《The Wax Wind Conspiracy》


 Prologue: The Boy and the Birdcage

    In Clementine, the air always blew crisp and cool. Thomas breathed it in deep, felt it on his face and through his threadbare tunic. He loved watching the airships come in, great plumes of steam billowing from their chimneys to join the pink and blue clouds of the sky above and below him. It was often that he stood where he did today, at the edge of the skydocks, watching the zeppelins break through the clouds, heavy with jewels or spices or strangers. Today though,he had eyes only for theGoliath skyship docked on the bridge beside him.


    The docks were held suspended above the abyss by colossal balloons, tied to the wooden planks with great knotted chains. Below roared a sightless pit. Grandpa forbid the kid from ever stepping near the place, but Thomas knew better. Soon enough, the boy imagined, he would be walking these very docks to his own crew and airship. Better get familiar.


    It wasn¡¯t hard sneaking past the old man. He¡¯d grown forgetful in his old age. Thomas told Grandpa he¡¯d been taking dance classes at school, but while the children danced, Thomas snuck past the forests and farms and squat Clementine cottages on the way to the skyship terminal. Vaulting past the terminal gates, Thomas would perch himself on the edge of a dock, staring with wide eyes and a blooming imagination at the myriad of travellers coming from lands unpronounceable and unseen.


    The passengers, depending from where they¡¯d come, would come leading strange animals and dragging heavy boxes, dressed in bright fabrics and foreign garbs. Sometimes Thomas would help them carry a box or two, maybe strike up a conversation on the way. It¡¯s amazing the things one might glean from these travellers. The boy hides in a box under his bed all the gifts he¡¯d been given. Two mints wrapped in bright green foil, a crumpled bill from a land over the sky, three little seeds of an alien tree, even a postcard with the words ¡°Wish you were here! ¨C Lotusland Greens¡± embossed in green cursive. The postcard showed an aerial view of a great city, full of sandstone spires and bustling street-side market stalls. Lying awake in his cot at night, listening to the deep horns and roaring steam engines of the airships overhead, Thomas would imagine himself not in his cot and room but on a hammock in the crew quarters of a great skyship, sailing with the sun and casting its shadow on the great city of Lotusland Greens. He traveled a great deal in his dreams.


    The deep, thunderous blare of an airship¡¯s horn knocked Thomas from his thoughts. Last call for boarding. On the bridge beside Thomas¡¯, the remnants of a hurried crowd struggled to board the ship, which had already begun impatiently moving. This ship was massive and beautiful, a real masterwork of dark oak and gold gilding. On its hull, The Wax Wind was engraved in large bronze letters. This was what he¡¯d come to see. This ship, this masterpiece, was the only one of its kind. By far the largest functioning commercial skyship, it boasted a quad-balloon setup paired with six steam-powered propellers. Its four massive balloons nearly blotted out the sun. Even from his distance, Thomas could smell the hot metal and oiled wood of the awesome craft.


    It was all over the news. Everyone heard when the reclusive Lady Isabella Porter went missing decades earlier. But now, after no progress whatsoever on her disappearance, the authorities finally decided to declare her dead. There was an uproar of course, but with so few friends and family, the reception to Lady Porter¡¯s death was not one of mourning but rather of a nervous anticipation over her enormous wealth and will. Inexplicably, of her vast riches, she¡¯d left her personal luxury airship, the Wax Wind, not to her few acquaintances but to the Albatross Flight Company. Now, after years of disuse, the repurposed Wax Wind would fly again, this time on its maiden voyage as a commercial skyship. Thomas could only dream of the places it would go.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Suddenly something caught his eye. Thomas had seen the woman in the crowd earlier, her and the large, covered birdcage that sat on the cart with the rest of her luggage. She was hard to miss, after all, with her frizzled shock of bright pink hair cut to graze just beneath her jaw. So, when she moved to board the vessel and her birdcage didn¡¯t, Thomas felt his brow furrow. The birdcage, seemingly forgotten on the dock, sat undisturbed by the passing crowd. Surely someone other than him had seen it fall from her cart, thought Thomas. But to his frustration, the thing went ignored. The passengers, in their own rush to board the ship, stepped over the cage like it was part of the scenery. Soon, the ship would leave and it would remain forgotten forever.


    Not if he had anything to say about it. Thomas didn¡¯t take long to make his decision. He was off like a racing ferret, bounding across his dock and onto hers.


    ¡°Miss!¡± he cried, ¡°Miss, you forgot your cage!¡± Even as the words left his mouth, he could hear them drown in the incredible sound of the Wax Wind¡¯s six propellers. There was no way he¡¯d get her attention in this noise. He¡¯d have to bring her the cage himself. But by the time he got to the thing the dock was emptying rapidly, the last tardy travelers already struggling aboard. In a smooth swoop, Thomas grabbed the cage by its top bronze ring and sprinted toward the ship.


    The cage, which was half as tall as Thomas and disproportionately heavy, bumped along on the rough docks behind him. Whatever beast it contained must have been remarkably well trained, because throughout the whole rocky journey, it never made a sound. ¡°Miss!¡± Thomas continued to cry, ¡°Miss, wait!¡± It was easy to see the shock of pink hair on deck, but she made no indication that she¡¯d heard him at all. Thomas watched in horror as she walked through a door on the ship¡¯s stern without so much as a glance back.


    The horn blared again, and the ship began to pick up speed. Thomas wouldn¡¯t make it. He limped on anyway. Grandpa always told him to try his very best, especially when helping others. But the cage was so cumbersome, and it seemed to grow heavier with his every step. Sweat beaded on his brow and his arm burned. His head felt woozy. The cage, it was an anchor, it was immovable. The effort of running became all that he could focus on, and soon, he could barely even walk at all.


    The boy was so tired, he didn¡¯t register that the arm that held the cage had grown numb and cold, or that the same numbness was spreading like kudzu into his chest and stomach. He didn¡¯t notice the Wax Wind leaving port without him. He didn¡¯t see that the bridge lead to open air. Dark tendrils crept over his vision and blood pounded in his head. He smelled rust, tasted it on his tongue. What was he doing here? He couldn¡¯t remember, but there was a good reason to keep walking. He¡¯d remember it later.


    It was a horrible miracle that no one was watching the dock when the boy walked to the edge and kept on walking. He didn¡¯t scream when he fell below the clouds, but even if he did, it would have been drowned out by the whirring of steam engines and the deep resonance of ships horns. Had someone been watching, they might have noticed the large veiled birdcage that fell with him. Had they been observant, they might have peaked beneath the veil as it fell, and glimpsed the strange machine within, which hummed and pulsed like a beating heart.

 Chapter One: Childs Play

    Childe hated crowds. And he loved to admit it. It wasn¡¯t that he hated people, though ¨C on rare occasions, he even interacted with others. But crowds, something about being trapped in a herd of people felt to him like being crushed in the gizzard of a giant chicken. The whole experience was hot, sticky, confusing, and often filled with sand.


    ¡°Tickets and passport, please,¡± asked the disgruntled guard at the end of the dock. Somehow, the young man looked even more uncomfortable than Childe, sweating in his silly purple uniform and frilly yellow shoulder pads. Childe pitied the poor man. Forced to stand in public wearing that and having to talk to strangers for hours on end. Some people, he reminded himself, were truly doomed.


    He fished around his pockets and came up full-handed. The haul yielded three crumpled receipts, five coins of varying value, a blue button, a tiny clear pouch holding some red residue, two seeds, and a mint coated candy. He popped the mint in his mouth and tried again. The guard looked at him impatiently, but Childe shrugged him off. ¡°Almost got it, just a moment.¡± After what felt like a day, he finally got hold of the ticket deep in his abnormally spacious pockets. At the same time, the ship bellowed its final boarding call.


    ¡°Mister¡­ Widdershins?¡± asked the guard, squinting at the tiny text. ¡°May I see your passport, sir?¡±


    Childe rolled his eyes and produced the silver pocket watch from his waistcoat. Immediately, the guard¡¯s eyes widened in recognition. ¡°Oh! I beg your pardon, doctor, please, right this way!¡±


    To Childe Widdershins, there was no greater joy felt than in the moment he escaped the sweltering crowd. Finally, he was aboard the Wax Wind. Here, it smelled not of sweat and feet but of the cool autumn air mixed with coal dust. As was his custom, Childe did a brief survey of the deck, noting all its landmarks and features. Everything was beautiful. A botanic garden bloomed at the stern, strange plants and insects sprouting from the wood into weird, hellish architecture. At the bow, the glass half-dome of an observatory bulged out like an elegant tumour. Even the wood he stood on was storied, probably harvested from some ancient oak to be cut into identical, perfect planks. Above were the balloons, of course, which cast the deck in perpetual shadow. The propellers drowned out all the birds, and everywhere sweated luggage-laden blue suited attendants, desperately ushering the crowd below deck in preparation for lift off.


    Suddenly, the ship jolted beneath him, and a plume of acrid smoke exploded from the chimneys on the ship¡¯s sides. They were picking up speed. Instead of indulging the attendants, Childe hobbled his way back to the starboard deck. There were still passengers struggling to board, and he intended to drink in their misery. Parking himself at the deck¡¯s lip, he set down his bag, leaned on his cane, and took in the view. He looked at the abyssal sky above and the pink clouds of sunset. He drank in the nostalgic mood of small-town Clementine, which had little more to its name than the port he now stood in. And he observed the crowd.


