Resonance (39 page)

Undoing

T
INA WAS A
small, calm insignificance at the heart of the flame. Around her, numbers collided and flowed, painting memories of cool expanses, of light-reflective serenities, of magenta skies: a home for which the Beloved ached. Or, at least, Home as it had been before the Contagion destroyed it.

It comes
, remembered the Beloved.
Birthing itself by accident through a rent in everything. Wriggling and squirming through an emptiness of space until –
horror
– it reaches Home, where the gentle crowds of Us amass in togetherness. Writhing into our sky, it realises We are not it. This is a disgust. It must fix us. For what is not it is wrong. The Contagion, the Disease: it begins to change everything.

She walked with burning feet on illuminated ground, brightening the shrubbery as she passed. Beside her, the orchard walls unspooled in inky blackness; behind that, a ruined castle – her destination – spewed fountains of hungry light to the moon-greyed clouds. She could feel herself coming undone: everything that was truly her expanding out
beyond her body’s capacity to hold it. Soon there would be no her at all, no thoughts or memories, no fear or hate, no ambition, no love. She would be gone. The very touch of this creature was unravelling her.

It was a fascinating experience, to feel her soul disperse.

The Beloved’s memories of the Contagion wavered before her, like a gauze curtain billowing atop the everyday landscape. Numbers broke down and broke down and broke down into tiny fractions, then slipped back and slotted together, rebuilding themselves into another, darker, form: the Contagion, touching everything, reassembling it in its image. The gradual darkening of a world.

The small portion of flame that was Tina’s mind thought,
And you brought it here
.

We rise a blister in the remains of the world and We hold the Contagion within it. We sing it to sleep there – the other Chosen and We – and We grow a ship around the blister and tear ourselves from the remains of the world, and so we depart, seeking the rift from whence came the Contagion. Seeking to rebirth it into its own place
.

You brought it here
, thought Tina again, anger flaring tiny within her very tiny soul.

Its dreams poison Us. But even through the sickness, We sing. So it sleeps. Even as corruption spreads through our ship’s flesh and We tumble helpless through the void, even as We plummet and crash and begin the long rot, We sing. Over time, the others fall silent – one, then another, then another – but We sing on. Then my Heart dies, and We become I, and I am alone in a poisoned world. The darkness is growing near; still I keep the lullaby alive. But not for much longer. Without my Heart I starve. I weaken. I will die. And it shall wake
.

‘But there is another Angel.’

Thrown aside during the plummet.

‘He has no Beloved anymore.’

I have no Heart.

‘Can you help each other? Can he take another’s Beloved?’

The shifting veil of numbers rose and fell in a luminous shrug. The Beloved did not know.

There was a
thud
and they stopped moving. The sky disappeared. It took a long moment for Tina to understand that she had fallen to her knees. The sky had disappeared because she could no longer hold her head up to see it. The grass, however, was captivating, the blood that dropped onto it shining like jewels in the glimmering of the light.

Rise up
, murmured the Beloved.

When she could not respond, the Beloved prodded her, a horrible, intrusive pressure on some buried portion of her mind. Her legs unfolded with the suddenness of spring traps and she was set lurching once again towards the orchard gate and the castle ruins that roared their impatience to the sky.

C
ORNELIUS TOLD HIMSELF
that he was going to explain everything and make things right. He told himself that he was seeking Raquel. He told himself this even as he stumbled through the woods far from where he knew she had gone; even as he purposely kept his mind silent and closed; right up until the sight of Luke sent him ducking behind a tree, where he hid his body and his thoughts until he was once again alone. Only then, hiding in the quiet shift of the darkness, listening to the distant whistles of the hunt,
did Cornelius finally admit that he was not seeking Raquel.

Some small, honest portion of him sneered.
Of
course you are not,
it said.
What would you say to her? ‘I called your boy a whore, my dear. I dubbed him an abomination.’

Cornelius shook his head and pressed his hands to his face.

As if awoken by his own touch, the damning memory leapt unbidden to his mind: a hot and lazy day; he and Matthew sitting together in the orchard, reading. The others had been nothing but the distant sound of a croquet game on the lawns. Matthew spoke his name and Cornelius glanced up. Smiling, the sun behind him, his hair all golden in it, his face gently illuminated by light thrown up from the page, Matthew had leaned across and, as natural as breathing, pressed his lips to Cornelius’ mouth.

