The Plague Diaries

by Ronlyn Domingue

  Fewmany tilted his head. I noticed a rough scar under part of his jaw and chin. “Well, what-ho. He’s savage to everyone save myself, Naughton, and a rare other. Now you, too.”

  I pulled my hand away, feeling exposed. “An anomaly, to be certain.”

  Fewmany snapped his fingers. Mutt followed him to the door. As Fewmany pulled the bell’s cord, he nudged the dog into the hall and shut him out. The magnate placed his hat on the table. “Please sit down,” he said. He reached his hand to the curved gearbox behind his right ear and switched off the Tell-a-Bell’s mechanism. Now it couldn’t ring and prompt him to recite his toll, a list of his day’s tasks to do, which was surely quite long. That I had his full attention was reassuring, and discomforting. I stiffened in my chair and ignored the swirl in my belly as he settled on the seat to my right.

  As we exchanged due pleasantries, Naughton served tea and placed two books at Fewmany’s arm. With Fewmany’s prompting, I explained what I’d learned from the library staff who had replied to my inquiries. He skimmed the subject category lists some had forwarded. To honor his request for a catalog, I suggested one comprising cards, which would, in time, be cross-referenced. Each item in his collection would be assigned a unique letter-number combination, which would be marked on the item and written on the card.

  He looked at several blank samples I’d devised as I told him the book dealers’ correspondence would be marked as well and filed by the item’s title, or other identifier if one wasn’t noted.

  That he had few questions surprised me. In fact, he seemed quite taken with the thoroughness of my suggestions.

  “A rational, orderly system you’ve recommended. I knew this challenge suited you. Well done,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. I hoped the blush wasn’t too deep on my tawny cheeks.

  “I’d like to study the category systems and review the card samples before I make a final decision. Would a response by next week’s end suffice?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  He pushed the books Naughton delivered toward me and rested his right hand on top. The skin’s texture suggested his age, as his face and form did not; he was at least as old as my father, likely older. The ring on his finger held my attention—a gold band engraved with interlocking knots and one pebble-sized red gem at the center.

  “New acquisitions from my dealer, Quire,” he said.

  I’d found reams of correspondence from this Quire stored away. His letterhead identified him as William Remarque, but that wasn’t how he signed his name, at least not to Fewmany. I thought it uncanny his surname, Remarque, was also a term for a small drawing in a book. As for his nickname, Quire, a term that referred to the folded leaves in a book, I assumed he’d chosen that himself as a nod to his profession.

  I opened the first book to find several pages weren’t cut, as if no one had ever looked at or read it.

  “ ’Tisn’t unusual to find a quarto untrimmed. Leave it as it is,” Fewmany said. He reached for a pen, ink, and blotter as I turned the cover of the second text.

  Loose at the title page was an annotation in Remarque’s hand. He described the book as a chronicler’s account of a man who claimed to be king of a vast region, who sent letters to the kings of many lands, but no one was certain he ever existed.

  “The one you hold seems to me a testament for writing of one’s own deeds rather than relying on historians,” Fewmany said. “I wonder what will be written of yours truly.”

  I wasn’t certain if he expected a reply, but I gave one. “I suppose that depends on who tells the tale.”

  “Astutely said,” he replied. “Neither book has my mark. Nothing is to be stored without it. Observe.”

  I watched as he wrote on the first, middle, and last pages, near the margin at the spine. His mark, simply fm.

  “Shelve them where you see fit,” he said.

  When he rose to leave, I stood on quivering legs as the tension bled to the floor.

  “Again, well done,” he said as he put on his hat. There was lightness in the tone of his parting words, “Good day, my keeper of tales.”

  “Good day, sir,” I said. I waited until he left the library to smile at the gentle sobriquet, in spite of myself.

