by Kim Smejkal
Celia created a new door, unsure of how to manipulate the one designed for Rian, and closed it behind her with a click. On the other side, Griffin was probably standing there, watching it disappear. She imagined him pressing his palm to the bare wall, putting his ear to it, listening. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tracing her fingers against the grain of the wood on her side. For so many things, but, in that moment, mostly for the wall between them.
Downstairs, voices mixed together in a jumbled conversation. Celia hadn’t thought Lyric would wait around for her to finish visiting with Griffin, but their voice was pitched the highest, talking over Rian’s.
Xinto had responded to Celia’s summons but was eager to rejoin the party, leading the way in loop-de-loops, buzzing loudly. Celia followed, pressing her fingers to her lips, urging quiet. It didn’t sound like the kind of conversation they should barge into, and if Lyric and Rian were rehashing old wounds, Celia hoped to avoid intruding. Xinto listened, buzzing over and landing on Celia’s shoulder, tickling her neck with his fuzzy legs. She had no doubt that if she threw a twig, Xinto would fetch it. Such a good bee.
“Maybe it’s better if you don’t come round again,” Rian was saying.
“Or maybe I should ‘come round’ more often,” Lyric bit back, “to make sure you remember what a conscience is.”
Although Celia couldn’t make out the details of their disagreement, it sounded like an age-old difference of opinion. Something bone-deep that had created a wedge between them.
If Rian was Lyric’s Lupita, their relationship was fraught.
Unless Celia altered the home to give herself another exit—which wasn’t fair to Lyric, who’d waited for her—there was no way to avoid the front room. She cleared her throat as loudly as possible. “Uh, I’m sorry to intru—” She stepped around the corner and stopped, as if she’d hit a wall.
Lyric and Rian, standing in the middle of the sitting room, turned to face her. In Rian’s hand was a bottle of something Celia had seen only once before. It wasn’t the bottle she recognized—stark white and gleaming with the triangular symbol on the front—but the smell of the bottle’s contents.
Even muted with a stopper, even such a small amount, the vile scent of the poison still clawed its way up Celia’s nose, giving itself away. She’d made it herself, the first day in Halcyon’s studio.
One drop could kill a person in moments.
And if Rian had laughed it off before tucking it immediately away, if she’d dismissed it as “nothing to worry about,” or “a personal matter,” Celia would probably have believed her. Rian was a healer, after all. It made sense she would have both poisons and antidotes.
But Rian didn’t do those things. Instead, she flushed bright red and gently placed the bottle on a nearby table. She and Lyric stared at it, then glared at each other. “Lyric believes I have no heart,” Rian said, looking right into her grandchild’s eye. “When everything I do—everything I’ve ever done—has been for them.”
Only then did Rian laugh it off. She said all the right things as she hustled Celia out the door, but it was too late. Doubt had snuck in.
Chapter 15
In a gondola, Celia traveled down one of Asura’s many canals toward Lupita’s floating home. The sound of the water lapping at the sides of the boat and the soft, distracted humming from the gondolier were the only sounds of the night. The other person in the boat was wrapped in swaths of dark fabric, like a spool of thread. It was a strange sight, every limb pronounced, features hidden but not menacing. The figure leaned forward and held their hand out—every finger tightly swaddled, the cloth looping around their palms, wrists, up their arms—offering her a stoppered glass bottle.
“Remember Salome,” they said. Their voice was kind and soothing, sympathetic.
Celia took the bottle, uncorked the stopper, and remembered one of her first childhood friends at the temple. Salome’s fiery red hair rose up first, then her crooked smile, then the entirety of her friendly, freckled face. When one solitary tear fell from Celia’s eyes, she put the bottle to her cheek to catch it.
“Remember Monroe.”
The child’s laughter floated through the still air around her, and she added two more tears.
“Remember Lupita’s crisp blue eyes.”
“Remember Vincent.”
