The Heartreader's Secret

by Kate McinTyre

  He wouldn’t come here without good reason.

  A receptionist directed him to the correct room. He wondered, idly, if Vanessa Caldwell still worked here. Had she ever made it as a poet? Or did she still stock shelves and court wealthy patrons with her heart-shaped face and sweet voice? It was a strange thought. The kind of thought that could transport a fellow through time.

  The door was closed. He knocked.

  “Hello?”

  He swallowed hard, but it was impossible to ignore the flutter of so many things in his heart. “It’s… it’s Chris.”

  “Oh.”

  The pause was too long. Chris’s heart pounded in his throat, and he became increasingly sure that nothing further would be said. What would he do, in that case? Throw the door open? Call again? Or just turn around and leave?

  But then, just as he was trying to make up his mind of which to do:

  “Come in, then.”

  He slipped inside.

  He didn’t let himself look at Will’s wound. It had been left to air, and the glimpse he was unable to avoid was ghastly, a nightmare of bubbled and melted flesh. He thought about Billy Jones. Severe burns could ruin a person’s life. Was it his fault that Will had been there? That Albany had shot him?

  He didn’t know.

  Everything felt like his fault.

  He looked at his face, instead. It was tight with pain, but compared to when Chris had last seen him, crying, bloody, filthy, and choking on a rag, he looked rather handsome. Chris was surprised when a sob tried to crawl its way out of his throat. Something about seeing Will, lying there… about meeting his eyes… about realizing, all at once, just how much this frustrating man meant to him….

  He swallowed hard.

  “Hell,” he said, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to make it to Will’s side. “Oh, hell, Will, hell, I’m an idiot. I’m—I’m the worst kind of fool, I’m a bastard, I’m a bloody buggering arsehole, and I’ve been so awful to you I–I…” He broke off because if he continued, he really would start crying.

  He grabbed Will’s closest hand, instead. He clutched it in both of his.

  Will looked up at him. Usually, Chris could read his moods so easily, but he couldn’t tell what Will was feeling. It made him wild with fear. He choked down yet another sob. “I ruined it all,” he breathed roughly.

  “Yes,” Will agreed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Will looked away.

  Chris looked down at the hand he’d taken. Will hadn’t made any effort to take his hand in return, just let it sit limply. Self-conscious, embarrassed, Chris released it and took a step back. He hoped for a reaction. For Will to turn his head and say something like no, I liked it.

  But there was nothing.

  Chris fumbled for words. “Your leg. Is—”

  “I won’t lose it.”

  “That’s good.”

  Will snorted. “Obviously.”

  Chris clenched his fists. “I—”

  “They doubt I’ll regain full use. There just weren’t any lifeknitters strong enough when I was first brought in. The damage is done. No one is sure how bad it will be, just yet, but I’ll have a limp for certain. Well. There are worse things. I can integrate canes into my wardrobe. I always did think they were rather dashing.” A small smile curled at his lips. “I never could resist a man with a cane.”

  He said nothing else. The silence stretched once again.

  Chris swallowed hard.

  “What about Missus Cartwright?”

  “Confused. Institutionalized, until I get out of here. I hate to think of what they might be doing to her. I need to get well. I–I need to take care of her. I can’t leave her there. No one understands her like I do.”

  It seemed as good an opening as he would get. “Will, I—”

  “What?” Will finally turned to look at him. His mossy green eyes were dark with hurt, with pain that wasn’t entirely physical. “What is it, Christopher? Are you sorry? Were you an arse? Do you want me to forgive you?”

  “I—”

  “Do you want to know the truth? I’m bloody tired of your apologies. The pleasure of seeing you admit your personal failings has evaporated. And I’m honestly not sure I intend to forgive you. How many times, Chris? How many times did I tell you that if you ever messed with my mind again, we would be through? You did hear me say that, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  He felt like he had swallowed a mouthful of rocks. “… Yes.”

