Dreamquake: Book Two of the Dreamhunter Duet (47 page)

“Or,” said Rose, “does he just think you’ll be better off out of Founderston?”

And Mamie said, “That must be it.”

It was Rose who remembered the film, five days after the fire. Chorley developed it, and they all sat down to watch it.

Laura saw that Nown had cranked the camera a little too slowly, so that the film’s action was fast, the captives and rangers jerky and insectile in their movements. There was shutter flicker, as though the camera were peering through eyes that were blinking away tears. But there were the huts, the barracks, the canvas-walled rooms of the Depot.

“How did you get this?” Chorley said.

“I didn’t,” Laura said. “I was here.”

“We sent someone,” said Tziga.

When Nown had been shooting the footage, Laura had been lying in Sandy’s arms within the circle of Foreigner’s West. They got up and folded the blankets, and she gave up one life for another. Nown had betrayed her. He was heartless. He should have told her what he must have known. He’d always carried her, but—in a way—he’d made her walk. Her long, hard journey might have been simple and short if only he’d said: “The Place is the same thing I am, a Nown—that’s something you need to know.”

Chorley said, “I’ll take this to the Grand Patriarch. I imagine he’ll want to present it to the Commission.”

“Make a copy first,” Tziga said.

Grace said, “I hate having to rely on that old man to get things straightened out.”

“We’re not relying on him, we are consulting with him,” Chorley snapped.

Laura thought how strange it was that her aunt was still able to imagine things being “straightened out,” as though all that had to happen was that Cas Doran be exposed and the Regulatory Body encouraged to mind their own business. Grace seemed to think that if those things were accomplished, then dreamhunters would be able to get back to their prospecting and performing in peace. Rose and Chorley and Tziga wanted Doran stopped and punished. They wanted to
weed out corruption. Was Laura’s aunt right to look to a time beyond that, to order and everyday life?

Laura thought nothing could be mended. And she was sure she was thinking just as straight as her aunt Grace. So which of them was right?

The family agreed that Laura shouldn’t be left alone. But only Rose understood what that meant. As soon as her cough eased, Rose had taken to climbing into Laura’s bed. She didn’t try to watch with Laura, to stay awake and stare into the dark—she slept, but she was there.

The night they screened the film, Rose fell asleep almost the moment she put her head on her pillow. She woke after an hour or two, from a dream in which she wandered along red-painted hallways, unable to open any of the doors because their handles burned her hands.

“Nightmare?” said Laura, from the other side of the bed.

“Yes. There’s never any fire in my nightmares. Just heat.”

“I still have nightmares where I’m thirsty.”

Rose turned over and tried to see her cousin. There was a little light coming in the window from the street, enough so that the shadows of the flowers on the frosted-glass lamp on the nightstand were visible. Rose could see the lumpy shadow that was her cousin, and the glimmer of Laura’s eyes. Because it was dark, Rose felt a little daring. She said, “Have you thought that you could make your sandman again?”

“He let me down,” Laura said, her voice flat.

“He couldn’t help it.”

“Not in the fire. Before that.”

“So you won’t make him again because you’re mad at him?”

“I won’t make him again because I can’t make Sandy.”

Rose thought about the logic of Laura’s statement. Of course it was flawless. It made perfect sense. Rose knew that her cousin had loved both of them, Sandy and the monster. Laura wouldn’t resurrect one if she couldn’t resurrect the other.

“It’s not just a decision,” Laura said. “I think it’s prohibited. My need is great, but I can’t feel the song. When I found Da’s sandman, but before I knew ‘The Measures,’ I could feel this storm of music around me. Now I don’t feel anything.”

Rose found one of Laura’s hands under the covers and held it.

“I’m just going to be good and do what I’m asked. Then maybe I’ll stop feeling so sick and tired. Sandy felt like my family and my future.”

Rose squeezed Laura’s hand.

Laura said, “Wouldn’t it be terrible if none of us had futures, only fates?”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Rose said. It was true; Rose believed in the poker, the sewing basket, the broken window, the rooftop, the fire net, the way out. She believed in reprieve. And she was sure that, sooner or later, she would think of some way to help Laura. Something would come to her—it was only a matter of time.

