by Allison Pang
Free, free, free . . .
“Mags!” Dr. Barrows bursts though the door, shouting after me, but I’m already wriggling through the opening and onto the roof.
A snicker escapes me at Molly’s squeak of fury, but I can’t bring myself to care. Of course that’s partially because I’m bleeding something fierce and shaking like a squalling newborn. But at least I’m free.
I stumble around the chimney, my hand clenching at my rib cage as I attempt to bind my shirt more tightly over the wound. Slumping, I lean against the brickwork, my muscles shivering. I can’t seem to make them stop.
I shift and lurch to my feet. My toes scrape on the shingles, the cold lancing through them. I linger on the roof and take in my surroundings. Below me is the alley where Sparrow died. It was only a few nights ago now, but it feels like years. I shake away the memory of the blood blossoming beneath her shirt.
Ghost materializes out of the shadows, and I startle. He reaches out to steady me, careful of my injury. “They don’t mean you harm.”
“And how would you know anything about it?” Neither Dr. Barrows nor Molly had mentioned Ghost in any of this. But the ease with which he speaks of them could only mean they are somehow working together. I push his hand away. “They mean to send me down to the Pits.”
“I know,” he says. “It was my idea.”
“What?” I step back, a sick lump tight in my gut. I can’t outrun him, wounded as I am. I’m standing on a wire over some great hole, the hollow ache of betrayal deep within my bones. One wrong step and I’ll tumble into the dark, swallowed into the belly of some great beast.
Realization snaps through me. My fist connects with his jaw, drawing a surprised grunt from him as my knuckles crack with the impact and he staggers away. “Your idea? Your idea? What, lure Sparrow and me here on the premise that you’d found a buyer? All this was, what? Some sort of setup?”
Somewhere in the tangled thread of my thoughts I know what I’m saying isn’t quite right. I would have been at the Conundrum regardless to trade in the chit, but staring at the alley fills me with nothing but images of Sparrow, and my grief attaches to the nearest target.
“You knew!” My voice is a whisper, but I’m screaming in my mind. “You knew they were coming for me. For Sparrow.”
“I didn’t know.” He rubs his chin with a grimace. “My offer of a buyer was genuine. And even if I had known they were coming, you wouldn’t have listened. You didn’t exactly welcome my company,” he points out dryly.
I still can’t seem to stop shaking, and I sink to my knees, bile filling my belly.
He squats beside me, and I stare blankly at him. “You need to rest,” he says.
I blink rapidly as I try to focus, though my head spins like a lopsided top. “What about Sparrow? What happened . . . to her?”
“When it became apparent that Rory wasn’t going to collect her, I did. I burned her bones at the Salt Temple and scattered her ashes upon the sea. I think she would have liked that.” He pauses and I catch the sorrow in his eyes, but as apologies go, it’s empty.
I swallow my bitterness. “Aye.” For a moment I wonder where he would have spread my ashes, had it come to that. But what did it matter? I wouldn’t care at that point anyway. I press my face into my hands, whimpering as my stitches catch on the cloth of my shirt.
“Come on, Mags. Let the doctor fix you up at least. Before you make a decision.” He exhales sharply. “I’ll make sure they tell you everything. And if they don’t, I will.” His mouth curves into a sad smile.
I lift my eyes to meet his. “Why should I?”
His gaze rolls skyward, away from me. “Because if you do this, I’ll take you to Meridion.”
Trip Trap, Trip Trap
Cloven hooves clatter to reveal.
Beneath the bridge, the goats attend
Impale the troll on horns of steel.
CHAPTER 6
I’m partially wrapped in the blanket, standing beside the fire. The doctor inspects my wound with precise fingers. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. His anger hisses through every exhalation.
The scrapped remains of the bloody shirt lie at my feet. My toes wriggle on the hardwood, cramping beneath the rush of heat from the flames. A bowl of warm water sits on a table beside us, bandages and a spool of fine catgut beside it.
