The Glass Sentence (The Mapmakers Trilogy) (9 page)

She began placing the books back on the shelf closest to her. Slowly, the familiar white and slate-blue pattern of the carpet began to emerge. She filled four shelves without spotting the atlas. The books had fallen every which way, and some had torn pages. Sophia tried to be careful while moving quickly. She was filling a fifth shelf when she heard footsteps and looked up to see Theo standing in the doorway.

Sophia hardly recognized him. Without all the feathers, he looked like an ordinary person. He had brown hair that was a little long—just below his ears—and a small dimple in his chin. Wearing Shadrack’s clothes, he looked older. Sophia had thought he was about fourteen, but now she wondered whether he wasn’t fifteen or sixteen. He even held himself in an older way, with one hand—deeply scarred, as if from years of injuries—resting on the doorframe. But even without the feathers, he was still unlike anyone she had ever met in New Occident.

The boys her age at school were nice or harmless or erratically cruel, depending on their temperaments. None was very interesting. And the older boys, some of whom she had come to know through theater and field sports, seemed to have the same qualities in advanced form: more decidedly nice, harmless, or cruel. Theo seemed none of these. He had the air of calm authority she remembered from the circus. Sophia felt herself blushing when she realized she had no idea how long she had been staring at him.

His brown eyes met hers in amusement. “Are you
cleaning?
”

Sophia blushed a deeper shade of red. “No, I’m not cleaning. I’m looking for something and this is the easiest way.” She quickly rose. “You have to see what I found.”

Sophia had not yet learned, in her thirteen years, that it is not unusual for strangers in extreme circumstances to find themselves sharing a sudden familiarity. The shock of a shared threat makes the stranger an ally. Then the stranger does not seem strange at all: he, too, is a person in danger attempting to survive. And if the stranger who is no longer a stranger happens to be someone likable, someone who has seemed appealing and intriguing from the very beginning, then he will fit all the more readily into place, almost as if he was always meant to be there.

Having no internal clock exaggerated this effect for Sophia; a brief moment with someone could feel much longer. Theo was a stranger who was no longer a stranger: an intriguing and unexpected ally. If someone had asked her at that very moment whether she had reason to trust Theo, she would have had difficulty answering. The question did not occur to her. She liked him, and so she
wanted
to trust him.

Sophia opened the notebook to show him the glass map and the message. “It is a—”

“Map,” Theo said, picking it up carefully with his scarred right hand. “I figured.” He held it up to the light, just as Sophia had, while she looked on in surprise.

“How did you know?”

He carefully replaced it, seemingly not hearing her question; then he frowned thoughtfully over the message. “Is this supposed to be the map to Veressa?”

“I thought it might be. Or Veressa might be in the atlas.”

“You’ve never heard of it before?”

“No. Have you?”

Theo shook his head. He glanced around the room. “What’s the atlas look like?”

“Large—about this tall—and fat, and dark red.”

“All right, let’s hunt it down.” He smiled. “And then, when we find it, maybe you can get me a map of New Occident.”

He crouched by the closest pile and began shelving books alongside her. They were almost halfway done when Sophia dove toward a pile a few feet away, exclaiming, “There it is!” She hadn’t recognized the book because it lay open, pages facing upward.

“This is it,” she said excitedly. “This is Shadrack’s atlas.” She flipped through it quickly. “It’s fine—all in one piece.” Then she showed Theo the cover, which read, in gold script,
An Annotated and Descriptive Atlas of the New World, Including the Prehistoric Ages and the Unknown Lands, by Shadrack Elli.

“You mean it’s
his
,” Theo said, clearly impressed. “He wrote it.”

“Oh, yes—it is the best one. The others haven’t half the information.” Sophia opened the atlas quickly to the index. “Veressa,” she murmured. She ran her finger along the
V
column, but
Veressa
wasn’t there. “How strange. Every place in the atlas is listed here.”

“You’re looking at cities and towns,” Theo said, pointing to the page header. “Maybe it’s a lake or a desert or a forest or something else.”

“Maybe,” Sophia murmured. She was going through the index again when a sudden noise made her heart jump. Someone was rattling the side door of the house, the door that Sophia had closed behind her. She and Theo stared at each other, and for a few seconds neither of them spoke; they waited. Then they heard the sound of the door opening.

