mapple, M.D.Min.”
October clenched his teeth, his fangs pressing angrily into his bottom lip. “He knew all along it was an accident. He knew that my father did not remove his own fangs. He knew,” October growled under his breath. He folded the document and tucked it into his pocket alongside his mother’s box.
Ted’s eyes were wide. “We should go,” he urged. The candle was very short and wouldn’t last much longer.
October stood, but then he paused. Quickly, he shuffled through the stack of files on the desk, noting the names upon each:
Bardrius J. Garausch
Dracula Q. Oscuridad
Croftin Waleg
Serpelia L. Maudlin
Tuphid Smith
Grisliana N. Osseous
“I do not know all of
these names,” he muttered.
The light from the candle shifted and sputtered. “Look,” Ted whispered.
A crumpled paper had fallen to the floor. October retrieved it and smoothed it against the desk. “It is a note written to Doctor Mapple,” he murmured. He read it aloud:
Do not fret over it, Wyrm. They will all think she did it. The musical man’s things are in my bag and I shall find a way to turn the village against her at the Gala.
Love,
Your Darling Ichora.
P.S. Next on our list: The old warty one.
“Ichora Leech.” Ted’s wide eyes grew even wider. “Doctor Leech wrote this—but what does she mean? What ‘musical man’? And what ‘things’ is she talking about?”
“Hallowed Maker,” October groaned. “Doctor Leech was talking about Bardry’s Purpose! She must have made it look like Nerma had Bardry’s bow and picks at the Gala, but it was Doctor Leech the whole time. Of course!” He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it against the wall. It hit with a thump and he froze, fearful that the sound might have given them away.
A moment of silence passed before they felt safe enough to resume their whispered conversation.
“But how?” Ted whispered. “Bardry’s—Bardry’s—” He shivered. “The pieces of his Purpose were on the ground with Nerma’s spilled stew.”
“Easy,” October muttered. “Leech could have left them there earlier, or—no. She must have put them in Nerma’s bowl. Yes! Think about it. I saw Leech talking to Nerma at the drink table. She must have slipped Bardry’s bow and picks into Nerma’s costume while she was talking to her!”
Their imaginations filled in the gaps as the candle sputtered lower.
“What did Leech mean by ‘the old warty one’?” October wondered.
“I think they’re going to go after Old Worm next!” Ted’s bladed hands flew into the air, and the candle went soaring across the office.
It landed on Mapple’s chair with a quiet plop, and October let out a sigh of relief. “I thought it was going to hit that picture frame and shatter.” He laughed nervously.
But a curl of smoke was rising from the chair’s ratty cushion, and before either of them could act, it burst into flames like dry autumn leaves. Panicked, Ted scrambled to the chair and began hitting the pillow. His bladed fingers sliced through the stuffing but did little to quell the flames. October pushed him aside and knocked the flaming square to the floor, where he stomped at it furiously.
The fire went out, and tufts of smoke drifted lazily up to the ceiling, as though the two robbers who stood before it hadn’t just made a ruckus loud enough to wake the whole household.
October caught Ted’s eye. “Let’s go,” they whispered together.
The hallway was as dark and still as before, and the two vandals slinked past the closed doors and down the stairs as quickly as they dared. October put a hand on Ted’s arm.
“You need to go and warn Old Worm. Who knows how much time she has before they come for her?”
“Ron won’t be happy if I leave you.” Ted’s forehead twisted with worry.
“He will understand. I will get Nerma, and you and Ron can take Old Worm somewhere. Take her to my father’s cottage. Here, take these, too.” October took the folded paper and the small wooden box from his pocket and tucked them into Ted’s shirt.
Ted nodded, and a moment later, October was alone in the Doctors’ sitting room.
26
Trouble with a Capital Tea
Sunlight cast eerie shadows upon the garish walls of the sitting room, and October found that it was far worse to be alone on this mission than it had been with a friend at his side.
He banged his shin against a low table and nearly tripped over the curled edge of a rug, but he made it through the lower level of the Doctors’ quarters in one piece. When he reached the white door that led to the Sanatorium, he paused. A pentadagger had been left in the door, which usually meant that someone would be coming back for it soon. Had someone passed through this doorway recently, or did the Doctors ordinarily leave the door to the Sanatorium—where both patients and prisoners were kept—unsecured like this?
With his ear to the door, October listened for sounds but heard nothing. As silently as he could, he opened the door. It clicked open, and he slipped into the darkness of the Sanatorium tower.
