Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) (9 page)

“Everything all right?” Urlick’s head swings around.

“Peachy,” I grin, sucking the blood from my finger. Truth is, I’m cold and more than a bit afraid of heights, though I’m not about to admit it to the likes of him.

“How old is this thing anyway?” I reestablish my gait, trying my best not to look down.

“Old as the house, I suppose. Why?”

“No reason.”

I scowl at the stench of sewer water gushing past beneath the bridge. A vulture pecks the flesh of a dead rat nearby. I turn my head and bite my lip, partly to keep my teeth from chattering, but mostly to hold down what threatens to come up, and wobble my way across the rest of the bridge.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right place?” I jest and fold my arms, seeing Urlick struggle to open the combination lock.

He scowls at me over his shoulder and spins the lock again. “Are you always this clever?”

“No, usually I’m more.”

The vulture plucks the rat’s eye from its head. I cover my mouth and look away. I can feel Urlick smiling. What have I gotten myself into? When Mother insisted I run and hide, I’m sure she didn’t mean in the underground lair of a total stranger at the edge of the civilized world.

Mother.

I close my eyes, imagining my mother’s wax-coated body hanging from the gallows in the square. My heart races. My eyes pop back open. I blink away the tears that come, ashamed to have left her alone. I turn and stare out into the rolling mist.

My father died out here. His body was found somewhere along the road between the Follies and Gears. His hands were scorched, and the right side of his face was blackened as if he’d been burned. His gasmask was stripped from the cords around his neck. In one hand he held a lab report. The officials in attendance ruled the Vapours had overcome him. But I never believed it to be so. Mother never believed it either, though she remained silent, I know she didn’t, I could see it in her eyes.

I stare up at the Vapours pooling in the distance, over the top of the ridge. There was never any evidence found to suggest my father was asphyxiated. And he died in early spring, not late summer.

“There we are.” Urlick’s voice breaks my train of thought, followed by a startling
CLUNK.
A clangor of gears churns inside the lock until the door finally pops open. A blinding ejection of steam gives way to a dimly lit corridor. Butane-dipped torches dot the sides of mud walls. Grease-lacquered puddles spot the floors.

“This is it?”

Urlick smiles, says nothing, and my heart jerks in my chest. I can’t see myself living in such a place, even if it is only temporary. I’m a girl, not a worm.

Urlick reaches inside, plucks a torch from the wall, and with his other hand summons me to follow. I gulp down the clump of anxiety that’s just rushed to my throat, and reluctantly follow. I shiver, my pupils blooming as I step across the threshold into a puddle, cold water flooding through the stitches of my boot.

Urlick sloshes his way gingerly up the dark corridor in front of me, his head wreathed in a halo of torchlight. I follow close behind, ducking and darting, hurdling new puddles, fending off spider webs. I know it sounds silly, but I long to take his hand, to feel the warmth of something familiar, though I barely know him.

I don’t know what I find more disturbing, the cramped state of this chamber, its lack of light, or the abundance of millipedes dropping into my hair. Moments later we come to another door, and I can say I’ve never been so glad to see one. Hopefully it will lead somewhere more civilized than this. It’s round and made of metal like the one outside, only this one glows green and smells like aged copper.

Urlick swings his torchlight past the cogs on the lock, revealing a thick coating of rust. “Hold this,” he says, passing me the torch. He peels off his coat, tossing it to me as well. I can’t help but notice his coat smells strangely like rosewood and cinnamon, though by the look of it, I’d expect it to smell more of tobacco and chimney soot.

He rolls up his sleeves, sets his stocky legs shoulder-width apart, and throws his full weight onto the crank, biceps bulging, quads straining, ropes of muscle rippling beneath his forearm skin. His milky hands glow pink against the rusty crankshaft, his long dark locks dampening with sweat. At last the gear begins to creak, jittering slowly at first, then racing wildly around. Urlick falls forward, choking on the waft of steam that pours from the opening door. If getting
in
was this much trouble, I can’t imagine how much trouble it is to get
out
.

Urlick pushes aside the door, his pink eyes shimmering in the tiny column of light which floods through the opening. “After you.” He motions for me to enter, backhanding the sweat from his brow.

I bite my lip and peek around him into the stiflingly tiny room beyond. A sour taste invades my mouth. This room is in no way more civilized.

“You all right?” he asks, his mouth pulled tight with concern.

“Quite. Thank you,” I lie.

Turning sideways, I thread past him, careful not to catch my drapery afire on the torch now burning again in his hand. Gooseflesh blossoms on the back of my neck as my shoulder blades brush across the front of him.

The room is small all right, incredibly small; in fact, I could easily reach all four walls from where I stand. A scaffold of cedar braces and pillars supports the earth from collapsing in at the sides, held together by massive bolts. It appears to be an elevator shaft, if I’m not mistaken, much like that found in old abandoned coalmines. Above my head, the ceiling climbs endlessly. Below, a plank platform masks a bottomless pit.

Urlick joins me seconds later, his back pressed up tight against my front. The platform shimmies under his weight and my hands fly up at my sides, finding Urlick’s sleeves.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” He almost laughs.

I let go, blushing. My breath races as though my lungs have suddenly grown too large for my chest.

“Hang on,” he says.
To what?

He releases a lever and the platform jumps. Bits of sour spittle launch up into my throat. I work hard to swallow them back down as the enormous steel ropes at the sides of the pillars begin to coil, screeching and straining through sets of giant pulleys. I close my eyes, clasping the pendant at my chest like a crucifix, overcome by the smell of earthworms, moldy cedar, and grease rising through the trembling, brittle timber structure.

