by E. E. Holmes
“Well, speaking of clues, I need your help. I think I know who the Shattered spirit is. Or, at least, I know what she looks like,” I said, handing Fiona the scroll.
She took it from me, eyes wide. “What’s this, then?” she asked as she unrolled it. Her eyes widened as she looked it over. “You drew these? Just now?”
“No. That top one I drew three days ago, on the day we arrived for the Airechtas. I’d barely been here an hour. I woke up to the second one the next day.”
“Do you have any idea who she is?” Fiona asked, fishing a pair of bifocals out of her overalls and pushing them up onto her nose.
“Not a clue. She hasn’t come back since, but I think that’s because she can’t. If she’s been Shattered, she might be too confused to reestablish contact.”
“What makes you think this is the Shattered spirit?” Fiona asked.
“It’s the eyes,” I said, and even as I spoke the words, a shiver ran down my spine as I recalled their gaze on me. “I saw those exact same eyes staring at me, first from Catriona’s face, and then from Siobhán’s. They are the same ones, I’m sure of it.”
Fiona did not question my statement. She knew too much about the Muse process to doubt my surety. Instead, she swept an arm across her desk, sending everything on it crashing to the ground. She lay the sketches on the newly cleared surface and bent so low over them that the tip of her nose nearly touched the paper.
“And did she indicate to you what the words ‘little book’ mean?” Fiona asked, not looking up.
“Did she… what?” I asked.
“These words, ‘little book.’ Any idea what they mean?” Fiona repeated.
“What words? What are you talking about?” I asked, utterly perplexed.
Fiona’s flung out a hand, grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me roughly around to her side of the desk. “Did you even bother to glance at this sketch after you drew it? These words here, around her neck!”
I bent low over the paper, and even then, it took a few seconds for me to realize that what I had taken to be a necklace around the girl’s neck was actually the same two words, over and over again, forming a delicate chain: “little book.”
“I never noticed that before,” I whispered, staring down at the tiny script in wonder. “I’ve never produced anything like that in a psychic drawing before.”
“That you’ve noticed,” Fiona said.
“Hey, you’ve looked at almost every psychic drawing I’ve ever done,” I said defensively. “You’ve never noticed anything like this before either, have you?”
Fiona ignored the question. She was busy poring over the sketch again. “The clothing and hairstyle are classic Victorian aristocracy. 1850’s I’d say, maybe slightly later. And that brooch can only mean one thing.” She tapped the young woman’s bust with her finger, indicating a decorative pin she wore there, peeking out from a delicate trim of lace. It was a tiny Triskele.
“She was a Durupinen,” I whispered.
“Too, right she was,” Fiona said. “Well, this narrows things down quite a bit, doesn’t it?”
“Is there some kind of… roster? A list we can check?” Milo asked.
“That huge book in the Council room, the one that Bertie was recording all the names in!” I cried. “She’s got to be in there!”
“Somewhere, yes, but there’s no way to verify which one she is,” Fiona said. “There will be hundreds of names that could fit this time period, even just among the Durupinen.”
“What about clan portraits?” Milo asked, slightly desperately. “Is that a thing? Rich people loved getting their portraits painted back in the day, right?”
Fiona shook her head. “High Priestesses had official portraits starting during the Renaissance, but not regular clan members. I am the official historian for those portraits. I’ve cleaned and restored every single one. I know them backward and forward, and I’ve never seen this girl’s face before.”
“Okay, so what do we do?” I asked, slightly desperately. “Where do we go from here?”
Fiona tapped her finger rapidly on the sketch, her eyes unfocused as she thought. Finally, she banged her fist on the desk, making Milo and me jump.
“We’ve got to get into the hospital ward. We’ve got to try to use the Shards there to communicate,” Fiona said. She started digging around in the piles of paper and art supplies around her desk, shoving fistfuls of seemingly random objects into her pockets.