  “Did you not think that I was serious? Did you just not care? Or were you so blasted convinced that you were right that it didn’t even matter one way or the other?” Will shook his head. “You knew how I felt about it. And you did it anyway!”

  “… Will.”

  “And that’s not even—addressing all else you said. The things you called me. The way you’ve treated me for months, now. Like you’re above this. Above me. Like I’m a blighted, filthy pillow biter and you’re suffering so badly for being in my presence. Like I should be grateful that you still honour me with your friendship! I’m not the only one who enjoys what we get up to, Chris! What happened the night before you left—I made sure. I made sure you wanted it! But then you come back to yourself, and you think I should be ashamed and—I’m not. I won’t be. I’m tired of swimming against the current of your self-loathing. Before you walked back into my life, I was fine, did you know? I was fine. I had lovers. I gave up whoring after I started on at the police after I got out of detention. They weren’t clients, they were men, and I was—content! With myself, with my life, with what I did with my own body. But you hate me for not hating myself, and the truth is, I’m not sure the pleasure of your company is worth it.”

  Chris’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  Will looked away again, but not before Chris saw tears in his eyes. And that made him ache from the inside out.

  “I’m—”

  “You’re sorry. I know. I know you’re sorry, Chris. But I’m not sure you understand that an apology doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make it all go away. ‘Sorry’ isn’t magic. It’s just a word. And perhaps I believe that you’re sorry. Perhaps you’ve had some… some epiphany—”

  “I have—”

  “And perhaps, perhaps, it isn’t even related to the fact that the woman you’ve been chasing for a taste of a respectable, normal life just threw you onto a funeral pyre!”

  “It’s—”

  “And perhaps, Christopher, someday I’ll want to hear an apology. Perhaps another six months from now, the thought of you wanting to give it a shot will make me feel the way that being around you usually makes me feel. Perhaps I’ll remember how in love with you I am, and that will wash it all away. But right now, Chris—right now, I am just so bloody tired.”

  The sob Chris had been choking back since he walked in the door escaped.

  Will closed his eyes tight.

  Chris looked for the magic words. There were there, somehow. The right thing to say, the thing that would fix it. But he just kept coming back to I’m sorry.

  Maybe Will was right.

  Maybe that didn’t count for horseshit.

  “I think you should leave,” Will said. “I don’t mean to be—I–I just need you to leave, Chris. Please. Don’t make me beg.”

  He went to protest. They were still friends. Will was in serious pain. He needed companionship. Perhaps Chris could help him. Read to him. Sit with him.

  But….

  But maybe the first step to making this better, maybe the only thing he could do right now, was to just… do was he was asked.

  He turned and left.

  The words he’d come to say hovered on his tongue, unsaid and heavy.

  I think I might be in love with you.

  Honestly, he didn’t deserve to say them.

  His last stop of the day was the cemetery.

  He walked past rows of headstones. Usually, he paid them no mind, but death laid heavy on his shoulders lately. It
was strange that in the first case Olivia had ever accepted without a murder, he’d never thought so damned much about mortality. His, and that of those he cared about. He read the names and the dates of the deceased as he passed. He read the epithets. Beloved wife, or Maiden cradle her soul, or Sleep in peaceful rest. He thought about all the bodies buried here. What they had meant to those who had laid them to rest. Everyone was someone’s Rosemary. Someone’s Fernand. Someone’s Maris, or their Will, or their Mabelle, or their Oliver. There were as many stories here as there were bodies.

  Chris stopped before a familiar stone. He sank down into the dead, yellow grass. The ground was cold. Winter was coming on slowly, day by day. It would arrive soon enough. It always did. Snow would blanket these rolling green fields, covering the gravestones until they were just mounds, like the burial sites of ancient Northern chieftains.

  He reached out and ran his fingers across the wordwoven stone. Fernand Spencer. Dates far too close together. And then, beneath, just rest in peace.

