40
Harris didn't lift his head when he heard someone approach, nor when the pew creaked as they sat down. He already knew who it was.
“Are you going to speak to me today?” asked Brother Grant.
Harris didn't reply.
“Come on, you've barely moved for days now. What are you praying about?”
Harris slowly lifted his head and unclasped his aching hands. “I'm praying for a sign that there is anyone there to pray to.”
“And how's that going?”
“So far, I've been met with silence.”
“Now you know how I feel.” Grant smiled weakly.
Harris bent his head and closed his eyes again. He felt Grant's hand rest on his shoulder.
“I'm worried about you.”
“Because I'm losing my faith?” Harris mumbled into his chest.
“I don't care about your relationship with God. I care about your relationship with the people around you. Because that's what you're best at, Harris, engaging people on their own level. That may be God working through you, or it may simply be the way you are, either way, the world needs you.”
Harris lifted his head again. “Does it shit. I couldn't save one of the desperate women out there, not even one. I abandoned my own daughter to the care of a violent, heartless man, and sent her mother to, most likely, her death at the hands of the administration. The world doesn't need that kind of help.”
“But that's all things you can set right and make up for.”
“Really? Maeve doesn't want to know me, and Lacey is dead. How do I fix any of that? I should have just stayed out of both their lives.”
Grant stood. “At least come and have something to eat. It'll make you feel better.”
Harris shook his head. “I don't deserve to.”
“Don't say that. You're far more use to us alive. Think of the reading programme.” Grant smirked, before breaking into a giggle.
Harris couldn't help but smile.
“There you go,” Grant said. “Things don't have to be all that bleak.”
Harris allowed Grant to pull him to his feet. “What would you do?”
Grant patted him on the shoulder. “I wouldn't give up on any of them.”
41
Kerise dropped from the flat roof, and stepped in behind some bins. She ducked down as the front door of the house opened. A woman stepped out, and tossed potato peelings onto the garden. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked up at the emerging stars. She sighed deeply.
Keeping low, Kerise moved out from behind the bins.
“Ina Dudley?” she whispered.
The woman spun around, and Kerise raised her hands.
“Who are you?”
“I'm from Asteria. I came to talk to you about a letter you sent in.”
The woman glanced back at the house. “That was years ago,” she hissed. “Before I was married. Please leave.”
“I need to speak to you about Selene Richards.”
Ina stepped backwards and pulled the front door closed, throwing both of them into darkness. “Come,” she whispered, and Kerise followed her around the side of the house.
Ina stopped where a small extension joined the main house, and crushed herself into the corner. She crouched, lifted a flower pot, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She slipped a lighter from the packet and lit one, the momentary flare of the flame illuminating her taut face. The glow of the cigarette bobbed up and down as she spoke.
“I was married shortly after sending the letter, so I never even saw if it was published. Or if Asteria replied. I think Selene's been sending out messages, randomly, hoping someone will pick them up. Like radio broadcasts. I suspect there are other women who could hear them too.”
“What did she say?”
“It's patchy. Disjointed words and images. Like interference. She sent names, but they meant nothing to me. Lots of words I didn't even recognise. I kept a diary of them. I thought they might be important one day.”
“When was the last one?”
The cigarette's glow blazed as Ina inhaled. “They became far less frequent over the years, and weaker. I haven't heard from her in about eighteen months.”
“Do you think she's still alive?”
There was a moment of silence. “Yes I do. But I don't know for how much longer.”
“Did you send any messages back?”
“At first, but I don't know if she got them. If she did, she never showed any sign of having done so. She might be up there thinking no one's listening to her at all.”
“Up there?”
“In The Eye.”
“She's definitely there?”
“Yes. She sent me a vision of the staircase, and the stone lions perched at the top of it.”
“Can I have your diary?”
“Yes, of course. But it's hidden in the house. I'll meet you tomorrow, when my husband's at work. I'll meet you on The Hope. Do you know the Dandelion Tap on Navel Street?”
“The little tea shop, yes, I know it.”
“I'll meet you there at eleven.”
Kerise ordered another tea and glanced up at the clock behind the counter. Numbers one to eleven were represented by cups and saucers, and the twelve was a slice of cake topped with cream and a strawberry. The hour hand was a teaspoon, the minute hand a cake fork. Kerise winced.
She folded her soft pink paper napkin as many times as she could, making the square of it smaller and thicker. She tried to fold it an eighth time, but the paper refused. She knew it was impossible, but she kept trying, just in case she found a way to beat the odds. After all, beating the odds was what she did. The woman with more lives than a cat.
She couldn't count the number of times she'd dodged a bullet, or had a knife at her throat. She should be long dead. But it never slowed her down, it simply spurred her on with more proof that she was invincible.
Her tea came, and she idly stirred it. Ina was almost an hour late, and if Kerise kept handing over drinks credits, they would start to get suspicious.
