Fire World

by Chris D'Lacey

  “Good grief,” she heard Mr. Henry splutter. He had stumbled against the mess of books. And though the cause of it was no real fault of hers, Rosa felt a mild rush of guilt nevertheless.

  “This is unusual?” the visitor asked. There was a jocular note in his smooth, deep voice. A kind voice. Maybe with a tribal twang. Rosa liked it, and thought she might like the man, too, but she wasn’t going to show her face just yet.

  “This is one of my rooms,” Mr. Henry muttered, his manner implying that they were always tidy. “I don’t quite understand what’s happened. I left Rosa here, looking after David. I asked her to read to him, not trash the place.”

  Now Rosa couldn’t resist a look. Poking her face around the edge of the door frame, she caught sight of the visitor. A tall man with stunning fair hair. He was looking at the upper shelves. “Do you have a ladder to reach those?”

  Mr. Henry nodded. “Yes, but it’s hidden.” To Rosa’s astonishment, he struck a small square on a tall dividing panel between the shelves and it turned on itself to reveal a ladder.

  “Perhaps she found it?” the stranger suggested.

  Mr. Henry shook his head. “She’s been here for nine spins and has never worked it out.”

  “Then maybe she had help?”

  Rosa craned her neck a little farther around the door. She gulped when she saw that the visitor had crouched down and picked up a bright red firebird feather. He twiddled it in his fingers. “Is this from the one that attacked David?”

  Mr. Henry looked on, concerned. “Yes, it could be. I’d better go and search for her, Thorren. If it was here, she’s probably run from it, fearing it would injure her.”

  “No, wait.” The visitor pressed his hand to the floor, almost making the wooden boards creak. “If she was hurt, the building would surely know it. I can’t detect anything.”

  “Could they have taken her, then? The birds?”

  Thorren drummed his fingers on the boards. “No, the girl left of her own accord. I think she’s gone in search of something.”

  Rosa gulped again as she saw Mr. Henry stoop down and run his gaze across the fallen books. How long would it be, she wondered, before he discovered the one that was missing? She withdrew the dragon book and glanced at its cover. Did she really want to read a book so … sinister? Wouldn’t it be easier to give herself up? Tell them what had happened? Let Mr. Henry and this visitor take charge? She balled a fist. No. She must be brave. This was between her and David and the firebirds. Whatever mysteries this book contained were going to be theirs to unravel.

  Hearing footsteps again, she prepared to run. But the sound was falling away and she realized that the visitor had simply crossed the floor to go to look at David.

  “I’ve summoned an Aunt,” he said.

  Mr. Henry took a sharp breath.

  “I know you don’t like them, Charles —”

  “They have a blatant disregard for my work,” the curator grumbled.

  “— but I’m required by law to bring one in. He may have injuries we can’t detect. If so, only an Aunt can aid him. Have you noticed any recurrence of his dreams?”

  Dreams? Rosa clutched the dragon book to her.

  “He’s been calm,” said Mr. Henry. “An absolute model of efficiency and goodness. He’s adapted to the building as if he were born here.”

  “And his fain?”

  “Haven’t seen him use it. He’s competitive with the girl, but never reaches for his fain to better himself. He and the girl are very close, by the way.”

  Rosa heard the other man suppress a quiet chuckle. “And how far has he got — with the books?”

  Mr. Henry drew another breath, but this one was longer and more considered. “He’s reached Forty-Two. But they all do that. You really think he can break through to the upper floors?”

  Thorren StrØmberg took a moment to reply. “There’s something odd about this boy that I’ve not come across in other ec:centrics — his ongoing relationship with the firebirds, for one thing. And the range and power of his fain are extraordinary. Then there’s the time rift, of course.”

  Time rift? Rosa mouthed.

  “Any progress with that?” Mr. Henry asked.

  Once again Strømberg paused before replying. “His father fed the co:ordinates I gave him into a specialized com:puter program. It predicted a multidimensional portal.”

  “What kind of portal? Where to?” said Mr. Henry. (Rosa by now was biting down on her knuckles to keep herself quiet.)