And then there’s the doctor, threading his curved needle through the parchment-thin layers of my skin. Each prick jolts me back to the moment, though the sensation is distant compared to the chaos of questions in my head. But I’m not getting any answers until Dr. Barrows is satisfied I haven’t done any lasting harm to myself.
Ghost has taken up guard beside the doorway. I still don’t know what to think. His previous words have left me reeling.
Finally, the doctor eases back in his chair. “I’ll tattoo it once it’s healed a bit more. Assuming you rest this time,” he adds, getting to his feet. I poke at one of the stitches, snarling when he pushes my hand away and then picks up the shirt. “I’d rather been hoping this would have lasted longer than a few hours.”
I blink. “It’s yours?”
“Well, we weren’t exactly going to steal from the customers to clothe you. If you’d prefer a corset next time, I’m sure that could be arranged,” Molly says from where she’s coiled upon the plush sitting chair. She sips a bronze liquor from a snifter, swirling it with a delicate flick of her wrist.
Ghost snorts, and I shoot him a glare. “That won’t be necessary.” I swallow. “And I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Dr. Barrows gathers the bowl and the remaining bandages. “Wash day tomorrow. We’ll get you something better fitting.”
“I want some explanations first.”
“We can’t tell you all of it. Not yet.” Molly stares at me, her eyes hard. “Not until we know you’re with us.”
“Try.” I pull the blanket tighter about my shoulders and press my lips into a thin line.
She inclines her head at Ghost. “If you would?”
He nods and slips out the door. The doctor follows behind Ghost, leaving me alone with Molly and the two of us size each other up like a pair of alley cats.
I keep my thoughts to myself. At least they’re attempting to show me something. I’ve no interest in fighting with Ghost’s promise of Meridion dangling in front of me. After everything he’s said I’m not sure I really believe him, but I’m willing to at least hear what they have to say.
Molly clears her throat. “I’m not sure where to begin. There are years of history here, but the long and short of it is that we need someone down in the Pits to find information.” She raises her brow at me. “This is where you come in.”
“Maybe you’re not aware of it, but none of us comes back.” I stare at my hands sourly and sigh. “What kind of information?”
“Indeed. And we wouldn’t send you down there without an escape plan,” Dr. Barrows says as he returns, hands freshly washed up and carrying another shirt over his arm. He quickly shuts the door. “What do you know of the Rot?”
I snort. “Only that I can’t get it and somehow that makes me worth less than a gutter rat, according to the Salt Temple.” My voice turns singsong as I parrot the Tithe prayer at him. “‘Blessed are the sin-eaters, the embodiment of the damned, cradling the sins of the people within as we sacrifice those suffering from the vices leading to the downfall of civilization.’ Blah, blah, blahhhh, blah, blah.” My upper lips curls. “Not a particularly encouraging religion, mind.”
“I imagine it might be difficult to pray to a god that insists upon your demise before most of you reach twenty, yes,” he retorts, but not without sympathy. “Well, the Salt Temple aside, there are certain . . . rumors that indicate Meridion’s role in the rise of this plague. That putting those who succumb to it into a forbidden place is perhaps less about protecting others from contracting the disease and more to hide their culpability.”
“Their what now?” I frown, trying to make sen
se of his words. “I don’t follow.”
“There is evidence to suggest the Meridians actually created the Rot.” His lips purse. “And speculation that they unleashed it on purpose.”
Confusion twists my face. “But why? All those people, condemned to a living death?”
He shrugs. “That’s one of the things we mean to investigate. I have suspicions as to how the plague is currently being spread, and I wonder if the bonewitches may not inadvertently be distributing it.”
My brows furrow. The salt priests insisted only the sinful could catch it, but I’ve never noticed that being pious had any effect one way or the other. “But the bonewitch tattoos . . . That’s why the Inquestors enforced the policy in the first place. So there’s a record of patients.”
“But the Inquestors don’t share their records with us. I’m hoping to find a pattern—perhaps an increase of infected patients who might have visited certain bonewitches recently or bonewitches who might be getting kickbacks from the Inquestors themselves. If we can find proof of their work—perhaps via the bonewitch marks on those sent below—we’d be one step closer to figuring out the mystery.”
