Shadowplay (12 page)

She nodded. “I’ve been to Sicion for the circus, but never as far as Niete. How do you like working in magic so far?”

“I imagine it’s much the same as the circus, except you don’t move around as much,” I said.

“Have you been to see Riley and Batheo?” she asked us.

We shook our heads, too quickly.

“You should see it sometime. It’s something to behold.”

I made a noncommittal sound, unable to speak.

“New people just joined, I heard,” she said. “They came from Ragona’s Circus after the ringmaster died.”

My breath caught in my throat, almost choking me. “We heard about that,” Drystan said. “Terrible.” How could he sound so calm?

“It seemed so. The people who joined were still broken up about it. Couldn’t believe it.”

Did she know? Was she threatening us? She didn’t seem to be, but I couldn’t be sure.

“Sometimes you think you know someone and realize you know nothing at all,” Drystan said. I bit the inside of my cheek until my eyes watered.

Cyan took a sip of her drink, petting Ricket with her free hand.

“What is your favorite sound?” she asked us.

I was taken aback, but relieved, by the abrupt change in conversation.

“I was just thinking,” she said, stroking Ricket, “how the purr of a contented cat is one of my favorite sounds in the world. There’s something so comforting about it, isn’t there?”

“I suppose there is,” Drystan said, bemused.

“So what are your favorite sounds? I’ll give you some others of mine. The first birdcall of morning. The whistle of the kettle. The sound of far-off singing not quite heard.” She lapsed into silence, as if embarrassed by the sudden outpouring of words.

I considered. “The sound of waves washing along the beach. The rustling of wind through the trees. The steady sound of someone breathing peacefully.” I looked at the floor when I said this. It had become one of my favorite sounds only lately, when Drystan slept without nightmares.

Cyan nodded. “All excellent sounds. And you, Amon?” she then asked Drystan, polite but her face alight with curiosity.

“The crackle of the fire,” he said, and I knew he was thinking of the bonfires at the circus. “The ethereal sound of the chorus in the Celestial Cathedral on Lady’s Long Night. It fills you up until there’s no other thought left. The crunch of walking on fallen autumn leaves.” I smiled at him, and promised myself that we would go to the cathedral on Lady’s Long Night in a month’s time.

“All very good sounds. And intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” I asked.

“Yes.” She smiled at us widely. From our answers, she suddenly seemed much more at ease around us. I wondered what we had unintentionally given away.

The magician returned. “I’ve turned out your room, Cyan, if you wish to go and investigate. I’ll lead you to it.”

“Of course, that would be wonderful,” she said. As they walked out of the kitchen, I heard her ask: “It’s been a while since I’ve asked you, Mister Maske: what are your favorite sounds?”

As they walked away, I could not hear his answer.

 

“I finally saw the Shadow this morning,” Drystan said that evening, as soon as we were alone in the loft.

I sat up straight in the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t have the opportunity. I returned just as Cyan arrived. And I’m not entirely sure it was him. It was a man wearing that broad-brimmed hat he’d been wearing when he was sneaking around the circus. It’s not like he’s the only man in the city to wear that type of hat, but I was pretty sure it was him.”

“And?” I prompted.

“I followed him, but he shook me.”

My stomach dropped. “So he knows we’re following him?”

“I was discreet. But I think he sensed someone following him. I’ve narrowed it down to the Brass Quarter. I lost him near the marketplace.”

“Let’s go there tomorrow. All we need to know is where he lives…” He’d never entered that other apartment building we saw, so he must live somewhere else.

“We’re close.” Drystan picked up the book of magic history by his bed but set it aside again. “I couldn’t find any signs of deception in Cyan today.”

“She’s hiding something, though.”

“Without a doubt. But I don’t think it affects us, at least not directly.”

“I’m not trusting her.”

“Me neither.”

“Why was she asking us about our favorite sounds?” I asked.

“It’s a Temnian thing. They ask about favorite sounds, favorite tastes, favorite textures and the like quite often in conversations. They say that it gives away things about a person, so they can make up their mind about them. Sort of like how Maske makes up his mind about someone in a séance.”

“I wonder what we gave away.”

“I don’t know. If she turns out not to be a spy, we can ask her.”

We murmured our goodnights but, as usual, sleep evaded me. I was so tired of never feeling safe, always wondering who I could trust. I did not know this Cyan girl and whether she would grow too curious about us. It seemed inevitable that the Shadow would find us. I turned the Phantom Damselfly over and over in my hand. The metal thrummed under my fingers. I watched Drystan’s back rise and fall in sleep and listened to the rain drumming on the rooftop.

I debated falling asleep with the disc in my hand again, but at the last moment, I set the disc aside, fearful of what I might learn.

I need not have bothered.

 
Only fragments remain –
like a jigsaw puzzle scattered on the ground, some pieces the blank brown of the backs, and others bright specks of color. But they are without context. I do not remember how long ago this was. A long time. If only I could choose to forget the rest.

I ran through the door, trailing my false fingers against the smooth Venglass walls, and my charge
–
my boy
–
was dead. I do not remember the sight of his body. That is a puzzle piece with a blank front. Nobody was in the room, but the window portal had been left ajar. I rushed to the window, the glass glowing with the coming dawn, but saw no one. I went to the bed, cradled my hand against his face. I could not feel him through my false skin. To me, he had no more substance than a wraith.