The small bottle was nearly full. Celia was in a place of quiet remembrance, the tears cathartic because she’d never before let them escape in such quantity. A small, grateful smile tugged reluctantly at her lips.
“Remember Zuni.”
Celia’s melancholy smile turned to a confused one. This was about remembering the dead. The casualties of Diavala’s false religion. She held the bottle toward the wrapped figure.
They didn’t take it. “Remember Dante. Remember Zuni.”
Celia pushed the bottle more forcefully toward the figure in black. It was meant for the memories of the dead and gone. Dante, Zuni . . . they weren’t dead.
Were they?
As if they knew her thoughts, they nodded their wrapped head and urged her to continue spilling and collecting her tears. “Remember Dante. Remember Zuni.”
“No,” she whispered. She corked the bottle and dropped it into the canal, where it bobbed and floated beside them in the inky nighttime water.
Unfazed, the figure held out another bottle. “Remember Lupita.”
Celia smacked the hand so the bottle went flying, landing in the water next to the other before coming to the surface to float beside it.
Another bottle Celia refused to touch. “Remember Wallis.”
She would not collect these tears, though they fell from her eyes like rain.
“Remember Wallis, the sloth Seer Ostra, Griffin . . .”
The offered bottles were endless; each time she batted one away, it was added to the cluster in the water.
The figure’s agitation rose slowly. First, a more forceful tone. Then trembles. Then head shaking. “Remember them,” they insisted.
When Celia glanced beside the boat, she saw the bottles bobbing in the water. Perfectly spaced apart, holding their positions, row upon row, each a curved swell springing up from the dark water. The canal was wide and long, bottles glinting all around them in parallel lines, toward the hidden banks and into the horizon.
Grave markers in the biggest cemetery of them all.
The gondola rocked. The gondolier’s soft song became louder, and instead of a lullaby it became a lament. They moved their rowing oar with precision, finding the water between grave markers, careful not to disturb them.
“Remember Zuni,” the wrapped figure said, scooping one of the bottles from the canal. They pushed forward, holding the bottle to Celia’s cheek themselves. As soon as the glass touched her skin, she was powerless to move away. The figure collected a full bottle of tears for Zuni as the gondolier sang his lament, then they returned the bottle to the water.
“Remember Lupita and Dante.” Another bottle, pulled out of the water, filled with tears, and replaced.
“Remember Griffin. Remember Wallis. Remember Lyric.”
Celia’s eyes burned with a dry, stinging heat. She couldn’t use them for seeing anymore, they were only for making tears. The sobs coming from her throat burned their way up, and she buckled, wrapping her arms around her waist to keep her insides from spilling out. She cried with her whole body, everything hurting with unparalleled pain.
Many of the bottles were full, but not all.
The gondolier sang for her, for the bottles of tears, for the people attached to those tears. Their voice was as deep as the water they floated in.
Celia had nothing left in her to give, but the wrapped figure was not yet satisfied. They pushed two bottles against Celia’s shattered skin, one under each eye, and waited for Celia to look up.
The fabric wrapping the figure’s head had loosened, peeling away just enough to reveal the face underneath. Despite being featureless—a blank canvas of a face without eyes, a no
se, or mouth—she knew it would be Diavala.
When the fabric peeled away, a darkness oozed from the hole, staining the cloth strips as it dripped. Trembling, Celia reached up to wipe the ink away, to see her tormentor’s face for the first time.
Black eyes as dark as the ink met hers, and Halcyon demanded, “Remember Anya.”
“Anya,” Celia whimpered, and shattered.
She had enough tears to fill the rest of the bottles after all. And then even more tears came, pouring from her eyes.
They coasted down the canal, surrounded by the markers of the dead, until the boat was pulled under by the weight of her never-ending tears, and Celia joined all of them in the water. Surrounded by ink, floating in a pool of it, captained by Halcyon.