  “CONFIRMATION ARRIVED I WILL NOT attend Nallar this autumn,” I wrote in my diary, the twenty-fourth of August. “Unbelievable! As hard as I worked at my studies, all I endured my last three years, the apprenticeship at Fewmany Incorporated. Father wasn’t as disappointed as I thought he’d be. He said I can apply again and in the meantime, I have something purposeful to do. Yes, at least I have the library.”

  Still, my disappointment was blatant for days because Naughton, who typically said no more than good morning, Miss; your tea, Miss; and good evening, Miss, breached the bounds.

  “I was informed you received distressing news of late. I am sorry, Miss,” he said.

  His empathy provoked a hitching cry in my throat. I assumed he knew of the note I’d left for Fewmany that I would remain as his archivist. “Thank you, Naughton.”

  That same week, I was on my way home, walking along a block of shops, when I saw someone pressed near the wall outside a haberdashery. He looked down as he shifted packages under his arm.

  Michael Lyle. Suddenly, every thought and worry vanished. I wanted to thrust my hands through that wavy chestnut hair, trace the sublime angle of his nose . . .

  Despite my liquefied knees and tied tongue, I managed to sally forth and unravel a coherent greeting. He smiled when he said hello. As he remarked on his summer and preparations to leave for high academy two days hence, I relished a pause to look into his moss-green eyes.

  “Your plans?” he asked.

  “I’ll continue to serve as the archivist for a private library,” I said. “Fewmany retained me in July.”

  “So then . . . ?” he asked. It was common knowledge who had been accepted and who was waiting among our classmates.

  “No seat opened.”

  “Although I’m not surprised, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Not surprised?”

  “I imagine it must be difficult to swim against the prevailing current in a skirt,” he said.

  “Shall we exchange costumes?” I asked.

  He laughed with a hint of pink on his cheeks. After we shared our well wishes, I offered my hand—a socially acceptable but personally bold gesture—which he shook with a firm yet gentle grip. How I remained upright as every drop of blood rushed to my thighs, I have nary a clue. Woe—what was unrequited!

  Then, I caught a glimpse of myself in a window. Light, how it reveals. That moment, my silver hair resembled the pelt of an aged animal. My eyes the colors of night and day shone like mismatched minerals. My skin was the color of a tea stain.

  I stared at what Nature had wrought and realized it was high time to mask it.

  The next day, I visited a ladies’ parlor, spectacle shop, and jewelry merchant. My hair was black with dye, both eyes now brown behind tinted lenses, and my throat bright with a jade beaded necklace.

  Although I never bothered much with fashion, I decided I must have something new for my wardrobe. What I’d worn had always been appropriate, timely yet inconspicuous. But I wanted—needed—a change.

  After walking in and out of shops for hours, I settled on two split-busk corsets with a narrower waist than I’d worn previously, two skirts, three blouses, two dresses, and a new pair of side-lace boots.

  Then, I noticed a whimsical sign of a tree decorated with a frock. There was a little shop wedged between two others, both among Fewmany Incorporated’s many enterprises. Curious, I entered through the narrow double doors. The space was barely wider than the outstretched arms of a tall man. Shelves and cabinets filled the left wall. A full-length mirror hung on a cabinet door. A long plank of wood angled into the room, held fast into the wall with hinges.

  A tiny woman of mysterious age greeted me, Margana Bendar, the proprietress. I said I was in search of a
new garment but with no particular type in mind. She opened cabinets to show finished examples of her work. I liked her attention to minute details.

  I asked her fee, and Margana said that would depend on the design’s complexity and materials chosen. I thought I might be able to have one lavish thing.

  As Margana opened a book of fashion drawings for me to review, I stared at her beautiful pendant with a blue crystal at its center.

  “It’s a treasured family heirloom,” she said.

  A strange feeling came over me and my arms prickled. I asked no more.

  I decided I wanted a cloak with sleeves for winter. Margana asked what colors I liked, then if she could surprise me with the design. She said it so kindly, as if it were a gift, that I accepted. She told me to return for a fitting in two weeks.

