The Lost Girl (9 page)

2
Creation

E
rik’s car vanishes. I follow Matthew into the train station. My mind trudges away, back to the cottage by the lake, but I keep my eyes on him. Warily.

On the train, we don’t speak for the first quarter of an hour, apart from Matthew telling me we’re changing at Preston. I look out the window, watching the now-familiar English countryside pass us by. We’re taking the usual train to London and one of the stops is Lancaster. I allow myself the indulgence of wallowing in self-pity for a minute and wonder if it’s possible to feel more miserable than I do right now.

“Yes, it is,” says
Sir
Matthew, yawning, “Try childbirth. I hear it’s far more painful.”

I jerk my head in his direction. There are any number of things I’d like to say to him, but I bite them down. “You can read minds, can you?”

“Just faces.”

“In other words, a lucky guess.”

“I am never lucky. I am always right. I,” says Sir Matthew, “know everything.”

Under any other circumstances, I might have laughed at him. But considering how horrible this day has been, and how unwise it seems to laugh at a Weaver, I settle for being skeptical.

“I doubt that.”

“Well, that settles things, doesn’t it? I see I shall need all my wits about me to counter your ruthless intellect.”

I glare at him. Matthew’s expression is a testament to complete boredom. But his eyes are watchful, watching me, relentlessly. I watch him back.

“You can’t possibly know everything.”

“I think you’ll find I can.”

“So you know, say, ancient Greek?”

“Indeed I do, especially as I am a renowned scholar of ancient languages.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Clearly you know best,” he drawls, pulling a magazine out of the seat pocket in front of him. He yawns elaborately again. “Now I expect you will embark on a quest to prove me wrong by asking questions. Do. I’ll play along. Being clever is, to me, like stealing sweets from an infant. I do it
very
well.”

On principle, I want to refuse, to tell him I’m not interested and I’ll be reading my book for the rest of our trip, thank you very much. Unfortunately, I can’t do it.

“Do you know the capital of Turkey?”

“You’ll have to do better than
that
,” scoffs Matthew. “That would be Ankara.”

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“The egg,” he says with a yawn.

“You can’t possibly know that, no one does.”

“That is a transparent lie. Haven’t I made it clear that
I
know it? Now don’t be insufferably imbecilic. It’s quite clear the egg came first, as anyone with the slightest grain of intelligence would know.”

“What is four hundred and sixty-two multiplied by sixty-nine?”

“Thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-eight.”

He gives me a feral smile. I don’t know the answer myself. I grit my teeth. Several questions later, my Weaver has not gotten a single question wrong nor even appeared to have taxed himself at any stage.

“Tell me about
Frankenstein
,” I say, goaded, “if you know so much.”

He is disdainful. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because I want to know and you want to show off.”

“It’s against the law,” he says deceptively softly. “Is that really what you want to do?”

I fall silent.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

I stare at him in astonishment. “Like you care.”

“But I do,” says Matthew. “I am very interested to know what my creation has grown up to be. Did I go wrong? Did I create perfection? Of course I must know! Not that one would call you
grown up
, per se, but—”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“No matter,” he says, smiling maliciously. “I know everything about you already.”

An ice-cold finger trails up my spine, spreading fear through my skin. There’s something about his voice that makes me believe him.

“If I had done something wrong,” I say, “would you have destroyed me?”

“Naturally.”

“That doesn’t sound like somebody who cares.”

“You can’t be powerful without being ruthless,” says Sir Matthew. “If we weren’t powerful, we would crumple like a house of cards. The world is divided. We must remain powerful, and ruthless, and in favor with our supporters. Or our detractors would tear us down. So yes. If we have to destroy any of you, we will, without hesitation.”

I stare at him for a long time. “Would it hurt?” I ask. “If you destroyed me?”

He considers me. “It wouldn’t be . . . nice,” he acknowledges with a kind of ghoulish humor. “You do realize you have to be unstitched, don’t you?
Unmade.
It is akin to watching somebody come apart.”

My stomach flops.

