by Kim Smejkal
Celia laughed, trying to figure out what he meant. He couldn’t possibly know what the commotion was about. The noise around them was a roar of laughter, conversation, and music all jumbled together, and it was impossible to separate the details. Halcyon was engulfed in a swarm near Aspen and Blue’s back table, Lyric had turned back to the bar, and it wasn’t unusual to find Celia with a drink in her hand. No, he couldn’t yet know about her partnership with Halcyon.
Then she realized he wasn’t looking her in the eye.
His gaze was aimed a little too high. Higher than her hair, higher than the brim of her hat, at something right at the very top.
Oh no, Xinto.
“What’s a river lobster?” Celia asked with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Maybe if she didn’t acknowledge this, it wasn’t happening. So much for herding him out before someone spilled the tea—she’d done that all on her own.
Griffin continued to stare between Celia and the huge bee on her hat, all while soaking in the heightened celebratory feel of the night. As he pieced things together, his eyes shadowed, and it was clear he didn’t like the picture. “It seems you’re the face of deception now,” he mused aloud, and his soft words landed like a brand.
“Give me a minute to explain—”
“You’ve had so many minutes already,” he said, laughing, “and didn’t take advantage of any of them.”
That was true, but with very good reason. Surely he understood that.
“I didn’t realize you’d be so good at this, Celia.” He gestured to Xinto with a careless swing of his hand.
It didn’t sound like a compliment. His voice was so hard it could have shattered glass. Even as Michali came in and slapped him on the back for his “prime effort, with the lobsters! They’re wily little shits,” before moving on, Griffin didn’t shift his gaze. His eyes bored holes into Celia.
It didn’t sound like him.
It wasn’t him.
With a shudder silently quaking up her spine, Celia hated that she didn’t know the exact moment Diavala had come forward and taken over. When, exactly, had Griffin left the conversation? How big would the gap in his night be?
Celia’s concern now had nothing to do with Halcyon and Griffin chatting, nor with the townspeople giving away her impending indenture. The evidence of Celia’s lies and misdirection was peeking over the brim of her hat, cocking his wee black head at her as if asking if she was okay.
Not okay, Xinto!
Celia forced herself not to stiffen. “I’m glad you’re here now,” she said, casually tilting her half-spilled drink in an unreciprocated cheer. She had to play it cool, pretend it was Griffin without letting on that she’d realized Diavala had come forward. She’d made an epic mistake bringing Xinto along, but it wasn’t too late to fix it. “We have a lot to celebrate.”
Celia nudged Xinto to do a flyover of the crowd, earning claps and cheers from the locals. Diavala flinched when Xinto dove close.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, and I’m sorry I’ve been cagey about it, but how can you not love him, Griffin?” she said as Xinto perched on her shoulder and looked up at him innocently.
Diavala forced a strained smile. “I must have been stung as a child,” she said.
Maybe.
Or maybe because Diavala could no longer touch the ink, she loathed the black and yellow striped reminder of it.
Xinto nuzzled into Celia’s neck and tried to disappear down the front of her shirt.
There, there, Celia cooed silently, stroking his fat body. She can’t hurt you.
“Okay, so I know you’re probably pissed off,” she said with a long, weary sigh for effect. “But let’s just have a drink or two. Come on. It’d be rude to leave now.” Celia made her way to a long table where Davi, Michali, and a few others sat. “After all,” she added over her shoulder, “it’s my party.”
Please follow, please follow. Would that carefully placed bomb of information be enough to keep Diavala there a little longer? Would she decide it was too risky to stay, now knowing that Celia had been lying about working with her old enemy, or would her curiosity win out?
Griffin had been right, many days ago, when he’d said it was as if Diavala wanted them to encounter Halcyon but stay hidden herself. If Diavala wanted to stay far away from the one who scared her so much, it was far easier to run than to hide.
Diavala must have expected the meetings between Celia and Halcyon to benefit her somehow.