8

The Exile

S
OPHIA
DOVE
UNDER
Shadrack’s heavy oak desk, dragging Theo with her. From the library there was no view of the side door, but as soon as whoever had entered the house came along the passageway they would be visible through the doorway. As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait that long.

“Fates protect us!” a woman’s voice cried out. “Mr. Elli! Sophia?”

“It’s our housekeeper,” Sophia told Theo as she scrambled out from under the desk. “I’m in the library, Mrs. Clay,” she called out. “In here.”

Mrs. Clay rushed into the library and stopped in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear. “What has happened here? Where is Mr. Elli?”

Sophia saw reflected in Mrs. Clay’s horrified expression the full scope of the destruction around her.

“We don’t know,” Theo replied when Sophia failed to answer. “He’s not here.”

Mrs. Clay turned to Theo, pausing as she took in his unexpected presence. “What do you mean? Who are
you
?”

“He was taken a few hours ago,” Theo said. He gestured at the destruction. “By force.” Mrs. Clay stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Theodore Constantine Thackary,” he added. “Theo for short.”

“Who? Who took him by force?”

“Some men. I couldn’t really see them very well. They had a coach. The coach . . .”

Sophia turned to him. “What is it?”

“I just remembered that the coach had something painted on the side—an hourglass.”

“That’s something to go on, I guess,” she said, disappointed.

Mrs. Clay, seeming strangely relieved by the mention of several men and a coach, reached out for Sophia and embraced her. Her frantic terror seemed to have subsided. “I am so sorry, Sophia. So, so sorry. What can I do to help?”

“Well, Shadrack left me a note.”

“A note!” exclaimed Mrs. Clay. “Surely that’s a good sign. What did it say?”

“He said to take his atlas and go to Veressa.” Sophia looked down at the book cradled in her arms. “We were just trying to find it when we heard you come in.”

Mrs. Clay had an odd expression. “What? You’re sure? He said
Veressa
?”

“Yes.”

“Show me,” she asked hoarsely.

Sophia put down the atlas and quickly retrieved the note from her drawing notebook. “It says ‘Go to Veressa.’” She looked at Mrs. Clay hopefully. “Do you know where that is? Do you think he might be there?”

Mrs. Clay took a deep breath and seemed to collect herself. “Sophia, this is so unexpected. I—I think there are some things I should tell you,” she said. She looked around. “Is the whole house this way?”

“No, they didn’t go upstairs.”

“Let’s go to my rooms, then, and get away from this terrible wreck. We will have something to eat, and I can tell you what I know. It might help.”

Sophia felt suddenly exhausted. She realized that the last thing she had eaten was the slice of bread on the way to Harding’s Supply. She was probably still trembling, in part, from hunger.

“Thank you, Mrs. Clay.” It gave her a pang to leave the library in such disorder, but she knew there was nothing else to be done now. She carefully tied her notebook closed and held it tightly along with Shadrack’s atlas.

The housekeeper’s third-floor apartment always made a striking contrast with the rest of the house; today, it did even more. The rooms were tidy and prettily arranged, with as much light as could be permitted through the open windows. A pale blue sofa dotted with white blossoms, a collection of empty birdcages, and a fragile white coffee table were the principal furnishings of her sitting room. Potted plants, many in bloom, dotted every surface: violets and palms and dozens of ferns. The air was thick with the smell of sun-warmed soil.

What always struck Sophia most was the sound—a light but constant tinkling, as if from hundreds of tiny bells. From every inch of the ceiling hung delicate sculptures: webs of thread strung with crystal, ceramic, and metal. The small globes, bells, mirrors, cylinders, and myriad other shapes turned slowly, colliding gently against one another and emitting a quiet chiming that filled the air. The sculptures almost gave the impression of living things, as if a flock of drowsy butterflies had come to rest in the rafters. Theo craned his neck to stare, fascinated. “I don’t like the silence,” the housekeeper explained to him. “I hope the noise doesn’t bother you.” She motioned toward the sitting room. “Why don’t you rest? I’ll just see about some coffee.”