Chapter 16
The nightmare held on, the bone-deep pain pinching Celia tight. When she gained enough sense of her surroundings through her gasps, she pushed Xinto away from where he’d been snuggling in the bend of her knees, her heart pounding against her ribs.
With a squeak, a decidedly non-beeish noise, Xinto flew off, hurt, to pout on the cold fireplace mantel, staring at her accusingly. But he was made of ink, and she’d just drowned in it. He was made of ink, and everyone she loved would end up drowning in it too.
Celia sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and stared into nothing as she tried to get her breathing under control. Admitting that the visit with Griffin the night before haunted her was like swallowing a jagged shard of glass. Diavala’s manipulations were contagious, spreading from Griffin and then to her.
Leaving Rian’s farmhouse with the sinister image of a bottle of poison seared in her mind hadn’t helped things.
A shudder rocked through her at the memory of her nightmare. Trusting Diavala unequivocally would be stupid, but perhaps she’d put too much trust in Halcyon. In the ink itself. She’d convinced herself that the ink wasn’t evil, only how one used it, but what did she really know of Halcyon’s intentions? She’d made a plan to take down Diavala without knowing all the facts, and it had cost her Anya. She couldn’t do that again and risk losing Griffin. She had to figure out the whole truth first.
And all of Halcyon’s secrets hid behind one closed door.
* * *
Celia walked through the main square toward the gate earlier than usual that morning, but there were already people out and about, thrill tainting the air. To say that Wisteria was excited about Halcyon’s upcoming party was an understatement. The square was undergoing a massive transformation: torches had been hauled out, a stage was being erected, and garlands hung from doorframes and windows. Halcyon had been overseeing everything. The other day she’d found him standing with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the construction of a low platform stage. A dozen sweaty people were hammering and sawing.
“Couldn’t we just do that with the ink?” Celia had asked, gesturing in their direction.
“Once in a while they need purpose. Coming together is good for morale.” It sounded like he was talking about errant children, a herd to manage.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she’d said slowly. If he was so precise about ink mastery, he would have specific requirements for Wisterian management too. She should have taken notes.
That morning, Celia skirted along the periphery of the square, sticking to shadows and side streets, with Xinto—who’d forgiven her for earlier—tucked inside her shirt to keep him quiet, praying that no one looked up from their work long enough to spot her.
Especially Lyric, who stood in front of the bakery with a few Wisterians, going over an order with the baker.
Celia didn’t see Halcyon, which was troubling. He should have been there already. Walking around another corner so no one could spot her, she pressed herself against a wall, counting out sixty seconds five times exactly, no longer trusting her ability to accurately comprehend time.
If Halcyon wasn’t in the square by then, she would reconsider her plan. The risk of being discovered would be too great.
When the allotted time was up, she peeked again, letting out a sigh of relief when she saw Halcyon striding toward Lyric and the baker. His punctual, perfectionist tendencies were handy for something.
Celia made it to the gate, scaled it, and darted through the tunnel of wisteria.
Every other time she’d gotten to the cherry-red front door, Celia had knocked and waited for Lyric or Halcyon to let her in, but it had been a courtesy. It was never locked. Why bother, if no one could see the gate except those who were invited?
So far, so good.
Walking down the long corridor toward the back room where she worked most often, Celia’s heart hammered in her chest. Every footstep echoed back to her as loud as thunder.
She hesitated at the door to the forbidden room. As soon as she broke in, she’d burn her and Halcyon’s verbal contract to ash.
Xinto, innocently astute as ever, emerged from inside her shirt and buzzed loudly near the door to the studio, as if trying to pull her in that direction.
Pressing her ear to the door, she listened, as if unheard whispers could tell her what to do. Her gaze landed on a portrait of Martina across the hall, one of the formal ones that made her look noble and stern. “What do you think?” Celia asked. “Are you okay with this?”
The idea of intruding into a space Celia wasn’t welcome didn’t bother her very much—that wasn’t what had kept her from trying the door all this time. It wasn’t even Halcyon’s anger.
