Painted devils, p.27
Painted Devils, page 27
“Sorry,” I gasp, jumping to the side. I make it a few steps up the street before realizing I’m going the wrong way. I double back, keep it together as I pass Ozkar’s workshop again.
Start to dissolve a few buildings down.
At the end of the block, I crumple.
I slump against a plain slate wall and slide to the ground. The sun glares mercilessly, but all I feel is icy cold.
I’m such a fool. They have to think I’m the biggest fool in the empire, missing what was right in front of my face. Udo had his reasons, Dieter did it for family. Helga …
Helga, she’s my—my sister—she knew, and she kept this from me—
My next breath knifes through my chest.
They didn’t want me to know. Of course, they didn’t want a useless little fool like me hanging around.
Exhalation is only a faint relief. Inhaling hurts more.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be more than a thief and a liar when I found my family. I was supposed to be worth something. And I ruined it.
I didn’t even ask Ozkar the one question that mattered, the one thing, I’m so stupid.
I didn’t ask why she did it, what made our mother take me into the woods.
I didn’t ask what I did wrong.
Someone curses as they nearly step on my feet, and I shrink against the wall even further. There’s a metallic clink against stone. I look down. The message-mirror has fallen out of my pocket.
I reach for it. I don’t know what to say. It hurts to breathe, hurts to think. I just want it not to hurt, I just don’t want to be alone—
In the end, all I write is:
Can you
come get me
and
I’m sorry
No, no, that’s stupid, useless—
The mirror pulses with heat.
On my way.
Where are you?
I don’t know how long it takes before a shadow falls over me and stays there. Emeric is crouching by me, turning my face to look at his. His voice is a veneer of calm masking dismay. “Roses,” he says softly, “what happened?”
My chin is shaking. I don’t know where to start.
“I lost my ribbon,” I say helplessly, and shatter.
He pulls me to him, strokes my hair as I bury my face in his shoulder, slowly rocks in place. Fragmented words spill out in the flood of my ugly sobs, the same ones again and again, starving for the answer I needed today, the one that may always be out of reach:
“What did I do wrong?”
* * *
Emeric gleans the story out of me in tatters and gets us to the Jolly Magistrate somehow. I’m back in the fog, choosing a tourniquet over peeling off the bandages. I know that I keep telling him I’m sorry. Every time, he just holds my hands a little tighter and tells me it’s fine.
“Vanja—” I hear Helga call from down the hall as Emeric steers me to the stairs. “Wait, Erwin came and told me, this wasn’t supposed to—”
Emeric pauses, shifting to block the stairwell. “Can you make it the rest of the way up to our room?” I nod. “I’ll be there in a moment. Miss Ros and I need to have a word.”
I’m sitting on the bed when Emeric walks in, swearing under his breath as the rose-petal cascade is set off once more. I was in the middle of unlacing my boots when I just—I stopped, I guess. He takes over for me, kneeling and working at the laces without a second thought. “Miss Ros will give you space until you want to talk.”
“Thank you,” I whisper unsteadily as one boot slides free. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He starts on the next boot. “I … I’ve heard other stories like this, from people whose birth parents gave them up. It’s never, ever anything you did wrong. Sometimes the parents know they can’t care for their child. Or they want to give their child a better life. Or they’re sick and need help that they aren’t getting. But it was never you or anything you did.”
I want to believe him. I wish I could.
He drops my other boot on the floor, kicks off his own, and climbs into bed with me. I curl up beside him and lay my head on his chest. As his arms settle around me, I mumble, “Tell me about your family. Please.”
“Of course.” His hand moves in slow circles over my back, and I wonder if he feels the ridges of my scars like I felt the threads of his ribbon. “I … I think you’d like them. My mother, Clara, still runs a bookbindery in Helligbrücke. She named it Anselm’s, after my father…”
He tells me of his sister Hester, newly seventeen as of mid-March, who helps their mother with the bindery. His younger brother, Lukas, who is quiet but devastatingly insightful, just like their father. His baby sister, Elieze, who can make anyone laugh and, to Emeric’s horror, has recently discovered romance.
