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The sun was well up when Vicemerys crept into Marigold’s room. Even though she was there to wake the witch, she moved as quietly as she could. Vicemerys stood beside the bed, hands clasped at her navel, unsure of how to proceed politely.
“Hello,” was her first attempt. It did not work. She spoke more loudly. “Hello? Er…good morning? Good day?”
None of these elicited a response. The sorcerer reached out as if towards a venomous snake and prodded Marigold in the side; she pulled her hand back in a flash. Still, the witch slept. Vicemerys tried again, and again, and gasped when Marigold awoke with a start, turning over to squint blearily at her assailant.
“Marigold Baker, I am sorry to wake you before your time. I could wait no longer. I have made a breakfast! There are cakes from a pan, and many eggs, and bacon. Please, will you partake of it before it grows cold?”
Marigold had sat up, rubbing her face.
“Of course, Vicemerys,” she murmured. “I would love to.”
She really was quite hungry. She was even more tired, but when someone got up early to make her pancakes, Marigold went. She had not been expecting an overnight stay, much less in a drafty castle, and so had slept in most of her clothes. All she had to do was throw off the covers, throw on her shoes, and follow Vicemerys down the spiralling stairs.
“I do hope the room was to your liking,” said the sorcerer as they descended. “Did the fire keep you warm through the night? It has been—“
She turned and saw that Marigold was not there. She looked further up the staircase to see the witch bathed in sunlight. Marigold stood at a window, one of the sunniest in the castle, kneeling down to examine the four objects on the sill. Two vases, mismatched; a ceramic jug, and a small wooden bucket. All of them were filled with dirt. Each had a small tree growing in it, the biggest barely a foot tall. They were alive but sad.
“These should be outside,” observed Marigold. “They’re going to outgrow their homes soon.”
“They should,” agreed Vicemerys. “I must pick a nice place to put them.”
“It’s still warm enough. You probably wouldn’t have to wait until spring.” Marigold tickled the leaves of the plant in the bucket, smiling. “What are they? Cherries? Pears?”
The sorcerer toyed with her fingers a moment. Marigold watched her face work silently. The witch worried she might have caused offence.
“Apples,” said the sorcerer quietly. “I had purchased an apple from the market at Steadney. It was in my pocket when we escaped. I thought it might be nice to grow some new trees from it, but I am not very good with plants. These are the only ones that lived.”
Marigold took the few steps down to meet her.
“Trees can be difficult to start,” said the witch kindly. “I’d say you’ve done very well!”
Vicemerys smiled at her, thankful that talk of apples had been cut short. She led the way down into the main hall, to the grand doors that denoted a large room indeed. They’d been left open just wide enough for a person to walk through. Marigold slipped through first at a silent invitation from Vicemerys, and stopped, staring in awe.
She had seen the long-disused dining room of Blank Manor only once, and had been struck by its grandiosity, even coated in dust. The fireplace the size of her bedroom, the table that seemed half a mile long, the carved chairs that each weighed about as much as she did. The floor there was polished wood, left to crack and splinter under the newest Lord Blank’s neglect. Also willfully ignored were the grim portraits of Blanks past, left to bleach and fade in the sunlight from the row of tall windows opposite the fireplace.
The siblings’ dining room hit her with the same sense of awe; it was grandfather to the one in Blank Manor. A stone floor instead of a wooden one, patchworked with enormous rugs worn through by ancient feet and recent moths. Similarly threadbare tapestries hung from the walls. There were some portraits in between, though rarer than the numerous Blanks. Most of the subjects wore clothes of the age of true monarchy, unhindered by parliaments and laws. Marigold noted quite a few dark-haired women bearing a striking resemblance to her present hostess.
The thick stone construction of the castle didn’t allow for lofty windows. Only a few stained glass panels smudged with smoke let in any natural light. Candles on walls and tables made up for it how they could, aided by the grand fireplace. Blasz was already seated, munching thoughtfully at a sausage speared on the end of a fork. Vicemerys glared at him as she sat down. She had laid out three settings on one lonely corner of the massive table; Blasz had taken the one at the head. She settled in across the corner from him, and Marigold next to her.
“One is meant to wait until the guest has been served, Blasz!” declared Vicemerys. “It is considered polite.”
He looked skeptical, but set his fork down.
“That’s alright,” said Marigold. “That’s only for important people.”
Still, he waited until Marigold had taken a square of toast to resume his breakfast. Vicemerys gave him one last warning look, then began to pour herself some tea.