“But I thought they couldn’t communicate clearly,” I said, as I watched her toss three paint trays and a canvas over her shoulder. “Isn’t that the whole problem? That they’re too confused to tell us who they are?”
“Shards are like pieces of a puzzle. The more of them you’ve got, the more complete the picture,” Fiona said, chucking a palette across the room. “That’s why it’s so important to keep them together. If we can get into the hospital wing and encourage them to communicate with you, they might just give us enough to complete the picture. Dogs! Where are my bloody shoes?”
I looked down at her feet, sure enough they were bare, speckled liberally to the ankle with paint, plaster, and clay. Finally, she unearthed two filthy penny loafers from beneath a tarp and slid her feet into them with a look of disgust, as though the societal norm of footwear was actively oppressing her. Then she snatched up the two sketches and marched toward the door.
“What’s happening? Are we going there now?” I asked her, jogging in her wake.
“Yes, of course,” Fiona said. “Why the hell would we wait?”
“The hospital ward is closed. Quarantined. There’s no way they’re going to let us through the doors, is there?” I asked.
“Desperate times, and all that,” Fiona said with an impatient wave of her hand. “They need to keep the Shards in, but there’s no reason to keep us out. I’m a Council member.”
“You maybe, but what about me? You don’t think they’ll be suspicious? Now that they think Hannah has something to do with it, they aren’t going to want me in with the Shards,” I said.
Fiona halted mid-stride. “Good point, that,” she said testily. “Right, then. You’re going to have to think this one out a bit.”
“Me? Don’t you mean ‘we?’” I asked.
Fiona cocked her head to the side, glaring at me. “Have we met? I don’t think things through. I’m a ‘barrel-ahead-and-damn-the-consequences’ kind of lass. You want proper planning? Plan it yourself!”
Milo and I looked at each other, a mirror of each other’s panic.
“Got any brilliant ideas?” he asked me.
“Not one,” I said confidently.
Milo nodded at me, then turned to Fiona. “Barrel-ahead-and-damn-the-consequences it is,” he said, and we all marched out the door.
§
Finn met us on the staircase as we descended.
“How’s Hannah?” I asked him before he could even open his mouth.
“She fine,” he said, and when I raised a skeptical eyebrow, he elaborated, “She was calm when I left her. She was going to call Karen and fill her in on what’s been going on.”
“Oh, my God, Karen,” I said with a groan. “She is going to go through the roof. We barely talked her out of jumping on a plane just because Marion showed up to the Airechtas.”
“I agree,” Finn said, “which was why I suggested that she wait to call her. However, Hannah made the excellent point that if you two don’t call her, Celeste or another Council member will. It will be easier to control the fallout this way.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m just glad I’m not the one doing it.” I turned to Milo. “Since we’ve got Finn here now, can you go check on Hannah?”
“Sweetness, you know you don’t need to ask. Keep that connection open, and call me if you need me,” Milo said, giving me a look that was almost a reprimand before blinking out of existence before my eyes.
The hallway outside the hospital ward was so jammed with people that no one even noticed that we h
ad joined the crowd. A cursory glance at the group was enough to confirm that nearly all of the Council members were there.
“Wait back here, and don’t let anyone from the Council see you,” Fiona said, shoving me back around the corner. “I’ll see what’s happening.”
While Finn and I hovered uncertainly just out of sight, Fiona elbowed her way roughly through the crowd toward the door. I could see Riley and Róisín still huddled on the bench, keeping their vigil for their mother. Both looked as though they’d been crying, and a tall, stony-faced Caomhnóir had been stationed beside them.
Fiona shoved her way back to us, looking grimmer than usual. All she said was, “Celeste,” but a shrieking cry from within the ward made her meaning clear.
“She’s a Host?” I whispered in horror.
“Yes,” Fiona said. “Just a few minutes ago, right in the middle of the meeting.”
