Chime (25 page)

Blackberry Night.
On came the crimson tide. I leaned forward to stir the coals; my hair fell over my face.

“It’s uncanny,” said Eldric, “how you’ve adapted to using your left hand.”

I had to be careful. I’d been giving my left hand too much liberty.

“Forgive me for being a nosy parkerius,” said Eldric, “but I wanted to know if you’ve seen Cecil since Blackberry Night?”

“It’s nosy parkerium,” I said. “Twelfth declension, you know.”

“Never mind that,” said Eldric. “I can’t stop fretting about Cecil.”

Cecil? Of all the things I imagined he might want to talk about, I never imagined Cecil.

“Don’t worry about him,” I said, although I thought of the day before yesterday, of how strangely Cecil had acted, of his oblique references and veiled threats. “I can wrap him round my little finger.”

“I didn’t observe the finger-wrap technique on Blackberry Night,” said Eldric. “I keep thinking about what might have happened if I hadn’t come along.”

“And I keep thinking how stupid it all was,” I said. “Stupid that you had to come along and rescue me. Stupid that I practiced boxing with you all those times, but I couldn’t punch Cecil, not even once.”

“Boxing’s not that straightforward,” said Eldric. “You can practice and practice, but the real experience will always be different. Lots of things are like that, actually. It reminds me of the time I first visited Paris.”

“Lucky thing!” I said.

“On the boat over, I practiced French conversations with myself. I’d say to some imaginary Frenchman, ‘The restaurant Chez Julien, she is, if I do not mistake myself, down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, to the right?’

“The Frenchman would obligingly say, ‘Yes, monsieur. The restaurant, she is down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, to the right.’ And sometimes he’d add, ‘Might I remark, monsieur, what very good French you speak.’ ”

Chez Julien. How I longed to visit a city where the very names of the restaurants were spoken in music.

“But the reality was quite different,” said Eldric. “To this imaginary Frenchman I’d say, ‘The restaurant Chez Julien, she is, if I do not mistake myself, down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, to the right?’

“But he’d reply, ‘La plume de ma boulevard, elle est dans la rue de ma tante, monsieur, et vous êtes très ooh-la-la.’ ”

I laughed.

“I’d thank him politely, then consult my map.”

“You’re saying that I can’t win a real fight without first losing some real fights?”

“I’m saying that a beginner can’t expect to perform as well in real life as she might in practice,” said Eldric. “Practice is predictable; real life isn’t.”

“Can you practice with me unpredictably?” I said. “Predictably unpredictably, I mean?”

“I can,” said Eldric, “but let’s not leave the subject of Cecil just yet.”

The door was ajar. The Brownie squeezed through and swung across the carpet on his double-hinged legs. Had Eldric left the door ajar on purpose? To make sure we weren’t quite private? Oh, dear.

The Brownie settled at my side, folding his legs every which way.

“Please listen to what I have to say about Cecil,” said Eldric. “I see you aren’t afraid of him, but I wonder if you should be.”

It was raining harder than before. Shards of sky pounded down the chimney. They set the logs to hissing.

Are you afraid of me?
That’s what Cecil had said, as we sat outside the Alehouse. I’d startle-jumped back.
Are you afraid?

“He hurt my wrist.” But that was not what I meant to say. My voice went high and whiny. What silliness was this? Did I think I could be a baby again? Grow up, Briony.

“Let’s take a look.”

I produced my wrist with the finger-shaped bruises.

“Bastard!” It was not exactly what one might say to a baby, but it was comforting.

We sat in silence a long time. Eldric stoked the fire. The flames leapt up and admired themselves in the brass grate. “I wonder if you know quite everything about Cecil,” said Eldric at last. “He’s fond of drink, as you know.”

I nodded.

“I don’t like to give away his secrets, but it’s not only drink that affects him.”

Oh! That was interesting. “Opium?”

“Not quite that benign,” said Eldric.

“Morphine?”

“Not quite that bad,” said Eldric.

“Then tell me!”

“Arsenic,” said Eldric.