  “Anywhere, Charles. That’s the point. Think of a revolving door that can turn faster than the speed of light and deliver you into an infinite number of places. That’s what appeared during David’s dream and that’s what the firebirds came to shut down. What the data doesn’t definitively show is whether David created the rift himself or whether it came via some external source. But in answer to your previous question: Yes, I’m confident that David possesses the ability to find a way into the upper floors, but we may yet solve the mystery ourselves if he doesn’t.”

  By now, Rosa’s heart was thumping so loudly that she had begun to back away from the door, lest either man should hear the pounding. But she did not want to leave until she’d heard Thorren Strømberg complete his statement. Mr. Henry was the first to speak.

  The curator said, “Surely you’re not thinking about using the portal?”

  “It’s a gem too sweet to resist,” Thorren answered. “The boy’s father believes he can replicate it — in his laboratory, under controlled conditions.”

  “And you think it might take you to the roof of the librarium?”

  “Well beyond that, Charles.”

  “But the danger must be immense? Who would dare to go through a thing like that?”

  “That has yet to be decided,” Strømberg said.

  But in Rosa’s mind, he was shading the truth. He’d send David through the portal. She was sure of it. David would be made to face the danger. At that point, she picked up her skirt tails and ran. She said, with profound intent to the librarium, Take me to where I can’t be found, so I can read this book quickly from cover to cover. She was sure that the dragon book would tell her something — why else would the firebird have singled it out?

  Through room after room after room she flashed, her mind buzzing repeatedly with everything she’d heard. Dreams. Portals. Upper floors. David. Dreams. Portals. Upper floors —

  “Ow!”

  With a thump, she came to a sudden halt and staggered back, rubbing the tip of her nose. Her toes hurt, too. And one knee. She couldn’t believe it. She had run into something! A mistake she hadn’t made since her very first day in the librarium. But when she looked up to see what the obstacle was, she realized it wasn’t a mistake at all. She was at the end of a darkened corridor. In front of her was a closed wooden door.

  It looked old and quite impenetrable. (How on Co:pern:ica had she not found this before?) And although it wasn’t labeled, Rosa knew in her heart that this was the entrance to Floor Forty-Three. She squeezed her hand around the hexagonal doorknob. It was made of burnished metal and coated with dust. She took a deep breath and gave the knob a twist. It responded with a weary degree of resistance, but only went a quarter turn then stopped. Breath held, she pushed her weight forward. The door did not open.

  “Please,” she said, pressing her shoulder against it. Thump. Thump. Still it would not budge. Reaching up, she banged it with the palm of her hand. “Please,” she begged it, “you’ve got to let me in.”

  And as she spoke those words, a powerful hand came to cover hers. Rosa screamed and jumped around. A dark silhouette stood in front of her. Not Mr. Henry. Nor the visitor, Strømberg. A woman, fierce and frightful.

  An Aunt.

  17.

  Well, well. What have we here?” the woman said.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Rosa snapped. She pulled the dragon book flat to her body and folded both her arms across it.

  “Impertinent whelp. I could ha
ve you de:constructed for an outburst like that.”

  Rosa smirked and tried to push past her, saying, “Like to see you try.”

  The Aunt stopped her and threw her back against the door with a force that belied her wiry frame. Without a hint of warning she reached out and pinched Rosa’s earlobe, forcing a fingernail into the flesh.

  “Agh!” the girl cried, and slewed away in pain.

  “So, you’re human,” drawled the Aunt, rubbing blood off her fingertips.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I am an AUNT!” the woman roared. “And you will obey me or face the consequences. I could order your re:moval from this cozy existence in the time it would take to wipe my fingers clean.” She grabbed Rosa’s chin and turned the girl to face her. The black centers of her eyes drilled into Rosa’s soul. “You are that most pathetic of objects: a natural-born child with limited fain.” Rosa gasped as she felt the Aunt’s thoughtwaves probing her. “You are the progeny of misguided parents who wanted to believe that it was right to take a retrograde step from the Grand Design. Let me guess … they abandoned you here when they realized it was too much for them to bear, seeing their cute little human project unable to cope with children far more talented. And when you wanted what you could not imagineer you became temperamental — and a burden to them.” She squeezed Rosa’s cheeks, making the child wince. “And this,” she continued, pressing her thumb against the tear rolling down Rosa’s face, “would have been the pinnacle of their embarrassment.” She leaned forward until their noses were almost touching. “Believe me, child, re:pressives like you are not wanted outside institutions like this. So if you wish to stay here, you will do my bidding. My name is Aunt Gwyneth. Now, show me the respect I deserve.”

