“Very good. Why does your touch burn others? Do you use anointment that causes inflammation? Is it a chemical compound? Where did youproduce such a weapon?”
“Veritas.” Another nearly indistinct utterance. “Harmsthe evil, heals the good.”
“Who is this Veritas?” Faust asks, sounding impatient.“Are you schizophrenic? Is she your other personality?”
“No.”
Swallowing against the raw pain in my throat, I realize thatthe frail voice is mine. The world turns, like a wheel rolling madly down ahillside. Topsy-turvy until the vision grows detailed and clear. I am atGriffin House, back in Stonehenge. The ballroom is filled with people wearinghooded cloaks, dressed for an elaborate Venetian masquerade. We are dancing thewaltz, and tall candelabras stand in every corner. Their light is weak, barelypenetrating the fog and darkness that swirls about the floor.
My partner wears the mask of a horned beast. His jaw and lipsare exposed, but the rest of his face is hidden. Who is it? I feel I shouldknow him. We waltz over to a Harlequin, his diamond-patterned domino glowing inthe candlelight. The beast releases me, and the Harlequin takes his place.
He mumbles something, and I snatch the domino away. DavidThornhill gazes back at me. “Throw her off the mountain,” he says. “You’ll loseeverything, if you don’t.”
Thornhill twirls me around and around, until we reach a smallfigure swathed in red, the entire face covered in black leather. I remove thismask as well and find Marie-Louise Lennox under it. “No reason to live,” shewhispers.
The woman’s face is pale and wet, and weeds tangle in her hair.I look down and see a rope cinched about her waist—still tied to the stone ather feet—as if Marie-Louise had just been found in the pond where she took herown life.
Then I am caught by strong, calloused hands. I cover them withmy own, knowing their shape well. They have held me a thousand times, but I amfrantic to get away now. Heedless of my resistance, he refuses to move, wearingthe gold, weeping face of Tragedy.
“Quickly, Tom,” I whisper, his soft, alfalfa scent filling mylungs. “Run for your life.”
“I can’t, love. He won’t let me.”
As soon as I embrace my Interpreter, he becomes insubstantial,dissolving into the air. The crowd parts with one accord, revealing the hornedbeast seated in a chair on a platform. I walk toward him, sensing his eagernessand pleasure. His mouth turns up into a welcoming smile. I recognize him now.
The heir of Archimendax.
Fog rises suddenly and cuts me off from the dancers, sweeps meinto the darkness. The beast laughs from his elevated throne, and the visionends. I return to Faust’s office, gasping.
25
Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.
It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions intheir sorrow—Virgil.
Theguards are late to fetch me the next morning, so I follow a routine I’ve developedfor days when I am stuck in the Pit with nothing to do. I walk around my cell quickly,then up and down the stairs as fast as I can, until my muscles grow hot andtired. Despite this, they feel good after the exertion and will not atrophy forlack of use. Each time I finish this routine, it feels like a triumph againstFaust. His drugs muddle my brain and the exercise counters their affectsomewhat.
As my body cools, I sit on the table and try to make weaponsout of a few old bones. They are rather brittle and small; about the right sizefor a chicken. I grind their edges carefully against a piece of iron. The samebit of metal I used to carve words into the cell wall, when I vowed to stopFaust.
Some of the bones shatter. I push the useless fragments awayand run my finger over the two successfully sharpened pieces. The little knivesaren’t for throwing, but if I were very close to a villain and struck a jugularvein forcefully, I could kill. Or I might take one of their eyes. Yet even if Inever actually use the makeshift weapons, I feel better knowing I have somesort of defense. Supernatural gifts cannot always save me. The new ones haven’tshown themselves since my encounter with Roy when I burned with power andlevitated.
Slipping the bones into the secret pocket of my drawers, nextto my lucky pebbles, I stand and roll my shoulders, deciding to work my armsnext. I pick up the remaining bones from the floor, the ones that feel knobbyand round and gather bits of plaster that have fallen from the ceiling and rottenwood. Then I stack the ammunition at my feet and throw at various points in thePit. Not like when I worked with Tom, but just as a reminder of an old skill.The daily chore of hauling wood has developed my upper body and although I amstill thin, I possess a sinewy strength.
What is that murmuring sound behind me? Spinning about, I comeface to face with Carver, the vagabond ghost from Stonehenge. The confused soulpops in on occasion and always leaves in tears. It’s rather depressing to watchhim cry over my current state. Ghost-sight is even worse. I hate what it reveals.
My blindness disappears and I see myself and my surroundingsthrough Carver’s eyes. It is not an attractive picture. The atmosphere in thePit is gloomy, but I can still see myself standing next to the pile of bonesand rotten wood, wearing a stained shift. My eyes look too large for my faceand even with the shadows, the dark circles under them are evident. Gauntcheeks, paler skin than before and dry, cracked lips. Is it any wonder Carvercries?
Turn off the ghost-sight, I ask him.
Oh, yes. Sorry about that, Hester. How have you been?
I gesture around the Pit. As well as can be expected, Isuppose. Thank you for visiting, Carver.
He tips his hat to me and tucks his thumbs into the pockets ofhis dirty blue vest.
Why has Carver followed me here? He cannot help or get me out.Is the incompetent gambler my self-appointed guardian angel?
The ghost circles the Pit, shaking his head. What can one sayabout such a dreadful place, after all? He takes
