by Kim Smejkal
But instead of running, Lyric extended an arm to help Celia up. “Everything is fine!” Lyric called to their small crowd. “Off you go!”
Celia groaned, but grabbed Lyric’s wrist and hopped up, wincing from the pain of their fall.
“Everyone here is very real,” Lyric said. “They’re as human as you and me, but they have a certain way of looking at the world because this is all they’ve ever known. So you can’t go around bleating nonsense. They’ll haul you to Rian’s without thinking twice. Do you want a mob following us?”
Act normal. Act like everything’s fine.
But everything wasn’t fine. Perhaps the townspeople weren’t made of ink, but that only meant they were Halcyon’s eyes and ears. On his command, they arranged for visitors to meet their deaths. Did their actions make them culpable, or were they innocent victims of Halcyon’s indoctrination because they didn’t see how wrong it was?
Celia took a steadying breath. The last thing she wanted was to make this an all-out war. She was severely outnumbered.
Lyric nodded at Celia’s understanding, and off they went, side by side, pretending everything was fine. Celia wished she had a mask like the plague doctor’s, to make her performance more believable.
Every once in a while Celia looked over her shoulder, expecting to see eyes watching them. They were there—they’d been there since the beginning—but only now did she feel them so strongly.
At Rian’s, nothing looked wrong, but Celia became more on guard because of it. She cycled through her options, tried to make contingencies. She imagined Anya barking Focus! and stomping lightly on Celia’s toes, just as she had when they were younger.
The more normal everything looked, the more the hairs on her neck prickled. The ink in her blood thrummed. She was finally on a level playing field with the master of the ink, she reminded herself. She had everything he had.
Except experience, generations of knowledge, a narcissistic streak, and any idea what her enemy was up to.
Focus! Anya whisper-shouted again.
Even before Celia left the safety of the buildings and trees for Rian’s pumpkin patch, she knew Halcyon was there. It was too quiet.
“Come, Celia! Ah, Lyric!” Halcyon shouted. He stood on Rian’s front steps, hands on his hips. Rian stood with him, stooped, as if her back would give out at any second. When Celia glanced up, a beaked shadow moved in an upstairs window. Celia’s heart sank; he hadn’t found Zuni.
“Here we go,” Lyric whispered before taking those last few steps to the farmhouse and up the stairs.
Celia was much slower with her approach, walking as if the ground were lanced with explosives set to go off with a misstep.
Eventually she made it. She’d thought that Halcyon had calmed down some, but up close, she could see how wrong she’d been. His eyes were still as black as pitch, the whites overtaken completely by turbulent ocean waves slamming against rocks.
“We have a couple of things to take care of here,” he said. “First and foremost,” he said, turning to Rian, “I’d like you to explain to me how Celia knew about your role here. You had one job, and that was to hold until I sent word. All you had to do was act normal, Rian. How was it that you still couldn’t manage that?”
Rian’s milky gaze darted to Celia for a moment before turning again and looking straight ahead. Her spine stiffened. If ever there was a moment where Celia felt some sympathy for her, it was then. She looked like she didn’t have the faintest idea of what was going on, but she was steeling herself for the consequences anyway. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Halcyon shifted his gaze to Lyric. “Or was it you who tipped Celia off?”
Lyric looked guilty as hell. Celia had never seen someone so red, and Lyric couldn’t even meet Halcyon’s eyes. Their guilt was written all over their face.
But before Lyric could stammer out an explanation and defend themself, Rian interrupted. “You’re a stubborn fool, Halcyon. If ever I wanted to keep secrets from you, it wouldn’t be now, when there was a chance to save my own skin.” But her eyes betrayed her as she glanced at Lyric and then quickly away. “I’ll take responsibility for my slip-up—I suspect it happened when I lost track of them at the lakes—but I’ve made it clear before that Lyric isn’t ready for this job, and my opinion about that hasn’t changed. They’re too emotional. Too naive. It would be foolish to hand over such important work to an amateur.”
