Shadow Conspiracy

by Phyllis Irene

  The maid nodded once. Marie continued.

  “If your mother or father comes into the room, or anyone else who knows you, do not address them. It will frighten them, and they will send us away. You understand?”

  The anger faded from the eyes, leaving sadness in its wake.

  “Yes.”

  “Bien. Come, then.”

  Marie picked up the mirror and laid it in her basket, then went out. Adele led her down two flights of stairs, then along a hallway to the child’s bedroom, and opened the door.

  “Violette, you may go downstairs until I call for you.”

  A maid—a human one—emerged from the room, looking at Marie with faint curiosity, then at the automaton with alarm. She hastened toward the stairway, and Marie smiled serenely at her as she passed.

  “I will watch the stair,” Adele said when she was gone. “If the doctor returns, I will warn you.”

  Marie nodded and entered the room. A child’s room, yes—and the child a son of privilege. It was immaculate, attesting to the child’s lack of activity. The furnishings were of the best quality: a large wooden chest, a wardrobe with mirrored doors, a nightstand bearing a carafe of water, glass, spoon and a small medicinal bottle. A desk completely free of clutter matched the bed: maple, heavily carved. The bed was canopied in green, its curtains pulled back but the mosquito netting down despite the cold season, making the little figure lying within seem ghostly.

  Marie approached, alert to any malicious presence. What she felt from the boy in the bed was a complete lack. The lungs breathed, the heart beat; yet there was no fire.

  In contrast, the maid standing silent and motionless behind her practically burned with passion. It seemed wrong that Anthony—trapped within the maid—did not fidget. Perhaps moving the automaton required too much conscious effort.

  Marie reviewed her tasks: ascertain whether the boy would live, if necessary apply a cure to his illness, and if possible restore his soul to his flesh. The first was fairly simple. In good conscience she should not attempt the second without the parents’ permission, yet to ask might be to forfeit any chance of accomplishing the third and most vital task.

  Leaving her basket on the desk, Marie drew back the netting and sat beside the child, laying a hand upon his brow. He was pale, his brown hair lying lank across his brow. Plainly he had been in the grip of a fever for some time. His breathing was laboured. Clasping his wrist, she felt his heart beating heavily, slowly, as if fighting for each pulse.

  There were many possible causes. Frowning slightly, Marie turned the boy’s face toward her and gently opened his mouth, then lifted the collar of his nightshirt. A speckling of rash across his chest made her raise her eyebrows.

  Typhoid fever, then. It was not good news, but not the worst possible.

  She looked up to see the maid watching, face blank except for the anxious eyes. Though she did not wish to give false hope, for the boy’s condition was indeed serious, she had to reassure him.

  “There is a chance.”

  “Now! Do it now!”

  “No. First I must do what I can to make sure your body will live. Otherwise to return you to it would only be to kill you.”

  His recovery would take time, of course, but with proper nursing his chances were reasonably good. Marie would do what she could now to improved them.

  She glanced at the bottle on the nightstand. It was unlabeled so she opened it and smelled the contents. Quinine.

  The doctor was treating the child for malaria. An assumption she might have made herself, had she not noticed the rash. But quinine, though it helped in many fevers, was not right for typhoid. She set the bottle on the floor.

  Going to her basket, she retrieved a small bundle of dried lobelia and returned to the bedside. She ground the petals between her fingers, letting the powder fall into the drinking glass. She added a little water, then lifted the boy’s head and held it so his jaw dropped open.

  “What are you doing?” Anthony demanded.

  “Giving your poor body some medicine.”

  She poured the small dose of liquid beneath the boy’s tongue, then held him against her, keeping him upright. The mouth would absorb the herb more quickly than the stomach.

  Anthony came and crouched before her, the automaton’s attitude that of a panther ready to spring. It would have frightened her but for the hope shining in the eyes. Remarkable how expressive they could be; she would never have imagined it.