Partway up the pulley slips, sending the platform skittering off balance. My hands again fill themselves with Urlick’s sleeves, this time not retreating. Steel ropes whir recklessly, spiraling down through the shaft, until finally catching on the pulley’s worn teeth, jerking the platform upright. Our hearts strum thankful concertos—well, at least mine does—as we again begin to evenly rise.

We continue for what seems like hours, until at last the platform comes to a fluttery stop in front of a large wooden, windowless, door, resting on a track. The kind found on the side of a steamplough boxcar. The ones used to cart lunatics off to the asylum in.

Where am I? Where has he taken me? Did he hear me in the throes of an episode in the back of his coach and decide to have me put away?

Before I can form a question Urlick steps forward and hurls back the door. It rattles wildly over the track.

I suck in a breath and close my eyes, bringing my hands to my mouth to stifle my scream.

“What?” Urlick laughs, and I open my eyes. “Not what you were expecting?”

Beyond the door stands an ordinary kitchen. Decorated in the most modern shades: red, mustard, terracotta. The walls are dressed in expensive flat-patterned paper. Exotic orchids and lilies make up the print. Hardwood kitchen cupboards stand lined with the newest linseed-oil countertops. Fashionable red-and-white-checkered linoleum tiles gleam from the floor.

“No.” I let go of my breath, and smooth my skirts. “Not exactly.”

S
even

Eyelet

“Tea?” Urlick crosses the kitchen floor in just a few swift strides, his movements so lissome, so graceful for a man.

I stumble forward, and the boxcar door rumbles to a mysterious close behind me, triggering a short siren and a lock when it meets the wall.

I jump at the sound of clattering turbines, followed by an ominous
CLUNK
.

“Is that the only way in or out of here?”

“The only way you need know about,” Urlick mumbles, scouring the shelves for a tin of tea to honor his proposal. “Please,” he gestures with a hand toward the dining room table in the center of the room, “have a seat.”

Gliding toward it, I run my fingers over the tabletop’s grain before dropping into a seat. Oak, I believe, which is strange. Oak hasn’t grown in these parts for over a century. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it’s just thick-ringed pine?

I look up, further perplexed by the presence of a darkened porthole window over the sink. Why would anyone go to the expense of glass to cover a hole from which nothing can be seen? “Is that real?” I flick my chin toward the window.

Urlick turns. His piercing pink eyes startle me at first. I gasp, feeling instantly guilty. Those are certainly going to take some getting used to, that’s for sure. Though I do find them strangely intriguing—in a rather morbid, yet alluring sort of way.

“If you’re wondering if it’s operable, then the answer is, no. But if you’re talking aesthetics, then yes.”

“Oh,” I swallow, still lost on his eyes. “Of course.” I twist my hair nervously. Though I’m more uncomfortable than nervous. “Why is it so dark, then?” I push. “If it’s intended for aesthetics.”

His brow furrows. “Why, to keep the birds from crashing into it, of course.”

Of course.

I’m not sure if he’s intentionally trying to make me feel daft, or if he’s just always this wonderfully insolent. If this keeps up I’ll be in dire need of a mood barometer soon. Perhaps I’ll have to build one.

“The loo’s over there—”

“Pardon?”

“The loo.” He glances across the room. “The
water closet
.”

Again with the insolent thing.

“I thought you might want to freshen up a little.” His eyes traipse the length of my frame.

I look down at the stains on my lace, my muddied skirts. “Oh...
yes
…” I gasp, popping from the chair. It’s the first time I’ve even thought about my appearance. My reflection in the tabletop tells me it’s far from good. Mud-spattered cheeks, a squirrel’s nest of hair, dried blood smeared from my nose to my chin. How utterly charming. What must he think? Oh goodness, what
must
he think? I swallow, creeping across the floor toward the loo, rather embarrassed.

“You’ll find fresh clothes on a chair in the corner—”

Fresh clothes?

“I messaged ahead to have some set out for you.”

Just as I’m about to ask how, I throw open the door and the thought evaporates. I’ve never seen such a lavishly decorated
water closet
in all my life. The delicate porcelain sink, the granite-veined floors, a crystal aether chandelier? I touch it and it tinkles. How can this be? Such fine accessories out here in the middle of no man’s land. I run my fingers over the shiny brass taps.

“Did you find the clothes all right?”

“Yes,” I shout, turning my eyes to the neatly folded pile of clothes on a chair in the corner. A formal day suit—I pick it up—featuring modest peplum-style hip draperies, with velvet bustle in back. Not bad. The center skirt is far too long for my liking, nearly floor-length compared to my usual mid-thigh, but I suppose it’ll have to do. I hold up the jacket. The shoulders are far too wide, grotesquely too wide. Oh well, those who commandeer their way into others’ worlds can’t be choosers, now can they?

I pick through the undergarments, wondering to whom they might belong. Urlick’s mother, perhaps? Though he’s not mentioned a mother. I give the skirt a shake and start to undress.

“There are a few house rules I need to go over with you,” Urlick hollers through the door.

House rules? The authority in his voice sharpens my quills.

“Breakfast is at six-thirty sharp. Lights out at nine o’clock.”

Nine o’clock!
I step from my old skirt and yank on the new one, wrestling it up over my hips. I reach for the chemise, afraid to bend over too deeply.
That’s unusually snug.

“No one is allowed to roam about the house at night; it’s strictly forbidden,” Urlick continues.

Forbidden?
Really. “What do you mean, no one?” I holler back. “I thought it was just your father, me, and you?”

He ignores the question altogether, barking still more rules. “You are never to leave the Compound—”

I tightening the strings on the corset, fasten the buttons of the bodice, dry my face and restack my hair. “Compound?” I say, emerging from the room still fussing with my skirt.