by Ilsa J. Bick
And what of her Tony then?
3
NOW, SHE SAID to Emma, “I agree. Doyle’s … odd.”
“Was it the knife, or when he touched you?” An instant later, Tony recognized his mistake and made a face. “Sorry.”
“What about the knife?” Emma looked from Tony to Rima and back again. When Tony hesitated, she put her hands on her hips. “Come on, you guys, I told you.”
“Cat’s out of the bag.” And then Tony gave a startled little laugh when Jack suddenly poked his head from the small sack in which Battle had been so interested. “Ooof, when that Battle started rummaging around, I nearly had heart failure. Thought for sure he’d say something. Decent sort not to. All we need is more attention.”
“Actually, I thought that cat transformed himself into the Cheshire,” Rima said as Emma ruffled Jack’s ears. She couldn’t decide who was grinning more, Emma or the cat.
“He kind of does that,” Emma said. “Up and disappears. Sometimes it happens so fast, like he can be right there and then poof, it’s like he’s found a secret door or something only cats can see.”
“Never had a cat except in stew,” Tony said. “So I can’t comment.”
“Gross,” Emma said, though it sounded more like a reflex. Her tone had turned contemplative. “It is weird, how he does that. Jasper, my guardian, says Jack goes on walkabouts and not to worry, that he’ll find his way back. There’s this song … Oh, the cat came back, we thought he was a goner, yes, the cat came back … da-dee-da-dee-da-deedee.” She shrugged. “I don’t remember the rest.”
“The very next day,” Rima sang, then felt her forehead crease. “How do I know that?”
“Jasper said it’s kind of an old song.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it either … but that’s odd.” Tony’s face held a bemused expression. “In the song, don’t the cat drop dead and its ghost come back?”
“Yeah.” Emma’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You sure you don’t know it?”
“Positive,” Rima and Tony said at the same time, and then Tony said, fast, “Jinx. There.” Reaching back, he gave her arm a light pinch. “Got ya.”
“Next time,” Rima said, wondering why her throat was suddenly so tight. Maybe because it’s been forever since we’ve joked or had some fun. Running a hand along the cat’s spine, she smiled when it licked her thumb with its rough tongue. This is almost normal.
“So what’s with the knife?” Emma said.
So much for normal. “I’ll tell you, but you really can’t say anything to anyone.”
“Yeah, right.” The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m mute, remember?”
Despite her anxiety, Rima grinned. Girl’s got spirit, that’s for sure. If she’d suddenly found herself shooting out of fog into the past—or a different world altogether—she thought she might be as wobbly as aspic for quite a while. And how is it that I accept that she might be from a future time? Or another place? “It’s only that I sense things.” She gave the girl a brief explanation, omitting her ability to draw sickness. No need to go into all the gory details, and besides, better safe than sorry. If word leaked of her talent, the scientists and doctors would never let her go. She’d spend the rest of her days chained to a post in some hospital, forced to draw sickness and rot until the Peculiar swallowed them all. Or maybe lets us through, the way it did Emma. What she wouldn’t give to go somewhere, anywhere, else. Their shared daydream of a cottage on Mull by the sea—she would be content with that. “I got something from Doyle’s knife, that’s all.”
“Wow.” The girl looked impressed. “Like, you’re a psychic? So, did he kill someone with it?”
Given how her fingertips still tingled, she thought that was pretty close. The contact hadn’t been long enough for anything as coherent as an image to truly firm. All she’d gotten were impressions: rage, pain. Blood, lots of it. “I got something else, though, when I touched him, Doyle. A … presence. But what popped into my head? Makes no sense. I thought, Dog.”
“A dog?” Emma echoed. “What kind?”
“Don’t know. Big, black.” Red eyes? “Not a nice dog.” Whatever this presence was, its touch had been very strange, complex. She swallowed, tasting only sour bile from an empty stomach. Doyle’s got some sort of hunger, but not for food,
There, there, my poppet, my dearest darling
and beneath that, there’s the dog. The presence was sinister, something that would be at home skulking in a dank sewer. Maybe that’s what’s driving him.
