He forced himself to keep walking. One foot in front of the other, he thought. Just keep moving.
The months after Olivia’s death spread out in his mind like a dark, barren landscape: he saw himself lying alone in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move or speak through the fog of grief, as though he were a broken doll himself. He had stopped eating. Even the smell of food had repulsed him. Eventually, he grew so weak that he couldn’t leave the bed. He recalled—hazily—one of his father’s mechanical spiders sitting beside him, spooning porridge between his lips with one segmented metal limb as another wiped away the dribbles that escaped down his chin.
He had slept little, during those months. Every time he drifted off, the nightmares were waiting. He existed in a numb haze halfway between sleep and waking.
There had been a hospital, briefly—beds with straps, a leather-padded bar between his teeth, cold jelly rubbed onto his temples, and a blinding flash of lightning inside his skull. And then the Healer, and the pills that brought sleep, and a slow, slow climb from the dark pit inside his own head. Only after he’d left Blackthorn, several years later, had the fog of grief finally cleared enough for him to start living again.
And now, after all this time, he was going back home. Home. The word tolled like a death knell.
His chest hurt. He stopped, one hand pressed to his sternum as he fought for breath.
A hand touched his shoulder. “Simon,” Alice whispered, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he murmured.
His chest heaved. One hand slipped into his pocket and gripped the glass bottle inside. But he couldn’t take the medication. Not in front of Alice. The last thing he wanted was to explain his shameful affliction.
A tentacle lightly touched his cheek. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Maybe you should sit down—”
“I’m fine.” The words came out sharper than he intended.
She pulled back.
“Sorry. Just . . . give me a minute.” He leaned against the nearest wall. The world swam and warped around him. Blackness ate at the edges of his vision.
If he could just stay on his feet . . .
Sweat dripped from his face, onto the cobblestones. When the worst of it had faded, leaving him shaky with vertigo but still standing, Alice was staring at him wide-eyed.
He wiped his brow and murmured, “Just a bit of indigestion.” He forced his lips into a smile. “It’s gone now.”
She said nothing.
Simon kept walking, gaze fixed straight ahead. For a while, neither spoke as they made their way down a narrow residential street, between rows of drab brick buildings.
“What’s that?” Alice said.
“What?”
“Listen.”
The clatter of hooves on cobblestones caught his ears, and he tensed. Someone was coming. Surely not a patrol—not on this sleepy side street—but still. The fewer people saw them, the better.
“Hide!” Simon whispered.
Alice didn’t hesitate. She darted into a nearby alley, then skittered up the wall like an enormous cloaked beetle, hauling herself up with her tentacles. They stuck to the bricks with their numerous suction cups, pulling her up with remarkable ease and strength, until she disappeared onto the rooftop.
Simon’s gaze swept over the street, and he spotted a tall, slender woman riding a meta-powered horse of black iron. She wore a smartly tailored, immaculately fitted green Animist’s robe. Simon’s heart clenched.
Neeta. His former Master. Why was she here?
The horse trotted up beside him, joints clanking, and stopped, steam streaming from its nostrils. Neeta held the reins in her elegant, gloved hands. “Simon Frost,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.” Her dark eyes drilled into his. “You quit your job in the mailroom. Master Melth said you ran off without warning. Is that true?”
No point in denying it. “Yes.”
“Do you mind telling me why?” Her tone made it clear that the do you mind was just a formality.
He wet his lips. He couldn’t tell her the full truth, but an outright lie was too risky. “I got restless. I’d been cooped up in there for so long, just sorting reports, day after day. I started to see those reports in my sleep. I realized that nothing would ever change unless I took matters into my own hands. So I left.”
She arched a skeptical brow. “That’s all?”
“Yes. That’s all. Was that the only reason you tracked me down? To ask why I quit? I hadn’t realized you were so worried about me. You’ve never shown much interest in my life before.”
She frowned. “You’ve gotten bolder.”
The words caught him off guard, but it was true—even a few days ago, he wouldn’t have dared to speak to her in that tone. “Well, you were the one who kept telling me to grow a spine. To stop being a timid mouse.”
“Perhaps I was wrong to push you so hard. Being a mouse is not always a bad thing. Mice can live long and comfortable lives, if they’re careful.”
That, he thought, was an odd remark. He remembered her cryptic story about the ant and the wheelbarrow and wondered what Neeta was hiding from him. She seemed almost to be hinting at something, but he had no idea what, and he didn’t care to guess. “Thank you for your concern,” he said. “But I’m fine.”
She gave him another long, measured look. “What will you do now, then?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”
Neeta made a noncommittal sound. She started to turn her horse then stopped. “What is that around your neck?”
Simon touched the silver chain. “Nothing. A street peddler gave it to me.”
“Show me.”
He hesitated, then lifted the chain, pulling the amulet out from under his robe. Neeta tensed, almost imperceptibly. “I would advise you not to wear that.”
“Why?”
“It could give people the wrong idea.” She turned her mount. “Be careful, Simon.”
“Of what?”
“Just be careful.” With a kick, she galloped away.
