Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) (28 page)

I knew I’d recognized those eyes.

“We’re jiggered!” Urlick turns and pounds his fists on a tree. “It’s only a matter of time before they catch us now.”

“Perhaps not,” I fling myself around. “Perhaps her Ladybird didn’t make its destination?”

Urlick scowls, angered at the thought of his gizmo not succeeding.

“All right then,” I swallow. “Perhaps we can still outrun them? It might not have landed yet.”

“We’ll have to,” Urlick snaps, staring off into the distance as if he’s calculating the Ladybird’s arrival. “We’ve no other choice.” He races over to the cycle and drops to his knees. Bertie groans as he forces on the tire.

“Get your pack,” he shouts to me. “We’re leaving.”

T
hirty one

Eyelet

Urlick veers onto the main road for the last few clicks of the journey, slowing from time to time. He pulls a Dyechrometer from his pocket and activates it, scanning our surroundings for feral heartbeats, checking for intruders. The sonic sound of its beep makes both Bertie and me jump. My blood runs cold until the sound switches to a dull gong, the signal for all clear. The device hasn’t detected any other heartbeats but the two of ours within a hundred meter radius.

We’re safe.

For now.

Urlick flips shut the lid and pockets the Dyechrometer. “Better don the masks, anyway.”

“Why?”

“We’re almost at the entrance to Gears.” His eyes traipse across the horizon. “Another hundred, maybe hundred-fifty meters. Though we’re not going to use the entrance. Best not to take any chances.” He looks to me. “You being wanted and all.”

“About that—” I lower my head. I should tell him. But how? How do I explain what happened to Mother and why I’m wanted without explaining my affliction?

I look up to see him gazing at me sympathetically. “You can tell me later.”

Bertie sighs.

I reach into my pack and pluck the gasmask out, and pull it down over my face.

Urlick laughs. “Ride into town with that on and you’re sure to draw unwanted attention. Here—” He reaches into my pack and pulls out the wax replica of Ida, the one C.L. gave me before we left. “The idea is
not
to stand out.”

“Of course,” I say, accepting it reluctantly, holding the thin waxy replica of Ida’s face in my hands. A chill sneaks down my spine as I look into her eyes. Crazy Legs’s last words swirl in my head.
“Please, Eyelet. Iris insists. It’s the only way you’ll be safe to travel the streets of Brethren.”

Iris. Thoughtful, kind Iris.

Urlick pulls his father’s death mask from his pack, rakes back his hair and slips it into place. Its gelatin-coated backing sucks to his skin in a noisy slurp. I shiver. The idea of walking around in someone else’s likeness curdles deep in my belly. It’s not right. None of this is right. But
oh
so necessary.

Urlick rubs his hands over his fake skin, pressing out every groove, every line, securing every dart-like wrinkle. Slowly his father’s face comes to life, adhering securely to his, and I can’t help but think how wicked that seems.

Carefully, he centers the fake pale pink lips of the mask over his own purple ones, pinching them down into place. From another box he pulls two shiny circular translucent skins, lifts up his lids, and places them over his eyes, blinking, until at last his eyes adapt to their new painted veils. He turns and looks at me through the same ghostly eyes that stared down at me before, from the landing of the stairs—and I shudder, unnerved by their empty, glazed-over stare.

His whole face looks so strangely unnatural; I can’t imagine how it’s going to fool anyone. The skin is a jaundiced-peach in color, mixed with the stark white of his natural skin beneath. The mulberry birth stain on his cheek—he’s tried to disguise it beneath layers of extra wax injected with dark brown ink—has turned out looking more like a glob of raisins than the mole he intended. His painted blue eye skins blend with his own vibrant pink, turning his irises a deep shade of inhuman violet blue. I tremble, biting my lip to keep him from seeing my reaction, casting my eyes to the ground.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” I look away, then back. “It’s just shocking to see you this way.”

“You find
this
shocking?” Urlick almost laughs. “Over my face before!” He turns away, shaking his head. “You are a very strange girl, Eyelet Elsworth. A very strange one.”

He tucks the box and tools back into his pack and when he turns around, I notice the mask has warmed to his face, the colors have become more realistic. But still, he’s not himself to me.

“Your turn.” He motions toward the mask in my hand. “Just hold it close to your face; the mask knows what to do.”

I look down at the mask in my hands and think of Ida, whether or not she’d approve of me borrowing her face. My mind drifts to my father, and I cringe at the idea of someone donning a wax replica of him without his permission.

“Come on, Eyelet.” Urlick touches my shoulder. “We need to get going.”

Bertie groans.

I reach up, anxious, and place Ida’s likeness over mine. The jelly-like lining springs to life when it makes contact with my skin, eerily drawing me in. A moment later, it’s a part of me, moving as I move, grinning when I grin, grimacing as I grimace.

Urlick helps me smooth down the bumps along the edge of my hairline, coaxing my bangs to drop naturally down over my forehead again. Pressing out the bubbles over my cheek, he caresses away the wrinkles from my chin.

I look up, feeling sick yet weirdly grateful. Without her cover, there’s no question I’d be recognized in Brethren. “How do I look?”

“Pretty good,” Urlick grins. “How does it feel?”

“Okay, I guess.” I lick my lips, no longer my own, repulsed by their chalky paraffin taste.

“And now for the finishing touch.” Urlick walks to his pack and back again, producing a brush and a tin of stage makeup. He stands back, dipping the brush in the tin. “Try not to smile,” he says, dusting my face in a layer of powder. I choke under the screen of dusty smoke, waving away the excess with a hand.

