by Неизвестный
Pete narrowed his eyes at her. “How you know that?”
“Some nights, I bring him a pasty.” She gave him a sly smile. “He’s a friend is all.”
He huffed knowingly then shifted his gaze toward the rafters, as if listening. Boots scuffed across the floor planks above them.
She pointed at the ceiling. “He’s halfway ‘round. To be safe, you got maybe six minutes.”
“Plenty.” He grinned.
The glass case held St. Edward’s crown. Solid gold, it was said to have over four hundred precious stones — diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires and pearls. Soft ermine circled its base. Glittering crosses arched over a velvet cap. It was the official coronation crown, over two hundred years old.
Pete wasted no time admiring it. He stuck out his hand for the cudgel. Maisie’s heart raced as she handed it over and stepped back. The glass shattered on impact. She jumped at the sudden noise and explosion of bright shards. Pete reached in, seized the crown and, without another word, turned and ran from the room, leaving her standing amidst telltale debris.
For a moment, Maisie couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then she heard shouts. A watchman’s whistle split the night. She felt the vibrations of men running through the building, and still she was unable to move.
From outside in the courtyard came scuffling sounds, more voices. “Stop! Halt, you demon!” Was that Geoff?
The report of a gun. She winced. Moments later, another shot. Maisie drew a slow, deep breath and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. It was over. Done.
She looked down at her feet. Shattered glass, prettily glittering but worthless. Why did the sparkle of rocks dug out of the ground provoke men to risk their lives? It was beyond her. She suddenly felt woozy at the thought of what she’d done.
Heavy footfalls ascended the steps. They stopped in front of the doorway to the treasure room. Maisie looked up. Geoffrey stood on the threshold flanked by two of his burly men, their expressions stern.
Men make the rules. Had her husband changed his mind about their plan for freeing her forever from Pete Dunn’s wickedness?
“Did he hurt you?” Geoff said. He crunched across the carpet of broken glass and pulled her into his arms.
“I’m fine.” Now was the time for her rehearsed speech, for the benefit of their two witnesses. “Oh, Geoff, he came to the house when you’d gone. Said he’d slit my throat I didn’t let him in the gate.” She swallowed, her eyes tearing up with no effort at all. She saw the sympathy in his men’s eyes. “Did you get him?”
“He tried to escape, though we warned him to stop. My boys shot him dead. He can’t hurt you now, love.”
“Thank you,” she breathed in his ear.
##
When you don’t make the rules, you have to be clever to survive. You have to look after yourself. So said Miss Sarah in between the Bible readings. After that first day when Maisie saw Pete Dunn tromping around her Tower grounds, she knew if she didn’t remove him from her life forever he’d drag her back down with him. She’d mulled over her options and decided how to do it.
“I’m glad you weren’t afraid to come to me,” Geoff said, as they sat at their scuffed little table the morning after the break in. “A woman like you shouldn’t have to live in fear of the likes of him.”
Maisie smiled and sipped her tea. “I’m glad you understand.” She had weighed the risks and told her husband about Pete just days ago. Not everything, mind you, but enough for him to understand how dangerous Pete could be to her. To both of them.
“Making you steal for him,” Geoff murmured while spooning down porridge, “when you was but a child and knew no better. How low can a man stoop?”
“He truly was a creature of the devil.”
“Sarah Williams always said you were lucky not to have fallen as low as some women.” He looked at her, then away, but didn’t ask the question. “I’m glad she found you when she did, Maisie. Glad I found you.”
“Me too.” She realized her gaze had slipped away toward the sink-cupboard, and she focused back on her husband. “You was so very sharp to think of trapping the rogue the way you did, in the very act of his mischief.” At least, he believed it was his idea.
He chuckled. “Sergeant Wilkes has a sore neck from that wallop you gave him. But that’s the worst of our injuries.” He spooned down more oats, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “How’d you know he’d pull a knife and not give up?”
She shrugged. “Types like him are stupid like that.” She studied his face. “Would you have shot him if he didn’t try to fight?”
