Insidious

by Dawn Metcalf

  Joy edged closer, calm trembling in the air.

  “That’s not why you’re angry,” she said.

  “No,” he said, watching the wounds in the world slowly zip themselves closed. “That is not why I am angry,” he agreed. His eyes squeezed shut, curtained by the tips of his hair. “I am angry because Inq never told me about her, about where we came from—who we came from—and I never knew.” His breathing was deep and lionlike. It rattled something primal and pained in her veins. “I am angry because my mother, my creator, never revealed herself to me, that I was not worth the risk. I was not given the honor—the courtesy—of the truth.” Ink’s handsome face slid into a petulant sneer. “And I am angry because you, whom I have known for a heartbeat, got to know her before me.”

  He swung a hand dismissively, shining and bright. “I feel now. To be more human, to love such as you, I learned to feel.” His eyes narrowed, his tone bitter. Two fingers rubbed the spot over his heart. “This is jealousy, I think, and I know it now because of you. This is why you asked about Raina.” He almost smiled, one dimple. Almost. But it looked like a cruel slash, like a scar. “How did that feel?”

  Joy swallowed. She’d thought he’d be happy—happy with her; she hadn’t considered how this might make him feel like he was the last to know. That was something Joy understood all too well and had never meant to share with him. Doubt. Jealousy. Pain. Betrayal.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It hurts to be the last one in on the secret. It feels like everyone in the world knew the truth but you, and no one cared enough to tell you.”

  “It is worse than that, Joy,” Ink said. He spun the blade in an idle gesture. “I was the last to know of those who can know. And no one else can possibly know of her while the door remains closed.” He gripped the sharp instrument as if it underlined his words. “And I mean to change that. By any means.”

  Joy shook her head. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Ink said. “I remember this feeling.” His voice grew softer, salted with loathing but with less regret. He was a hand’s breadth from her, and energy poured off him, malevolent and reckoning. “I have been patient—patiently waiting even before I knew that this was what I was waiting for.” He seemed to tower over her, his righteous rage making him seem larger. “It was for this. For her. For the truth. This. After hundreds of years, I have found my place, my impossible answer, and it is trapped, hidden and cannot be forgotten—at least not by me. Because now I know.” He punched his own chest with the meat of his fist. Joy jumped back. “I feel now. You gave me this—this heart, this need, this love—and now it is mine! And I will destroy anything and everything that threatens those I love.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “What I would do for you, I would do a thousand times over for her.” His voice simmered to something curious and cruel. “Does that bother you?”

  Joy faltered. He sounded like a monster, inhuman.

  He sounded Other Than.

  “Yes!” Joy said hotly. “I mean, no—not like that. I’m not jealous that you love your mother or that you would do anything to save her.” She tried to soften her voice with real effort. Ink was frightening her, and she felt they were walking on a very thin line with a very long way to fall. “I know what it means to have a mother who isn’t there. I know what it means to you to protect the people you love, and I also know how important it is for you to protect the Folk from harm.”

  “I do not love them,” he said dismissively. “They have used me and Inq, as if we are tools to be made or unmade at a whim. They threaten us with nonexistence when all the while our lives were never theirs to take—they were not the ones who created us, and we have the right to our own lives.” He swept his hand angrily. “All this while the Bailiwick had me believe that the Council had commissioned us, drawn us from the Twixt itself—but now I wonder if that was their forgetting or if it was a merely another ruse that they had intended all along.” He looked disgusted. “The phrasing is not wholly a lie, but it is far-flung from the truth.” Ink raised his straight razor. “However, I can show everyone the truth.”

  “So can I,” Joy said and took out the dowsing rod. She held it up in both hands so that Ink could see it. “We can use this to track the spell back to the one who cast it.” She saw her words momentarily pierce through his anger; the shocked look in his eyes made her bold. “We can find whoever did this and sever the spell at its source. We’ll make them confess to the Council. Let them exact justice. Then they can find the door and open it, and this will all be over.” She shook the rod for emphasis. “All you have to do is don’t do this.”

  Joy’s voice broke. She was having trouble breathing, he was so close. She licked her lips and fought the urge to run away or hug him. She still remembered the sting of alchemical fire on her skin—it felt like this, like she was losing him, watching him get hurt, watching him fall, collapsing on the warehouse floor.

