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Always true to her word, Marigold stopped by the Morgans’ the following morning. Charlie did indeed have the chicken pox. She left him in his parents’ capable hands with a few more scraps of advice she’d gleaned from her studies of witchery. Then she went to Braichlie.
...Previous
Always true to her word, Marigold stopped by the Morgans’ the following morning. Charlie did indeed have the chicken pox. She left him in his parents’ capable hands with a few more scraps of advice she’d gleaned from her studies of witchery. Then she went to Braichlie.
It really was that easy to go to Braichlie. All it took was a walk along a forest path. A nice forest too, all shrubbery and beams of sunlight. Though smaller than Blankston, Braichlie was neat and urban, and on that same note, urbane. The streets were tightly cobbled, the houses tightly built and the neighbours tightly knit.
A true working witch preferred a country home, quiet and possessed of a large garden; Alfaen had compromised with flower boxes of herbs adorning his townhouse. This compromise reflected his practicality. While he could mix a cough tonic with the rest of them, he preferred seances to salves and tarot to treatment. A true working witch also had little time for eyeliner, something Alfaen was rarely seen without.
He lived on the edge of town, near the forested path. His house was quiet as Marigold mounted the steps. When she knocked on the door, it became even more quiet. The parlour curtains twitched once, ever so slightly, from the corner of her eye. Then she heard quick footsteps on a wooden floor. There was a brief scraping of chains and sliding of deadbolts, newly installed.
The door opened wide; mostly. For a split second, it hovered, just enough for Alfaen to study his front step from this new angle. Marigold was not meant to discern this, and she did not comment, but noted it thoroughly. Then he was standing before her.
He gave the impression of towering height, though in truth he was average among young men. The illusion stemmed from an odd thinness that had made his mother worry in his childhood, but now seemed to be a fact of his life. Though blond and fair, he preferred to wear darkest black, most preferably of all with stars and symbols of astrological importance.
Marigold was surprised when he dived over the threshold and pulled her into a hug. She placed her hesitant hands on his back. He was a friend, of course, but not more than that. Not a best friend. Not even a good friend.
“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said.
“Me too,” said Marigold. Alfaen stood back, his hands lingering on her shoulders, studying her intently.
“Were you home, when they raided the cottage? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” she dodged. “Could we talk inside?”
She kept his gaze. Again, she noted a flash of worry. It made her feel a bit sick, all this standing up straight. All this eye contact and direct questioning. But, it seemed to be getting her what she wanted. Alfaen stepped aside to usher her into the dark, narrow front hall. He closed and locked the door after them both. Marigold peeked into the parlour as he did so. The curtains were drawn. Atop the faint and perpetual smell of incense was a closeness, a hint of must and dust. As the clank of iron bolts faded away, Alfaen turned to her, that spark of anxiety still in his eye.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Please,” said Marigold. She followed him into the kitchen, the second door after the parlour. The single window above the basin also had its curtain drawn. Marigold sat down at the tiny table as Alfaen set another log in the low-burning woodstove. She watched in mild amazement as he filled the kettle from a tap over the basin, fed by a cistern in the roof. Marigold was used to dragging water from a well out in the countryside. City witches had it good.
“When I heard…you know, about Guinevere,” said Alfaen, “I was worried about you. I knew you had nothing to do with it, but, the Royal Elite aren’t known for their empathy.”
“Actually, they were quite nice,” offered Marigold. “It was scary, but they were good to me.”
The kettle on, he sat beside her.
“What happened?” he asked quietly. She told him. About the basement, the nitre, the escape, and the chase. His fists tightened at the mention of Sir Roger.
“What the fuck was he doing there?” snapped Alfaen. He softened as her expression twisted in dismay. “Sorry. I just don’t understand him. What business did he have butting in?”
“He did get a lecture,” said Marigold. “When he brought me to Mr. Belvedere.”
“He deserves more than that,” muttered Alfaen. He let her continue the tale, listening as he stood to attend the boiling kettle, to spoon out some tea into the pot, to get two mugs out of a cupboard. Marigold knew the time was coming close. The story was almost done, the story of how she had spoken to Guinevere. How Guinevere had told her certain things about the man whose kitchen she was now sitting in.
“She didn’t deny it,” said Marigold. “She told me that wanted to do it. To hurt all those people.” She paused to let a wave of sadness pass. “She would have hurt me, too, as a last resort. I never would have thought it, but I suppose I’m glad to know now. Better late than never.”