“Well, maybe the dog wasn’t so great, but Doyle liked you,” Emma said. “He was practically falling all over himself. Think he’ll come looking?”
“You’d better hope not,” Tony said.
“We won’t be seeing him again.” Squaring her shoulders, Rima rearranged her grip on the cart, wincing at the burn. She’d given her mittens to Emma, and now her own hands were blocks of ice. “Come on, let’s get going.”
“Wait.” Emma peeled off her left mitten and held it out. When Rima started to shake her head, the girl said, “Come on, it’s not fair for you to freeze.”
“I’m fine,” Rima said.
“Oh bull.” Emma snorted. “If you don’t, I’ll talk to the next person we see.”
Tony’s eyebrows drew together. “Is it only you, or do all children argue with their elders where you come from?”
“Well, I only know Wisconsin. But”—the girl shrugged—“sure.”
4
AS THEY SKIRTED the asylum’s main entrance, Rima saw that snow had tumbled from the portico to pile in high mounds along the front steps. In the bad light, she couldn’t be positive, but she thought that a chimney stack, immediately right of the dome, had collapsed, and that pediment was off-kilter, too. All this stone and old masonry—pity the poor nutters if the building came down, but at least it would be fast for them.
“Place gives me the creeps,” Emma said.
“No argument there,” Rima said. “Never have liked coming here.” Thinking, So far as I can remember. If there have been other days. Such an odd thought, but with the Peculiar, no one’s memory could be trusted. “Always brings on the jimjams.”
“No, I mean, it really freaks me out.” Emma sounded a little sick. “Like I’ve been here before. But … that can’t be right. I mean, I’ve never left Wisconsin.”
At the girl’s tone, Rima exchanged a look with Tony, who only shrugged. As far as Rima could remember, there was no building like this in her nightmare. “Do you recall something that stands out?” she asked.
Emma paused, then tilted her head back and pointed. “The dome. Can’t hardly see it, but … it’s got a lot of glass, right? And it’s a church or something?”
“Well, it’s got glass. Whole asylum does.” At that, what she thought was a true memory—or maybe only an impression—wavered into focus: how those windows looked, swarming with faces, as they did when the nutters crowded up. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if they looked mad; if they’d only raved and screamed and reached through the bars with hands starred to claws. But most often it was like trudging past a colonnade of expressionless corpses with black holes where their eyes ought to be. “Lots of domes do, I’m sure.”
“But is it a church?”
“We can find out,” Tony said. “You think it’s important?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, and it was then that, over the girl’s head, Rima caught a wink that solidified into a steady, brassy glow, as someone with a lamp moved within a second-story room. The glow stopped, and then grew brighter and swam closer to a window, like a curious fish in a bowl—and became a man’s face. A spiderweb of cracks marred the glass, and at first she thought the unevenness of his features, the way the man’s face fractured, was an effect of the ruined panes. A second glance, though, and she realized that the man himself was a ruin. Half his face was absolutely still, as frozen as cold candle wax. God. He looked like a walking corpse. Rima felt his eyes. He might be only curious, but s
he didn’t like that he wasn’t moving on. He’s interested. She read it in the inquisitive cock of his head to the right, like a terrier trying to decide if that rat was worth the trouble. Why? They were just rats, out to gather the dead.
“You okay?” She looked down to find Emma studying her. Turning her head, the girl followed her gaze. “It’s just a light,” Emma said.
Which I don’t like. Something about a window was important. Perhaps someone she’d spotted there? Who? “It’s nothing,” she said, against another tickle of unease.
“Uh-huh,” Emma said, and turned to face forward. “Come on, let’s go. Place gives me the jimjams.”
BODE
Lost the Fork
AFTER HE LEFT Kramer’s office—and Meme; God, he’d bolloxed that—Bode thought he was home free. Surely, Kramer and Graves were on a different floor by now. But then, just before he slipped through the door leading from the ward to the landing, his heart gave an unpleasant lurch. Directly ahead, big as life, were Kramer, lamp in hand, and Graves, at a window that looked onto the front lawn.
Damme. Bode slowed and, for a split second, thought about doing a quick about-face and bolting into a side room. But then Graves turned, spotted him, and called, “Bode, come here at once!”