This is a child,
Cornelius thought, startled.
This is Raquel’s child!

But Matthew was not a child. He had been a worldly and knowing seventeen when they met; was now, despite his looks, almost fifty-seven; and his kiss was filled with such certainty, such sweetness of intent, such absolute confidence that it speared Cornelius to the core.

Next he knew he was gripping Matthew by the back of his neck and rolling him over onto the warm grass, and Matthew was grinning into the kiss, his mouth widening, his arms closing around him, and it was
so sweet
, God help him, it was
so damned sweet
that Cornelius almost wept.

There came a frantic urgency, and Matthew was suddenly tugging Cornelius’ waistcoat, and slipping his hands beneath his shirt, all the time craning up into the kiss, his body strong and slim and demanding beneath Cornelius’ own. His leg came up between Cornelius’ thighs as his hands worked fire
and magic on his bared chest, and Cornelius groaned into the softness of Matthew’s neck.

Matthew smiled into his ear. ‘I knew it,’ he whispered. ‘I knew it. I knew it all along.’

And then Cornelius was shoving himself back and crawling away, his shirt hanging obscenely open, his chest and belly exposed. How could this be? This was not possible – not here. This did not belong here.

Matthew followed, laughing reassuringly. He attempted a caress, and Cornelius pushed him aside. ‘Where do you think we are?’ he snarled, trying to close his shirt. ‘Some harbour-side cock shop?’

Matthew’s certainty slipped a little at that, but he smiled again, and reached once more. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘Touch me again and I will kill you, you shameless little trug.’

There were more words – Cornelius could not believe he had said such words – but it was the memory of Matthew’s face that was the worst: the slow loss of light from it, the growing hurt, then the anger and, finally, that cold, dead blankness as he took the abuse, the summer sun blazing around him in all its glory, the sounds of laughter drifting from the games down on the lawn.

In the darkness and cold of the present, Cornelius ran from this memory – the way he ran from every memory of Matthew and Matthew’s loveliness and his love, and Cornelius’ wasting of it. He ran the familiar path, wanting only oblivion, not caring what brink his world was teetering on, not caring what would be lost in the forgetting. He wanted his angel. And so it was he entered the orchard in
time to witness the girl rise from her knees in a blaze of blood and glory and stagger from the apple trees like a living candle, into the shadow of the ruins.

He knew at once that she was taking Vincent’s creature to the Angel. That she was about to break everything. He thought that maybe he cried out, but afterwards all he could properly recall was curling his lip and clawing his hands and leaping for her.

S
HE SAW, THROUGH
a warp of numbers, a man running towards her. She lifted her hands, a gentle gesture of thanks and refusal. But he grabbed her with the brutality of a thug, and ripped the light from her. There was a tearing in her throat and behind her eyes. The light was flung from her, a comet-blaze arcing away to impact with the ruins ahead. A great wall of ancient stone flared with luminance; then the comet dulled and slid to the ground, where it glimmered among the nettles, like a dying star.

For a moment Tina remained standing, staring at the man.
You’ve ruined everything
, she thought.
What will happen
now?
Then the sky revolved, the ground leapt up, and she was lying in the rubble and the grass. She tried to say, ‘Help me,’ but something caught in her throat, and she choked on it. The man turned his head slightly, as if tempted to look at her, then he tugged his cravat and squared his shoulders and walked away into the ruins.

Tina watched along the twitching length of her useless arm as he crossed the ruined courtyard and came to a halt at the very place for which she had been headed. Light was
roaring up from the steps below. Wolcroft’s slim figure was ablaze with it, his tangled hair and his grim face all lit up. But Tina knew he had no concept of the magnificence that raged and wheeled about him. Looking down at the entrance to the Angel’s realm, Wolcroft could see nothing but blackness.

You poor man
, she thought.
Your world is so dark
.

He took the first few steps downwards. Then he sagged against the wall, covering his face with his hand. After a while, he turned his head and reluctantly looked over at Tina.