It was clear from the way Diavala side-eyed the furry puff, she hadn’t expected Xinto. Things had progressed without her knowledge, and not in the way she’d hoped.
Diavala had every reason to flee now.
Celia took a long swig of the fresh beer Garuld had shoved in her hand, blanching at the blandness of it, and wiped her mouth to hold in the sigh of relief that Diavala hadn’t run away yet.
“You drink too much,” Diavala said, sliding into the seat next to Celia. “It impairs your judgment.”
Celia smiled at Griffin, but all she saw was an enemy. A stab pulsed through her heart, and her throat closed. I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.
Diavala watched Xinto from behind Griffin’s eyes, continuing her survey of the people in the room, perhaps looking for one particular face. If she suspected a trap of some kind, she wasn’t letting on, but she would have her bearings soon. She would understand exactly how far things had progressed without her knowledge, and she wouldn’t like it.
Garuld clapped Griffin on the back quite hard and launched into a story from his childhood, his face flushed from too much wine.
“I don’t mean to cut you off—” Celia said to Garuld, doing just that. “But Griffin has no idea what this night is about.”
After a brief pause, everyone tried to tell him at once: “Celia is Halcyon’s apprentice!” “She knows his secrets and has vowed to take care of Wisteria!” “She’s one of us! And look at her adorable bee!”
“I’m going to get us all a round,” Celia said, standing.
Diavala gifted Celia with a furious smile. With so many people now eager to share the biggest gossip in years, everything Griffin had missed in his quest for river lobsters, Diavala couldn’t rightly make him stand up and leave, but there was only so long Diavala would tolerate this.
After ordering drinks, Celia shuffled her way to Lyric’s side. “I need your help,” Celia whispered from the side of her mouth. She dipped her chin and smiled at Halcyon when he looked over, then went back to watching Giada prepare the round of drinks.
Celia had never been more grateful for all the coin she’d made while on the road. Their table was mercifully packed with thirsty friends, and Giada’s work mixing and pouring them all would buy her enough time to fill Lyric in.
“I can’t keep them apart all night,” Lyric said, low. “Why didn’t you shuffle Griffin out when you had the chance?”
“Things have changed. I don’t have time to explain everything right now. But—” Celia hesitated only a moment before telling Lyric what she needed.
Lyric’s eyes widened. “You have a strange way of treating your friends,” they said slowly. “Trust me when I say I don’t really want to be involved in your business—”
“Then don’t be,” Celia snapped, immediately regretting it. “Look, it’s not what you think,” she said, quieter. “Can you help me or not?” She discreetly pulled the tiny packet of jipep seeds from her inside breast pocket. She’d carried them all the way from Asura, even sleeping with them pressed against her heart, always within reach. After Diavala had Touched Vincent and he’d collapsed into wails, tearing out his hair and scraping his skin while lost in a miasma of horrors and pain, the tonic made from these terrible seeds had been the only thing to sedate him.
Celia had hoped she’d never have to use them. After seeing what had happened with Vincent, she had a terrible suspicion that the seeds worked only on the outside—calming bodily function, but not the mind—and she couldn’t think of a worse t
orture than being stuck inside your own body, thoughts storming and hallucinations chasing you into every dark corner.
If she made this too strong, Griffin might be stuck trying to outrun those nightmares forever. She’d gift him with hallucinations powerful enough to drive him just as mad as from the Touch she was trying to save him from.
If she didn’t make it strong enough, Diavala would seize control and run, taking all hope of Griffin’s freedom with her.
Trembling, hiding her movements, Celia dropped one tiny seed, the size of a speck of dust, into Griffin’s rum.
Seeing that Celia was serious, something changed in Lyric’s face. Disapproval melded to confusion, their eyebrows knotting. Maybe they saw the truth: it wasn’t a callous move, but a desperate one.
Lyric turned their back to the room, nodded to Giada, and ordered a couple more drinks. Their lips pressed together into a tight line before they spoke. “I don’t expect Halcyon will ask too many questions about this, but I have a few for you later.”
