There was real upset in Seil Kor’s voice, and for the first time the Frenchman realised that his affections for the young man were reciprocated. All that nonsense about Eden had been his way of bringing them closer.
‘I did not understand before,’ he said. ‘Will you forgive me, and tell me more of your wondrous book?’
Seil Kor turned, looking deep into his companion. ‘You have much to learn,’ he said, smiling slowly, ‘and I will teach you. But we must leave this place quickly.’
The Frenchman took his outstretched hand and they walked together through the flickering foliage.
Exactly one hour later, they returned. The hall was empty and quiet. The thing’s eyes were mercifully closed.
‘It’s alright,’ said Hoffman, ‘they are content. Let’s take the child and lock up.’
Maclish conceded, but looked puzzled. ‘Where’s the bag?’ he said, his eyes scanning the room.
‘Oh god, not again!’ groaned Hoffman, stooping to look under the table.
‘They’ve taken it, haven’t they?!’ Maclish exclaimed. ‘The stupid fuckers have taken the bag!’ He was not a man famous for laughing and it sounded odd, somehow, solid and unused, as it erupted from him, the hallways listening to it in concentrated surprise.
There was a scrap of cloth left on the table and the doctor used part of it to cover the face of the tiny form, fashioning the remainder into a weak sling to carry it away. The idea of the Limboia cherishing such a garish, effeminate bag was unbelievably comic, and they left in a mild hysteria, the keeper still smirking uncontrollably.
The doctor had been right. The Limboia were contented, working in the forest with an even greater vigour than before. All seemed to return to normal, in the most abnormal of situations. And then Mrs. Klausen was reported missing.
The rumours arrived just ahead of the police. Her hypochondriacal visit to the doctor had occurred two days before she disappeared, leaving her home and servants without money or explanation. The Die Kripo officers told the doctor all the details, and he told them even more: cysts, headaches, womb pains, night perspirations; varicose veins, haemorrhoids, allergic distress; breast lumps, vapours and all of the other symptoms he had been invited to probe over the years. He showed them files and medical records and they left, satisfied, but with no new directions. He sat down in the consulting room, a blackness flapping in the pit of his stomach. The beating fear had a shape, and it was brightly embroidered.
‘We must ask him,’ he pleaded of the Scotsman.
‘Ask him what?’
‘What they did with the bag.’
Maclish no longer found the Limboia’s appropriation of the bag so amusing. The herald was brought down into the central hall, where he stood vacantly, like one hanging on the thickness of the air. His speech had deteriorated since the last time they met; he was not reluctant to answer their questions, but his replies were slow and suspended.
‘You give Orm scent from looking, looking inside. After Orm wear it, went out, hollowed for you, all gone.’
Maclish and Hoffman looked at each other, desperately hoping they had misunderstood. They whispered to each other and Hoffman asked, ‘Was the scent that of a female?’
‘Scent is spoor, is animal trail for looking out.’
‘Where did it go to?’ cried Maclish.
‘Vorrh.’
‘That’s impossible,’ the doctor said incredulously. ‘Mrs Klausen would never go there – I don’t think she’s ever left Essenwald!’
‘Orm hollowed out for you and looking one. Hollow to nothing, nothing left inside, only the rind walked into Vorrh to nothing,’ the herald said, smiling. He bowed to the startled men as the understanding of what they had done began to seep into them, their eyes meeting in the fearful perception of what they had released, and how its hunger could end up devouring them all.
As they left the building, the herald remained in his stooped pose, head bent obsequiously and the smile fixed to his unwavering face.
Ghertrude was feeling lonely and out of step with her life. Since the end of the carnival, and Ishmael’s departure, everything had seemed dimmer and without flavour. She felt flat and unexcited by the city and her diminishing secret in it.
She turned the corner into Kühler Brunnen and was nearing the house, head down and mind elsewhere, when she almost collided with a figure standing at the gate. The woman was taller and older than Ghertrude, with eyes she would never forget. They looked down at her, absorbing every particle of sight, every ounce of meaning. She had obviously been waiting for her.
‘Mistress Tulp!’ she beamed, in a triumph that seemed without reason. ‘Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Cyrena Lohr,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I believe our families are already acquainted? May I call you Ghertrude?’
She had heard of this woman: everybody had; if not before the miracle of the carnival, then certainly after. She suddenly knew that they had met once before, when she was a child and the beautiful, blind stranger was put in her care at one of the grand parties of the city’s gentry. Or perhaps it had been the other way around? But there was certainly a memory of vast rooms and music, of being separate and in the company of an elegant, blind woman. She remembered being able to stare at her, to examine her without politeness, and to think about what blindness meant for the first time. Her sight then had probed the blackness of the beautiful, dead eyes, which were now more than alive and staring down at her.
‘Of course, Miss Lohr,’ she answered to the barely remembered question.
‘Then you must call me Cyrena, if we are to be friends.’
Ghertrude was taken aback by the speed of this assumption, and was about to answer when she realised that Cyrena was staring at the locked door.
‘Oh, I am sorry, please do come in,’ she said, fumbling for the keys in her pockets.
Inside, they sat at the kitchen table and talked about their mutual acquaintances, their memories and experiences of being the city’s chosen daughters. Ghertrude’s uncertainty at their introduction was beginning to pass when, without warning, Cyrena smiled and broke all the rules.
‘Forgive me, my dear, for asking such a taboo question, but I simply must know: who did escort you to the beginning of the carnival frivolities?’
Ghertrude fluttered and flushed, while trying to remain calm and indifferent. The hungry eyes saw all and pressed harder.
‘I am not asking you to be indiscreet or break a confidence, but I owe something to the gentleman concerned and I am anxious to pay.’
‘Are you sure we are talking about the same person?’ questioned Ghertrude, clutching at straws and finding it impossible to conceive of any situation where the unlikely pair may have met.
‘I do hope so,’ said Cyrena. She described the costume without ever having seen it. She described it well, and Ghertrude’s blush turned to an anxious pale. Cyrena saw the truth behind her blanching and knew her game had been cornered.
‘His name is Ishmael,’ Ghertrude said reluctantly. ‘He was my friend; he lived in this house.’