“Now me,” he says, passing me the brush. “And make sure you cover everything.” Wax crinkles at the corners of his mouth as he talks. I reach up and work out the imperfections. He returns the favor, using his thumbs to get rid of stress splits in my lips, pressing each crevice delicately into place. His touch is so tender; so wonderfully caring. It’s hard to believe he raised himself.

“There.” He finishes. “Now how about that makeup?”

I reach up. My breath catches in my throat. The hairs on the back of my neck nettle as I dust his cheeks and coat his chin, the eyes of his father watching me the whole time. I try not to think of it, but it’s not his gaze—and the one that stares at me makes my skin crawl. It’s Urlick, I tell myself. It’s not his father; it’s him. I close my eyes to make it easier, imagining the real Urlick beneath the mask, trying not to think of the one I wear. “There,” I say when I’m finished. “All set.” I turn away.

“Listen.” Urlick catches me softly by the arm, his voice soothing. He raises my chin until our eyes meet. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it has to be done. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

His eyes dart gently over my face and for the first time I see a hint of the warm Urlick I’ve come to know, behind the imposters’ eyes.

We abandon Bertie at the edge of the quarry on the outskirts of town—much to his dismay—hiding him among the boulders on the far side of the tracks and cross, unnoticed at the checkpoint. Then we slink through the streets of Gears, an easy labyrinth under Urlick’s swift and skillful guidance, and dart up the back of the hillside toward the Academy, arriving breathless at its gate. Our fingers, numbed by the cold twisted iron of its sprawling ivy cage.

We’re alone, thank goodness. The streets around the school are empty. Only a few widows, on their way to the market for high tea. Everyone else is consumed by daily duties. We’ve arrived at the perfect time of day.

“What now?” Urlick looks at me through a veil of painted aspiration.

“Now to get past the keepers.” I point.

Urlick’s eyes follow my hand down the hillside to the front of the school, stopping on the pair of mechanical ravens that tower above the entrance about fifty meters away. “Simon and Edgar?” he says, returning his gaze to me.

“In the flesh. Or should I say metal.”

A blanket of fog rolls between us, rendering the Academy and Urlick briefly invisible. The skies overhead come alive with the sound of real ravens, their cries slicing through the air. Urlick looks up, alarmed by the shrillness of their voices.

“There must be a dozen of them.” Urlick squints to see them.

“No, there should only be nine.” I look up.

“What did you say?”

“Pan, and Archie, and seven more,” I say, grinning.

“How do you know this?”

“They’re friends of my mother’s,” I say.

“Friends?” Urlick looks troubled.

I swallow, worried that I’ve said too much. But he’s bound to find out sooner or later anyway, and by look of the approaching flock, it’s going to be sooner for sure. “My mother was gifted a raven as a child,” I continue. “It was a very different time then. She taught it to talk and they’ve been inseparable since.”

“Your mother taught a raven to speak?”

“Yes.” I look up. “For which she was hanged in the square.”

He swallows.

“Some of the townspeople caught her talking to the bird and had her arrested. She was unjustly accused of being a Valkyrie, possessed of Wickedry, and thus she was disposed of—but it wasn’t true.” My voice increases. “It was all a lie. She wasn’t any such thing. My mother was a gentle, honest soul.”

“And you?” he stares at me. “They believe you’re one too, don’t they? That’s why they’re after you.”

I bite my lip and drop my chin to my chest. “Yes, that’s why I jumped your coach, to flee Brethren.” There’s more to it, but this half-truth will have to do for now, for I can’t bring myself to tell him the rest of the story.

The flock of ravens above drops from the clouds, breaking the tension between us. They hover in a tight circle around my shoulders, chattering in my face, and for the first time ever I’m not annoyed. “Archie!” I reach out and stroke his neck. “Oh, Archie, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

Urlick ducks and shoos them away. I laugh at how flustered he appears.

Archie caws, and Urlick bolts back. “Don’t worry.” I stroke Urlick’s arm. “He won’t hurt you.”

Urlick stares at the bird, and then at me, and I’m afraid I know what he’s thinking. He’s judging me, just as everyone always has all my life.

I so hoped he’d be different.

“This is your mother’s constant companion?”

“No.” I laugh. “This is just Archie.” I turn back to the birds. “Where is Pan?” I ask. ”Why isn’t she with you?” I hold my breath, terrified of Archie’s answer, knowing the last time I saw her how close she winged to death.

Archie caws, tipping his wings to the park on my left. Through a gash in the cloud cover a black shadow appears, weaving its way through a skeleton of trees. “Pan!” I shriek, and race down the hillside. “Pan! It’s you!”

Urlick trundles after me looking bewildered.

Pan swoops in, fluttering close to greet me, rolling her head and feathers up against my cheeks. “Oh, Pan, I was so worried about you,” I giggle, bending my neck against her tickling feathers. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

Pan lands gently on my shoulder, snuggling her head up against my neck, and I catch a glimpse of Urlick looking sorely perplexed. “Oh, how rude of me,” I breathe. “Pan, this is Urlick. Urlick, this is Pan. My mother’s bird, the one she taught to speak.” I gesture between the two of them.

Pan nods her head, then curtseys, one wing outstretched.

Urlick can’t help himself: he laughs. “It’s as if she really knows what you’re talking about.”