    Of the rest of the travellers, Childe saw a young woman dressed as an old man and a peasant dressed like a king. He watched the girl with the terrified eyes next to a man who pretended to be her father. And he noticed the woman watching them. A movement, a lady with pink hair had just pushed what looked like a birdcage off her cart. She tried to make it look like an accident, and she succeeded. Seemed no one noticed her sleight of hand, certainly not the boy on the opposite pier who already stood to help. Behind her, a man tried his hardest to blend in, and a woman tried her best to stand out. Still, she found herself all but invisible. It¡¯s alright, thought Childe. He noticed her. He noticed everything, especially the drunk who trailed behind the depleting crowd. The horn blared again and the Wax Wind began to accelerate. It seemed the long voyage would prove to be an interesting one.


    A faint sound of footsteps and the subtle scent of aftershave. Childe spun around to face the gentleman, approaching in his blue attendant¡¯s uniform. ¡°Doctor Widdershins?¡±, spoke the Attendant in a curiously deep voice, ¡°Welcome aboard the Wax Wind. I¡¯ve been sent to collect you and bring you to your room.¡± The uniform, Childe noted, was poorly tailored. The arms were a little too short, and the gut a little too wide. And, on closer inspection, he noticed that the man sported a realistic glass eye, which rolled slower than his natural one. As a result, the man looked somewhat cross-eyed.


    ¡°Well, thank you,¡± muttered Childe, turning back to face the draining crowd. The boy from earlier had left, running along the dock toward the dropped birdcage. He shrugged and hobbled toward the Attendant. ¡°Lead on then.¡±


    The Attendant took Childe¡¯s bag and directed him through the large, ornate door on the ship¡¯s stern. On the inside was one of the most gorgeous rooms he¡¯d had the pleasure of viewing.


    The circular dance hall was as lavish as it was large, with a beautiful muraled dome ceiling and marble floors. Oddly, trees and ferns sprouted sporadically throughout the room, and pink lanterns and incense-spreaders hung suspended from the ceiling on silver chains, suffusing the air with a thick, spicy scent. A single massive chandelier dipped from the center of the dome.


    ¡°Magnificent chandelier,¡± commented Childe.


    ¡°Oh yes, beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡± The piece looked like a spiralling waterfall of crystal, with a galaxy of candlelight suspended within. ¡°It¡¯s pure starling crystal. Would you believe it¡¯s lit by a single candle?¡± Childe struggled to see through the chaos, the light refracted through a thousand-thousand prisms and angles. ¡°They say starling crystals are among the most beautiful stones. They can absorb light into themselves, and shine on their own for even weeks afterwards. Very beautiful. And very expensive.¡± The attendant smiled slyly at Childe. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll have a chance to see it up close later.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± The doctor had already lost interest, and was examining the odd foliage around him. Taking a small knife from his pocket, he cut off a leaf and snuck it into his waistcoat.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The Attendant cleared his throat. ¡°Now, if I may have your attention, sir. You doubtlessly already know, but we¡¯re holding our departure ball here this evening, in celebration of our maiden voyage. It will be held here from nine to late, and we would be delighted to have you.¡±


    ¡°How would I already know that?¡±, he snapped, not looking up from the leaves. ¡°I don¡¯t even know where my room is and you think I¡¯m versed in the intricacies of ship culture?¡±


    The Attendant only smiled. ¡°I apologize for assuming, sir. If you would be so kind to show up, however, we would be elated to have you.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Wouldn¡¯t miss it for the stars,¡± muttered Childe, attention already scattering.


    His eyes were set on the only other person in the room, a lady in a kitschy pink dress, about the same age as Childe. She too inspected the leaves with a furrowed brow, but seemed a little dazed, and moved slowly, as if she were underwater. Childe noticed that, unlike him, she was unsupervised and stood up to question her when he felt a firm hand grab his shoulder.


    ¡°Let¡¯s continue,¡± said the Attendant. ¡°The main passenger area is just through these doors. Please, follow me.¡±


    ¡°Do you always treat your guests so well?¡±, interrupted Childe. ¡°It must be exhausting to personally escort every single passenger to their chambers.¡±


    ¡°Why, of course not. But you¡¯re a distinguished patron, Dr. Widdershins. After all, it¡¯s not every day we have the pleasure of serving one of His Majesty¡¯s own magi. You¡¯re an honored guest, doctor, and deserving of every luxury. Please, let¡¯s continue.¡±


    ¡°Hm.¡±


    He let the Attendant lead him out of the dance hall, but made a note to investigate it later. The journey was long, he figured; there¡¯d be plenty of time to look around.


    Gas lamps lit the labyrinthine corridors of the passenger¡¯s quarters with discrete light. It was clear the area was recently renovated; the wallpaper was new and the air smelled of plaster and wax. As if on cue, the Attendant spoke ¡°These rooms were only recently refurbished, as part of our renovation efforts. As generous as Lady Porter¡¯s donation was, the airship as she¡¯d left it was hardly suited to the needs of commercial flight.¡±


    The pair walked in silence for a minute before Childe saw it again. He¡¯d paid little attention to the first plaque, but the second one piqued his curiosity. ¡°So. I can¡¯t help but notice the numbers.¡± The attendant startled at the mention, but immediately appeared calm again. Childe smiled to himself, interest growing as he traced the bronze plaque with his fingers. ¡°What¡¯s their purpose? Seems an odd choice of decoration.¡± They were rare, he¡¯d only spotted two in so many doors. But here, at eye level beside a door, was the number 2 engraved on a small bronze plate. They were easy to miss, they blended right into the red wallpaper.


    The Attendant responded ¡°Remnants of the old ship, I¡¯m afraid. Lady Porter was a strange one ¨C your guess is as good as mine.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Just curious.¡± They passed another ten doors before he saw another, this one engraved in brass with the number 13. They seemingly had no order to their placement, or none that he could tell at the moment.


    Suddenly, a strange idea dawned on him. ¡°Say. You said these rooms were refurbished. What were they used for before? There¡¯s an awful lot of rooms for a personal airship.¡±


    ¡°All sorts of things. Like I said, Lady Porter was strange. Most of them were empty or filled with useless stuff.¡± The attendant stopped to cough into his handkerchief before continuing. ¡°She was probably a hoarder. If you want my opinion, sir, wealthy folk spend too much time feeding their own fancies. She probably had the rooms made on a whim.¡±


    Childe grimaced.


    As the two walked deeper into the bowels of the skyship, piping and machinery began to creep into the hall, snaking their way across walls and ceilings. They rarely ran into other travellers. For all these rooms, Childe noted, there were few passengers. With the hallways empty, he felt like he was walking through the intestines of some massive beast. The sounds of the propellers, once deafening above deck, now sounded muted and resembled the gurgling of gastric motion. The red color didn¡¯t help. And, as they walked, even the air grew warmer.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯ll excuse the heat, sir ¨C we¡¯re currently passing over the engine room.¡±


    Childe shook his head. ¡°Excused. I love the heat. Can¡¯t get enough of it after the Northern Isles, what five years ago?¡±


    ¡°The Northern Isles?¡± The Attendant looked taken aback. ¡°I wasn¡¯t aware you were in the war.¡±


    The doctor huffed. ¡°Oh yes. I¡¯m not some frail old man, no matter how I look.¡± He noticed the Attendant eyeing his cane warily and smiled. ¡°Yes, ever since the war. You really don¡¯t appreciate heat until you¡¯ve been deprived of it for a few months.¡±


    The Attendant stopped abruptly. ¡°We¡¯re here.¡±


    The door they¡¯d stopped at resembled every other door, save for a small rusted plaque inscribed with the number nine. ¡°You should already have your key. Supper will be served at seven. When you hear the meal horn, please proceed to the dining hall through the doors at the ship¡¯s bow. Alternatively, room service is available for a modest fee ¨C just pull the rope beside your bed and a maid will be with you.¡± The Attendant bowed low. ¡°I¡¯ll be leaving you now. I hope you have a smooth trip, doctor.¡±


    He made a stiff about-face and marched back down the hall without another word. As Childe watched the man retreat, he frowned to himself and began calculating. The Wax Wind, gauged from his brief reconnaissance on deck, measured, at most, five hundred and twenty metres from bow to stern. He counted seven hundred and ninety-five steps taken from their entrance in the dance hall to the door of his room. By his reckoning, the journey measured around the fringes of six hundred and thirty-one metres. He¡¯d had his suspicions, and the walk all but confirmed it. All the rooms. The numbering. A chill ran down Childe¡¯s spine. He¡¯d been here before. He needed to look closer.


    But first, there was a more pressing issue to tend to.


    The inside of Childe¡¯s room reflected the outside, meaning it was claustrophobic and cramped. Everything about it was small, from the writing desk to the trunk at the foot of his bed. A quick look at his pocket watch told that it was now six forty-five, fifteen minutes to supper, and another two to the ball.


    Child threw his hat, cane, and overcoat on the rack and sat at the desk. Some rooting around his bag produced a small hand mirror, which he used to inspect the structural integrity of his massive, bone-white moustache. The moustache, which he considered the crowning jewel of his face, required near constant attention. He¡¯d always fancied that he treated his moustache with the same level of devotion that he would his own child. Perhaps it was the fact that he never had any that fostered the obsession. Whatever the cause was, the end result produced a glorious feat of facial hair, its tips reaching past his cheekbones like great bull¡¯s horns.


    Childe took some time to carefully groom and wax his moustache before unpacking the rest of the bag. He removed a week¡¯s worth of clothing, his books, and finally, a thin wooden box with no apparent seam or clasp. The former two were relocated to the trunk, but the box he hid beneath his mattress. Suddenly, a horn sounded. Suppertime. But supper can wait.


    He stood up, adjusted his jacket, and grabbed his hat. Now that he was presentable, Childe Widdershins could begin his investigation.