“Now what? Without her to stand up for Hannah…” I choked on the end of the thought. With Celeste gone, what was to stop the rest of the Council from chucking Hannah into the dungeon, or interrogating her for more answers she didn’t have? First Savvy, now Celeste—our only allies in the castle were dwindling down to nothing.
A strange puffing, shuffling sound from behind made me turn. Moira, the keeper of the Léarscáil, was chugging up the hallway in as close to a run as her bent little frame could muster, her bare tattooed feet slapping against the stones. She had a scroll clutched so tightly in her hand that she had crushed it flat.
Fiona followed my gaze and frowned curiously. “Moira? What the blazes are you doing away from the Léarscáil?”
“I cannae find Celeste anywhere!” the shrunken old woman grumbled, sucking on the air as she stumbled to a halt. She thrust out a hand and clutched my shoulder to keep her balance, then shoved me away as though I had been the one to grab her.
“What do you need with Celeste?” Fiona asked impatiently.
“Dinnae be an eejit, lass, I’ve readings to deliver o’ course!” Moira spat at her. “There’s strange patterns aboot, and I have to show them to Celeste! She’s been takin’ all my reports since Finvarra’s fallen ill!”
“Well, she won’t be taking anything today, Moira. She’s a Host now,” Fiona said tersely.
“Och aye! I knew somethin’ was amiss!” Moira said, shaking her head violently. “Someone’s got to take these! Somethin’ strange is afoot, make no mistake. The energy pull from Skye is—”
“You always think something strange is afoot, you old loon. Give them here,” Fiona said impatiently, and snatched the scroll out of Moira’s hand.
“Make sure you show them to—” Moira began, but Fiona waved her off.
“I haven’t got time for your ravings, woman! There’s an emergency here! Go back to your tower!” Fiona snapped.
Moira scuttled off back down the hallway, muttering something that sounded like, “Away and boil yer head!”
“What’s your problem with her?” I asked.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “She’s a complete nutter, that’s what. Locked away in her tower all day, raving to herself.”
“You do realize that’s exactly what most of the people in this castle think of you, right?” I asked, smirking.
“Yes, I do, thank you. But there’s only room for one eccentric tower hermit in this bloody castle, and that’s me.” Fiona said, shoving the scroll into the pocket of her overalls.
At that moment, Mrs. Mistlemoore pushed the door open and the muttering knot of Council members fell silent.
“Celeste is resting comfortably now,” she said wearily. “We gathered the Hosts into the circle, but they did not respond to the Casting, which means there are still more Shards out there. There is still nothing we can do to expel them until each one has been contained within the confines of the Casting circle at the same time.”
“And there’s no way to know how many Shards are still out there?” Keira asked.
“No,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said with a resigned sigh. She had clearly answered the same question a dozen times already.
“And there’s no way to lure them here?” another voice called in desperate tones.
“No,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said again.
“So, what the hell are we supposed to do?” a third voice cried.
“We wait,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said, and there was a steely note in her voice now. “We do not panic. We do not lose focus. We wait.”
“Council members, let us return to the Grand Council Room. We must reorganize and elect an interim Council chairwoman and discuss our next steps moving forward,” Keira called over the murmuring. “Mrs. Mistlemoore is right, we must not lose sight of our goal. We shall overcome this challenge as we have overcome so many others.”
The crowd followed Keira down the hallway, leaving Fiona, Riley, and Róisín behind.
“Oughtn’t you to go with them, Fiona?” Mrs. Mistlemoore asked upon seeing Fiona still standing there. “Selecting an interim chairwoman is an important vote.”
“They’ll do just fine without me,” Fiona told her. “I need to speak with you, and I don’t want the Council involved.” She turned and jerked her head, signaling Finn and me to join her.
Mrs. Mistlemoore looked wary at the very sight of me. “I’m not interested in being dragged into your political intrigues, Fiona, so don’t ask me.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Fiona snapped. “Just hear me out. Jessica here drew these psychic drawings a couple of days ago. We believe it’s the Shattered spirit.”