“Right away, ma’am.” His right pocket felt heavy, and too late, he remembered the lemon and Kramer’s odd purple spectacles. By now the landing was as deep with shadows as most of the rooms, so he hoped the doctor wouldn’t notice the bulge. Dropping his hand to his waist to better obscure his pocket, he said, “Ma’am? Sir?” He listened as Graves repeated what he’d already overheard. Kramer’s behavior, though, was very strange; not bothering to acknowledge Bode, the man moved from window to window as if following someone’s progress along the front lawn.
“And when you’ve finished with those rats, I want you back here immediately, is that understood?” Graves looked ready to take a bite out of his backside.
“Yes’m.” Scuttling for the door, he was so anxious to be gone that he was nearly halfway down the hall before he remembered and turned back. Oh, that was a close one; might ’a gave myself away otherwise. Theoretically, he didn’t have a key and so no way to let himself in and out. If he had gone off and then reported that he’d done what she asked, she’d know he had her old skeleton. “Might I have the key for the storehouse, Mrs. Graves? So’s I can let in the rats?” While Graves fussed, Bode’s eyes darted down the hall to the landing where Kramer paced, lamp in hand, like a lighthouse keeper waiting to direct a wayward ship to shore. What was he fuming about? The man was an absolute black study. God, he hoped Kramer wouldn’t take it out on Meme. The thought prompted another hot rush of shame. Oh yeah, like I’ll do anything about it.
“There.” Graves slapped her key into his hand. “Go. And I expect that back within the hour.”
“Yes’m.” Ducking his head, he hurried for the stairs. As he circled a newel post, Kramer rapped in a stentorian tone, “Hold on a moment.”
Bloody shite. Stifling a groan, he craned back up. “Sir?”
“Those rats.” Lantern in hand, Kramer pointed. “That … boy. Do you know him?”
“Sir?” A spike of alarm. Following Kramer’s gaze, he saw three figures. Two, he knew; the third was smaller, though. A girl? “No, they’re just … you know, rats.” The less he talked, the better. But what’s he want with them? Kramer has specifically asked about that boy. Why the interest in Tony?
“I want to speak with them. Bring them. I know … promise them a meal. Do whatever you must, but I don’t want them leaving the grounds. I would send someone else with you, but I don’t want to frighten them.”
Uh-oh. Curiosity was one thing. But Kramer really wants them, has his eye on Tony. Why?
“Doctor?” Graves looked as confused as Bode felt. “What could you possibly want with—”
“Mind your place, Mrs. Graves.” Aiming a finger at Bode. “You, bring them at once.”
“Yes, sir.” As he took the stairs, though, he thought, Bloody snowball’s chance in hell of that. A knee-jerk reaction and probably unwarranted, but Kramer’s sudden interest was a little scary. Maybe best for Tony and Rima and whoever that new kid was to back slang it off grounds, skirt the old criminal wings. Hurrying through the asylum’s darkened kitchen, he headed for the back. Supper was long over, and the cooks were all gone. Prime foraging time, but with Kramer waiting, he had to get a move on. The outside air was so cold he felt the draft through the keyhole. When he opened the door, a balloon of snow swelled on a gush of frigid air. The sky had lightened to the color of tarnished silver, enough so the night was no longer pitch. (He hated that. Couldn’t take anything for granted anymore.) Tugging the door shut, he wallowed along the cut in the snow from earlier that day, before Elizabeth’s fit, when he and Weber humped bodies for safekeeping to the far storehouse. In the distance, the faint suggestions of outbuildings—storehouses, an old greenhouse, staff cottages that were no longer in use—wavered through rippling curtains of thick snow. The rest of the grounds were lost to distance and the general gloom. Everything always seemed … muzzy, not quite filled in, something he always chalked up to this ceaseless bad weather. He glanced back over his shoulder. The asylum loomed, a blue-gray hulk, pressing against his back.
Maybe he was worried over nothing. So, Kramer met them, what of it? He was worrying over the frayed phantoms of a nightmare. He’d be a fool to let his chuckaboos miss out on tea and a chance for more food, even if it was as bad as those biscuits.
