On the Verge (20 page)

“Right, like the hair in the cameo? It’s okay. I’m quite familiar with the Victorian practice of commemorating their dead. I actually have a similar broach. They’d snip off a locket of the deceased’s hair and use it to create these intricately beautiful designs to be worn as jewelry or displayed as art. It’s fabulously morbid, isn’t it? And actually kind of beautiful in a totally macabre way.”

The girl looked at her, a hint of mischievousness animating her blue eyes before a pall of moroseness smothered it again.

“Perhaps you’ll find what you’re looking for here after all.”

She came out from behind the counter and Freya noted the fullness of her long skirts and the narrow corset cinching her waist. The anachronistic outfit seemed oddly at home on the girl, its varying shades of black making her appear disconsolate and elegant by turns. The effect was unnerving. She felt Rusty brush up against her sleeve and turned her head slightly to look at him. His eyes were dark. His guard was up.

“Perhaps, but I’m not really here for Victorian baubles,” Freya said. “I’m Freya. I’m looking for Vasilisa.”

“You’ve found her,” said the girl, her eyes downcast.

“Oh, well, nice to meet you, Vasilisa.” Freya paused, unsure of how to continue and then spoke quickly before she lost her nerve. “This might be an odd question, but I’ve been informed that I can find a certain kind of carmine red in this shop. Is that right?”

Freya watched as the rosy color of Vasilisa’s cheeks faded. The deathly pallor left behind made her look suddenly sickly and tired. That was when Freya noticed the dark circles under her eyes. There was a strange frailty to the girl. She seemed worn and threadbare. Freya swallowed hard. She had a sinking suspicion that it had something to do with the Verge and the color she needed.

Vasilisa crossed her thin arms on her chest, her body curled in on itself as if it might collapse. She looked down at the ground biting her lip.

“You know what you are asking, yes?”

She said it so quietly that Freya had to lean forward to understand.

“If I were you,” she continued, “I would leave here and never return.”

Rusty grunted. Freya couldn’t tell if it was a sound of agreement or derision. She sighed.

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Freya said. “And I’m not sure about this particular color, but if it’s anything like the last one I’m not expecting it to be an easy job if that’s what you mean.”

Vasilisa met Freya’s gaze with a look of resignation born from years spent yoked to an unpleasant task. There was desperation too in those crystal eyes. Freya couldn’t help but shiver. This girl was like a wild animal straining against some unseen cage.

“There are things in this world, Freya. Evil things. I’m not sure you understand what you’re dealing with.”

“I know about the Verge, if that’s what you mean.”

A look of shock temporarily replaced the terrible restlessness in Vasilisa’s face. Freya was relieved. Whatever inner turmoil the girl was attempting to conceal made her nervous.

“You know about it?” Vasilisa asked incredulously.

“Regrettably, yes. I’ve become all too familiar with the inhabitants of the Verge over the last couple of days.”

“Then you know that what you’ll be facing is extremely dangerous. She may kill you, Freya. If she feels like it.”

“Unfortunately I’m getting used to my life not meaning much lately,” Freya said.

“So cavalier,” Vasilisa said, a look of scorn hardening her pretty features. “There is really something so important that you need risk your life over some color? It’s a fool’s errand.”

“But I’ve got help,” Freya said calmly, looking behind her again to where Rusty was standing. He seemed uncomfortable. He shifted his weight back and forth nervously, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Vasilisa followed Freya’s gaze to the contorted features of Rusty’s face, seeming to notice him for the first time. She studied him for a moment and then turned back to Freya.

“I still don’t fancy your odds,” she said, her accent managing to be both compelling and indifferent at the same time.

“You are stubborn,” Vasilisa continued.

“So I’ve been told,” Freya said with a nod.

“And unwise.”

“Heard that one too.”

Freya smiled but it quickly faded. “I have to go,” she said softly. “I need the color. So if you would be so kind as to show me where to go, my friend and I will be on our way.”

“Stupid girl,” Vasilisa said through a rattling sigh. “Fine. I will show you the way down.”

She turned slightly and then seemed to think better of it.

“Wait a moment.”

She walked quickly to the front of the store, her layers of black skirts swishing against the wood floor.

