CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Addiction
THEO WASN’T DEAD. That was the best that could be said.
Sometimes he was well enough to speak. Whenever he did, he ignored any attempts by Mark and Ben to comfort him, insisting instead on giving instructions on medicines to prepare, and diagnosing any new illnesses that had come into the temple. He would sit up in bed, supported by an old, bundled blanket, and peer weakly at the latest line of patients. Then, all too soon, his health would fail him once again, and he would slip into unconsciousness. They had tried to find who might have poisoned Theo’s water, but it was hopeless. There were too many people, and it wasn’t as if they could report the crime to the receivers.
Verity cared for him most of the time, making sure that the curtains they had hung around his bed were secure—she didn’t want anyone to know how ill the doctor was. But that left Mark and Ben in charge of an increasingly busy temple. Ever since Mark’s speech at the prison, the temple had become the center of the revolution, besieged by the hungry and the desperate. Even Nick seemed to look to them for ideas, when he wasn’t trying to keep order in the streets. Mark barely had time to sleep, organizing rationing and watching the barricades. So it was left to Ben to keep their makeshift hospital going.
She never deserted her duties, but it was taking its toll. When she finished for the evening, she took off her smile with her shawl. Ben was starting to look almost like her brother, though she relaxed into worry, rather than sarcasm.
But Mark couldn’t let himself think about Laud, or Lily. There wasn’t time.
It wasn’t until the hottest day of summer, though, that his composure cracked. And it all began with a cooking pot.
Mark had already spent the morning helping to haul buckets of river water from the banks of the Ora, so he wasn’t in the best of moods. Mark knew that giving the patients river water without boiling it first would be a death sentence, but the big cauldron was still holding that day’s soup, and the smaller one, the one they used for water, was nowhere to be seen.
Grumbling, Mark began to search around. Trying to control his irritation, he poked his head through the curtains surrounding Theo’s bed. Verity, sitting beside the bed, nodding off after her night-long vigil, sprung awake.
“Have you seen the small cooking pot?” Mark asked. She shook her head.
“I think…” she began, “didn’t Miss Cherubina take it yesterday evening?”
Mark frowned.
“What does she need it for? I haven’t seen her cook a thing since she arrived.”
That was certainly true. Cherubina worked when she had to, but generally she sat, sulky and bristling. Now that she was no longer Crede’s emblem of charity, the revolutionaries had little time for her. Mark had barely seen her for the last few days. She refused to talk to him, or to anyone. Even Ben, everyone’s friend, got only a frosty look.
Verity shrugged.
“Perhaps she’s finally joining us in the spirit of change?” she said doubtfully. Mark grimaced. He wished that it could be true, but the chances weren’t good.
Thanking Verity, he began to ask around. It wasn’t too long before he heard that Cherubina had last been seen going into Miss Devine’s shop, next door. This was doubly puzzling. Miss Devine had opened her shop for their use, of course, but still very few took the glassmaker up on her offer. No one could easily forget her other trade, how she had drained their friends dry of emotion in exchange for food that her half-dead customers no longer truly wanted.
Still, he needed that pot. So, he steeled himself, pushed his way out of the temple, through the throngs of desperate and dying, and faced the thick curtain that served as Miss Devine’s front door. In the blistering late summer light, the shards of glass set into the wall shone with painful brightness, making the curtain all the darker, like a slice of night.
Mark shook himself. He knew all about Miss Devine’s kind of business. He’d bought from her, back in his old life. Her shop held no fear for him.
Even so, as he stepped into the gloomy little room beyond, he couldn’t help feeling that the sudden chill wasn’t entirely to do with coming in out of the sun.
Inside, the racks and shelves of tiny glass vials glittered back at him, lit from the sunlight streaming through the doorway. The liquids shimmered and squirmed as if alive. Perhaps they were. Who knew how emotions really behaved when siphoned out? As he got his bearings, the woman herself entered from the back room. She raised an eyebrow, and rested her long, thin fingers on the counter in front of her, but otherwise, she displayed little emotion.