  Marie rocked gently back and forth, crooning a song softly. It was a call to Yemaya, a prayer for mercy and healing. Anthony watched in silent intensity.

  She let her spirit rise into the realm of healing, calling upon her inner strength, sending it in turn to the poor, tormented body in her arms. With her own body she sensed the boy’s frailty. The emptiness would have troubled her if she had not known that Anthony was near, waiting to return to his place.

  The pulse began to beat more freely. Smiling, Marie continued to sing her plea. Between verses, she whispered to Anthony.

  “Pray, child. Pray for your body to be healed.”

  The maid frowned, then bowed its head. Marie prayed on.

  At length, the boy’s breathing grew deeper and steadier. The pulse was now even. The pale cheek had a little more colour. She would have liked him to be stronger, but suspected this was her only opportunity to be alone with him.

  Gently, she laid him down and rose. The maid’s eyes followed her as she returned to the desk and her basket. She withdrew the small bundle of items she had brought from it, and chose a blue candle, a sprig of sage, a white kerchief and her tin of lucifers. With these she made a small altar on the desk.

  Lighting the candle, she murmured an invocation to Yemaya, then held the sage to the flame until it caught. Smoke rose in a pungent wisp from the leaves. She waved it through the room, going to each corner and sprinkling salt to ward against evil, calling upon the sacred mother to protect and heal Anthony.

  She stepped out of her shoes, then turned back the shawl and lifted Zombi from the basket. A drum would have been helpful, but having none she used her feet to set the rhythm, dancing in a slow circle around the room.

  Zombi twined herself along Marie’s arms, winding her six-foot length around and around, gripping tight to Marie’s wrist with the tip of her tail. Marie struck her heels gently against the wooden floor, a whisper of the stamp she would have ordinarily used, for she did not wish to draw the notice of others in the house. She moved in waves across the room, flowing, sliding, rippling. Calling forth the magic of the snake, to heal, to restore.

  Anthony watched, motionless at first. As Marie undulated, he began to beat the maid’s hands against its thighs to the rhythm of her dance.

  Yes. It was good. It was right.

  Zombi moved, flowing along Marie’s arms until her tongue tickled Marie’s cheek. Warmth filled Marie as she slid into a trance. She had often banished evil spirits; never before had she been called to return a good one to its home.

  Anthony had become crossed, inadvertently putting himself in a bad situation. She prayed for clarity and wisdom to come to him, to guide him home. Her song was a whisper in the room, but it echoed like thunder in her soul.

  Let that which is crossed become straight. Let the boy find escape from his fix.

  As she danced before the automaton she glimpsed the face and sensed the boy also moving into a trance. The eyes that had been so alive were now dull and languid. The hands still clapped against the thighs, yet somehow the motion seemed more mechanical than it had a moment earlier.

  A shift was taking place. Marie adapted, becoming the follower instead of the leader. The rhythm slowed, and slowed, the maid’s hands moving less with each beat, until the fingers barely left the thighs, until the claps became mere twitches, and then ceased.

  Marie paused, back arched in the middle of an undulation. The maid had gone still.

  Slowly, crooning thanks to Yemaya, she straightened. Zombi tightened against her
skin, then relaxed.

  Marie stood silent for three breaths, listening, waiting. The maid did not move. Marie went to stand before the machine.

  “Anthony?”

  A soft moan from the bed filled her heart with a rush of joy. Murmuring prayers of thanks, Marie stepped to the desk and returned Zombi to her basket. The snake went willingly; she, too, sensed the ritual was done. Marie tucked the shawl over her and hastened to the bedside.

  “Anthony?”

  He rolled his head, then his eyes blinked open. Pale blue eyes, completely unlike the automaton’s, yet the fire in them was familiar.

  “Mama?”

  “Hush. She will be here presently.”

  Marie touched his face, his brow. Hot, but not dangerously so. The sickness was not gone—oh, no—that would take many days yet. But he was back where he belonged.

  “I had a strange dream.”

  “Did you?”

  “I left my body.”