“Ah, there it is,” he said. “Now you are trying to save your own skin. You think I should keep you around until Lyric becomes more competent?”
Rian flushed, but she nodded.
“I think they’re competent enough,” Halcyon said, turning his gaze to Lyric.
The next moment, Rian fell to the porch, batting her hands into the air and smacking them on her body, warding off a swarm of fire ants that wanted only her. Her panic was quiet; she uttered no sound as she writhed on the ground, overtaken by an undulating horde of red and black. Her silence was worse than any screams. Celia’s skin prickled from the sound of a million legs moving, a million pincers pinching. When Lyric choked out a sob and tried to go to her, Halcyon cleared his throat. “You know what to do.”
Trembling, Lyric stepped around their grandmother and went into the house, emerging a moment later with the bottle of poison Celia had caught them arguing over earlier. Lyric believes I have no heart, Rian had said. When everything I’ve ever done has been for them.
With great effort, Rian hauled herself to her feet. The fire ants were still after her in a waking nightmare, consuming her methodically. Already, there wasn’t much left of her skin, and as they made for her eyes, she inadvertently flinched.
Still, she managed to snatch the bottle from Lyric’s shaking hands. She managed to mutter “incompetent, amateur, fool” at them. And she managed to open the bottle and press her tongue to the rim.
She handed it to Lyric, straightened, and stared Halcyon down. Her lips began moving—perhaps she wanted to say something like You’ll regret this—but the fire ants filled her mouth and she collapsed before any word left her lips.
With one last rattly breath, Rian the Spectator, Wisteria’s executioner, died on her own front step. Her last execution had been her own.
The ants disappeared, and Rian’s form lay unmarked on the steps at their feet. She looked almost peaceful, her face relaxed, as if she were asleep. But Celia now knew that in the afterlife she would be fighting that fear, and those ants, forever. Halcyon had made sure of that.
“Now,” Halcyon said. “Next thing we have to settle is the issue of the plague doctor.” The bottle knocked so hard in Lyric’s hands that Celia was afraid a drop would fly out and hit her skin. “Calm down, Lyric,” Halcyon said when he noticed the same thing. “Don’t prove old Rian right.”
“It’s just that it’s almost supper,” Lyric said, their voice a breathless whisper.
Halcyon opened his palms and examined them; then he cursed. “You’re right. See? You’re very competent. Thank you.” The praise slid off his tongue so effortlessly, even as he stood over Rian’s body. “Lock Celia up, then, and make sure she doesn’t have access to a quill. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and dipped his head to Celia. His eyes had settled to almost normal, as if all he’d needed was someone to die in front of him to calm his nerves. “We’ll continue this later.”
Chapter 26
“Halcyon uses supper hour to polish the town . . .” Lyric said with no inflection in their voice. Polish the town. Wisteria was a pretty machine: all cogs and wheels and gears, as cold as metal and just as lifeless.
“It’s easier when he knows the people are out of the way,” Lyric continued. They pulled their grandmother’s body down the steps by the feet, Rian’s head thumping with each step. Lyric didn’t seem to notice until Celia scrambled over to help.
“I’m so sorry,” Celia said.
Lyric had mentioned once, with heat in their voice, t
hat Rian had gambled something important away in a game with Halcyon a long time ago: perhaps it had been her family’s freedom. He liked to keep his lines nice and straight. No wonder Lyric was so messed up: any person who happened through the town was quickly dispatched. Their family legacy literally entailed killing anyone new, and Rian had shouldered that burden for as long as she could.
“She didn’t actually have to kill too many people,” Lyric said, as if apologizing for her and forgiving her all at once. “Most of the time, people changed their mind and just turned around. Only the most determined could ever get through Halcyon’s protections.”
Lyric’s bleary eyes landed on Celia, as if they’d only just noticed she was there. They snatched at the bottle they’d stuffed into their pocket and, with big eyes, brandished it in Celia’s direction. “This is your fault.”
Celia backed away, her hands up in deference. “I’m really sorry, Lyric.” Slowly reaching into her pocket, Celia took her quill and held it out. “Here. Just show me where to go, and I’ll go. Wherever you want. Do what he says so you stay safe.”
