Machine (12 page)

Before addressing Cormorand, Fanule bent over the chair. “Hello, Yissi,” he said gently. “I’m honored you came for a visit.”

Her expression didn’t alter one whit. She didn’t so much as glance up.

Sighing, Fanule straightened. This was very strange indeed. Strange and unsettling. He’d heard of Pures looking after family members who were in their dotage and who behaved in a similar way. He’d even seen a few. But they’d descended gradually into dementia and catatonia. Yissi was a Mongrel, not a Pure. She was young and personable and had apparently lapsed into this state overnight.

“Doder,” Fanule said, hoping no trace of his own illness was evident, “I may not be a doctor, but I know you can’t see inside a woman’s mind by looking at a photograph of her face. If that were possible, many marriages would be much happier. Or end altogether.” He smiled, but Cormorand’s scowl only deepened.

“Then why did Doc Crimple make her picture and study it?”

Fanule shrugged. “Damned if I know. It could be a new medical fad. He’s always been drawn to odd machines and theories. They must make him feel like a visionary, even when he doesn’t understand them very well.”

Doder regarded Fanule through narrowed eyes. “You still ain’t answered my question. Have you heard any gossip about my Yissi? Tell me what you know.”

“What I hear and what I know are often two entirely different things. But when it comes to you and your wife, I suspect they aren’t.” Fanule glanced at the woman. It was exceedingly rude to speak about someone as if she wasn’t present when in fact she was. But Yissi truly didn’t seem to be with them. Where her mind was, he couldn’t begin to guess.

Cormorand fixed him with a defiant stare. “What’re you getting at, Perfidor?”

No more “Eminence.” That was telling. Fanule had no desire for a confrontation—his reserves of energy were low—but he had even less desire to placate a man whom he knew to be unneighborly and, from all indications, a wife beater.

“Since you asked, I’m not going to mince words. You’re a cruel taskmaster. You work Yissi like a mule, berate her, and vent your temper on her. The entire village is aware of it because countless people have seen evidence of it. So if she’s withdrawn from the world, I’d be far more inclined to blame
you
than some condition dreamed up by an educated idiot who’s scornful of women.”

Cormorand lunged forward. Instead of either pulling back or meeting his aggression with fists, Fanule grabbed him tightly by the shirtfront and stared into his eyes. Only as a last resort would he suck the light from them. “If I were you, Doder, I’d take my wife home, beg for her forgiveness, and lavish her with kindness. Provoking a man who’s never lost a fight is rather a waste of your time. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Whether intimidated by Fanule’s words or their tone, or the fact he was a lightsucker, Cormorand slanted his eyes away and took a few steps back. He turned toward the sofa and grasped Yissi by the hands, urging her to stand. Although she did so, she still registered no awareness of her surroundings, or even of her own body.

“I’ll consider what you said about my misbehavior. But let me tell
you
something, Eminence. Maybe other cuckolded husbands in Taintwell don’t have the cobs to settle their scores, but I don’t suffer from that kind of infirmity. If some pissant excuse for a man
has
stripped Yissi of her senses, I’ll handle him the way I’d handle a weasel in my henhouse.”

Doder led his shell of a wife out the door.

Betty immediately came out of the kitchen. “Go to bed now,” she told Fanule with caring firmness, smoothing an airy hand over his back. “I’ll be staying here until morning. You’ll think more clearly once you’re rested.”

Fanule nodded. One thing was certain: he had plenty to think
about
.

T
HE
FIRST
thought that came into Fanule’s mind when he awoke with a stiff jack was that he would have to wake William for their morning relief.

His second thought was far less pleasant and infused with even greater urgency.

He was lying in bed alone, and deservedly so. “Jackass,” he mumbled to himself. His first order of business today would be to ride to Elva’s boardinghouse, kneel before William, and ask for forgiveness. No—more than that. Fanule would humble himself as he’d never done before and beg until his knees were chafed and his voice gave out. He’d vow to drink that foul tea by the troughful if he had to, for he’d not let his illness—no, his pride, his
damned pride
—deprive him of the love of his life.

Never again.

If
he could win William back.