2

ATURDAY EVENING. TWO MEN, ONE TALL, THE OTHER SMALL, WALKED SLOWLY BACK ACROSS MARKET BRIDGE FROM
the Isle of the Temple. The evening was autumnal, and there was a white mist rising from the surface of the river.

Other pedestrians they passed glanced, then turned to stare after them.

“It’s taking a while for the word to get around Founderston that you’re not dead,” Chorley said.

“I’ve been sequestered at home, or at Fallow Hill.”

“After Monday we’ll be able to deal with the reports of your death. We can bring up the matter of the forged signature in the Doorhandle intentions book.”

“After Monday that will be an even smaller matter than it is already.”

Chorley and Tziga had shown the film of the Depot to the Grand Patriarch. On Monday afternoon the Commission of Inquiry was due to convene again. Their report would be published soon. All submissions had been read, all witnesses questioned, all arguments heard. But the seven men of the Commission were due to meet again to discuss their findings—and the Grand Patriarch intended to deliver the film to them, with Laura and her testimony.

“I wouldn’t like to be in Doran’s shoes after Monday,”
Chorley said. “Though he must have been forewarned. Your cameraman was spotted. In the final seconds of the film, a ranger points at him.” Chorley was quiet for a moment, then added, “He’ll have to testify too, I expect.”

Tziga was silent.

“Tziga? Why did Erasmus ask you how you got the film? I thought the cameraman was his agent.”

Tziga looked vague and baffled, and Chorley was once again overcome by nervous tenderness toward his damaged brother-in-law. “Never mind,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.” They came off the bridge onto the west embankment. The air was still but nevertheless carried the smell of damp, burned timber.

When they arrived home, they were met by a one-girl whirlwind. Rose was wrapped in a thick shawl. She said the house was cold. She said there were fires laid already, kindling and coal under a summer’s worth of dust. “Could someone else please put a match to them? I’m allergic to matches. Temporarily, I hope.” She followed her father into the parlor, and, as he knelt to light the fire, she stood behind him, ranting. “I’m sick of salad and eggs and bread,” she said. “Now that Uncle Tziga’s no longer a big secret, could we
please
get back our cook and maids?”

“Cook left last year. She retired to nurse her sick sister. Remember?” Chorley said.

“Why would I remember? I wasn’t here. I was boarding at school, and eating boiled bacon and boiled broccoli and boiled bloody potatoes.”

“We can summon the maid back any time. She’s only on leave. Paid leave.”

“This family is hopeless!” Rose raved. “Renting rooms they don’t use. Paying maids to take holidays. Throwing money at problems!”

Chorley got up and stared at his daughter with wide eyes. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

“The Doran house is packed with servants. Mamie and her mother can sit around being ornamental. What would we have done if gentlemen
had
come calling for me? Fed them dried fruit and boiled eggs with their black tea?”

“Sorry,” said Chorley. “I’ll place an advertisement for a cook on Monday. After Monday everything will be different. We’ll sit down and talk about the future. You and I. We’ll make some plans.”

“Fine,” said Rose. She came to stand beside her father and leaned against him, not to be friendly but to edge him aside so that she stood directly in front of the fire’s warmth. She said, “So it’s to be Monday, then?”

“That’s when the Commission reconvenes. Would you like to go with us—me and Laura and Tziga, and the Grand Patriarch and his people?”

“No. I don’t want Mamie to hear I was in on the kill. She’ll probably never speak to me again anyway, no matter what I do.”

Chorley put an arm around his daughter. “Are you warmer now, dear?”

“Yes.”

“I’d better go see what Tziga is up to. Partway through your tirade he headed for the kitchen.”

“Oh no!” Rose rushed off to rescue the food from her uncle’s absentminded efforts.

Chorley was in bed by eleven, but it took him a long time to go to sleep. He would be drifting off but would wake up with his heart pounding, startled by the memory of his
daughter’s plunge from the roof of the People’s Palace, or by panic at all the little things he’d left undone. He hadn’t talked to Rose about what she wanted to do this year. And what was Laura going through now? Just how involved with that Mason boy had she allowed herself to be? Was Tziga any better? Would Grace be safe walking Inland alone?