Goblin Moon (12 page)

“I fancy,” said the apothecary, “that the Duchess had
something to do with my dismissal. Marella Carleon has done a great
deal of good in this world—indeed, I believe she is universally
regarded as a great philanthropist—but she also has much to account
for.”

As they continued on their way, through the dirt, and
the garbage, and the gloom, Sera launched into a long story of
Elsie and all her ills, which somehow became an account of her own
wrongs and ended with Sera telling Mistress Sancreedi all about
Lord Krogan and his disgraceful behavior.

“And I simply do not know what I should do. If I
complain to Cousin Clothilde, she is certain to believe instead
whatever lie Lord Krogan chooses to tell her; he will be able to
convince her that I said or did something improper to encourage his
attentions. As for Cousin Benjamin, it is likely that he
would
believe me, but what steps could he take
besides challenging Lord Krogan to a duel and almost certainly
getting himself killed? Yet if I say nothing, and Lord Krogan
himself spreads the story about—“

“Oh, but I do not think that he will do that,” said
Mistress Sancreedi. “A foiled abduction is nothing to brag about.
His intentions were wicked (which some people may actually admire),
but his execution was fearfully inept (which no one will admire at
all). Your own actions, on the other hand, were remarkably
courageous.”

Sera, however, was not convinced. “I don’t see that.
There is nothing remarkable about jumping out of a carriage which
is hardly even moving. Indeed, upon reflection, it strikes me as
rather a hoydenish thing to do. I ought to have been able to quell
Lord Krogan’s ardor by—by the dignity of my bearing or—or somehow
taught him to respect me as he ought.”

Mistress Sancreedi threw back her head and laughed.
“But my dear Sera, I believe that is precisely what you have done.
In any case, you have earned my respect, and that is not easily
won.”

Mistress Sancreedi took her leave outside the
bookshop. “Indeed, Sera, I have long desired to better our
acquaintance, and regretted that your grandfather and I were not
better friends. I wish I had attended your christening.” With which
mysterious pronouncement she touched Sera lightly on the cheek and
went on her way.

Sera entered the bookshop at a quarter to four,
feeling unusually uplifted, remarkably at peace with herself and
with the whole world.
If I were inclined to be
fanciful, I should imagine there was something almost magical about
her, something in Mistress Sancreedi’s voice or her touch, a spell
against anger, resentment, and envy. But it is only that she is so
very good—so sensible and so wholesome—that one is instantly
inspired to become better oneself.

Her grandfather, as Sera soon learned, was out. “Went
off an hour or two past on some errand—no, I don’t know where he
might be,” Caleb said irritably. “I reckon he’ll be back afore
long, if he knowed you was coming.”

With spirits undimmed, Sera bade Caleb an unusually
dulcet good afternoon and climbed the two flights of stairs to her
grandfather’s living quarters in the attic.

There, she removed her hat, her shawl, and her
mittens, and draped them over a ladderback chair. Sera moved about
the attic with easy familiarity, lighting a fire in the red brick
fireplace in Jenk’s little sitting room, hanging a kettle of water
over the flames to boil. Humming a half-remembered tune under her
breath, she arranged plates, cups, and saucers on a table, found a
dish for the cider cake and another for the buns. She searched a
cupboard until she found a loaf of dry bread, cut off two slices,
skewering them on long-handled forks, and arranging them in a rack
on the hob to toast.

By this time, the kettle was only just beginning to
steam, so Sera opened the work basket which she kept at the
bookshop, rummaged through the contents until she brought forth a
frilled shirt of her grandfather’s. It was so old and fragile that
it was coming apart at the seams. Seating herself in one of the two
wing chairs by the fire, she threaded her needle and set to
work.

So she was when Gottfried Jenk entered the sitting
room a short while later. The old bookseller paused, unnoticed, on
the threshold, enjoying the pretty scene of comfortable domesticity
thus presented. In the heat of the fire, the wild roses in Sera’s
cheeks were more vivid than ever; her glossy dark head was bent in
concentration as, with tiny careful stitches, she mended the
ancient shirt.

