The Last Stitch (The Chronicles of Eirie: 2) (22 page)

Chapter Thirty Nine

Midday had passed. Severine and Luther had each slept on unaware of the day drifting wetly by. Luther slept heavily and untroubled, safe and secure in the knowledge that in the early evening he would deliver what Madame had required for so long and would receive more than just rewards. Drunk and drugged, he slept with a cunning smile on his face.

Severine had no such smiles upon her own visage and tossed and turned with nightmare upon nightmare. Others plagued her - the seelie who would aid and assist mortals. She screamed and yelled in her dreams and they crowded around her as she ordered them to move, waving the ring in the air and threatening them with quick annihilation. They split apart from her like a fissure in the ground until only one man remained. He was elderly with white hair cut short against his head and his black coat blew around him in vast cracking folds in a welkin wind. She laughed uneasily - a Faeran no less. But he stood there to defy her as she held up the ring and he wiped his hand carelessly,
carelessly,
through the air. The ring split in two and fell from her fingers and she woke with dread in her belly, calling out hoarsely, ‘
No!’

Sweat dripped from her forehead and gathered in damp lines underneath her arms an
d breasts. It was only a dream - too much rich food and wine and then the drugs. She threw off the bedding and dragged a fine shawl over the damp body as she went to draw the curtains away from the long casements. Nothing had changed - it poured outside. But, she thought through the turbid haze of her narcotics, something is different, what is it? And then she seized upon the fact - it is today, the third day of the Dark! The day everything changes. In an instant, the dread from the dream was washed away on an incoming tide of such euphoria she could not help clutching her arms across her body and spinning in a circle. The maid commented as she carried in a brunch tray, for the hour was now well past midday, that it was good to see Madame so excited about the Ball and Carnivale.

‘I’ll spend the rest of the day preparing. A massage, a scented bath, my hair washed and dressed and I shall leave at six. Make the arrangements for my conveyance will you, and tell Luther to attend me as soon as he has risen.’

Luther received his summons, as excited and filled to the brim with bubbles of anticipation as Severine. He walked into Madame’s chamber on light toes, eager to go to the room at the top to see
her
again, to have sex, then to deliver her to Madame with the whereabouts of the robe and then to take her away -
his
prize which he would use as oft as not until in the end some urge filled him to do to her what Madame wanted.

He looked forward to the Ball as Madame’s escort, there would be so many who had snubbed him in the past and who would now be licking his boots.
Ah, how the tables turn
.

‘Luther, good morning to you.
Such a day.’

Severine’s excitement was fascinating to watch, he thought. That iced visage melted and she smiled a
nd it was such a transformation. She was almost desirable - almost.
But nothing like Adelina.
Still, best pay attention, Severine’s destiny was his own.

‘So.
Adelina?’

He thought for less than a second. ‘Nothing yet Madame, but it is odd. I have a feeling that within the after
noon I will have her.’
How true.
‘And then I will bring her to you and she will give you the robe on a platter.’

‘And this evenin
g I will have any soul I want. Not just Lhiannon and her bag of pathetic souls. Do you know I almost don’t want them now - it’s enough they are dead, that they were punished. When I think on it I think a show of my power, by the syphoning of two more souls might be just what I should do. The Ca’ Specchio will go down in the history of Eirie.’

‘Have you thought Madame, how to find the Gate?’ Luther watched Severine’s reflection in her dressing mirror. She purred like a cat with a bowl of Trevallyn cream.

‘The Ca’ Specchio is renowned for its Hall of Mirrors, Luther. I think it’s a question merely of finding an Other at the Ball for they will be there, and following them to one of the mirrors. You’ll help, two pairs of eyes such as yours and mine won’t miss a thing.’ She laughed softly, a sigh of ecstasy. ‘Have you a coat and breeches for the ball?’

‘Indeed, Madame, I won’t disappoint you.’

‘Good, be ready to accompany me from the Director’s palace to the Ca’ Specchio. In between times go to the glassmaker’s, collect the paperweights and convey them back to my cabinets in the entrance hall. I leave you... no, I
trust
you to place them amongst the others. And I want you to arrange to relieve the Libreria of the illuminated scripts as planned and then Luther, tonight we shall enjoy ourselves. I doubt our lives will ever be the same again.’