  He’d always wondered at the soulless engraving. Now he understood. The Spencer family hadn’t bothered to honour the memory of their brother, their uncle, their cousin. Such a twisted pervert didn’t deserve kind words to comfort him as he journeyed through the three heavens.

  Chris closed his eyes. He breathed out. He took a moment to gather himself. And then he opened his eyes and focused on the stone.

  He did almost all of his weaving on paper. But he’d been through mandatory training. He knew how to do wood, how to do steel, and how to do stone. The words sliced through the rock, forming one letter at a time. It was difficult. He’d always been proud of being a strong weaver, but as it turned out, there were different levels of strength. He was the fastest he’d ever seen, but precision and power were more important when working with engraving. He took his time, sweat beading on his brow, and when he finally stopped, panting, and mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief, he was satisfied with the results.

  Cherished and Missed now sat beneath rest in peace, and Chris thought that it honestly made a difference.

  “Gods,” he breathed, and the wind snatched his words and carried them away. He shook his head. “Gods,” he repeated, “I wish more than anything that I could talk to you right now. About Rosie. About Rachel. But—but mostly about Will.” He shook his head. “Not even Will, I suppose, so much as—as what I am.” He smiled faintly. “You might not even have insight. You loved men, I think. I’m… something else, maybe. Because what I felt for Rachel, that was real. And for Will, that, too. I don’t think we were the same, but… but we were close. And I think you would have understood it. Me.” He swallowed a lump that sprang up in his throat, and the back of his eyes stung. “Even if you didn’t, you’d have done your best. You always did.”

  He rested his chin against his chest, and he closed his eyes, and he sat in the silence until the wind stung at his ears.

  “Ah! Now, no, I am on time! You got here early, didn’t you!”

  Opening his eyes, he turned his head to see Olivia, midnight blue skirts clutched up to her chest as she jogged across the lawn. He could see her ankles. It was very improper.

  He smiled up at her.

  “Things with Will went… quicker than expected,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re here.”

  She settled in beside him in the grass. She gave the tombstone a good look and then nodded once, satisfied. “You already did it, then.”

  “I didn’t want to wait.”

  “No, that’s good. Very reasonable. I only would have distracted you anyway. Good show, Mister Buckley.” She spread her skirts out. Clusters of orange and yellow flowers were embroidered around the hem, and she stroked one like it was real and she was enjoying its velvety petals. “I was just on with Mother.”

  “Oh?”

  “Maris will live,” she said.

  A weight lifted off Chris all at once. He’d forgotten how heavy it was; it had become so omnipresent in the last few days. It was a wonderful feeling to picture the stout little policewoman and not imagine her dying, far away from either her Northern home or the city she loved. “Thank all the gods,” he breathed.

  “Em is drained beyond belief and will need a week’s rest or more, but as it turns out, she’s a particularly gifted lifeknitter.” Olivia’s lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Stubborn bint could be wealthy beyond her dreams if she started a practice. Doctors so skilled are few and far, these days. But she says what she’s always said. She won’t play a role in a broken system. She won’t treat symptoms when she can treat the disease. She won’t play triage when she can solve the cause.” She heaved a sigh. “Gods, I should have guessed lifeknitter. Just listen to her metaphors.”

  “Livingstone?”

  “Recovering very well. Distraught about his nephew—who will be in prison for a very long time—having been a double agent all along. Wishing to be back here, in Darrington, reclaiming the movement from the disappeared Garrett Albany, and to start transforming it into what it always should have been—a movement focused on reform, rather than just calling itself reformist. Their main goal will be implementing Em’s technologies. About time, I say.”

  Chris’s heart skipped a beat, and his stomach knotted. “But not the spiritcells,” he murmured.

  Olivia frowned. Gently, she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No,” she said. “No, the spiritcells need Rosemary, I’m afraid. Ah, but—but rest assured! As soon as this is all settled, that will be top priority! Em explained how they work to me, and Gods, it’s genius, isn’t it? It really will save Tarland.”