“Might be simpler just to ask the bonewitches,” I point out.
“We tried that,” Molly says. “But desperate witnesses make desperate claims, and before long, we realized many of them were just saying what we wanted to hear for the chance to make a few shillings. Not the type of evidence we can rely upon.”
“And don’t even bother mentioning the salt priests.” Dr. Barrows rolls his eyes. “They’re too caught up in their own self-righteousness to even question what they’re doing. Whatever their silly dogma says about sin, don’t you believe it. The Rot is caused by a virus—a highly infectious pathogen that can be spread by multiple means. Blood. Saliva. Most bodily fluids, really, but direct contact is required. By rights, a heavily enforced quarantine should have wiped it out ages ago.”
He eyes me shrewdly. “If Moon Children are truly immune, why haven’t they studied your blood? Tried to figure out an antidote? The Inquestors must know the Tithes to the Pits are a ludicrous concept if their intent is to prevent the disease from spreading. Hell, aside from the early breakouts when the plague first hit, it seems almost . . . cyclical in nature now. Therefore, the only conclusion I can come up with is that they actually intend for citizens to become infected.”
I recoil at the idea. “That’s monstrous.”
“Yes, of course it is. That’s why we want to stop it.”
“Not that,” I snap at him. “Yes, it’s tragic that innocents are dying for nothing more than a religious farce, but why are you trying to discover it only now?”
He blinks at me. “Nearly half my life I’ve been working to find the answer. If I can figure out a way to at least keep the Rot from spreading, a vaccine, perhaps, something . . .” His eyes meet mine, burning with such intensity I nearly expect it to scald me. “I just hadn’t thought about using a Moon Child before.”
I scoff. “Why would you? Moon Children are invisible until you need us, right? It’s like asking a cow for permission to butcher it.” My voice shakes with anger, at the loss of so many of my clan to the Tithes. And for what? A charade? I press my palms against my forehead, unsure if either of them can understand the sudden wave of grief threatening to wash over me.
“Mags,” he says gently, “that’s not what I meant.”
I wave him away, swallowing my fury. “Even if I found proof down there in the Pits, who would ever believe it? You think the Inquestors will give two shakes if a Moon Child comes to them bearing accusations?”
“They might if the BrightStone Chancellor is the one doing the accusing.” His mouth quirks into a half smile. “With the right evidence, we might have a chance at changing things. Or at least getting Meridion to pay attention to what’s really happening down here.”
“Why would the Chancellor care what we say? I thought she was just a figurehead. The gods know she’s never helped me or mine.”
He tips his head, musing over the question. “Perhaps in the past that was so, but Chancellor Davis is newly elected into her office and she is determined to set things in motion.”
A frown creeps over my face. “You seem to know an awful lot about what the leader of BrightStone wants . . . That’s pretty impressive for a bonewitch living in a brothel.”
“Indeed,” he chaffs. “I am the Chancellor’s personal physician to start with, but we go back a little ways further than that, under circumstances you don’t need to know just now.”
“If you say so,” I mutter. “Better start stockpiling weapons, then, because I doubt the Inquestors will listen to anything without a gun pointed at their heads.”
“That, too, is an option,” the doctor says, staring at me. “Though not ideal, the Chancellor is not above such considerations, should they be needed.”
“Now I know you’re insane.” I cross my arms, rubbing at the sudden rush of goose bumps. It had never mattered to me before who was running BrightStone. After all, my living conditions never changed regardless of who was passing the laws. That the actual Chancellor of the city might be involved gives this entire discussion an air of seriousness I hadn’t considered. The idea of a revolution has always seemed laughable. But here, discussing treasonous secrets with the doctor and Molly, the concept suddenly seems all too possible. A nervous flutter takes root in my gut.
The door rattles, and Ghost emerges from the hallway before anyone can say anything else. He’s carrying a box and shuts the door with his foot. My ears prick when the sound of metallic hissing echoes from within.