I awoke, bolt upright in bed. The Vestige was on the bedside table where I had left it. It was only a dream. Wasn’t it?

In this dream, I saw inside Penglass. No one has ever been able to penetrate it. No one. It had been calming. As calming as that yearning I felt to touch Penglass on the Penmoon – as though it held the power to take away my troubles.

I remembered the sound of dripping blood from the dream, and I shuddered, wrapping my arms around myself. In the dream, I had
been
the damselfly. All senses were muted. I could not smell and I could not feel. Sight and sound were strange – the colors lacking subtle shades, and sounds almost mechanical. My fingers had rested on a still cheek, unable to even kiss the boy goodbye.

A sob caught in my throat. My eyes burned. My vision blurred. Grief for a young boy who may not even have been human tore through me, for a boy dead for centuries, possibly millennia.

My gaze fell upon the small, innocuous disc. I did not even know if it was my grief, or hers. I picked it up, and the sorrow grew stronger. Another sob threatened to choke me. I walked to the stained glass window and opened it with a creak, preparing to throw the disc out onto the pavement below, where it would shatter and never bother me again.

“Micah?”

I flinched. Drystan was sitting up in bed. The open concern on his face undid me again. The disc thumped to the floor from my numb fingers. I sobbed, and not just for the long-dead boy. I cried for Iphigenia Laurus, for Micah Grey, for the boy Drystan Hornbeam had been and the young man he had become. I cried for Aenea, for Frit, even for Bil, the clowns, and everyone in the circus I had hurt. I cried for Maske. Everywhere I turned, there was nothing but fear and heartache.

Warm arms wrapped around me. A tear that was not mine dropped on the back of my hand. I rested my face against his neck, his heartbeat against my lips. This simple touch was what we both needed without realizing we did. That it was alright for us to grieve for what we had lost. For what we had taken.

When the tears dried, we each went to our cold, lonely beds. The next morning, neither of us mentioned it and we avoided each other’s gaze. By the afternoon, I almost wondered if it, too, had been a dream.

 

11

THE FORESTERS

“We are the roots of society
–
we give them the soil and the water to help them thrive, but receive naught in return but promises and worms. It is time, my brethren, to step into the light and take charge of our own destinies.”

Pamphlet of the Forester Party

 

While I was no less suspicious and still feared the knock of the Shadow or the policiers at our door, time passed, easing the worst of the rough edges from when I had torn myself in the circus.

I still knew little about Cyan and what to make of her, even though Drystan and I had spent hours with her during magic lessons. She took to the lessons with glee, and her fingers were soon just as nimble as our own.

“My merry magicians. I’ll be going for supplies from Twisting the Aces. Fancy coming along after lessons?” Maske asked one morning.

We needed an excuse to go into town, and this seemed almost fortuitous.

“Of course,” I said.

“Wonderful,” Maske said, finishing his coffee. “To the lessons.”

We were learning to place needles in our mouths and draw them out, linked, on a piece of string. It was a fairly safe trick, but my tongue was still sore from dozens of minor pinpricks. I kept fearing I’d accidentally swallow a needle.

I fought down nerves during the lessons, which only resulted in another few jabs of my tongue. Drystan mastered the trick easily, his arms crossed as Cyan and I struggled.

Afterwards, the four of us set off into town, well-wrapped against the cold.

The distant strike of a blacksmith’s anvil echoed as we walked toward Twisting the Aces, the wind whipping our hair into a frenzy. The bell tinkled as we entered.

The store was much the same, with Lily behind the counter.

“Hello, my dears, it’s been a time. So wonderful to see you again,” she greeted us, her eyes on Maske.

He consulted the list of supplies, rattling off replacement machinery parts and their measurements, taking care to linger close to Lily. I picked out the smaller items – candles, invisible wire, magnets to conceal within clothing.

Lily flitted about the shop. “I think the spare cogs are up here,” she muttered. Stretching up, she knocked something off the shelf. Out of reflex I caught it and passed it to her – a square of deep purple glass, set in a frame of lacquered wood of red and blue. The frame reminded me a little of the clown’s motley at the circus, and my gut twisted.

“Thank you, my sweet! I was wondering where that was,” she said, hanging the glass in the window so that the playing cards dangling from strings shone purple in the light. She resumed her post behind the counter, wrapping the purchases as we brought them to her.

My eye fell upon the cabinet with the Vestige artifacts for sale, but I stayed far away from the crystal ball. I wanted no more visions.

“When we have our first show, we’ll be sure to invite you,” Maske said, smiling at her. “We may be performing séances shortly as well.”

She clapped her hands together. “Oh, please do let me know when you perform! I consider myself quite the spiritualist. I went to a séance at Lady Archer’s not long ago – she was a frequent customer o’ my late husband’s – and it was so frightening my heart just about burst from my chest. Lady Archer communed with her long-lost brother, and she had no doubts that it was him. Not a doubt in the world. I haven’t been to one since, but I’d dearly love to!”

“Of course, my lady,” Maske said, making a show of bowing to her. “Could we arrange for the larger purchases to be delivered?”

“No problem at all, sir, no problem at all! Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow will be fine,” he assured her. “Just to the Kymri Theatre, please.”

She bobbed her head. “That’s an awfully nice building. Is it just as pretty inside?”