“Like you said, Maise, we couldn’t let him spoil our good reputation by his wicked gossip and lies.”
She smiled at him and stood to clear the dishes. “I think I’m learning to trust you, Geoffrey Harris.”
“And I you, Missus H.” He rose from his seat, wrapped his strong arms around her, and kissed her soundly on the mouth. “And now I must be off to work, my love.” He released her and turned toward the brass ring of keys hanging on the back wall of her kitchen. Keys to the chapel, the armory, and every door, gate, and display case in the Tower compound. Clipping them to his belt, he said, “There’ll be an inquest, you know. But I doubt they’ll want to talk to you. You did nothing less than rid London of a scoundrel.”
##
Maisie finished washing up after breakfast. She stood looking out her cottage window, drying her hands, watching a pair of ravens being fed by one of the guards. Legend said, so long as the huge black birds made The Tower their home, there would be an England. Soon the gates would open and the tourists pour in. But before she made ready to go out among them with her pasties and tarts, she squatted down on the floor and reached under the sink.
Her fingertips traced the crevice along the back wall, finally touching the burlap scrap she’d tucked back there three days ago. Carefully she pulled free the tiny packet, unfolded it and slipped the two stones into her palm. A single blue sapphire the size of a wren’s egg and a brilliant white diamond as big as her littlest fingernail.
When the guards had pulled the crown from beneath Peter Dunn’s body, they’d discovered two stones had gone missing from the least noticeable place at the back. The police assumed the gems had loosened from their settings in the scuffle and fallen into the river near Traitor’s Gate, which was as far as Pete Dunn had run before being brought down by the Yeoman Warders.
She’d only needed to borrow the one small key on the night before Pete swam through Traitor’s Gate. While the sentry made his rounds, while her husband slept, she’d popped out the two loosest stones in the ancient crown. Just like Pete said. Easy.
Maisie rewrapped the gems and tucked them back into their hidey place. Humming to herself she went on with her day’s work. Miss Sarah, the Bible notwithstanding, would definitely approve.
Fabian’s Wake by Laura Resnick
Laura Resnick is the author of the popular Esther Diamond urban fantasy series, whose releases include Disappearing Nightly, Doppelgangster, Unsympathetic Magic, Vamparazzi, Polterheist, and The Misfortune Cookie. She has also written traditional fantasy novels such as In Legend Born, The Destroyer Goddess, and The White Dragon, which made multiple “Year’s Best” lists. She began her career as the award-winning author of fifteen romance novels, written under the pseudonym Laura Leone. An opinion columnist, frequent public speaker, and the Campbell Award-winning author of many short stories, she is on the Web at LauraResnick.com.
Since life is full of unexpected twists and turns which can bring us back together with people we had assumed were forever in our past, I’ve always considered death the real game-changer, the one circumstance that guarantees we’ll never see someone again. For this story, I wound up combining that concept with my memories of my maternal grandfather’s traditional wake and funeral, where I discovered that three days spent with the well-groomed corpse of a loved one led me to think a lot about the things I wished I had told the old man before he departed. (I should
add that, quite unlike Fabian Quinn, my grandpa was a genial, kind, supportive man who lived and died on good terms with his whole family.)
To say that I was surprised when my father popped out of his coffin would be like saying that the North Pole is chilly or the Aga Khan is well-to-do.
In fact, I yelped in frightened shock, fell over backward, and lay hyperventilating on the floor of the funeral home, convinced I was having a stroke or a seizure.
“Oh, that’s some welcome,” said the old man. “Thank you, Eileen.”
His tone was critical — and therefore hideously familiar to me.
All around me, I heard surprised gasps, startled exclamations, and concerned questions. One person was shrieking hysterically; even in my disoriented state, I knew that had to be my Aunt Iris, who’s notoriously high-strung.
I felt the carpeted floor of the somber reception room beneath my head. Saw the ceiling above me. Heard the gust of my panicky breaths. I pressed a hand to my pounding heart, then realized that doing so was a function of voluntary motor skills that seemed to be working just fine.
