The Canticle of Whispers (32 page)

Cherubina seized a pair of scissors. For one terrible moment, Mark thought she was going to attack him, but then she hacked at the front of the effigy—cloth and cotton flying. She stabbed, again and again in a frenzy, ripping open the doll's chest with a savage thrust, pulling out the pot and throwing it to the ground with a clang.

“There it is!” she said, hoarsely. “Take it and just … just … go away!” she shouted, tears coming to her eyes. Mark tried to speak, but Cherubina turned her back on him, so he snatched the pot up and stormed out of the room, past Miss Devine's mocking smile, fuming all the way. How could she think like that? Didn't she see the people all around her? Couldn't she imagine anything outside of her own life? She was as blind as … as …

He stopped in the middle of the shop, just a few feet from the exit.

As blind as he'd been, less than two years ago.

He had lived in the tallest tower of the city, deciding the fate of people he'd never met. He thought he'd been powerful then, when Snutworth had been playing him for a fool. But the cooking pot he held in his hands would change more lives than anything he'd managed back then. That was real power, and he'd taken years to learn it.

He looked down at his reflection in the battered brass pot. Cherubina might have been older than him, but she was just a child, inside. She'd been kept that way, always given orders, always told to change herself to fit those around her. And now he'd done the same thing, when he could have helped open her eyes. Just like Lily had done for him.

He couldn't abandon her now.

He put down the cooking pot and turned, pulling aside the curtain. He was about to hurry into the corridor, when he stopped. He could hear the sound of voices in the room beyond.

“Do not distress yourself, my dear,” Miss Devine was saying. “He doesn't understand. No one would understand.”

“He's so … so arrogant!” Cherubina was sniffing. “He thinks he knows best, all the time, even though he's made more mistakes than anyone I know. And he's lazy and never plans and … and…”

There was a sound of weeping. Mark shrank back.

“There, there,” said Miss Devine, tenderly. “You know, I could make all those feelings go away…”

“No,” Cherubina murmured. “I don't want that emotion taken away. I … I don't know what I'd be, without it. It keeps me going … in … this empty world.” Through her sobs, Mark heard a scuffing sound, as though she had kicked the effigy. “Empty, like him. Like Snutworth … Like me…”

“Ah my dear,” Miss Devine was saying, her voice dripping sympathy. “You misunderstand. I don't need to use my machine. I can make those feelings go away in quite a different way. All your worries … gone in a moment…”

Mark heard the shift in tone. It was only slight, but suddenly Miss Devine's voice sounded less friendly. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

He jumped forward, racing into the dark chamber.

Miss Devine stood over Cherubina—a heavy glass jar raised over her head with both hands.

Mark leaped as Miss Devine brought the jar down. He plowed into her, and the two of them crashed back into the emotion distiller. Shards of glass tubes flew through the air. Mark felt one nick his cheek, and saw the jar shatter against the far wall. Cherubina sprang to her feet, pale and terrified, trampling on the effigy. Miss Devine clawed at Mark like a cat, struggling free from the pile of broken glass. Mark felt her knee in his stomach, and staggered back, winded. He spun around, but Miss Devine was already rushing at Cherubina, a long shard of glass in one hand. Mark seized the glassmaker around the waist, and brought her down. Miss Devine gasped as the shard cut deep into her palm, and blood welled up.

Mark sprang up, ready to defend Cherubina. But Miss Devine was no longer moving forward. She was lying on the floor, face-to-face with the broken effigy. Looking at it with strange intensity.

“You made him well,” she said, quietly.

Cherubina stared down at her, pale and trembling.

“What does she mean?” she asked. “Mark, why is she…?”

“You know Snutworth, don't you?” Mark said, interrupting. “Are you working for him? Spying on us?”

Miss Devine laughed. A low, painful laugh.

“Do you think he needs me to spy for him? He knows everything, boy. His control is absolute.” She stroked the Snutworth doll's face, leaving a bloody smear. “He has been my master since we were children, since we were property. And I know my duties.” She dragged herself forward, and Mark moved between her and Cherubina.