He removed his glasses. He saw better in extreme darkness without them. Now, he could make out the curved staircase that wound its way up to the highest level of the Sanatorium where Nerma was being held. He hoped they hadn’t moved her.
The stairs were narrow and had no railing, so October chose to climb the walls instead. As soon as he laid his fingertips against the wallpaper, though, they began to burn intensely, and he jumped back to the floor. He peered closely at the dimpled, faded paper. Velvety black flowers and vines crawled across a background of mildewed purple, and he brushed a finger against a fuzzy petal. Again, he felt a jolt of pain, as though the velvet were made of the finest, sharpest little barbs.
He would have to take the stairs—and stay far from the wall. The first step creaked under his weight, and the sound echoed upward, spiraling into the shadows above.
He took another step. Another creak, and another echo.
He kept going, faster now, hoping to free Nerma before he was discovered. He reached a small landing. There was a door to his left, and he briefly laid his ear against it. He heard only silence.
Higher he went, the old staircase creaking and groaning with his every move. At each door, he paused and heard nothing—except for the fifth door. At this one, October heard the low humming of a man. It was Bardry. October made a silent promise to return later and help the poor man. He climbed on.
He was high above the floor now. It had disappeared into the gloom and not even his spider’s eyes could make out the lower doors. He was nearing the top of the tower when he heard a sound from above.
He stood as still as death upon the staircase, his eyes on the door of the Gold Room.
It clicked open.
Without thinking, October leapt from the staircase and blindly shot out a rope of webbing. It connected with the underside of the stairs and he swung, hard, into the wall. The blow to his shoulder and the contact of his cheek against the barbed wallpaper made him gasp, but he stopped himself from crying out.
“Is someone there?” A woman’s voice trickled through the musty air.
Above him, a figure was silhouetted against the low light of the Gold Room.
“I heard you. Show yourself,” the woman commanded.
October dangled in the air and held his breath. He didn’t dare move.
The woman cursed under her breath and shut the door behind her. She held a lantern out over the edge of the highest landing but said nothing else.
Her silence was reassuring, for it told October that he was safely out of sight—for now. But then the woman began to descend the stairs with startling speed, her shoes clapping against the metal rungs like a hammer. She had nearly reached October by the time he realized that he needed to move—and fast.
Frantically, he dropped from his position, freefalling and shooting webbing into the shadows again. He feared that each fall might be his last, but at last he reached the ground. The woman’s lantern swung two floors above him and drew nearer with every hurried footfall.
October fled from the tower into the sitting room, where a lamp now burned brightly against the murkiness of the late afternoon. For a moment, he was certain that he had been caught, but the room was empty.
The Sanatorium door clicked open behind him, and he dove into the nearest shadow. He found himself in the mouth of a narrow hallway, and silently, breathlessly, he crept down it. He ducked through a door on his right and entered a dark room. He could see cupboards, a round table with chairs, and a gargantuan iron stove. It was a kitchen. He slid between the stove and wall and listened.
Moments passed in anxious silence before two voices drifte
d down the hallway. October tried to make out their words.
“I am quite certain . . . in the Sanatorium, sir,” a woman’s voice said.
A man’s voice rumbled, “. . . fire in my office . . . nothing missing.” It was Doctor Mapple.
The woman spoke again, “Perhaps it was only . . . foolish children . . . Diviners and their ways.”
October heard Doctor Mapple grunt. “They must still . . . here in the building. Wake the attendants. We . . . the premises.”
October’s heart raced like the wings of a moth. If they were going to search the premises, they would certainly check the kitchen.
He stood to move, but the voices started up again, and Mapple’s voice echoed clearly off the walls: “I shall guard the door.”
The woman answered. “I will wake the . . .”
If Doctor Mapple was guarding the door, there was no escape for October. Not only was the front door no longer a possible escape route, but the Sanatorium was now off limits, too, because Mapple would see him if he tried to reach it. And that would help neither October nor Nerma.
Poor Nerma; he had failed her.
But he couldn’t give up, not yet.
He needed a better hiding place. His spider’s eyes scanned the dark kitchen. He thought he could fit inside the big oven, but . . . no. He shuddered. Any punishment the doctors concocted would be better than being cooked like a vulture on Maker’s Eve.
He opened a cupboard. It held scores of delicate dishes, stacked high. A single nudge might send them toppling and crashing to the hard tile floor below, so he moved on to the next cupboard. This one held a collection of knives and meat mallets—good weapons, perhaps, but not good hiding companions.
In the third cupboard, half a dozen tea canisters and jars of wasp’s honey had been stacked haphazardly, and October thought that if he shifted them, he might be able to squeeze in alongside.