  Chris looked at the tombstone. He ran his eyes over Fernand’s name. He shook his head.

  “Did we do any good, going to Summergrove?” he asked quietly. “Or is this all… our fault?”

  Olivia hmmed. “Well. It’s debatable, isn’t it? To be sure, some–ugh, a great deal of bad things happened. There’s no doubting that. But…” She shook her head. “Everyone always knew Albany was a monster, but no one had evidence. He finally showed his hand. He’s not a leader anymore, he’s a wanted man. Everyone is looking for him and for Rosemary. He has his Young Bloods left to help him, but I have no doubt we’ll ferret them out. One by one.”

  Chris nodded.

  Olivia cleared her throat. “A-actually,” she said and coughed. “I–that’s… one of the main reasons I wanted to… talk. Today. I–ugh.” She shook herself like a dog. “Hannah’s offered me a… position.”

  Chris snapped his eyes to hers. “With—police?” he asked, and dread filled his heart. This was it, wasn’t it? The moment when the last person in his life pulled away from him.

  “No! No, I—not exactly. No, I’d still be an investigator. Just… not a Deathsniffer. Exactly. I—” She rubbed at the back of her neck and sighed. “Hannah thinks that I’m… uniquely qualified. I was in Summergrove. I’ve seen Albany at his worst. You have a connection to the sister. We have a connection to your sister, through my mother, through you. And—your father’s list. You memorized it, yes?”

  “What does the list have to do with….”

  “She wants us to track down these Young Bloods. One by one. Every link we take out of Albany’s net is somewhere he can’t run… and there’s always a chance one of them will break.”

  Chris gazed at her. “But….”

  “But?”

  “You love murders.”

  Olivia folded her lips and looked away. “Well, yes. I do. I do very much. Perhaps… too much.” She shook her head and shrugged one shoulder. “Roger. Maris. William. Mabelle. And… and Ollie. Being back there had him on my mind so much that Mother would—” She clenched her jaw and shook her head. “I’m not heartless.”

  “I know.”

  “I feel things. I’m just good at turning it off, and so I usually just… leave it off. It’s inconvenient. Why hurt when you can just choose not to?” She sighed. “But then, so many people I know, whose live
s are tied in with mine, it’s… perhaps… maybe… had me lose some of my taste for death. For now.” She shot him a glance. “Is—is that bad, do you think?”

  She seemed so girlish when she asked that he couldn’t help but smile.

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think that’s bad.”

  She nodded. “I could do good on this project. And once we have Albany, once your sister is safe, I can just… go back to murders! Full time! I’m not giving it up, I’m just… taking a break.”

  “No, I–I think that’s good, Olivia. I think it’s a good idea.”

  She nodded again.

  “In fact,” he said, and produced the note he’d been slipped at the precinct. “I actually might have a good place to start with the whole endeavour, if you’d like a clue.”

  Curiosity clear on her face, she accepted the letter and smoothed it out, brow furrowing as she read over the scrawl. He’d read and reread it enough times in the cab to have it memorized, himself.

  So, as it happens, I’m a right bleeding idiot, it opened.

  You lurk around the outskirts like I do and you hear about them. Hate the ways things are? Wanna make a difference? Well, you ought to get yourself in touch with the Young Bloods! Looking for a better tomorrow! Not afraid to fight for it! Thought they sounded like the right kind of people. Go to Summergrove, Margaret. Get some papers, Margaret. Bring them back to the big city, Margaret. Sounds easy, huh? Didn’t even realize how flippin over my head I was abouts until I got ambushed by twenty-five bloody armed coppers at the trainstop in Darrington.

  Anyway. The last couple of days have been a real slap in the face for me because apparently, I don’t know bollocks about anything I’ve been involved in. People are asking me about dead bodies and whatnot, which is all kinds of not what I signed up for, and on top of that, I haven’t heard hide or hair from all those blood is blood bullshit artists.