A Mischief in the Woodwork

CHAPTER 33

Return

The journey back does not stick in my mind with much clarity. I had used up everything in me, and everything around me looked the same anyway. I do remember that my shoulders ached like nothing I had ever felt, but only until Bailin's weight snuffed the circulation from them entirely, and then they were just numb as the rest of me had become. There is a certain point where an ailed body such as mine surpasses its capacity and enters an otherworldly state of misery, and of course what is otherworldly is not something we can feel, here.

I collapsed at some point – more than once, I think – and dreamed of the rubble shifting beneath me, of riding waves of it as if my body were a vessel. Much like Ombri did to call herself Shifter, I imagine, except that she never did it lying down, in her sleep. I was a piece of driftwood, a dead swan on the tide.

When I cracked my crusty lids and blinked the salt from my lashes, I was lying on the shore, and the ocean seemed to have dried up. Where it should have been was only a great chasm.

The ravine.

The shifts of rubble had delivered me back.

I would have felt a wave of relief if I was much into feeling anything those days, but in truth I felt like any other forsaken shell lying on the beach, empty and cracking, the sound of the ocean echoing in its irrelevant recesses.

Bailin was cast across the rubble beside me, unconscious still.

Fortune was with me.

Feeling somewhat revived simply for being on familiar terrain, I forced the sleep from my body, more than ready to get this deed over with. Completion was so close I could taste it. Or was that only the sweet taste of blood in my mouth? It seemed I had bitten my tongue during one of the shifts.

I swallowed distastefully, but still found the strength to pull myself up one more time. I glanced at Bailin's unmoving form, considering whether or not I should risk rolling him into the ravine. He would probably not come out of another fall, this one unbroken, at least not without being the worse for wear. For that matter, had he even survived the shifts? Just to make sure, I went to check for a pulse again.

Alive.

In fact, he muttered something in his sleep.

Trying to decide how to go about casting him back into his chasm without breaking any bones, I decided on rolling him to the edge and grasping him beneath his arms to lower him as far as I could, bracing myself in the rubble for the exchange. His feet still dangled well above the ground, but, straining, I grunted in his ear, “Bailin”, and he awoke as if only waiting for the cue.

Awakening suspended against a ravine wall could not be the most serene way to go about it, and, recognizing his place of doom, a shriek escaped him. He thrashed to get free of my hold, but it was the reaction I was hoping for. He did half the work, freeing himself to land upon the bottom of the chasm. Then he was scrambling to his feet again, a crazed look in his eyes, desperate to redeem himself from landing in the spider's web before the beast came out to bind him. But I crouched above him on the ledge to ensure all escape attempts were futile. I would tread on his fingers if I had to. He wasn't coming back out of that ravine again. Not after what I had gone through to see him returned.

And then the ambassador was there, behind him. Watching him scramble vainly against the ravine wall. Waiting for him to realize he was not alone. He showed no signs of quitting, though, and so finally, she spoke,

“Bailin. How nice to see you again.”

He spun wildly, plastering his back against the wall in her presence.

“Now, now,” she tsked. “Don't be shy. Make yourself at home.”

They were the opposite of friendly words, of course, and I did not envy him the position he was in before her, the mess he had gotten into in his lifetime. But it would seem such was life, at least for some. And at least – this life.

“Won't you join us, Avante?” the ambassador inquired in that apathetic drawl of hers, her eyes rising past the ravine wall to where I remained perched.

“I'm rather fond of the view from up here,” I said.

“And I'm fond of pegasus meat, but we can't always revel in our own personal paradise, can we?”

Seeing that she wasn't asking, I rearranged myself and slithered down into the ravine. Bailin startled as I hit the ground. The ambassador gave him a long-suffering look.

“And where, pray tell, did you find this lost lamb?” she inquired.

Didn't she know more about this place than I did? Or was her knowledge restricted to her designated domain?

“I wouldn't presume to say,” I replied.

“Got a little lost along the way? Discovered him in a place or time you couldn't explain?”

“He was in a fortress. Beyond the rubble, beyond the desert... Where an entirely new scene of wreckage thrives. It was a fortress that I... It was mine,” I finished, unsure how to explain it. “A woman there told me it was mine.”

She cocked one of her already-arched brows. “So now you own a fortress in this mess?”

“The woman there – it's what she told me. I had never seen it before. But she said it was mine, that I built it. Do you know her? She was a keeper, of sorts, just like you. But she was pale and ashen, with robes and dreadlocks...” I wasn't sure why I was disclosing so much to her, except that I thought she might have some answers.