She sat and watched women come and go, women banned from working, barred from having any purpose in life until the day of their marriage. Kerise was lucky to have found her own purpose.
She pushed back her chair and walked out, leaving her tea untouched.
Kerise hovered outside the tea shop, considering whether to go to Ina's house. Deciding against it, she turned towards Eye Street and The Paper Duchess.
42
“There was nothing wrong with her,” Jonas York told the group of men. “It was all in her head. It was the medicine that killed her, the very thing she thought would make her better. But it was poison.”
One man lifted his arm and shooed him away.
“Look,” another said, “I'm sorry you lost your wife, but we're just trying to have a quiet lunch before the afternoon shift. Go tell your sad story to someone else.”
“But we need to be doing something about this. Please.” Jonas reached out and touched the first man's arm.
He pulled away and jumped to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. “Just back off!” He pushed Jonas, and laughed as Jonas stumbled into the table behind him.
Reva swept over, and talked the man back into his seat with gentle coos and apologies. She gathered Jonas up, and led him back to the bar. She poured him another drink. On the house.
“No one's listening to me,” Jonas said. “They don't care.”
“They didn't know Fay, this isn't their story. You can't interrupt people's meals and expect them to join your cause.”
“But this is everyone's cause. That man's selling poison to the population of Falside. How many people might have died already?”
Reva nodded. “I know. But we need to go about this another way. Cora confirmed that she found hemlock in the bottle, and that Fay's death matched hemlock poisoning. She's a respected herbologist on The Floor, people will listen to her. She's spreading the word among her customers—”
&n
bsp; “But they already get their medicines from her, they're not the ones buying from the apothecary.”
“I know, but her customers are women, and if you want to spread information, it's the female grapevine that moves it fastest. Women will tell their friends, who will tell their friends. They'll tell their husbands, and those that listen will go to work and tell their workmates. This will spread, Jonas, but harassing people isn't the way to do things.”
“So we just sit back and wait for more people to die? More families to be torn apart?”
Reva placed her hand over Jonas'. “Justice will be done.”
“I just...” Jonas shook his head. “I can't just sit back and do nothing. Maybe the grapevine will do its thing, but I can't rely on it.”
He finished his drink in a couple of gulps and skulked out of The Burnt Scroll. Stumbling down the road, he slipped into the next public house. He ordered a drink for more courage, and started moving from table to table.
“You have to listen to me, more people are going to die.”
“Just leave us alone.”
“You're drunk. Or crazy. Get out of here.”
“It could be your wife next,” Jonas called out to the whole room. “Or your parents, or your children. By doing nothing, you're as guilty as the apothecary.”
Jonas felt two strong hands clasp around his arms. He was lifted off his feet and carried outside, where he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground.
“Don't you come back,” the landlord said. He spat a globule of spittle onto Jonas' leg. “Bloody drunkard.”
He received the same reception everywhere. Indifference from the patrons, and expulsion from the owners.
Until he found himself stood outside the apothecary. He stared up at it, swaying from side to side, blinking to focus his vision.
“He's selling poison,” he told the people passing by. Barely anyone even glanced at him. “He's poisoning people. With hemlock.”
He stumbled, reaching out, and bracing himself against a man's shoulder. The man took hold of him, and gently eased him to the ground.
“You should go home. Sleep it off,” he said.
Jonas shook his head madly. “I have to warn people.”
“Warn people of what?”
Jonas gestured at the apothecary shop. “He's selling poison.”
“It's medicine. Sure it tastes awful, but it's medicine.”
Jonas shook his head again, the world wheeling around him. “There's hemlock in it. It's poisonous. Kills people within hours.” He touched his chest. “They can't breathe. They die. They just die.”
“Let's get you home,” the man said, helping Jonas to his feet.
“Why won't anyone listen?”
“Sober up, come back tomorrow. I'm sure you'll be seeing things more clearly then.”
“Why won't they listen?”
“You're drunk, people will think you're just rambling. Come back sober. You'll see things for what they really are.”
Jonas waggled his finger at the man. “You're right. People will believe me when I'm sober. You're right.”
“Do you know your way home?”
Jonas nodded. “I just follow my broken heart.”
43
Harris watched the man stumble away down the street. He probably should have seen him home, but he had more important things on his mind than the ravings of a drunk.
He climbed the steps to the apothecary and pushed the door open.
Lou looked up from his newspaper.
“My God, what happened to you?” Harris asked.
“Your bloody daughter,” Lou said. “It's not good for business, me looking like this.”
“Maeve did that to you? A small, slight seventeen year old girl?”
“She'll be punished when it all stops hurting.”
Harris crossed to the counter. “Leave her alone, Lou. She stood up to you for once, and it's no more than you deserve. It's no more than you've ever deserved. You've hit women around your entire life, it's about time one of them fought back.”
“You think you're so righteous.”
Harris drew himself up straight. “Where's my daughter, Lou?”