 Chapter Two: Lady and the Tramp

    "Tickets please." The guard at the entrance of the dining hall frowned. He didn''t look at the old man when he presented his ticket, only took it from his dirt-stained fingers and checked it against the list. "Hm. Welcome, General. I''ll call a server for you." Ding went the bell when he rang it, and not three minutes later, a maid stepped out from behind the double doors, dark eyed and expressionless. "Table for one?"


    "Indubitably!", the General boomed.


    Rolling his eyes, the guard took the man''s coat, cane, and hat. The General wanted to ask where he was taking them, but before he had the chance, he was ushered into the hall.


    The dining room was, like the rest of the ship, splendorous. Like a rectangular interpretation of the dance hall, plants sprouted sporadically from the marble floor, and pink lamps hung from a coffered ceiling. Here, though, tables littered the floor in a seemingly random manner. And there was no chandelier - instead, scented candles set on every table lit the room in discrete pools of light, and filled it with the smell of lavender, honey, and excess. The General followed the maid to a spiral staircase in the back and together they ascended to a second story much like the first. Here though, instead of the coffered ceiling, a large glass roof opened to the four balloons and dying day above.


    "Your table, sir," said the maid, as she led him to a small table near the centre of the room. "And your menu. Your courses have already been decided for you, for the ease of our kitchen crew, as have the drinks. But you may choose the entr¨¦e."


    "You have my gratitude, young man!", boomed the General, loudly enough to startle the nearby diners. "Fine young people like you give me faith in our country! I will be sure to compensate you for your, uh, graciousness."


    The maid shifted uncomfortably. "Well. That''s very kind of you, sir. We''re not allowed to take compensation directly from our guests, but I''ll take it as a compliment." She smiled. "Also, I''m a woman."


    "Ah! Well." They stared at each other for a few silent moments before the General hurriedly broke eye contact and buried himself in the menu. After standing around awkwardly for a few minutes, the maid shuffled away quietly.


    As he looked through the menu, the General felt his stomach drop. The pages were completely incomprehensible. All the words bled into each other and jumped around the page; the tiny text gave him a headache just by being near him. This was hopeless. Frustrated, he threw the menu down and buried his head in his hands. He didn''t know what he expected. It wasn''t like looking at a menu would teach him how to read. While he stewed, he examined the plate set before him. Inexplicably, they''d given him three different sets of forks and spoon, each nearly identical. Why was it so difficult to eat a meal here?


    While he groaned in frustration, diners began to ogle at the strange old man who''d stumbled into their lives. Everything about him they found odd, from his absurd manner to his disgusting beard to his outrageous clothing. The ridiculous powder-blue suit had so many frills and decorations it looked more fitting on a clown than a refined gentleman. But there was nothing gentlemanly about him.


    Their hardly supressed giggling must''ve finally gotten to him because he looked around nervously and tugged at his obvious wig. And when it became clear his distress only drew more attention, sweat began to bead on the General''s forehead and panic lodged itself in his throat.


    When the maid returned, she found the man on the verge of tears. "Sir?", she asked, concern barely entering her voice, "Are you feeling alright?"


    He shot up and blurted "Yes! Perfectly fine, thank you very much! Just an, ah, old injury acting up. From the war."


    The maid shrugged. "If you say so. I can take your order now."


    The General held up the menu and blindly jabbed his finger at a line, desperately hoping it described food.


    Miraculously, the maid smiled and said "An excellent choice, sir. I''ll run this down to the chef."


    He watched her go and sighed in relief. He''d somehow cleared that hurdle, now just to get through the rest of the dinner. Everything in him demanded to leave the awful room, but he''d promised himself he''d act natural. And nothing was more unnatural than seeing a gentleman flee in the middle of dinner. He just prayed it would be over soon.


    Not ten minutes after the first maid left, another approached, brandishing a large, covered metal tray. She set down a glass of opaque pink liquid and unveiled the plate, revealing a pile of suspiciously slimy lumps. "Our appetizer, sir, is fresh bridge tongue, served raw with salt sauce and a glass of bloomberry wine. Please enjoy."


    He eyed the lumps suspiciously. If they tasted as bad as they smelled, he might not survive the night. The wine, though, went down smoothly. It tasted sweet, tangy, and oddly creamy. Before he knew it, he''d finished the glass. Now he just had to stomach the food. Hesitantly, he chose a fork at random and speared a small tongue. Immediately it shrieked and twitched, translucent juice oozing from its wound. The General nearly screamed himself, doubly so when it started seizing violently as the salt sauce seeped into the cut. Incredulous, he looked around at the others casually slurping up their slugs between quiet conversation.


    "Well. Here goes," he muttered as he tentatively placed the creature into his mouth. Immediately the thing exploded against his teeth, releasing far more oily juice than it appeared to hold. He gagged and held a hand to his mouth, struggling not to vomit. There was no way he could swallow this thing; the stress would surely kill him. Desperately, he looked around, and when he thought no one was watching, bent over and spit the thing into a neighboring bush. The rest of the plate he slid away too. Then he sat back and sighed. There was no way the rest of the meal could be that bad.


    Looking up from the empty plate, the General became aware of another patron seated across the room, glaring at him. Suited in a dark tuxedo and blessed with a single, greasy cowlick of black hair, this man sat as straight and rigid as a grandfather clock. Something in his expression reminded the general of a rabid wolverine he''d seen when he broke into a zoo some years ago - almost frothing at the mouth and ready to kill. Nervous, the General smiled and waved at the man. If anything, the gesture drove him further into a rage, and the old man could only watch horrified as he rose trembling from his seat and started storming towards him.


    "Your main course, sir," said the maid, who''d just then entered baring a huge covered metal plate. "You ordered the live murderbeaste-" She was cut off by the panicked General leaping from his seat and making for the stairs, away from the approaching man. The man, realizing how inappropriately he was acting, returned to his seat and stewed instead.Stolen story; please report.


    Finally free from the dining hall, the General took his first relaxed breath all evening. He didn''t even notice the guard staring at him until he asked "How was your meal, sir?"


    "AH! Uh, good, very good, yes. Absolutely scrumptious, sir, very good indeed." He bowed low to the confused guard and ran as casually as he could from the whole situation. He no longer cared that they''d stolen his coat, hat, and cane. It was a small price to pay for his freedom. The General swore never to eat there again.


    Ten minutes later, the General found himself strolling through the ship''s botanical garden, trying to ignore the complaints from his stomach. The garden, he remarked after pushing through the surrounding wrought-iron fence, was one of the strangest places he''d been. At least in the flesh, that was. Though small, what it lacked in size it made up for in color and variety. Like a good fever dream, bizarre plants sprouted and curved like demon architecture, and spores tinted the air in a thin, yellow haze. No two plants were the same, and each bore surreal fruit. Here was one that smelled like feet, and another whose patterns made the General dizzy when he stared for a moment too long.


    His stomach grumbled again and he winced. He''d been counting on dinner, he hadn''t eaten all day. Not after missing most of it caught in a poorly timed dream. It almost made him miss the skyship as a result. The General sat on a stone bench and sighed. He was so hungry, even the foot fruit looked appetizing. Then he had an idea.


    A walk later and he found a fruit he wanted. Reaching up, the General picked the lumpy prize off its branch. It felt soft and oddly warm, and up close, he could see it was covered in short, soft bristles. Though the bristles made his hand itch as he held it, he was too hungry to care.


    Just as he was about to take a bite, though, a voice suddenly cried "Stop! Don''t eat that!" Spinning around, the General was surprised to see one of the most gorgeous women he''d ever laid eyes on. So beautiful was she and so absorbed was he in her that he didn''t notice what she screamed next. Fumbling, he reflexively bit into the fruit, half out of panic and half out of an attempt to appear casual.


    Seven minutes later, the General finally came to. He was lying face up on the cold stone bench, a horrible burning in his stomach and esophagus.


    "Don''t move! It''s still in you. Just sit still and give me a minute." Completely ignoring the advice, he turned to face the voice and was immediately hit by a wave of pain arcing down his neck and into his chest. "What are you, an idiot? I said don''t move!" The girl finished chewing what she''d been chewing for the last five minutes and spat into her hand. "Alright, now drink up."


    If the General wasn''t paralyzed, he would''ve screamed when the girl forced her spit into his mouth and made him swallow. But when it turned out that, against all his expectations, it didn''t immediately kill him, he was left feeling confused and a little violated. But he didn''t complain when, a minute later, relief hit him like a freshwater wave. "There. Now you can move."


    Gingerly, the General sat up on the bench. And immediately doubled over. Vomit exploded from him, dark red and thick and putrid smelling. The girl deftly stepped out of range, but the General himself was not so lucky, spilling the sludge all over his suit. Where it landed, it hissed and burned and frayed the fabric. Finally, when it was over, the General was shaking, heaving, and sweating in his ruined suit.


    "Alright, now that it''s out, mind telling me what in the sky possessed you to eat that thing?" She pointed at the half-eaten fruit, or what he thought was a fruit. On closer inspection, he realized it looked an awful lot like a giant squirming maggot, though one covered in fur and with a big bloody bite taken out of it.


    "Oh my stars, what is that thing!?"


    "You don''t even know what it is? And you still took a bite out of it??", cried the girl incredulously. "It''s an Adam''s tick, dingus. They''re normally pretty rare, but this garden''s crawling with them for some reason." The tick by the General''s feet twitched intermittently, each movement sending blood spilling onto the soil. "Also, they''re ridiculously poisonous. Seriously, what were you thinking?"


    The General almost fainted, but the girl slapped him back to consciousness. "Gah! Okay, I''m awake!" He studied a small plaque on the bench, trying his hardest not to look at the ''tick''. Curiously, the plaque only had a number inscribed on it. A small, cursive seven.


    "I was just really hungry..." he said, "I thought it was a fruit or something..."