  With that, she let Rosa go.

  The girl sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Gwyneth.” And Rosa bowed politely as she was expected to do.

  The Aunt cast her gaze down. “What is that you’re hiding?”

  “Just a book.”

  “Let me see it.” Aunt Gwyneth snatched it up. Immediately, her breath was like shattered glass. “Where did you get this?”

  Rosa spread her arms. “Here,” she said, sounding credibly innocent. “I found it downstairs.” She didn’t want to tell the story behind it, and withholding the truth from an Aunt was dangerous, but the way the old woman had reacted to the cover had ignited a deep curiosity in Rosa and a strange desire to protect the book. So she took a chance and asked, “What is a drargone, Aunt?”

  “Dragon,” said Aunt Gwyneth, paging slowly. “The correct pronunciation is dragon.”

  Rosa nodded, taking this in. “Why do they look like fi —”

  “They are a myth,” said the Aunt, snapping the book shut. “They do not exist. They are a wicked invention, and even you, a wretched excuse for a girl, will not sully her auma with such perversity.”

  “No, Aunt. Sorry.” A wicked invention? Limited though it might be, Rosa’s fain flared. “Have you come to see David?”

  “Yes. What is beyond this door?” The old woman’s cruel eyes were scanning the obstruction.

  Rosa did her best to shrug the question off. “I’ll take you to him. I know the quickest routes.”

  “Stay where you are. I know how to find the boy.”

  “Then, erm, what are you doing on this floor, with me?”

  “I detected a powerful auma surge and the building drew me here.”

  “Thanks,” Rosa said beneath her breath to the walls.

  With an ill-mannered tug, the Aunt bundled her out of the way. She, too, tried the handle. Once again the door failed to open. “Where is the key to this?”

  “I don’t know,” Rosa said. “There isn’t a lock.”

  “There is always a lock,” Aunt Gwyneth rumbled, implying that there must be a key as well. “I ask you again, what is beyond this door?”

  Rosa sighed and tossed her hair. “The upper floors — where the firebirds nest.”

  This made the Aunt suck in a breath as if someone had pulled a string to her lungs. “What were you doing here?”

  “Trying to get in,” Rosa said truthfully — then compounded it with a lie. “I come here every day, but the door is never open.” She chewed her lip and glanced at the dragon book. “Shall I put that back where it belongs?” She held out a hopeful hand.

  Aunt Gwyneth filled it with shattered dreams. “You are never to touch this book again. Now, walk in front of me, where I can watch you. It’s time to go to David.”

  Not surprisingly, it took a lot less time for Aunt Gwyneth to find David than it had for Rosa to find the locked door. Mr. Henry and Thorren Strømberg both bowed to the Aunt as she glided in.

  A rough hand between the shoulder blades propelled Rosa forward, almost making her trip on the books still strewn across the floor. “I found this, loitering upstairs.”

  Rosa thought she saw the blond-haired visitor smile.

  “She was in pursuit of dragons.”

  The old woman held the book out for Mr. Henry, but it was Thorren Strømberg who took it from her. He touched his fingers to the cover and said, “And did you find them, Rosa?”

  Rosa saw the Aunt bristle. “No, sir,” she said.

  The blond man nodded. He handed the book sideways to Mr. Henry (who seemed to examine it for damage, Rosa thought). “Strange creatures, don’t you think?”

  “Enough,” the Aunt said. “You would do well to remember, Counselor Strømberg, that to encourage disruptive thinking is a crime against the Grand Design. A dangerous practice, in my presence.”