“God only knows. We keep out of each other's way these days.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” Harris tapped the desk, turned, and walked through the door to the hall. The kitchen was empty, so he trundled upstairs and gently tapped on Maeve's door.
“Go away,” came her voice from inside.
“It's Father Harris.” He cleared his throat. “It's your dad.”
Harris listened as something big and heavy was pulled away from the door. The handle turned, and Maeve's face appeared.
“What do you want?”
“You're barricading yourself in?”
“Do I have a choice?” She smiled slightly. “Did you see Uncle Lou?”
Harris nodded.
“Are you angry?”
Harris reached out and ruffled Maeve's hair. “I'm proud of you, sweetheart.” The unfamiliar word sounded awkward in his mouth, but she smiled back at him, and opened the door further.
Harris pushed past the bed and into the room. He looked at the door. “Do you want me to put a bolt on this for you?”
“Would you?”
“Sure.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I know I've totally screwed things up right now, but I want to be someone you can come to, even grow to trust and rely on. I'm ready to do this.”
“I'm almost eighteen.”
“And you've proven yourself to be very capable. Wow, you must've really laid into your uncle.” He laughed. “He'll think twice before laying a hand on you again.”
“It won't last long. The bruises will fade, and he'll be back to his old self.”
Harris looked at his hands in his lap. He clenched and flexed them. “I thought I'd found a way to get you out of the city, but it was too dangerous. I want to make things better for you, Maeve, I really do. You shouldn't have to be barricading yourself into your bedroom. I'm going to find somewhere for you to go.”
“Do you really mean that? Or are you just going to abandon me again?”
“I really mean it. I've got a lot to set right, and I'm starting with you.” He stood up. “Let me buy you lunch. When was the last time you had a proper meal?”
Maeve hesitated.
“Come on. One meal.”
She nodded and followed him out of the room. They trailed down the stairs and into the shop.
“I am taking my daughter out to lunch,” Harris announced.
Lou watched them leave, his face set in a scowl.
“He hates to see anything good happening for me,” Maeve whispered as they descended the steps to the street.
“Is that what I am? Something good?”
“You better be. You saw what I did to Uncle Lou.”
They laughed.
As they wandered down The Wall, Harris began to relax. Maeve seemed content to be with him; something he couldn't have imagined after their first meeting.
They reached the steps up to The Hope, and Maeve slowed, veering towards them. Harris caught her hand.
“I found a nice café further along The Wall I thought we'd go to.”
Maeve frowned. “The slums? You're not taking me up to The Hope?”
Harris shifted his weight. “No.”
“Our first time out together, and you're taking me to a slum café?”
Harris looked up the street, and chewed on his lip. He looked back at Maeve.
“Look, I'm a monk, and there are certain expectations. A big one of them being celibacy. I can't really parade you around up there announcing that you're my daughter. I was already a novice when you were born. You understand, right?”
Maeve backed away. “Sure I understand. You're ashamed of me. You're ashamed of your illegitimate slum-girl of a daughter.” Maeve raised her voice and people began to stare. “Down here I can be your daughter, but up there?” She gestured at the steps. “Up there
I'm just a sordid little secret. Yes, I understand perfectly well.”
She turned, and marched away.
For a moment, Harris considered going after her, but there was really only one way he was going to fix this. Hitching up his habit, Harris set off up the steps, fully aware of the eyes on him.
44
Tale stared harder at the screen in front of her. Denver had been whistling his way around his mountainous landscape of books for almost forty minutes, and it was driving her nuts. She didn't even know what he did in there all day. He seemed to just shift books around; from one pile to another, then back again. He claimed to have a system, but no one else could see it.
Besides, it wasn't as if he ever had customers. Maybe once a week someone would wander in, often by accident, usually buying a book out of sheer embarrassment. It was a horrible feeling to be the only customer in any shop. That feeling of enormous duty.
The shop was just a front, a façade. It was a convenient mask for what really went on at The Paper Duchess. After all, who would want to come poking around in the back rooms if they first had to navigate the narrow gulleys and ravines of the book shop. It was a daunting enough task for Tale, and one that Kerise chose to avoid altogether.
Tale shook her head and attempted to bring the words in front of her back into focus. She'd had a letter from yet another conspiracy theorist, but the Asteria was committed to giving everyone's ideas a fair shot, however crazy.
She'd lost count of the number of letters that claimed the reason so few girls were being born was because of aliens. That was a pretty common theory. Then there was poisonous air, poisonous food, poisonous water. One person had even claimed that, because life for women was so restrictive and depressing, they had found a way to will themselves to only have boys, who were destined for a far better existence. Actually, Tale liked to think that one was true; women retaliating against their oppression in the only way they knew how.
Tale winced as the whistling grew louder. She hadn't had nearly enough coffee yet to cope with Denver's infuriatingly constant good moods.
“Post,” he chirruped as he entered the room. He dumped a few letters and a slim parcel onto Tale's desk. “What you working on?”
The Bottle Stopper Page 11