Arsenic. Cecil took arsenic. Fitz took arsenic. That was doubtless why they spent such a deal of time together.

Pearl came in to light the lamps.

“I should not like to see you alone with him again. He’s lost control, at least where you’re concerned.”

She poured paraffin into one of the lamps.

“Why does a person take arsenic?”

“It depends on the person,” said Eldric. “Women used to take it for their hair and especially for their skin, which it apparently renders very white and clear.”

“And if you’re a man?”

He paused while Pearl filled the other lamp and bustled out again.

“It has the reputation of boosting a man’s—oh, how shall I put it? A man’s virility.”

I leaned forward again with the poker, my hair shielding my face.

“Never have coals been stirred so well,” said Eldric.

“Never has a young lady been put so often to the blush,” I said. “It’s rather ungentlemanly of you.”

I thought he would laugh, but he said, “It’s quite a difficult conversation.”

I nodded, sorting through my thoughts. Remember what Father had said about Fitz? About not leaving me alone with him? The effect of arsenic on men—that was surely the reason.

I could have gone on to consider I’d done Father an injustice. I’d thought what he’d said all puff and nonsense. But there were other things tugging at my attention. The smell of paraffin. I gave it a good sniff; it ignited memories of the library fire.

It brought it all back: the spark, the whoosh, the flames, the fire, the flames playing over the books, munching at the titles—
The Reed Spirits, The Strangers, Mucky Face
. The fire liked them all. It didn’t care that it had only my stories to eat, that the proper books had been ruined in the flood. It brought back the sound of Stepmother’s pink satin house shoes click-clacking on the floor.

Did I never wonder how Stepmother managed to rise from her bed, thinking to save me from the fire? How could she have, with that injury to her spine?

Did I never wonder what I was doing? How I could burn the stories of the Bleeding Hearts and the Strangers and so many others of the Old Ones?

Why would I burn my stories?

Why would I thrust my hand into the fire?

Stop, Briony: You did no such thing!

I tried to banish the memory, but my mind hung on to the image of my left hand diving into the flames.

Stop remembering! But I couldn’t stop.

“So do you?” said Eldric.

“Do I what?”

Memory is a queer thing. The smell of paraffin—why would I remember that? I’d called up the fire; I wouldn’t have needed paraffin.

“You haven’t been listening at all!” said Eldric.

Why would I remember putting my hand into the flames, when what happened is that the fire blazed out of control? It grew faster, burnt hotter than I could manage.

My memories had grown distorted over time. But I had them, at least: I remembered calling up the fire, I remembered turning Mucky Face against Stepmother, I remembered turning the wind against Rose. But I don’t remember turning anything against Eldric.

“Please listen!” Eldric leaned forward. “You want to watch out for Cecil.”

What had I done to make Eldric so ill?

I didn’t care about Cecil. I only wished I could tell Eldric that what he wanted was to watch out for me.

The members of the Fraternitus were assembled. The members of the Fraternitus were boxing. Or at least, one of its members was boxing. The other was trying to catch her breath.

“This is a terrible idea,” I said. Or rather, I tried to say it but mostly, I panted. “Bad boys should only ever fight predictable fights.”

“Unpredictable fights take a lot of practice,” said Eldric. “You’re doing very well.”

“Liar!”

Eldric laughed. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. “And the worst of it is, you’re fresh as a daisy.”

One daisy petal:
I love him.
Another daisy petal:
I love him not.
Shut up, Briony!

The October evening was chilly, but the longer we fought, the more clothes I shed. An unpredictable fight is terrifically warming. I now wore the fewest garments consistent with modesty, a pair of trousers and a sort of shirt with no sleeves that looked more than anything like an undergarment. Tiddy Rex had lent them to me.

Darling Tiddy Rex!

In an unpredictable fight, a person’s always darting about. She punches at a person, but it turns out he’s no longer there. She blocks a kick from the right, but she’s surprised by an uppercut from the left. She thought she was a wolfgirl who could run forever. But the wolfgirl has never darted and dodged. The wolfgirl is ready to give up after five minutes. But she’s proud and carries on, and now she thinks she may need to be carried home.