Sophia perched herself on one of the chairs and tried not to think about what was waiting downstairs. The chimes soon began to have the soothing effect that was, no doubt, their intended purpose. She and Theo watched the sculptures turn slowly overhead as Mrs. Clay opened cupboards and set the kettle on the stove. “I’m sorry Shadrack won’t be able to help you,” Sophia finally said to Theo.

Theo shrugged. “That’s how it goes.”

“Is Ehrlach going to send someone after you?”

“No. He has no time,” Theo said with a half-smile. “He would have before, but now all he wants is to get in one last show in New York. The only good thing about the borders closing is that Ehrlach is out of business. Can’t really run a circus when every act in your show is illegal, can you? Although I guess,” he added, his smile fading, “he’ll just take the show somewhere else. People like the circus everywhere.”

Mrs. Clay came in with a tray, which she set on the low wooden coffee table. She’d brought cups and plates, butter and jam, and a loaf of brown bread with raisins. “I’ll be right back,” she said. When she returned with the coffee pot, she poured them each a cup and then sat back. She traced her temples with her fingertips and patted the bun at the nape of her neck, composing herself. Theo and Sophia ate hungrily. Sophia covered her brown bread with butter and jam and took big bites. As she sipped the warm coffee from its blue porcelain cup, she began to feel better.

“I’m afraid what I have to tell you is unpleasant,” Mrs. Clay began, focused on something neither of them could see at the bottom of her cup. “These are very painful memories for me. But Shadrack has told you to find Veressa, and I should explain to you why I can’t ever return to the Baldlands.”

Theo leaned forward. “You’re from the Baldlands?”

Mrs. Clay met his eyes. “Yes.”

“So am I.”

“I thought you might be. So I’m sure, once you hear my story, you’ll understand the difficulty I’m in. But to Sophia it is all new, and it will take some explaining. People here sometimes have trouble believing what it’s like outside—in the other Ages.”

Sophia drew her legs up underneath her on the velvet chair. Mrs. Clay’s voice, high-pitched and fluttery, echoed the quiet tinkling of the chimes overhead. “I don’t know how much your uncle has told you,” Mrs. Clay began, “about when we knew each other in the Baldlands.”

“He told me about the academy. That he studied there—for a couple of years, a long time ago. And that you worked there. Not much else.”

“That is correct. Many years ago, he was a student at the Royal Cartological Academy in Nochtland—the capital of the Baldlands and the largest city of the Triple Eras. You’ve never been to the Baldlands, Sophia, so it’s very hard to explain what it’s like, but I’m sure you’ve read about it and heard about it from your uncle.”

Sophia nodded.

“It has many regions, and each region contains many former Ages. Nochtland, where I am from, is a beautiful place—sometimes I miss it so much. I miss the gardens. And how, when it rains, it
really
rains. And the pace, so much slower and calmer.” She sighed. “But it’s also a terrible place. It’s a place where anything can happen and everything can change.” She shook her head, as if to clear her mind. “Let me tell you the story from the beginning.

“I first met Shadrack more than fifteen years ago. He was a young man in his twenties when he arrived at the academy of cartology in Nochtland. I was the housekeeper. It is a grand old stone building near the center of the city, with lovely courtyards and covered walkways. I had a staff of ten, and I ran everything—the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry. The academy had perhaps fifty students and teachers at any given time. I think it’s fair to say that I was good at my job.” Mrs. Clay smiled wistfully. Sophia smiled back, but in truth she had difficulty imagining the timid and rather scattered Mrs. Clay overseeing even one employee, let alone ten.

“I’d already been there several years when Shadrack arrived,” Mrs. Clay went on. “From the first moment we saw him, we knew he would do well. You see, having students from New Occident is very unusual. The professors, of course, come from almost all over the globe; but the students tend to be from the Baldlands. We were not certain students from New Occident even knew of our existence. Shadrack had somehow learned of the academy and was determined to go there despite—you’ll excuse me—the backwardness of his home age.

“During the two years he spent in Nochtland, he grew particularly close to one of the other students in his class, a young woman from the Baldlands—a very gifted cartologer. After the first year, when their degrees were conferred and they began their apprenticeships, they became inseparable. We all were sure they would get married and leave together, heading either north to New Occident or south to her family in Xela.