He tells me about the time Lukas accidentally upended paste all over his own hair and decided the only remedy was to cut it off. How Hester is working on a special printing type that can be read by touch for blind readers like her. About his mother’s recent suitor, who endured a three-hour interrogation from the sisters Conrad before he was allowed to call upon Clara a second time. How, once a year, they all travel to Rabenheim to visit their father’s grave on his birthday.
I drift off, hearing the warmth, the love, in Emeric’s voice, and wonder if any of my siblings will ever speak of me that way.
He wakes me a few hours later, to coax some soup into me and help me into a nightshirt before I pass out again, grateful for oblivion. The ache has dulled its teeth on sleep, but it gnaws at me all the same.
The next time I half wake, it’s to the sound of lowered voices outside the door. The bed is empty. I hear Emeric in the hall.
“… nothing new to report.”
“You were meant to work the case today. Distraction is no excuse.” That’s Kirkling.
“I did—” Emeric pauses. When he speaks again, his voice has leveled out. “I spent the morning and the first part of the afternoon reviewing records with Lady Ambroszia. I could continue that work here if it were … permitted.”
“I’m not your babysitter, Aspirant; you are permitted to do as you please. This is a test of your impartiality, and I have only advised you of the consequences of letting Schmidt contaminate your case.”
“When I told you the Scarlet Maiden cut her off from—” A strange tangle blurs his words. “—you said that didn’t prove her innocence. When I told you the Red Maid was a real, well-documented god, not Vanja’s fabrication, you said she could still be complicit. Now we know the Scarlet Maiden coerced Vanja into obtaining a blood sacrifice from her own family, and that’s not enough?”
Kirkling only ratchets out, “I find it convenient that none of those things have directly harmed Schmidt, only those around her.”
“Her name isn’t Schmidt.” Emeric’s composure is slipping. “We have one month before the Scarlet Maiden collects her sacrifice. It’s a waste of time we don’t have to keep shutting Vanja out of this case. Her insight could be the key.”
“Then I suggest you learn to solve your own cases, Aspirant,” Kirkling says icily. “She can’t argue this one to the Godly Courts for you either.”
There’s a deadly quiet. Then Emeric says, just as cold, “I have nothing further to report.”
He steps back into our room and closes the door. Then he pushes his spectacles up into his hair and slides a hand over his eyes as a dissonant burst of rose petals showers down.
I slide out of bed and walk over to Emeric while Kirkling’s footsteps stomp down the hall. It’s my turn to wrap my arms around him. “Don’t lose your Finding for me,” I say into his shirt. “You’ve wanted to be a prefect for more than half your life.”
“That’s just it,” he sighs, blowing a petal off his shoulder. “This isn’t what I want. I want to help people who feel like … like how I felt when my father died. Like no one was listening, and nothing would change. I thought being a prefect would let me do that, but I couldn’t do anything for Agnethe, and I can barely help you.”
I take a deep breath, weighing my words. “You listen,” I say with some difficulty. “You care, and you listen when you don’t have to. You could have just written me off in Minkja, but you wanted my story, you said it mattered, you believed me. Don’t ever say you didn’t help me.” I look up at him. “If more prefects were like you … I think the empire would make fewer girls like me.”
Emeric is making the strangest face, blinking rapidly. “Well,” he says, hoarse, “I think that would be a terrible loss.” He grimaces. “The … fewer-people-like-you part. Not the reduction of gross societal injustice.”
That gets an uneven laugh out of me, the first since I sank the Treasury. “I’m glad you think so. Do you need a hankie?”
“No,” he lies, terribly. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you anyway.”
“Hold on.” My satchel’s on the floor nearby. I pick it up and dig out one of the few kerchiefs that isn’t covered in dead bed lice, itching rose hip hairs, or my brothers’ blood. (What a life I lead.) “Here.” I turn around to hand it to him.
And then I freeze.
