by Kim Smejkal
Ah, yes, it would be hard to remember details when you’re a thousand years old, wouldn’t it? She bit her tongue against everything she still didn’t understand and focused on what she did.
The ink.
He’d said that scent was closely tied to memories, and literally the only thing she hadn’t tried yet was drawing on her own.
“So? Show me,” he said, stepping back.
Celia inhaled. You’ve performed without practice before, Anya reminded her. On a stage in front of hundreds, with everything to lose, and you did it fabulously. You can do this, too.
The scents she could call to mind best—damp mold, rotten apple, blood, ink—weren’t ones Halcyon would appreciate in his town.
But Celia had had a shirran once, a buttery breakfast pastry that smelled strongly of the ground anise that peppered the glorious insides. It had stuck with her, the lusciousness of the scent, and she’d never smelled it in Wisteria.
It reminded her of Vincent and his preciously rare ghost of a smile.
It reminded her of peace and happiness.
For her, it was the scent of safety.
She drew the shirran on her arm, imagining the anise smell taking over the flower smell slowly. She knew she didn’t have to draw the actual pastry for this exercise, but it helped focus her. It gave her purpose, a shape she could understand. Lines disappeared from her arm as she dismissed the ink, invisible, into the breeze. To be safe, she was using the gentle wind and the underlying scent of wisteria as anchor points, to be sure the shirran scent spread everywhere.
At first she couldn’t tell if it worked. She was imagining the scent, and the sight of Vincent’s placid, beautiful face that she associated with it, with such determination that the smell could have easily been in her own mind.
Then she noticed a couple of people stop dancing and a few more conversations taking place before even more people changed course and headed toward the refreshment table at the far end of the square, as if they assumed the smell came from there.
Celia’s own stomach rumbled. The image of a shirran had disappeared from her arm, the ink dismissed to create the scent that would linger until she or Halcyon decided to override it.
Halcyon shook his head in disbelief. The pride in his face shone, and for a moment she felt like puffing out her feathers and strutting. It took a lot to impress him, and it took even more to surprise him. After all these days—how many?—of work, she’d grown accustomed to moving on to the next task without fanfare.
But this was what they’d both been waiting for.
She’d found the way to force the ink to listen to her intent.
“Won’t they be disappointed when there aren’t any fresh shirrans on that table,” he said, his tone amused.
“So now that you know I can be the caretaker Wisteria deserves when you’re away, it’s your turn.” Celia turned away from the duped masses and faced him. “The cure for Diavala’s Touch.” Pretty please. She smiled.
She expected him to bargain for more time, somehow. To promise it after the celebration, or after he returned from his first trip. But he nodded and smiled, still facing the refreshment table. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he said. “I’ll begin making it tomorrow morning. After all, a promise is a promise.”
Celia still managed to be shocked. “There really is a cure, then?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“I am many things, Celia, but a liar isn’t one of them.”
With that bold lie, delivered straight to her face with no hint of remorse, Celia flushed.
“Be warned, though,” he added, distracted, perhaps already planning a trip to find dead Martina. “That it is a delicate—and lengthy—process. If I begin tomorrow, it may still be a week or two before the cure is ready.”
There it was: bargaining for more time. He would dangle the possibility of a cure over her head for as long as possible. Celia had a hard time not ripping his pretty, swirling green eyes out of his head. Somehow she managed a tight smile and a deep bow.
Song after song, they danced. They danced on Halcyon’s illusion, under his illusion, through his illusion.
Celia wondered what Wisteria would be like if the illusion were stripped away. Dancing on dust, everything made of bones. The smiles and laughter of the Wisterians was innocent and ugly at the same time. They cared nothing about the outside world. To them, there was no outside world. It was a privileged life, full of luxury and self-indulgence.
Celia even danced with a shadow. How had he managed to cheat his own death for so long? Time passed strangely whenever she was around him, so perhaps he’d found a way to make the ink command the clock. He was nature, time, and the reaper, all at once.
By the time Halcyon signaled for the band to stop playing and gestured for everyone to leave the platform, Celia wasn’t entirely positive it was the same night.
“This will only take a moment,” he said, “and then you can all go back to the revelry.” He scanned every face, and when he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he continued. “I’ve taken care of Wisteria for a long time, and as most of you know, I’ve finally found someone capable of taking up my mantle and working alongside me. It’s no small thing, to assume this responsibility. Wisteria is my home, my masterpiece, and I care deeply about it and everyone who lives here.”
He turned to Celia.
“Celia Sand doesn’t have the same history with you that I do, but she will learn to love Wisteria with time and care, I have no doubt.”
Tentatively, Celia bowed as all of Wisteria clapped for her. They seemed even more thrilled at the news than they had when he’d first told them, though she didn’t understand why. Until one person’s loud exclamation reached her: “This is wonderful! He’s been alone for so long . . .”
They weren’t happy for her, for themselves, or even for their town.
They were happy for Halcyon.
As she rose from her bow and Halcyon took her hand, the applause became a deafening roar.
She met Halcyon’s eyes and held on. “To prove my commitment,” she said quietly, “I will expand Wisteria’s borders.”
