Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) (7 page)

“Three!” he shouts, not yanking me up, but swinging me out and around the end of the carriage, kicking the side door open with his boot. Before I’ve had the chance to object he casts me deep inside the dark belly of the coach, slamming and locking the door behind me.

F
our

Eyelet

I land hard. My head strikes the object that fills the seat next to me, hidden behind the red velvet curtain. A trickle of blood snakes its way from my temple down my cheek and I reach up to tend to the gash, when the stranger cracks the whip. I’m thrown backward as the carriage jolts forward, carpets dropped down over the glass. The sound of hooves galloping over the cobblestones fills my ears as we rumble away from the city, out into the country, into the unknown.

Where are we going? Where is he taking me? My head cranks around.
Good Lord, what have I done?

I rest my chin on the back of the seat, face pressed to the window glass, trembling, as I peer out from beneath the flapping carpet at the last sliver of Gears. The horizon fades into the rolling cloud and my stomach drops like a stone. My eyes warm at the thought of the stranger and I release a terrified breath. Who is he?
What
is he? I swallow.
What was I thinking?

I spin around and throw my head against the cushioned seat. Whatever happens now, I must be brave. Mother would want that from me. I must get through this on my own. I must not reveal who I am, or why I’ve come. I must stay solely focused on the machine. I’ve come all this way to use it, and use it I shall. I’ll let
no one
stop me.

Once I’ve used it, things will be different. I will no longer be the leper I’ve been, but a lamb, with a new life just beginning.

The light in my pendant catches my eye. It’s pulsing emerald light bathes the dark carriage in an eerie green glow. Something sparks, like a bolt of lightning within the tiny vial and I gasp. I roll the vial over in my fingers and it sparks again. It’s a charge—no, a tiny, bottled, candescent arc.

The vial starts to pulse more quickly than before. The power of it warms my skin. How can the key to my future—to everyone’s future—be held here, in this tiny vessel of glass? And why does it contain an arc?

Mother would have told me if she knew, wouldn’t she?

She must not have known. But why wouldn’t Father have told her? I move my eyes to the ceiling, remembering.

Perhaps there wasn’t time.

Or perhaps it was too dangerous for her to know.

I think about Father’s notebook, tucked safely down the side of my boot. He’d used
Lumière
as code in order to hide the Illuminator’s whereabouts from Smrt. What could he have hidden inside this glass?

I turn to the heap of metal sitting next to me, concealed behind the drape. Just as I’m poised to pull back the curtain, a surge of silver prickles in my veins. A lightning bolt of it this time, rising steadily, yanking at my breath.
Burning bread.
I smell burning bread. My warning, the only warning I ever get before the silver drags me under. It’s a grand mal seizure this time, not just a petit one like the one that struck me back at the hedges. I’ll not escape its venomous strike.

No. Please. No.
I clutch the seat, trying to quell my fear. I’ve never gone through a grand mal seizure alone. My mother’s always been there. The petit ones I can handle, I’ve trained myself how; but a full-blown seizure without assistance, or anyone to hide the fact…

I may not even survive it.

I start to tremble, the silver invading, first my lips, then my entire jaw. It won’t be long now. I can feel it, the heaviness inside my organs, the softening of my limbs. I can try to fight it, but it’s no use. The demon that lurks within me controls me now.

Clinging to the last fragments of my consciousness, I panic, clawing at the seat. What if the stranger overhears me moaning and stops, only to discover me collapsed and gyrating about on the floor of his carriage, mouth agape, tongue exposed—frothing?

What then?

What if he thinks I’m Mad—or worse? What if he deems me a Cantationer possessed of demonic thought, and hands me over to the authorities for the practice of Wickedry, before I’ve even had the chance to wake up?

I can’t let that happen. He can’t see me. He must not
hear.

With the last shred of my strength, I tear my gloves from my hands, ball them, and stuff them in my mouth just as the silver pulls me under. My body quakes. I writhe down the seat onto the floorboards, my face mashed against the red velvet cushion, buttons etching lines into my cheeks.

Inside the heavy smoke that muddles my brain I see him—my father—standing next to my machine.

The Illuminator.

The one he invented solely for me. To try and put an end to this madness that plagues me. To save me from a life locked up in an asylum.

The one he sold,

Before he bothered to fix me.

Then
died,

And left me here,

Still defective.

To fight this demon,

All alone.