“Can I do something for you, Mr. Mark?” she asked, in a tone that gave nothing away. “I wouldn’t have thought that the leader of Downriver Agora would have time to visit.” Mark didn’t rise to the bait. He never thought of himself as a leader, though he supposed that people saw him as one.
“Is Cherubina here?” Mark asked. Miss Devine steepled her fingers, and looked at him sharply.
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But if she is, she doesn’t want to see you.”
“So, she is,” Mark deduced. “I just need to see her for a moment.” Miss Devine’s mouth twitched.
“Is that an order?” she said. Mark glared at her.
“Are you going to let me see her or not?” he said, his temper flaring. Miss Devine leaned back, her arms folded. She didn’t move. “Fine,” Mark said, hotly. “I’ll just have to find her myself.” Without another word, he barged past Miss Devine, throwing aside the curtain that led to the back room.
“Very well, Mr. Mark,” Miss Devine called out, not following him. “See for yourself what welcome you will receive.”
The short corridor beyond was even darker than the main shop, and Mark had to squint as he entered a chamber lit only by one narrow window, high up in the wall.
The light fell slantwise across a tangle of glass tubes, snaking around the room, and gathering above a sturdy leather chair. It was Miss Devine’s famous emotion distiller, and on any other occasion, Mark would have been impressed. But this time, he was far more concerned with the figure sitting on the ground at the foot of the chair.
Cherubina didn’t look up as he entered. Her head was bowed, her ringlets falling over her face. She was stitching furiously, with long, dark thread, at something that lay crumpled at her feet. Surely that was too big to be a doll?
Mark came a little closer, and saw what it was.
“It’s a good likeness,” he said, aloud.
Cherubina didn’t look up. Under her hands, the life-sized effigy of Snutworth was nearly complete. It was just as good as the dolls she used to make—she really did have a talent.
“You don’t need to do this,” Mark said, kneeling down beside her. “You think anyone needs to feel more anger toward the Directory? You’ve got your revolution; we’ll go after the Director when the time is right…”
“No you won’t,” Cherubina interrupted, her voice small and tight. “You’ll sit in the temple and do nothing, just like you always do. I’m going to show them who our real enemy is.”
Mark reached out for Cherubina. With a flick of her wrist, she jabbed his hand with her needle, and he pulled back with a flash of pain. Mark massaged the wound, trying to staunch the little smear of blood that she had drawn.
“Don’t interrupt,” Cherubina growled. She pulled more rags from a pile beside her, and stuffed them into the lifeless body with surprising violence.
“I don’t understand…” Mark said, trying to be gentle.
“We never truly understand each others’ needs, Mr. Mark,” said Miss Devine from behind him. She wandered into the room, and began to make adjustments to her emotional distiller. “We all have our addictions. Reason rarely plays a part.”
Mark tried to ignore her. He brought his head down, trying to get a glimpse of Cherubina’s eyes, but she turned her head away. He sighed. He clearly wasn’t going to get anywhere here.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But Verity said that
you had the smaller cooking pot? We want to boil some more water for Theo.”
“I need it.”
Cherubina reached out, and touched the space under the doll’s heart. It clanked.
“I built around it,” she said. “Have to start with a core of something. And when it goes on the fire, the pot will melt and pour out.” She looked up then. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, but terrible in their intensity. “Pour out of his heart like so much metal slag. And then they’ll see what kind of monster they’re facing. Then they’ll rally, and storm the Directory, and make everything better.” She began to stitch again, furiously. “Don’t you see, Mark, I need it!”
“No, you don’t.”
Mark wanted to be sympathetic. He wanted to reach out to this strange, damaged young woman. But he’d tried that before. And he didn’t feel as sympathetic as he expected. The pinprick on his hand burned him.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked, feeling his throat begin to choke. “I need that pot to boil some water. Our patients need it. Theo needs it,” he kept his voice soft, but he could feel something hot building inside him. “You remember Dr. Theophilus, don’t you? The man who hid us when we first escaped? The man who is still trying to save lives every day, even though he can barely move? The man who’s doing more to help these people than your little crusade ever did?”