“But they didn’t. Shadrack finished his apprenticeship before she did, and their friendship seemed to cool. No one knew what had happened. And then, instead of waiting a month for her to finish her apprenticeship, Shadrack simply said his good-byes and left. It seemed to me that a part of her had left along with Shadrack. I liked her very much, and I worried about her.” Mrs. Clay paused. “Her name was Veressa.”

Sophia sat up straight. “What? Veressa is a
person
?”

Mrs. Clay nodded. “She was at one point your uncle’s closest friend.”

“But he’s never mentioned her,” Sophia protested.

“Well, as I said, the two of them evidently had a falling out just before Shadrack left. For all I know, they never spoke again. I wouldn’t be surprised if Shadrack hasn’t mentioned her because the recollection is painful.”

Sophia shook her head. “He never told me any of this.”

“I’m sure he has good reasons,” Mrs. Clay said quietly. “You and Shadrack are as close as two people can be.” She furrowed her brow. “Let me tell you the rest.” She poured herself more coffee and took several sips. She seemed to be gathering her thoughts—and her strength.

—19-Hour #: Mrs. Clay Tells of the Lachrima—

“
A
FTE
R
S
HADRACK
LEFT
,”
Mrs. Clay began, “Veressa was slow to complete her apprenticeship. She was not well during that time; she seemed only a shadow of her former self. I think she must have loved your uncle very much. When she graduated, she came by my room to say good-bye, but I wasn’t there. She left me a box of sugared flowers.” Mrs. Clay smiled. “Even when she was unhappy, she was always very kind. Well . . . I never saw her again. I heard her name now and then from the professors, but Nochtland is a big city and you can live within its walls a lifetime without ever seeing most of its inhabitants.

“Then we had some quiet years. The students came and went, and the professors continued their teaching and their research. I was very happy. Then, about seven years ago, my troubles began.” Mrs. Clay stared into her coffee cup and sighed. “No matter how much you’ve read, Sophia, there are things you don’t know about the Baldlands. There are,” she paused, “creatures there that don’t exist here. Oh, I know they make a fuss about the raiders at the borders and people with wings or tails or whatever else. But those are, after all, still people. There are other creatures that few have seen and that no one understands. It was my misfortune to meet one.

“I remember that I first heard it on a beautiful Sunday in October. Most of the students spent Sunday resting in the gardens or visiting attractions in the city. I had hung all the bed linens to dry on the back patio, and because the sun was so pleasant I sat at the edge of the courtyard, watching the white sheets flutter in the breeze. My staff took Sunday afternoon off, so I knew I was alone. In those days I wasn’t afraid of the silence, the way I am now—on the contrary. I sat there for nearly half an hour, simply soaking in the sun and the silence. And then I heard it. At first I thought it might be coming from the street, but it sounded much too close. It was the quiet, unmistakable sound of someone weeping.

“I sat up, concerned. The sound was quiet but piercing; a stab of grief pulled me to my feet. My thought was that one of my staff had holed up on the back patio to have a cry. I went to look, and as a sheet fluttered in the wind I saw someone hurrying away. Perplexed, I tried to follow, but the person was gone.

“The sound of weeping continued from one of the rooms—I did not know which—and as it did all the sadness of those muffled cries pierced me, so that tears spilled down my cheeks. Suddenly, I was grieving, too. I took all of the bed linens, which had dried, off the laundry lines, and then stood in the middle of the empty patio, trying to control my tears and pinpoint where the sound came from. That’s how two of the girls who worked in the kitchen found me—standing there, crying. As soon as they approached me, the weeping stopped and the sense of despair I had felt lifted. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked them. They shook their heads, shocked at my appearance. ‘Hear what?’ they asked.

“The next day, I heard it again—the moment I awoke—and the horrible sensation of grief returned. Before even getting dressed, I knocked on the doors of the rooms to my right and left. No one was weeping; no one could tell me where the sound I heard came from. Still, I believed that there had to be someone who was hiding, sneaking into corners to cry in private. And over the next few days, the weeping grew more constant. I began to hear it everywhere, all the time, even when others were present. And then they began to hear it, too.