“We do not need to eat much,” said Vicemerys. “I am pleased to have a reason to do so!”
“Oh, really? Is that a sorcerer thing?”
“Certainly. We are able to take our energy from elsewhere. Though we find eating as pleasurable as anyone!”
“Then, where in the world did you get all this?” asked Marigold. “I can’t imagine you had such a feast ready in the cupboards.”
“I was awake most early,” said Vicemerys. “I went immediately to the market in Braichlie! Why, some were not even finished putting their stalls together as I purchased from them.”
Marigold tilted her head, running numbers in it.
“You made it all the way to Braichlie and back? And had time to make breakfast?”
“Oh yes. It was a very easy jaunt.”
“Right,” sighed Marigold. “Do you have to learn to do that, or does it come naturally?”
“To do it well - which means, accurately - takes practice. It is especially difficult to reappear a reasonable distance above the ground. I twisted many ankles when I was young!”
Marigold smiled at this as she dipped a corner of her toast into a runny egg yolk.
“The crone,” said Blasz suddenly, addressing the bacon, “your mentor…what did she say about the man who came to her door?”
He didn’t look at either of the women looking at him. Marigold was frozen, uncertain, wide-eyed; Vicemerys glared at her brother once more.
“Blasz, we are trying to have a pleasant meal. That is a topic for another time.”
“You find asking after a man’s demeanour unpleasant? That is all I wish to hear about.”
“You know we cannot talk about him without—“ Vicemerys caught herself, glancing nervously at Marigold. The witch set down her still-dripping toast.
“Crone, er, had a lot to say about him, actually,” she admitted. “About his chambers.”
Vicemerys leaned back in her chair, hugging herself as if cold. Not looking at anything but the teapot. Blasz looked similarly sad, but he kept his eyes on Marigold.
“She knew about them,” he said plainly.
“She saw them,” corrected Marigold. “And was nearly killed for it.”
Blasz did not look surprised.
“She wanted to help him,” continued Marigold. “She tried to find people who would. I promise, if she could have done something, she would have.”
“We know,” said Blasz, and meant it. “Many people wanted to help him. We understand that they couldn’t, knowing our mother as we did.”
“Whatever happened to him? He’s not still…”
“No. No, he also knew our mother. He had the chance to be free, and he chose against running from her for the rest of his life. I didn’t understand, but I trusted his judgment. I had to. I was only a boy.”
“He is buried under a tree,” added Vicemerys. “Not far from the castle. Near his wife. She, too, died trying to confront our mother. We are glad your mentor did not meet the same fate.”
“Crone told me that he’s the reason she managed to escape,” said Marigold. “He convinced your mother to let her go. She has him to thank, and she does, every day.”
“That sounds like him,” said Vicemerys, with a shaky smile.
“Apparently,” said Marigold, addressing Blasz’s question at last, “he was under a spell when he came to her door. He couldn’t say much of his own will. Crone knew something was strange, but she had you two to worry about first.”
Blasz no longer seemed interested in eating. He set his fork down and stared morosely at the stack of toast.
“I wish she would have worried for him instead,” he murmured. “He may have had a chance, then. He might not have been so broken all those years ago.” He looked into Marigold’s eyes. She saw remorse, but not blame. “That was why he did it. He told me it had been too long. That there was nothing left to go back to. There might have been, the night we were born.”
Vicemerys set her hand atop her brother’s on the table.
“The past is as uncertain as the future,” she said kindly. “It does us no good to dwell on it. Why, you could say that they might never have met. Or that someone might have stopped him from being taken. It only hurts us to think of such things.”
Blasz set his hands to his temples, leaning forward onto his elbows.
“I am sorry,” said Blasz to Marigold. “I should not have spoken of such things in front of a guest.”
“That’s quite alright,” insisted Marigold. “I don’t mind. As long as it isn’t too hard for you to talk about.”
Blasz shook his head. “Not anymore. It was difficult even to comprehend, at first. As we’ve grown, we’ve learned to accept it; though I don’t know if I will ever be at ease with it. And then, last night, when you said he had been given another chance…I did not know what to think.”
“I think we should be glad,” said Vicemerys, “that so many people were willing to help him even in the face of a powerful sorcerer. All we could have asked is that they try their best, and they did.”
Blasz gave his sister a wan smile in between his hands.
“You said he did eventually go free,” observed Marigold. “When was that?”