Within half an hour, Luther had laid his orders for the securing of the manuscripts with those of the rough-cut henchmen he preferred for such a job and then he returned to the palazzo via the kitchen door, stepping across the courtyard with care as the continued torrents had made the cobbles as slick as ice. He had no intention of breaking limbs at such a crucial time.

He passed through the kitchens leaving a trail of moist footprints behind, and a communal shudder of dislike, even fear, passed amongst the shoulders of those who handled the pots, spices, meats and grains within the precinct.

Oblivious, he ran quickly up the stairs. His booted feet tapped on the marble and his heartbeat rattled along with the sound, a syncopated rhythm. Some morning delight, he thou
ght and then gave a low chuckle.
Well no, afternoon delight actually.
His anticipation wound him tighter than a clock spring and he bent to slip the key into the lock and turned it with a flourish. As he pulled the key out and placed it in his pocket, he was surprised but not alarmed to see his hands, usually steady and strong, shaking like those of an ancient or a babe. It was nothing - it only underlined his anticipation. He took a deep breath and pushed the door wide.

The room was not big - more of an attic, perhaps servant quarters at some time, for there were indeed back stairs which led up. But the small space was empty. Grey light filled the chamber and alighted on a shard of glass lying in the middle of the floor. The downpour outside thundered on the tiles above Luther’s head and blood performed a likeminded dance, pounding through his veins to his head and suffusing his face with a dangerous flush. He saw the open window with the pools of moisture as rain dribbled under the eaves onto the floor and he noticed a pigeon walking back and forth, ducking its head, burbling, warning the man away. The cry Luther gave as he whipped the dagger from his belt began as a low growl and wound higher and higher up the scales until it burst forth in a frustrated, furious howl and as the howl echoed, the dagger which had flown through the air with the rising solfa, found its mark and pierced the pigeon to the floor. Luther left the room in a swirling rush, a pile of soft feathers settling around the poor bird in the likeness of a shroud.

The clock spring stretched thinner.

He ran out to the front moorings and commandeered one of the Di Accia gondolas, ordering the gondolier to pole as fast as he could if he valued his life. The gondolier needed no urging, for the look on the thug’s face spoke of murder and mayhem. Within minutes, or so it seemed, they had reached the bottom of the Calle del Vetro and Luther grunted to the gondolier to wait.

The shop was closed so Luther hammered on the glass, the w
indowpanes vibrating. The glassmaker came out of the
fabricca
at a run, wiping his face. ‘Signor Luther, come in.’ The man bowed, holding the door wide. ‘The goods are ready. I was just packing them. Would you be so kind to come out the back while I finish?’

He turned and hurried away, Luther stalking behind like some death reaper.

Luther’s hands fiddled in his coat pockets, playing nervously, angrily, with the contents.
Curse the man, the paperweights should have been packed and ready!
Luther could see nothing but the elusive naked body of Adelina in his mind.
Behir, she’s played me for a fool.
She had done nothing but lure him and tease him since Madam had drawn her into their lives. The pain in his body grew and the anger began to erupt. The heat in the
fabricca
hit him like a wall of fire as he watched the wretched artisan taking a length of string in shaking hands, his back to Luther. He fumbled and fiddled as he tried to wrap the parcel suitably and halfway through, he grabbed his red paisley square and wiped his dripping forehead and sweating hands.

Luther’s temper exploded as the heat of the room, the furnaces, the flames, the fires of hell seared his nostrils and burned at his brain. In the red of the fires he saw Adelina’s hair.

The clock spring broke. Without a thought of guilt or consequence, the garotte came out and
was strung quickly over the neck in front of him. He pulled some coals from the fires onto the floor and thrust a few torn cloths on top. Grabbing the parcel he pulled the door between the showroom and the
fabricca
shut behind him as fledgling flames began to glow and lick at wooden benches and boxes. The street was as empty as a desert as he hurried quickly to the gondola and requested the same speed back to the palazzo.

Chapter Forty

Adelina
woke to an empty room. Lying still, her hands immediately went to her pregnant belly. Her baby arched under her fingers like a cat being stroked. A tear crept out under her eyes as she thought of her unborn child, her lost lover and her own wounded spirit, so lately battered to a pulp. She eased back the bedcovers and looked at the body that was now a startlingly ugly blend of purple, yellow and blue stains. Walking to the mirror hanging on the wall in its crackelure gold frame, she stared at the floor, afraid to confront her visage.