Disrespecting the dead bothered her.
She didn’t know Martina and never would, but it was her space, even if she’d never found her way there.
Celia’s hand went to the sunflower doorknob, her fingers just dancing on the top, while Martina looked down on her.
Come on, Celia, haven’t you done enough? Celia imagined her saying. Leave me some dignity.
She hadn’t touched the sunflower doorknob since that first day, hadn’t asked Halcyon about it. Her bees had been smart. Something had told her to hide her interest in what lay beyond.
Her hand covered the sunflower, gripping tight. The doorknob was warm in her hand, and strangely malleable. Like if she squeezed hard enough, she could transform its shape.
She ground her teeth. Nothing was right here. Not even doorknobs.
It turned easily. The fact that it wasn’t locked showed how much Halcyon trusted her not to cross him. Another one of her bees scooped up that tidbit and held it close. The more trust there is, the bigger the betrayal, it warned her.
But she needed answers.
Celia pushed the door open and stepped in before she could change her mind, leaving Xinto waiting outside.
He cowered in the corner of the hallway and wouldn’t look at her.
Chapter 17
The unnatural warmth of the doorknob was nothing compared with the oppressive heat inside the room. Celia’s breath caught in her throat, the air thick and suffocating. It was too dark to see anything clearly, but it was a strange darkness: just as stifling as the heat and humidity, and one that a lantern or candle wouldn’t help chase away.
She stepped farther into the room, and behind her, the door swung closed.
She swiveled at the sound of the slam, and the handle on this side—a rose—stared at her.
Okay, that’s fine, she thought. I’m probably locked in now, but that’s fine. Everything’s fine.
Celia waited for her eyes to adjust. She could see only a few steps around her in any direction, the rest of the room swallowed by a void. It wasn’t black, but empty.
The heat tugged at her skin and burrowed into her lungs.
She should have been sweating, or shivering, or panting in gulps of air. Her heart should have been skipping ferociously.
That was a lot of should haves, and when she realized that her body wasn’t reacting at all like it should have, she froze.
She stopped breathing in the damp, hot air. And her lungs didn’t struggle, even after many minutes passed.
She put her hand to her chest slowly. No sound, no taps. Nothing but more empty.
“Okay, shhhhh, calm down,” she whispered. She would have liked to inhale a big, steadying gulp of air, but her lungs were broken, just like her heart.
Celia stifled the urge to laugh, knowing she was bordering on panic and trying hard to stay levelheaded. So her heart wasn’t beating—so what? So her lungs weren’t breathing and her skin wasn’t sweating, that was all fine. She didn’t feel dead, only a bit broken.
Most broken things could be fixed.
She’d expected a room of secrets, but it looked like she had to hunt for them and hope she could find her way back. The idea of losing the doorway out of that broken place made her very, very nervous.
The ink in her veins—was it still there if her blood wasn’t pumping?
With a clear thought (thank goodness her brain was still working) and a nudge, Celia pressed her quill to her wrist and commanded the ink inside her into the illusion she needed.
It began as a thrumming, unheard but visceral. The ink was still there, somehow, and it was listening hard.
Just like many of her other creations, the thread she created was not-there, and then there. Solid. Real enough. And in the palm of her hand.
With another nudge, she moved the thin, near-transparent line from the rose doorknob to around her wrist, unwinding it slowly. It was as insubstantial as spider’s silk, but indestructible, no matter how far it stretched. She believed it to be so, and so it was.
That’ll have to do, she thought, turning to face the dark empty.
A few steps in, the space around her erupted with light all at once. She swiveled around, but the doorway and the rose doorknob were gone. Her slim thread disappeared into emptiness at the end, hovering there as if attached to a ghost. She followed it back again, panicking, and her hand wrapped around the knob. She would have exhaled if her lungs worked. The way out was invisible now, but it was still there.