I’m no expert, but I was pretty sure that was inconsistent with a stroke or a seizure.
“Get up off the floor, Eileen,” my father ordered. “You’re upsetting people.”
I’m upsetting people? Me? Who’s just been resurrected, old man?
Then my mother, who was indeed visibly upset, sank to her knees beside me and cried, “Eileen!”
“Stand back, everyone!” ordered my Aunt Louise, inadvertently kicking me in the head as she stomped around my supine body. “Let her have some space. Don’t crowd her!”
“Ow.” I winced.
My father said, “You’re making a scene.”
“Give her room!” Aunt Louise shouted, hovering over me. “Let her breathe!”
“Eileen!” My mother briefly pressed the back of her hand against my forehead and then my cheek, as if thinking that a fever might explain my keeling over in front of my father’s coffin. “Are you all right?”
Aunt Iris shrieked again. I wondered if she saw what I’d just seen — the old man rising out of his casket with the agility of a man half his age, and, more to the point, with the agility of someone still alive.
But when I looked up, I saw Aunt Iris peering down anxiously at me, as were a dozen more of my Quinn relatives. My gaze swept the crowd around me, looking for the person who couldn’t possibly be there … .
And, yep, there he was. My father. Fabian Quinn, a short, stout, blue-eyed, white-haired man in his late sixties, dressed in the formal black suit he would wear for eternity. He was sandwiched between two of my aunts and staring down at me with his usual look of irritable impatience. I stared back.
“Eileen, say something!” my mother implored me.
“Mom … I think I might be having a stroke,” I mumbled, gazing at my dad as various relatives gazed down at me.
“A stroke?” my mother repeated.
No one else was looking at the old man. Didn’t anyone but me find it a little odd that he’d just vacated his own coffin?
“Am I hallucinating?” I wondered in confusion.
“No, of course not, dear. Not at your father’s wake.” My mother said this as dismissively as if I’d asked whether we should serve food.
“Oh, just get up, would you?” prodded my dad.
I glanced at my mom. She evidently hadn’t heard him.
“Whoa! What’s going on?” Joe, my brother, pushed past a couple of our cousins to look down at me in alarm. “Eileen! Did you fall?”
“No, genius,” said Dad. “Your sister thought she’d lie down for a little nap.”
No one seemed to hear this, either.
“Mom,” said Joe, “is she okay?”
“She’s having a spell,” said our mother.
“Eileen doesn’t have spells,” Joe said with a frown, looking down at me. “Eye, did you trip? What happened? Are you all right? Should I get a doctor?”
“You wouldn’t need to get a doctor if you had stuck with pre-med,” our father said to him. “But noooo … ”
Oh, Jesus, not that again. Joe switched majors fifteen years ago, old man. Give it a rest already.
“I heard that,” said Dad.
I breathed in sharply and flinched.
“Look at that convulsion!” shrieked Aunt Iris. “She is having a seizure!”
“That’s not a seizure,” said Joe. “I think something scared her.”
“Oh, two semesters of pre-med and your brother can diagnose seizures,” Dad said to me.
“Um, Aunt Louise, maybe you should step back,” said Joe. “You could kick Eileen in the head if you’re not careful.”
“I’m always careful!” Aunt Louise said, almost kicking me again in her indignation.
Dad muttered, “Too bad my son the undoctor wasn’t so helpful when I had a fatal heart attack.”
That’s not fair. I heard that the medics said your death was almost instantaneous.
“Oh, what do they know?” snapped my father. “Your brother was in the same house with me when it happened. If he’d gone to medical school, I’d still be alive now.”
You can’t be sure of that.
“Don’t argue with the dead. We know things.”
My father had died three days ago, on Easter Sunday. If you knew the old man, the imagery seemed fitting: On the anniversary of the day that the Prince of Peace rose, Fabian Quinn went under.