    "Really? You were hungry?? How did you survive this long on your own?? You should thank the stars I''m here!"


    The General scratched at his hand, which still itched after holding the tick. Looking more closely, he realised that it had grown swollen and red, and the beginnings of a rash had begun to spread. "Back there, what did you do? What did I swallow?"


    She smiled proudly, and held out a handful of seeds. They were small, withered, and smelled weirdly minty. "You had a bunch of the tick in you. You know, after taking a big bite out of it and all. I had to get it out as fast as possible. Luckily, I happened to have some brulaem seeds on me, so I ground a few up. That''s what you ate."


    He blinked. "Brulaem seeds?"


    "They''re mostly used as an anaesthetic, but if you take enough at once, they can make you vomit."


    "And you just carry these things on you?" He cradled his swollen hand. "Did you really have to chew them?"


    "Yes. They''re activated by saliva. Easier to grind and activate them at the same time." She tucked the seeds back into a small felt pouch before remarking "Also, you''re welcome. For saving your life and all."


    "Huh." They stared at each other awkwardly, the old man in his blood-stained suit and the elegant young woman in her flowing green dress. She looked about seventeen or eighteen, her red hair pulled into an elaborate flower hat. This hat was so incredibly detailed that it looked like she had a small garden growing from the top of her head. Realizing he''d been staring for far longer than appropriate, the General blinked, blushed, and looked away. "So. Now that we''re acquainted. What''s your name?"


    She laughed. "Cynthia Home. But please call me Cynthia. What''s yours?"


    "Uh," the General panicked, suddenly drawing a blank. "General Clint Queen. I mean Lady. General Clint Lady. But call me Clint?" He resisted the urge to go drown himself. "So, uh. Cynthia. Pretty name."


    She rolled her eyes and got up from the bench. Holding out her hand, she said "Come on. Let''s get you to your quarters. You''re in need of a bath."


    As the couple limped out of the gardens, she supporting the General''s frail form with her own, the dinner crowd had begun dispersing from the dining hall. Again, the old man drew stares ranging anywhere from curiosity to horror and disgust. He tried to ignore the stares, but found he couldn''t escape the furious eyes of the man who''d tried to approach him during dinner. The dark-suited man pushed his way through the passengers to stare the general dead in the eyes.


    "You, sir," he cried, in a voice trembling with rage, "are a disgrace of a man! You''re a dimwitted buffoon with no propriety, form, or grace! I can smell your low blood from an island away. You think you can act so outrageously and humiliate me? I will not stand for this." With a bestial snarl, he tore off a glove and threw it at the dumbfounded general''s feet. "If you have any honor, unhand that lady at once and face me, scoundrel!"


    Clint looked from the man to the glove to Cynthia with mouth agape. But before he could say anything, the young woman cried, "A duel?? Are you mad? This man can barely walk!"


    The man''s expression turned from rage to confusion, before returning to an indignant anger. "Quiet, girl! You would never understand a man''s honor. This man has challenged me, and I will not lie quietly at his feet!"


    "If you had any honor, you wouldn''t fight an obviously injured man! He''s covered in blood, for stars'' sake. What would you prove by killing him, other than your own cowardice?" At this, the man''s eyes flashed so dangerously that Cynthia almost faltered. "Yes. Your cowardice. Who would beat an injured man, incapable of defending himself, but a coward?"


    He glowed with so much anger that Clint was worried he''d explode. After a tense minute though, the man actually backed away.


    "Fine. We''ll postpone the duel until next Noonsday, twelve noon. That''s the longest I''ll wait." Without another word, the man in the dark tuxedo walked past the two, into the dance hall and passenger quarters beyond.

 Chapter Three: Livers (Part One)

    Chief Justice Rupert Rupert stormed into his room, almost shaking the door out of its frame when he slammed it. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped from his greasy cowlick. His heart tried to pump its way out of his chest, and the blood in his brain caused his vision to swim and contort. Medicine. He needed his medicine. The judge stumbled to his desk drawer and nearly punched a hole through it trying to get the thing open. There. A small silver bottle in the back. Barely conscious, it was a miracle that Rupert got the cork off and managed to force down a trembling guzzle. Then he crawled into bed and tried to ignore the screaming in his head.


    For what felt like a day, the judge was assaulted by visions of blood and fire. He dreamed of the idiot in the blue suit, of tearing out his throat and beating his face into a bloody pulp. When the man was little more than a puddle of guts, he turned to the girl and ripped her in half. Then he tore into their corpses. He kept shredding and ripping and digging until he finally found them, and tore free their shining livers. He was so hungry. He brought them to his mouth, he tried to take a bite.


    When Rupert reopened his eyes, his heart had finally calmed. Everywhere hurt, especially his head. He suppressed a groan as he rolled limply out of bed, a wet impression of his body etched into his sheets in sweat. Thank the stars for laudanum, he thought, as he tucked the bottle back into its hiding place in the back of the drawer. Where once was rage was now only a pleasant numbness. He frowned. This couldn''t continue. The laudanum was effective at first, but now, only two months later, he could already feel its effects begin to weaken. Under the medicine''s soothing calm, he felt a seething rage. How much longer could it hold him back? How much longer until he''d have to find another solution? He was running out of solutions, and horrifyingly, the episodes were growing not only in frequency but intensity too. Back there, he hadn''t had an episode that intense ¨C not since before the execution. He shook his head. He couldn''t think of such things; the apothecary had warned against it.


    Instead, Rupert tried to focus on the man he''d seen earlier that day.


    The Judge arrived early for boarding as he did for everything in his life. By the time most passengers were struggling aboard, he''d already unpacked what meager supplies he''d deemed necessary to bring. While people were suffering to find their rooms, Rupert lounged in the ship''s observatory, whiskey in one hand and fungus cigar in the other. Papers littered the table before him. For the judge, this trip was no pleasure cruise. In two weeks, he would be presiding over the trial of the Heretical Traitor himself. It would be the crowning achievement of his short career, and he''d make sure the Traitor would hang for his crimes. He just had to hold on until then.


    The glass dome of the observatory cast its gaze over everything worth seeing, from the pink clouds above and below him to the distant islands drifting in the breeze. Small settlements and farms grew on these islands, like moss on river rocks. Watching the people, rendered as small as ants by the distance, milling about their mundane and awful lives, Rupert felt a complete calm wash over him. After so much struggle and so much pain, he was here. Surrounded by more wealth and opulence than he could possibly have dreamt of in his younger days. And not only did he have wealth. He had power too. As the newly appointed King''s Justice, no one was out of his reach. He could change lives with a stray word, he could crush communities on a whim. The thought itself was more than enough to electrify him.


    No. It was happening again. Rupert shook his head as if to shake off the thoughts. When that didn''t work, he threw down a heavy glass of whiskey and poured himself another. After setting the bottle down on the floor, though, he noticed something out the corner of his eye. Something that made his blood run cold. Something he never thought he''d see again. A face, staring back at him from across the room. When they made eye contact, the man turned away and back to his book.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Rupert knew that face. He knew those pale features and long, black hair. Even now, nine years later, he still saw that sharp nose and stared into those lifeless eyes in his nightmares. When the Bobbies found William, they found him stowed aboard a cargo ship bound for Lotusland Greens. He wet himself as they dragged him off and away to the gallows. Rupert was there when the man refused a priest, and he was part of the crowd that quietly watched when the gallows floor opened and a rope broke his fall. William died that day. But here he was. Older, yes, and fatter. But there was no mistaking it.


    The year was 1737. Rupert was a rising star in the bobbies, the youngest commissioner in Greytowne history. That''s why he was there when they found the first body. Lying face down in a puddle of rainwater and her own blood. She was little more than a child when they found her, though there was no way to know it at first. The damage was so severe, she hardly resembled a human. They had no way to identify her, there was nothing left of her face. The same brutal force had also decimated her body, she''d been torn open like a wrapped present. The autopsy found she was missing her liver.


    That night, the dreams started.


    Next day, they found another. This time it was a boy, in pretty much the same condition. He was also missing his liver. And then they found another. And another. Eighteen bodies in total by the end of the month, each slaughtered in the same way. The community was shocked and terrified, but the Bobbies had made no progress in catching the culprit. The attacks were too random, they had nothing to go off of. It was like the killer was everywhere at once. And despite the regular patrols and bobbies on every doorstep, more and more bodies were being found every day.


    Coming home from another slaughtered child, Rupert would sit at the foot of his bed and try to quell the sick rising from his guts with cheap whiskey and strong barbiturates. When he finally collapsed early in the morning from exhaustion, brains blown to pieces by the drinks and drugs, the dreams would start.


    The first time he dreamed, he saw the girl walking home from the old bridge. It was raining, as it so often did in Greytowne, and rivulets ran from the sides of the drab grey buildings to the drab concrete streets. She knew the way well, she''d walk this path home every day. It was the dead of night, and she knew Dad would be out by then, probably passed out in the living room. Hopefully, he''d have finally choked on his own vomit, or been murdered on the way back from the pub.


    That night, the air was freezing, and the rain didn''t help. She needed to get home soon. Rupert watched as she looked from the lit street she normally took to the darkened alleyway. The alleyway made her neck hairs stand on end, but it would save precious minutes of walking. She made her decision and stalked into the unlit street. Rupert followed.


    At first, the dreams were contained to his sleep, but soon they began to influence the waking world. It started with the mood swings. He could be happy and calm, then suddenly fly into a blind rage. Then his friends noticed his personality change. Finally came the visions of blood and fire, the fantasies and urges to rip and tear and eat. He tried to bury his symptoms in alcohol and opium and kept vigilant in his investigation. But it seemed that with every new death, he only grew worse.