  SEPTEMBER /35

  ONE EARLY SEPTEMBER MORNING, I skimmed a longsheet Father left on the dining table. A classified ad caught my eye. An apartment for rent in a ward in walking distance to work, with its own water closet, and at a price I could afford.

  I posted a note of inquiry, scheduled a meeting, and went to look at it. The ward was far more modest than Peregrine, where we’d lived since I was four. Among the streets, there seemed to be fewer newsboxes (less chattering noise), shops (the essential ones—dry goods, apothecary, butcher, et cetera), stables (those of modest means, which included me now, cannot afford a cart, horse, and livery fees), and performance halls (although I seemed to have little time for such entertainments).

  The building was a walk-up with an aging but clean facade, brass railings, and two large pots filled with flowers. The attendant assured me the tenants were respectable. The landlord tolerated no riffraff.

  Once inside, the stairway was sturdy, the paint old but hardly cracking. The fifth-floor apartment was one large room filled with sunlight. As I stood there, imagining myself in that place, I anticipated a pleasure I hadn’t known before, a sense of independence, a pride that I would, and could, manage my own affairs. I signed an agreement standing at an old cupboard next to the stove and promised to deliver a deposit by the end of the week.

  But first I had to tell my father.

  The next day, I found him in his study with the curtains pulled open. The morning sun brightened his table, covered with books, maps, and documents.

  Father didn’t notice me in the doorway. He faced his treasured three-hundred-year-old map on the wall, covered in thin veils marked with battle sites, old roads, and other mysterious marks. He stood with his arms folded, unshaved jaw set, the hair on his balding head tousled, his ear absent the Tell-a-Bell. Nearby was the stool where I once sat. I felt more tenderness than I expected then, remembering Father’s pointing finger. I learned the history of The Mapmaker’s War well before it was mentioned in my school lessons.

  “. . . Had the mapmaker’s apprentice never crossed the river border, none of this would have happened. Neither of us would be here, my pet . . .”

  “. . . Rothwyke wasn’t Rothwyke then, but the site of the first battle, which later became Ailliath’s seat . . .”

  “. . . The war waged for three years, surging through the lands north and east of Ailliath . . .”

  And then there was his quest to prove a noble lineage, based solely on his father’s apocryphal story of the land and title stripped from our family after this great war. No proof yet found.

  Father startled, then shook his head as if to clear it. “You were a ghost for a moment.”

  A coil of black hair fell across my shoulder. There I was, like the dead crossing from another realm. I tempered my scowl. I’d intended no reminder of her.

  “I have something to tell you. I’ve signed a lease on an apartment. I move in three weeks,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you talk to me first?” he asked.

  “To what purpose?” I asked.

  “It seems reasonable you would. This is a significant decision.”

  “No more so than moving a kingdom away to attend Nallar.”

  “There you would have had supervised housing with a boarding mother and other young women for company.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  He sighed. “I’m stunned, to be honest. As it is, you live enough on your own, considering how often I’m away.”

  “Then what does it matter?”

  “And Elinor is here several days a week, to look after things.”

  With no warning, my temper ignited. “I am not a thing.”

  “That wasn’t my implication. Because of her, we live in cleanliness and order, errands done, meals prepared. How will you manage that on your own, working as you do?”

  “I’ll find a means.”

  “You’ve rarely had to do these tasks for yourself.”

  “I’m more capable than you think.” My thoughts rushed to my hands wrapped around a broom handle, a brush dipped in a bucket, the edge of linen hung out to dry. I learned the chores of daily life at Old Woman’s side. Father had no idea where I’d spent many hours of my childhood.

  He rubbed his forehead. “In which ward is it?”

  “Warrick. I’ll have less distance to walk, and the block where I’ll be is quite safe.”

  “Warrick.”

  “It’s what I can afford on my own wages.”

  “I raise a girl to have a mind of her own, and this is the result.” When he smiled, I knew he wouldn’t forbid me. Whether he’d try to talk me out of it remained to be seen.