“You were lucky to avoid that fate, you know,” he says, as though I should be on my knees thanking him for it. “I gather Amarra didn’t care for you. You were lucky she had her accident before she could find a way to get rid of you.”

“Others can’t pass the Sleep Order. Only familiars and Weavers can have an echo destroyed.”

He smiles slowly. “And who told you that?”

I turn away.

The train pulls into Lancaster. I glance out at the familiar station rolling in, then at the bracelet of seashells on my wrist.

Sean.

There’s a sharp tap on the other side of the thick window glass. I look up, startled. My eyes fly wide open. I blink, certain for an instant that he’s an hallucination, that I conjured him up.

Sean steps back from the window, watching me. He looks out of breath, like he’s run all the way here to catch us.

My heart stutters against my ribs. I leap to my feet and am about to run to the compartment door when a hand closes over my wrist. It’s too tight, too strong.

“Do you
want
to die?” Matthew demands, his voice dark and disbelieving. I shudder at the sound of it. “Sit down.” Gone is the drawl, the boredom. He is a Weaver. My Weaver. His eyes are blue and dangerous. His warning is clear. But I don’t care.

I stare back at him. “Let me go.”

He narrows his eyes. Abruptly the pressure on my wrist is gone. I don’t stay to question it. I run for the door. I might only have seconds before the doors close and the train leaves. I race through the compartment, jump onto the platform, and run to Sean. He crushes me to him. I grip my arms tight around his neck. My eyes feel raw with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he says in my ear, “I’m sorry, I thought it’d be easier if I didn’t see you, but I
had
to—”

I look up at him. His green eyes. Like marbles. Vivid and brilliant. “I can’t never see you again,” I say to him desperately. “I
can’t
do that, I won’t. I’ll find you. I’ll come back and find you when I’m older—”

“You can’t see me, Eva—”

There’s a whistle, sharp and shrill. I have to go or break every promise I’ve ever made.

“Sean,” I say.

“Go,” he says quietly.

I let him go. I don’t know how, but I do. His hand tightens against my back before he releases me and steps away.

“We’ll pay for this one day, you know,” he says. “We’re standing here and there’s a Weaver on the train. He won’t forget.” He swallows and takes another step back. “Get on the train, Eva, or they’ll leave you behind.” And then he turns around and starts walking. I turn, too, because I know he won’t look back, he won’t dare, and I shouldn’t either. I hurry onto the train, just in time, and feel the jolt beneath my feet. And then he’s gone.

How can I never see him again? How can they ask that of me?

I go back into the compartment and sit down across from the Weaver. I don’t know what to expect from him, knowing he knows so much, knowing I defied him. But he doesn’t say a word. He sits there and watches me. He doesn’t speak for hours.

But he doesn’t stop watching, either.

When we arrive in London, the station is a shock to my system. I never realized just how small and uncrowded Windermere is. I’ve never seen so many people in one place before. The bright lights, crowds, and flashing boards are overwhelming. I stand in the middle of the crowd, trying not to get jostled, as Matthew studies our surroundings. I notice he seems impatient, in a hurry, but I know we have plenty of time before our flight.

I look once again at his chain-mail vest. Is that why he’s so impatient? He’s afraid of being out in the open in case someone
gets
us?

I break our long silence.

“Why are you wearing armor?”

“
Armor
, is this?” he demands scornfully. “Have you ever seen a real knight? I assure you, they wear more than light chain mail. This is for protection.”

“Protection?”

“Knives. Wicked thing, knife crime. Most upsetting.”

“Why would you encounter a knife?”

“I know you’re only an echo,” says Sir Matthew irritably, “but I take exception to any echo
I
have woven behaving in such a dense fashion. Haven’t you heard of hunters? They loathe us almost as much as they loathe you.”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to think of the maybe-hunter leaning against the lamppost so long ago, “but I hardly think they’ll stumble across us here.”

Matthew gives me a long, flinty look. “You seem to underestimate the dangers in your little world. You defy me, you scoff at hunters. Is that simply a brave face you put on, or are you really that stupid?”