Seconds passed as she watched the tears drip to form a puddle at her feet and she wondered briefly if she was having a critical fit of the vapours. Her head flew up in denial and she could do little else but confront her own image.

The hazel eyes, slightly red, stared back. Her beautiful face with the skin like peaches and the bee-stung lips was completely unmarked. Amazingly, she had no shadows of exhaustion under her eyes nor deep furrows ploughed by distrait.

She knew it was the Fae
ran who had smoothed away as much as he could of her troubles and wondered if he knew that lately she had been a friend of Liam, his brother. But no, why would he? Who would have told him? Gallivant? She raised an eyebrow.
Maybe.

She remem
bered the previous night when the Faeran had helped her up after her precipitous slide down the roof. He had looked into her eyes with his own dark ones and she had felt something. Not an attraction she didn’t think, but interest and solicitude. The kind of gentling she had craved for weeks and which the hob in his way had tried to give, the kind that had been such a part of Kholi Khatoun. Kholi would have liked this man, he was steadier than his brother, earthier, less arrogant. And briefly she had noticed he was uncomfortable - either with himself or a weight that he carried.

Adelina moved away from the mirror and found towels set by a bowl of warm water. It occurred to her that she was in the care of Others and like to be safer than she had ever been. And as the thought enlarged, she took a huge shaky breath and another calmer one.

The water smelt of lavender and gardenia and she stripped off her ripped underwear and washed every part of her abused body till it squeaked. On her bed lay the garments Phelim had kindly clothed her with the night before - a pair of jodhpurs, her boots, a black sweater. She found a brush and pulled it through the soft, copper curls and looking in the mirror again, was surprised at even greater improvement.

She noted a tray on the table near the balcony doors and found fresh bread, confit, grapes and unbelievably
, a teapot filled with hot tea - hot, sweet tea. It was like nectar and revived as if it were spirit in her veins, enough for her to begin to look around in more detail - at Gallivant’s bed, at the chaise where Phelim had slept.

And at the robe swinging from a hook on the side of an armoire. The clean, almost completed robe that was the cause of her triumphs and her tragedies. It beckoned and she went to it as an artist is pulled to the canvas.
A stroke here, a stitch there - all conspiring to create the masterpiece.

An ho
ur passed as she stitched. She indulged in the feeling of security that surrounded her and she paused to rub her back and speak to the babe. ‘Mama’s tired, little one. I need to rest.’

‘You should, definitely. If you are to persist in your pl
ans then you must indeed rest.’ Gallivant pushed open the door and walked in laden with black clothes. Behind him, Phelim kicked the door shut, his arms equally loaded.

Adelina eyed the hob beadily.
‘I must persist and you know it.’

‘Hu
h, I know you have an iron will.’

‘Gallivant, I shall go to the Gate and then we shall see... is that good

enough for you?’

‘I don’t agree...’

Adelina instantly threw down the stumpwork robe and faced the hob. ‘You don’t have to agree with me because this isn’t your business. It’s mine. And whatever I do, I can do it so much better without your precious comments. For Aine’s sake, Gallivant, just leave it alone!’

The hob stood stock still, almost hidden by the pile of dark silks and satins. Phelim dared not move either as the air felt solid with Adelina’s anger and resentment. The emotion erupting from her lips came from a deeper hurt than frustration at the hob, he was sure. The woman had been raped... she should be filled to bursting with anger and hatred at the world at large. Add it to the loss of her friends and her lover and it was a wonder she was sane enough to embroider at all. With tact he began to remove the piles of silks from the hob’s arms as the fellow smiled gratefully. ‘Adelina,’ Phelim gentled her, defusing the moment. ‘This is our Ball attire. We have a dance to attend, a Gate to find and some people to meet. We are going to a Ball at the Ca’ Specchio. I have a feeling...’

As he spoke he noticed Gallivan
t glancing at this beautiful woman. She glared back, stony-eyed. He could imagine with no trouble at all, exactly what the hob was thinking
. Sink me Needle Lady, don’t disengage from me, you need me more than ever because you see the Faeran has had a feeling.