Alfaen set a mug of tea in front of her, and sat down again. He began to stir a touch of sugar into his own.
“Better late than never,” he agreed. He fiddled with his spoon, silent and contemplative. Marigold took her chance, the rest of her story come and gone.
“Guin, uh, had a lot to say about you, too.”
The restless spoon slowed to a halt. Alfaen pulled it out of his tea and set it down, slowly, on the table. Marigold could feel the chill coming off him in droves. He wouldn’t look at her.
“If it’s true, I don’t really blame you,” she offered. “I just want to know why. If there is a ‘why’. I listened to her, and I want to listen to you too.”
“What did she say, exactly?” asked Alfaen quietly.
“That you were part of it, and you sold her out so you could go free.”
He sighed. She could hear the whine of his brain working.
“That’s not…wrong, but it’s not the whole story.” He looked to her, pleading. “Can you promise you’ll believe me?”
“If you promise to tell the truth.”
Alfaen nodded. “I was part of it,” he admitted. “At first. We wanted to show the council what for. Show them what we thought of their inquests. Of Seagate. Putting the torch to town hall seemed appropriate. That should have been my first clue, when Guin suggested powder kegs instead. A fire would have been plenty for an empty building, but she was insistent and I was caught up in my rebel bullshit like always. Should have seen it coming.”
Marigold wanted to reach out, to quell his self-loathing, but she did not want to interrupt his flow.
“She made the gunpowder, I hid it. I had plenty of practice breaking and entering when I was a kid. Didn’t leave a trace, I can be proud of that, at least. Not that there would be anyone around to see a trace. Nobody ever goes into the basement of town hall. It’s all storage. Plenty of things to hide kegs behind, or under, or in. It took weeks. Months, almost. We weren’t even done when I…backed out.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “One night - last week, I guess it was - I asked her when we would have enough gunpowder. When we could finally go for it. She said we’d be ready for the Harvest Dance. And of course I asked, before or after?”
One hand was taught on his mug, the other balled in a fist. His eyes shone bright and determined.
“I argued, Marigold. Fuck, did I argue, but she didn’t care. She said the lesson had to be a proper one, and permanent. I’ve done plenty of stupid stuff that had me tangled up with the bronze but I was not gonna let murder be on that list. I told her I was done. She could do what she wanted, but I wouldn’t be part of it.”
He sighed again, shaking only slightly. He took his first drink of tea.
“I couldn’t turn her in, or I’d be caught up in it too. At least, that’s what she thought. It’s the only reason she let me leave. She didn’t know I had a friend in the guard. I ran to him as soon as I left the cottage and told him everything. He had me write it all down as an anonymous confession. I was going to, at first; just put a letter under his door, but if they traced the plot back to Guinevere I’d have been charged the same as her. I needed the Guard to know right away that I wasn’t a murderer. Denying it afterwards never works. I got lucky, I know. Lucky that I had someone to believe me. Really lucky that he would risk his own career by keeping me safe from the Elite. By all rights he should have arrested me anyway, for plotting to demolish a building. But he’s a good man. He understands.”
Marigold didn’t ask to what he might be alluding. Her thoughts were busy elsewhere.
“Did you name Guinevere?” she asked softly. Her brows were furrowed. “Or did you just say there was a plot and leave them to find her out?”
Alfaen dropped his eyes to the table. She had her answer, but let him speak.
“I didn’t like being a snitch, Marigold, but I didn’t know what she would do. The Guard could clear out the kegs at town hall but if they had to track her down she could have hidden more elsewhere. She showed me she was ready to kill. I couldn’t let her have the time for it.”
He did let them have to time to reflect. Marigold spoke up first.
“You did the right thing,” she said, and meant it. “Thank you for being honest.”
“Well, thank you for believing me,” he said, with a small, sad smile. It was Marigold’s turn to stare into her tea, searching for inspiration. Alfaen leaned in closer.
“Have you been alright, Marigold? Do you have a place to stay?”
“Yes, I’ve been fine. Just confused, and tired. I don’t quite know where to go or what to do with myself.”
“I mean, if you need a place…” began Alfaen. “I could even help with your apprenticeship. I’m not the best witch but I know a thing or two.”
Marigold didn’t respond at first.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “But, for now, I need some time alone. I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Alfaen, it’s just…a lot to think about.”