Chapter Fourteen
“Alice?” Simon peered at the rooftop. “It’s safe now. You can come down.”
A few seconds passed then her head appeared over the edge of the roof. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. She’s gone.”
She skittered down the wall in her uncanny, spiderlike way. Her feet touched the ground, and her tentacles vanished beneath her cloak. Her eyes were wide and uncertain. “You’re all right?”
“Yes, of course I’m—oof!”
She tackled him in a hug, squeezing him tight. Before he even had a chance to catch his breath, she released him and stood, crossing her arms over her chest, her gaze downcast. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just . . . I thought she might take you away somewhere. I was worried you would leave me.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
She took a deep, unsteady breath, then gave her head a shake. “That was your teacher? That woman?”
“Former teacher.” They stood in awkward silence in the empty side street. A flock of pigeons flew by in a rustling flutter of wings, silhouetted against the pale sky. He bit his lower lip. “I feel like I owe you an explanation for the way I acted earlier. Before she arrived.”
Alice waited, listening.
Simon opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. He had never told anyone about this—not Neeta, not any of his classmates. At last, he removed the glass bottle from his pocket, pulled out the stopper, and shook the single black capsule into his palm. Inside, a wisp of iridescent purple glimmered.
Alice leaned down, sniffed once, and wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”
“It’s medicine.”
“You’re sick?”
“Yes. Though not in the way you’re probably thinking.” He gave her a small, mirthless smile. “The Healer calls them ‘fits.’ They started after Olivia’s death. The first time it happened, I believed I was dying. It feels like dying. But there’s
nothing wrong with my body. It’s my mind that’s broken.” His fingers slowly curled around the pill. “The drugs were never meant to be permanent. It was just to get me through the worst of it. Except I never stopped.” He swallowed, throat tight. “If you think I’m weak, I don’t blame you.”
“For what? Being sick, or taking a drug for it?”
“Both, I guess.”
For a few heartbeats, she was silent. “I’m the one here with something to be ashamed of,” she said. Her tone was low and tight, almost angry. “Not you.”
He raised his head. “What do you mean?”
“For Spirit’s sake, a man is dead because of me.”
“That wasn’t your fault. You were defending yourself—”
“I panicked,” she snapped, “and I lashed out. And now he’s buried in the ground.”
He stared, taken aback. In the rush of everything that had happened, he had almost forgotten about Brock’s brother. It hadn’t occurred to him that Alice was probably still thinking about it. But of course. It made sense. It wasn’t easy to forget that you had taken a life.
The fire died from her eyes, and she turned away. “Just . . . don’t burden yourself with pointless guilt. Not over a thing like this.”
Except it was more than that. The pills had become intertwined, in his head, with Olivia’s death—with Simon’s own inability to prevent it, and his helpless descent into the fog of grief afterward. They’d become symbolic to him of his own weakness. Maybe Alice was right; maybe the shame was his real enemy. But it wasn’t that easy to untangle the threads. “I’ll try not to,” he said. “But . . . only if you promise to try, as well.”
She tensed. “It’s different for me.”
“Not that much different.” The words felt bold, and warmth crept into his cheeks, but he kept going. “The past is the past. Blaming yourself doesn’t bring back the dead. All we can do is try to move forward. Right?”
She looked away and nodded. “I’ll try.”
He started to slip the pill back into its bottle, but Alice caught his wrist. He gave her a questioning look. “May I see it?”
Puzzled, he handed her the pill. She sniffed it again. “Do you know what’s in this?”
“Just some common medicinal herbs. I don’t think I ever asked the Healer about the exact ingredients. Why?”
“It smells strange.” She handed the pill back to him.
“Your nose must be more sensitive than mine.” He slipped the pill back into the bottle. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. This is my last one.”
They resumed walking. She glanced at him sideways. “Your eyes change color. Did you know that? They’re hazel now. They were green earlier.”
“They look different depending on the light.”
“No. They changed,” she insisted. “They were bright green.”
“When?”
“When you were having that fit.”
He stared, baffled. “I—I don’t know.”
She shrugged. “It might have been the light, I suppose.” Her gaze searched his face. “You know . . . if you’re having second thoughts about this . . .”
“About what?”
“Going back. To where it all happened.”
He shook his head. “I made my decision.” And where else could they go?
Blackthorn stood atop a stark, rocky cliff overlooking the iron-gray sea. The house had been built crooked; it seemed to lean over the edge of the cliff, as though contemplating a jump. True to its name, its stones were charcoal-colored, and its collection of peaked roofs looked sharp enough to draw blood.
Alice squinted at the mansion on the cliff. “Is it my imagination, or does the house look more shadowy than everything around it?”
“Father dislikes bright sunlight. He says it gives him headaches. He employed some weather Animism to make sure it’s always cloudy.” He pointed up at a cluster of fat gray clouds hanging over the house.
“So it’s always been like that?”
“For a long time.” It had been sunny when he and Olivia were children. After her death, his father started pulling the clouds over their home like a shawl. “There’s a pathway up the cliff,” Simon said. “Around this way.”
