Mycroft, what is happening?
I’m sorry, reader. I failed to prepare you for this, just as I failed shivering Carlyle. I tried my useless best, but with the sensayer my warnings were too subtle, and with you, I think, too blunt to be believed. She is a witch. I told you from the start. I still can’t make it sound sane. It’s fear that makes me fail, fear of Thisbe, her spells that can cripple me as fast as Tully’s Canner Beat, while my eclectic skills provide no armor against her craft. I fear her, rare for me. It isn’t that I’m otherwise fearless—I fear a thousand things: Tully’s scheming, MASON’s left hand, Bridger—but the witch is altogether different. She should not be part of this, that’s what it is. She is an unexpected threat, outside the palette of the possible, as when a fortress city, whose death-stained towers have stopped a hundred battle lines, is brought low by a pestilence within. Why would this stage of Gods and Emperors suddenly contain, of all backwards absurdities, a witch? I fear, abjectly, and will fear still, even if you tell me limping science can explain away her spellcraft. When Utopians forge Earth’s rare metals into dragon fleets that feed on sunlight as they bear their masters across the sky-white surface of the Moon, they are wizards, even if they use science to deny it. Just so, when a black-hearted spinster lures a stray priest to her bedchamber to rape her soul and laugh, she is a witch.
“I’ll let you continue as our sensayer,” Thisbe began, running her fingers through the length of her black hair. “You’re right, it’ll be a convenience being able to talk about our work. Maybe you can even help fix poor Cato. You’ll help us, help them, guide them all the way I think they should be guided, and if you start taking any of them in a direction I don’t like I’ll take over your body and talk through you like a meat puppet.”
Carlyle started to speak, but Thisbe waved two fingers, and the words froze dead.
“This is what you need, Carlyle,” the witch continued. “Don’t you see? You want to be free of Julia, but you never can be, you’ll never undo years of Julia’s worming into you, making you think what they want. If you know the truth about us, or about Bridger, Julia and Dominic will make you tell them someday. Except not now. Now you know I’m watching. You know I can snap my fingers, speak the magic words, and … what would be the best threat? Instant death is boring, a stroke maybe? Pain and paralysis? Insanity can be fun, leaving you a nice lunatic babbling about the end of the world? Is that scary enough? Yes, that’s the right level of twitching. You see? And that terror will keep you from blabbing. You have a check now, a backup plan. The moment you get close to letting something slip you’ll remember this…” She loomed. “You’ll remember this to your dying day. And that memory will keep you quiet.” She took a satisfied breath. “I’ll be your gag. That’s what you really need, a gag, to make you free of Julia, to keep us all safe. And if you ever do transgress.” She clapped her hands, and the body at her feet convulsed with shock. “I’ll end it. And fear of that will keep you from doing what you don’t want to do. That way we can all have everything we need: my bash’ can have a good sensayer, Bridger too, and you can finally be free of Julia. How does that sound?” A flick of her fingers freed Carlyle’s voice.
“D-d-d-does Mycroft know?”
“Know I’m a witch?” Thisbe savored another chuckle. “Mycroft’s a clever one. They figure it out about once a week on average, but I don’t let them remember. It’s much more fun to let them guess, to see what gives me away each time. Good practice for not getting caught by others. You, though, I think it’s best for everyone if I let you remember this time.”
“Th-is time?”
The witch’s eyes sparkled with secrets. “Sensayers are used to fearing God, so you know the right way to fear me, don’t you?”
Carlyle tried to swallow. “B-uh … bash’ma-ates know?”
“They know not to mess with me.” She played with her own footprints as she circled, her boots stamping patterns into the grass. “I haven’t let most of them taste my full powers, though, it would cause unnecessary anxiety.” She grinned. “You see now why this little investigation is no threat to me doing a hit. But the others still worry, so considerate of them.”
Thisbe let Carlyle’s flesh relax at last, and the Cousin inchwormed sideways, trying to watch as Thisbe circled him. “Whaa—now?” she gasped out.
“What now?” Thisbe cocked her head. “Now you’re going to say, ‘Thank you, Thisbe.’ And I’m going to go back and tell my anxious bash’mates that we have a trustworthy new sensayer, and no one has to worry about you blabbing.”
Carlyle’s body rocked, her lips attempting words. “Th … th-th—th.”
Thisbe sighed. “Was I too rough? You’re a frail thing, aren’t you? Oh, well.” She leaned down, close enough to kiss. “Run away, little sensayer. Run home and talk to no one. I’ll be watching, my creatures too, my imps and sprites—I conjure darker things than plastic soldiers. I’ll be watching you, in the cars, in your bash’house, in your bedroom with all the pretty birds painted on the ceiling. It’s a good design—maybe I should make you paint my bedroom too?” She slapped Carlyle gently on the back. “Rest up tonight, but I expect you here promptly tomorrow morning. Ockham will want to debrief you when you’ve recovered, plus Sniper needs their session, and I’ll see if I can corner Cato for you.”
Frozen Carlyle could only twitch and watch as the witch retreated slowly, the grass with its army of hidden crawling things caressing her gleaming boots. Thisbe paused at the door to let herself taste Carlyle’s fear-sweat a moment longer, sweet as gingerbread.
“Thiz!” Sniper cried from within the instant she opened the door. “Tell me everything you know about J.E.D.D. Mason!”
Her voice was ice. “Don’t come into my room without permission, Cardigan.”
“Sorry. Did it go well?”
“Swimmingly.” Thisbe moved to block Sniper’s view of the collapsed Cousin, but Carlyle could still hear their words across the stillness of the grass. “Carlyle’s comfortable with everything, and I’m sure we can trust them now.”
The living doll held the door for her. “Great. Should I get Ockham?”
“No, Carlyle’s tired tonight. I’ve told them to come in the morning. Why are you here, Cardie?”
“Tell me everything you know about J.E.D.D. Mason. Ockham was telling me more, things the President said, but it doesn’t add up. Thiz, doesn’t it bother you that Andō’s supposed child doesn’t look half-Japanese? A bit of something East Asian in the mix maybe, but not what you’d expect of Andō’s child.”
The door closed behind the ba’sibs, leaving Carlyle slumped like a carcass abandoned when the hunt has too much prey to carry home. The shock was too absolute, too saturated to be confined by names like terror or despair. She did not try to rise, but flopped onto her back as trembling gave way again to tears. Just tears. It doesn’t matter how long she lay there, ten minutes, an hour, two; feelings that deep dissolve the illusion that time can be measured.
“Ruff! Wuff wuff! Auuuuuw Auuuu!” Hearty as home’s lights through a storm, Boo’s bark rang through the flower trench. The blue dog trundled over to the sensayer, sniffing and wagging, its curious nose trailing wet warmth across Carlyle’s trembling hands.
Carlyle stirred. “Boo? What are you doing here?”
“Rrrruf! Ruf!” Boo licked Carlyle’s face, and the sensayer could not help but stroke its tender ears.
“Here, drink this milk, you’ll feel better.”
It was Mommadoll, riding on Boo’s back, her dress of checked red gingham studded with seeds and burrs. She held a thermos, giant as a barrel between her four-inch arms, while a sack strapped across her back leaked the scent of fresh-baked cookies.
“How did you—” Carlyle began.
“Teleportation. Drink your milk, dear.”