Freya followed, realizing that she hadn’t paid much attention to the space just to the right of the door where they’d come in. She’d been too distracted by the other curios and oddities to notice the strange assortment of glass terrariums gathered there behind a low shelf that cordoned off the area from the rest of the store. A small sign on velvety paper read Carnivorous Plants in ornate script.

Venus fly traps, several pitcher plants and a cobra lily, its great veined hood and red pointed petals looking obscenely threatening, grew out of mossy peat in the bottoms of assorted goblets and candy jars. Freya gazed at these, fascinated but unnerved by their grotesque voluptuousness. She was reminded of the time her parents had given her a tiny Venus flytrap when she was just a small child. She’d been amazed and duly frightened by the idea that a plant could eat another living creature. It just didn’t seem right. She remembered, on a dare, putting her little finger against the dark red interior of the strange, hinged lobes at the end of the plant’s vivid green leaves. It had snapped shut and she’d screamed, certain that it would consume her whole.

Freya clenched her hands and shoved them into the pockets of her jacket. She wasn’t quite over the whole thing so she was glad when Vasilisa passed these by and came to a stop in front of a tiny cabinet atop a shiny black lacquered console. On first glance the only thing unusual about the little wood cupboard was its brilliant emerald color, but a closer inspection revealed intricate scrollwork carved into the twinned doors that was surely by the work of an accomplished cabinetmaker. And their polished onyx handles were so well-turned it seemed as though they sprouted out of the panels as naturally as the horns of a deer.

“It’s beautiful,” Freya said.

“It is,” said Vasilisa. “In the same way a viper is before it bites you.”

Freya recoiled. “Do you always have such a way with words?”

Vasilisa cocked an eyebrow at her and selected a diminutive key from the chatelaine she wore. She slid one of the beautiful black handles to the side to reveal an equally tiny keyhole. With a swift turn of her wrist, and an echoing thunk that seemed much too loud for a lock of its size, the little doors popped open slightly. Vasilisa grabbed the upper edges of each one and swung them open.

Freya wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the charming rag doll that sat on the single red-varnished shelf inside. It had golden yellow yarn for hair pulled into a neat bun and a cherubic face made from peach-colored felt set with brilliant blue glass bead eyes that caught the light just so. She wore a pale blue dress with red rickrack around the bottom and a spotless white apron. Her legs were clad in green-and-white-striped stockings and on her little feet were black felt Mary Janes, their straps secured with the smallest buttons Freya had ever seen. The doll was simple but obviously well made. Extreme care had been taken about every detail and the stitches that held her together were so fine that they were nearly impossible to see. Vasilisa reached in and removed the pretty plaything carefully, placing it in the crook of her bent arm like a newborn.

Freya couldn’t help but note the strangeness of the scene, a grown woman in mourning clothes cradling an enchanting little dolly in the middle of a meat-eating plant menagerie. It would have been strangely delightful, except that the dead seriousness on Vasilisa’s face infused everything with a somberness that was haunting rather than humorous.

“What is it?” Freya asked.

“This is your charm,” Vasilisa said quietly. “Your talisman. Take her with you. Stow her safely away in your pocket. I’m not sure how much protection she’ll afford you but you’ll need all the help you can get if you’re going to be asking the witch for her color.”

“The witch,” Freya said. “That doesn’t sound good. What kind of witch are we talking about?”

Vasilisa looked at Freya, her eyes alive with fear. “She’s a crone, just as you might imagine a fairytale witch might be, with a hooked nose and beady eyes. She is old, older than this land certainly, and she is powerful. Her mouth is full of iron teeth filed to razor sharp points and she is always ravenous, constantly on the hunt for food to fill her foul belly. Even the most sumptuous feast will satisfy her for only a brief time and not a bit of it will fill out her skeletal frame. The only meat that silences her gnawing ravenousness is human flesh. She’s a cannibal and she’ll do anything to fulfill her cravings for stew steeped with human marrow. “

“Fabulous,” Freya said with a bit more sarcasm than she had intended. “She sounds lovely.”

“You need to take this seriously, Freya. Baba Yaga is no joking matter.”

“Baba Yaga? You mean that hag from Russian folklore?”