    Eventually, the dreams and visions got to him. So powerful were the visions that he was no longer able to tell them apart from reality. And it broke him. There was a night that he found himself tailing a drunkard home from the pub. He looked down, startled, only to be greeted by his own reflection in the blade of his knife. The man in the mirror looked haggard and pale, with long black hair like kudzu and a nose sharp enough to cut with.


    Finally, one day he''d had enough. He couldn''t bear the weight of his sins any longer, whether real or imagined. As he stared down the barrel of his revolver, he imagined that he would finally end the killings.


    Suddenly, there was a pounding at the door.


    "Commissioner Rupert!" cried a voice on the other side, "Don''t do it! We''ve found the killer!!"


    It was about time, he thought, as he cocked and squeezed the trigger. But he''ll beat them to it. He''ll take care of this killer.


    Suddenly, a deafening crack rang out and Rupert''s door exploded inwards. As the ashes settled, it revealed the old man and the bewildered bobbies flanking him.


    Rupert spun around with mouth agape as he hobbled into his office, overcoat billowing behind him. Before he could say a word, the old man twirled his cane with the dexterity of a man half his age and, moving so fast he was like a blur, swung at the barrel of Rupert''s gun. On impact, the revolver withered into dust in his hand.


    "Let''s not jump to conclusions now, commissioner," the old man said, stroking his great, bone white moustache.

 Chapter Three: Livers (Part Two)

    Rupert stood speechless as the man first waved the bobbies into his office, then sat in a chair himself, groaning in relief. "What- what''s going on here?" Rupert demanded, after a minute of stunned silence.


    "Didn''t you hear the bobby, boy? We caught the killer. No need to go offing yourself now."


    "What? No! I don''t know who you think you are, you senile fool, but you''ve got the wrong guy. It was me, I''m the killer! I killed all those people, and I ate their livers too!" Spittle flew from Rupert''s mouth as he yelled, and his eyes glowed dangerously.


    "Ridiculous," said the man, lighting a cigarette. "I won''t hear it."


    "You- how dare you! Don''t you know who I am!?" Rupert glared at the bobbies, his face a contorted demon of himself. "Which one of you incompetents let this man in here? Get him out of my office!" Already he could feel his heart pounding, and the blood in his skull threatening to blow its way out of his head. It was happening again. "You bunch of worthless stains, I''ll butcher you all! I''ll-I''ll tear you apart! Beat you until you''re a bloody puddle!" As the corners of his vision grew red, Rupert saw himself ripping and tearing through the group, stripping their flesh from their bones, breaking open their ribs to reveal their shining livers. He stood trembling from his chair, hands strained into rigid claws.


    And, suddenly, it was over. Like walking out of a thick fog, Rupert was back to his normal self, the rage seemingly dispelled like steam. He blinked and looked around, suddenly more himself than he''d been for the last three months of murder. "What¡­"


    "Ah-hah! So. That proves it." The old man slowly rose out of his chair, chuckling to himself. "I''ll admit, even I had my doubts at first. But now it''s undeniable." The bobbies looked at each other nervously as he turned to face them. "We''re done here. William Flowers will hang tomorrow morning."


    "Would someone please tell me what in the stars is going on!?" cried Rupert, who still found himself calmer than he''d been for the past month. "Who are you!? Who is William Flowers!? Why am I-" he trailed off when he saw the man''s silver pocket watch.


    "You know who I am, commissioner. And you know poor William is too, though you don''t remember it. He''s your killer." Already he was hobbling toward the still-smoldering door.


    "Doctor, wait! How did you find him!? How can you be so sure!?"


    Childe turned and winked at the young commissioner. "I shouldn¡¯t say, my boy. But don''t worry. I''m sure you''ll remember one day."


    They killed William after that. Just like that, it was over. He was never given a trial, it was straight to the gallows for him. And, up until the rope crushed his windpipe, William professed his innocence. As Rupert watched him die, he thought he might throw up. But he didn''t. And, for the most part, everything went back to normal. No more bodies turned up. The people of Greytowne mourned and they cried and they celebrated the memories of the victims. And, as the years passed, they moved on. To Rupert, it seemed that the only thing that remained was the dreams.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    In his unconscious mind, he still saw faces. People he never knew. It always started the same, with him following them down an alley or lying in wait beneath their beds. And it always ended the same. He never dreamt of the same person twice. But unlike his Greytowne days, the bodies were never found.


    As his position rose, so did the frequency of the dreams. And so too did their intensity. He visited countless healers and apothecaries and alchemists, but no one could provide a lasting solution. Now nine years had passed, and Rupert was no closer to moving from the past. The visions only grew stronger, his anger more intense and random. And William Flowers. He still saw the man on the backs of his eyelids, flailing and choking and trying to claim his innocence. But it was too late.


    The Man That Could Not Be William Flowers got up and made for the door. But just before stepping out of sight, he turned and looked Rupert in the eyes. And he smiled.


    Rupert didn''t know what to make of the incident. He thought and thought as he walked across the deck back to the dance hall, but couldn''t imagine anything but it being a coincidence. He was mistaken. This was no William Flowers, because William Flowers had died nine years earlier. That was that.


    The dance hall door opened to a room empty save for one figure. An old lady in a kitschy pink dress, digging through the ferns and bushes with trembling fingers. He''d seen her when he first boarded four hours ago. Though he was among the first passengers to board, the lady still looked like she''d been there for hours already. Dirt coated her dress, and her fingers were black and green with detritus. Warily, Rupert approached her.


    "Excuse me, madam?" he said, "Did you lose something? Could I help?"


    The lady jerked around to face him, and he saw tears behind her thick spectacles. "My daughter! I''ve lost my daughter!"


    "I beg your pardon?"


    "Have you seen her? She must be in this room somewhere, I left her right under this tree. Please, you must have seen her! She''s only six!"


    "What, that''s awful! Sorry, I haven''t seen her. But I''ll help you look, of course! What does she look like?"


    "I¡­" the old woman stared off into space for a while, eyes twitching. "I don''t remember. I¡­ it''s been so long¡­" She began to cry, tears filling the lines in her face. Rupert looked at the old woman and began to feel disgust welling inside him. How embarrassing. Look at this grown woman crying like a blubbering fool. And that hideous dress. The dirt could be considered an improvement. Improper and disgusting. Grown women who grovel in the dirt like worms don''t deserve to live.


    He sneered and stepped back. "What? What kind of mother can''t remember what their daughter looks like? No wonder she left you." He chuckled and tried to make for the door, but the woman rose and stood in his way.


    "I know, I''m an awful mother! I''m an awful, horrible mother, who doesn''t deserve her baby. But I''m begging you, help me find her, help me for her! Help me find my Sarah!"


    "Help yourself, you old hag! You don''t deserve a thing if you can''t help yourself! People like you disgust me. Out of my way."


    When she didn''t move, Rupert shoved her to the ground. He didn''t look at the old woman sprawled on the cold marble as he pushed past the double doors to the passenger quarter. It would be dinner soon, and he needed to get dressed. It was the responsibility of the upper class to show the masses how to behave, after all. Impeccable dress, implacable manners, impartial attitude ¨C that was his creed.


    As he pulled on his dark tuxedo, Rupert gave himself one last look in the mirror before smiling, satisfied. Now he was ready to eat.


    Rupert wrenched himself from his reminiscence. A look at his brass pocket watch showed it was a quarter to nine ¨C almost time for the ball. Quickly, he peeled off his sweat-drenched tuxedo and dried himself with a towel. Stars, what had he done? He threw on the first clothes he could find and raced toward the ballroom. He had to find the old gentleman from earlier. The old lady too. He didn''t deserve it, but maybe they would forgive him.

 Chapter Four: I Remember You

    "I''m so sorry, I was incredibly unfair to you. You''re a wonderful mother. I don''t expect forgiveness, but please know that I wasn''t myself when I said those things to you!"


    It was awfully confusing talking to the strange gentleman in the mismatched suit. He was like a little dancing monkey, with his funny clothes and exaggerated gestures. She especially liked his cowlick, which made his head resemble a drooping flyfruit. If only he would stop talking. The conversation had stagnated long ago, and his droning was giving her a headache. She tried contributing like Ms. Gretchen always taught her, but the man gave no opportunity for interjection. Awful conversation skills, she remarked.


    "¡­and again, I''m so incredibly sorry. I''d be honored to help you find your daughter."


    Cat waited a minute to make sure he''d actually stopped talking, before starting "Gee, thanks, mister. That''s awfully kind of you." All this talking had tired her out, and she hadn''t been paying much attention to what he was saying. Hopefully, she said the right thing. Ms. Gretchen always told her to be polite, and she figured it wouldn''t hurt to be nice.


    The man looked puzzled. "Oh. Um. Well, you''re welcome, I guess."


    "Okay, I don''t want to talk to you anymore. Goodbye!" She smiled and skipped away from the man, whose mouth hung open in surprise. It made him look even more like a drooping flyfruit, she thought and wondered if any drooping flyplants grew in the room. They only sprouted in tropical climates, but here it didn¡¯t matter ¨C all sorts of plants grew in the dance hall. There was an arctic smallmonger blooming beside a fairyflower bush, and Cat even passed a fiery foottail, which only grew in boiling water. The room was fascinating.


    She was so absorbed by a particularly ripe red-faced howlervine that she almost ran into the Attendant. It was like the man had stepped out from thin air; where once was emptiness now he stood, huge and looming. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir, madame. I''m terribly sorry but I''ll need the two of you to step out of the room for a few moments. We need to prepare for our departure ball." One of his eyes, she noticed, glinted brighter than the other.


    "Right now?", spoke the confusing monkey man from earlier. "There must be fewer than fifteen minutes before the ball. What in the sky could you be preparing for?"