“What?” Cherubina was still confused. “Are you saying that you … love him?”

Miss Devine looked up at her from the floor, with an expression that was almost pity.

“Stupid little doll, always seeing the world like a picture book,” she said, mockingly. “Who could love something like him? It isn't love; he's my addiction. We all have them, all have something in this crooked city that matters more than getting a good deal. And he is mine. His power—his certainty. This world is full of fools, and he is the only man I ever met who knew what he wanted.” Her eyes grew harder. “He has a purpose. And in following him, so do I. That's more than anyone else has in this scrabbling city.” She fixed her gaze on both of them. “You say rebellion brings you freedom, but it merely traps you in more choices, more decisions. You have no idea of the freedom of obeying, of giving up responsibility. I'd do anything for him, without a murmur. Have done, will do. I pushed him up to the top. I sold my wares to Ruthven, and made him fall. So many tasks … but only one failure. So far.” Her look turned to poison. “Tell me, little poppet, did you really think that he would let you go? His trophy, his conquest?”

She pointed with one of her long, spidery fingers at Cherubina while still cradling the shredded face of the effigy with her other hand. It was grotesque. Mark wanted to stop it, but it had a terrible fascination.

“You know, I would have killed you when you came in,” Miss Devine said, in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone. “After all these months of trying. But you had the image of
him
with you,” her attention shifted to the effigy, but she continued without a pause. “For the first time, I felt a kindred tie. He was an obsession for both of us. But you were trying to break free, and that could not be allowed. You were
his
, little doll. You will always be his, and now you are broken.”

In the midst of her dark words, something caught Mark's attention.

“Months of trying?” he asked. “You've tried before?”

Miss Devine tidied the doll's stringy hair.

“Such a lucky little girl,” she muttered. “Always so close. Not drinking the water I brought, until that fool doctor had taken his fill. Not poisoned with emotions, of course, that would be too obvious. Something a little more traditional.”

Cherubina gripped Mark's arm with a little gasp, and Mark felt a cold chill slide down his back. He had wondered who could possibly want to poison Theo. How could he have been so stupid?

“But that wasn't the first time. No, no,” Miss Devine continued. “Standing next to Crede, the day I was given my instructions. I only threw one cobblestone. Just one. Pity my aim wasn't good; pity it smashed down your precious Crede. But, then again, it certainly stirred things up…” She smiled, wolfishly. “Perhaps that was his plan. He certainly wouldn't have told me. I served him with that stone. My great Director. You'll see. You think you're winning the revolution? He'll have prepared; he'll be using it to win … he always wins…”

Mark didn't see Cherubina move. All he felt was a rush of skirts, and then Cherubina was on Miss Devine. It wasn't in the least dainty—no scratching was involved. It was one solid punch to the nose. Mark found himself pausing, deliberately, before pulling Cherubina away. Miss Devine had plunged the whole city into war. She certainly deserved it.

The glassmaker got up, still maintaining her dignity, despite the trickle of blood running down her face.

“Well,” she said. “I'm going to leave now, and you're not going to stop me.”

“No,” Mark growled. “You will pay for your crimes.”

“Pay?” Miss Devine replied, with cold exactness. “Who will I pay? The receivers? The Directory? You?” She raised her hand. Another long shard of glass was in it, wickedly sharp. Mark's eyes flicked around the room. He could charge her, but he couldn't be sure that Cherubina would be safe. Neither woman was thinking clearly at the moment. Nor, for that matter, was he. He had no idea what would happen if they fought again, and he didn't want to take that risk.

“You'll pay the People,” Mark said, slowly. “We'll tell everyone what you did to Crede and Theo. They'll hunt you down.”