Emeric’s standing ramrod-stiff. His face is turned to me, but his expression is unsettlingly slack.
Violent crimson light burns from his eyes, whites and all. His shirt is charring over the handprint.
“Hello, little prophet,” the Scarlet Maiden sings through him.
“Scarlet Maiden.” Smoke stings my tongue. “What is this?”
“Am I not allowed to speak to my prophet?” she croons. “Am I not allowed to use my servant as I wish?”
This feels volatile, like a game of Find the Lady with razor-edged cards. “I don’t think he likes being used.”
“How unfortunate for him.” A patch of blazing red emerges as her handprint sears through the shirt.
“Why are people from Hagendorn attacking us in your name?” I ask.
Emeric’s shoulder jerks in an awkward shrug. “They claim my name in vain. I know nothing of them. You are taking too long to fetch my sacrifice, little prophet.”
One of Emeric’s glistening eyes spills over, a tear tracking down his cheek. I have to end this, fast.
“I already have five blood drops,” I protest. “I just need—”
The Scarlet Maiden abruptly propels Emeric’s body across the room to me. His hands lock around my wrists, unshakable. A terrible heat radiates from his chest. He wrestles me into a backward stumble.
“I will have my sacrifice,” she hisses, “on the eve of the May-Saint Feast.”
“Let go—” I squeeze out, trying to catch my balance only to hit the edge of the bed. Then it registers: The May-Saint Feast is on the first of May.
That’s just over two weeks. I’ll never make it in time.
The Scarlet Maiden shoves me onto the bed, still gripping my wrists so hard the bones grate as I thrash. A horrid animal panic screams to life. Suddenly I’m in Castle Falbirg, pinned against unrelenting stone, Adalbrecht von Reigenbach forcing my hands back just like this—no, no, this is Emeric—no, it’s not him—I have to breathe, have to keep breathing—“Let me go—let me—please—”
Something hot lands on my cheek. Another tear has fallen from Emeric’s otherwise blank face. It’s wrenched into a horrible smile.
“Two weeks, Prophet. Then, one way or another, I will have my sacrifice.”
The crimson light flickers as an awful sound claws from Emeric’s throat.
“Ngh—NO—” He releases me and staggers away, gasping. I scrabble back from him still, that feral terror lashing out even as my limbs tangle in the blankets.
Then the red subsides, leaving us both in the dark.
Emeric is staring at his hands like they’re covered in blood. “Vanja—Vanja, no, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop her, I tried—” He reaches for me only to freeze, aghast, when I flinch.
“I know,” I say distantly. “Just … give me a moment.”
He sinks to the floor, wraps his arms around himself as if to hide the now-dulled handprint, though the stench of burnt linen lingers. “I would never hurt you,” he says, almost more to himself than to me. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
Half of me wants to agree, to hold him, to cling to the one anchor I have in this damned crumbling world.
The other half is afraid to turn my back to him.
And he can feel it. Even as I crawl off the bed and sit by him, he knows. Even as I make myself put one shaking hand on his shoulder … he knows.
“It wasn’t you,” I say, now more to myself than to him.
“But she used me to hurt you. She can use me again.” His head drops.
I flinch back at his sudden movement, braced for more red light, for teeth snapping at my fingers.
I think that’s when we both realize the scale of this new horror between us.
He asks wretchedly, “How are you supposed to even sleep next to me? How can you feel safe?”
He leaves the worst question unspoken: If the intimacy of last night wasn’t enough to break the Scarlet Maiden’s claim … how are we supposed to keep trying like this?
And that’s when I decide I have had enough.
I lost my ribbon, I lost my hope of meeting my family when I was ready, and I have two weeks now to somehow put this all to rights. I’m not letting the Scarlet Maiden take Emeric from me too.
I look at the bed. Then I look at him.
“This isn’t how I thought we’d have this conversation,” I start, “but … what is your stance on manacles?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
VILLANELLE
I make one mistake as we walk into the inn’s tavern for breakfast the next morning, and that is forgetting to mind my sleeves.