Without complaint, he ate the breakfast Betty had prepared and drank his medicine. He shaved, then filled his tin tub and bathed. Betty said she’d be returning to her cottage and spending some time in her gazing box, trying to determine Clancy’s whereabouts and gather any other information she could. Fanule would be spending his time in Taintwell.

As much as he loathed the idea, he was also determined to track down his father, if for no other reason than to put his mind at ease. Bentcross’s statement about Zofen had burrowed beneath Fanule’s skin, where it tormented him more with each passing minute.
“He thinks vampires are devils…. Your old man
sweats
hatred, Perfidor. And who knows what the hell is inside that damned wagon he’s been hauling around?”

“N
OT
HERE
?
But the OMT is parked in your lot.”

Elva shrugged as she gazed up at Fanule. “Maybe he couldn’t get it started. I happened to hear him voxing someone yesterday about repairs. He did rise mighty early, even missed breakfast, so he must’ve feared he’d have to fuss with that transport. I imagine he gave up and either set out on foot or secured a horse from Neyanon’s stable. At supper last night, he mentioned looking for winter employment.”

Shit!
“Would you mind terribly if I slipped into his room for a moment and left a note?”

“I suppose it would be all right, seeing as he’s been living at your place.”

Pulling a ring of keys from beneath her apron, Mrs. Scrubb walked out of her improvised office, the concealed rear-half of which served as her private quarters, and down the first-floor hall. Fanule followed. How discomfiting, being admitted to William’s “rooms” as if he were a stranger or mere acquaintance. What must William have thought of his lover for doing this to him?

I don’t deserve his forgiveness, but to get it, I’ll prostrate myself and eat dirt if I must.

Once the door was unlocked, Mrs. Scrubb opened it and stepped to one side, letting Fanule enter.

Immediately, a knot formed in his throat. Familiar articles of clothing were draped carefully over the back of a chair in the sitting room. An open valise stood just inside the door to the bedroom, its contents spilling out. The bedding was rumpled.

Fanule was tempted to lie down on it. William’s scent had wrapped around him as soon as he’d stepped into the small suite, a smell that was a unique, drugging mix of fragranced hair and skin, and of hidden nooks and hollows that harbored richer, more seductive odors.

They’d only been apart for a day, but Fanule hadn’t reveled in William’s presence for what felt like a month. He missed his love, his second wing, more than he could bear.

When Mrs. Scrubb continued to watch him rather than depart, Fanule stepped back to the door, smiled, and said, “Thank you. I won’t be long.” He eased the door against its jamb, just to be free of her prying eyes, but didn’t securely close it. She finally minced away.

A book of some kind, bound in dark-red leather and secured with a gold cord, lay on the thin-legged writing desk. The cover bore no gilt-stamped title. His curiosity aroused, Fanule lifted it and eased the looped cord off the small red knob that held it in place.

At least I have something with which to pass the time
, read the first line,
while I await the arrival of some form of good fortune
. It was written in William’s neat hand, which explained the bottle of ink and agate-stemmed pen that were lying near the book. He’d begun a journal, probably to fill the hours he and Fanule would normally have filled together.

It would not surprise me
, the script went on,
if the drummer on the floor above appears at my door one night. I must prepare myself, for I’m still unused to such advances, and need to meet them with appropriate self-possession.

How humiliating if I, a fellow sales-man, appeared bumbling and inexperienced!

Fanule’s brows drew together as a feeling very much like nausea drizzled through his stomach. William had a suitor? Already? And cared what the man thought of him?

But why not? Fanule wasn’t the only twor who lived in or passed through Purin Province. And William was certainly worth a longing gaze… or twenty.

“No,” Fanule whispered, splaying his fingers over the inked lines as if he could lift them from the paper. “I’m not going to lose you.” He would out-court any man on the planet to secure William’s love.

I haven’t the wakefulness to keep writing. Good night to me! I do wish
—and there the thought abruptly ended.

Farther down the page, William seemed to pick it up again:
I wish to have a compass flower.

Fanule frowned at the mystifying change of subject. Had that drummer perhaps been wearing a compass flower in his buttonhole or on his lapel? Had it struck William’s fancy? He did like flowers, and Fanule hadn’t thought to bring any into the house in at least two months.