“As soon as I was old enough to understand that he wasn’t,” said Blasz, examining the table. He said no more. Vicemerys laid a hand on his arm.
“I distracted our mother,” she said, “while Blasz snuck down to the dungeons. We had filled a pack with things that we thought he might need for the road home; warm clothes and boots. Matches and a lantern. A knife. He…used the knife. He didn’t even leave his chambers.”
Blasz had closed his eyes. He shared a lot of things in common with his sister, but the images of Mr. Slater’s last moments were not among them. Those he bore alone, in silence.
“He could have walked away,” continued Vicemerys. “We two were ready to keep our mother at bay no matter the cost, but that was not enough. His wife was dead. His home had been sold. He said he had no life to which he might return. I don’t know if that was true, but, it felt true to him, I suppose. I don’t know that I would do the same…but I don’t know what he went through. Not entirely.”
Blasz squeezed his sister’s hand before he spoke. His voice was steady.
“Mother was distraught when she found out. She never recovered. Her madness and grief fed off eachother until there was nothing left. We were able to keep her here; thankfully, we had both been given her gift, and could overpower her when needed. The last few years were difficult, but they ended quietly. More quietly than poor Old Skull’s.”
“We gave her over to ash,” added Vicemerys, “and scattered her far from him. She may not have known it, but I truly think that was the first time she was at peace. She had lived for many hundreds of years, many of them alone. It is no wonder her madness overtook her. Though that of course does not excuse her actions,” she added hastily. “It merely explains them.”
“There but for the Mither’s grace go we,” agreed Marigold. Vicemerys perked up, tickled by this new saying. Blasz nodded sagely as he mulled it over.
“That is why Vicemerys and I pay visits to town. We like to try our best to feel that we are a part of the world. It is difficult now that Steadney is gone…we had started to make friends there. We have only been to Braichlie and Blankston a few times this year, and it did not feel the same. Once again, everyone is a stranger. Starting over after we had made so much progress is not easy, but when I feel ready to retreat from the world, all I do is think of my mother. Then it does not seem so hard.”
“Everyone is quite kind to us,” assured Vicemerys, “but Blankston especially is much larger than Steadney. That many people in one place can be overwhelming. We tend to visit early in the morning or late at night.”
“I hope you know,” said Marigold, “you’d be welcome to visit me any time. I’d be happy to show you around.”
The siblings exchanged a hungry glance.
“That would indeed be most welcome!” said Vicemerys. “Perhaps we might even…take you for ‘a pint’.”
“I would love that,” said Marigold. “It so happens I know a great pub in downtown Blankston.” She finished up the last of her eggs and toast, and set her fork aside. “I really must thank you both for your hospitality, especially on such short notice. I should be going soon. I promised to check in with a friend of mine today. He was concerned about me coming up here alone.”
“Oh…of course,” said Vicemerys, trying to hide her sadness. “Perhaps I could accompany you? At least for part of the way?”
“You could do better,” said Blasz. “Why not take her for a jaunt?”
Like any rational person, Julian Bossard did not wish that town hall had been levelled by an explosion. At the same time, he did miss having something interesting to look in to. Murders were exceedingly rare in Blankston, and even rarer in the surrounding villages. Bossard could only recall three, not just in his tenure with the Guard, but in his life. Burglary was slightly more common, but required evidence in order to remain a priority. There was only so much Captain Bossard and his officers could do once the trail was cold. After that, most of what they dealt with were disruptions of the peace, pickpocketing, patrolling in case anyone disrupted the peace or picked a pocket, and looking official at ceremonies in town square. He hated that he loved it when Crown agents showed up because it meant something interesting might happen.
The captain jolted to attention as he heard a knock on the door. The accompanying “Sir?” was muffled behind the wood.
“Yes, Watkins?”
“Mr. Belvedere’s here to see you.”
“Send him in,” said Bossard, a bit too hastily. He shuffled the papers he’d been poring over into a neat stack. Mr. Belvedere entered as he did so, ducking under the doorframe. Watkins closed the door dutifully behind him.
“I’m sorry to bother you once more, Julian. I promise I won’t be long.”
“Oh no, please, take your time,” said Bossard. “It’s no bother!”
Mr. Belvedere sat down across from the captain. He hadn’t removed his coat. He leaned forward onto his knees, studying the floor for inspiration. For a gracious way to start the conversation. He couldn’t find one, and so looked to Julian dead on.
“Did you ever work with a young man named David Breckenridge?”
