The Golden Specific (20 page)

The cleric looked at her in silence for a moment. He spoke rapidly in Castilian to the scribe, who had been making careful note of Sophia's replies, and the scribe responded. Then the cleric asked her, in a practiced way, “Have you recently been visited by visions or apparitions of any kind?”

Sophia paused, feeling her heart lurch. “No, I haven't.”

“Do you assert that you love the life granted to you by God?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish this life to end?”

“No.”

“Do you suffer from any declining spirits or do you know anyone,” he paused, “anyone in addition to the traveler called”—he turned to the scribe, who made a brief reply from his notes— “called Par-shal, who suffers from such declining spirits?”

“No, I don't.”

“If you should fall into a decline of spirits, do you accept that you must leave the city, isolating yourself, so that you may die without contaminating those who love life?”

Sophia hesitated at the sudden prospect of such a terrible fate. The cleric watched her closely. “Yes, I do accept,” Sophia said.

“State your name and place of origin.”

“Every Tims, Boston, New Occident.”

“It is well. You may enter Seville,” the cleric said. The scribe finished his notes.

“Thank you,” Sophia said.

“You will find,” the cleric added, as he prepared to leave, “that you will not be able to make the delivery of this plant. Gilberto Jerez died last year of the plague.”

 22 

Falconer and Phantom

T
HE
PLANTER
WAS
far heavier than Sophia had imagined. She was able to pull it along the wooden dock without too much difficulty, but once she reached the cobblestone streets her progress slowed. The stones were rounded and uneven, and the planter pitched and jammed at every step. Sophia's pack, riding on the lower shelf of the planter, shifted back and forth, sliding off more than once.

The dusty orange trees were motionless in the brilliant sun. With significant effort, Sophia reached the main plaza, where the half-built cathedral of Seville stretched upward into the
blue sky, all vaulted towers and pointed spires. Sophia had read in Esparragosa's history that construction had begun centuries before the Great Disruption. Now, with the stagnation brought about by the plague, the unfinished cathedral seemed like an abandoned fantasy.

Her progress drew some attention. A woman wearing a long veil walked by holding two little girls by the hands. The girls, dressed in long white dresses that trailed over the paving stones, stared at Sophia with undisguised fascination. Three old men who sat near the cathedral talking, their faces withered as dried apricots, chuckled silently with their toothless mouths, pointing at the planter. At the corner where she turned off the plaza, an old woman knelt on a folded woolen blanket, her hands outstretched in supplication.

Sophia had nothing to give her. With a desperate yank, she left the plaza and trudged on, pulling the planter into the shade. She had as her goal the bookstore listed in
Map Vendors in Every (Known) Age
. Even if Gilberto Jerez had died, perhaps the store was still open. And she had to find food. Though she had brought New Occident money, she had no gold or currency of any kind accepted in the Papal States.

She had consulted her map of Seville while still at the harbor, and she followed it now in her mind, stubbornly hauling the planter over the cobblestones, even though her legs trembled and the sweat ran down her forehead. Sophia began to question her choice. Perhaps leaving the planter on the
Verity
would have been better. Surely she could negotiate help from
Remorse's associate without it. If he appeared, that would mean he wanted to help her and would be disposed to overlook the missing planter—wouldn't he? Sophia felt her thoughts grow muddled in the heat.

Suddenly, the planter seemed to glide forward of its own accord, and Sophia stumbled forward. Hurriedly stepping aside, she turned to see what had happened. A tall man wearing a hooded cape had pushed the planter with the palm of his hand; now he stopped. “Looked like you could use a hand,” he said dryly in English. His voice was deep and accented. Sophia had heard the accent before from explorers who visited Shadrack; he was from the Closed Empire. Beneath the hood she saw a stubbled chin, dark blond hair the color and length of her own, and a Roman nose. His eyes were obscured by the hood's shadow. Sophia squinted dubiously, taking in his worn boots, the long sword visible under his cape, and the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. His hand was still resting against the planter. “Go on,” he said, as if he were a mule driver. “I'll push.”

Too tired to argue, Sophia took up the handle at the front of the planter. They made quick progress, and Sophia strained to keep the map straight in her mind. They passed a street packed with butcher shops, where the meat hung in the shade and the flies described slow circles at every entryway. Then they turned on a narrow passage where two young women sat in a doorway, carding wool. A chapel tucked back from the road filled the air with the heavy scent of incense. Sophia glanced
into an open shop where dried lavender hung in bunches from the ceiling. White candles of all sizes were neatly stacked on the store's wooden shelves. After several minutes of walking through the quiet streets, they reached the address in the Jewish quarter. Sophia stopped and wiped her brow. “This is it,” she said. She turned to the gray-hooded man. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” he said shortly, and headed back the way they'd come.

Sophia watched him go, astonished.
Even the friendly people in Seville are unfriendly,
she thought. As the hooded man walked away, he raised his left wrist, and with an almost silent flutter of wings, a gray-brown bird of prey settled on his leather-bound forearm. The bird turned to stare back at Sophia, its black eyes disconcertingly bright.

There was a tiny patch of shade where the rooftops blocked the sun, and she stood there, catching her breath. The narrow street could have been beautiful, with its flower boxes and painted doorways and colorfully shuttered windows. The cobblestones, wretched as they were for hauling the planter, reminded her of East Ending Street. But the very air seemed to carry suspicion and neglect. Several of the houses were visibly abandoned, with littered doorways and broken windows. The plague had taken a heavy toll.

