Christopher looked out over the expanse of the orchard, then smiled brightly at her. “I can certainly do that.” He returned to the bench and stood by its side, folding his large arms across his chest.
Amelie beamed. “Thank you. And how are you doing today, Christopher?”
Turning his face skyward, Christopher closed his eyes and took in the feeling of the sun on his skin. “I must say, quite well. Now that the weather is improving, I don’t mind grounds detail even the littlest bit.” He looked back to her. “And you? How are you today, Amelie?”
She tilted her head, giving him a thankful look for finally using her first name. However, the cheeriness on her face faded just as quickly as it had come, and her hands moved to her stomach. “Honestly? I’m quite nervous.”
Christopher nodded sympathetically. “I can imagine. ’Tis weight enough to be losing a parent, but to take on so much as soon as it happens? Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t envy you, young miss.”
“Yes, there is all that…” Amelie said, “…but I’m more worried about Michael. I can’t help feeling like I’m about to share this city with a complete stranger. I imagine it feels a bit like arranged marriages I’ve read about, only without the marriage part.”
Christopher nodded again, seeming to understand immediately. He looked down at his feet for a long moment, mulling over how to respond. Finally, he raised his head once more, gave her a wry smile, and reached up to pluck a particularly ripe red apple from the nearest tree.
“You know, there’s a lot to be learned from these,” he said.
“Apples?” Amelie asked, blinking.
“Absolutely. You remember Genesis, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “The original sin. Though, I’ve read it may have been a pomegranate, whatever that was.”
“Either way, it’s just a fruit, right?” Christopher said as he began tossing the apple back and forth between his hands. “How could a simple fruit be sinful?”
“Well, it wasn’t the fruit itself that was the sin,” Amelie replied. “It was the temptation, the knowledge that came with it that brought sin to mankind.”
“Very good. But why would God make something as important as knowledge a sin?” Christopher began walking around the bench in slow circles, continuing to volley the apple to and fro.
Amelie furrowed her brow and began fiddling with her braid again as she thought over the question. After a moment, her eyes shot back up. “Well, knowledge is power, and power corrupts, right?” She was thoroughly enjoying this. She had always believed Christopher to be far too intelligent to simply be a guard in the palace. His own father had been one of her father’s teaching colleagues, but Christopher had elected to spend some years serving the royal family before pursuing his own higher education. This interaction was reminiscent of her father’s various lessons to her over the years.
“That is absolutely right,” Christopher said, turning to her with a smile. “But is that equation universal? Does knowledge equals power equals evil always win out?”
Amelie thought about that only briefly before she shook her head. “No, it doesn’t, really. It’s about what one does with the knowledge, with the power. Some can do good.”
“True, but most cannot. Perhaps that is why God hid away that knowledge at first. He knew the odds were against humans doing the right thing, what with free will and all. History has taught us he was not wrong. The majority of human beings get a taste of power and then cannot be satiated. Only a select few, people like your father and yourself…” He tossed her the apple and she caught it, looking first down at it, then back to him. “…those are the ones who can take power and make it do good for the world.”
Amelie nodded thoughtfully, then looked to the apple once more. “And someone like Michael?”
“The only way to answer that is to learn more about him,” Christopher said.
Amelie chuckled bitterly. “That’s exactly my problem, Christopher. I don’t know how to do that. He’s like a closed book.”
“A book…” Christopher said thoughtfully. “Les Liaisons dangereuses. Do you know it?”
“No…I mean I’ve heard of it, but never read it.”
“Michael has a copy on the bookshelf in his bedchamber. You should take a look at it. It may help you learn what you need to know.” Then, with a smile and a dutiful nod, he added, “I should be back about my rounds now, if I may.”
“Of course, Christopher, if you must go, you are excused. But I don’t understand what you’re saying about that book,” Amelie said.
“Go look at it. Trust me, it will tell you far more than I can.” He then gave her a small bow and started back on his way through the orchard.
II
Amelie made her way down the long hallway that lead to Michael’s bedchamber, repeatedly looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed, though she didn’t know why. She had every right to be here, and no one aside from Michael himself would question her for entering his private quarters, but he was presently out for his fencing lesson, according to a servant she had asked.
Regardless, as she reached Michael’s door, Amelie leaned in and placed her ear against it, listening for any sounds of movement inside. Hearing nothing, she rapped lightly on the wooden surface, then listened again. When there was still nothing, she took a deep breath and grabbed the brass door handle, half expecting it to be locked. It was not, so after one last furtive glance around, Amelie slipped quickly inside and closed the door behind her.
Sunlight poured in from the two large windows to her right, blanketing the bedchamber in afternoon glow. The room was kept immaculately clean, but Amelie could not shake the sudden uneasy feeling that came over her in here. It felt unsettling and cold, like a musty basement or dust-filled attic, neither of which she’d ever stepped foot into in her life.
In front of the mullioned windows sat an imposing maple desk stained a very dark shade of brown. Amelie approached it and ran her finger lightly along its edge, looking over its tidy surface that held only an inkwell, a quill standing upright in a holder, and a crystal pitcher of water with a pair of upside-down glasses next to it.