Confusion and concern fought for place on the captain’s face.
“Well, yes, I…why?”
“I’ll get to that,” said Mr. Belvedere, waving a calming hand. “How do you know him?”
“He was one of my constables. Only for a couple of years, but he did a fine job. I had to put him on leave a few months ago for behavioural problems.”
“‘Was’ one of your constables,” observed Mr. Belvedere. “Sounds like you don’t expect him to return.”
Julian looked wounded by his own words. He slumped back in his chair.
“At first, I thought he might. Officers pull through that sort of thing all the time. It was Steadney, you know, that did him in. All those bodies. That carnage. He’d joined the force to break up barfights and catch thieves, not scrape organs off the sidewalk. I couldn’t blame him,” sighed the captain, “but I couldn’t let him roam free with all those pent-up issues. I told him his beat would be waiting when he’d sorted them out, and I haven’t heard a word of progress in six months. So, no, I’m not expecting him to come back.”
“What were his issues?”
“Just verbal ones, thank goodness. He was snappish. Short with other officers. Talking back too often to superiors. Nothing drastic, but he was getting worse by the day. He’d been warned several times about what it might mean if he continued.”
“Never violent?”
“No, thank goodness. But I don’t know what might have happened if I hadn’t put him on leave. I was maybe a little over-cautious, but I just wanted to keep everyone safe, David included. The last thing he needed in his state of mind was an indictment for assault.”
“You think it might have gotten to that point?” asked Mr. Belvedere cautiously. Julian shrugged.
“I mean, I can’t say for sure, but I know I didn’t want to risk it. Ambrose, why are you asking me this?” he said suddenly. “How do you know David?”
Mr. Belvedere similarly found no gracious way to segue.
“He’s a guard at Seagate Prison,” said the Elite man. “Graveyard shift. And, as it happens, the one who discovered Ms. van Allen’s body.”
Captain Bossard had gone stock-still. His eyes were wide. His expression, pained.
“It can’t be the same David,” he said numbly.
“Dark hair,” said Mr. Belvedere, “slightly curly. On the shorter side. Married to Paula.”
“Oh, fuck,” breathed Julian. “I had no idea. They never asked me for a recommendation. God, but, he really shouldn’t be working. Why would he…”
The captain paused. He knew why. All he had to do was think back to that awful day. I’ll do anything, Captain, please, just don’t let me go! A wife to provide for could be a powerful motivator, as Bossard knew very well. He squared his shoulders, closed his eyes, and asked another question, the answer to which he feared he knew as well.
“Why are you asking about his behaviour?”
“I’m ruling out possibilities. That’s all.”
“Ambrose, I’ve been honest with you,” snapped Julian. Worry made his voice tremble in a higher pitch than normal. Mr. Belvedere took his point. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“He lied to me about being a constable,” sighed the Elite man, “he got aggressive with me when I asked some personal questions, and I have a witness handy who claims that Ms. van Allen’s cell might have been unlocked several minutes prior to her discovery, when it is likely that David was the only guard in that wing. I was told by his wife that he was prescribed a tonic for his acute stress disorder that he then discarded, which does not fill me with hope as to his stability. He also took a job knowing that there would be no vetting process, for reasons I now understand but still do not trust. None of this is proof, but if I may say so in confidence to you, it’s the only shoe I have and it’s startin’ to fit.”
Julian leaned forward onto the desk, massaging his face. After a moment of this, he said:
“I could see him lashing out. I can’t see him committing murder.”
“You told me you hadn’t seen him in months. And the last time you did, his condition was deteriorating. Are you quite sure that you know what he is and isn’t capable of at this time?”
Julian didn’t need to answer. He bit, quite unconsciously, at his fingernail.
“Are you going to bring him in?”
“I can’t charge him with only a handful of anecdotes to my name, but there are still more questions to be asked of him. And of his superiors.” Mr. Belvedere stood, but made no move to leave. “If it comes down to it, Julian, would you be willing to repeat that story in court?”
The young captain thought, but only for a second.
“I guess I would have to, wouldn’t I?”
“That would be becomin’ of you, if the situation is as it seems.”
“I hope it’s not,” sighed Julian, as he shook his head slowly. “God, I hope it’s not.”
Mr. Belvedere stood, straightened his coat, and nodded at the young captain.
“Y’aren’t alone in that, Julian, but it is what it is. We’ll just have to see how it shakes out. Try not to lose any sleep.”