  “We all do that, in dreams.”

  He frowned as if struggling to remember. Marie stroked his brow.

  “Sleep, now. You will have better dreams next time.”

  She watched his eyelids droop, then close. He inhaled deeply and sighed.

  The door opened and Adele looked in, her face anxious. “Madame! The doctor is coming.”

  “Very well.”

  Marie rose and put on her shoes, then gathered her things back into her basket, leaving the simple altar she had made behind. The candle glowed steadily, a sphere of warmth. Adele stepped toward the desk.

  “You should take that away—”

  “No. Leave it as it is.”

  “But—”

  The housekeeper turned as a footstep sounded from the doorway. A man dressed in sober black stood there, looking astonished. His hair and beard were red, his forehead high, and a pair of spectacles dangled in one hand while he carried a leather attaché in the other.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Marie LaVeau, à votre service,” said Marie, sweeping a curtsy.

  The red brows rose. “Madame LaVeau? You were called to my patient?”

  “No, I was called to his maid, but I found that you have mistaken your diagnosis.” Marie picked up the bottle of quinine and carried it to him. “It is typhoid fever, not malaria. This will do him more harm than good.”

  The doctor donned his glasses and accepted the bottle, frowning. “Typhoid?”

  “Did you think to examine the chest?”

  “I did indeed. There was no sign of typhoid.”

  “Look again.”

  He glanced at her, then hastened to the bedside. Marie collected her basket and turned to the door, where Adele stood staring at the bed.

  “Come, Mignon.”

  The maid’s head moved. Until that moment, she had remained where she stopped at the end of the dance. Her gaze rose to Marie, and a liquid shock bolted down Marie’s spine.

  There was still fire in the eyes.

  It was not possible. Anthony was back in his body.

  Marie stared back at the automaton, shaken with uncertainty. Could another spirit have entered the machine? Was it open to a hant?

  She made a swift cross in the air between them. “Who are you?” she said.

  The eyes flickered with doubt, with fear. “Mignon,” said the maid, watching warily.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “I was made in London.”

  “What are you about, there?” the doctor said crossly from the bed. “This child is trying to sleep.”

  Marie glanced at him. “Merely confirming that the maid is in working order.”

  She stared at the automaton, seeking any hint of malice, any sign of an outside spirit. There was only uncertainty, hesitation.

  “Who would have thought that the famous Madame LaVeau had an interest in automata?”

  The faint note of irony in the doctor’s voice was not lost on Marie. She turned to him.

  “Take good care of your patient, doctor. Let the candle burn itself out.”

  He glanced at the altar, saying nothing. Yes, he feared her power, and that was well; she could do harm to those who crossed her.

  Marie returned her attention to the maid. She had more questions, but would leave Anthony in peace.

  “Come along,” she said, beckoning the maid to follow.

  They passed into the hall, Adele shutting the door quietly behind them. Marie turned to the housekeeper, speaking softly.

  “May I use your office? I wish to ask Mignon some questions.”

  Adele’s brows rose slightly. “Of course, madame.”

  She led the way down the back stairs, back to the tidy little room. Marie set her basket on the desk and turned to the housekeeper with a smile.

  “May I impose on you for a cup of coffee?”

  “Certainly.”

  Adele bowed slightly, glanced at the maid, and withdrew. Marie drew the door closed.

  “Sit down, please, Mignon.”

  The maid sat in the guest’s chair by the desk. Marie stepped behind the desk and took a white candle from her basket. She set this between them and lit it, murmuring the words of a truth charm. If the flame wavered, it would be a sign that the maid was lying.

  She looked at the maid, noting the soulfire burning steady in the eyes. The desperation that had shone there when Anthony was present was gone. What remained was difficult to interpret.

  “How did you come here?”

  “By sea,” the maid answered. “I was purchased from Babbage and Lovelace.”

  “What do you remember of the time before today?”

  The maid frowned slightly. “I cared for Anthony. That is why I was brought here.”

