Shadow Conspiracy (23 page)

Still, the skin itself felt wrong, leathery. There was no life in it, no pulse. Deep below, though, a whisper of the soul resided.

Marie knew how to banish evil spirits, but how should a lost soul be guided back to its home? And would that be best for Anthony, if his true body was failing?

She released the maid’s hands and turned to Adele. “May I have a hand mirror?”

The housekeeper cast a wary glance at the automaton. “Is that wise?”

“I think it is best, if we are to move on.”

The woman pressed her lips together, but nodded as she left the room. Marie looked for another chair. There was none, but a small crate stood beside the bed to serve as a table. She pulled that toward the maid and sat upon it.

“Tell me, Anthony, do you remember waking up?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you?”

“In my room. And there was someone in my bed.”

“Who?”

“A little boy.”

“A boy your age?”

“No, younger. He was smaller than me.”

“What happened then?”

“Then Adele came in and started telling me to take care of the boy, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to know why they had put him in my bed. I asked, and Adele said it was not my bed.”

“Were your parents there?”

“No. I haven’t seen them. I keep asking.”

Marie pursed her lips, thinking. She must see the boy’s body, deduce whether he would live.

“Are my parents all right?”

Despite its metallic tone, the voice sounded worried. Marie’s heart went out to the child.

“I do not know, but I think so. I have not heard otherwise.”

Adele returned with a small, oval mirror in her hands. Keeping its back to the maid, she handed it to Marie, who thanked her and laid it face down in her lap.

“Anthony, did you know that when you dream you leave your body?”

The maid looked confused. “I’ve dreamed of flying sometimes.”

“Yes. And your soul was flying, then. Your soul was free, not weighed down by your body.” Marie made her voice as soft and gentle as she could, speaking in a soothing rhythm like a lullaby. “Your poor body has been sick, Anthony, so sick you could not move or speak. That is true, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And yet your soul longed to be well again. Your soul yearned to be free. And in dreams, it broke free of the sickness and pain, and could fly. Your soul sought a new home, Anthony. A body that was not ill, like yours. A body that could move and speak.”

She lifted the mirror, holding it to face the maid. The automaton’s eyes shifted to it. For a moment it was still.

“No.” The eyes clicked to Marie’s face. “No!”

Marie stood and took a step back, muttering a prayer for protection, leaving the crate between them as the maid also stood.

“Witch woman! You did this?”

Marie shook her head. “I did not do this.”

The maid’s eyes burned with rage, then confusion. It took a step and halted, seeming to fight within itself. Marie backed away, aware of Adele standing in the doorway poised to flee.

With a cry of anguish, the maid dropped to its knees, bringing both fists down on the wooden crate, shattering it. Splinters and shards of wood scattered across the floor and thumped into Marie’s heavy skirts. Adele gave a small shriek.

The maid remained on the floor, tilted forward at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. A small choking sound came from it, over and over. Trying to weep, Marie realized. She glanced toward her basket, and seeing it unharmed, drew a breath.

“Adele, I wish to see the boy’s body. You can arrange this?”

“I will try, madame.”

The housekeeper left, no doubt glad of the excuse to get away. Marie put the mirror on the bed and moved toward the maid. Brushing aside chips of wood, she knelt.

“Anthony.”

The maid ceased its odd, tearless crying and raised its head, meeting her gaze. Marie opened her hands.

“I am not a witch, but I think the blessings of voudon can help you. If you wish for help.”

“You can put me back in my body?”

“First we must see if your body can support you. If it is as ill as I was told...”

“Am I dying?”

Marie pressed her lips together. “Consider this. Would you rather live on in this form, or die in your own body?”

“Neither.”

“There may be no other choice.”

The maid’s head dropped. Marie felt great pity for the child—a young boy, if she recalled correctly—too young to face such a decision.

While they waited in silence, she thought about what this development could mean. That a soul could trade its flesh for the less fragile body of an automaton seemed in one way a blessing, but it was impractical. The machines were expensive, and required maintenance. They were new enough that Marie did not know how long they would last. Possibly much longer than a human body, possibly not as long.

And what must it be like to inhabit such a body? Anthony did not seem to enjoy it. An automaton could not feel, or smell, or taste. It would be like living in a dead cage.

A zombi.

Shaking her head to free herself from these thoughts, Marie rose and went to the bed. She sat and placed the basket on her lap, feeling the deep, slow soul of her snake, vaguely unquiet.

A step in the hallway made her turn her head. Adele stood in the doorway, looking frightened.

“My mistress has taken to her bed. Her doctor is in attendance upon her. You could see the boy, if you come now.”

Marie stood, slipping the basket’s handle over her arm. The maid also rose to its feet, splintered wood clattering to the floor.

“Take me with you.”

“No!” said Adele.

Marie saw the flash of anger in the maid’s eyes and held up a hand. “Wait!”

The maid turned its head, then turned to face Marie, eyes still malevolent. A prickle of fear reminded Marie of the machine’s strength.

“If you come, you must pretend to be Mignon.”

The maid nodded once. Marie continued.

“If your mother or father comes into the room, or anyone else who knows you, do not address them. It will frighten them, and they will send us away. You understand?”

The anger faded from the eyes, leaving sadness in its wake.

“Yes.”

“Bien. Come, then.”

Marie picked up the mirror and laid it in her basket, then went out. Adele led her down two flights of stairs, then along a hallway to the child’s bedroom, and opened the door.

“Violette, you may go downstairs until I call for you.”

