“Well, I hope someone doesn’t stop you on the street and ask for them back,” she said tersely. She carefully rolled the maps that lay before her on the table and placed them in the new roll-tube. “I have plenty of maps for the rail journey, and I found a map of Nochtland, but there’s nothing with enough detail for the border and nothing for the whole piece of the Baldlands between the border and Nochtland.”
“I told you—I know that part,” Theo said. “No need for a map.”
They heard steps on the stairs. “I’ve packed you some food,” said Mrs. Clay as she entered, handing Theo a basket that appeared full to the brim. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.” Her eyes grew teary. “I’m sorry, Sophia dear, for all of this.” She cleared her throat. “Are you packed?”
“We’re ready to go,” Sophia said.
Mrs. Clay embraced her warmly. “Do be careful, dear. Don’t worry about me or the house—we’ll be fine. Just take care. I have your schedule, and I’ll be here to tell Shadrack what happened should he return.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clay.”
The housekeeper shook hands with Theo. “You must take care of each other,” she said. “And may the Fates look after you well.”
PART II PURSUIT
10
The White Chapel
1891, June 21: Shadrack Missing (Day 1)
Most people believe that The Chronicles of the Great Disruption were written by a charlatan, a false prophet: a man who called himself Amitto and who, in the early days after the Disruption, decided to take advantage of the widespread fear and panic. They contain little detail and little substance: vague words of war and death and miracles. But in some circles the Chronicles have acquired credibility, and Amitto’s followers, particularly those of the Nihilismian sect, claim that the Chronicles hold not only the true history of the Great Disruption but also true prophecies.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of the New World
ON A HIGH hill surrounded by pines at the northern edge of New Occident stood a sprawling stone mansion bleached white by the sun. The mansion’s windows sparkled in the bright light, and the silver weathervanes on its peaked gables gleamed. A dirt road with a single rail track wove through the pines and up the hill, circling at the entrance. There was no movement along the track. A few crows flapped lazily up through the pines toward a stone cross on the mansion’s highest peak. At one end of the mansion, connected by a narrow archway, stood a chapel. The crows wheeled and cawed and then came to rest on its stone cross. As they claimed their perch, the entire scene became one of perfect stillness—even peace. The pine trees, the streaming sunlight, the pale mansion, all formed a serene landscape. But inside the chapel there was no stillness. In the cavernous vault, a purposeful movement was gathering momentum.
Shadrack sat alone, his hands tied behind his back, his ankles bound to the legs of the chair. He was staring up at the ceiling, his head resting against the cool stone wall behind him. The floor had long since been cleared of its pews, so that the chapel appeared more a workroom than a place of worship. Shelves weighed down by thousands of books lined its walls, and the numerous long tables were covered with piles of paper and open books and ink bottles. At the front of the chapel, where the altar would have been, stood a huge, black furnace. The furnace was, at the moment, unlit. It stood quietly in the company of its bellows and tongs and a pair of charred leather gloves. From the tools and materials scattered around it, the furnace appeared to have a single purpose: making glass.
Shadrack watched the furnace’s creations circling silently through the chapel vault far above him: hundreds of large glass globes in a gliding constellation, controlled by a single mechanism that rose up from the center of the floor. The metal gears connecting them—not unlike those of a clock, to Shadrack’s inexpert eye—must have been well-oiled, because they emitted no sound. He watched the globes’ smooth, endless rotations. He had been staring for hours.
The globes’ surfaces were not still. Each seemed to shiver with a perpetual motion that appeared almost lifelike. The light streaming through the stained-glass windows reflected off them onto the stone walls and ceiling. They were too high up for Shadrack to see clearly, but this delicate trembling only added to their beauty. As they dipped closer, the globes seemed at times to reveal subtle shapes or expressions. Shadrack felt certain that if he watched for long enough, the pattern they traced would become clear.
He was also trying with all his might to stay awake. He had not slept since leaving the house on East Ending Street. In part, he had been trying to work out who had taken him captive. The men who had seized him were Nihilismians. It was evident from the amulets that hung from their necks: small or large, metal or wood or carved stone, they all bore the distinctive open-hand symbol. But they were unlike any other followers of Amitto that Shadrack had ever known, and he speculated that they belonged to some obscure, militant sect; for apart from the amulets, they all carried iron grappling hooks. Shadrack could tell by the way they used their weapons in the rooms of his house that they were practiced. Most disturbingly, the silent men all bore the same unusual scars: lines that stretched from the corners of their mouths, across their cheeks, to the tops of their ears. They were gruesome, unchanging, artificial grins, etched onto unsmiling faces.
Once Shadrack had persuaded them that they had found what they were looking for, they had ended their assault on the house and retreated into unresponsive silence. The ride out of Boston in the coach had been a long one, and he had tried—with only partial success—to map the route. It had been difficult once they blindfolded him and placed him in a railway car, but his inner compass told him that they had traveled north several hours, and from the occasional gust of cold wind he suspected that they were no more than an hour or two south of the Prehistoric Snows.
All the anger he had felt when they first captured him had slowly faded during the day-long journey. It had changed to a sharp-edged attentiveness. The night air, as they emerged from the railcar, had felt cool but still summery. He had smelled pine and moss. The scarred Nihilismians had brought him directly from the railway car to the chapel, tied him to a chair, and removed his blindfold. Then they had disappeared. The slow movement of the globes had soothed the remaining sting of his anger, and now he felt only an intense curiosity as to his circumstances and surroundings. His captivity had become another exploration.
As he stared at the globes, he suddenly heard a door open somewhere near the altar. He turned to look. Two of the men entered the chapel, followed by a woman wearing a cream-colored dress with tightly buttoned sleeves. A blond linen veil hid her features entirely. As she approached with a quick, easy step, Shadrack tried to make out what he could from her bearing without being able to see her face.
The woman stopped a few feet away from him. “I have found you at the end of a long search, Shadrack Elli. But not the Tracing Glass that I sought—where is it?”
The moment Shadrack heard the woman speak, the meaning of her words became indistinct. Her voice was beautiful—and familiar: low, gentle, and even, with a slight accent that he could not place. Though her words betrayed no emotion, their sound threw him into a tempest of inchoate memories. He had heard her voice before; he knew this woman. And she must know him, too; why else hide her face behind the blond veil? But despite the rushing sense of familiarity, he could not remember who she was. Shadrack roused himself, trying to shake off the feeling that had taken hold. He told himself to concentrate and to give nothing away in his reply. “I’m sorry. I gave your men what they asked me for. I don’t know what glass you mean.”