The person of whom we speak is Briony Larkin. The other person, Eldric Clayborne, merely lounges about and ruminates on the mysteries of life, and every so often, he delivers a little joke of a punch.

“I’ve never seen you so pink,” said Eldric. “Should we knock off for the evening? You’ve been going at it very hard.”

“But you haven’t,” I said. “I’ve been punching you hard as I can, but you’ve been doling out those silly butterfly punches. I’d think you were cheating, except that the members of the Fraternitus Bad-Boyificus are sworn never to cheat.”

“No, we never cheat,” said Eldric. “Which means I’m honor-bound to admit I should have given myself a handicap. I have two working hands, and you’ve just the one right now.”

This particular member of the Fraternitus had to breach the code of honor. She couldn’t admit that her left hand was very spry indeed and that her right hand had never been useful. All at once, I felt the chill sink into my bones. I wrapped my arms about my middle.

“I shouldn’t have let you stop moving,” said Eldric. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Let me?” I said. “That’s rather bossy.”

“A boxing coach is always bossy. That’s one of the sad facts of life. Now, wrap up.”

I paused. I was wearing Tiddy Rex’s peculiar shirt and beneath, a little bit of hardly anything. They were damp with sweat, horrible in the October chill.

The Strangers were lolly-bobbling all about, murmuring about stories and mushrooms and mud. Murmuring about the cemetery and the Unquiet Spirit who tosses in her winding sheet. “The cold worms lie with her and she be shrilling out a name.”

I bent over the clothes I’d shed. They too were damp.

“It be tha’ name, mistress,” said the Strangers. “It be tha’ name she be shrilling.”

“Your lips are blue,” said Eldric. “You do know the rules, don’t you? A person who doesn’t mind her coach must be expelled from the Fraternitus.”

“But these clothes are too wet.”

Eldric went all lion, pouncing at his coat and then at me, holding the coat between us as a sort of curtain. “As one member of the Fraternitus to another, it goes without saying that I will protect your privacy against any and all who might seek to invade our fightibus space.”

He meant himself, of course, but he couldn’t say so. How raw to say,
I promise not to look.

It was awkward, struggling out of my wet things, feeling entirely exposed, which I was, to the whole half of the world on the east side of the curtain-coat, including the Strangers. And on the west side, to a boy-man who could peer over at any time, except that members of the Fraternitus never lied or cheated. I scrambled into my blouse, which was the only thing that wasn’t wet. It wasn’t worse than nothing, but it was not much better.

“Done?” said Eldric.

“How did you know?” I said.

“I have ears.”

How could a boy-man hear when a girl was dressed?

“Done,” I said.

He turned, wrapped the coat around me. But his fidgety fingers made sure not to touch me, not even through the thickness of the coat. It had been all ruined by Blackberry Night.

“Come along, blue lips,” he said, thinking perhaps that a bit of silliness might smooth over the awkwardness.

“If you were to write me a poem,” I said, “you could rhyme it with
tulips.
”

But silliness was not a smoother-over. Not for the two of us as we made our way back to the village. Not on this particular October evening, when Eldric’s long fingers had just taken such care to avoid any bit of Briony Larkin.

We walked in silence past the pumping station, toward the fields of rye. We’d had no time to revisit awkward memories on the outward journey: We’d loped and laughed through the fields to the Scars; it had been too long since our last fighting lesson. But now—well, if only the rye were already harvested and the fields looked like Tiddy Rex after a haircut. It wouldn’t be so awkward then. But we had to walk through a field of awkward memories, through the rye, tall and bronze and smelling of kisses.

I could feel Eldric struggling to contain that hollow whistle of his. How stupid it was, that we couldn’t talk about this. I couldn’t bear it if we went all silent, as Father and I were. Can a lifetime of silence begin with a kiss?

I couldn’t stand it; I had to say something. “Awkwardissimus?”

“Awkwardissimus!” said Eldric.