The smoke in my mind turns from grey to black, the world around me erasing...slowly…

I wish you’d never invented it,

Never sought a solution—

Never let me believe there was hope…

I wish I’d never been born defective,

I wish I’d never been born
at all…

I wish I could reverse
everything—

Everything,
that’s happened…

P
ART
T
WO

F
ive

Urlick

I squint, guiding the carriage through the dark, dank, criminal woods, drifting through fog as thick as pudding in spots. Nothing but the clomp of Clementine’s hooves and the jingle of her tack to keep me company. Not so much as a whimper out of the stowaway cargo in back.

I hope she’s still alive.

I look over my shoulder, at the silent carriage bobbing along behind, seeing the girl’s face as she clung to the roof—the sheer grit and determination in her eyes. What kind of a girl acts like that? Forcing her way up onto the property of a total stranger, hiking up her skirts and running at the speed of a broke rhythm racehorse? Better still, what kind of a girl dares to wander the markets of Gears without a chaperone? Clearly, one that doesn’t know any better.

I wonder where she’s from. Certainly not Gears. It has to be Brethren, there’s no other choice. What could she be running from, a waif like that? What could she possibly have done to drive her to flee the safety of her world for the likes of
this
one? I look around. No one in his or her right mind would intentionally do that.

“Oh, good, Lord,” I gasp. “Please don’t tell me.” Clementine whinnies. “I haven’t just kidnapped a girl, have I?”

Clementine swings her long sad face around and sighs heavily.

“You’re right,” I say. “She came of her own volition, didn’t she? Didn’t she? You’ll vouch for me, won’t you old girl?”

Clementine snorts.

“Good, as long as we’re in agreement.” I pull on the reins, bringing her to a stop in front of the barn outside the house, feeling the rush of worried heat subside from my cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to be home. Then it dawns on me. What am I going to do with the girl now? I can’t possibly let her in the house.

I swing down from the coachbox into a pool of swirling fog, patting Clementine on the haunches. Evening mist hangs thick from her nostrils. Vapours crowd the summit of the escarpment on the horizon.

“It won’t be long now before they spill down over the hillside, eh girl?” I stare up at the swirling clouds, willing them away. “Wretched things, contaminating everything in their path.” I tug at her laces. “Blasted Vapours.
And
their deathly tentacles.”

Clementine snorts again.

My eyes drift onto the handle of the carriage. “You don’t suppose she’s died back there? She hasn’t made a sound in clicks.” Clementine whinnies, stretching her lips back toward the door. “I know, I know. I’ll let her out, don’t worry”—I pull on a strap—“as soon as I figure out the best way to go about it.”

The stowaway stirs inside the carriage, sending me shuffling backward, my spine slapping up against Clementine’s withers. My heart rattles like a bag full of snakes. Never in all my life have I been this nervous.

What’s the matter with me? What do I care what this stranger thinks? Besides, it’s not like she’s in any position to judge. She’s the one who forced her way into
my
carriage, I’ve not invited her here. I tug at the tails of my waistcoat. And why
my
carriage? There were plenty of carriages parked in the square. What made her gravitate to this old square box?

Clementine reaches around, nudges me with her muzzle. “Don’t push me,” I shove her off, “I’m getting to it.” I drop the reins, suck in a breath, and head for the carriage door, my hands wet inside my gloves.

The buggy wobbles side to side. I hesitate, just outside the door. Shivering in the damp morning light, low mist curling about my feet, my hand hovers centimeters above the handle.

Perhaps it’d be best if I just
throw
it open. Expose her to my ugliness straight away. Or will that be too much? I turn and pace. Will she die of fright at the sight of me? I turn again. Oh, good Lord, get on with it, will you? She’s not a monster. She’s just a girl.

Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t already seen me. She looked me straight in the eyes. That much I know. Even so, has she
really
seen me? Had the chance to take me all in? And if she has, what must she think?

Clementine shuffles her feet, growing impatient. The carriage lurches again.

I close my eyes and fling open the door.

The stranger gasps.

I look to see her staring at me through eyes round and full as a harvest moon. She peeps, a startled fledgling in a nest of darkness.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and throw out my hand. “May I?”

She lunges backward. “May you what?”

“Help you from the carriage, of course.”

Long black lashes bat over caramel-colored eyes so striking I can hardly pull mine away.

“No thank you.” She slides forward, averting her gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

Creamy white hands grip the sides of the door, with nails as round and delicate as rosebuds. She exits toe first, followed by a lanky leg covered in a stretch of thigh-high spat-style stocking. The kind sophisticates wear. A ruse of buttons runs up the stocking’s side. Lace trims its top. A plume of emerald green skirts billows from the mouth of the carriage next, featuring a center skirt cut so shockingly short, a flash of bare leg winks between the finished edge and the top of her stocking—
not that I’m noticing
. I can’t help but wonder, do all Brethren girls where their skirts so scandalously short?