He had only a moment to observe her, before Sera
looked up and saw him standing by the door. “There you are,
Grandfather. You have come just in time. The water is boiling, and
the teapot is warming on the mantel,” she said as Jenk moved slowly
across the room and bent stiffly to kiss her on the forehead. “You
look tired, my dear. I hope you aren’t ill?”

“I have not slept much of late.” As he spoke, Jenk
walked over to the open cupboard, took down a small painted chest
of eastern design, and set it on the table. The box contained a
black tea from the Orient, blended with dried raspberry leaves.

“No, no, I assure you that I am not ill. Nor am I of
unquiet mind,” he added hastily, as Sera’s dark brows came
together. “It is only that my . . . studies . . . occupy so much of
my time.” He continued to move slowly about the room, preparing the
tea, taking down a crockery jam pot and putting it down on the
snowy tablecloth. “I am old, my dear, and I have not many years
ahead of me. I wish to make good use of the time that remains.”

Sera looked up from her mending, hesitated a moment
before speaking. Mistress Sancreedi’s influence was fading, and she
was beginning to remember certain conversations and observations
that had worried her before. “When I came to see you two weeks
past, I stopped in to visit Mistress Harefoot and Mistress Leer
along the way. In both shops I heard a story, a most disturbing
story—I didn’t like to ask you about it before, when Caleb Braun
was present. You have not—please tell me that you have not begun
dissecting bodies, as they say. The risk of disease, especially to
a man of your years . . .”

Jenk sank down wearily in the other chair. “The
dissection of the human body,” he said, with as much dignity as he
could muster, “is illegal. Or rather, it is an act forbidden to all
but members in good standing of the College of Chirurgeons, who
perform their experiments under the Prince’s warrant.”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” said Sera. “But I know,
also, that the men of the Watch may be bribed to overlook—“

Jenk cut her off with an imperious wave of his hand.
“I am not dissecting bodies, Sera, or indeed, engaging in any other
activity of an illicit nature. It is true that I maintain a
primitive sort of laboratory in a room down below, but if you wish
to examine it in order to set your mind at rest, why then, you are
welcome to do so.”

As he had anticipated, Sera shook her head; she would
never question her grandfather’s word.
How
easily
(thought Jenk)
I have learned to
lie to her. Yet is it not entirely for her own good?

“If you say that you are doing nothing wrong,
Grandfather, then naturally I must believe you,” said Sera.

When the tea had steeped, the old man poured a small
amount into his own cup and an equal amount into Sera’s. He smiled
at his granddaughter over the teapot. “Do you remember—but of
course you will recall—how you used to see pictures in the
tealeaves? You used to amuse me with your . . . well, I suppose one
might even call them predictions, for they were often amazingly
accurate.”

Sera felt an odd, fluttering sensation in her
stomach. She remembered those “predictions” very well, for all she
had labored so earnestly to forget them. As she remembered, also,
certain terrifying childhood experiences, which this conversation
with her grandfather had already brought to mind.

She recalled, with particular horror, a series of
recurring nightmares, in which, seeming to rise from her little bed
in the attic and walking barefoot down to the bookshop, she had
seen her grandfather, in a strange dark wig, bending over an open
coffin which contained a putrefying corpse . . .

Sera shuddered, remembering the livid face of the
dead man, the sickening stench of the decaying flowers that lined
the casket. Sitting up a little straighter, she resolutely put the
memory out of her mind. “I fear that I was a dreadfully fanciful
child! How fortunate that I’ve grown wiser with the years.”

Her grandfather smiled at her, a smile both wistful
and quizzical. “Wiser, my dear? I wonder. Had you chosen to train
your intuition instead of suppress it, it is possible you might
have been capable of great things.”

But Sera would not—could not bear to—give any credit
to her disquieting childhood fantasies. “You know I put no faith in
intuition, or in anything of the sort,” she said firmly.

Rather than disturb her further, Jenk allowed the
subject to drop. He poured another cup of tea for himself, brought
the toast to the table, and spread it with damson jam. Between sips
of tea and bites of cider cake, Sera went on with her sewing.

