“Bring the cups!”
The guard shuffles to my side and presses the hot glass overthe wound. Ahh, take it off! How it burns! I kick my legs wildly, dislodgingthe cup and sending it to shatter on the floor.
“Much too hot!” Faust says. “Try again, Titus.”
Although I continue to struggle, the scarificator is used on myother arm, and another cup is applied. I do not know if it is real or imagined,but I feel myself fading, becoming less with the loss of blood. The doctortouches my throat, presumably to check my pulse. My body goes rigid against therestraints as images of the Book fill my psyche. It rises up, suspended in theair, and opens. The pages turn, revealing identities, giving me specific datesfor those Faust has treated at Ironwood. They are etched in my memory, and Icould spout them off like a catechism twenty years from now. Yet all theinformation in the world will not help if it isn’t recorded in Faust’shand—only then will it condemn him. Ghosts circle about me, impatient andangry. There are so many of them that they blur into a scarlet mosaic.
My own blood spurts and pools in the shallow glass, as Irealize what I’ve learned today. I now know where the doctor keeps the key tohis desk. The key which protects the Book.
“Remove the cups,” Faust cries, bringing me wholly back fromthe vision. “Bind her incisions. Hurry!”
Davis is wiping my forehead with a cool cloth when I awakenin the Pit. The guard puts a thick wedge of jerky in my hand and helps me situp and lean against the wall. I tear into the dried beef like an animal. Ittastes salty and abrades the sides of my tongue. I chew so hard my back molarsache.
The young guard gives me a cloth-wrapped bundle once I’mfinished with the jerky. “Here’s the sorghum cake from my lunch, too.”
He fills my canteen with clean drinking water and then returnsto his post upstairs.
Bless you, Davis. You won’t last long here.
The other guards will make the boy brutal like them.Inevitable, I suppose, but it feels like the fall of Adam repeating itself tothink of this kind, soft-spoken lad becoming hardened and cruel. Another markadded to the tally of sins hanging over Faust’s head.
I lean against the warm bricks, despairing, but the glimmer ofa memory flits through my mind. Closing my eyes, I surrender to the past, to mythirteenth year. When a woman of regal bearing appeared to me on my birthday ina vision. I could not guess her age, for she looked neither old nor young norin between. Her eyes were a color that I still cannot name, having never seentheir like before or since. They mirrored unfathomable wisdom and sadness, andthe garments she wore were Roman in style.
The voice in my mind was quiet but powerful enough to shake theworld. Do not be afraid, Hester. I am Veritas, daughter of Saturn. Mother ofVirtue.
She shared the history of our cursed line. Rome loved truthonce, in ancient times, but the people were led away by false voices. Theirhearts grew cold.
A name formed in my psyche. Archimendax?
Veritas nodded. The Father of Lies. He convinced them tospill innocent blood, commit vice, usurp without mercy. As a result, Romedecayed from the inside and fell to ruin. Resting her hand on my shoulder,the immortal smiled at me. You must succeed as I did not, filiola. Bringtruth to the world.
But I’m blind outside of the visions. I have no voice. Howcan I do what you ask?
All Visionaries have challenges to overcome, and you will begiven an Interpreter.
My chin dropped in surprise as I thought of my dark hairedfriend. Tom?
Yes. He is the first.
Will there be others?
If you require them. Her smile held the mysteries of theuniverse. Have faith, little one. The good will find you beautiful—the bad,fearsome. All is as it should be.
She visited several times throughout my youth, and then no more,allowing me to fulfill my destiny in my own way.
Mulling over the memory, I remove my lucky pebbles from theirsecret place within the table. They feel good in my hand, and I shake them as Icircle the Pit, ending up at the bottom of the stairs. I lift my face towardthe iron lid in the ceiling. It taunts me, a symbol of the many things blockingmy escape. Maybe there is a little magic in these stones because I suddenlyfeel hopeful when there’s no reason for it. I extend my hearing out into theasylum and the doleful sounds of the inmates enter the Pit and settle on myshoulders. Pierce my heart.
They’re my people now, my family. Times haven’t changed so verymuch since ancient Rome, I suppose—even the fight between Veritas andArchimendax continues today. Except I will not neglect my duty as the greatLady did.
I will not let the world fall to ruin.
23
Socius. Patronus.
Comrade. Protector.
Everyoneworks at Ironwood asylum. If they’re lucid and able-bodied, that is. The cutsfrom the bloodletting are now scabbed over so there’s no excuse for me tolounge about in the Pit. Not when I could haul wood. Wearing a heavy woolshift, knit stockings, winter gloves, and a moth-eaten shawl, I wait for ordersin the courtyard at the rear of the asylum. Matron gave me an old pair of men’swork boots yesterday. Despite the fact they slap about my ankles when I walk,the footwear is certain to create a barrier between my extremities and thesnow. Surprisingly, I am not as cold as I imagined I would be. Perhaps physicaltolerance develops with regular exposure to low temperatures. Or I could justhave nerve damage.
“There’s dry kindling across the way,” Titus says. “Bring thewood in and fill the storage bins
