Nieve (25 page)

The upholstery in the back where Nieve was seated kept buckling up and pinching her, until she gave it a good hard punch. The car groaned and stopped pinching, but then the seat started bouncing her up and down trampoline-style, and tossing her back and forth, from one door to the other, until she hissed, “I get carsick, you know. How would you like
that
all over you?” It stopped promptly.

Next, the radio came on, full blast. The dial was set on a news channel, an extremely weird news channel, that recounted gruesome current events:

Tonight a boy named Jimmy ran away from school and was
eaten by a troll. Serves him right, stupid kid! MWAA-HA-HA!
Earlier this evening, a girl named Priscilla was dragged under her
bed by a giant worm, you should have heard her scream!
MWAA-HA-HA!! A girl named NIEVE, I repeat NIEVE, is
going to the hospital to get a–

Elixibyss, who was seated in the front beside Warlock, flicked the radio off.

Mmnnph!!
it went, but there was no more harassing news. Nieve had certainly heard enough.

“What am I getting at the hospital?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing much,” said Elixibyss, gazing with interest out the window at a rat the size of a spaniel that had begun chasing the car. “An inoculation. A teeny-tiny shot, you won't feel a thing.” She smiled as the car blew the rat away with a blast of exhaust the smelled like rotten eggs. “Nothing but a precaution, my dear. So many creatures that
bite
out in the big world, so many diseases. You wouldn't want to catch the plague, would you?”

Nieve didn't respond. She knew precisely what kind of shot she was going to get: the same “inoculation” that everyone got before they were turned into a piece of furniture. Although Lias had said that Elixibyss needed her. (Poor Lias!
This
was his mother?) Needed her for what, though? Something to stand on, to wipe her feet on?

She stared down at her hands, which were cupped in her lap. The spot of daylight slid out of her sleeve and nestled comfortingly in the palm of her right hand. Experimentally, she tipped her hand and let the light drift onto the seat. After the radio had been silenced, the car seat had been growing colder and colder, and she was beginning to feel numb, as if she were sitting on a block of ice. She wondered if the little light might just warm things up. It did more than that. It concentrated itself into an intensely hot beam, like a ray of sunlight refracted through a magnifying glass . . . and burned a hole in the seat! The car gave a
yelp
, and Warlock gave a shout, losing control of the wheel. The car swerved, and barely missed hitting a man, formally dressed in top hat and tails (several), who was sauntering along the street.

Once Warlock got the car back under control and it continued along, albeit more timidly, the Impress jerked her head around and glared at Nieve. By that time, the daylight had slipped back up her sleeve, where it generated a more gentle heat that warmed her up.

“This car's useless,” said Nieve, in answer to the glare. “It almost hit that man.”

“Yes,” observed Elixibyss, still eyeing her with suspicion. “Nothing worse than vampire splattered on the windshield.”

Nieve assumed she was kidding, but knew better than to ask.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, if one doesn't count crashing through the entrance doors of the hospital, careering wildly down hallways, bouncing up stairs like a ball, and sending people running and shouting in a panic at every twist and turn of the way. By the time they came to a stop and parked in the OR waiting room, the silver car itself was not only a wreck, but a nervous wreck. It sat idling and shaking, with steam pouring out of its hood, as two orderlies approached, pushing a gurney.

Although the orderlies were gowned and masked, they obviously weren't the ones Nieve had encountered earlier. They were both women, possibly nurses. Not that this made her feel any better. Since when did one get carted off to the OR for an inoculation?

“Don't be alarmed, dear,” said Elixibyss, rolling down the window to speak with the orderlies. “You're getting special treatment.”

“I bet.”

“I'll be waiting here,” Elixibyss instructed them. “Have someone send me some headache tablets
on
a silver platter, a hundred or so will suffice, plus a Band-Aid and a cup of espresso. Otherwise, you know what to do. And make it snappy!”

The orderlies both nodded and moved around to Nieve's side of the car. Without saying a word, one yanked open the door (
Ow, ow!
), while the other latched a hand onto Nieve's arm. While they pulled her out of the car and hoisted her onto the gurney, she considered her options. Make a run for it as soon as the gurney started to roll away? Or wait a bit longer, try to summon up a blasting, stun them both, and take off?

They must have anticipated trouble, or possibly it was routine practice, because once she was on the gurney they pushed her down flat and began to secure her with straps. She wouldn't be running anywhere. Nieve began to struggle and kick. “Don't!” she shouted. “Leave me alone! Get your grubby hands off me!!” If they thought they were going to haul her off and turn her into a piece of lumber, they were crazy. She'd kick and bite and scratch . . . .

One of the orderlies put a hand on her chest and pushed her back down, firmly, but not unkindly. She gave Nieve a keen look, her eyes above the mask crinkling with an amused appraisal.
Familiar
eyes. The very same flecked hazel ones that Nieve had seen observing her much earlier that night in a rearview mirror.

It was Frances.