    "I''m deeply sorry, sir. There were unforeseen difficulties in our planning. But I assure you, everything will be proceeding on time. We just need to make some last-minute arrangements." He eyed the man''s mismatched suit and Cat''s dirty pink dress. "Before then, might I suggest you take the time to change into more appropriate attire?"


    "What?", huffed Cat, "But I wanted to see all the plants!"


    "Then I suggest you visit our botanical garden."


    Cat''s eyes lit up. "You have a botanical garden? Golly, I''d love to see it!"


    "Just out the door and up the stairs to your left, miss," said the Attendant dismissively.


    There was no need to tell her twice, she was out the door like an oiled weasel. Immediately she was struck by the wind, which whipped all around her. Now that they were really moving, the deck swayed sickeningly and furious winds tore in every direction. Everywhere was the deafening roar of propellers. She didn''t wait to scramble up the staircase and raced to the door of the greenhouse.


    It was warm in the greenhouse, and humid too. Though small, the garden more than made up for it in the sheer variety of plants. They burst from the ground, the walls, even the ceiling. Cat thought she''d never seen anything so wonderful in her life. She turned to close the door behind her, but a hand caught it and the monkey man let himself in behind her.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "What about your daughter?" he cried.


    "I don''t have a daughter," said Cat indignantly. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s look at plants.¡±


    The confounded man followed Cat as she strolled between the planters. "That''s a Grubelwatt Eyeswatter," she said, pointing to an oddly muscular vine, "Famous for swatting Grubelwatt in the eye. And that''s a Grubelwatt Kneescratcher." A bright pink brush, about the size of a large duck, trembled as she walked by. "Famous for scratching Grubelwatt on the knee. And that''s a-"


    "Hold on a second! Back there, you said you lost your daughter in the dance hall!"


    She looked at him blankly.


    "Sarah! Remember? You said her name is Sarah!"


    "Who''s Sarah?"


    "Your daughter!" In frustration, the man slapped his forehead. "Stars, am I going mad?"


    Cat patted the man on the shoulder. "Are you angry?"


    "Yes! I mean no! I just wanted to apologize for insulting you, that¡¯s all. And you¡¯re making it incredibly difficult.¡± He took a deep breath. ¡°You seriously don¡¯t remember what you told me? The things I said to you?¡±


    ¡°Nope!¡± Cat sat down on a bench, her knees creaking in thanks. ¡°You sound angry. Ms. Gretchen says you should never be angry. It¡¯s no good for your brains.¡± She gestured to the empty bench beside her, and the man hesitantly sat beside her. In a low voice, Cat whispered ¡°Ms. Gretchen says never to talk to strangers. But you seem nice. Don¡¯t tell her we¡¯re speaking!¡±


    ¡°¡­Okay.¡± He picked up a leaf and tugged at it idly. Then, in a cheerful voice, he asked: ¡°What¡¯s your name? Mine¡¯s Rupert Rupert.¡±


    She giggled. ¡°That¡¯s a funny name! My name¡¯s Cat.¡± She purred and licked the back of her hand. ¡°That¡¯s because I¡¯m a cat, see?¡±


    Rupert smiled. ¡°Right. I see the resemblance. Hey, since you know so much about plants, why don¡¯t you show me around the garden a bit more?¡±


    After a few minutes of walking, Rupert stopped before a thicket of orange vines. ¡°What are these?¡± On numerous vines and branches hung strange, fuzzy fruit. ¡°I see them everywhere, even on different plant species.¡± He reached out to pick one but Cat interrupted by pulling his sleeve. Pushing aside leaves to get a better look, Cat squinted up at the things. Although her eyesight was deteriorating, she could more than make out the telltale bulges and curves.


    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s weird,¡± she said, picking up a long branch and poking at the thing. A few hits and it dropped, squirming when it hit the ground. Rupert cringed when he saw the now-obvious furry maggot. ¡°Adam¡¯s ticks. I wonder why they¡¯re here. Wait, don¡¯t kill it!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Rupert¡¯s boot held poised precariously above the maggot, in a primed stomping position. ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re perfectly harmless! Please don¡¯t kill it!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s disgusting.¡± Suddenly, he shook his head and stepped back, holding a hand to his mouth. ¡°I mean no. Okay. I¡¯ll let it go.¡±


    Being careful not to touch it, Cat picked it up with the stick and raised it back to its vine. ¡°It¡¯s not disgusting, by the way.¡± Rupert watched as the Adam¡¯s tick settled onto the vine and became still, somehow resembling a fuzzy peach. ¡°When they¡¯re in this stage, they¡¯ll hibernate and eat the chloro-serum oozed from some plants. That¡¯s why they don¡¯t move. But in a few weeks, when they¡¯ve eaten enough, they burst from their old bodies into beautiful Adam¡¯s flies! Isn¡¯t that great? Mister?¡±


    Rupert was hunched over, hands balled into fists, a scowl frozen on his face. Slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled free a silvery flask which he forced open and drank desperately from.


    ¡°Mister? Are you okay? Ms. Gretchen says drinking is a sin, you know.¡±


    ¡°Shut up! I¡¯m okay!¡± He shook his head, slowly becoming relaxed. ¡°I¡¯m okay. Yes. Ms. Gretchen is right. Don¡¯t drink.¡± Shivering as if he had a fever, Rupert tucked the flask back into his coat and squinted at the Adam¡¯s tick. Now that he looked closer, he could see it clung onto the vine by a sucker-like mouth. ¡°What¡¯s chloro-serum?¡±


    ¡°Hmm, I can¡¯t remember. Some kind of sap that a few plants make.¡± She paused. ¡°It¡¯s actually really weird there are so many ticks here. Usually, they¡¯re only found around battlefields or slaughterhouses.¡±


    Cat was interrupted by a loud crash. Suddenly, the ship jerked and a violent tremor shook the deck like an earthquake. The stone beneath their feet grew warmer, and the deck lurched sickeningly. She sensed a movement deep beneath her in the heart of the ship, as if a massive machine had shifted imperceptibly below them. The two looked at each other in concern, just as a horn blared. It was time for the ball.

 THE MAGICIAN

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure that was nothing to worry about,¡± said Rupert, tugging at his collar. ¡°Probably some minor turbulence.¡± But Cat paid him no mind, she was peering out the greenhouse door at the passengers queued before the dance hall. They reminded her of tropical birds, the ladies dressed in resplendent colors and the men in dark, formal tailcoats.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± asked Cat. ¡°Why are they dressed like that?¡±


    Confused, Rupert replied, ¡°Why, the ball of course. Remember?¡±


    ¡°Golly, they¡¯re having a ball down there?¡± She turned to face Rupert with a pleading expression. ¡°Can we go?¡±


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t see why not¡­¡±


    The guard at the entrance of the hall looked over their outfits with disdain. Still, he took their names and handed Cat a dance card embossed with floral designs, along with a pencil. After a quick bow, he turned and showed them inside.


    The inside of the dance hall was one of the most wonderful things Cat had ever seen. Elegant bushes and trees sprouted from the floor, and a magnificent chandelier washed the room in a romantic light. Despite this, the place gave her an odd feeling. While she¡¯d never seen anything so beautiful in her life, there persisted the feeling that she¡¯d been here before.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t that chandelier look dimmer to you?¡± whispered Rupert, but she didn¡¯t seem to hear.


    Something was wrong. She was sure of it now. Something was dreadfully, unchangeably, irrevocably wrong. All of a sudden, Cat experienced the curious sensation of being inflated like a balloon, like what a mountaineer might feel on scaling incredible heights. It was such a strange light-headedness that she would¡¯ve fallen over if Rupert hadn¡¯t been tugging her hand towards the dance floor. Slowly, she regained use of her wrinkled ears and took in the music echoing from the string band at the back. It sounded discordant and awful. Where was she? All around her danced stiff men and strange birds. It smelled nauseating in here, like a thousand flowers had wilted and died. She wanted to go home. Again the tug at her hand. This time she followed it with her eyes, traveled up the hand to a dark-suited arm and finally to the gaunt and hideous face above, topped like a demon pyramid by a single stab of black hair.


    ¡°Monster!¡± Cat screamed, pulling away from the hand and stumbling backward. Immediately she crashed into a young girl, who, up until that point, had been piling her paper plate high with cucumber sandwiches at the refreshments stand. They exploded on impact, spilling rotfruit punch and cucumber sandwich slices onto the marble floor.


    The monster¡¯s face contorted with anger as he shouted: ¡°Watch your mouth, hag!¡± Almost as if surprised with himself, he clapped a hand over his mouth. But before he could say anything more, an older gentleman gripped his shoulder and spun him around with a meaty hand. ¡°I beg your pardon! Do not think that I¡¯ll stand idly by while you insult that fair lady! Apologize immediately or-¡± The booming gentleman was cut short by a fist to the kidneys. The crowd screamed and Cat thought she saw someone faint, but the monster didn¡¯t mind. He grabbed the gentleman by the shoulders and put his knee through his face. Then, with the man lying prone on the ground, he descended, ripping into the gentleman¡¯s audacious suit with clawed hands.


    The band, unknowing or uncaring of the carnage, kept playing their hellish noise. They plucked and pulled faster and faster, working up to a feverish tempo as the two wrestled desperately. The monster finally drew blood, flicking the stuff from his ragged fingernails into the horrified crowd. The gentleman¡¯s scream echoed again and again. If everyone hadn¡¯t been so captured by the gory display, they might have noticed a dark-haired gentleman turn away, his sharp-nosed silhouette making its escape into the labyrinth of corridors and rooms beyond.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    And then, as suddenly as the fight began, into the circle burst this enormous woman. She was half as wide as she was tall, and over her hulking muscular frame hung a boxy leopard-print pantsuit. It was amazing Cat hadn¡¯t noticed her earlier. ¡°Enough,¡± she grumbled in a voice that could erode mountains. When the monster wouldn¡¯t stop, she sighed, and, like a kitten, lifted him off the gentleman by the scruff of his suit. In the air, the man flailed and scratched at her arm but she lifted him higher and threw him down hard onto the marble floor.