I thrust my chin at him. “Dragons, is it?”
He opens the box to reveal a cage with my dragon pacing inside. My eyes narrow at Ghost, and he nods. “Peace, Mags,” he murmurs, unfastening the cage door.
Molly stands in front of the chimney this time, though they seem to have forgotten the skylight is still open. I don’t enlighten them of this fact. And it doesn’t matter anyway because the dragon shoots from the cage into the room . . . and straight toward me. I duck, the blanket falling to my waist, but the dragon lands on my wrist and clambers onto my shoulder, its tiny claws digging into my skin. Ghost pointedly ignores my naked chest, but the doctor hands me the shirt he brought without a word.
Molly chews on her lower lip. A crimson drop winks at me from the tip of a pointed tooth. “It seems to have a fondness for you, doesn’t it?”
I wince, trying to pull it off my shoulder so I can put on the shirt. The linen smells of lavender, as if it’s been locked in a trunk somewhere. The dragon settles itself on my shoulder again when I’m done, its tail coiled partly around my neck. Almost on instinct, I stroke its spine, the beating ember of its glass heart oddly comforting.
“I told you before—I don’t know anything about it. Sparrow and I found it in the slag heap outside the Warrens.”
Molly shakes her head. “The Inquestors are trying to keep them from being discovered. You did say you found more than one?”
“Part of one. With the body of the architect. Are there more?”
“The one you have is the only one we know of that’s whole,” Dr. Barrows says. “Considering the architect had one, it’s only reasonable to assume Meridion is using them for some purpose. Probably some form of communication, but we haven’t discovered much more than that. With any luck, we’ll able to study this one.”
“So why not tell the Chancellor about the dragon?” I ask bluntly.
“The Chancellor will need more than rumors and fairy tales to bring before the council. The dragon’s purpose is still unknown to us; without proof, I run the risk of being called a fraud for my pains. And as for the architect, I made some inquiries at the morgue. They’ve ruled his death ‘accidental.’” He makes a face. “So much for those murder charges. And there’s no way to reopen the case at this point as the body was cremated shortly after.”
I sag onto the bed, my head spinning with everything that’s been
thrown at me this evening. Politics, the Rot, secret messages, conspiracies . . . I’d be overwhelmed about any one of those on a good day, even if it didn’t sound like something out of a penny dreadful.
Fool’s game, Mags. You cannot even read. What help could you be?
I say as much aloud.
“That was my point exactly,” Molly says, irritation radiating off her in waves.
Dr. Barrows nods. “We’ll do the best we can to figure something out. We’ve a bit of time before my next meeting with the Chancellor. I can teach her what she needs to know in the interim while she continues to heal—the basics of bonewitch marks, reading, writing.” His face becomes serious as he looks at me. “But I’ll need all your attention, all your effort. Your physical skills are quite obviously without question, but if you can’t steal the information, we’ll need you to memorize it.”
“You all must think I’m soft in the brain. Why waste your time on me?” The dragon grinds into my shoulder and nips my ear. I point at Ghost. “Why don’t you go instead?”
Ghost steps forward, his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. His cap hangs from his belt, showing off his shining and shaggy hair. I’ve never seen his head uncovered before. It makes his face seem older somehow. He turns around to show me his neck. It’s unmarred, with no sign of a brand. “Because I can’t.”
I frown, a piece of the puzzle falling into place. Of course. The Inquestors record the clan brand of each Moon Child entering the Pits during a Tithe. Without a brand, there is no way the Inquestors would let a Moon Child through the gates. They’d know something is up.
Still.
I lift the hair from the nape of my neck, exposing my own brand. Not that I’ve ever seen it directly, but I’d seen Sparrow’s often enough to know what it looked like. A crescent moon and a number, burned into my skin the day Mad Brianna sold me off to the Banshees. “Well, we might have a problem anyway, seeing as when I ‘died’ the Inquestors would have taken me off the Tithe roster. Last-minute substitutions sometimes happen, depending on certain circumstances, I suppose, but if they look too closely . . .”