Mrs. Mistlemoore held a hand out for the sketches. “What makes you so sure?”
“Just look at the eyes,” Fiona said. “They speak for themselves.”
Mrs. Mistlemoore’s own eyes grew wide as she examined the ones on the page. “My God,” she whispered. “My God, you’re right!”
“You can tell?” I asked excitedly.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Mistlemoore, and she shuddered as she looked away. “I’ve been staring into those very eyes over and over again for days now. I don’t think I will ever forget them. Who is she?”
“We don’t know yet,” Fiona said. “But if you can let us in the ward, we might just be able to find out?”
“Let you in?” Mrs. Mistlemoore frowned. “To do what, exactly?”
“That spirit, whoever she is, connected with Jessica before. I think she might be quite eager to do it again, even if she is in pieces.”
Mrs. Mistlemoore looked unconvinced. “The Shards are very disorientated. Their level of self-awareness is patchy at best.”
“Patchy may be just enough to get what we need,” Fiona said with a wry grin. “If Jessica can connect, even a partial message could complete the puzzle. Isn’t it worth a try?”
“And why are you coming to me with this?” Mrs. Mistlemoore asked, a single eyebrow arched as though she already knew the answer.
I jumped in. “You already know the Council thinks my sister Hannah has something to do with this. I want to prove that that isn’t the case, but I don’t think the Council is inclined to give me that chance. We thought you might let us in without telling them.”
Mrs. Mistlemoore looked up at the ceiling as though praying for patience. “I do not have the time or the desire for intrigues and subterfuge.”
“Nor do we, but we’re running out of options here,” Fiona said through gritted teeth. “We want to discover what we can without red tape or interference. If we thought the Council would make this easy, we’d have gone through them, but you heard them back in the Council Room. They’re terrified of Clan Sassanaigh. Any attempts by Jessica to reveal the identity of this spirit will be met with suspicion and obstruction. It needs to be like this.”
“And if you discover the identity of the spirit? What then? You can’t keep that information from the Council,” Mrs. Mistlemoore said, crossing her arms.
“We don’t want to keep it from the Council!” I cried. “Like Fiona said, we would have gone to them with those drawings, but we thought
they might just stand in the way! If I get any information from those Shards, you can give it to the Council. You can tell every member of the Airechtas, if you want to. I just want the chance to help.”
Mrs. Mistlemoore considered me for a long moment. “You must understand that I can’t predict what will happen in there, Jessica. No one has tried to connect with the Shards in this manner. There is no way to know how or if they will respond.”
I felt Finn shift anxiously beside me, but I ignored him. “I understand that.”
“Let me be clear. They may attack. They may abandon their Hosts and converge upon you. They may not even acknowledge your presence. There is simply no way to know. This is uncharted territory. Not even the Scribes, with all their research, could predict how the spirit might respond.”
“Jessica,” Finn said, and there was dire warning in his voice.
I turned to him and found that his careful façade was cracking. His face was fighting for composure.
“Finn, I understand that you are bound to protect me, but we can’t let fear make our decisions for us, or we are no better than the Council,” I said quietly.
He pressed his mouth into a thin line, sealing in whatever else he wanted to say. And for the first time ever, I was grateful for the front of indifference we had to maintain at Fairhaven, because I knew he had the words to dissuade me, but he could not use any of them without giving us away. Assuming, I thought with a pang of guilt, that he still felt the same way after what had happened between us that afternoon.
Mrs. Mistlemoore’s expression seemed to soften at my show of bravery. Fiona saw this and pounced on it. “Come on now, Máire,” she said, and her voice was much less combative, much gentler than I’d heard it yet as she called Mrs. Mistlemoore by her given name. “You know better than anyone how the Council’s interference does more harm than good. How many times have they prevented you from doing your job? How many times have they second guessed your healing capabilities, and how many of our sisters were the worse off for it? Don’t let the Hosts in there suffer a moment longer than they have to.”