The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  Then, as the hours dragged, we were surprised to hear a light footstep approaching the jail. Had the sheriff arrived with our sentence? We rose and went to the barred window. But it was not the sheriff. We saw a girl—no more than twelve or thirteen years of age—approaching us.

  She wore a long dress and a shawl that covered her head. When she reached the window of the jail, she lowered the shawl so that we could see her face in the faltering light. “You are friends of Bruno?” she asked in slightly accented English.

  “Yes,” I answered, surprised. My mind leaped to the letter he had sent us. “Are you Rosemary?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank the Fates,” Bronson exclaimed. “We have found you. Or you have found us. We received the letter you sent for Bruno. Is he here? Is he well?”

  Rosemary bit her lip. Her eyes were filled with sorrow. “He is not here. He was sentenced in December, only a week after I sent the letter.”

  Bronson and I were dumbstruck. Our worst fears had come true. “What was his sentence?” I asked hoarsely.

  “He was banished to the hills north of here to follow the señas perdidas. The lost signs—the paths that once led to Ausentinia.”

  “Banished?” I echoed. “But then he is alive? We could find him by also following these—lost signs?”

  “I fear not. I will explain it to you. I have come here partly for this purpose, to explain to you what happened to Bruno, because I fear,” she paused, “it is the same as what will happen to you.” She fell silent. “It is difficult to tell.”

  “We understand, Rosemary.” I was suddenly conscious of the risk she must have taken to visit us. “We appreciate your generosity in bringing us this news. Yours is the only kind word we have had since arriving here.”

  Rosemary looked pained, but she nodded. “I will tell you what happened to Bruno.” She paused. “It all happened because of Ausentinia.”

  “Ausentinia?” I echoed.

  “Yes.” She sighed. “Ausentinia. For as long as we in Murtea can remember, there has been another Age in the hills to the north—the hills of Ausentinia. My mother told me of it from the time I was very little, before I ever visited myself.

  “From the moment you cross the stone bridge into the hills, you leave our Age behind. The paths through the hills are a labyrinth—mysterious and changing paths, that shift every time you turn your head. Yet every traveler knew how to find the way. At each juncture in the road, there is a path to the left, a path in the middle, and a path to the right. However much they might change, by always choosing the middle path, you would arrive after an hour’s travel in a beautiful valley where the city of Ausentinia shone like a piece of polished copper in the sun.

  “Pilgrims from every corner of the Papal States traveled to it, always taking the stone bridge, always following the middle path, and always finding their way to the hidden city. This is why your friend Bruno came—to visit Ausentinia.” Rosemary paused.

  “But why?” asked Bronson.

  “We call it Ausentinia here, but elsewhere it is known as La Casa de San Antonio—‘The House of Saint Antony,’ after Saint Antony of Padua, the patron saint of lost things. Ausentinia offered every person who visited something marvelous: the miracle of way-finding.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Imagine you had lost something very precious: the key to a trunk full of treasures; a brother who had left home, never to return; a secret whispered in your ear and then forgotten. Then imagine that someone with knowledge of all things that could and would happen drew you a map: a map that told exactly where to go and what to do when, so that you would find the key, or the brother, or the whispered secret. Wouldn’t you travel any distance for such a map?”

  It sounded like something out of a dream. “Of course I would.”

  “Let me tell you of my own visit so that you may understand,” Rosemary said. “When I was little, I lived with my mother on a farm outside Murtea, some half hour’s walk from the walls. I had never known my father, and my mother was the world to me. We were very happy.

  “My mother loved to sing, and she had a beautiful voice. Wishing to be just like her, I sang, too—she called me her little warbler. The sound of our voices, filling the house and the field behind it, day and night, made me glad.

  “Then, three years ago, when I was ten, she fell ill. You know the signs now, as I did: she lost her appetite; in the mornings, she had no desire to rise from her bed. We both knew it was lapena. Before it could get worse, she did something both cruel and merciful. She left me. The note I found in her place explained that she wished to spare me not only the illness but also the sight of her losing care for everything she loved, including me.

