by Jeff Wheeler
She collapsed, suddenly overcome with weakness. The noises from the woods returned as she lay panting, breathless. To move a muscle would have required more energy than she possessed.
There were crackling noises. The sound of shoes.
Still, she couldn’t move. She was falling asleep, exhausted beyond her mortal strength.
Someone knelt and crouched by her from behind, causing the dry oak leaves to crackle. She could smell onions. A heavy hand grazed her head. As she sank into a hole, the sounds around her growing fainter and fainter, she just barely heard a throaty, thickly accented voice say, “I bestow on you the Gift of . . .”
SERA
For most, the Test marks a change in them forever. But that change can be for good or ill. It promises protection from the unseen evils of this land. But it also brings to sharper focus our differences with the rest of the fallen world. It invites persecution and mockery from other worlds that rival ours. Those who cannot endure the light of reason and knowledge are more comfortable living in the darkness of superstition. Light reveals. Darkness conceals. How quick we are to disbelieve what will hurt our view of ourselves. People, whatever their circumstances, struggle with being petty and jealous by nature. We are all, to some extent, selfish and self-absorbed. The Test tries to lift us above it. For some, it only makes it worse. Hence the ancient wisdom of days long past: “For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increases knowledge increases sorrow.”
—Thomas Abraham, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
CHAPTER THIRTY−ONE
THE BELOW
Sera kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see Will pursuing her down the dark street. She had stopped running only because she was so winded, and each gasp felt like it wouldn’t be enough to sate her hunger for air. Where was he? Her ankles and heels throbbed painfully because her shoes were not designed for such hard walking or running. Passing under the glare of a Light Leering, she quickly altered course to plunge back into shadows.
“Sera!”
It was him. Her heart trembled in panic. Would he wrestle her back to the house? He was stronger than her. She hated the situation she was trapped in. Hated that she’d trusted the wrong people. The night air was cold, and mist wreathed the rooftops. Walking in the shadows, she felt frightened and determined and sick to her stomach. Shelter—she needed shelter soon. But where?
Turning another corner, which opened to a wider street, she saw carriages pulled by horses. It amazed her to see them, a sight she’d only seen depicted in gazettes, but the amazement withered when she saw there were steaming piles of manure in the road as well. More lights lit the way, and the street opened to shop fronts with soot-smudged windows revealing an assortment of bakeries, milliner shops, and confectionaries—each already closed, the insides darkened. Lights came from the windows above the shops where the owners had retired.
There were others walking around, so at least she wasn’t alone.
“Sera!”
The sound was getting closer. Her sense of vulnerability was growing by the moment. She didn’t know where she was in the City. Were there street gangs here like the ones Cettie had told her about in the Fells? Would some youth try to rob her, even though she had no money?
Mr. Durrant. He lived in the City. If she could find out where, she could perhaps get a message to him or have someone take her to him.
“Are you lost, miss?” said a man, deliberately blocking her way. He smiled at her, but there was something in his grinning expression that troubled her. He held a hand up in a friendly way, but she stopped and retreated.
“No, thank you,” she said, moving around him.
“I can help, miss. Let me help you find your way.”
His excessive zeal made her even more distrusting. Suddenly light from a zephyr streaked overhead, catching their attention. It was a military craft, and it was heading the way she had come. This was the evidence, had she needed it, that Lord Welles had played her for a fool. He’d brought Commander Falking and his letter straight to her in Muirwood. Perhaps he’d even played a role in the unfolding conflict with Kingfountain. He’d certainly seemed less than diplomatic in his dealings with the foreign prince the day of the privy council meeting. What better way to ensure his own power than to pursue a war that would elevate him to his former position . . . and who better to arrange for one than her own father? The gears in the machine were turning even now, and perhaps she had caught on too late to stop them.
Well, if Welles was involved, she wouldn’t make it easy on him. Taking advantage of the distraction the zephyr brought, Sera slipped around the man and hurried down the street, ignoring the throbbing in her legs. Where could she go? How could she hope to find Mr. Durrant in this foreign place?
The noise of hooves coming fast behind her frightened her, and she lunged out of the way as another carriage roared past. The driver shouted a reprimand at her, and as she reeled with the reprieve from danger, she stepped into one of the piles of filth. It was disgusting, and she stamped her foot to dislodge the mushy, odorous cakes. Looking back, she saw Will coming down the street, looking from side to side. He was still searching for her, and if he caught up with her, all would be lost. All might already be lost. She had to get off the street quickly.
Ahead, she saw a row of houses with steep steps leading up to the doors. They were tall and thin, like the one she had just left, and there were lights shining within. She hurried to the first one and mounted the steps. The hair on the back of her neck was standing up, and a shiver went through her. She ignored the sensation—there was no time to seek out another doorway—and knocked several times.
There was the turning of several locks, and then the door opened, and a butler stood in the crack, eyeing her suspiciously.
“What do you want?” he asked sternly.
“Please help me,” she said, glancing back down the street. Will was getting closer. “Can I speak to the master of the—”
The butler shut the door with a resounding thud, and he locked it up again. Angry, she fled down the steps and didn’t bother with the other houses. There was darkness ahead, and she hoped to slip into an alley and wait for him to pass by before she went the other way. How could she have gotten herself into such a predicament?