Celia nodded and exhaled in relief. Having Lyric as an ally made this easier.
After adding all the drinks to her running tab, Celia made a few trips to deliver the round, then shuffled back onto the bench beside Griffin.
She slid him the glass of rum, tinted with poison.
As conversation buzzed around them, Diavala leaned close, pressing her lips to Celia’s ear. “I know you know it’s me.”
“Yes,” Celia said. “I know it’s you.”
To everyone at the table, it must have looked as if Griffin and Celia had retreated to lovers’ whispers: heads bent close, murmuring in each other’s ears. Diavala even tucked a strand of hair behind Celia’s ear tenderly, and Celia’s responding shudder might have looked like a shiver of pleasure. No one interrupted.
Almost everything could change in the blink of an eye, but Diavala’s self-serving behavior would never be one of them.
“What did you think would happen when I met Halcyon, hmm?” Celia asked. “That he would hurt me? Kill me? Something worse me?”
Xinto snuggled against her chest, appreciating the rhyme.
“All of the above, in relatively quick succession.” Their foreheads nearly touching, Diavala’s lips stretched into a smile, showcasing white teeth clenched together. It made Celia’s stomach turn, that looking at Griffin could revolt her so. “But I was hoping it would be his ink that finished you, as a sort of poetic justice.”
Charming.
Celia felt the familiar massive hate wash over her, pitch-dark and heavy. She took it in like fuel, barely hanging on to her calm façade. Part of her wanted to scream about how well everything was going, how quickly the ink had listened to her, how even Halcyon himself was impressed, how she had the answer to protecting Griffin . . .
The ink would save Griffin and others, and eventually it would avenge Anya. That would be poetic justice. The thing she’d always hated would be their savior; the thing Diavala had always treasured would be her downfall.
Celia took a moment to breathe, letting her hatred flow through her veins like a soporific, powering her.
Motivating her.
Celia stood and raised her glass, offering a toast.
“To Aspen and Blue,” she said, finding them in the crowd and smiling wide. “To another fifteen years of health and happiness.”
Lyric pressed their lips together in a tight line again, their face in its usual scowl, but resignedly raised their glass with the others.
“And to the future,” Celia said, seeking out Halcyon’s eyes, holding her drink up higher.
This is for you, Anny, and for you, Griffin.
Celia slammed back the drink as cheers rose up, people drinking, coughing, slapping tables, and laughing before rekindling their previous conversations.
Diavala drank.
Only few minutes later her eyes widened. “Do you care about your plague doctor not at all?” she whispered. Eyelids already drooping, she put her head down on the table.
“Lightweight!” Michali roared, shaking Griffin’s shoulder, trying to rouse him. “If I’d known you were so precious, I wouldn’t have invited you to the lakes today!”
Laughter surrounded them.
Celia pressed her face close. “You thought you’d win,” she whispered. “That’s the only reason you were humoring this escapade with Halcyon. Don’t tell me you would have stuck around to see how this new path played out. I’m doing this for my plague doctor, Diavala. If you’d known that Halcyon and I were working together, you would have taken Griffin and run from this place, you would have found a way to rip him apart and kill him without harming your precious legacy, and you would have spent a lifetime in hiding, out of my reach, biding your time all over again. I will not let that happen.”
Diavala’s eyes flashed as she struggled to stay conscious. She looked angry enough to set the table on fire with her rage. “This is the biggest mistake of your life, Inkling. You have no idea what—”
“All I see is a win on the horizon,” Celia said, leaning in even closer, her lips tickling Griffin’s ear. “And it’s glorious.”
Interlude
“We have a problem.”
It took the plague doctor a while to understand that this wasn’t his own thought. He was, after all, trapped in a room with no door and trying not to hyperventilate. He could pick any lock and escape from any binds, but only if there were locks and binds.
Closing his eyes, he focused on separating Diavala out. Every time she intruded now, he made sure to give her form and substance. He imagined a conversation with someone in front of him.