    A cold sensation ran down Cat¡¯s side, and she felt her dress to find that she was wet. Why was she wet? The floor was wet too, it was slick with an orange liquid that smelled like rot. Where was she? What was she doing here? A sickening crack caught her attention and she spun around to see the strangest scene. A giant woman pounded a man repeatedly into the ground, while another bled profusely beside them. She turned and saw a young girl beside her, cucumbers and punch speckling her dress. Like the rest of the crowd, she stared jaw agape at the vicious beatdown. This girl, she had the most beautiful red hair. It was almost as beautiful as Sarah¡¯s.


    Cat¡¯s head pounded, it felt like she was being crushed under water. A stumble backward, then another. She tried to take a step but couldn¡¯t find it, she¡¯d hooked her foot on a tree root. Now she was falling. Falling. Crash.


    She dreamed of fire.


    ¡°Please don¡¯t do this Mama,¡± the little girl pleaded, face buried in Cat¡¯s dress. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this! I¡¯ll go with her. Okay? I¡¯ll go with her so please, don¡¯t leave!¡±


    Cat pulled her daughter in towards her. She smelled like strawberries and ash. The once beautiful flower dome now burned all around them, wooden support beams cracking and groaning with heat and stress. The ceiling wouldn¡¯t hold out much longer. It would collapse and crush everything inside. Her life¡¯s work, gone in an instant.


    Outside, the explosions were growing louder. They were almost out of time. ¡°Oh, bug,¡± Cat whispered as she stroked her hair. She tried to say something, anything, but her throat closed up. All she could do was whisper ¡°I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    And the vision changes. She¡¯s alone now. Wooden beams and glass fell around her, and the heavy wooden scaffold and glass dome above creaked dangerously. The booming grew to a crescendo and with one final explosion, the wrought-iron doors to the dome exploded inward, revealing the tall Woman behind it. Her and her ever-present black bowler hat. Cat smiled. Too late. Enough hiding, she thought as she took the first swing. The axe sunk deep into the wood. Enough running. Another swing. The Woman had spotted Cat and sprinted toward her, eyes widening as she realized what Cat attempted to do. Too late, she thought as she reared up to swing one last time.


    The crack of her axe coincided with the crack of The Woman¡¯s revolver. As her sapling fell, Cat looked down at the flower slowly blooming in her chest. Soon, she, too, fell, and her blood mixed with the dirt and nurtured the roots dying beneath her. The last thing she saw as she looked up at the wreckage of her world was the gentle snowfall of a bright winter morning. Snowflakes melted on her face as the ceiling finally caved in and buried everything underground.


    The first thing Cat saw when she opened her eyes was the gentle snowfall of a bright winter morning. The world was deathly quiet. She sat up slowly, head pounding. It felt like there were explosions behind her eyes. There were people all around, dressed like birds of paradise. Everyone stood frozen in place, faces angled up in confusion and amazement. Of course. Tourists were always impressed when they stepped inside the flower dome. Cat just giggled and tried to catch the snowflakes on her tongue. They tasted like ash.


    In that moment, somewhere deep below the hull of the ship, encased in the piping and clockwork engines of the Wax Wind, a clocktower struck One. The chiming of the bells sounded through the halls, echoing and amplifying through carefully carved tunnels until it suffused every room on the ship. Although the passengers had no way of knowing it, upon hearing the sound, a single, simultaneous chill ran down everyone¡¯s spine. They wouldn¡¯t have long to contemplate it. A clink resonated through the room as the chain holding the chandelier to the domed roof broke cleanly in two.


    The couple standing transfixed below the chandelier barely moved in time as it fell and shattered against the hard marble floor. As it did, it released a wave of blinding light. Tiny crystal shrapnel suffused the air, mixing with the snow. Each glowed like dying stars. And, in seconds, each faded into dull, bloody rocks. As the light subsided, the stunned passengers unblocked their eyes and took in the horrible scene before them. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed and a couple fainted. There, half encased in crystal, blood dripping from his once-great bone white moustache, was the broken and naked body of the King¡¯s own Dr. Childe Widdershins.

 Chapter Five (Part One): The Missing Girl

    Just after midnight, the man known as Darren Cur double-locked the door to his room before checking on the girl lying unconscious on his cot. If he hadn¡¯t just checked her pulse, he might¡¯ve thought she was dead. Her chest lay still and unmoving, her skin was cold and clammy; already, she was losing color in her child-like features. Darren sighed and felt the glass vial hidden in his overcoat¡¯s breast pocket. A solution he¡¯d picked up from some backstreet witch in the slums of Orangetown. It was one he hoped he¡¯d never have to use, despite the witch¡¯s insistence that ¡°It works perfect, dear. Just a drop and she¡¯s all yours.¡±


    Suddenly, there came a sharp rapping at his room door. Darren¡¯s hand instinctively flew to his revolver, but relaxed when he heard the second rap. Then a pause of twelve seconds. Two raps in quick succession. A pause. A final rap. Darren slipped open the door and Bonnie stormed in, ragged and out of breath. She did a double take when she saw the girl, but visibly calmed when Darren showed her the vial. Then she flared up again.


    ¡°Stars, Darren, what were you thinking using that? Who knows what kind of poison went into making that thing?¡±


    ¡°No choice.¡± The man gestured toward the girl. ¡°She almost got away.¡±


    Bonnie sighed and rubbed her eyes. They both sat at the foot of his narrow bed and took turns staring at the wall. The wall was there.


    ¡°You look gross,¡± said Bonnie, to no one in particular. Darren looked at her and she stuck her tongue out at him.


    ¡°Feel grosser.¡±


    ¡°Then that makes two of us.¡± She covered his hand with hers. It was warm. Alive.


    Darren looked over the woman he loved. Tall, lanky, and pale, Bonnie Blue might have been the perfect personification of a birch tree had she not been born with the bright shock of pink hair that exploded from her head. Dark bags now gathered under her eyes, and her frame drooped with exhaustion. She looked how he felt, Darren realized. And for good reason. It had been a tremendously long day.


    They should never have gone to the ball.


    The girl had insisted that they go, stars know why. She said she would die if they didn¡¯t. She even threatened to scream. Finally, Bonnie relented. ¡°Half an hour,¡± she said. ¡°You can go for half an hour. Any longer and I¡¯ll drag you back myself, you hear?¡± The girl was overjoyed. Darren hadn¡¯t seen her so happy in all the time they¡¯d been together. ¡°But remember, no dancing. No one can know you were there.¡±


    The girl didn¡¯t care. She didn¡¯t know how to dance anyhow. Darren picked out a dress for her from his collection, and she twirled and posed in front of her small handheld mirror. It was dark blue and modest, elegant enough to fit in, quiet enough to escape attention. ¡°I don¡¯t like this, Bonnie,¡± he said as she painted the girl¡¯s face in dull, fleshy tones.


    Bonnie finished touching up the girl¡¯s eyeliner before turning to Darren and pecking him on the cheek. ¡°It¡¯ll be fine. She¡¯s a kid. She needs to get out now and then, do kid things. This¡¯ll be good for her.¡±


    Later, at the ball. The girl didn¡¯t know where to look, it was all so fantastic. Ladies and gentlemen dipped and swooned in the starlight of the chandelier, silhouetted between trees and the smoky air. Darren trailed her, keeping to the darkened edges of the room, his eyes darting between the intoxicated dancers. He watched as the girl beelined for the refreshments stand and began the process of piling a plate precariously high with cucumber sandwiches. He smiled. Not wanting to risk the dining hall, the three of them had only nibbled at Darren¡¯s supply of crumbly cheese and crusty bread earlier.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Suddenly, a commotion from the crowd. ¡°Monster!¡±, cried an older woman in a dirt-stained pink dress. She pulled away, colliding with the girl in the process and sending her cascading into the table. Punch and cucumbers scattered every which way.


    ¡°Watch your mouth, hag!¡± retorted a man in the crowd.


    The crowd grew still, all eyes drawn on the pair. Eyes all too close to the girl. Just Darren¡¯s luck. Before he could decide how to extract her from the situation, however, some old buffoon in an outrageous blue suit intervened. Darren couldn¡¯t hear the words exchanged, but they couldn¡¯t have been worth the immediate escalation by the cowlicked monster. He pounced on the old man like an animal, and everyone stood in shocked silence as the two wrestled to the tempo of the string band.


    Seeing his opportunity, Darren moved to grab the girl. But before he could get close, he was interrupted by an iron-cold grip on his shoulder. He spun around, hand on his holster, before coming face to face with a stone-faced Attendant.


    ¡°Sir. Could I have you for a moment?¡±


    Something told Darren it wasn¡¯t a question. He eyed the Attendant warily, eyes darting from him to the girl and back again. Great timing. ¡°There¡¯s a fight,¡± Darren said dully.


    ¡°So there is.¡± His grip on Darren¡¯s shoulder tightened. ¡°I need to speak with you. Privately. Please, right this way, sir.¡±


    As the Attendant steered Darren toward the exit, he stole a last glance at the girl and the fight behind her. A massive woman had inexplicably stepped into the ring, and held the monster off the ground with one hand. And behind her, deep in the crowd, just for a second, Darren thought he saw the hint of a black bowler hat.


    And then it happened.