I had elected to skip our family’s annual Easter dinner, which was typically a Molotov cocktail of tension and temper. I live about three hours away by car from my parents’ home, and I’d made excuses to my mom about having too little time and too much work to be able to make the round trip that weekend. My mother, an understanding woman (as well as a long-suffering one), had pretended to believe my excuses. I assumed my father had made no such pretense; but since I hadn’t spoken to him, that was just an educated guess. In fact, I hadn’t spoken to him for several months now. My not having visited between Christmas and Easter was normal. My phoning my mother in recent months only when my dad was out or asleep — well, that was just good luck.
The upshot was that, when my dad — who suffered from high blood pressure, diabetes, and arterial sclerosis — succumbed to a massive coronary shortly after eating his Easter dinner, I wasn’t there with the rest of my family, and I hadn’t spoken to him since December. So on the day the old man died, I managed to be the bad daughter that he’d often accused me of being.
“Eileen,” my mother said now, as I lay on the floor in front of my father’s coffin, “can you tell us what’s wrong?”
“Um … ” I gestured for her to lean closer to me, since I didn’t really think I wanted to share this with the whole family. Then I whispered to her, “Don’t you hear his voice?”
“What voice?”
My father said, “Feel free to stop making a spectacle of yourself any time now, Eileen.”
“That voice,” I said in agitation. “His voice! Don’t you hear him?”
“His voice?” my Aunt Mary repeated. Then she gasped. “Do you mean … His voice?”
Dad rolled his eyes. “Hoo-boy. Here we go.”
“What’s this?” demanded my Aunt Ada. “Eileen’s hearing voices?”
(I have a lot of aunts. My father had six sisters, all of whom are still shuffling around this mortal coil. Only four were at the funeral, though. The other two ceased speaking to him years ago, and they declined to pretend to mourn him after we put him in his coffin with the assumption that he’d stay there.)
“Voices?” my mother said in alarm. “Are you hearing voices, Eileen?”
“No, not voices. One voice. His voice,” I croaked. “Mom, don’t you see — ”
“Eileen hears the voice of God!” Aunt Mary cried.
“Now you’ve done it,” my father said to me.
Aunt Mary is unhappy in the twenty-first century and says she should have been a medieval mystic. Considering that she l
ives on the seventeenth floor of a luxury condo overlooking Lake Michigan, I’m skeptical that the life of a twelfth century ascetic would have suited her as well as she believes; but there’s no denying that she has what might tactfully be described as a keen interest in the higher plane.
“God is speaking to our Eileen!” Aunt Mary said rapturously.
“Oh … not God, exactly,” I said.
Aunt Mary ignored me. “Eileen is experiencing a miraculous visitation!”
“Well, she got that right, at least,” said my father.
“I think I need a drink,” I said wanly.
Seven of my relatives immediately produced flasks. I accepted Joe’s.
As my mother helped me sit up, she said to the many Quinns who were by now gathered around us, “Her father’s death has been a shock to her.”
“I don’t see why,” Aunt Louise said stoutly. “My brother was a walking time bomb. Fabian paid no heed to his health! He ignored his doctor’s advice, ate like a pig, and never exercised. It was only a matter of time.”
“I never could stand that woman,” my father grumbled.
I took a nip of whiskey from Joe’s flask and then coughed. Chardonnay is more my speed.
“Why am I the only one who can hear you?” I asked.
Joe said, “Oh, I think Dad heard it, Eye. He just didn’t listen.”
“Because you’re the one who wanted to talk to me, Eileen.” My father made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the rest of the family as he added with some pique, “The only one, it seems.”
Since I was apparently communing with the dead, I decided that another slug of my brother’s whiskey was called for.
While the liquid fire burned its way down my throat, my dad said to me, “There I was, all set to go to my eternal rest … but then my only daughter stood beside my coffin and prayed, ‘If only I could see you once more. Speak to you one last time.’”
I stared at him in astonishment. I had indeed stood beside his embalmed corpse and expressed that silent wish only a few minutes ago. It’s the sort of thought that occurs at a moment like that — a moment when you naturally assume you won’t ever see someone again.