As the crowd continued their hooting and hollering, oblivious to Celia’s declaration, Halcyon leaned in close. “You might have mastered giant bees and baking scents, but nothing so grand as everything. If you feel the need to show off for them, what about fireworks or little mistico bats?”
“Misti-bats,” she corrected. “But you’re a very good teacher, and I’m an exceptional student.”
Her mind bees rallied to boost her confidence while her real bee made his way to her palm like a little ruler on his throne. You’re an aloof ink master, she told herself. You have nothing to worry about. You’re more naturally talented than even Halcyon himself.
Celia’s imagination had conjured a barren landscape of death and decay under the pretty covering, and her stomach roiled against the idea of stretching it farther, but if her goal was to get him to trust her completely, expanding his beloved town was the best way.
She also needed to know she could do it.
Running her mind through every lesson she had had with Halcyon, she kept coming back to scent. He’d been overly focused on it, to the point of absurdity. She’d thought all the wisteria in Wisteria was for aesthetic appeal, but it was deeper. If all illusions needed to be tethered to another illusion, all those links would quickly become cumbersome. But perhaps the birds could fly and the clouds could roam and everything could feel more fluid and connected if the tether were invisible. Connected by scent.
Shifting so that she had a line of sight down the one straight road that led out of town, Celia took out her quill, Xinto holding tight to the back of her wrist like a corsage so she had freedom of movement. The road she focused on was illuminated with sparkling hanging lights, just like the main square, as if Halcyon had lighted the way for her. Though there was no visible boundary between the illusions of Wisteria and the outside world, he’d created o
ne there: the lights stopped abruptly partway down the road.
In that particular direction there were no farmhouses or properties, nothing but the forests and lakes of the west, where mysterious wily creatures called river lobsters lived in lakes.
She focused on the trees in the distance, just past the line of lights, and pushed the scent of wisteria blossoms outward. In order to give the ink some direction, on her arm and in her mind she sketched a rough landscape image of the tree line, the road—first cobblestones, then dirt—as it wound through the pale trunks and disappeared. With the scent of wisteria all around her, real and delicate, she nudged it farther. There, she thought. I want you to stretch there.
But in order to grab it properly, she had to imagine what wisteria smelled like to her.
She thought of that moment of unexplainable dread when Griffin had snapped off a bunch when they’d first arrived.
The thrill of hope she’d had when she’d tattooed an image of it for Halcyon.
The way the scent was connected to Anya, because everything was connected to Anya.
To most, wisteria smelled like subtle vanilla, but to Celia it was the scent of her darkest side: the confused one, the desperate one. The part of her that would do whatever it took to overcome Diavala and Halcyon both, and be free of the devils that played such games.
She sent the command away after sketching on her arm. There was no way to visibly tell if that bend in the road was now part of Wisteria until they tried to embellish it.
“Go ahead,” she said to Halcyon. “Feel free to check my work.” She dropped her head, waiting. For a brief moment she was suspended under her bell jar, nothing but a devil onstage, waiting at the mercy of her jailer, who believed he was an angel.
A slice of noise cut through the silence, the heavy roar of cheers and applause as the audience reacted to whatever Halcyon had done.
The lights extended farther down the road now, sparkling like fireflies, illuminating the once-dark trees.
“You added a section as large as a house,” he said with wonder.
As part of Wisteria now, it could be manipulated in any way they wanted: with shrubs, a sign of welcome, the façade of a building, another garish fountain if they were so inclined. More ink had a place to attach to more ink, and on and on.
“Now you can add to that, Celia,” he said, admiring her work. “And embellish it however you’d like. Wisteria is an homage to the souls we love and have lost. This beauty is for them. You can add things Anya would have liked: a particular plant or animal—style the buildings as she would have appreciated.” He smiled down at her, as if that offer were kind and generous, given with love.
“What a wonderful idea,” she said in a whisper. It sounded like awe in her voice, so that was good. His smile turned softer at it, his shoulders relaxing as he looked out into the distance.
With the relative ease and unobtrusive way of using scent as a tether, Wisteria’s expansion was limited only by desire. If she wanted, she could walk down a road, adding to Wisteria as she went. If sixty copies of herself and Halcyon walked outward from Wisteria, they could take over Illinia in the amount of time it took to traverse the landscape.
He put her thoughts to words. “We can expand ever farther, you know. There are no limits.”
With a prodigy such as Celia at his side, anything was possible.
The applause had died down, and the people were silent, as if waiting for some sort of public acknowledgment from their leader. Even the whispers, speculating what was going on between them onstage, hushed. Halcyon shook his head and smiled at them.
“To mark the occasion, I have one favor to ask,” he said. “I ask that every courtesy you extend to me, you now also extend to Celia. She is the key to a thriving Wisteria for many years to come, and I expect everyone to understand this and act accordingly. When I travel, she is in charge and has my full support.
“She will have to earn your respect, of course, and you don’t have to like her—goodness knows I don’t like her much of the time—” That earned some laughs, of course. “But it’s in everyone’s best interest that she succeed, and you know what to do to make that happen.”
