Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) (17 page)

Among other things.

“You fancy quail, don’t you?” He looks worried.

“Very much,” I say.

He takes his seat, looking relieved.

The timer goes off on my Teasmaid, saving him from further explanation—for the moment, anyway. This time I’m ready, slipping my cup beneath its spout before it has the chance to christen the cloth.

Urlick glances up, pleased.

Iris excuses herself as usual—a curtsey for me, a bow for Urlick—then she’s off. I can’t help but wonder what she does up there all day, alone in her room. How she can spend so many days not talking to anyone? I for one would go crazy.

And then there’s Urlick.

I look his way and he drops his head, fork and knife busily dismantling his bird. Talking with Urlick is like pulling rusty nails from tarred wood: both frustrating and laborious. It’s as though he’s allergic to conversation.

I watch as he spins his fork around his plate. Something about the way he holds his silver bewitches me. Index finger pressed firmly down over top of his knife. Fork cradled in his other hand, so delicately. It’s as though he’s dined with kings, though I’m sure he’s not. He looks up, and I pull my eyes away.

“So,” I start, trying to make my voice sound light and unassuming. Small talk first, I figure, then on to the gritty bits. I need answers, yes, but past experience tells me if I don’t start out slow I’ll get nothing from him. Which is pretty much all I’ve gotten so far. And goodness knows, if I lead with the question I’m itching to ask, I’ll surely raise his suspicions. Besides, if I’m to be treated as ward of this prison, I’m entitled to know a little something about the warden, aren’t I?

“Have you always lived out here in the Follies?” I say, pushing a bit of okra around on my plate.

“No,” he answers, flatly, never looking up from his meal.

“Where else have you lived?”

“Away,” he says.

This isn’t going to be easy.

“Where, specifically?” I try again.

“In Gears,” he levels his gaze.

“How old were you when you moved here, then?”

“Nine.” He swallows, as if he’s suddenly remembered he shouldn’t speak with his mouth full.

“So you were born in Gears, then?”

”No, I was born here—”

“But I thought you said—”

“I
did,
” he glares.

I strip the quail from my fork with my teeth, and he cringes. Something my mother always hated, too.

“Look, if you must know, I was sent to live with a nursemaid the day after I was born, and remained there until I was nine years old.”

“But why?”

“Because my father couldn’t stand the sight of me, that’s why.” He drops his silver to the plate. “The night I was born, I lay wedged in the birth canal for over an hour, struggling, my mother too weak to assist me. My father, thinking me a demon—birthing face up, staring at him with eyes as red as Satan’s—refused to assist her, until finally he could take her screams no longer and stepped in. He wrapped a hand around my throat and yanked me free, but it was too late—she was already dead. According to my father I wear the scars of her death as my punishment.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes, well...that’s the way it is.” He lowers his head. “The nursemaid tried, but she couldn’t get the color to leave my face. Nor could she remove the mark of my father’s hand from my neck. If only he’d stepped in sooner, he might have been able to save my mother. But he didn’t.” He looks to me. “And he’s never forgiven me for that.”

“
You?
Why should you be to blame?”

“Afterward, he couldn’t stand the sight of me—so he gave me away. His only child.” The muscles at the side of his jaw churn. “I was quite happy until the nursemaid died and I had to be returned to him.”

I swallow down the glob of heartache that’s formed in my throat. How could a father do such a thing? What kind of a man blames a baby for his wife’s death?

“Is that why he’s so seldom seen? Why he remains such a recluse in his own home?”

Urlick lowers his head. “My father and I will be forever estranged.”

“Why do you stay here, then? Why don’t you leave?”

Urlick glares up at me through burning pink eyes. “Look at me,” he says. “Where would I go?”

Iris breezes in, startling me. My back snaps straight in the chair. She rushes to the oven, where apparently she’s been harboring a secret dessert, and plops it down in front of me. It’s wrapped in a blue and white gingham cloth.

“What is this?” I say, looking up at her.

She brings her hands to her chest like a giddy child.

“Go ahead, open it,” Urlick says, coaxing me with his fingers.

I look up and smile, feeling sorry for pushing him into conversation.

Slowly, I unwrap the gingham cloth, unveiling of all things...a pie. And not just any pie: an olallyberry pie! In all its brown-baked glory. It’s been years since I’ve had pie, longer still since I’ve tasted the sweetness of olallyberries. They’ve been extinct for years. How is this possible? Where did they find them? First the quail, now the pie. I screw up my face and look at him.

“It’s your favorite, isn’t it?” Urlick panics.

“Yes,” I say. “My absolute. But how did you—”

“Splendid.” He slurps his tea with a twisted grin.

I turn to Iris, remembering my attempt at conversation yesterday—me going over culinary likes and dislikes, and her not answering. “This was your idea, was it?”

She shakes her head.

“Yours?” I turn to Urlick.

He looks up, kissed by a bit of blush.

“Better eat it before it gets cold,” he says and drops his chin.

I can’t believe it. Only this morning he put me out in the darkness without a care, yet all the while, he’d arranged for kindness to be bubbling up in the oven in the form of my favorite pie.

I glance over at him and catch him looking at me. My cheeks begin to heat. Why would he do such a thing? I thought he detested me.

Iris cuts the pie into pieces, serves one to Urlick and one to me, then retires with hers to the back kitchen.

Urlick takes a bite and the olallyberries stain his lips red. He looks funny to me with lips the right color, having grown so accustomed to his purplish ones. “Can I ask you another question?” I say.

“Would it matter if I were to say no?”

“What lies beyond the Follies? In that empty space on the map in the study?”

Urlick’s eyes shoot up from his plate.

“Nothing. Only death. Eat your pie.” 