“No you won't, Mark,” Miss Devine replied. “Because you had the chance to do that to Ruthven, at the prison. That isn't your way.” A tiny smile played on her face. “That's why he'll win, you see,” she said, looking down at Snutworth's effigy. “That's why he always wins. Your strength lies in chaos, in raw pain, a hundred different voices clamoring to be heard. But he isn't confused. He's the shadow, the nemesis, the one who's always there. He's the one who has no limits, nothing he won't do. He's brilliance, and ice, and the crystal edge of a diamond.” She lifted the glass shard, her own blood dripping on the floor. “His is the order of the new world. Soon, he'll be everything, and everyone. And then you'll all see him as I do.”

And she flung the shard at them.

It was only a few seconds, as they ducked, covering their eyes, protecting themselves from the fragments of glass that rained down. By the time they looked up again, Miss Devine was gone.

*   *   *

Later, much later, Mark was sitting in the temple with Ben and Verity. They had listened to him without much surprise when he told them about Miss Devine. Benedicta, particularly, had said that she would put very little past the emotion peddler.

She had vanished, of course. Nick's men were combing the streets, but, as Verity said, they weren't likely to see her again.

Mark thought she was probably right. There hadn't been much reason left in Miss Devine's head.

He heard a cough from across the room. It wasn't a diseased cough, not one of the patients. It was small, apologetic—a sound to attract attention.

Mark turned his head. Ben smiled.

In the doorway, Cherubina stood. Mark hadn't seen her since earlier, after she had wept out her tears of fear and frustration. He had cried a couple of his own.

But now, her jaw was set, her eyes were dry, and her ringlets were tied back in a businesslike fashion. In her arms, she clasped a small pile of leather-bound books.

“I found these,” she said, softly, “in Miss Devine's back room. I think they're medical textbooks.” She brought them forward, putting them on the pew in front of Ben and Verity. “If we find the poison she used, could we make an antidote?”

Verity opened them, carefully, and showed a page to Ben. The redheaded girl nodded.

“My medical knowledge isn't as good as Theo's,” Ben admitted, “but we might be able to do something with this.”

“If not, I can go up to the Aries District tomorrow,” Cherubina continued, “to the orphanage. Mother has some healer's skills, and it's time she helped…”

“We'll try this first,” Verity said, pointing to something on the page. “But this will need two of us to make it, Ben. Three would be better, but someone has to stay with Theo.”

“I'll stay,” Cherubina said, in a tone that would brook no argument. Verity brushed back her hair, and smiled.

“Right. Ben, could you fetch the herbs? Mark, I think the mortar and pestle are over there.”

Hastily, Mark got up, and picked his way through the makeshift beds to the altar, where the mortar and pestle were waiting. As he picked them up, he saw Ben and Verity, hurrying down the stairs, having whispered their thanks to Cherubina. The blond girl hadn't moved. She stood by the pew, staring into space.

Mark returned, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Thanks, Cherubina,” he said. “You didn't need to go back into Miss Devine's shop, not after—”

“I did,” she said, quietly. “It's my fault he's like that. I have to help. No…” she turned to Mark, and put her hand on his. “That's not it. I
want
to help.”

Mark smiled. He understood.

And Cherubina leaned forward, and hugged him, whispering something in his ear.

“Thank you, Mark.”

Mark shrugged.

“What are friends for?” he said.

Cherubina smiled. Then she turned, parted the sheets hanging around Theo's bed, and went to sit with the stricken doctor.

And Mark picked up the mortar and pestle, and went down to the cellar, happier than he had been in a long, long time.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Living

L
AUD WOKE UP,
and wished he hadn't. He screwed his eyes shut against the light.

He had been prepared for the Nightmare when he'd entered the forest. Prepared for those little thoughts of doubt or fear that would attack him, sapping his will.

He hadn't prepared for a stout branch to the back of the head. Which, in the event, was quite an oversight.

It hadn't quite knocked him out. He remembered being seized, and tied up, before someone had forced something down his throat that smelled of sweet herbs and had brought instant sleep.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard someone approach. He felt cool hands touch his face, and a bowl pressed to his lips. He tried to push it away, but his head was aching fearfully, and his throat was parched, so he let the water flow down his throat. After a few seconds, the unseen hands pulled away, and Laud found his voice again, in a stream of half-intelligible abuse at his captor.