Really: it wasn’t as if the world was their oyster and they’d only lost the fork.
RIMA
She’s Here
ONCE THEY’D CLEARED the west wing, the back grounds spread in a great expanse studded with dim gray-blue cubes: storehouses, staff dormitories, and other defunct structures. Rima couldn’t recall the last time she’d actually seen the buildings in any kind of detail. Very far away and cloaked in snow and gloom, the crumbling edifices of the asylum’s derelict criminal wings reared like ancient castle ruins.
As they neared a large storehouse to the right of the main building, the gloom suddenly lightened, the smoky gray sky that passed for night brightening to dirty white. False dawn: true sunlight was as much a fugitive as news of the outside world. Rima couldn’t remember now what the sun truly looked or felt like.
“Hate when the sky does that.” Grimacing, Tony spat. “You know, my mouth still tastes like I’ve been sucking on a sewer drain.”
“Yeah, that toffee was pretty terrible.” Emma wrinkled her nose. “Maybe it spoiled. Think the other candy’s okay?”
“I wouldn’t want to bet on it,” Rima said. The constable’s candy had been too great a temptation, and they’d paused along the way to share a bit of toffee. What a disappointment. Her tongue was coated with a taste like dog shite smelled. Eating dirt would be easier.
The storehouse was a sorry pile. A portion of roof had slumped and caved, probably from the quake. Another few tremors like that and this would be just another derelict. As they reached the side door, there came the rattle of a bolt being thrown. The door swung in, and Bode appeared, lantern in hand.
“Good to see you, brother.” Bode pulled Tony into a one-armed hug, then nodded at Emma. “Who’s the kid? What happened to her chin?”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Emma said.
“What?” Then, as Jack’s head poked from between burlap sacks, Bode said, “Is that a cat?”
“He’s mine,” Emma said, then added, “And you can’t eat him either.”
“What, have you all gone nutter? That’s meat.”
“Off-limits, brother,” Tony said.
“What’s got into you?” Bode gaped. “What you listening to a kid for? What’s so special about the cat? How’d she even manage to hang on to it this long? How come you two haven’t put it in a pot?”
“It’s a long story,” Rima began, but Emma interrupted. “What’s wrong with you guys? He’s mine. You want to talk abou
t my cat, you can talk to me.”
“You got a real mouth, don’t ya?” Scowling, Bode looked the girl up and down. “And what’s that accent? Where you from?”
“Wisconsin,” Tony said.
“What’s that?” Bode said.
“It’s a state. Do you guys, like, not study geography or something?” Emma asked.
“Pardon?” Bode said.
Rima held up her hands. “Shall we start over? Emma, this is our friend, Bode. Bode, this is—”
“Emma.” Something flickered through Bode’s face, but so quickly Rima wasn’t sure if she saw only surprise. “That’s your name?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Emma looked disgusted. “So? What, you don’t like my name either?”
“No. It’s …” Bode put a hand to his lips as if to stop himself saying more.
“Bode?” Rima put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
“What?” Blinking, Bode tried tacking on a smile. “Oh … fine. Sorry. Just … name reminded me of something, is all. Sorry. Ah, how ye do, Emma?”
“I’ve been better,” Emma said, darkly.
“I’d say that goes for all of ya.” After a last longing look at the cat, Bode eyed Tony. “You’re thinner, brother. Is that blood on your mouth?”
“Nosebleed,” Tony said, briefly, though he knuckled his lips. “I’m all right now.”
“Mmm.” Leaning in, Bode sniffed and then recoiled. “God, what you just et?”
“Would you believe toffee?” Rima said. “From a constable. The cart tipped at the gate, and he helped, him and an inspector.”
“Ah, yeah. The inspector’s Battle. Doyle, though … he’s a queer duck. Twitchy, and the cheesers he let go … ohhh.” Bode waved a hand before his nose. “Lucky I didn’t go blind. Got himself a little tore up, though. One of the doctors tended to him.”
Twitchy. Rima thought back to their fleeting contact. Morphia? Cocaine? She wouldn’t be surprised. “I wouldn’t have thought toffee could go off, but they taste terrible. You want some?”