  “Ink, I love you,” she said quietly. “Don’t let me lose you.”

  He paused. His wild eyes looked afraid.

  “We can do this,” she pleaded. “We can save everyone.”

  His gaze flicked from her to the doorway and back to her. Seconds ticked by like the pulse in his throat.

  “If we do things...your way,” he said, the words grinding against stone. “If we follow the rules. The Council’s rules.”

  “Yes,” Joy said. “For now.”

  She dared to reach out and touch him, a soft hand over his heart. It startled her to feel it beating, a caged bird fighting flight, like a real living thing thrashing under his chest. Thump-thump-Thump-thump-Thump-thump! Her eyes lifted to his.

  Ink sighed as if all the breath were leaving him at once. His arms slackened. His face softened. He leaned forward into her palm. She bent a little at the elbow, bringing him closer. They slid together like puzzle pieces, familiar and worn and tired and glad. They held one another and said nothing for a while.

  “I love you, Joy,” he said, sounding serious, resigned and resolute. “Only you could ask me to do this. And I will do this.” He pulled back gently and spoke in his crisp, clear whisper. “For now.”

  Joy felt the door swing open behind her. A cool breeze slapped her back.

  “Well,” a voice said. “After such a pretty speech, ye migh’ as well come in.”

  TEN

  JOY AND INK walked through the golden threshold into a wide room with a bowl-shaped ceiling and mossy, comfortable-looking chairs. Joy wasn’t certain how much their hostess had overheard, but Ink had tucked his blade into his wallet, and so the threat of impending assassination had been delayed for a while at least.

  The room was spacious and circular with pendulum lights and squashy cushions. Everything was rounded and hand-carved; every edge of a shelf, every table surface, every stick of furniture was patterned and whorled with designs. Joy felt as if she’d walked into a Hobbit hole in New Zealand.

  “I’ve been wonderin’ when I might be seeing you,” the squat woman said as she waddled across the floor. Her soft, doughy face crinkled in a grandmotherly grin, and her long, dark hair trailed behind her like a cape. “And with yer handsome escort? Wise beyond your years, child—ye’ll live longer that way.” She gave a wink and patted the arm of one of the low, scooped chairs with elaborate claw feet. “I’m called Maia. ’Ave a seat.”

  Joy did and found herself smiling. The room had many modern-looking shapes scooped out of natural materials, low tables and high shelves full of statues, beautiful lockboxes and vases of fluted flowers. The esteemed Council member had a string of bright purple blooms tucked into her hair that made her look like an island native who had rarely seen the sun. She wore a simple brown dress trimmed in colorful beads. Her pudgy feet were bare, her hands chubby as a baby’s.

  “Tea?” she offered. “Or somethin’ stronger?” She chortled as she waddled close
r to one wall. “If’n ye came straight from the Bailiwick, ye may be wantin’ something to wash it all down.”

  “How did you know...?” Joy began, but stopped; first, because it might be considered rude, and second, because the squat woman had reached up for a bellpull that was at least two feet above her head and had smoothly morphed like taffy into a taller, stretched-up version of herself, given the rope a quick tug and then puddled down into her normal, squat bubble-shape. Her dark eyes twinkled in mischievous glee.

  “Ye smell of water weeds an’ shoe polish and somethin’ I can’t quite remember,” she said with a shrug. “Who else?”

  Smiling, Joy settled into one of the chair cushions, soft and squishy and cool.

  “We have been to the Bailiwick,” Ink said from behind Joy’s chair, evidently taking the role as her formal escort seriously. “He was assessing Joy’s wardrobe for the gala and reviewing their lessons.” Joy nodded. All of it was accurate, if not wholly the truth.

  “Pssht,” Maia muttered. “Stolen civilities from an Imperialist era. I suspect the Water Folk of baiting the lure.” She tapped a row of orb-shaped planters on a high shelf; each emitted a different, mellow note up the scale. When she reached the end of the weird xylophone, her entire body flattened and oozed to the left, plinking the last, tiny bowl with her littlest finger. Ting! “Proper ceremony should echo earth, rock, rain an’ fire.” She nodded into her puffy double chin. “Even Inq’s lehman knew that—ashes strewn proper. Another ex-lehman as well, I s’ppose.” She nodded at Joy and cackled at her own wit. “We all escape our bonds eventually. Jus’ takes time.”