  “I know how unseemly this will appear to most, but it’s only slightly worse than my pursuing an education,” I said.

  Father gave a faint laugh. “Only slightly. I do wish you’d stay, though. A part of me was relieved you weren’t leaving for high academy. Quiet as you are, our home would be quieter still without you. How very silent it will be with you elsewhere,” he said.

  “I’ll be three wards away,” I said.

  “Distance is irrelevant when the presence is gone,” he said. His eyes moistened. He stepped past me to enter the hall. “I’ll make some tea.”

  My very heart felt sore. There was another reason I wished to go.

  I wanted to be somewhere empty of memories.

  ROTHWYKE DAILY MERCURY.

  21 September /35. Page 3, Column 5

  OLD WHEEL BETTERMENT—Last week, demolition commenced in our town’s oldest ward. Behind Fewmany Incorporated, jagged piles of debris stand where the first buildings have been cleared away. The ward’s grid of streets and squares will be replaced by what has been termed “a village unto itself,” where residents will be able to work, shop, eat, drink, and live within a gated domain. Completion and leasing of individual properties, in what will heretofore be known as New Wheel, is expected within three years.

  The Old Wheel Preservation Society, which attempted to negotiate protection of various historically significant structures, expressed disappointment in Fewmany Incorporated’s actions. The conglomerate wholly owns the land and buildings of that ward. No restrictions exist to prevent this new development.

  I’D FINISHED MY WORK FOR the day but lost myself in a book I intended to borrow. Evening fell without my notice. I packed the book in my satchel and slipped on my cloak. As I swept down the stairs, I heard footsteps and stopped before I collided with a man.

  “Oh-ho, fire or foe makes you flee?” he asked.

  Fewmany.

  “I hurry because a portion of my walk home is uneasy in the dark.”

  “Have you not accepted the offer of a carriage to bring you here and take you home each day?”

  “I wished not to impose.” That, and I wasn’t entirely certain he was sincere about all he offered when he first proposed my position. Indeed, he was.

  “ ’Twas meant to spare you the muck and rabble of the streets. Wait in the hall,” he said.

  I stood near the grand staircase as he walked under the west stair. A bell pealed. He appeared moments later with a lit lamp hanging from his fingertips.

  “The carriage is s
ummoned.” He gestured for me to walk forward as he remained at my side. “Has so long passed since I last saw my keeper of tales that the transmutation went unnoticed?”

  “Sir?”

  “Your appearance has changed.”

  I pushed up my spectacles and resisted the impulse to touch my hair. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well suited, with a cut of a scholarly jib,” he said.

  Although his tone hinted at nothing more than a kind observation, a flare of memory burned my ears. The night of the scissors and symbol, he had watched me transform before his eyes.

  When he opened the front door, the lid of the horizon was already shut. We stood in silence until he finally spoke.

  “Are you afraid of the dark?”

  “That depends on where I am and what might be near,” I said.

  “Mmm, yes. How true,” he said. Fewmany dangled the lamp. The light pooled on this boot, then the other.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  His candor startled me as much as the question itself. I wanted to laugh, but a stronger impulse held it back. “Do I have cause to be?” I asked.

  “ ’Twould be a pity if you did, as every accommodation has been made for your comfort.”

  “I appreciate each gesture, and I apologize if you’ve gleaned otherwise, sir.”

  “Still you don’t speak my name, after all this time.”

  “You are my elder, and I’ve been taught to show my respect. Besides, to my recollection, I failed to ask, and you never indicated how I should address you.”

  “Fewmany will suffice.” A change came over his face, one I could see even through the shadows. “Can you keep a confidence?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  I watched the light swing to and fro. I felt the weight of my hair and the satchel on my shoulder. The carriage rounded the corner of the manor. Part of me wished for the horses to hurry, to hold back what had become unbridled, but I did nothing to stop it. I wanted to know.

  “It’s a matter of bosom trust,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “I am known far and wide as Fewmany, but my given name is Lesmore Bellwether.”