“No, but that’s because it’s vague. Using fear to achieve political aims? Define ‘using fear’. Define ‘political’. That Behaim guy is a terrorist. So is Sandra Duchamp. So is Johannes. So are you.”
“I’m using fear so I can survive,” I said.
“You’re raising your status in people’s estimation. That’s political.”
“That’s pushing the definition,” I said.
“So is Laird! You want my answer, on why he’d call me that? There you go.”
I frowned.
“What?” Maggie asked. “It’s the only real answer I can think of.”
“I need more information before I can make a call,” I said. “But I’m going to get back.”
“There are still hours of safety,” Maggie said.
“There are. But my bag is getting pretty heavy, and I’m not sure I trust the general definition of hours, with Laird around, or the definition of safety, with, well, just about anyone I’ve met here.”
“You’re leaving me hanging?” Maggie asked. “If I could say anything crude, I’d say it now. I… can’t even allude to it. Blue. You’re leaving me blue.”
“Sad?” Rose asked.
Maggie groaned in frustration.
“We’re going to meet again,” I said. “For now, though, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m overly cautious. I seem to recall you saying something about the noobs being easy marks.”
“You heard that,” Maggie said.
“We can meet sometime this week, maybe negotiate a deal. After… my partner and I have slept on it. My info for your backup,” I said. “If I can find a way to safely leave Hillsglade House, and if I can feel a bit more confident about working alongside you.”
“How bad could I be?” Maggie asked.
I looked at her, framed by the two monstrous brutes that were following her.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s not find out. I’ll talk to you later?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
I turned to go.
From the main road, it was only a little ways to get to the Hillsglade property. The only hassle was the uphill nature of the walk.
“Watch my back?” I asked.
“Sure,” Rose said.
I trudged along until the house came into view.
“We okay?” I asked.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” she said. “Generally? No. I don’t think we’re okay at all. We’re probably going to die.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Are you okay? No. Am I okay? No.”
“Now you’re intentionally misunderstanding me,” I said. I added a quick, “I think.”
“I am. Are we okay as a pair? No. We aren’t.”
“Okay,” I said. “I get that.”
“The mirrors are nice. I appreciate the mirrors.”
“Good,” I said.
“But we’re still not in a good place. Could a black slave be friends with his master, back in the day? Sure. I imagine there were some slaveowners who were pretty cool, didn’t beat or punish their slaves, were generous and kind…”
“That analogy is pretty damn unfair,” I said. “I didn’t choose for you to be like this.”
“Child of the slaveowner, then?”
I would have reminded her that she was supposedly playing ball. At the same time, I was glad she was arguing with me. It beat the utter defeat she’d showed me earlier.
“I want to do what I can to free you from your prison, my metaphorical slave,” I said. “I swore it when I did the ritual, just like I told Maggie, back there.”
Rose was quiet, now. I didn’t hear a response from the mirror.
“What was that bit, before, about vestiges?” I asked.
“We were interrupted,” she said, quiet.
“What was it?” I asked her, again. I didn’t want to get distracted from the topic.
“Vestiges. They’re… like shadows. A simulacrum is an effective double of another individual, a near-perfect simulation. You’ve got dopplegangers, Others that copy a person’s appearance, hiding inside a simulacrum. A reflection of a person, but with something different and frequently malevolent at the core. Erasing a person so they can take over their lives. Usually ending in disaster and murder.”
“Sure,” I said.
“There are glamours and illusions. Images, but little more than that. Living, alive, pretendings. Ghosts, which are usually emotional or mental impressions made on the world. Trauma, powerful ideas, they leave something behind, that you see out of the corner of your eye. Tied to some glimmer of the person that was, at the time of death, twisted by time and a degrading memory of their self.”
“And vestiges?” I asked.
“Fit somewhere in the middle. A flawed simulacrum, or a ghost that left a deep enough impression in reality that you can use that impression as a mold. Memories, complex thought, they’re flexible. There’s a book on vestiges in the library. They’re interesting to work with because they can be altered. Strong enough that you can mold them, without them being too rigid.”
“Molded?” I asked. “As in… changing a gender? Memories?”
“Exactly,” Rose said.
“You know what you are, then.”
“Not even a copy. You want to know the reason for my big turnaround? Why I’m accepting my fate as a tool? That’s it. I know what I am now. I know the built-in limitations.”
“Limitations?”
“Read the book,” she said, from the mirror, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I had an ugly idea of what she was referring to.
“Rose,” I said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “Later, Blake.”
“I wanted to ask about-” I said.
But something told me she wasn’t there. Except for the crunching of my boots, there was only silence. She was gone.
I made my way up the driveway. Once safely inside, I locked the door, checked the windows, and then headed for the library. I didn’t see Rose in any of the mirrors.
I searched the shelves until I found the book she’d been talking about.
Vestige: Glimmers and Gasps
The title only reaffirmed the ugly feeling I had in my gut.
I scanned the table of contents. The title of one chapter pretty much gave it away.
Duration.
I read the entire chapter, first leaning against the railing, book in hand. Then I read some sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Vestiges were flexible, like Rose had said. They could be molded.
But Vestiges were impermanent. Sand castles. Given time, given external pressures, they started to degrade. Over time, the degradation got worse, to the point that it took more and more effort and energy to keep them intact.
What was the power source that was driving her?
How much time did she have?
I finished the chapter, then closed the book. The cover had a silver image of half a mask, pressed into the leather. The other half of the mask was black, without any eye, nose or mouth. Half real, half shadow.
When I looked up, my eyes roving over the room, I saw Rose in the mirror, sitting in the chair at the desk.
I joined her on the lower floor, book still in hand. Next on my reading list.
“Before we left for the meeting, I thought you said there wasn’t a book to explain you,” I said.