At the other end of the room was a large, luxurious bed. It stood tall on its sled frame, four pillars rising up over it and draped with sheer black fabric. Just past it, against the far wall, stood a sizeable bookshelf containing a number of old hardbound novels.
Going to it, Amelie looked over the various titles, then frowned. She had hoped the selection might give her some insight into Michael’s interests, but the books were of such a wide range of subjects that she wasn’t sure if he actually studied all these things or if the shelf had simply been filled at random for aesthetic purposes. There were books about biology, cooking, woodworking, and a huge selection of fiction titles, none placed in any particular order whatsoever.
One book among all the others caught her eye for a moment, and out of pure curiosity she pulled it down. There wasn’t anything significant or dazzling about it. It was dusty and worn, bound with a dark green cover. Embossed on the front was the title, The Great Gatsby. She had never heard of it.
Sliding that one back into its place, Amelie began scanning the shelf once again until she found what she was looking for. Its title was pressed in red against a black binding, the French words seeming to scream at her from its place on the top shelf. Reaching for it with mounting curiosity, she took hold of its top and gave it a pull.
It tilted out halfway, and then she heard a click.
Amelie took a step back, curiosity turning into confusion at the sound of gears beginning to creak and turn behind the bookcase. As she watched, wonderstruck, the entire case slid backwards, receding until it was slightly recessed within the wall. It then glided to her left, disappearing completely from sight.
She knew that there were a great many secret passageways and hidden rooms in the palace, built by previous rulers who were rightfully paranoid about the threat of atta
ck and assassination. This one, however, she was unaware of until now.
The room behind the bookcase was too dark to make out anything inside. All the filtered sunlight offered was a view of the first foot of wall on her left side. There, she saw a metal lever protruding at an upward angle and a smaller switch next to it. She supposed the lever was meant to close the bookcase back up, so she flipped the switch. On the ceiling of the room, a light bulb flickered once, twice, then stayed on, bathing the small area in a soft, yellowish glow.
The room was simple, just four unfinished walls and a hardwood floor. Against the wall across from her sat an old desk, its width barely accommodated by the narrow space. It was much more basic than the fancy desk in the bedchamber, and its surface was not nearly as tidy. Almost every square inch of it was littered with various papers and drawings. Every inch, that is, except the back right corner, where a box that looked like a miniature treasure chest was sitting.
Amelie approached the desk, coming abreast of it and the faded wooden chair that sat in front of it. Her hands fidgeted at her sides as she glanced over the scattered papers. She wanted to pick things up and investigate them, but she feared leaving some trace of her intrusion, so at first she only observed. Those that first caught her eye were so yellow and tattered with age that they looked like they could crumble with a wrong touch. Leaning in close, she stared at one of these for some time. She couldn’t read it; it was written in a runic language she didn’t recognize.
Continuing to move her eyes across the desk, she saw maps of Ayenee and a calendar marked with what looked like the lunar cycle. The date two nights from now was circled in black ink. Finally, Amelie came upon a thin, leather-bound book peeking out from under the corner of a cartographer’s drawing of southeastern Ayenee. Carefully lifting the edge of the paper, she slid the book out to get a better look. It was a journal.
Though she wasn’t exceptionally comfortable with prying into what might be Michael’s most private thoughts, she was even less comfortable with how little she knew about him, so she set aside her guilt for the moment and opened the journal. As her eyes scanned over the small, neat handwriting, her mouth bowed into a frown. Every word was written in what appeared to be German. She didn’t know what any of it meant, but she recognized the unique structure from a lesson her Language and Literature tutor had given on dead languages last year. She remembered Mrs. Brooke laughing at her comment that the words looked long enough to choke on, let alone speak. Now she was wishing she had read up a bit more on the subject, but how could she have known to? Why would anyone have bothered to learn a language that was no longer spoken? Except, Amelie thought, if they wanted to hide something.
She flipped through the pages quickly, looking for any section that might be written in English. Even French or Gaelic would suffice; she was more or less fluent in both. But it was all in German. Tight, improbably neat German, page after page after—
Amelie stopped suddenly as she noticed a change. Not in the language, but in the penmanship. In the middle of the page, it started getting more haphazard. It worsened as it came to the bottom of the left page, then grew even messier as it filled the right. She ran her finger over the page, blinked, and turned it. The rest of the scrawlings were illegible, but one word had been written with so heavy a hand that it nearly tore through the paper: Begabte. Amelie stared at it for some time, committing it to memory before moving on.
Only a few more pages were filled, and all back in the same neat hand. Just before reaching the last entry, however, she came upon a sketched drawing. It was some sort of structure that looked like a coliseum. Its outer ring boasted a high wall, and the interior held something that seemed ancient. It reminded her of a place she’d read about called Stonehenge.
Underneath the drawing were written the only words on this page: Die Konstrukt. Amelie was pretty sure she knew what that meant, but she intended to make certain later on anyhow. She’d learned all about false cognates in her French courses when she had tried to bless her instructor after a sneeze and accidentally offered to wound her. The memory brought a smile to Amelie’s face, until she remembered just where she was and what she was doing here.
