might have been just friendly, but it was his all-clear signal. Coltt wasn’t in sight, but I knew he was watching the back of the house, and if he’d seen something, he’d be out front along the sea wall, smoking a pipe.
I followed Papa Legba and his dog into the narrow alley between the houses. The wardings pressed on my magic horribly, screaming in my head for me to leave. I could see the warding like a dark film around the house. Papa Legba raised a hand, and there was silence in my mind. A doorway opened in the dark wardings, and I stepped through. Mama Nadege said Papa Legba would help me get out again, and I certainly hoped he understood that part of the plan. I had my veve charm and Mama’s basket, and although I didn’t doubt her magic, in my belt was a loaded pistol. Taking a deep breath and clutching the sea-grass basket, I stepped over the wardings.
I’d been afraid that I would need Coltt’s skill at picking locks, but it turned out that the judge put a lot of confidence in his wardings. The locks on his house were easy enough for me to get open, with a little jiggling from Coltt’s picks and a nudge from my magic. I glanced up at the sky. The day had grown cloudy, and now it looked as if a storm were brewing. I opened the side door and stepped inside.
The interior of the house was gloomy. Blinds were drawn closed over many windows, and a thick layer of dust lay everywhere. Cobwebs cascaded in the corners, filled with the dead husks of the spiders that dared intrude on the judge’s sanctuary. Grey sheets covered the furniture, slipcovered as if the owner had gone off for an extended trip. Yet we knew that the judge still resided here. Maybe “lived” wasn’t the word. Nothing seemed to live within these walls.
The odour of mildew and the stale air made me cough. Beneath it was a strong smell of camphor. I had entered through the piazza, and now made my way into the parlour. Faded curtains shrouded the windows, letting through only dim rays of light. On the slipcovered furniture, boxes, scrolls, books of all kinds and sizes and metal tins were piled haphazardly several feet above the cushions. More boxes, crates, barrels and tins were stacked in every corner of the room, leaving only a few narrow paths. Here and there, I saw discarded pieces of clothing and old rags. I had the mental image of a dragon’s lair, and a large black dragon coiled atop a mound of bleached bones and mouldering treasure. Judging by the dust, none of the judge’s collections had been touched in years.
On shelves all around the parlour I saw small glass boxes. Most of them were filmy with dust; none looked as if they had been opened or moved in a long time. There were dozens of them: on the bookshelves, atop the side tables, on the mantle above the fireplace. I vowed to take a closer look on my way out.
I touched the veve on the strap at my throat for luck, and moved further into the house. It was dark enough that I lit a small candle lantern that sat on a side table. With the draperies pulled tight, I wasn’t worried that I’d been seen by neighbours. The candle’s glow was comforting, and I moved deeper into the gloom.
The next room was a library. Shelves ranged all the way to the ceiling, several feet above my head. There were hundreds of leather-bound books; not surprising for a scholar and a judge. But on every shelf were three or four of the glass boxes, and here and there small urns. I struggled to remember where I had seen urns like that before, and then I remembered. One or two such urns had come into Uncle Evann’s shop. Cremation urns. I shuddered. Somewhere in the house, I could hear the deep, regular ticking of a large clock, and it seemed to echo my pounding heart.
I reached out with my magic. My touch was cautious, checking for magical traps. I was astounded to see the room lit as if with captured stars as every one of the glass boxes began to glow.
I looked closer at one of the boxes on the shelf nearest me, and had to blow on it to clear away enough dust to see inside. A button from a man’s coat lay in the box and a few strands of hair. I backed up a step as my magic touched the box. A wave of anger hit me like a punch in the jaw. I had a glimpse of a man in worn and stained clothing, wearing a tattered coat with buttons like the one in the glass box. He looked like a brigand, and I was glad I hadn’t met him in a dark alley. Quickly, I turned my attention to the next box. Inside was a meerschaum pipe, stained with tobacco from long use, a sailor’s comfort. With it, also, were a few strands of hair.
I gaped at the shelves, understanding what I had found. By holding on to a possession of each condemned man and a few strands of hair, Judge Von Dersch had been able to tap into the power of the souls bound to eternal torment in the oyster shoals. There were boxes everywhere I looked, and I was certain that if I counted them, I would find three hundred glass cases, one for every damned soul on whom Judge Von Dersch had passed sentence.