For a moment she thought she’d offended him, as he glanced down at his feet. Then, he said:
“It is, isn’t it? Just, don’t forget me, if you need anything.”
“I won’t,” she said, and stood. “Thank you for the tea. And the truth.”
Then, she left Braichlie. It really was that easy.
He brought a mop, a hand towel, a bucket full of water, and all the calm he could muster. He’d been hired as a guard, not a janitor, but he’d be damned if he’d go whining to the supervisor for help. He was an adult and would act like one.
The prisoner of the hour, of most of his hours here, it seemed, had curled back up on her cot, facing the wall this time. David set the bucket down quietly. She didn’t move. He skirted the drying puddle of stew on the floor to rescue the wooden bowl. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was there. After a moment of searching among the scattered sausages, he found the spoon and reunited it with the bowl, setting them aside.
The mop took care of most of the problem. It only left a few bits on the floor, too heavy for its fibres. David got down on his knees for these, bowl in hand. One by one, between finger and thumb, he began to pick up bits of carrot and onion and sausage and potato. They made a little pyramid in the bowl, a squidgy sad pile without any broth to swim in. Like little pebble markers on a trail. Like that giant pebble that had torn through—
He paused, very much on purpose. He made the thought go away. Steadney was in the past. It would stay there so help him god. This was only a bit of carrot. And this, only a potato. Giblets stayed inside people, now, that was the way of the world. Things were better and the most anyone had to worry about was some spilled stew.
With that wave of anxiety had come the awareness of being watched. David looked at the Elite girl, standing and staring like a strange meerkat in the darkness, her hands on the bars. He looked away, to another piece of onion.
“You didn’t answer my question,” said the prisoner. “Why were you hiding?”
Satisfied with the floor, David moved to the splash on the wall opposite the cell. He dunked the towel into the greasy mop water, wrung it out, and began to blot.
“It’s rude to walk away from someone while they’re still talking to you,” insisted Guinevere.
David’s instinct was to turn on his heel and throw the sodden stinking towel at her face. The voice, that helpful new friend, spoke up before the message could reach his muscles.
Later.
His hand relaxed. He sponged the wall some more.
“Don’t get coy,” snapped the prisoner. “I know you can hear me.”
David rinsed the towel again. Wrung it.
“Then you also know,” he said, “that I’m not going to play this game. Why don’t you get some sleep, for once?”
“You can’t tell me what to do, you fucking pig.”
He sighed, dropping the hand that held the towel. The thing with the voice rolled over in his mind, coiling like a snake ready to strike. And yet, it still said:
Later.
Never, he countered silently.
“I don’t know why you don’t like me,” he said aloud. “I’m just trying to earn a living.”
“I was too, before you goons decided to give witches a hard time,” she snapped. “But that’s beside the point. I don’t like you because you’re hiding something.”
He paused.
“Hiding,” he said, turning on her. “Like you hid those powder kegs. To murder people with. And you have the gall to look down on me for being a bit secretive?” He set his back to her with finality, dabbing a leftover smudge off the wall.
“Why don’t I ask Captain Bossard what you’re up to?”
David didn’t stop, or slow down, though it took a fair amount of concentration.
“I’m not sure what he has to do with this,” he said carefully.
“I thought about it, and I realized you weren’t hiding from Belvedere,” she said. “He saw your face when I spat in it. Unless you’ve done something truly awful between then and now, it must have been the captain. Next time I see him I’ll ask if he knows any prison guards named David.”
He was almost done cleaning up the blood now. All over. It had spattered so far. The walls, the floor, some of it was even on him. The towel was soaked in it. He’d be fired as the liability he was. Just a few more bits of brain to pick up.
Later, assured the voice.
David forced himself to relax. In another blink, the red towel in his hand became brown. The chunks on the floor became carrots and sausage once more. He looked to the prisoner, who was smirking at him, relishing his moment of distress. Calm, and blank, he stared.
“Feel free,” he said. “If you get a chance before you’re shipped off to Carrabon.”
He tossed the towel into the bucket, where it sank like a dead jellyfish. Leaving it and the mop, he took bowl and spoon back with him to the kitchen. He was grateful he made it there before he started to cry.