Suddenly feeling very conspicuous, she closed the journal and carefully slipped it back where she had found it. Her eyes fell on the wooden box, and she chewed on her lip thoughtfully. Its edges were cast in riveted iron that was complemented by the heavy padlock keeping it secure. She was just starting to reach for it when she heard a noise and froze.
It wasn’t a noise of anything in particular. Maybe a random board in the floor settling, maybe air in a pipe, rushing by along with water heading up to a third floor bathroom. But when one is snooping as she was, it seems all manner of noises that would usually go ignored suddenly seem to turn into warnings far too loud to brush off. After the bottoming out feeling in her stomach subsided, Amelie realized that the noise had been nothing. Still, she decided not to press her luck. There was no way she was going to be able to get into that box anyhow.
Moving quickly back to the entrance of the room, she flicked off the light switch and yanked down on the lever. As she suspected, the bookcase began to slide closed again, the turning gears of its unseen mechanisms seeming much louder inside the room. She slipped out of that small study and its secret entrance closed up tight behind her with a decisive click that made her jump. All at once, she found herself wanting to be out of this room as quickly as possible.
But just as she had made it across the room and was reaching for the door handle, it began turning by the hand of someone out in the hall. There wasn’t any time to think or try to hide, so all she could do was step back as the door opened and Michael stopped in his tracks, blinking at the sight of his stepsister standing in his bedroom.
“Amelie,” he said, surprised. “What are you doing in here?”
“I…umm…” she paused and cleared her throat. “One of the housemaids said you were expected to return soon and I had hoped to catch you so we could talk.” She smiled nervously as she slipped into the lie. “We’ve been so busy with everything else, we haven’t had a chance to talk about plans.”
“Plans?” Michael asked, walking past her and over to his desk. He laid down the long leather sword bag he had slung over his shoulder and then turned, leaning against the corner of the desk and looking back to her. “What plans exactly?”
Amelie laughed a little. “What isn’t there to plan? We’re going to be running this city together soon and I don’t feel like we know much about each other’s goals for it…or about each other at all, really.”
Michael thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. I suppose I hadn’t looked at it that way until now. I mean, we both know that the Advisors will be near at hand to transition us in the weeks after Richard…that is, your father…after he…” Michael paused and Amelie just nodded. “But regardless, it wouldn’t hurt for us to begin discussing things ahead of time. Perhaps over lunch?” He went around his desk to retrieve a small black book from one of the top drawers and flipped it open to a spot marked with a bit of ribbon. “When would you be free?”
Amelie shrugged. “I’m free right now, and I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”
Michael looked up from the book. “Now? No, no, I’m afraid that won’t do. I’m already almost late for a prior engagement. The soonest I can do is three days from now. Eleven o’clock?”
“O-okay,” Amelie said. She felt an odd mixture of disappointment and relief. “I apologize, I was unaware you were so busy.”
“I’ve been working on selling off the properties my mother left me. It didn’t seem right to manage them as Lord of Chicane. I’ll be donating the money to the church, as per her wishes, of course.”
Amelie nodded. “Of course. Well, I’ll leave you be.” She began to turn, then paused. “But, if I may, one question for us both to think over and discuss at lunch?”
“Mmmm. Yes?” Michael asked, his tone tinged with annoyance.
“I think we should know one another’s greatest goal for our city. That way we can be sure our paths—”
“A return to the Old,” Michael interjected. Then, “I apologize, that was rude. It’s just something I’ve given a great deal of thought.”
“The Old?” Amelie asked, tilting her head.
“Yes, as in the Old World. Not the war or lack of human compassion, of course. But…” he sighed and sat down in his chair, prompting Amelie to approach the other side of the desk, looking to him curiously as he went on. “It’s been over twelve decades since the human race nearly destroyed itself. Our foremothers and -fathers rebuilt here, but we’ve never truly risen from those ashes. I believe the time has come for us to stop looking at the achievements of the past as being a road to more ruin, but rather as promises of a bright future that we can seize while staying mindful of the mistakes of our ancestors.”
“That sounds lovely,” Amelie said, “but all the history I’ve been taught has said that most of the Old World technology was either used to kill or distance human beings from one another. How can such things be of help?”
Michael chuckled softly, then motioned to the bookshelf across the room. “That is why I prefer to read texts written by those who lived it rather than those who came after. Yes, there were many technologies that we should never resurrect, but there were also a great many that could make our lives so much better. Manufacturing, infrastructure. Electric lights in every home, a vehicle for every family. Resuming the search for medical cures rather than relying on archaic treatments. Cures for illnesses like leukemia.” He eyed her momentarily and she nodded, looking down. “There were other benefits of the Old World as well. Remember that it was a time when creatures like the vampires had faded into legendary obscurity. What if that could be achieved again?”
“What of the Gifted?” Amelie asked, raising her head. “They didn’t exist before The Last War either.”
The Crimes of Orphans Page 8