I let my magic gently skim across the shelves. The clock’s ticking grew louder as I moved around the library, and then I saw it – a large, graceful Morbier clock in an ornate cabinet. The cabinet of the clock was gently curved, wider at the top for the clock face, slim at the top of the body, then swelling to where the pendulum hung, and wider still at the feet. The cabinet was a dark Oriental lacquer, and it was covered with carvings and symbols I did not recognize.
I looked closer, and realized how the clock resembled the rough outlines of a human form. Even the terms for its parts, face, body, foot, made it sound human. I looked closer, then recoiled as my magic brushed against it. The clock resonated with power, a dark magic that hissed and sang at the very edge of my consciousness. I stared at it. The clock was as tall as I was, far too large to fit in Mama Nadege’s basket.
Then I saw the pendulum. A bronze disc the size of a dinner plate swung back and forth, suspended by a long metal shaft. On the shaft were three gems: a shattered moonstone, a white opal and a garnet, all unlucky. I dared another flicker of magic and realized that the clock was not the locus of power; the stones in its pendulum were. Those I could fit in my basket.
From somewhere nearby, I heard a woman weeping. I looked up, and saw that one of the hundreds of boxes seemed to be glowing more brightly than the others. I climbed atop a desk for a better look, and caught my breath.
Inside was a black cameo brooch with a raised white image of the three Fates. Beside it was a lock of blonde hair. My magic touched the box, and unlike the anger and rage that had responded from the other boxes, this box spoke only of mourning and loss. In my mind’s eye, I saw an image of a young woman dressed in a fashionable gown. I felt the energy of the box surge towards me, and images overwhelmed me. A storm at sea, leaving a ship derelict in the water. Discovery by a ship of “rescuers” who turned out to be pirates, ruffians who killed the crew, looted the ship’s hold and carried off their treasures, including the young woman.
I tried to turn my head or close my eyes as I felt the ghost’s memories forced upon me, memories of being cruelly used and badly beaten, plied with strong liquor to ensure that she offered no resistance. Then another rescue gone wrong, this time when the pirates were captured by the Navy. Dressed in a strumpet’s abandoned finery, groggy from the rum and the beatings, she had been incoherent, unable to convince the sailors that she was a victim and not one of the brigand crew. The vision ended abruptly, with the snap of a gallows trapdoor.
I reeled back, covering my face with my hands, tears streaming down my face. There was no doubt that I had found Felicity Barre.
I heard the whispered curses and distant threats of the spirits trapped in the boxes around me as the clock’s tick-tock rhythm seemed to grow louder with each heartbeat. The pirates’ souls shouted and mocked, swearing in the vilest terms as if I had somehow enabled their torment. Then I heard a woman’s voice as clearly as if she had bent low to whisper in my ear.
“Stop the clock and shatter the cases, and he loses his power.”
Which to do first? Did the clock bind the souls, or did the trapped spirits power the clock’s magic?
I set down the lantern and looked around the room for something to use to shatter the boxes. My gaze rested on a pole that stuck out from amidst the clutter. I grabbed it and pulled, setting off a small avalanche of papers and scrolls. I jumped back, careful to move the lantern so it wouldn’t tip. The pole came free in my hand, a whaler’s harpoon. I took a deep breath and drew my pistol, holding the harpoon in my left hand.
I fired into the face of the clock, striking it squarely in the centre pin that bound the hands to the mechanism inside. A bloodcurdling shriek filled the air, the sound of something that had never been remotely human. With my left hand, I brought the harpoon down hard on the nearest shelf, smashing the glass boxes. Again and again my harpoon raised and lowered, sweeping the boxes to the floor, or shattering them where they sat. I took particular pride when the heavy shaft of the harpoon flung Felicity’s box to the floor and it shattered, sending the cameo brooch to land near my feet.
Spirits swirled around me, angry and shrieking as the trapped pirates gained a measure of freedom. Without the clock’s ticking, the room was otherwise still, but only for a heartbeat.
A blast of freezing air swept through the library, sending papers flying and clouding the room with dust. The same overpowering presence I had felt at the ball when I’d passed Judge Von Dersch now filled the room, and its power reached for me, enraged. The judge might not have returned in the flesh, but some segment of his power