Help
, she thought.
Bring it to him
.

She could not move her head as he came towards her, so she ended up staring at his shoes. It should have been terrifying, this lack of control over her body, like being trapped inside the corpse of herself, but she was calm and serene.

Help him
, she thought.
Unite them
.

The man knelt, turned her face to him and brushed her hair back. With an expression of revulsion, he wiped her mouth and nose with the cuff of his jacket.

‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘It was never my intention—’ He grimaced and hung his head. ‘No. Even now I am lying.’ He looked her in the eye, took her face between his hands. ‘I had nothing but evil intentions for you. I am sorry for that.’ And he gathered her in his arms and lifted her, helpless and voiceless, and carried her away from the one thing she knew she was capable of saving.

In her mind, Tina cried out and screamed. In her mind, she hammered his chest and told him to put her down. But her body remained still and quiet, her gaze directed up at the moon-tumbled clouds. As he walked her through the orchard, snow began to fall, and she could not even blink it from her eyes.

Convergence

J
OE HAD BEEN
with Tina until her hand touched the water. What had he believed would happen then? He hadn’t known, hadn’t given it a single thought. He had simply been entranced by Tina, by her bravery and her strength; by her determination that the Angel would not die alone. So he had not uttered a word of protest, and had simply watched through her eyes as the creature rose from the jar and closed like a gentle trap around her arm. By the time he understood the coldness of it, the vastness, and how little Tina meant in the grand scheme of its perception, it had been too late.

The creature had bent its mind to hers, and Joe experienced an instant loss of energy as the light that fed everything here found itself strongly diverted through the creature’s body. It felt as though the whole world had dimmed. Tina’s voice came clear and loud in his head:
Oh. You are killing me
. Then her thoughts disappeared behind a veil of alien calm, and she was gone.

He spent a stupid amount of time battering himself against the door, screaming her name and straining his mind
to find the thread of her, before he realised he had another option – he could make his way into the underground tunnels and find Tina by finding the Angel.

He had just begun a blind and awkward descent into the darkness when the latch clicked above him and golden light spilled down from the opened door. Raquel was outlined there, all crinolines and flounces. She stepped back in a gesture of invitation. ‘Come up now,’ she said. ‘It is time for you to leave.’

Joe advanced cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Before he had reached the top Raquel stepped from sight, her grave profile catching the light as she turned to go, and he ran the last few steps, afraid she would slam the door in his face. But she simply crossed the room and stood in the library doorway, staring back at him. Her children were waiting in the hall. They had multi-branched candelabras in their hands. The many flames, blazing high, illuminated their little faces with almost painful brightness.

‘Mama is going to play with us,’ whispered the girl, obviously delighted.

‘You may take that,’ said Raquel. She gestured, and Joe turned to find the pram waiting by the French doors. ‘The girl can keep it.’

She lifted her skirts and gracefully made her exit. The children followed her down the hall. Joe heard the soft tap of their heels and the susurration of Raquel’s skirts as she led the way up the stairs. The light from their candles threw a bright nimbus of light on the banister and ceiling, which vanished as they passed onto the middle landing. He stood, breath held, waiting for the creak of their passage overhead, but all was silent.

Miss Ursula burbled in distress and Joe went to the pram and bent over it. ‘I can’t find her, Miss U. She’s disappeared from my mind.’

Ursula Lyndon paid him no attention. She just waved her crooked claws and mewled like a child in need of food. Joe frowned in sympathy and tried to tuck her in, jiggling the rosary to make her happy. But she struggled free of her swaddling and once again grasped and mewled. Joe looked in the direction she was reaching. He looked back down at her. Experimentally, he pushed the pram through the opened doors and out into the night. Ursula Lyndon reached, fingers flexing, towards the path that led to the trees, and Joe, his heart hardly daring to hope, followed her lead.

He travelled blindly into the maze of the woods, trusting completely the compass of Ursula Lyndon’s reaching arms. Pushing his way through tangles of undergrowth, he broke into the open with unexpected abruptness. A wall rose up ahead of him, the branches of trees peeping above it, and beyond that the craggy teeth of a ruin. Joe knew this place; he had seen it from Matthew’s window.