I flinch. His cutting contempt is humiliating. But I won’t let him make me feel like an idiot. “You say that,” I say, hoping my tone could freeze hell, “but if you’ll notice, I’m still alive.”

“And it’s a wonder, I assure you,” he replies.

I don’t back down from his stare. “I don’t see any hunters. We appear to be quite safe.”

“Nevertheless,” he says, patting his vest with satisfaction, “I don’t take chances. As I have put myself in charge of getting you to Bangalore safely—and lord, I can’t remember why I ever thought that would be a good idea, you are positively
irksome
—it is now a question of my pride to make sure you get there. Imagine if you were killed on my watch. Or worse,
I
was! If I allowed myself to be slain by hunters, Adrian would mock my memory for years!”

I don’t want to think about the hunters. They won’t find me. How could they?

“Is Adrian your friend?” Changing the subject seems like a good idea.

Matthew nods. “Oh, indeed. Oldest friend in the world.”

This only makes me feel worse. I haven’t forgotten Adrian’s cruelty in the interview, his utter indifference to us and his obsession with his art. I haven’t forgotten the things Sean said, about grave-robbing and experiments and other strange, dark rumors about Adrian Borden. It sounds to me that if the rumors are true, he and his oldest friend would probably be hand in hand in it all.

“Come along,” says Matthew. “We mustn’t dillydally any longer.”

I make sure I’ve still got all my bags. He has already started walking. I follow, several steps behind, wondering what would happen if I turned around and walked away. Would he chase me? Would he call on the Loom’s seekers, ask them to find my tracker and hunt me down?

“I understand you make birds,” he says a few minutes later, quite abruptly, while we’re on the Underground.

My throat feels knotty. “How do you know about that?”

“I know everything. Do keep up.”

I consider denying it. Telling him I don’t do anything so un-Amarra-like. But he won’t believe me. And why should I act like I’m ashamed of something that is so essentially me?

“Yes. I make birds. And other things.”

“And how would you feel if one of these birds, or other things, decided to leap off the table and shatter onto the floor?”

I wonder if he’s a little bit mad. “Excuse me?”

“Would you be angry?” Matthew drawls. “
Irked
, perhaps? Would you be frustrated by the way this creation, one you have spent so much time and strength on, simply threw all your effort away and destroyed itself?”

“I suppose,” I say.

“
That
is how I feel about you,” he says, teeth flashing white. “It is how we feel about all the echoes who break the laws and force us to destroy them. It is a waste of the time and trouble we took to stitch them.”

“We’re not wax birds!”

He clicks his tongue in a sympathetic way and pats my cheek. His hand feels like steel. “You are to me.”

The cold, sour taste of hate fills my mouth and I have to look away to keep my temper. I stay quiet for the rest of the trip underground and only speak when I have to at the airport. Matthew has a passport for me, and a false one for him, both bearing the same last name. Like I’m a genuine human being. Like we’re father and daughter. I almost laugh at the bitter irony.

And then he does something strange. It’s very cold in the airport. With hot, sunny India firmly in mind, I didn’t bother to pack a coat or fleece in my carry-on luggage. I stand shivering by the queue for security.

“Here,” says Matthew, handing me a jacket.

I don’t want to take it, but I’m cold and I have a feeling being stubborn will only amuse him. I put it on, muttering a thank-you under my breath. He is delighted by my attitude and whistles a cheery tune as we join the queue for our security checks.

“How many of us are there?” I ask him. “How many
creations
do you have?”

“Hundreds,” says Sir Matthew. “That is, between the three of us, we have created hundreds. I believe most still live. But then there are the hundreds and hundreds our predecessors made. Few of
them
are still alive.”

Considering how many ordinary people exist, “hundreds” barely dents the surface. But it’s still an awe-inspiring number. It’s hard to imagine so many of us.

“Have there always been three Weavers at the Loom?”

Matthew looks at me like he’s not sure he’s enjoying all these questions. But he tells me, “No, we are the first generation of three. Before Adrian, there was only one Weaver at a time. It’s been in Adrian’s family for two hundred years. There has always been a Borden at the Loom.”