by Jeff Wheeler
When they arrived at the manor, she saw that some plants had been added to the landscaping, and the weeds were sparser. She docked the tempest and watched as Raj Sarin leaped over the side, a jump that would have injured anyone other than a Bhikhu, and floated down on a single exhale. She envied his gift as she climbed down the ladder. The air was cold with a bite to it, and she chafed her bare hands as she and Raj Sarin approached the main doors.
They were met by Mr. Batewinch, whose collar was loose and whose cheeks were flushed. Inside, they could hear Miss Patchett weeping.
“Welcome to Gimmerton Sough, Miss Cettie,” Batewinch said dejectedly. “Unfortunately, you find us under difficult circumstances yet again.”
When Cettie entered, she felt the unease of being watched. A stab of dark emotion struck her breast at once. Though the corridor Leerings still glowed, their light seemed dimmer. A pall hung over the manor. Raj Sarin narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air, casting his gaze at the dark corners.
Joanna Patchett hurried down the hall, still crying, and flung her arms around Cettie’s neck. Cettie held her as she sobbed. After some time, the young woman pulled back, cheeks blotchy and pink.
“T-thank you,” Joanna said with a shuddering voice. “Thank you for coming.”
“Where’s your brother?” Cettie asked, smoothing some hair from the woman’s face.
She sniffled and dabbed her nose with a silk handkerchief. “In his room. Again. I’m afraid . . . I’m so afraid, Cettie.”
“Of what?”
Joanna looked haunted. “That he will do himself harm again. He doesn’t want to live. I don’t know what made him lose hope this time. Maybe it’s the rumors that the war might soon be over. I don’t know. He won’t talk to me. He won’t tell me.” She sniffed again. “I think he’d tell you, though. He really admires you. I’ve never heard him speak about anyone else the way he does about you.”
Though she had clearly intended to be kind, her words increased the burden Cettie already felt. “I will try. Can you show me where his room is?”
Joanna took her by the hand and escorted her up the steps. Raj Sarin quietly followed, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Sweat gleamed across his bald dome.
The upper corridor was thick with shadows, despite the daylight outside. Their shoes made little thumping noises on the carpet as they walked down it. Then they reached the door, and Joanna stifled another sob. “In there,” she whispered.
Cettie wasn’t sure what she could say to comfort the girl. Her own unease was great, and the darkness of the hall did indeed remind her of her past life in the Fells. She didn’t sense any Myriad Ones, but something was undeniably wrong. A feeling of trepidation rose in her as she reached for the door handle.
Steeling herself, Cettie clenched the handle and turned it. The door opened. The curtains were closed, blotting out more light, and all the Leerings were dark. Cettie bit her lip and willed them to life, if only to chase away some of the darkness. A groan sounded from the bed, and she saw Rand sitting at the edge, using his arm to block the light. He was soaked in sweat, his hair wild, his cheeks still unshaven since their journey together. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing muscled arms that seemed as taut as ropes.
“Who is it?” he said angrily and with some confusion. “Joanna?”
“It’s Cettie,” she replied, coming into the room. She left the door ajar.
A quick sucked-in breath showed Rand’s surprise. He lowered his hand, seeing her at last, although he was still squinting.
His hand dropped down to his leg, and he let out an anguished sigh. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I came because I wanted to help,” she said, taking a cautious step forward. He didn’t look agitated or angry.
“What I meant is I didn’t want you to see me. Not like this.”
“I’m sorry you are in distress, Rand. But did you not come to our aid when we were so?”
He glanced up at her, a thick chuckle in his throat. “It’s not the same at all.” He rose from the bed and folded his arms over his chest, suppressing a shudder, then started pacing. She watched him warily, trying to understand.
“It shouldn’t be so difficult,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It’s all in the mind. Just the mind. Why cannot I subdue it?”
She stared at him, not knowing what to say. Not sure of how best to help.
He looked up at her in anguish. “Go. Just go. Forget you saw me like this. Try to remember what I was like before. I cannot bear it.”
Cettie swallowed. “If I go, will you do yourself harm?”
“Undoubtedly,” he answered with a hint of vengeance in his tone.
“Then I will stay,” Cettie said. Why was her voice trembling? “Why do you keep yourself in darkness? Open the curtains. Even a window might be helpful. It is stifling in here.”
“Because I cannot abide the light sometimes,” he answered sadly. “I cannot even stand to look at myself. To face my shame.”
“What are you ashamed of?” she pressed.
“Myself. I disgust myself in every possible way.”
“What do you mean? We all want to help you.”
He gave her a pointed look. “I don’t deserve help. I don’t deserve your pity. If you only knew.” He looked away, gritting his teeth.
She glanced around the room, her eyes lingering on a scattering of books around a nearby table. As if he’d tried to still himself by reading and then flung several of them away in anger. They were books translated from maston tomes. Some she had never read.
“If you knew what I truly was, you would hate me,” he said.
“Are you so sure?” she asked.
“I know it.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I am so wretched. I cannot live like this. I cannot endure it. My skin is on fire!”
“Why?” Cettie pressed. The desperation in his eyes showed the extent of his torment.