A maid—a human one—emerged from the room, looking at Marie with faint curiosity, then at the automaton with alarm. She hastened toward the stairway, and Marie smiled serenely at her as she passed.

“I will watch the stair,” Adele said when she was gone. “If the doctor returns, I will warn you.”

Marie nodded and entered the room. A child’s room, yes—and the child a son of privilege. It was immaculate, attesting to the child’s lack of activity. The furnishings were of the best quality: a large wooden chest, a wardrobe with mirrored doors, a nightstand bearing a carafe of water, glass, spoon and a small medicinal bottle. A desk completely free of clutter matched the bed: maple, heavily carved. The bed was canopied in green, its curtains pulled back but the mosquito netting down despite the cold season, making the little figure lying within seem ghostly.

Marie approached, alert to any malicious presence. What she felt from the boy in the bed was a complete lack. The lungs breathed, the heart beat; yet there was no fire.

In contrast, the maid standing silent and motionless behind her practically burned with passion. It seemed wrong that Anthony—trapped within the maid—did not fidget. Perhaps moving the automaton required too much conscious effort.

Marie reviewed her tasks: ascertain whether the boy would live, if necessary apply a cure to his illness, and if possible restore his soul to his flesh. The first was fairly simple. In good conscience she should not attempt the second without the parents’ permission, yet to ask might be to forfeit any chance of accomplishing the third and most vital task.

Leaving her basket on the desk, Marie drew back the netting and sat beside the child, laying a hand upon his brow. He was pale, his brown hair lying lank across his brow. Plainly he had been in the grip of a fever for some time. His breathing was laboured. Clasping his wrist, she felt his heart beating heavily, slowly, as if fighting for each pulse.

There were many possible causes. Frowning slightly, Marie turned the boy’s face toward her and gently opened his mouth, then lifted the collar of his nightshirt. A speckling of rash across his chest made her raise her eyebrows.

Typhoid fever, then. It was not good news, but not the worst possible.

She looked up to see the maid watching, face blank except for the anxious eyes. Though she did not wish to give false hope, for the boy’s condition was indeed serious, she had to reassure him.

“There is a chance.”

“Now! Do it now!”

“No. First I must do what I can to make sure your body will live. Otherwise to return you to it would only be to kill you.”

His recovery would take time, of course, but with proper nursing his chances were reasonably good. Marie would do what she could now to improved them.

She glanced at the bottle on the nightstand. It was unlabeled so she opened it and smelled the contents. Quinine.

The doctor was treating the child for malaria. An assumption she might have made herself, had she not noticed the rash. But quinine, though it helped in many fevers, was not right for typhoid. She set the bottle on the floor.

Going to her basket, she retrieved a small bundle of dried lobelia and returned to the bedside. She ground the petals between her fingers, letting the powder fall into the drinking glass. She added a little water, then lifted the boy’s head and held it so his jaw dropped open.

“What are you doing?” Anthony demanded.

“Giving your poor body some medicine.”

She poured the small dose of liquid beneath the boy’s tongue, then held him against her, keeping him upright. The mouth would absorb the herb more quickly than the stomach.

Anthony came and crouched before her, the automaton’s attitude that of a panther ready to spring. It would have frightened her but for the hope shining in the eyes. Remarkable how expressive they could be; she would never have imagined it.

Marie rocked gently back and forth, crooning a song softly. It was a call to Yemaya, a prayer for mercy and healing. Anthony watched in silent intensity.

She let her spirit rise into the realm of healing, calling upon her inner strength, sending it in turn to the poor, tormented body in her arms. With her own body she sensed the boy’s frailty. The emptiness would have troubled her if she had not known that Anthony was near, waiting to return to his place.

The pulse began to beat more freely. Smiling, Marie continued to sing her plea. Between verses, she whispered to Anthony.

“Pray, child. Pray for your body to be healed.”

The maid frowned, then bowed its head. Marie prayed on.

At length, the boy’s breathing grew deeper and steadier. The pulse was now even. The pale cheek had a little more colour. She would have liked him to be stronger, but suspected this was her only opportunity to be alone with him.

Gently, she laid him down and rose. The maid’s eyes followed her as she returned to the desk and her basket. She withdrew the small bundle of items she had brought from it, and chose a blue candle, a sprig of sage, a white kerchief and her tin of lucifers. With these she made a small altar on the desk.

Lighting the candle, she murmured an invocation to Yemaya, then held the sage to the flame until it caught. Smoke rose in a pungent wisp from the leaves. She waved it through the room, going to each corner and sprinkling salt to ward against evil, calling upon the sacred mother to protect and heal Anthony.

She stepped out of her shoes, then turned back the shawl and lifted Zombi from the basket. A drum would have been helpful, but having none she used her feet to set the rhythm, dancing in a slow circle around the room.

Zombi twined herself along Marie’s arms, winding her six-foot length around and around, gripping tight to Marie’s wrist with the tip of her tail. Marie struck her heels gently against the wooden floor, a whisper of the stamp she would have ordinarily used, for she did not wish to draw the notice of others in the house. She moved in waves across the room, flowing, sliding, rippling. Calling forth the magic of the snake, to heal, to restore.

Anthony watched, motionless at first. As Marie undulated, he began to beat the maid’s hands against its thighs to the rhythm of her dance.

Yes. It was good. It was right.

Zombi moved, flowing along Marie’s arms until her tongue tickled Marie’s cheek. Warmth filled Marie as she slid into a trance. She had often banished evil spirits; never before had she been called to return a good one to its home.