–Thirty–
Container Gardening

A
s they wheeled her through the doors that led to the operating rooms, Nieve continued to put up a struggle, but only for show. What she really wanted to do was laugh. Or cry. Well, she wasn't going to start
that
. She was so happy to see Frances that a surge of renewed determination and hope took hold of her.

Her only moment of alarm came when they veered down the hallway that led away from the operating rooms and wheeled her into a room that was more like an office, with crammed bookshelves and stacks of files and paper piled everywhere, including the floor. Frances locked the door and the other orderly began undoing the straps. While doing so, the mask slipped down over her chin and Nieve saw that it was Sarah, Twisden's intended. With a stab of fright, it now occurred to her that Frances herself may have been overtaken, that things weren't as great as she thought.

But her alarm lasted only as long as it took for Frances, pulling down her own mask, to say, “Nope, they haven't brainwashed me, Nievy. Same old unwashed brain.” She hurried over and helped to unfasten the straps. “My
gosh
it's good to see you! We thought we'd lost you, too.”

As Nieve sat up, Frances enfolded her in her arms. She
knew
she was safe.

Sarah, standing to one side, gazed at her approvingly. “You know, you really do look like your mother.”

This was the sort of thing adults loved to say, whether there was the merest trace of resemblance or not. Nieve returned the gaze less approvingly. “I'm not the only one who looks like my mother.”

“The Impress, yes, that must have been terrible. Look, Nieve, it's not what you might think, believe me. I'm
not
marrying that creep Twisden. I'm . . . well, you'll see. We don't have the time now, it's not going to take her long to catch on.”

“Things are tight,” agreed Frances. “We'll have to save the chinwag for later, but where's Lias? And did you, I mean . . . ?” She braced herself for the answer. “Malcolm?”

“I've seen him!” Nieve filled them in quickly, if sketchily, about Bone House and Lias and Dr. Morys and what she'd witnessed in the ballroom. She couldn't bring herself to tell them that Elixibyss was preserving people, Malcolm included, only to kill them off later. Nieve's job, no less!

“Right,” Frances said, sounding both relieved
and
worried. “We know about that process, everyone zonked out. It's a sort of hypnosis they've discovered that sends you into a deep sleep. Must be how they caught Dr. Morys. Not like that other thing they do . . . the serum, the shots.” She shuddered. “At least Malcolm's not a footstool.”

“Is that what she planned to do to me?”

“You were slated to receive a lighter hit of the serum, same stuff they sneak into the food here, just enough to dumb you down some. We intercepted the order. You're trouble, Nieve. She needs you, but she also needs to control you.”

“But why? I don't get it.”

“Because you can do things she can't.” Frances paused and gave her a quizzical look. “I don't think you realize how . . .
interesting
you are Nievy. Take those plants you're growing in your back pockets, for example.”

“What!” Nieve glanced down and spied a green shoot, a vine with a tiny leaf, twisting around her waist. She hopped down off the gurney and craned her neck around to look at her backside. “Crumb! What is it?”

“Runners!” said Sarah.

“Beans?”

“No, no.
Shoes
, buskins really, but very special ones. This is
perfect
.” Sarah clasped her hands together, delighted.

“I don't–” Nieve started to say, mystified, until she remembered the useless, tattered shoes Gran had given her. She hadn't given them a thought since stuffing them into her back pockets. But . . . they'd sprouted?

“Okay, Sarah.” Frances was equally mystified. “You've got ten seconds to fill us in.”

“In a word, Nieve, they'll make you run
very
fast. That's what I understand; I've never seen a real pair before, only illustrations. They're extremely old.”

“I already run fast.”

“These will help you run faster.”

“Faster than a horse?”

“Faster than . . . anything. Let's have a look at them. And then we'll tell you what you have to do. This makes it so much easier.”

Nieve doubted that, nothing had been easy so far, but overwhelmed with curiosity, she tugged the forgotten shoes out of her back pockets. It was amazing how they had changed. The brown crackly-dry leaves that had been tumbling apart, now adhered together, overlapping like pliant scales, soft as the softest leather and a brilliant green. They even smelled new, like a morning in early spring, verdant and fresh. As she held them up, surely the wildest pair of shoes she'd ever seen (“Rad!”said Frances), she couldn't help but wonder if her bright stowaway, the daylight, was somehow involved in this transformation.

“Put'em on,” urged Frances. “If you can figure out how.”

No problem there. Nieve pulled off her old runners, then eased the new ones on as one would a pair of socks. They extended to mid-calf and fit beautifully. Once they were on, vines thin as laces wound up and around of their own accord, fastening the shoes securely and comfortably.

“You shouldn't have any difficulty now,” Sarah said. “As long as you steer clear of wafts and the like.”

“Wafts?” Nieve was admiring the shoes. They were extremely cool (“
Très
dash,” said Frances) and would be fantastic with her new green shirt. (
Not
that she was into that sort of thing.)