The path led them up a sort of natural staircase formed from the rock. The mansion loomed before them, its eaves lined with crouching gargoyles. Blackthorn’s narrow windows were dark . . . save for one, on the top floor, which glowed with soft yellow light. The laboratory, of course. Was his father there even now, buried in his research?
“What’s that?” Alice asked, distracting him. She was staring at something in the far distance, a small dark lump on the horizon, almost invisible against the steely ocean.
“Oh . . . the island? That’s Grunewick Laboratory.”
“I know that name. They experimented on people there. During the war.”
“Yes. But it’s been abandoned for a long time, and the sort of experiments they did there have been prohibited since the Foundation began.”
“You mean creating Abominations.”
“Yes.”
A few heartbeats of silence passed.
“So,” Alice said, “we just walk in, then?”
“My father has invisible wards and shields around the house to keep out intruders. They won’t stop me . . . assuming he hasn’t changed them, since I left home. I don’t know if they’ll let you through. It’s better if I talk to him alone at first.”
A tentacle flicked restlessly back and forth on the ground. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
He looked down at the spot near his boots where sun became shade. Bracing himself, he stepped into the bubble of gloom that encompassed the house. A faint tingling passed over his skin. Instantly, the scenery turned darker; he could still see the sunlit world behind him, but it was muted, as if he were looking out at it through a layer of darkened glass.
He took a deep breath and strode forward, down the narrow, overgrown cobblestone path, through a garden filled with silent fountains, bare trees, and neglected flower beds. He kept walking, past an ivy-strangled statue of an angel, its features almost worn off by the elements.
The gardens had gone wild since Olivia’s death.
As he neared the steps leading up to the front door, Simon stopped. Every instinct was screaming at him to turn around. There was nothing but pain in this house. But turning around wasn’t an option. Maybe it was inevitable, that fate would draw him back here. This house exerted its own gravity.
He glanced over his shoulder. From outside the garden, Alice waved. The sight gave him a bit of strength.
He grabbed the heavy bronze knocker and knocked twice. “Hello?” he called out. His voice cracked. “It’s—it’s Simon. Is anyone home?”
No response. He tried the door. Unlocked.
He stepped into the house, shutting the door behind him. The entrance hall was vast, cool, and mostly dark. Gas lamps in iron sconces lined the room, emitting a dim glow. He breathed in the house’s smell, which was somehow both musty and medicinal, like old carpet and herbs. There was a hint of something danker, as well, something that hadn’t been there before—a rot. At the end of the hall, a set of wide, red-carpeted stairs led to the upper levels.
Simon made his way up the stairs and down a long corridor adorned with red carpets. One of his father’s spiders—the mechanical golems that roamed the mansion—scuttled along the wall, gobbling up dust bunnies. It looked the same as all the others; round-bodied, bronze, with green glass eyes and clacking mandibles that resembled a mustache. The spider took no notice of Simon.
As a child, he’d never been afraid of them. They were an ordinary part of life, like books or furniture. Now the sight of them made him tense.
At the end of the corridor was a simple wooden door. Simon drew in a slow breath and raised one fist. His hand trembled.
Before he could even gather the nerve to knock, an irritated voice called from beyond the door: “I can hear you breathing out there. If you’re goin
g to come in, come in.”
He did.
His father’s laboratory was a cavernous, stone-walled room, lit by dim yellow meta-lamps. Mismatched tables and chairs stood here and there, every surface covered with precariously stacked books, loose papers, and specimen jars.
A stone table—more of a raised platform—dominated the room’s center. His father stood over the table, a white cloth mask covering the lower half of his face, a scalpel in one white-gloved, bloodstained hand. He was in the process of dissecting a purple, horned imp resembling a cross between a monkey and a lizard. Its limbs were splayed out, manacled to the table, its long tongue lolling out of its slack mouth. Bulbous eyes stared at nothing as Dr. Hawking rooted around in its innards.
Simon tried to speak. It took him a few tries before any words emerged. “Do, uh. Do you want me to come back later?”
“No need. It’s already dead. The transplant was unsuccessful. Another failure.” He wrenched a knot of copper tubes and cogs from the imp’s chest and chucked it into a metal tray. It struck with a clank, leaving a smear of dark blood.
Dr. Hawking stripped off his mask and gloves. The corpse had begun to crumble like a sculpture of ash, bits of it flaking away, streams of green smoke rising into the air as it disintegrated.
Simon shuddered. Poor creature. Had it been summoned here just to die for the sake of some experiment?
He forced himself to look away from its death-frozen face and focused on his father.
Dr. Hawking’s appearance hadn’t changed. He wore the same shabby, dark green Animist robes and round wire-frame spectacles, and his rumpled hair was gray. It had been gray as long as Simon could remember. His eyes—as always—never seemed to quite focus on Simon, but to stare at a point just beyond him. “I believe it’s customary to give some warning before a visit.”
Already, Simon could feel himself shrinking down to the size of a beetle. “Sorry. I realize this is short notice, but—”
Simon’s father waved the apology away, grabbed his stout wooden cane from where it leaned against the table, and eased himself into a chair. “I presume you have some reason for being here.”
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