T
wenty

Eyelet

That night I do the unthinkable.

I unlock my bedroom door and creep, cat-like, down the corridor and down the stairs, holding my boots in my hand. When I reach the landing, I scoot through the back kitchen and out through the door, pausing only to pull on my boots before venturing into the dark caverns that lead to Urlick’s laboratory.

I hate the thought of being down here alone, especially at night.

The locks are designed to keep things out, not in
, I hear Urlick say. I only hope he’s right.

Swallowing down the fear in my throat, I push on, imagining all number of bad things that could happen to me—the least of which is that no one even knows I’m down here, should I suddenly go missing.

It’s particularly cold in these hallways at night. If only I’d brought a sweater. I rub my arms, the beat of my heart striking in time with the heels of my boots, as I race up the stone corridor toward the opening to the main cavern.

Torchlight in hand, I duck my head and enter, letting the door swing shut behind me.

Something scurries across the path. I gasp, and throw my back up against the wall, pulling a hand to my chest to conceal the light of my necklace. Curls of breath escape my lips.

Slowly, I lean out around the corner, heart racing, daring to take another look. The creature scurries past in a draft of light, and I suck in a quick breath. Whatever it is, it’s moving too quickly for me to distinguish any features except for feet.

It dashes again and I squint to see, making out, to my horror, a hunched back and a severely crooked neck. No arms dangle at its sides. The shape of its shadow doesn’t appear human. I don’t know
what
it is.

I pull back again, aghast and trembling, pressing my shoulder blades even tighter to the stones. Sliding sideways, I search for a place to hide, but find nothing as the slap of bare feet draws nearer.

Panicked, I douse my torch in a nearby puddle, and curse myself over the billow of smoke that rises. I race down the corridor the opposite way, groping the wall as I go, trying to find some way to escape the corridor, delighted when my hands come across a handle. Even more delighted when I twist it and it gives way. Slipping over the threshold, I plaster myself against the adjacent wall.

Footsteps approach. Blood thumps in my ears. The toes of feet darken the sill.

I close my eyes, shaking, as the door creaks slowly open.
No.
This can’t be happening. Go away,
please,
go away.

I put a hand over my mouth and hold my breath, counting the heartbeats in my ears. Slowly the door shuffles open, then slowly back. The lock falls into place.

Feet race up the corridor, then up a set of stairs, disappearing into the din.

I let out my breath and slide down the wall. I’ve never been so relieved. For a long time I just sit, gasping, thanking God for sparing me. When at last I’m brave enough to open my eyes, the most amazing sight spills out before me.

Through the dim light of the room, I see trees. Everywhere. Trees. And plants of every kind. Pushing up from earth so rich and black it almost looks fake. Where am I? What is this place? How do trees grow inside?

I step farther into the room, and my hair tosses back from my shoulders on a great gust of warm, moist wind. It pulses down from above in timed, gentle breaths. I look up. Pipes crawl the ceiling, steam purging from their pores, irrigating all the plants and trees below in a shower-like mist. Beyond the trees, three solid walls of lead glass windows encase the room.

It’s a garden! A room full of garden! A giant indoor terrarium!

I venture farther inward, keeping to the cobblestone walk, careful not to crush any plants. Strings of aether lamplights glow above the foliage like tiny bulbs of artificial sun. Everything looks shiny and vibrant, bathed in a tropical dew. Or at least, what I imagine tropical dew to be, from illustrations I’ve seen in science books.

My, it’s warm in here. I fan myself, shoving the arms of my jacket higher. Sweat beads along the edges of my hair and coats my upper lip. I reach up, loosening the top buttons of my chemise. I swipe the perspiration from my brow. Such a major contrast from the weather out in the hall—yet the hall is only steps away.

How is this possible? How is any of this possible?

I drop my hands, dragging my fingertips over the tops of the leaves. Plants of every kind sprawl out on either side of me, row after row. There must be ten, twenty, thirty exotic species growing here! Some I’ve only seen in picture books.

I race up and down the rows, identifying them one by one. “Ginseng. Fennel. Hawthorn berry.
Shepherd’s purse?”
I stoop and sniff. “I can’t believe it. Shepherd’s purse hasn’t grown in these parts for over ten years. And yet, here it is.”

I turn. “And cinnamon. And nutmeg, too? And over here”—I reach—“peppermint!”

My eyes stretch across the room to the end of the plant bed, to a bush with prickly, emerald-colored leaves. “Oh my goodness.” I take up my skirts and rush toward it, plucking the fruit from its branches. “Olallyberries!” I shriek and pop them in my mouth, wincing at their sweet, tart flavor. “They’ve olallyberry bushes! No wonder the pie!”

I step back to get a better look, and something stirs at my feet, causing me to jump from the path. Coos come up from the leaves and all at once I’m laughing. “Quail?” A bird scuttles out of the plants and over my toes. Its neck juts in and out. “Of course, what else would it be?”

I turn, and my eyes set on something so unusual it brings me to my knees. I blink twice, thinking I must be dreaming. Raising the leaf of the very large hostas that hovers over top of it, I stare at the tiny plant. “Chemodendryum Charcoalreous?” I gasp, reaching out, rolling its soft fuzzy leaves between my fingers. If only I had my textbook to verify. Though my memory assures me, it is what it is. A classified medicinal plant—bred to challenge cancer—grown only in the official laboratories of the Commonwealth, at the Academy, for distribution among the wealthy. “How did the Babbits get access to such a classified plant? Where has all this come from?”

I lean, overcome by its scent. Or
is
it the scent that’s affecting me? Growing dizzy, I pull my legs up beneath me, throw my arms about my knees. The room begins to spin.