When she finished mending his shirt, she folded it
neatly and brought out the work basket again.”I really do not know
how you manage to mistreat your handkerchiefs so badly,” she said,
displaying a particularly disreputable specimen for his inspection.
“And here is one that is even wor—“ She broke off with an
exclamation of surprise and dismay. “Why, it—it looks exactly like
a tiny shroud.”

For a moment, Gottfried Jenk struggled to find the
words. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, shook his head, and
passed a trembling hand over his brow. Then he managed to collect
himself.

“You are acquainted with Mistress Vogel, who comes in
to scrub for me? She was here with her niece but a few days past.
The child brought a family of wooden poppets and her bits and
pieces of sewing; she was making a gown for a little Rose-Bride. It
is
that time of year, is it not?”

“Yes. It is that time of year,” said Sera. But she
had not failed to notice his temporary confusion. A faint doubt
crept into her mind, the first she had ever entertained as to her
grandfather’s veracity.

Yet, though she instantly and resolutely pushed that
doubt to the back of her mind, it remained with her, and would
emerge again and again to trouble her in the weeks to come.

Chapter
10

Which the Sensitive reader may wish to Omit, but
Ought to be read, nevertheless.

The tavern known as the Antique Squid was a great
untidy elephant of a house, built of grey stone and half timber,
with dormer windows and cupolas and chimneys starting out of the
roof and the upper stories in unexpected places. It was a crazy old
house, all curves and odd angles, with shutters hanging loose on
broker hinges, doors that regularly jammed (or refused to close at
all) and a slate roof carpeted in a patchwork of shaggy green moss
and ruddy houseleek.

The taproom at the Squid was long and narrow, rather
resembling an attic lumber room for its low, beamed ceiling and the
number and variety of its furnishings: scarred oak tables,
upholstered armchairs with broken seams and horsehair sticking out
in wiry tufts, benches, settles, stools both high and low, trunks,
and packing crates. In addition, the taproom boasted two fine
fire-places, each with a cozy inglenook, a dozen or so clocks (some
of these even kept time), and a number of dim old paintings done in
oils. Perhaps the most striking feature was the many-tentacled
sea-creature preserved in formaldehyde in a bottle behind the bar,
the antique squid for which the tavern was named.

The tavern had a reputation for solid comfort
combined with a convivial atmosphere. Folk came to the Squid for
good brown beer and well-aged cheeses, for steaming bowls of purl
or mulled wine, for demon fiddlers who could play all night long
with scarcely a pause, and for comely, good-natured barmaids.

It was customary among the Watchmen who nightly
patrolled the eastern bank to meet at the Squid and drink a tankard
of ale or porter before walking their evening rounds. Matthias and
Walther, Oderic and Theodor, Abel and Thaddeus: big men with loud
voices, they dominated the crowded taproom with their presence.

They had met as usual, one particular evening near
the end of the season, and claimed an inglenook for their private
use. The ale was excellent, a fine fire blazed on the hearth, and
the fiddlers were just tuning up. But conversation lagged, largely
due to Theodor, who sat in a shadowy corner of the nook with his
tricorn pulled down over his eyes, and answered the sallies of the
others with grunts and disspirited monosyllables.

After about a quarter of an hour of this, Oderic gave
his partner a friendly shove. “You’re in a black mood this night,
cully. Another squabble with your old woman, was it?

Theodor put down his tankard with a thud. “Molly’s
all right—I got no quarrel with her. Tell you what: I’m surprised
the rest of you ain’t a good deal more sober, seeing what night
this be.”

The others exchanged a puzzled glance.

“It’s the thirty-seventh,” said Theodor. “And the
Gentlemen is always active around this time. And when I think of
finding another dead girl, like the one we discovered last year
this same time . . . well, it makes me sick, and I ain’t ashamed to
say so.”

The other constables all moved uneasily in their
seats, unnerved by this unwelcome reminder. But Matthias spoke out
loudly and heartily, perhaps a little
too
heartily, to disguise his own discomfort. “That may be. But two
seasons has passed since the boys on the west bank made their
discovery—and that was just one of the Gentlemen themselfs, with
his tongue cut and his throat slashed—not one of them poor
sacrificed girls. Seems to me as if the Knights of Mezztopholeez
has turned their hands to less bloody-minded mischief than they was
inclined to afore.”