His people nodded and clapped. Celia didn’t see what they could do differently—they’d all been remarkably pleasant.
“What are you asking of them, exactly?” Celia asked.
“Well, now there’s an entire town to make sure you stay focused,” he answered lazily.
Celia looked out at the crowd again. Their happy smiles had more teeth, their waving hands were claws. They looked at her, as hungry as the dead souls on the other side of his forbidden door.
She blinked the image away, and when she scanned their faces again, she saw nothing but eager, wide-eyed appreciation, their claws and teeth hidden now, looking again like wayward children—never leaving, never questioning, taking everything Halcyon said and did as fact, regardless of truth.
She’d grown up in an insular place, indoctrinated by those more powerful, so she felt she should understand these people a bit better. Then again, the Profetan temple and Wisteria had little in common. She’d doubted Profeta because she’d hated Diavala. These people didn’t doubt Wisteria, because they loved Halcyon. However toxic their admiration looked to her, they thought they were in love: with Halcyon, with their town, with beauty they didn’t know was tainted.
Unless they were made of ink, too.
That was certainly a disturbing thought, but their tenors looked normal enough. Halcyon’s tenor—with its confusing jumble of hues—was the only one that looked different, but that had to be because of his unnatural life span.
No, they couldn’t be made of ink. Lyric? Impossible.
Celia shook the thought away and turned to Halcyon.
With dramatic flair, he bowed to her. The pendant escaped his shirt again, always taunting her now, and she saw it more clearly than she ever had: made of heavy stone, smooth and flat, its face etched with an abstract design of swirls. She’d only caught glimpses of it over the weeks, but the design was one she recognized. It matched the eddies and swirls of the design on his Chest Majestic.
Lyric had said it protected him from the dead souls on the other side of the veil.
Celia bowed to him just as deeply, holding back the urge to snatch it from around his neck and yank it off so he was in for a surprise next time he went for a trip.
Addressing the crowd, he commanded, “Now, continue with the party, have fun, and dance all evening!”
Everyone took the dismissal with grace and started up their noise again. Halcyon offered his hand, and like a good acolyte, Celia took it. This time, she was even able to produce a genuine smile.
If she could add to the illusion, she could also tear it all down.
Chapter 23
Lyric sat hard right by Celia’s head, rocking the bed, making it feel as if it were caught up in a hurricane. “Wake up.”
Celia gasped awake and scrambled for purchase as Lyric laughed.
“You’re mean as hell,” Celia mumbled, rolling over. She hadn’t been drunk nearly enough since they got to Wisteria and had tried to remedy that all in one night. Her head buzzed as if Xinto had crawled in and rallied her other bees to bellow a drunken chorus. She didn’t even know where she was, come to think of it. The pillow was too soft for her bed at the inn. Closing her eyes even tighter, she realized that maybe she didn’t want to know. It wouldn’t be the first time Celia had awoken in a bed of regret.
Oh, she missed Dante sometimes. Because she’d spectacularly broken her vow about never using the ink again, she’d finally broken down and messaged him the night before. It was mostly a blur, but she remembered solemnly vowing that Zuni would be okay and then taking a few jabs at Dante’s hair. Their relationship was a lot of things, including regularly bonding over his vanity.
“You’re in my room,” Lyric said. “I hauled you here late last night just before you passed out.”
And Celia missed her flea
s—the little apprentice inklings she used to tell stories to. Wallis, most of all, with their soft hair like a dandelion puff and aggressive cheerfulness. The way they snuggled into Celia’s side late at night.
And she missed Lilac, Caspian, and Sky. Seer Ostra. Georgio.
Vincent.
Zuni . . .
Celia sat up in the too-comfortable bed, trying to snap to attention. Barely functional, her head screaming in protest, she dressed as quickly as possible. “Dia, the sun is barely up!” Celia exclaimed as she tugged on her pants. No wonder she was still so wobbly. “Has Halcyon left yet?”
Halcyon had announced that he would leave that morning, convinced that his prodigy would have things under control while he darted away for a few days.
The best thing about immortal creatures like Diavala and Halcyon was that the centuries made them overconfident. All it had taken was a little dancing, a few smiles, and a boundary extension on his beloved town.
One would think that living so long would make you more amenable to human nuance, but that certainly hadn’t been Celia’s experience when dealing with immortal creatures.
If this was to be her first solo run taking care of Wisteria, Celia couldn’t mess up. She started a list in her head of all the things she’d have to do as a bare minimum: fixing anything broken, making litter disappear, removing the decorations and lights, sweeping the cobblestones to near gleaming. The square needed to be back to normal when people woke up, as if a celebration hadn’t ended there a few hours ago.
She could do almost all of it with the ink, except the stage. “The platform needs to be taken down manually. Lyric, darling, maybe you can be in charge of that? I have something I need to do first.”
Lyric looked like they were going to argue; their jaw clenched as they bit back a retort. “Carpentry isn’t a skill set I have.”
“But bossiness is. Use that instead of your hands. I have faith in you.” Celia tightened the buckles on her boots and ignored the smell wafting up from her shirt. Good thing she could simply cover it up.