He slowly pulled back the stick.
“Are you human after all? You must be tired or something,” Cecile said.
“Her cousin, is he a Spoke?” Mehta asked.
Cecile looked confused. “What are you talking about? Of course not. He was taken prisoner and made a slave—or so she thought.”
One day, one of Thorpe’s men had beaten Flora and threatened to break her arm if she didn’t reveal more about SLS armaments. The interrogator then left, saying he would come back the next day after she thought about it. That night Flora had wanted to do a drawing, and Mehta had sat there, watching her as she drew, making sure she didn’t squirrel the pencil away or stab herself with it.
Mehta reached into his pocket, producing the drawing Flora had made, and unraveled it.
He then extended the four corners of the drawing over the bars so that Cecile could see it. It was a picture of a stately old house with large columns, and there was a bearded cat on it. It had no name on it, but it was otherwise the same rectangular shape and size as a talisman. It must be, for the bearded cat and the house were clearly the kinds of images you might see on a talisman.
Cecile stood up and went closer to the bars, examining the crumpled sheet of paper.
Cecile was a pale-skinned woman. Her paleness was also accentuated by her dark hair and now-fading streak of blue. But upon seeing the sheet of paper she seemed to blanch even more. Her face became an empty palette.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“Flora drew it. Looks like a Spoke talisman to me.”
“She drew it?” Cecile looked over at the wall separating her from Flora’s cell, as if she could somehow see through it.
Mehta could hear a raspy whisper licking at the walls, along with footsteps coming up from the lower level. It must be Thorpe arriving.
Cecile moved over to the wall and banged on it with her palm. “Flora! Flora, get up!”
Mehta watched Cecile with some fascination. What could possibly have gotten her dander up? Was it Thorpe arriving, or something in the picture he showed?
Thorpe entered the room with two of his enforcer goons. These two looked almost as haggard as Flora, with tattered black clothes, and dirt-streaked faces. They must have just been pulled from a job at the Barnyard.
The two dirty enforcers sloughed around the room, one finding a chair next to an old wooden table, the other loitering next to the only window.
Thorpe was watching Cecile banging away at the cell wall with a puzzled look on his face. “What’s the problem?”
Mehta shrugged and said, “I couldn’t say.”
“What is it?” Flora could be heard from the other side of the wall. Her voice was meek and tired.
Cecile was practically yelling. “What you drew, it’s a talisman right? Whose is it?”
Flora was silent.
Cecile said again, “Whose is it? This is important, Flora. Is it your husband Reed? Is his last name Kelemen? Or is it this Spoke prisoner, this cousin of yours?”
Thorpe said, “Enough. It’s time for you to go home.” He signaled to Mehta to unlock the door.
Mehta unlocked the door. Cecile waited in her cell, gluing herself to the adjoining wall.
“I think you know me well enough. You should want to come willingly,” Mehta said.
Cecile lingered for only a moment more, and then slowly eased herself off the wall toward him.
“Cuffs?” Mehta asked Thorpe.
Thorpe considered the idea. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. She’ll play nice. She knows what could happen if she meddles in our affairs.”
Cecile gave Thorpe a dark look and said, “At least let me say good-bye to Flora.” She turned toward Flora’s cell.
Mehta looked to Thorpe, who shook his head. Mehta grabbed Cecile’s arm before she could get to Flora’s cell. Cecile tried to pull away but floundered unsuccessfully against the force of his grasp. “Flora, I need to know,” she yelled. “Yes or no!”
“Get her out,” Thorpe said, shaking his head. The two goons came and grabbed each of Cecile’s arms. She stopped resisting, and they easily pushed her over to the stairs. As she was descending, Flora finally responded with a fleeting “no” from her cell.
A brief look of dissatisfaction crossed Cecile’s face, and then Mehta lost sight of her.
Thorpe walked over to examine Flora through the bars. She was sitting on her cot, holding her knees, a frown of contemplation knitting her brow.
“I think we should do one more session tomorrow,” Thorpe said.
“Didn’t she give you the whole layout of Grand Caverns already?” Mehta asked.
“Yes, but this exchange here. It makes me uncomfortable. Maybe there’s something else we’re missing.”
Mehta said, “all I know is they were talking about this drawing.” Mehta produced the drawing for Thorpe. Thorpe’s head tilted to the side, but nothing registered in his eyes.
“Doesn’t mean anything to me. We should still have another session. Okay?”
Mehta was a good merc. He followed all the merc guild rules. Above all, unless orders conflicted with your contract, you obey them. It was the merc brand. It was why they were highly valued. But for the first time in many years, Mehta hesitated. They had already beaten and abused Flora more than they said they would. And now they wanted to do more because of the words of an unstable Quebecker, because they were arguing over some drawing?
Thorpe asked again, “Okay?”
Seeing Flora in his carousel of faces had unnerved him, made him pensive, and the strange outburst by Cecile confused him. Or maybe it was his lack of exercise. That tended to make him ornery.
“Okay, sir,” Mehta said finally.
Thorpe nodded, scratched his temple thoughtfully and then left the way he’d come.
THE ENORMITIES OF THE TIMES
Madison Banks rested her finger on the spine of the book, tapping the title. It was one of her favorite Thomas Jefferson biographies; the copy was well worn from years of use. She pulled the volume from the shelf and hobbled over through the study to her lounge chair. Once sitting, she opened the book and carefully plied the pages apart.
She had written far too many eulogies of late. There were only so many words to define tragedy, and no matter the quality of the words, they would always sadden her. Here she had to find a way to write yet another.
It used to be her speeches would just bubble to the surface without provocation. The words of the founding fathers had always been fresh on her mind, requiring only the occasional reference for confirmation. Then, as the years wore on it became harder, more contrived. Finding the right words, the right founders, the right principles to evoke became less a game and more like a complex puzzle where she could never find the best pieces. Now she could write for hours without an original idea, until finally she would have to sit down and spend even more time leafing through volumes such as these to find inspiration.
There was a knock on the door.
“Who calls?” Madison asked.
“It’s Benjamin, madam. I thought you should know he’s awake now, and lucid.”
“Never leave till tomorrow that which you can do today,” she said.
“Pardon me, madam?”
“I’ll be right there.”
She grabbed her cane and limped over to the full-length mirror. She pushed her short-cropped, gray hair away from her eyes and put on one of her more formal blouses. Madison was too old to impress anyone, but she wanted to appear presentable. This meeting was as important as any other, and could provide answers to questions that had lingered for many years.