Another performer.
Diavala had been ten or so when she’d been drowned, so he imagined a ten-year-old child. Long brown hair in a simple braid. Threadbare pants and sweater. Unexceptional, except for her purple eyes. Striking. A violent shade of violet. He made her real with just enough not-real to remind himself of the truth; otherwise she could be any young player who’d ever come through the troupe—Remy or Maude, Coral or Ivan.
We have so many problems, he agreed. Namely, that Celia had been the one to put them in this doorless room, at the mercy of a near-toothless stranger who’d named herself after a war criminal. That Celia had drugged him to get him there (and not the nice kind of drug) was the worst part. Perhaps Celia believed that protecting him, no matter the cost, would banish her guilt over not saving Anya, but both he and Diavala knew better: certain ghosts lingered forever.
He squeezed his hand into a fist and scraped it down the doorless wall, grimacing. Celia was so close to being consumed by Anya’s ghost. Anya lingered in every move she made, every breath she took. Ghosts are strange that way; they’re supposed to be made of love, but they’re oh so hungry all the time. Insatiable.
“Your mind wanders around more than a hummingbird seeking nectar, plague doctor,” Diavala said. Impatience made her thoughts hiss. “Don’t waste time grieving. If Halcyon has seduced her, she’s already lost.”
Seduced her . . .
All I know for sure is that Celia made a big bee out of ink, he reminded himself.
But he’d never been a convincing liar, and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t force himself to swallow that one. Celia had done far more with Halcyon already: they’d become allies, confidants, an apprentice and a master. And it was the ink that Celia claimed to hate that had brought them together.
Forcing himself to unclench his fist, the plague doctor pressed his palm to the smooth marble walls. So opulent and ridiculous. He couldn’t even name the closest nation that mined for marble.
Was everything in Wisteria an illusion, then? Was this wall even real? If Celia could make a giant bee now, what else could she do under Halcyon’s tutelage?
He crept toward the only window, not quite trusting the tiles under his feet nor the roof over his head. It was a large enough window for him to fit through if he smashed each of the dozen small glass panes and ripped apart the frame. He had his trusty hammer. Ma
ybe it would work . . .
Then he’d only have to deal with the impossible four-story drop into Rian’s flower bed.
“Are you listening to me, plague doctor?” Diavala shouted.
Why should I? he asked absently, mentally weighing how much Kinallen powder he’d need to bounce himself down. If wind speed and direction were on his side, he could do it. People assumed that the plague doctor’s levitation was an optical illusion—wires or some nonsense—but he could, when pressed, do something akin to flying. It was one of the biggest trade secrets he’d ever been gifted with, from an old player named Stash before he’d retired. “Kinallen powder usually combusts into flame,” Stash had told him. It had been the one and only time he’d ever spoken offstage, despite working with the troupe for years. “But under the right conditions, that point between stasis and combustion, it can also create pockets lighter than air. And if you train enough, you can master them. And fly.”
At twelve years old, Griffin had believed him. Even after he understood, logically, that it had more to do with manipulating a chemical reaction, he still believed him. He could fly.
“You should listen because I’m saintly next to Halcyon,” Diavala said. “Halcyon will waltz Celia—and you, if you don’t heed me—into the deepest pits of hell before she even realizes what’s happening.”
As he stared into the darkening fields, the plague doctor thought of dagger cuts, bleeding, applause, and a broken Celia on a stage. He thought of his role in creating the worst memory of her life. Oh, we’re already there, aren’t we? And if I recall correctly, Halcyon isn’t the one who started this particular act.
To Diavala’s simmering silence, he tested the glass by rapping his knuckles on it, hoping it wasn’t as thick as it looked.
It was.
He’d just decided to make a series of increasingly loud noises, culminating with smashing one windowpane, to test the decibel level that summoned Rian the Toothless, when Diavala intruded. “Do you know anything about Martina, plague doctor?”