  Marie glanced at the candle. The flame burned steadily.

  “Do you recall your activation?”

  “Yes,” Mignon said slowly, “but it is almost as if I were watching from outside. That makes no sense.”

  Marie found that it made perfect sense. Automata did not ordinarily have souls. As she understood it, what memory they had was in the nature of stored instructions. They had no capacity to evaluate, to question.

  Interesting that Mignon expressed concern about the sense of what she was saying. With a few more questions, Marie ascertained that the maid’s memories were all from Anthony’s outlook.

  “What do you remember of today?”

  A hint of fear came into the maid’s eyes. “You came to help.”

  Marie waited, not wishing to guide what the maid might say with promptings. Mignon looked increasingly uncomfortable.

  “Anthony was in me,” she whispered.

  “Do you know how that happened?”

  Mignon shook her head. “No.”

  “But you remember it.”

  “Yes.” She met Marie’s gaze. “Why do I remember it?”

  “A very good question. What else do you remember?”

  “Your dancing.”

  Marie gazed at her, puzzled. The memories she was describing were Anthony’s, but this was not he. He was back in his body; Marie was sure of it. What, then, inhabited the automaton? A fragment of his soul? An echo?

  Whatever it was, soulfire lived in it. In that sense it was a living being. And that changed everything.

  “How do you feel about Anthony?”

  The maid’s eyes softened, a thing Marie would not have thought possible. “He is very ill.”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to take care of him. May I still do that?”

  Mignon met Marie’s gaze, eyes pleading. If there were any malicious intent behind the request, she could not detect it. She did not think an automaton, even with a soul, could be so cleverly deceitful.

  “It is not my decision, but I will recommend that you be allowed to care for him. He has far to go to recover, and will need close attention.”

  Mignon nodded. “That is my purpose.”

  A statement to be expected from an automaton, but Marie wond
ered if there was now feeling behind it. Mignon sounded as if she were attached to the boy.

  A new soul, perhaps, clinging to an old purpose. Would it serve?

  She leaned forward, holding the maid’s gaze, striving to see into the depths of this strange being. The maid looked back without fear or shame. Yes, a fresh soul, as yet unscarred.

  She wished to study Mignon further. She had some friends she would like to consult as well, and she would also seek divine guidance.

  The door opened and Adele came in, pausing as she saw the two of them so intent. Marie broke off her gaze and straightened.

  “Your coffee, madame.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marie accepted the cup and sipped, watching Adele stare at the maid as if unsure what to make of her.

  “I hope you are satisfied with the result,” Marie said.

  The housekeeper started. “Oui, madame.”

  “I am convinced that Anthony is himself again.”

  Adele nodded. “I have just been back to his room. The doctor has left, and Violette is watching him.”

  “Mignon should return to her duties as his nursemaid. His convalescence will be tedious, and she is well-suited to care for him.”

  Mignon glanced at her, eyes lit with passion. Yes, she had a fierce love for the child. How interesting.

  “If you think so, madame,” said Adele doubtfully.

  “I do. She will not tire, and it is constant attention he needs. She is ideal.”

  “Very well.”

  “What were the doctor’s instructions?”

  Adele explained them, and Marie nodded in approval. The doctor had wisely adjusted his treatment. Whatever else was said of Marie LaVeau—and some things that she had heard made her laugh—her skill as a healer was respected in the city.

  She finished her coffee and stood, taking up her basket. “Keep me apprised. You can write, Mignon?”

  The maid nodded.

  “Send me a note every day about Anthony’s progress.”

  Marie watched the housekeeper, alert for objection, but she saw none. That was well, for she wished to know of the maid’s progress as well as the child’s.

  Days passed, and stretched into weeks. Lent cast a cloud of oppression over the city. Mignon wrote to Marie faithfully, meticulously documenting Anthony’s recuperation. She never mentioned his temporarily inhabiting her mechanical body, and when Marie spoke of it with one or two close friends, they were as puzzled as she.