When she reached the darkness, where there weren’t any streetlamps, the houses were shabbier. This was a seedier neighborhood. But if she attempted to turn around, there would be no avoiding Will. Then she saw the kirkyard just ahead. The gate was shut, but the bars were quite wide. Could she squeeze through them? She increased her pace, intent on trying.
Weeds grew in the seams of the cobblestones. There was a small church beyond the kirkyard, and it was also darkened. Sera stepped through the bars and struggled through the opening because it was too narrow. She clenched her jaw and wriggled, trying to get through the cold, wet bars that were making a mess of her gown. The sound of Will’s boots echoed on the street, closer, closer. Still, she wasn’t fitting. Screwing up her determination, she twisted and squirmed, crushing her breasts in the process, but she made it through with relief, grateful that her small stature had finally proven useful. There wasn’t a moment to spare. Stealthily, she crept to a larger headstone and then crouched behind it and held her breath, afraid Will might have heard or seen her.
A few moments later, she saw him walk by the gate. He stopped at it, gazing into the kirkyard. She ducked but couldn’t see his face through the shadows. She heard him shake the bars, saw his face twisted with anger, but then he proceeded down the street, muttering under his breath.
Sera rested her forehead on the stone and trembled with cold. Then she turned and sat down, leaning her back against it, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her mother was probably frantic. Her father was undoubtedly gleeful at her mistake. There was a good chance he had helped orchestrate it.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she brushed them away angrily. Now was not the time to cry about her misfortune. Now was the time for actio
n.
The air felt so much colder than before. Her legs were aching. How had she bungled things so badly? All her feelings of self-doubt came bubbling like water in a kettle. Who was she to think she could save the people of this world from their misery? Why should she even try?
She bit her lip, feeling so sorry for herself. Her reputation would be ruined forever over this one mistake. The people would be horribly disappointed in her. She was disappointed in herself. Why go back to Lockhaven at all? Why face the shame? No matter how she tried to defend herself, people would only believe the worst. People would want to believe the worst. It would give them something to titter about over their afternoon tea.
Those same young ladies from the gathering at Pavenham Sky would cluck their tongues and comment on her lack of character. Of course a young woman so sympathetic to the plight of the poor would make such an error of judgment.
Sera’s anguish grew deeper and deeper. When had she ever felt so miserable? Why did she keep making mistakes?
It would have been better if she’d never been born.
The thought struck a chill in her heart. Coldness seeped inside her. There was a strange, twisted logic to her thought. What if she never returned? She could go back to the street, and when a carriage roared past, she could step in front of it. What a tragic end to the tale. Something sweet and delicious came with the image of her parents finding her crushed body. Then Will would mourn what he had done to her. He’d grieve the rest of his life. A hint of satisfaction bloomed. Yes, wouldn’t that be a way to get—
It terrified her when she realized what she had been contemplating. She shook her head and blinked quickly. Her thoughts had completely run away from her. Why couldn’t she ever rein them in? A queer feeling had come over her. It confused and sickened her.
Looking around, back pressed against the stone, she saw a small candle glowing from the window of the church. She hadn’t noticed any light before. From the way it wavered and flickered, she knew it couldn’t be a Leering. Slowly, Sera rose from her hiding spot. A carriage rattled in the distance, and the yearning to seek it out became overwhelming, but so did her curiosity about the candle. It seemed to be moving toward her.
She took a few hesitant steps closer, and then she heard footsteps from the church. The door opened, and a man stood beneath the awning, holding a candle. He was not an aged old thing, probably a man in his thirties. The vicar?
“Is someone there?” he asked in a wary voice, raising the candle higher.
Sera stepped into its circle of light. His eyes widened with surprise and a little fear.
“Can you help me, Vicar?” she asked.
“The vicar went home,” he said hesitantly. “I’m . . . I’m the groundskeeper. What do you want? I don’t have any money to give you. I locked the gate earlier. How did you get in?”
“I squeezed through the bars,” she answered, wringing her hands. “I was attacked by a man. A soldier. He’s looking for me right now. I need to hide.”
“Are you alone?” he asked, raising the candle higher and gazing around her. He looked doubtful of what he should do.
“Yes,” she answered. “Please, sir. Can you help me?”
He sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. A scowl showed he was not thrilled with the idea. “You really shouldn’t stay here, lass. It’s a kirkyard.”
“Yes, I know, but I need help. If you would—”
“No, lass. You don’t understand. I just buried ten folk today. Two families. All of ’em died of the cholera morbus. You . . . you really shouldn’t come near me. Don’t know if I caught it too.” He sniffed again, looking weary and fearful.
And she had been nestled in the ground behind a grave marker. Her insides twisted at the dilemma she was in. Now it was even worse.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said miserably. She turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called after. She hesitated. “I’ll . . . let me unlock it for you.”
She nodded, and he shuffled down the steps of the church, candle in hand. He sniffed and wiped his nose again on his arm. When he reached the gate, he withdrew a key from his pocket and fit it into the lock.