Lyric’s gaze went from the quill to Celia’s eyes to the bottle in her hand to their grandmother. “There is no safe here. If anyone ever crosses him, they die. You were supposed to help me get free, but now we’re all trapped.” They met Celia’s eyes. “I’m going to clean and wrap Rian and then bury her, and then I’m probably going to have to bury you and your friends. That’s my prison.” They nudged their chin toward the farmhouse. “Yours is in there with Zuni and Griffin. For now.”
Celia inhaled and nodded. It had never been loyalty to Halcyon holding Lyric’s tongue, it had been fear. Celia should have recognized it earlier because they acted much like Celia had at the temple: constantly assessing personal risk, subtly undermining the work, and holding on tight to small rebellions, ones that had little chance of real repercussions. It was the dance of the oppressed.
Then Celia had arrived and made things even worse for them.
At the temple, life had been terrible, but at least it had been predictable. Since leaving, Celia had faced one crisis after another, one tragedy after another.
If she hadn’t left, Anya would be alive, Vincent would be alive, Griffin would be plague doctor-y, greeting revelers at the Rabble Mob shows and dancing nights away. He might not have been happy, exactly, but he would have been safe.
And Zuni and Lyric wouldn’t be trapped in a town made of death.
All her fault . . . everything. She’d been shackled since she was six years old, and all she’d done was spread her shackles around. She hadn’t known they could multiply, or get so heavy they dragged the world down.
Even if Griffin survived, he was more broken than before. At some point, all that brokenness would be beyond repair.
“Xinto,” Celia called. Looking at him was painful, feeling the tickle of his legs on her shoulder even worse. His nose kisses along her collarbone didn’t feel sinister, but they were made of something that belonged to the dead.
As Lyric wrapped their grandmother behind the farmhouse, Celia inhaled and took out her quill. Whether it was grief overriding sense or something a friend would do, Lyric hadn’t listened to Halcyon and confiscated Celia’s quill.
Sitting on the farmhouse steps, Celia pushed the quill to her arm and closed her eyes, imagining what she wanted to create. The size and shape, the texture, the smell, the sound. Everything had to be just right for this last indulgence.
She didn’t open her eyes for a long time. Not when she heard the sound of footsteps and a tapping umbrella, nor when she felt the warmth of someone sitting next to her and wrapping their arms around her smaller shoulders. And even when Anya said Hey, Cece and gave her arm a squeeze, Celia held her eyes tightly shut.
“I’m too scared,” Celia whispered. “I can’t do it.” She didn’t know whether she was talking about what she had to do next or about opening her eyes.
It’s okay to be scared, Anya said softly. Sometimes, surviving is the hardest thing you can do.
Celia swallowed, her lips pinching together as she nodded. “If I open my eyes, will it really be you?”
Anya didn’t answer, but they were in a place where wants became real with wishes.
Celia opened her eyes.
And promptly lost control of them.
“Anny,” she squeaked. “You’re so perfect.” Long black hair, perfectly straight top hat, ocean-blue eyes. Celia knew her so well that even Anya’s tenor shone perfectly, pulsing alive, alive, alive in familiar red hues.
“He said I could have you again. Just like this. Forever. And I want that so badly, I need it like I need water and air. I can’t do this without you.” She let the tears fall when Anya hooked her pinky around Celia’s and squeezed.
“I’m so tired,” Celia said. Her sobs competed with Lyric’s. The farm was awash with tears.
I know, Anya said. I know.
Celia rested her head on Anya’s shoulder, inhaling the warmth and comfort of her other half, her angel. “Every time I try to do the right thing, it blows up in my face. I trust people too much. Everyone always lies to me: Diavala, Halcyon. It doesn’t even matter who I’m trying to fight, who’s pushing me down—they’re all the same. I only ever make things worse.”
“It’s not your fault that people lie.”
But it was her fault that she kept believing them.