  A small trolley came in through a side door, pushed by a furry animal wearing a ruffled apron. Its eyes were bright as it nudged the wheeled tray forward and then dropped on all fours while Maia stroked its back. She plucked one of the flowers out of her hair and fed it to her pet. It munched happily, a soft purr burbling in its belly fuzz.

  “Off ye go now,” she said gently. Maia grinned at Joy. “Tea, then?”

  “Please,” Joy said, remembering her manners as the small mammal shuffled off behind the door.

  “A simple blend, then, but one o’ my favorites,” Maia said, sprinkling pinches of dried things into a clay bowl. “Hibiscus, chicory, rose hips, vanilla.” Maia proudly recited ingredients as she added them together, rapped a mortar to grind it and poured steaming water over the lot. “Let it steep,” she said as she offered the cup to Joy. “The bitterness will sweeten, given time.”

  Joy blew over the surface of the water, watching the flakes of flowers dance. She could feel Ink’s eyes behind her. If this was the mastermind behind her discredit at the gala, Joy was having trouble believing it, but respected Graus Claude enough to keep the possibility alive and wary.

  “Are we still talking about the tea?” Joy asked.

  Maia smiled while stirring. “As well as other things.”

  The mushroom woman mixed herself a cup and did not offer one to Ink. Joy wondered if she knew that Ink had no need to eat or drink or if there was some other casual bigotry. She didn’t ask; it felt rude. The smell of flowers and vanilla did little to soothe her suspicions.

  “Thank you for this, Councilex Maia,” Joy said and held up the cup.

  “Just Maia while at home,” she said. “It’s nice to feel welcome. And why not?” she said, taking the first sip. “Yer one o’ the Folk, there’s not a doubt—no matter what yap-waggling there might be—and yer mine, in a way, so I feel obliged to let ye be welcome here.”

  The cup stopped at the edge of Joy’s lips. “Yours?” she said.

  “Well, yea, certainly,” Maia said with a lick of surprise. “Yer Earth-born. Did no one tell you?”

  “No,” Joy said, sipping the tea. It was bitter on the surface, but also floral and earthy-sweet. She could taste how the flavor would ripen near the bottom of the cup. “No one came forward to claim me, but it’s been generations, so I figured they might have forgotten.”

  “Pah. No one forgets somethin’ like that,” Maia said from her little nest of pillows. Her body had pooled to fill the crevasses, and her mug sat on her belly, jiggling when she spoke. Joy might have imagined Ink twitching at the mention of things too important to forget. “Even under the stink o’ mortality I can scent the salt of the earth on you—fair taste it in the air you breathe. ’Course, it could be whatever thing’s stuck in yer ear.” She sniffed and nodded her flowered head over her tea. “Oh ho ho, yes. Earth Folk, not a doubt. I thought that’s why you came by.” Maia took another long sip, the heat raising color to her doughy cheeks and the tip of her nose. Or perhaps her drink was a bit stronger than Joy’s. Maia smacked her lips and set down her mug. “The role of Earth is that of life, which is a cycle of growth, persistence an’ rebirth. But there are lots of types of Earth Folk, so I can’t advise ye on ought else save to wait fer it, and the truth will win out ’fore long.”

  Joy thought back to Graus Claude’s comment about wing nubs and squashed her shoulders against the seat back, all too aware of Ink standing there. She felt obliged to keep talking to prevent him from doing anything else.

  “Well, I doubt I’ll learn anything more before the gala,” Joy said.

  “Huh. Well, certainly. Tha’s more like a comeuppance birthed long before your time,” Maia said darkly and drained her cup. “Between Water and Air, most like. Yer acceptin’ a signatura provided a most convenient excuse for a tug-o’-war.” She gave a little yawning stretch that lifted her head into a cone before it settled back down into her shoulders with a sigh. Maia scratched her belly button and wiggled her toes.

  “Really?” Joy said, taking another, sweeter sip. “I thought that it might be Sol Leander’s gripe with me. Or yours with Graus Claude.”