“There’s lots who’s died this time,” he said in a melancholy way. “But I hear it’s fewer and fewer cases these days. Many on this street fled to the north when it struck. Haven’t been here in weeks. Folks die,” he said, grunting as he jiggled the key in the lock, “are buried, then more die. Then, like a fever breaking, it’s over for a time. No one knows how it starts or when it’ll end.” He pulled on the gate, and it squeaked as it opened. “My job is digging graves.” He sniffed. “It’s work. I’m luckier than many.”
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a nod.
“Do you have any parents, lass? Anyone you want me to send for?” he asked, hand resting on the bar. “You look awful young to be walking the streets. Awful young.”
Then she realized that her appearance and story had given him the wrong impression.
“I have an uncle,” she said. “He’s an advocate. He would come get me.”
“What’s his name? Where does he live? The City is an awful big place.”
“I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even know where I am. But his name is Mr. Durrant.”
“Durrant?” said the groundskeeper with a whistle. “The famous one? The one who helps the prince regent’s daughter? He’s your uncle?”
“You know him?” Sera asked, hope beginning to stir.
“Everyone down here knows him.” His countenance changed dramatically, turning much more cheerful. “Here, why don’t you come with me to Billowby’s pub? It’s warmer there, and it’s a friendly crowd. I know old Billowby. He’ll send for your uncle. How’s that?”
Sera smiled at him broadly. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”
It was nearly midnight when Mr. Durrant arrived at the public house. Some of the patrons were still sipping the dregs of their drinks, and there was a strong yeasty smell in the air. But a fire crackled in the hearth—a real one, fed by wood, not by a Leering. The men in the tavern were a rough crowd, and more kept coming in by the hour to spend the humid night. The owner of the pub, Mr. Billowby, greeted each by name and offered them mead or beer or wine depending on their preference.
Sera sat at a table, and her new friend, Mr. Krant, sat across from her with a mug of his own. No one else had sat near them. Apparently being a gravedigger wasn’t exactly a noble profession. But Billowby took his coins anyway.
Mr. Durrant arrived in a black cloak and hat, and when he saw Sera sitting at the table, he nearly lost all his composure. He tucked his hat in the crook of his arm and then hurried toward the table.
“Mr. Krant,” he said to the gravedigger, reaching out and gripping the man’s bare hand with his own gloved one. He pumped it vigorously. “Thank you for summoning me to find my niece.” He gave Sera a scolding frown. “We will talk later, young lady. I brought a carriage. Thank you, sir. If you are ever in need of services from the Law, you know how to find me. Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble, Mr. Durrant. Your niece Sera is a nice lass. Probably fell in with the wrong crowd. It happens more often than it should, unfortunately.”
“The wrong crowd indeed,” replied the advocate with a hint of irony. “Well, your efforts tonight are appreciated. Come, niece.” He bowed his head to the gravedigger, and Sera rose from the table.
“Thank you for helping me, Mr. Krant. I won’t forget it.” She gave him a kindly smile, knowing that she would see to it that he never had to dig graves again . . . if he’d manage to avoid the outbreak.
“G’night, miss. Best to you both.”
Sera followed Durrant out of the pub to the carriage stationed in front of it. A pair of sturdy horses stamped and nickered, and the driver held his whip, ready to go.
Durrant opened the carriage door, and Sera climbed the small steps to the sheltered cab. A zephyr flew overhead, shining its light down on the street, an
d she stared up at it for a long moment. Was it another ship from the Ministry of War, looking for her?
“Quickly,” Durrant urged, and she hurriedly entered.
Taking a seat on the cushion, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Durrant closed the door, seated himself, and then tapped the roof with his cane. He leaned back in the seat, his features haggard and defeated. The look he gave her was full of disappointment. Sera’s relief wilted.
“How bad is it?” Sera asked him, bracing herself to hear his words.
“Tell me that you gave the letters from Lady Corinne to somebody. Anybody. Who has them?”
Sera’s stomach dropped. “They’re still in my room. I was going to show them to Fitzroy, but I never had the chance.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The carriage jumbled and rattled down the street. He looked as if he were suffering from an intense internal pain.
“Never had the chance,” he sighed. Then he shook his head, gazing out the window, looking anywhere but at her eyes. Disappointment was etched into the lines of his face. She could feel it coming off him in waves.
“Tell me,” she asked meekly.
He was silent, composing himself, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. But he finally did, and his words tortured her.
“You went out tonight with your governess, a woman who has likely betrayed you, to visit a young man who, I’ve come to find out, has a reputation for seducing the fairer sex. Lord Welles was very concerned to learn from his commander that you’d left your mother’s house to meet one of his soldiers. I learned several hours ago that you had disappeared, that you were probably having a little chat with your old flame in an abandoned house. I was notified by your mother. She thought you’d been kidnapped. The search going on right now . . . I’ve never seen the likes of it. Other than those who arranged it, everyone is afraid you’ve been abducted. But the truth, when it comes out—and it will—will bring you down. Will bring us both down. No doubt they searched your room first. And found the letters.