  “I searched, day after day, in all the places where I thought she might go, but I could not find her. After two weeks had passed, I knew. She was gone. She had met her death somewhere out on the dry plains, alone. Worse still, her remains would never be buried on consecrated ground, and her soul would wander forever in purgatory. All this she had done just to spare me.

  “That was a terrible time. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. Why had the plague not taken me, too? I wished for it and it would not come.

  “When I emerged from my grief, alive despite myself, I found that I had lost my voice. Not only my singing voice—I had entirely lost the power of speech. At first, I did not care. I had lost my mother, and any loss compared to that great loss was as nothing.

  “But as the weeks passed, something changed. The silence that settled upon the house was killing me—and I no longer wished to die. Singing would have reminded me of her and brought the memory of her into the house. I needed my voice to return.

  “So, for the first time, I crossed the stone bridge, taking the middle path at each juncture, following the dusty footpaths until, after an hour’s walking, I reached the city of Ausentinia. I remember that I arrived at midday, when the sun was high. In Murtea, the heat would be unbearable, and everyone would be indoors. But here it was cool. The city was ringed with pine and cypress trees, and their aroma filled the air. Lovely stone houses, with their shining copper roofs, basked in the sun. The market was full of vendors, and every man, woman, and child seemed to radiate contentment. I realized, as I walked along, seeking a map vendor, the cause of their happiness: nothing was ever lost for long in Ausentinia. Anything lost would soon be found. And the departure of those things that left the world forever—my mother among them—caused them less agony, I thought, for they understood the loss as final and necessary.

  “Almost half the shops on the streets sold maps. I chose one simply because I liked the sign hanging above the doorway; there was a bird on it that reminded me of a warbler. Inside, there were low counters on three sides, and behind the counters the walls were entirely covered with tiny drawers, each one the size and round shape of a Seville orange. Standing at the till was a man with a long beard and bright eyes who smiled at me as I entered.

  “I had not realized until that moment that I would not be able to explain what I needed. How could I request a map to find my voice if I had no voice? But the man simply smiled again, seeing my expression of consternation, and said, in Castilian, ‘Have no fear, Rosemary.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the counter. ‘You have lost your voice, and you seek to find it. But I believe you seek something else as well, do you not?’ I looked at him in bafflement. ‘Your mother’s resting place,’ he said gently. I felt my eyes filling with tears. I nodded. ‘Well, child,’ he said kindly, ‘there is a map here for you, waiting only to be read.’

  “He walked along a drawer-lined wall, running his fingertips along the labels, until he found the one he wanted. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a sheet of paper that was curled into a tube and tied with a piece of white string. I weighed it in my hand—this was a famed map of Ausentinia? ‘Doesn’t look like much, does it?’ he remarked with a smile
. ‘Don’t worry. It will contain what you need.’ I reached into my purse to pay him, but he stopped me. ‘No, no. We don’t accept that kind of payment. Instead, you must guide someone else, like yourself, who is out in the world, seeking just as you are seeking. Here,’ he said, handing me a second roll of paper, this one tied with a blue string, ‘is your payment. Your map will explain for whom it is intended.’

  “Giving him thanks—although I did not wholly understand him—I left the shop, and once I was out in the street I quickly unrolled the scroll with the white ribbon. There was a map drawn upon it. Below, it said, A map for the little warbler. My tears overflowed, and the page became a blur. When I had composed myself and was able to clear my eyes, I saw something that made little sense. It bore the appearance of a map—but where did it lead?

  “In the corner, a compass pointed an arrow toward ‘The Future.’ There were ‘Mountains of Solitude,’ a ‘Forest of Regret,’ and other strangely labeled regions. But a clear path stretched across it—or, rather, one clear path with many branches. The path began at Ausentinia. And on the back of the map were several paragraphs written in a fine hand. The opening read:

  Soundless, we scream in the heart; silent, we wait in the shadows; speechless, we speak of the past. Find us at either end of eleven years.