“How dare you!” Cherubina retorted, flinging down her needle. “You have no idea what I’ve suffered…”
“Really? Because as far as I can see, you’ve always managed to land on your feet!” Mark said, with biting sarcasm. “You were pretty quick to run off to Crede. Did you ever really believe? Or did you just want to cling to the most powerful person around, like you always do?”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Cherubina shrank back, but Mark wasn’t finished. All the tension of the last weeks came pouring out.
“You petty, spiteful little girl!” he shouted. “Yes, all right, you had a terrible time when you were Snutworth’s wife. No one’s saying you didn’t. But guess what? There are people here having an even worse time. Dying, suffering, bleeding because of the revolution you wanted just to get your own back! At least Crede believed! In his twisted way, he wanted what was best for others. And all this time, I thought there might be a little bit of you that thought of something other than yourself too. But no, you take one of our only metal pots, our only way of surviving in this plague-ridden city, and want to throw it on the fire, just because you can’t get over your demons!”
Cherubina seized a pair of scissors. For one terrible moment, Mark thought she was going to attack him, but then she hacked at the front of the effigy—cloth and cotton flying. She stabbed, again and again in a frenzy, ripping open the doll’s chest with a savage thrust, pulling out the pot and throwing it to the ground with a clang.
“There it is!” she said, hoarsely. “Take it and just … just … go away!” she shouted, tears coming to her eyes. Mark tried to speak, but Cherubina turned her back on him, so he snatched the pot up and stormed out of the room, past Miss Devine’s mocking smile, fuming all the way. How could she think like that? Didn’t she see the people all around her? Couldn’t she imagine anything outside of her own life? She was as blind as … as …
He stopped in the middle of the shop, just a few feet from the exit.
As blind as he’d been, less than two years ago.
He had lived in the tallest tower of the city, deciding the fate of people he’d never met. He thought he’d been powerful then, when Snutworth had been playing him for a fool. But the cooking pot he held in his hands would change more lives than anything he’d managed back then. That was real power, and he’d taken years to learn it.
He looked down at his reflection in the battered brass pot. Cherubina might have been older than him, but she was just a child, inside. She’d been kept that way, always given orders, always told to change herself to fit those around her. And now he’d done the same thing, when he could have helped open her eyes. Just like Lily had done for him.
He couldn’t abandon her now.
He put down the cooking pot and turned, pulling aside the curtain. He was about to hurry into the corridor, when he stopped. He could hear the sound of voices in the room beyond.
“Do not distress yourself, my dear,” Miss Devine was saying. “He doesn’t understand. No one would understand.”
“He’s so … so arrogant!” Cherubina was sniffing. “He thinks he knows best, all the time, even though he’s made more mistakes than anyone I know. And he’s lazy and never plans and … and…”
There was a sound of weeping. Mark shrank back.
“There, there,” said Miss Devine, tenderly. “You know, I could make all those feelings go away…”
“No,” Cherubina murmured. “I don’t want that emotion taken away. I … I don’t know what I’d be, without it. It keeps me going … in … this empty world.” Through her sobs, Mark heard a scuffing sound, as though she had kicked the effigy. “Empty, like him. Like Snutworth … Like me…”
“Ah my dear,” Miss Devine was saying, her voice dripping sympathy. “You misunderstand. I don’t need to use my machine. I can make those feelings go away in quite a different way. All your worries … gone in a moment…”
Mark heard the shift in tone. It was only slight, but suddenly Miss Devine’s voice sounded less friendly. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
He jumped forward, racing into the dark chamber.
Miss Devine stood over Cherubina—a heavy glass jar raised over her head with both hands.