“I promise I’ll get you one, sweet William.”

Three knocks sounded at the door. “Eminence?”

Fanule slid the journal onto the desk a second before Mrs. Scrubb eased the door open. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Rumpiton saw your horse outside and wants to know if she can speak to you for a moment.”

“Yes, all right.” He walked out of the dim little sitting room, closing the door firmly behind him. Mrs. Scrubb locked it and headed down the hallway. Fanule followed.

She suddenly turned. “Oh, and before I forget, a man named Simon Bentcross called for Mr. Marchman just before you arrived. He sounded quite beside himself. Said he’d tried calling
you
but got no answer.”

“Of course not. I don’t have a voxbox on my horse.” Fanule put on a smile to conceal his concern, even tried telling himself there was no cause for concern, but his unease kept growing. Too many mysteries had been flung at him in too short a time. Worse, he still lacked confidence in his mental fortitude and resilience.

One problem at a time
.
One solution at a time
.
And no leaping to conclusions.

He’d no sooner stepped onto the broad porch of the boardinghouse than Mrs. Rumpiton was before him. “Eminence, I think I need your help. Or at least your advice. I refuse to go to Crimple. He’s a pompous quack.”

“I quite agree.” Fan sat in one of the chairs flanking a small table. He motioned toward the other chair, and Mrs. Rumpiton seated herself. “But you know I’m not a doctor.” He was touched, suddenly, by her pragmatic clothing—the common, head-hugging bonnet and handmade shawl, the large apron and lace-up boots—and realized how much he loved the ladies of Taintwell. Very few followed the latest fashion. Even when they ventured into Purinton, they embraced either simplicity or a defiant flamboyance. The women seemed prouder to be Branded Mongrels than most of the men.

“I may not even need a doctor,” said Mrs. Rumpiton, who didn’t seem comfortable in the chair. Enhanced by her skirts, the goodwife’s girth was held in a vise grip by the chair arms. “What I need more is to find the master of the Spiritorium. You’ve heard of the Spiritorium, haven’t you, Eminence? Your Mr. Marchman saw it.”

Fanule’s blood froze. All he could manage was “Yes.” He swallowed and forced out, “So did I,” in case anybody had seen him speaking with Zofen. But he couldn’t bring himself to elaborate.

“Do you know where I might find him?” Mrs. Rumpiton asked anxiously.

“No. Sorry. I’ve been looking for him myself. He… had no permit to set up his wagon on the Green and solicit business.” Fanule had improvised this excuse for his interest in the Spiritorium, but at least it was believable. “Why do you need to see him?”

Mrs. Rumpiton began to fidget with her apron. “I hired him to cleanse my son.” She flicked a guilt-tinged glance at Fanule. “You know how wicked Ulney’s been, Eminence, summoning insects to plague people. He put a bee in Miss Shermouth’s hat and sent grasshoppers into the Ebbelums’ garden and—”

“I know,” Fanule said calmingly, reaching over to still Mrs. Rumpiton’s writhing hands. He was quite familiar with Ulney’s mischief. Almost all Mongrels who possessed special powers tended to play with them while growing up. The temptation was hard for children to resist.

Mrs. Rumpiton’s fleshy face trembled. “The mister and I couldn’t take it anymore. The ire of our neighbors, dinners ruined because Ulney didn’t like the food. And the fines!” She leaned toward Fanule as much as her confinement allowed. “We got a letter from the village board telling us we were going to be fined every time Ulney played a trick on someone. We can’t afford to pay fines every other day, so we had to do
something
to make him stop!”

“And what did the man with the Spiritorium do?”

“Cleansed him, of course!” When Mrs. Rumpiton saw the butcher’s wagon approaching the boardinghouse, she blushed with embarrassment at her shrillness and lowered her head. The butcher, who appeared not to have heard, steered toward the back of the house.

“How does he accomplish that, exactly?” Fanule’s ears buzzed. He could barely listen. But he knew he had to listen.

Woefully, Mrs. Rumpiton wagged her head. “I don’t know. With the Machine, I assume. The one in the wagon. He never laid a hand on Ulney, so it must’ve been the Machine that changed him. I never seen it, though. Just heard it.”