  Taking the Trail of Uncertainty, accept the guide who arrives under the full moon. Travel with him into the Meadow of Friendship, and when the cart breaks, go to the Goat’s Head. Your traveling companion is falsely accused. Speak then, and speak the truth, for both truth and falsehood lead to the Steep Ravine of Loss.

  “The map went on, explaining how I might navigate the branching paths and strange landscapes to find, at the end, my mother’s remains. Despite the many incomprehensible markings on the map and equally incomprehensible directions, I understood the beginning, and I understood the end. Tucking the scroll in my pocket, I opened the second one. It was very much like my own, but written in a language I could not read.

  “And so, with the maps I had sought, I returned home to wait.

  “At the next full moon, as the map had promised, I heard someone making his way along the path to my house. Sound carries easily on the dry plain, and while he was still at some distance, I heard not only his footsteps, but also his voice. He was singing. His voice was low and gentle, and he sang something in a foreign tongue that sounded merry and full of laughter.

  “I went to the door and opened it, watching the moon shine down upon him. When he arrived, he looked upon me with a broad smile. His sweet-sounding song was still in my ears. Of middle years, with a dark beard and a round belly, he was, I fancied, like the father I had never had, arriving at last in my hour of need. ‘My name is Bruno Casavetti,’ he said in Castilian, giving a slight bow, ‘and the monks in Granada suggested I might find lodging here. I can pay in gold, or in melodies,’ he added, with a wink. ‘Or both. Any chance you might spare a bed for an aging traveler with a heavy pack?’”

  19

  Winning Nettie

  —1892, June 5: 9-Hour 38—

  The New States Party was founded mid-century by parliament members who wished to offer a progressive approach to foreign and domestic policy. They first made their mark with the Hospital Reforms of 1864, whereby high standards were set for the care of patients in New Occident hospitals and houses of charity.

  —From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident

  INSPECTOR ROSCOE GREY lived not far from East Ending Street, in a neighborhood called “the Little Nickel” after a counterfeiting scandal that had taken place decades earlier. The inspector kept a small but orderly household: a pair of servants, Mr. and Mrs. Culcutty, who ran things so smoothly that it was almost imperceptible when one of Grey’s long cases kept him on the street for days at a time; and the inspector’s daughter, Nettie, who was sixteen. The three adult members of the household doted on Nettie, in part because she had lost her mother when she was only an infant, and in part because she was such a sweet and charming young person.

  The inspector, who by some accounts had become a severe man after the death of his wife, considered Nettie his sun, moon, and stars. When he returned at the end of a long day, his spirits were lifted by the sound of his daughter at the piano, and his angular face, with its sad eyes, narrow nose, and close-trimmed brown beard, seemed to lift along with them. Mr. and Mrs. Culcutty, the gentlest and most amiable couple in the Little Nickel, worshipped the very ground she walked upon. The pair had their few disagreements over matters involving Nettie, principally when one of them was thoughtless enough to disappoint her and the other was compelled to righteously champion her cause.

  There had been one such disagreement the night before, when the inspector was out very late attending to his new case, the terrible murder of Prime Minister Bligh. Nettie had wished to seek some companionship and comfort at her friend Anna’s, and Mrs. Culcutty had felt obliged to point out that it was nearly nineteen-hour and her father would not want her to leave the house, and Nettie had consequently cried, and Mr. Culcutty had indignantly told his wife that he would accompany Nettie to Anna’s house or to the end of the earth, be it nineteen-hour or not.