“Because it’s here! It’s still here in this room. I hear it. Why should it have so much power?”
Cettie looked around the room. “There are no Myriad Ones here,” she said.
“Not yet,” he groaned. “If you pity me, then leave now!”
“You have a secret,” she said, coming closer. “It’s ripping you apart.”
“Of course it is! I cannot stand it. I don’t care what happens anymore. I don’t care what you think of me. Just take it away, Cettie. I should never have gone to Dolcoath with you. I stole it from there. Here, take it!”
He fumbled in his vest pocket and withdrew a small vial of dark liquid, which he then thrust at her. She recognized the tincture. It was poppy oil.
His hand shook violently as he held it out to her, his eyes half-crazed. Cettie took it away from him and slipped it into her pocket.
Rand sank down to his knees, his fingers pulling at his hair again. He started to weep as he trembled. Now she understood. Raj Sarin had told her of his addiction to the oil, the darkness of the cravings he still felt after years of abstinence. The problem was not an infrequent one for soldiers—some of the men who were given poppy extracts for their injuries became enslaved to it. Rand had been wounded many times during the war. Had he deliberately sought out injuries so that he might receive another dose? Compassion for him welled up in her heart, and she stepped even closer, touching his shoulder gently.
He looked up, his visage raw with pain and pleading. His voice was hoarse as he whispered, “I have tried to rid myself. I can’t . . . do it . . . alone.”
Cettie knelt next to him and pulled him to her. “You don’t have to do this alone, Rand,” she whispered thickly. “Does Batewinch know?”
He nodded against her neck.
“Does Joanna?”
He shook his head no, and his arms slumped down to his sides.
She reached for his hands with both of hers. “Tell her, Rand. It is possible to overcome this. I know someone who has.”
He looked startled. “Truly?”
She nodded, feeling stran
gely comfortable kneeling on the floor with him. It reassured her to know the reason for his torment. Perhaps now they could help him.
“I’ve never told anyone,” he said thickly. “I thought . . . I thought they would hate me if they knew. I cannot be trusted, Cettie. I have no self-discipline if I come near it.”
“Not now, anyway,” she said gently. “But if you forsake it, I promise you, it will lose its power over you.”
His lip twitched. “My sister looks up to me.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “She still will. Tell her, Rand. I implore you.”
His nostrils flared, but he nodded. “If you commanded me in anything, I think I would find the strength to do it. Take that wicked vial far away. You do not spurn me . . . for my weakness. I thought for sure you would.”
“It will take several days for the poppy to ebb from your blood. It will not feel very pleasant, I’m afraid.”
He chuckled darkly. “I know. It is easier to resist the allure if there is none that I can take.”
Which was likely why he and Joanna had moved to the secluded sky manor. It would be far easier to come across poppy somewhere else.
“Your mind will heal itself if you stop taking it,” she promised. “I believe that you can do it, Rand Patchett. You can be the man your father believed you were.”
He looked down, a fresh gust of misery blowing through him. “Take it away, Cettie. Take it far away. Destroy it. Part of me wants to force you to give it back. I don’t like these thoughts. You are . . . too special to me. I will tell Joanna. She will help me.”
Cettie nodded and rose. Then Rand suddenly wrapped his arms around her, pressing his cheek against her middle. The embrace was surprising, and he squeezed her hard, but then he released her and rose shakily to his feet.
“You are my angel,” he said.
Cettie went to the door and saw Joanna waiting in anticipation in the hall. She nodded for her to enter, and she did, rushing up to Rand and pleading with him to tell her what was wrong. Their murmured voices reassured Cettie, as did the changing mood of the manor. It seemed lighter, as if the shadows had retreated into the corners and walls. The secret was out at long last. Cettie sucked in a breath as she reached into her pocket. The oil was still there—he hadn’t stolen it back. She released the air in a huff.
“I know what it is,” Raj Sarin murmured to her. His eyes were sharp and alert, as if he could smell the oil in the air.
“We should go,” Cettie said, taking him by the arm. “But you are right.”
“At least he is young,” Raj Sarin said, looking through the door at the brother and sister embracing. “And he is not alone.”
They bid farewell to Mr. Batewinch and took the tempest back to Fog Willows. As soon as they were a good distance from the manor, Cettie flung the evil vial overboard, knowing it would shatter as soon as it struck the boulders below. Even so, her mind lingered on Rand on the journey back to Fog Willows. His father had died recently. The drug would have helped him cope with that pain as well.
What she’d learned had not damaged her opinion of him. There was much she admired about him: his bravery and confidence, his hostility toward the rules of society. She believed he deserved another chance. Hopefully, he would prevail against the demon that had enslaved him. That admiration mixed with the emotions he’d caused by their intimate encounter—a potent and dangerous combination. She willed her mind to think of Adam instead. He had never embraced her like that before. He had never let himself become so vulnerable.
Darkness met them before reaching Fog Willows. Which was why she didn’t see the prime minister’s sky ship until they were landing in the yard.