  Once again, Strømberg bowed to her. “Far be it from me to challenge your authority. By asking such a question I seek not to encourage but merely to search for possible flaws.”

  “I’m not flawed,” Rosa piped up. “I just like books.”

  “Be quiet,” snapped the Aunt. She moved toward David and looked down at his face. He was still lost in (peaceful) sleep. “Books,” she muttered, as if she’d just cut her finger on the edge of a page. She cast her imperious gaze around the shelves. “I have long believed this building could be used for something far more meaningful than harboring antiquities.”

  Rosa saw Mr. Henry grinding his teeth. His face was trembling with anger. She had never seen rage in the old man before and it frightened (and slightly excited) her. Thorren Strømberg came to the curator’s aid. Putting out a comforting hand he said, “One mustn’t forget, Aunt Gwyneth, that the librarium is a recognized firebird aerie and therefore protected by the Grand Design.”

  “Aerie.” Another new word. Rosa looked at the Aunt and saw her spine stiffen. It was clear that the old bag hated the firebirds just as much as she did the books. She was learning a lot today.

  “So this is David Merriman,” Aunt Gwyneth said.

  Rosa raised her eyebrows. “Merriman?” she hooted. What kind of a name was that?

  “Get rid of that irritating child,” said the Aunt, batting a stiff hand back through the air.

  “No way,” Rosa hissed. “I’m not leaving David.”

  Aunt Gwyneth whipped around. “I will cut you into slices and press you between the pages of your books if you do not get out of this room, girl.”

  “Perhaps,” Thorren Strømberg interceded, “it would be better if Rosa stayed. She was nearest to David when the firebird attacked. She might have information that will help your diagnosis.”

  Aunt Gwyneth’s nostrils flared.

  Strømberg took this as a positive sign. “Rosa, you will be quiet until one of us asks you to speak. Or you will be sent out. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” she muttered.

  The counselor gave her the faintest of nods, then turned back to the Aunt. “Yes, this is David. I called for you because I know you’ve had contact with his parents. It seemed sensible to keep some kind of continuity.”

  “A wise choice in any circumstan
ce,” Aunt Gwyneth said, with such an air of superiority that Rosa wanted to gag. “Now, what happened to the boy?”

  “He was flamed by a firebird, yet appears to have suffered no external injuries. A strange flash was observed at the point of the attack. Mr. Henry believes that something either deflected or absorbed the bird’s fire. Whatever the cause, we fear it may have left the boy blind.”

  Aunt Gwyneth took this in and studied the patient carefully. She reached inside the jacket of her suit and drew out a small instrument. It looked to Rosa like that odd thing, a pen. (Mr. Henry kept a few in a display case in his study.) Certainly, when the Aunt touched her thumb to one end, something sharp like a nib extruded from the other. Leaning forward, Rosa saw it was a tip of green light. It began to buzz at increasingly higher frequencies as Aunt Gwyneth brought it closer to David’s head. She inserted it into his ear. Right away, his physical features disappeared and all that could be seen was a halo of light in the shape of a boy.

  Is that …? Rosa mouthed, and was fortunately seen by Strømberg, who said, “This is a sight that never ceases to amaze me. Auma, in its purest state.”

  “Be silent,” said Aunt Gwyneth. “Let me do my work.” And to Rosa’s horror, the old woman plunged her hands into David’s auma, sweeping it around as if she were searching for a prize in a game of lucky dip.

  Although she knew nothing of this diagnostic process (a high form of commingling, she would later come to learn) Rosa was relieved to see great waves of violet sweeping David’s auma wherever the Aunt’s black-and-white, bony hands traveled. Violet, children of Co:pern:ica were taught, was the color of truth. Only one area of David’s body did not resolve itself in that shade, and that was the deep, deep blue of his heart. Aunt Gwyneth hovered there for the longest time, her fingers moving like strips of paper in the blades of a fan. When she finally withdrew, Rosa kept her worried gaze fixed on the heart. She watched it pulsing right up to the point in which the Aunt removed the probe from David’s ear and his body reappeared on the bed as before.