“I know her,” she confirmed, unperturbed. “A sister ambassador.”

“For what?”

“Bold indeed,” she scolded with amusement. “If she did not tell you herself, it is not yours to know.”

But... “She said I built it,” I repeated more to myself, less convinced I would get anything out of this woman.

“And it is not the only thing you have built.”

I looked at her, quizzically, and she nodded once over my shoulder, indicating something behind me. Turning, I beheld the half-bridge in the distance, the one she had made me cross upon our first meeting. Only it wasn't a half-bridge anymore; it was nearly whole. Still not quite touched down on the other side, but a good two thirds of the way there.

I – I had done that? That had been me? My thoughts went back to the first time I fell into the ravine, when the ambassador had advanced upon me like any other specimen of prey until she caught hold of me, noticed something unseen about me, and considered the bridge behind me, as if it had been related.

Apparently, it had. And why not? If I could build an entire fortress, why not a bridge?

“What...” I began, and then the breath seeped out of me, wearily. Was there even any point to asking the questions? They would never all be satisfied. “What is it for?”

“Crossing,” the ambassador said as if I were dimwitted.

“But why?”

“I am not here to be at your inquiring disposal. You have a head on your shoulders. Figure it out for yourself. I am here because we made a deal. Are you not interested in hearing the terms?”

“I brought you what we agreed.”

“Yes. And now I will grant what I am obligated. But, I might warn you, this second lost soul you seek to save will not be so easy as going to the ends of the earth and back. The piece of him that you seek is not kept conveniently in any house of yours. There are much deeper, darker houses to breach now.”

“Tanen has already opened the door to me,” I said, and for some reason, it sounded ominous.

“There are many secrets in any one person. Every secret is kept behind a new door. Just be sure to check for windows, Avante. If you can build fortresses out of the rubble, how easy do you think it would be to dig your own grave?”

It was a fair point, to be sure, but I was not to be dissuaded, not after coming this far. “You're the Ambassador for the Angel of Death,” I said. “What do you care if I get in too deep?”

“Being his ambassador means I speak for him. That can mean I issue warnings on his behalf.”

Swallowing, I nodded. “I'll be sure to leave a window open. Tell your master I appreciate his concern. It's very kind.” There was a wry lilt to my voice, but she did not seem to care about my flippancy. I'm sure it was irrelevant to her.

“Then you have two months,” she granted. “Two months, and then he's mine.”

*

When I returned home to Manor Dorn, they all rose and looked at me as if I were some kind of ghost, wandering in from the throes of death. I realized, then, that I did not know precisely how long I had been gone. I knew it was long enough to set them worrying, but the days had blurred together after the first few.

“Oh, my minda,” Letta breathed, frozen where she stood. “Where have you been?” She came forth then, and touched my hair, looking me over. I did look a bit like a ghost, I found as I followed her eyes. I hadn't thought to take stock of myself until then. I was covered in ash and powder, and thin from not eating, and I could only imagine the icy depths of the dark circles under my eyes.

I had similar reunions with the rest of them – only Ombri gave me some sort of knowing look from the door frame, and a small smile. It was the extent of her welcome. As one well acquainted with the city, she could see the nature of what I had been through.

After a bath that Letta insisted on drawing and dispersing with her own two hands, I sat beside Tanen's sickbed. During my bath Letta's gaze had poured questions over my body as surely as all the rivulets of water, but once again she had practiced discretion and held her tongue for a better time, perhaps thinking whatever it was, I had surely been through too much to be expected to dish it all out until I was allowed some semblance of recovery.

I had been gone for a week and a half. Thankfully, Ombri was here to whistle the weedflowers awake. They had feared me dead.

Tanen was not dead. That much I knew, but he had yet to come out of his fever. He had not stirred since I left, they said. Because he's been suspended in limbo, awaiting a signature on his second chance, I thought. He would come out of it soon. I did not know how long it took for the release to take effect, but I knew the ambassador had released him. For two more months.

The stress of what I had to accomplish in that short amount of time hovered over me, but I would not allow it in. I couldn't afford to let it tamper with my resolve.

When he opened his eyes, I smiled tentatively at him. Maybe he wouldn't remember the incident with the wardog. In my hands I held the book he had tried to show me that day. I had been studying the charts, tracing the lines with my fingers, and now I held it as a peace offering as he returned to me. “Hi,” I offered gently. His lashes blinked at the room like disoriented spiders. “How are you feeling?”