  There were some in the neighborhood who found Nettie Grey perhaps a little too sweet. The dressmaker two doors down, Agnes Dubois, had been known to roll her eyes when Nettie walked down the cobbled street, carrying a basket laced with ribbons and singing a sweet little tune. And the dressmaker’s friend, a music teacher named Edgar Blunt who instructed Nettie at the piano every Friday, had difficulty understanding why everyone thought he should consider it such a privilege to teach a student who was, to his ear, quite mediocre and a trifle too earnest. And the dressmaker’s neighbor, a librarian named Maud Everly, could not bring herself to admire a girl who spent so much time on her appearance and so little time on reading. But apart from these exceptional cases, the neighborhood and the Greys’ circle of acquaintances were generally inclined to think very highly of Nettie, with her broad smile and her bright blue eyes and her cascade of brown curls and her sweet, high voice.

  Theo’s first impression was rather different. From the moment he saw her through the window, dutifully practicing her scales with a look of contented self-satisfaction, he thought, What a princess. He smiled to himself.

  Theo had made his plan as soon as Inspector Grey left 34 East Ending Street the previous evening. It was simple: He would keep track of the inspector’s investigation by befriending Nettie Grey. He would prove Broadgirdle had planned Bligh’s murder. Once he had evidence that Broadgirdle was guilty, he would make sure Grey got hold of it. Shadrack and Miles would go free. Everything would return to the way it had been, and he would never have to hear another word about Gordon Broadgirdle.

  It had required patience but no ingenuity to avoid the officers at East Ending Street. The library window had provided the means, and the boredom of the police officers had offered the opportunity. Theo waited for them to drift toward one another, as they inevitably would, so that they could converse idly on the corner. They each had their respective doorways in sight, but from the corner they could see nothing happening at the rear of the house. Theo swung out into the narrow garden bed, hopped two fences into the yard of a house on East Wrinkle Street, and emerged well out of sight. It took him an hour to discover Grey’s address in the Little Nickel.

  He watched the house for another hour to make certain the inspector was not home. Then, after Nettie had been practicing scales for some twenty minutes, he knocked on the window. Nettie stopped her playing at once and turned. She blushed and gave a tentative smile.

  Theo returned the smile with a friendly wave. Finally, after several seconds of pink-cheeked hesitation, Nettie made her way to the tall casement window and opened it.

  “Hi,” Theo said, widening his smile.

  “Hi,” Nettie replied. She brushed a brown curl out of her eyes.

  “I heard you play
ing,” he continued, “and I couldn’t help myself; I had to see where such beautiful music was coming from.”

  Nettie batted her eyelashes. “Oh, I was just playing scales. It’s nothing.”

  “Really? Just scales? Can you play anything else?”

  Nettie nodded happily. “Of course.” She returned to the piano bench and settled in, riffling nervously through a stack of music sheets until she found the one she wanted. With a quick smile back at the opened window, she set her choice on the stand and began to play. It was a Chopin waltz, and a rather long one. The piece clearly strained the limits of Nettie’s technical abilities and affective range, but she blazed through it bravely, leaving the misplayed notes behind her like a trail of debris.

  As she played, Theo quietly climbed up through the casement window and seated himself on the upholstered chair beside it. He did his best to ignore the destruction of the Chopin waltz and studied the room. It was clearly decorated to suit Nettie: poppies on the upholstery, lace on the curtains, and porcelain figurines on the delicate side tables. In one corner was a worn leather chair and a footstool piled with books: Inspector Grey’s outpost. Grey did not keep his work here, Theo surmised, but hopefully it was all neatly stored in Nettie’s silly head.

  Nettie finished the piece and turned to Theo with a look of triumph. She seemed a little startled to find him sitting in the chair rather than leaning in through the window, but she recovered as Theo applauded loudly.

  “That was just amazing!” he cried. “Wow! You must give concerts, don’t you?”

  Nettie smiled happily. “I’m glad you liked it. I would love to give a concert someday,” she confided. “Although,” she added, her brow wrinkling slightly, “Mr. Blunt says I do not have the soul for it, whatever that means.”