She knocked on the door of the map store with a sense of apprehension. Its sign hung lopsided on a single nail, and the shuttered windows did not appear to invite customers. No one answered, and Sophia knocked again with a sinking
heart. After knocking a third time and receiving no reply, she slumped down in the doorway. Finding the map store had been her only inspiration.

Sophia let her head fall back against the door of the map store and tried to prevent herself from panicking. Reaching into her pocket, she clutched the spool of silver thread for reassurance. She longed to be safely home in Boston. When she thought about home—Shadrack, Theo's homecoming, Mrs. Clay's maple cake—she felt tears welling up in her eyes. She wished powerfully for Theo, who not only would have known what to do in such a situation but would have made light of it. She smiled at the thought, but it did not stop the tears from falling. They were so salty they hurt.
I need water,
Sophia realized.
That's why I'm so weak and confused.
The thought made her feel even more overwhelmed and helpless. Somewhere down the street, a door opened and closed. Sophia opened her eyes and peered in both directions, shielding her face with her hand.
I am not helpless,
she told herself.
I will knock on every one of these doors—someone must be kind enough to give me some food and water.

Dragging herself to her feet, Sophia shouldered her satchel, crossed the narrow street, and knocked on the low blue door directly in front of her. No one answered. She knocked again. A sound came from within, and though the door did not open a small window within it, covered with iron grating, did. Sophia looked hopefully at the window, which was just at eye level. An old woman peered out at her. “Please,” Sophia said in English. “Can you spare some food or water?” She bunched her fingers
together and lifted them to her mouth, then pretended to hold a glass and tipped it back. “Please?” The woman stared at her for a moment longer, and then, without a word, the little window was slammed shut.

It felt to Sophia like a physical blow, but the first rejection stung the most. Next door, no one answered, and in the third house she had a string of incomprehensible words hurled at her and another window slammed in her face. The fourth and fifth houses looked abandoned, but she knocked anyway. No one answered. The sixth had flowers in its flowerpots, and the shutters were open. The door, to match the shutters, was painted bright yellow. Unlike the others, it had no little window. Sophia knocked as firmly as she dared.

After only a few seconds, the door opened slightly, and a young woman looked out. “Could you please spare any food or water?” Sophia asked, miming again. The woman paused, as if undecided. Her hair was tied back with a handkerchief, and she wore a full apron over her blue dress. The apron was covered with flour. Suddenly, there was a tussle of movement at her skirts and a small boy, no more than three years old, appeared at the woman's knee. He pushed the door wider to get a better view and gaped up at Sophia. His cheeks were dusted with flour. Sophia smiled at him, her dry lips cracking. “Hi,” she said to him with a small wave.

“Ay,” he said back, mimicking her wave.

The woman had watched in silence, and then she bent forward and said something to the little boy, who disappeared
abruptly as if pulled away by a string. She turned back to Sophia and, saying something in Castilian, pointed down the street. Her tone seemed encouraging, but Sophia had no idea what she meant.

“I don't understand,” Sophia said.

“Agua,”
the woman said.
“Agua,”
she repeated for emphasis. She made a motion with her hands, placing one over the other as if, Sophia thought, she were climbing a rope. No, she realized—drawing water from a well!

“Oh! Thank you.”

The woman held up her finger, signalling for Sophia to wait. A moment later the little boy reappeared, and he held up to his mother a brown loaf dotted with raisins. The woman smiled, kissed the boy on the top of the head, and whispered something. Obediently, he turned and offered the loaf to Sophia.

Clearly, the exhaustion was making her weepy. She felt tears in her eyes for the second time that hour as she reached out to take the loaf. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I will never forget your kindness. Thank you.”

The boy gave her a shy smile and folded his hands together over his stomach. The woman smiled as well, pointing again down the street.

With another effusive expression of thanks, Sophia waved and turned away. She bit into the loaf of bread as she walked, and even though her mouth was dry and she had difficulty swallowing, it tasted delicious. The loaf was sweetened with honey, and the raisins seemed to explode on her tongue. As
the narrow street curved, she found herself entering a tiny plaza. At the very middle of the deserted plaza was a stone well. Sophia hurried toward it with a gratified cry of victory. Placing the precious, unfinished loaf in her satchel, she hooked the bucket onto the clasp and lowered it into the well. The sound of the bucket hitting the water was more exquisite than she could have imagined. She drew it up, hauling hand over hand, and seized it as soon as it was within view. The water was wonderful. Drinking her fill, she placed the bucket on the stone lip of the well and sank down with a sigh. She felt immeasurably better. Her circumstances no longer seemed quite so dire; after all, she had food and water, and wasn't that the most important thing?

Sophia got up to retrieve the planter and her pack, and as she did so she suddenly thought about the plants. If she was parched from the heat and sun, how must they be? Sophia hauled up a full bucket of water from the well and carried it out of the tiny plaza and along the narrow street. Pouring the water in through the perforated lid required a little creative climbing, but once she had a foothold on the window ledge of the abandoned map shop, she was able to empty the bucket. She peered down into the small, round holes and thought she could make out some green stems here and there.

After returning the bucket to the well, Sophia again began to feel exhausted. She had no idea what she would do next, but having secured food and water felt like sufficient accomplishment. Finding as much shade as she could behind the planter in
the doorway of the abandoned shop, Sophia curled up against her pack. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

—6-Hour 42—

S
OPHIA
AWOKE
TO
an unpleasant prodding sensation, and she opened her eyes to a street that was already gray with dusk. Standing in front of her and speaking urgently in Castilian was an old man. He jabbed her shoulder with a long pole. “Ow,” Sophia said, seizing the end of the cane. “Don't do that. I'm awake.”