Finn got only the slightest glimpse before the Newlie was lost in the crowd. Tall, as Dobbins tended to be. Rheumy brown eyes and a great prodigious nose; a nose that seemed to have a twitch. Just beneath the nose, a tiny pink mouth. Plainly dressed, in a smock and floppy hat.
Clumsy fellow, but decent enough. Not like some others I could name around here …
He thought about onions, a vision that was simply unaccountably there, a vision he could taste, a vision he could see. Big onions, small onions, yellow ones and reds. Had he seen any onions when he'd passed through early in the day? So why was the image so strong, so overpowering now? Why, he could almost-nearly-just about-
The essence, the aroma, the reek of an onion was there, not just in his mind, but simply there-
— and when he glanced in his basket, he knew what he'd find, fat and round as an onion ought to be.
Not for the first time that perilous day, tingly little hairs climbed the back of Finn's neck. There was something else, besides an onion there. He stopped, looked to the left, and to the right. Finally, he snatched up the onion and held it close to his vest, quickly, so no one would see.
The note was written on a small scrap of paper tacked to the onion with a pearl-headed pin. In very tiny script, in lines as fine as a spider's silken web, shaky little lines that could scarcely be seen, he could make out the words:
9 past the marrow,
2 past the bell,
keep to the narrow,
fall in the well …
“Trickery, deceit,” Finn said aloud, “and I've had enough of that to last awhile.”
Even if the thing made sense, damned if he'd put himself in harm's way again. Who was behind this-Dr. Nicoretti or the Foxer crowd? Surely neither thought he was simple as that.
The Dobbin-it couldn't be anyone else. The fellow had jostled him and dropped the note there. It didn't matter who, now, it didn't matter why. The night was closing in, the day was waning fast. He didn't want to be in the open when the Hooters came out.
“Why can't people keep their religions to themselves instead of annoying everybody else?”
He'd keep the onion, then, no use throwing it away. You couldn't cook the thing, you'd have to eat it raw. Save the tiny pin, pins could be handy sometimes. Throw the foolish note aside …
Finn drew a breath. The instant he plucked out the pin, the tiny words vanished, faded away.
Magic! Sure as water's wet, sure as dirt's red. Not great, astonishing magic, but magic all the same!
“Great Pies and Skies,” he said aloud, “it has to be the seer, Rubinella herself. It can't be anyone else …”
27
Finn was quite pleased with himself. He wasn't good at puzzles, didn't care for tricks. Letitia was always doing riddles, and he never got them right.
Still, he saw that MARROW was a sweet shop that led off Market Square. NINE streets farther was a bell shop, oddly named BELL. Two lanes more, and he came to an alley so narrow his shoulders scraped the sides. And there-imagine that-was a WELL.
A dry well, and somewhat rank, but a well for all of that. Finn had no intention of falling in as the note said to do. There was no need, he saw, for chalked on the rim was the number 17.
He watched, waited for a moment, but the number failed to disappear. Three doors down was a door with that very same number, small as a flyspeck, but clearly 17.
Finn tapped lightly on the dry and weathered wood. A tap, he reasoned, would surely suffice. A very small number called for a tap, not a knock or a rap of any kind.
No answer, so Finn tried again. Lightly still, but somewhat stronger this time.
In the cramped and narrow way, there was hardly any sky overhead. What little there was, was closer to darkness than to day. Finn was nearly sure he saw a star, and his heart beat faster at the sight. Night, and there he was, caught in an alley, Letitia far away …
The door seemed to open by itself. Magic, Finn thought, then saw it was hanging by a nail, close to falling off, not exactly a spell.
The room was very dim, lit by a single candle against a far wall. The air inside was close, musty, dusty and chill. Finn smelled ginger, nutmeg and pepper, bitterroot and lemon, every kind of spice.
There was also the hint of something else-oils, powders, scents that were musky, scents that were slightly, wonderfully wild …
Finn puzzled to define these aromas, pondered for a second and a half, knew, of a sudden, why each was familiar, why he knew them well-
“Buttons and Snaps,” he whispered to himself, “everything in here smells like Letitia Louise!”
“-All right, you're here,” said a voice from somewhere, “what do you want with me?”
Finn nearly jumped out of his skin, tried, at once, to hide his apprehension, knew it was too late for that.
“I'm sorry I startled you,” the someone said, who wasn't truly sorry at all. A voice with a gentle, soft sibilation, a whisper, a sigh, or possibly a lisp.
“Sit down. There's a stool to your right. You don't have to see it, you can feel it in the dark. Now. Answer my question, and answer it now. I know who you are, I think I know why you're here. I hope to high heaven I'm wrong about that. Not too likely, I fear. Snake pokes his ugly head through the veil if it's something really bad. Takes a great joy in that, though I can't fathom why.”
Snake? Better not ask …
“You've a lot to answer for. Everyone in town's raving on about me, and you're the cause, Finn. Where did you hear that name, I'd like to know that?”
“Rubinella? That's who I'm to ask for. That note, I know it came from you.”
“Of course it did, boy. You haven't answered me. Who gave the name to you?”
“Letitia,” Finn said, squinting to see some movement in the dark, “Letitia Louise. My wife. She's a Mycer too, you see-”
“I know who she is. I didn't know her name, but I know she's with you. Everyone in town knows about you two, don't you realize that?”
The voice from the darkness was harsh, intense, quite out of patience, and not at all happy with Finn.
“It was she, then, who told you to seek me. Snake should have told me this. She said something else. What exactly was that?”
“To tell Rubinella that-To tell her we needed help, that we needed a seer. Letitia-Letitia's mother, was Liliana, of the Phileas Clan. I was supposed to mention that.”
“Yes, I see.”
The voice was somewhat gentler now, not what Finn would call friendly, but neither so cautious, anxious nor strained.
“The Phileas Clan is strong. Good blood. The males are somewhat hasty, irresponsible at times. The females somewhat-assertive, I suppose. Too inclined to take up with human men.”
Finn felt the color rise to his face, and wondered if the seer could sense that, too.
A laugh, almost-more than she'd granted so far. Somewhere on the edge, throaty but nice, a bit, Finn decided, like Letitia Louise.
“Do you know, Finn, what ‘Rubinella’ means? You have no inkling, I don't know why I asked.”
“It's a name, I suppose. I wouldn't know what it means.”
“It's not a person's name, and it's certainly not mine. It's a Mycer word that means ‘Lady with the power in her hands.’ Your Letitia Louise knows that. The common tongue has twisted it into something else. Anyone in town, Newlie and human alike, will swear it means ‘Mycer-witch-woman-who-can-make-all-your-privates-fall-off.’”
Finn felt the heat again. “Trees and Bees, I surely didn't know that.”
“There's much you don't know, Master Finn.”
“And can you?”