CHAPTER TWENTY−FIVE
RISKS
Lord Welles and the rest of the Fitzroy family awaited Cettie in the solar. The prime minister looked at ease, lounging in one of the many stuffed chairs and enjoying the subtle strains of music piped in from the City by the Leering in the wall. Anna looked subdued, but Mother spoke to the statesman with energy and animation.
As Cettie shut the door behind her, Welles’s eyes lifted to her face. She saw cool calculation there. They had met before, of course, but this time was different. He was looking at her with much more interest. He rubbed his upper lip thoughtfully.
“The keeper of Fog Willows has returned,” he said.
Lady Maren rose and greeted her with a kiss. “I told the prime minster that you were helping our new neighbors.”
“And how fare the young Patchett siblings now?” Lord Welles asked, rising from his chair. “Is Commander Patchett still suffering from his . . . condition?”
His look and tone revealed to Cettie that he already knew. He was the prime minister, but he had been the Minister of War, and he knew his men. Cettie felt herself bristling.
“I think he’s doing much better now,” Cettie said plainly. “You honor us with your presence, Prime Minister. I wonder that you came all this way.”
“Do you?” he asked with a bland smile. “I travel far and wide when necessary, young lady. Especially on matters that affect so many people. I know the Patchetts well. You could do worse. Now, Maren, I’d like to speak to Miss Cettie alone, if you please.”
“Alone?” The word carried no small amount of surprise. He clearly had not stated his purpose earlier.
“This situation goes well beyond the norms of propriety,” Welles said. “If the reports I have heard are true, and I must judge for myself that they are, then the situation warrants a minor breach in social protocol.”
“But she’s still a young woman—and our keeper, no less. I don’t think it would be fair for you to interrogate her without representation. Had I known you intended such a thing, I would have summoned our advocates.”
“I know,” Welles answered flatly. “Which is why I didn’t let on. Come, Maren. Be sensible. This is a grave matter, a state secret. If I must, I will have my officers arrest her and bring her to Lockhaven. We are still at war, and my powers permit the detainment of anyone I deem suitable. Nothing has been said about the secret you and Brant kept from me, which was surely against the interests of the empire. I think you can accommodate me in this small request.”
The threat in his voice was real, and Cettie felt herself tingle with fear. She knew from experience the prime minister was capable of great cunning.
Maren took a step closer to him, her expression guarded. “May I remind you that your powers are temporary, Lord Welles.”
“Indeed they are. And I will put them aside once this war is over. We dangle over a precipice, Maren. All of us.” He nodded to the door.
Her eyes flashed with anger, but she beckoned for Anna to join her, and they both left the room, giving Cettie final encouraging looks before doing so. Cettie positioned herself by a table, putting it between her and the prime minister. He looked satisfied by the outcome, and his demeanor softened.
“Some people are excessively stubborn,” he said lightheartedly.
Aren’t they indeed, Cettie thought to herself.
“Well, my dear, now we can have our little interview. I suppose that is the proper word. How old are you? Nineteen?”
“Yes,” Cettie answered, resting her palms on the table.
He pursed his lips and gave her a studying look. “I have no reason to disbelieve Sir Jordan. He is convinced you are our harbinger. I could have brought you in to see the privy council, but I have concerns that there may be some members of it who . . . shall I say this delicately . . . have not completely earned my trust. I’m not certain dragging an urchin from the Fells before them would be a wise decision.”
Cettie frowned at his disrespectful tone.
“Surely you must understand, my dear, that there is a great prejudice against those of your station. In my many years of service to the admiralty, I have seen firsthand the differences between the common soldiers and trained officers.”
“Differences due to circumstances?” Cettie asked.
“Differences du
e to character, temperament, and breeding. Which brings me to my next question.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Where do you come from?”
“Father has spent the last seven years trying to find out,” Cettie said.
“I know. And he’s poured substantial resources into it. They say you are the natural daughter of George Pratt and some paramour. Not a birth of high distinction in any case. But you look nothing like Mr. Pratt.” He shook his head. “And my understanding is that Pratt’s current wife is wheedling him not to settle for anything less than an equal portion of your due inheritance. Which is absurd. Even if it were given to them, they’d be swindled of it in their first speculation. No, I cannot believe that he is your father. Any more than I can believe some adulteress highborn lady is your secret mother. Now tell me plainly, young lady, do you know who your parents are? I will remind you that lying to the prime minister is a crime.” He set his hands on the table opposite hers, his gaze intense and hostile.
“Why should I answer your question without an advocate present?” she asked in a half whisper.
His lip curled. “You may not know this, but your advocates are rather wrapped up in problems of their own. One of their young men, a Mr. Skrelling, recently died in a zephyr accident.”
Cettie swallowed, surprised and grief-stricken by the news. “I went to school with Mr. Skrelling.”
“That makes no difference to me. I came here to seek answers of my own. Do you want me to bring this family under investigation?” he asked coldly. “If Fitzroy is alive, as you’ve claimed, he is a prisoner of war. He’ll not be returning anytime soon. I can shut down your businesses, suspend your operations, and choke the family’s source of income if you fail to cooperate with me. Do you wish to see Fog Willows come crashing down?”