He tossed the bowl down, skittering it a ways along the counter. He planted his elbows next to it, planted his face in his hands. He was alone here and bless all the fucking gods for that. Tears ran down his forearms in silence. There was no room in his head anymore. Jobs and worry and insults had taken every inch. She was going to tell Bossard who was going to have him institutionalized which would make Paula leave him and he might as well kill himself to make it easier for everyone involved. There was no way to stop it now. Terrified, unsure, he could only stand here and cry and wait for the men who’d hired him to be told of their mistake. How a dangerous lunatic had lied to them and taken advantage of their generosity.
Tonic, said one of the tenants of his mind. David’s choked breathing relaxed with this single word. He scrubbed his eyes clear and glanced through the doorway to the coatroom.
He found the bottle of tonic buried in his pointlessly spare shirt. He gave the contents of the satchel a good few turns before realizing he’d forgotten a spoon.
Once more scrutinizing the hallway, David crossed back to the kitchen. Rather than search the cupboards he grabbed the spoon from the discarded bowl of stew. It didn’t particularly matter to him that it had been on the floor. Steadying his trembling muscles, he pulled the stopper on the bottle and poured the most accurate measure he could. He wanted to drink the bottle. He wanted spoon after spoon until the horrible tight feeling in his chest was banished forever. One wouldn’t be enough. Two would set him right but he would get drowsy, and he had to work, why the fuck did he have to work? There was no choice. Just one. He raised the spoon to his open mouth.
Wait.
David paused. He searched his pulsing, overgrown mind. It had asked for tonic, now it asked to wait? He gave it room to speak again, hovering the dollop of yellow-green liquid inches from his face. Nothing came. He gave it an entire minute. Then he brought the spoon closer.
Bowl.
David paused again. Looked to the item in question. It was a plain wooden bowl.
Sleep.
“No, I can’t,” David whispered aloud. “Only one.”
Her, insisted the voice.
He made a mistake, then, a mistake that cost him more than a job in the end. He’d ignored it as best he could, keeping it at arm’s length, not letting it make the mental equivalent of eye contact. At that moment he turned inward and let the darkness see his face. It liked what it saw. The worry. The cowardice. Those could be useful.
“I don’t understand,” breathed David. No reply came, at first. He listened, focused and intent. That’s when he realized the ringing in his ears was gone. The pressure threatening to burst his skull was no more. Peace, or some facsimile of it, had overtaken him.
Nice?
“Yeah,” said David.
Stew. Again. Sleep.
The one-word commands made more sense, now. David refilled the bowl from the cauldron over the glowing coals. He set it back down on the counter and took up the tonic and spoon.
Four.
David felt a twinge of tension return to his brain.
“I still don’t understand,” he said. “Why—“
The twinge became a stab, wringing like a greasy hand towel. He clenched his teeth.
More? came the rhetorical question.
David measured out four spoonfuls of St. Frida’s Wort into the bowl. The pain subsided. A part of him was scared by this; it was overpowered by another part relishing the peace of the old days. Remembering how it felt when Paula asked him for a second date. Sneaking into eachother’s bedrooms after dark. House-hunting in the weeks before the wedding.
In a half-stupor he stirred the thick liquid into the broth. It melted easily among the potatoes and carrots. He tasted the concoction, and grimaced as it touched his tongue. It tasted enough like stew, but the bitterness of the tonic was unmistakable. There was a cellar of salt on a nearby shelf above his head, standing prominently among its dustier cousins. He sprinkled some of its contents into the bowl. On the next tongueful, saltiness overtook the bitter medicine. It would do.
Calm, said the voice, and he was. His tears had dried up. He strode back out into the corridor, stew in hand, like nothing had happened. He turned the corner, and she was still there, pacing like a frantic cat. She glared viciously as he bent and slid the bowl through the slot in her cell bars.
“Are you simple?” she snapped. “You think I won’t turn up that one too?”
“I think,” said David, “if you did, I would clean it up again. And again. As many times as you’d like, until my shift was over. Then you could try your luck with someone less patient.”
Guinevere studied his impassive mask. It wasn’t a gloat, or a comeback. It was a statement of fact.
“Is that a threat?” she demanded, but without the same fire.
“It’s an idea,” said David. “You haven’t eaten all day, from what I hear. And from what I know, you want to put up a fight. You can’t do that on an empty stomach.”
He nudged the bowl further into the cell with the toe of his boot. When he looked up at her, she was more wary than angry.
Yes, said the voice. Softly.
“Either way, it’s up to you,” said David. He indicated the mop and bucket with a halfhearted wave. “I’ll leave these here, just in case.”