    Not many people saw the old woman trip and fall, splitting her head against the gnarled roots of the room¡¯s centermost tree. But everyone saw what happened next. The tree, which until that moment, stood dormant and desiccated, began to shake and writhe. Its barren branches trembled, and from them erupted dandelion-like pods. As if choreographed, the pods all exploded at once, their contents saturating the air with dazzling white flakes.


    In seconds, every person and square inch of the room became covered in the snow-like substance. The flakes smelled sulphuric, and itched on skin contact like a strong acid.


    A bone chilling scream echoed throughout the chamber, it twisted and rasped and scraped against the insides of Darren¡¯s guts. He realized with a start that it had come from the girl. She was kneeled over, clawing at her back with both hands, chest heaving erratically. Another awful scream. Darren tried to rush to her but the Attendant tackled him to the ground with greater power than his frame would suggest.


    Nobody seemed to notice the girl. The old woman was catching ¡°snow¡± on her tongue. Everyone else stood frozen, dull faces angled upward, staring at something Darren couldn¡¯t see. Almost everyone. There was one who moved through the crowd, flashes of her black bowler hat appearing like a shark fin out of the water as she closed in on her prey.


    Finally, the woman stopped to stand in front of the girl, arms outstretched and a smile plastered on her pallid face. Darren could only watch, horrified, as the girl slowly rose from her trance and faced the woman. ¡°Mama!¡±, she cried, and ran to embrace her.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, sweetie,¡± the woman cooed, ¡°I¡¯ve got you. You¡¯re safe now.¡± She looked at Darren and smiled. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get out of here. I won¡¯t let that bad man won¡¯t hurt you anymore.


    Darren struggled, but the Attendant had him pinned like a butterfly collection. ¡°No! Don¡¯t let her take you! You have to resist!¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon, sir, but I¡¯d like to talk now, if you¡¯re able.¡± With near herculean strength, the Attendant lifted Darren off the ground and slammed him down so hard the marble cracked. For a moment, his vision went black, and dots swam around the periphery. The Attendant reared up, one eye glinting evilly in the snow-distorted light.

 Chapter Five (Part Two): The Missing Girl

    The pain crept through her like necrosis through frostbite, grew out from her spine like tumours or dandelions. It seeped through her skin until it dyed her back in crosshatched scar tissue, burning as hot as the day the Kiddie Catcher first branded it into her. It was a slow pain. The kind of pain you don¡¯t even notice until it has chewed right through your ribcage and sunk its teeth into your heart.


    Bonnie was reading by candlelight when the pain set in. Though she had experienced many exotic pains over her tragically long life, Bonnie Blue hated the slow pain the worst. It wasn¡¯t a long pain, nor was it even particularly painful, relatively, at least. What truly hurt was the anticipation. Because the real pain always came after. Although Bonnie hadn¡¯t felt the pain in well over five years, on feeling the first tingles ripple through her body, she soon found herself transported back to the Canary Farm. The classroom she wished she could forget, the Reading Chair in the atrium.


    As soon as Bonnie could move again, as soon as she was finished wiping off her mascara, as soon as she confirmed what she had always feared by the light of the girl¡¯s small handheld mirror, Bonnie dug the stained penknife out of its hidden compartment in her luggage and took off down the dark, winding corridors.


    What Bonnie found within the dance hall was a scene that felt more like dream than reality. Snow slowly fell from the ceiling, the flakes disappearing as soon as they touched the floor. All around the room were dancers who no longer danced, held in suspension, looks of fear and wonder frozen on their faces. An old lady in a pink dress knelt on the floor, tongue stuck out like a gargoyle. It was as if time itself had stopped for the crowd. Nobody moved, not even to breathe.


    Nobody except the two in the corner. A large man had another pinned against a wall, hands wrapped around their neck. The victim kicked, but it did no good. The man only squeezed harder and lifted his prey off the ground.


    ¡°Hey! Dingus!¡±, shouted Bonnie, ¡°Leave him alone!¡±


    The larger man looked back in surprise and Bonnie was shocked to see the face of Darren Cur staring back at her. ¡°Bonnie?¡± he began to say, but was interrupted by a beam of light that tore cleanly through his chest cavity. There was a moment of shocked stillness before Darren collapsed backward, open-eyed and lifeless.


    ¡°No!¡± Bonnie surprised herself with the shrillness of her own voice. ¡°Darren!¡±


    The Attendant stood over the body, massaging his neck, stunned expression on his face. For a moment, he looked about to say something, but instead turned tail and fled into the passenger quarters.


    Bonnie rushed to Darren¡¯s corpse. Without a trace of hesitation, she drew the penknife and plunged it deep into her own heart. The numbness set in immediately. The cold came soon after. It spread through her body like weeds in a garden, kudzu climbing through her veins. Freezing her blood, turning her flesh, bone, and sinew into granite. She watched the snowflakes slow in their fall, eventually stopping altogether, suspended in mid-air. For the moment, at least, time itself had stopped.


    She smelled rust, tasted it on her tongue.


    ¡°I¡¯ve bled, I bleed, I¡¯ll bleed for you.¡± Bonnie scratched the phrase in flaming letters on the inside of her mind, as was required. ¡°I gave, I give, I¡¯ll give myself to you. I cage my soul to make you free. Bill Whistle, Man of Rust, King of None, Rat in The Cage. Grant me audience, I want to give.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    A silent minute passed. Bonnie felt the anxiety begin to bloom. It had been so long. Would Bill still speak with her? Before she could finish the thought, a lock clicked deep inside her mind. The door that we all hold within our souls did something that it so seldom did for people like us ¨C it opened. And from it came a voice that grated at the mind like time to the body.


    ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t Bonnie Blue. How you doing, babe? And here I¡¯d thought you¡¯d forgotten all about me.¡±


    ¡°Shut it. I need you to fix him.¡± She focused her mind on Darren, smoke leaking from the hole in his chest. ¡°I¡¯ll pay. Any price.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the rush? No time to chat with an old friend? Sure, I can bring him back. Anything for you, love.¡± There was a pause, and Bonnie felt Bill smile inside her, a horrible, crippling smile. ¡°But see, this operation¡¯s tricky. And it won¡¯t come cheap. We¡¯re dealing in life now; only proper we deal in its currency. You know how many years your boy had left in him before he bit the bullet? How much would you pay for one more year?¡±


    ¡°I said any price. Name it.¡±


    Mm. For anyone else, I¡¯d say fifteen years. That¡¯s fifteen of your years for every one that Darren lives from here on.¡±


    ¡°What! That¡¯s absolute beans! What sort of equivalent exchange is that?¡±


    ¡°See, I¡¯m not sure you¡¯re in any position to make demands. Fortunately for you, I¡¯m feeling generous. To celebrate the return of our prodigal daughter, I¡¯ll do the operation for a measly sixty years up front. No strings attached.¡±


    Bonnie might have reeled at the price were she able to move in the time-locked room. Sixty years in life is already a long time, but in the House of Whistle, it might as well be an eternity. By the time she finished, there wouldn¡¯t be much of her left worth finishing for. But the alternative? ¡°Okay. Sixty years up front. Do it, Rat.¡±


    ¡°Already done.¡±


    She watched as the flaps of Darren¡¯s burnt flesh twitched and quivered, before stretching and stitching themselves back together. Pieces of his meat rotted and withered away, revealing new, shiny nuggets wriggling like maggots, knitting themselves into place. Entropy reversed. In seconds, the hole in Darren¡¯s chest was filled by a mass of scar tissue. Patchwork skin, patchwork organs.


    ¡°Be seeing you, Bonnie Blue.¡±


    The penknife clanged to the floor, and as it did, Bonnie felt the warmth return to her core. Time began ticking again. The wound in her chest remained as a receipt, but her bleeding had stopped. Curiously, it wasn¡¯t blood that leaked from the cut, but a black oil that stank like rust.


    A loud cough and a convulsion. Another twitch, another cough; Bonnie watched the briefly deceased Darren Cur gasp and stumble back into the living world. She embraced him. What else could she do?


    ¡°What,¡± croaked the man, ¡°what did you do?¡± Leaning to the side, he hacked up a glob of foul-smelling black oil, thick as tar.


    ¡°Shh, it¡¯s okay. Just some minor repairs. You got shot in the chest, but he missed anything important.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s beans, Bonnie.¡±


    ¡°Hey, lie down. You¡¯re still weak.¡±


    Groaning, Darren conceded and slouched into a half-sitting, half-lying position. ¡°Stars, Bonnie. She¡¯s here. On the ship. The Wet Nurse.¡± He coughed up more black phlegm. ¡°She took the girl. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    Bonnie¡¯s face tightened. ¡°I knew it. I knew this would happen. Where is she?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ was a bit preoccupied. Didn¡¯t get to interview her. I think she went to the deck?¡±


    Rising to her feet, the pink-haired magician grabbed her penknife and headed for the door. ¡°You wait here. I don¡¯t know what magic is locking these people in place, but I¡¯ll need you to watch over them. I¡¯m going to finish this.¡±


    Darren held her gaze. ¡°Bonnie. Be careful. I can¡¯t bring you back to life.¡±


    ¡°Worry about yourself, dummy. I¡¯m always careful.¡±


    Darren watched Bonnie slip out the door. When he was sure she¡¯d gone, he ran his hand over the mess of scars on his chest. A near perfect circle of rough meat and knotted skin. Slowly, methodically, he loaded six ashwood bullets into his revolver. With the same deliberation, he struggled to his feet. One final look at the frozen room and Darren was gone, limping past the door to the passenger quarters. He had three rings for each fist. Rings of amber, ashwood, and gallows rope. He intended to use them. A lapse in focus let the Attendant get the better of him earlier. This time, he will afford no such opportunity.