  Ink touched her shoulder with the barest tips of his fingers. Maia’s lined eyes opened a fraction before her face broke into a grin, which was toothless and gummy as an infant’s. She laughed, which jiggled her all over, pale and puddinglike.

  “Oh, I wouldn’a mind watching that Fat Frog fall flat on his watertight bum, I don’t mind tellin’ ya that! An’ ye be smart to keep a sharp eye on the Tide’s man as he’s got sharp eyes and sharp things pointed at you. Sol Leander’s got a sore spot when it comes t’ humans, and you in particular.” She nodded once, a jostle of jowls. “But I have less than nothing to do wi’ the likes of a gala an’ politics if it can be helped. I’d much prefer to stay in my little nook with a cuppa tea and a good fire, but I’ll be there in my resplendent best to honor yer welcome, as I should. I am the Earth Seat, after all.”

  Joy sat up. “Is there something I can do to honor the Earth Folk?” While Joy grasped that every subtlety would be closely monitored and analyzed like a red-carpet commentary, she wondered if Graus Claude would really tell her what she needed to do to show her loyalties beyond himself as her sponsor and comptroller of the Twixt. “The Bailiwick will present me,” Joy said. “And since the gala is so soon, he asked to be in charge of my appearance, as well.”

  “He never!” Maia said, aghast.

  “Idmona is his tailor,” Ink said.

  Maia’s ire ebbed a bit. “Well, small thanks fer that,” she said. “Ye won’t be dreary-dressed, at least. Who better to craft tailcoats for a four-armed frog, eh? Still—wait ’ere.”

  Maia hopped out of her seat and waddled across the room, bending herself in bubblegum directions as she peered into drawers and top shelves and counted out boxes, her chubby baby feet plodding against the floor as she twisted in elastic circles. Her hands stretched upward and grabbed a wooden chest the size of a small shoe box.

  “Here we are, then,” she said as she toddled back to Joy. There was a stylized design carved into the lid, a teardrop shape that swirled around itself. It reminded Joy of her own box etched with Ink’s ouroboros. Maia pressed a dimpled palm to it, and it shone briefly beneath her hand. There was
a deep hum, and all the latches popped open. “Let’s ’ave a look-see.”

  “Is that...?” Joy whispered and then shut her mouth. She noticed for the first time how often the swirling teardrop shape repeated itself throughout the room. Nearly everything had one: doorknobs and drawer pulls, wall panels and floor tiles. Two teardrops set together made a sort of yin-yang design. Maia tapped the top of the box knowingly as she continued to search its contents.

  “My signatura? Aye,” she said. “I like to lock things up good ’n’ proper. Using my True Name means it can’t be fiddled with by anyone ’cept me.”

  “You are not concerned that someone could learn it and make use of it?” Ink asked idly, but Joy could hear his suspicion in the question. There was a long history of the Folk keeping their True Names secret, commissioning their use only to Graus Claude for use by the Scribes. It was the reason for his and Inq’s existence. Aniseed’s recent betrayal underscored the importance of keeping signaturae safe, yet the Councilex seemed to have used it liberally throughout her decor.

  “Wi’out my willingness, it would do Folk little good,” she said, peeking over the chest lid. “Or for you, for that matter.” Their eyes met over the edge of wood, and Joy could see the Council member acknowledge Ink for what he was—not born of the Folk but made for grunt work—and Ink simultaneously acknowledge that he might have been prying. Joy tensed in her seat, suddenly feeling confined. However, both Ink and Maia seemed comfortable with their level playing field, the invisible politics of the Twixt balanced on a razor’s edge. Ink averted his eyes first. Maia nodded, satisfied.

  Joy let out a slow breath. If this was a sample of Twixt etiquette, the gala was going to eat her alive.

  “Besides,” the Councilex said, brushing off the momentary showdown. “What’s the worst tha’ could happen? I am not afraid of death. Quite the opposite, in fact—I am immortal an’ I’ve served on the Council since the beginning. I’ve seen an’ heard an’ smelled overmuch, which is why I prefer my humble hearth over grander thrones.” She stroked the edge of the wooden chest with her pudgy fingers. “We of Earth know death is part of life, resilient and impermanent.” Her smile was ancient and wise. “An’ when the cycle turns, we tend to grow back stronger!”