Mark leaped as Miss Devine brought the jar down. He plowed into her, and the two of them crashed back into the emotion distiller. Shards of glass tubes flew through the air. Mark felt one nick his cheek, and saw the jar shatter against the far wall. Cherubina sprang to her feet, pale and terrified, trampling on the effigy. Miss Devine clawed at Mark like a cat, struggling free from the pile of broken glass. Mark felt her knee in his stomach, and staggered back, winded. He spun around, but Miss Devine was already rushing at Cherubina, a long shard of glass in one hand. Mark seized the glassmaker around the waist, and brought her down. Miss Devine gasped as the shard cut deep into her palm, and blood welled up.
Mark sprang up, ready to defend Cherubina. But Miss Devine was no longer moving forward. She was lying on the floor, face-to-face with the broken effigy. Looking at it with strange intensity.
“You made him well,” she said, quietly.
Cherubina stared down at her, pale and trembling.
“What does she mean?” she asked. “Mark, why is she…?”
“You know Snutworth, don’t you?” Mark said, interrupting. “Are you working for him? Spying on us?”
Miss Devine laughed. A low, painful laugh.
“Do you think he needs me to spy for him? He knows everything, boy. His control is absolute.” She stroked the Snutworth doll’s face, leaving a bloody smear. “He has been my master since we were children, since we were property. And I know my duties.” She dragged herself forward, and Mark moved between her and Cherubina.
“What?” Cherubina was still confused. “Are you saying that you … love him?”
Miss Devine looked up at her from the floor, with an expression that was almost pity.
“Stupid little doll, always seeing the world like a picture book,” she said, mockingly. “Who could love something like him? It isn’t love; he’s my addiction. We all have them, all have something in this crooked city that matters more than getting a good deal. And he is mine. His power—his certainty. This world is full of fools, and he is the only man I ever met who knew what he wanted.” Her eyes grew harder. “He has a purpose. And in following him, so do I. That’s more than anyone else has in this scrabbling city.” She fixed her gaze on both of them. “You say rebellion brings you freedom, but it merely traps you in more choices, more decisions. You have no idea of the freedom of obeying, of giving up responsibility. I’d do anything for him, without a murmur. Have done, will
do. I pushed him up to the top. I sold my wares to Ruthven, and made him fall. So many tasks … but only one failure. So far.” Her look turned to poison. “Tell me, little poppet, did you really think that he would let you go? His trophy, his conquest?”
She pointed with one of her long, spidery fingers at Cherubina while still cradling the shredded face of the effigy with her other hand. It was grotesque. Mark wanted to stop it, but it had a terrible fascination.
“You know, I would have killed you when you came in,” Miss Devine said, in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone. “After all these months of trying. But you had the image of him with you,” her attention shifted to the effigy, but she continued without a pause. “For the first time, I felt a kindred tie. He was an obsession for both of us. But you were trying to break free, and that could not be allowed. You were his, little doll. You will always be his, and now you are broken.”
In the midst of her dark words, something caught Mark’s attention.
“Months of trying?” he asked. “You’ve tried before?”
Miss Devine tidied the doll’s stringy hair.
“Such a lucky little girl,” she muttered. “Always so close. Not drinking the water I brought, until that fool doctor had taken his fill. Not poisoned with emotions, of course, that would be too obvious. Something a little more traditional.”
Cherubina gripped Mark’s arm with a little gasp, and Mark felt a cold chill slide down his back. He had wondered who could possibly want to poison Theo. How could he have been so stupid?
“But that wasn’t the first time. No, no,” Miss Devine continued. “Standing next to Crede, the day I was given my instructions. I only threw one cobblestone. Just one. Pity my aim wasn’t good; pity it smashed down your precious Crede. But, then again, it certainly stirred things up…” She smiled, wolfishly. “Perhaps that was his plan. He certainly wouldn’t have told me. I served him with that stone. My great Director. You’ll see. You think you’re winning the revolution? He’ll have prepared; he’ll be using it to win … he always wins…”
The Canticle of Whispers Page 24