Miss Ursula was in a small frenzy now. Straining her arms over her head, she scrabbled her crooked fingers into the hood of the pram, as if trying to scratch through and reach to the orchard that lay on the other side of the wall. Tina must be in there. Why could Joe not feel this? Even the ropes of light were invisible now, as though the girl whose eyes he had seen them through were …

‘TINA!’ he roared. ‘Tina, where are you?’

He jolted the pram through the gap where a section of the wall had fallen down. The orchard was all stillness, filled with ghostly trees. A man emerged from between them – Wolcroft.
At the sight of the limp figure in his arms, Joe rushed forward. Wolcroft shifted his burden, and from beneath the tangled cover of Tina’s hair and dress he aimed a pistol.

‘I am not sure what you have become, boy. But you have not spent so long in the Angel’s sphere that a shot to the brain will not end you.’

Joe regarded him with jaw-clenched rage. ‘Is she dead?’

The man shook his head. Joe thrust out his arms. ‘Give her to me.’

‘To what purpose?’

‘Are you mad? So I can get her
home
! Look what this place has done to her!’

In the dim moonlight, it was not easy to see Wolcroft’s expression. But there was something about the way he hesitated then, some kind of diffidence and regret, that made Joe afraid.

‘You give Tina to me, mister. We’re leaving.’

‘I do not think you
can
go home, boy.’

‘
Give
her to me.’

‘I … I am not certain that she can either.’

‘Jesus!’ Joe ran the last few steps between them, slapped Wolcroft’s weapon aside and jostled Tina from his arms. ‘Tina,’ he whispered. ‘Hey. Tina. It’s me.’

Her head lolled into the crook of his arm, her
blood-filled
eyes staring at the sky. She was nothing but a weight in his arms. He groaned and gathered her close, backing from Wolcroft.

‘I’m taking your carriage,’ he said. ‘Don’t try and stop me.’

At the pram he faltered, not knowing how to handle it and Tina and make it across the uneven ground. A soft sound at his back made him whirl. Wolcroft was right behind him.

The man put up his hands in a gesture of peace and, bending over the pram, gathered its contents. Miss Ursula cooed and sighed as he laid her into the cradle of Tina’s lap. ‘There,’ he said.

He looked up into Joe’s eyes. Joe cut him off before he could attempt the travesty of an apology. ‘How do I get to the stables?’

Wolcroft pointed. ‘Follow that path.’ Before Joe could run, Wolcroft grabbed his arm. He withdrew from his pocket what Joe recognised as Miss Ursula’s ring, and laid it into the old woman’s hand, closing her gnarled fingers around it.

‘This was hers.’

‘I know it was,’ hissed Joe. ‘She loved that ring. She’s had it since she was thirteen – got it at an emancipation rally run by some black fella and Mr Daniel O’Connell. What are you doing with it?’

‘I stole it from her.’

‘You stole a damn sight more than that, you shameless bastard. I hope your fucking angel kills you. I hope it eats you alive.’

Wolcroft nodded. ‘I’ve poisoned everything,’ he agreed. ‘All the good things … I let them all die.’ He flinched suddenly, as if startled by a shout only he could hear, and looked to the house. ‘Are the children within? They … they tell me Raquel has locked the doors.’

‘What did you do with the thing from the lake?’ asked Joe.

Wolcroft, his attention on the upstairs windows, did not answer.

‘Tina was trying to save it, you know. She thought it was important. She wanted to bring it to the Angel.’

The man just kept staring at the house, his brow furrowed in concern, and Joe, sick to the very core of him, walked away.

T
HE STABLES WERE
filled with scuffling, desperate whispers. The stub of a misshapen candle threw guttering light. Joe laid Tina on a nest of hay and warily rounded the stalls. Harry was stumbling about, trying unsuccessfully to back the horses into the traces of Wolcroft’s carriage. Joe took him by the arm and Harry spun, wild-eyed, his fist cocked.

Joe lifted his hands. ‘It’s me,’ he said.

To his astonishment, Harry grabbed him into a hug. He was trembling. Joe could feel his feverish heat. He awkwardly patted Harry’s back. ‘It’s all right, Harry. I know how to do this.’