It took him a moment to answer, trying to put all the pieces back together. After all, he'd been out for a week and a half. “Stiff,” he said at last, and my smile broadened.

“That's good.”

He rolled his head my direction on his pillow, looking confused.

“You could be many more worse things than stiff,” I explained, unable to stop myself from going through the list in my head: dead, dying, damned, decaying... I blinked the rest away, looking down at the book in my lap. I ran my hand over its textured cover. “I've been thinking about what you said. Regarding dimensions. And reading about them. You could be right.”

“You...understood it?”

“Well enough,” I confirmed, but blazed onward to avoid touching on my gift. “But I was surmising – it could be something else, too, you know. Something a little different than what you said. Maybe it isn't different dimensions causing all this. What if the shifts of rubble are so destructive, so full of mischief that they have created other dimensions this way,” I suggested. I didn't really know how valid such a theory was – though where mischief was concerned, it was probably as valid as anything – but I had developed it simply as a peace offering, as a way to reconnect. Hopefully he would appreciate that I had made the effort.

He blinked slowly, as if trying to sort through my theory, having trouble digesting it. And perhaps it was a bit much to spew that into his head straight after awakening, but then the slightest smile touched his eyes, tweaked his lips. Relief cut through a knot in my stomach. The sentiment had caught on.

“Oh,” I blurted in afterthought. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

“Both.”

“I'll get you something. We should change that shirt, too. Here, this is from Dashsund.” I reached for the garment where it was draped over the back of my chair, and put the book aside to help him with it. His weakness showed as he tried to prop himself up. I shooed away his efforts lest he exhaust himself, offering my own support. Swiftly, I had his fever-stained shirt stripped off, and could not help but notice he did not bear the same scar that Victoria and I shared. He had others, and many still scarring-over that I recognized from his scuffle with the wardog, but not the one that came of surviving the Fever. An uncanny wave roiled through me, knowing it was significant.

Shaking the feeling off, I concentrated on the task at hand. It was tempting, oh so tempting, to touch his bare skin while I had the chance. There were secrets hidden in the shadows of his muscles, rivers of secrets that ran in currents down the chiseled channels of his body. But now was not the time. I had two months. Everything had to be timed perfectly. If I rushed and scared him away, there would be no hope.

“There,” I said when the new shirt fell into place, as much to myself as to him, closing the possibility of my fingers having a mind of their own. I curled them into subtle fists so as to quiet their deprived protests. Never had I thought I would itch to touch a man so. It was maddening.

To cleave myself from the urge entirely, I had no choice by to see about rustling up that sustenance that he craved, taking myself to the kitchen where his radiant body was no longer within reach. I breathed a sigh of relief, there, wondering how I was going to contain myself around him. Having stimulated my fingers' appetite during my braille journey through the city, and given the weight of my undertaking with Tanen, I found myself in the odd position of being hard-pressed to keep my hands off him. My newly piqued senses wanted more, and when it came to changing a person, knowing the extent of their deepest, darkest secrets paid. I wanted those. I needed those. But I had pridefully and spitefully kept my distance from him thus far, at least enough that changing my tune so hungrily would surely come across as a fluke of character.

And it was, truly. Tanen was beautiful, but I could never deign to wanting someone with his outlook and subsequent mannerisms. I would never compromise my own staunch character that way. At least not outside of the pretense of possessed fingers. And if I had any dignity, hopefully not extensively inside of that pretense, either, if I could help it.

But putting oats on to boil saw me slip into a love affair with the grains and from whence they came, and after delivering the meal to Tanen I found myself out in the field, strolling amongst the stocks, hands outstretched to trail through the feathery grasses. They whispered to me, seducing my eyes shut, and I listened to their stories of painful childbirth, raw, green muscle evolving from prison seeds, soil cocoons that choked and nurtured them at once, and the glory of unfurling to the tainted winds above ground.

Learning the stories of things was becoming a compulsion I could not control. The hunger for it was becoming a great vortex inside me that needed to be fed, as surely as my own body needed to be fed. If I didn't know any better, I might go as far as to say it was the undeniable feeling of a calling – that charge of purpose and obsession which could not be sated, because it was your reason for being.

And since Tanen was far more compelling an entity than any grain in a field, it seemed unlikely I could hope to prevent this new calling from messing with any preconceived personal convictions I might have for much longer than a stubbornly drawn-out heartbeat.