Freya was vaguely familiar with the Slavic witch. She flew around in a mortar instead of a broom and made her home in a mobile shack outfitted with its own pair of chicken legs.

“Yes, but she’s here below the city now. The Belfry is the gateway to her realm.”

“And she has the color we need?” Freya asked

“Yes, she makes it with that mortar you mentioned from the cochineals she farms down there.”

“Cochineals?”

“They’re bugs. Little, scaly insects covered in white fuzz. When you crush them their bodies ooze a brilliant red color.”

“Bugs?” Freya said. “Just my luck. A witch I can deal with, but I can’t stand bugs.”

“Your entomophobia is of little concern compared to the threat of Baba Yaga.”

It was Rusty who spoke, his voice soft but powerful. It was a voice that commanded attention through its seriousness rather than its volume. Freya turned, somewhat startled. She had almost forgotten that Rusty was in the room with them.

“My what?” she asked.

“Your fear of insects. It’s the least of our problems. Baba Yaga is well known in the Verge. She is indeed a cannibal and a ferocious one to be sure, but what we must be wary of more than all else is her cunning. The witch is shrewd, she may appear a mean brute but her intellect is keen.”

“So, let’s see,” Freya said. “We’re going to seek out a wickedly smart cannibal in order to politely ask her to part with a special color she makes from bugs that she is loath to part with? Fun times.”

“That’s why you need to take this,” Vasilisa said, handing Freya the doll.

Freya looked at the little plaything doubtfully, but took it gently from Vasilisa’s outstretched hand, carefully placing it in the inside pocket of her jacket. She could use all the help she could get by the sounds of it.

Rusty stepped forward so that he was side-by-side with Freya. “How do we find her, Vasilisa?” he asked.

The girl looked at them with concern but led them to the back of the store where a purple velvet curtain hung in a narrow doorway. She disappeared behind the heavy drapery and Freya and Rusty followed, finding themselves on an octagonal wooden platform. Directly in front of them and taking up most of the limited space was a giant bell. It was suspended from a stout bar supported by even thicker metal supports. A red rope ran from the top of the bell down through the empty space below where it disappeared into the gloom.

“An actual belfry,” Freya said. “And here I thought it was just an atmospheric name for a spooky little store. I should have known better.”

Neither Vasilisa nor Rusty said anything. The former stood staring at her feet, wringing her hands, and the latter had already started to descend the rickety stairs located just behind the huge bell.

“Whoa there, Rusty,” Freya called after him. “Where are you going in such a hurry? Don’t you think we should get some directions or something?”

Rusty stopped on the stairs, just the upper half of his body visible above the wormy floorboards. He said nothing but shrugged his shoulders and looked to Vasilisa expectantly.

“Where is she, Vasilisa?” Freya asked.

“Once you go down these stairs and exit the church, you’ll be in the Underground proper.”

“Oh, of course!” said Freya with mock cheer. “I’ve been on the tour. Didn’t see a witch though, or a house with chicken feet.”

“This isn’t the Underground from that tourist trap tour, Freya.”

Freya smiled sardonically. “I’m not surprised. That one was just a musty walk through crumbling bricks and rotten rafters.”

“There’s plenty of that too,” said Vasilisa. “Just watch your step. The Underground is home to more than just Baba Yaga. If you keep to the main path, you’ll find her place. It’s hard to miss. Just follow the old Main Street out of town. You’ll find her there, just beyond the last of the ruined buildings.”

“Got it,” Freya said with more confidence than she felt.

She stepped around the bell and started down the stairs following Rusty’s disappearing form into the murky blackness below. She stumbled a bit on one of the steps and Vasilisa called out to her.

“Ah, I forgot to turn on the lights down there. One moment.”

There was a scuffling sound and then, with a dull flicker, an ancient light bulb came to life on the stairs.

“Thank you,” Freya called out to the girl.

“Take care,” came her muffled reply as Freya and Rusty stepped noisily down the creaky wooden staircase. Freya took a deep breath and touched the soft lump at her hip where the little doll sat in her pocket. It was instantly reassuring although Freya could hardly guess why a tiny ragdoll would make her feel safe when they’d soon be facing a cannibalistic witch with a bug fetish in a matter of minutes.