On a stage in Asura, weeks ago, forever ago, Celia and Anya had devised a plan to defeat the Divine with her own ink. Flawless and meticulously outlined, with other players acting their parts to perfection, the two of them had set everything up exquisitely.
Celia shifted on Rian’s steps, tears still coursing down her cheeks, and faced Anya for the first time since watching her die.
“Do you remember our plan?” she said, weeping.
Anya looked down at their clasped pinkies. And nodded. I remember.
“It was the best we could come up with, and we both knew it probably wasn’t going to work. But that was okay, Anny, because we came up with it together, like we always did. And everything—all the lies and fear—it was going to end with us together. Freedom, together. Do you remember that part?”
Celia only realized she was yelling when her voice cracked in two with her next words. “Do you remember?” She held their linked pinkies up. “This was supposed to be it, Anny! And I was okay with that because I had you. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”
Anya’s blue eyes glistened with unshed tears and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She didn’t try to pull their pinkies apart, she didn’t try to look away.
She nodded at everything Celia said.
“But then you looked at me and said, Be strong, Cece. And then I had a dagger in my hand and I pressed it to your neck. Do you remember that? You put that dagger in my hand, Anya. You said, Be strong and do it. This is the way it has to be. And like a fool, I did it! Because I love you, because I didn’t want to let you down. I did what you wanted, all the way to the end.”
Celia inhaled. “And then you were dead, but I wasn’t.”
She stared at their linked pinkies. “This is all I ever believed to be true, but in the end, even you lied to me. Why would you do that to me? I cleaned your blood up. I know what it smells like, what it feels like on my hands and on my face . . .
“Even you lied to me”—she met Anya’s gaze, whispering—“and I’m so mad at you for that.”
Lyric came over, tracks of tears staining their cheeks, and stood with them. Anya, on the stairs of a home she’d never visit, with Celia hovering over her, crying so much it hurt. Her insides were so twisted they’d never untangle. It hurt to breathe, every lungful of air searing her.
“It’s okay,” Lyric said. “You can let her go.”
But Celia didn’t want to. Their linked pinkies were everything. If she didn’t believe in them, she had nothing. Nothing but empty hands and an empty heart.
I’m sorry I lied to you, Cece, Anya whispered. I’m sorry
I hurt you. I hope one day you can forgive me.
Celia didn’t know how long she cried, but it felt like she’d never stop.
And she didn’t let go of Anya’s pinky. They held on tight.
Together.
Until one of them vanished and one was left behind.
Interlude
The plague doctor watched everything transpire outside his window: Halcyon, more than a little pissed off; Rian, more than a little poisoned; Lyric, more than a little promoted; and Celia, more than a little wrecked.
Arms crossed, he peered down at Celia and Lyric as they sobbed together, his throat pinched tight. “I think Celia has said goodbye to her ghost,” he whispered. Somehow his own pinky ached from that exchange, a phantom sympathy pain as deep as a scar. “Another dawn brings shadows, full of creeping things and claws . . .”
“Stop staring, voyeur,” Zuni barked from the other side of the room. Her small travel pack shifted against her hip as she paced, rattling the skulls inside. Rian had confiscated them from her, and since getting them back, she’d insisted that she wasn’t going to let them out of her sight ever again. The plague doctor didn’t know Zuni well, but she seemed to be much more upset that her skulls had been taken than about being locked in a basement for the past two weeks. The first thing she’d done when he’d opened the door to her cell was shriek about how thirsty Saccharine—one of her favorite skulls—must have been.
Apparently, some skulls needed to be moisturized regularly. Who knew.
The plague doctor looked back out the window in time to see Lyric help Celia stand on wobbly legs. His heart told him to run down there and scoop her up. His heart also told him to stay put. That about summed up his feelings toward the little inkling ever since he’d first laid eyes on her in a Rover field. Incredible and dangerous.
“Well?” Zuni snapped. “Tell me what’s happening!”
“Looks like they’re coming in,” he said. He hadn’t gotten so much as a thank-you after jimmying the lock on her cell and freeing her.