Ugly purple bars of finger-shaped bruises circle my wrists, and judging by the miserable night we just had, if Emeric sees them, he’s going to immediately go looking for a hair shirt and a moor to wander. I’ve made sure to keep the sleeves of my shift rolled down accordingly.
However, what I didn’t account for was encountering Helga, who’s finishing off a plate of herring and eggs in the tavern when we arrive. She spots me and looks away, quickly shoveling the last of her herring into her face with a piece of toast. But then, as she scoots her chair back to scarper … her gaze lands on my wrist.
I realize too late that I’m nervously fiddling with my sleeve. And as I, too, look at my wrist, I see the bruise peeking out.
“You son of a—” Helga all but flies over her table and shoves between Emeric and me. “If you touch her again, I will peel you to the bone—”
“Wait, Helga, stop.” I grab her arm. My sleeve, unfortunately, slides farther, betraying even more of the bruise.
Emeric goes white as a sheet. “You didn’t say anything,” he says, dismayed, stretching a hand to me. “I can—”
Helga smacks him away as other patrons gawk, whispering. “What part of ‘to the bone’ was unclear?”
I yank on her arm until she looks at me. “The Scarlet Maiden possessed him,” I hiss, “and it wasn’t fun for anyone, and he had to sleep manacled to the bed, so good instincts, but let’s take this down from a ten to a four.”
Helga simmers to a grudging seven. “Has that happened before?”
“No,” Emeric says emphatically. He makes a hangdog motion toward my wrists. “Please, let me handle those.”
I relent and hold out my arms. Helga shifts in place, still scowling. “Well … don’t get possessed again.”
“It’s not in my ten-year plan,” Emeric grumbles back.
There’s a stilted lull. Then Helga says, “If you want to, Vanja … can we speak later?”
I swallow as Emeric’s fingers slide from my wrists. The bruises are shrinking. I’d be lying if I said it’s not a relief.
I’d also be lying if I said I don’t have questions for her, about us, about the family, about—everything. I just don’t know if those bruises are still too fresh.
“Maybe,” I answer, splitting the difference. She shrugs. As she heads for the door, I call after her, “One … one thing.” Helga turns. “Did you ever wonder what happened to me?”
Her face falls. After a pained pause, she says, “December thirteenth.”
“What?”
“Your birthday is December thirteenth,” Helga says. “We looked for you nearly every day, all through the winter and the thaw and up to midsummer. By then any remnants would’ve been … gone. We lit a candle on your birthday every year after. Katrin Little still does, at the farm in Kerzenthal.”
I can’t speak for a moment. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until it was in the air between us.
Emeric’s knuckles brush mine. I anchor my hand in his and ask, “Dinner?”
“Here, six o’clock?” Helga waits for my nod, then ducks out.
Emeric and I have a rather subdued breakfast together, at least compared to yesterday’s. Kirkling, the incredible human canker sore, stops by as we’re finishing up to deposit Lady Ambroszia on the table. “Aspirant Conrad,” she says stiffly. “Let us hope today is more productive. What are your plans?”
Emeric’s face turns blank, his tone polite but detached. “Once we’re done here, I will be accompanying Vanja to the Welkenrode outpost—”
Kirkling’s notebook is out in a flash. “‘Disregarding clear jeopardy to Finding integrity…’”
“—so that,” Emeric continues through his teeth, “we may find a way to protect her from me. Last night the Scarlet Maiden seized control of me long enough to physically assault Vanja. It can’t happen again.”
Kirkling herself said only hours ago that it was convenient the Scarlet Maiden hadn’t harmed me directly. Maybe this will finally convince her that Emeric’s faith in me isn’t misplaced.
“Hm.” Kirkling pauses her note-taking. “I would like to see you make the most of your limited time, Aspirant Conrad.”
… Or not.
“The Scarlet Maiden also moved her deadline up again,” I add. “Now it’s the eve of the May-Saint Feast.”
Kirkling regards me a wordless moment, then closes her notes and inclines her head to Emeric. “Good day.”
