“They were inside! Mycroft, they were inside!”
“Who? Who was inside? Inside what?”
I leaned against Thisbe’s bed so the boy’s weight would not topple me. He smelled of the sea, salt, and sun, good things to come between these shadows.
“In my cave! They went through and threw everything everywhere, and broke the dollhouse, and knocked Mommadoll’s kitchen over, and turned Boo’s bed upside down!”
Boo too jumped on me, frantic as dogs get when they sense panic but have nothing to growl at.
“Is anyone hurt? Was anyone seen?” I asked.
“Mommadoll got hurt. Mommadoll got a heavy box thrown on them and was stuck there pretending to be just a doll, for an hour, Mycroft! An hour!”
He opened his arms just enough for me to see her cradled there, her blond curls mussed by crook of his elbow. “I’m fine, honey,” she reassured, her smile never dimming. “It just twisted my shoulder a little bit. I’m fine. The important thing is that you weren’t there.”
“You weren’t there?” I repeated as I stroked his hair.
“I went swimming on the beach. Mommadoll was all alone with just a couple soldiers on watch!”
I hugged him as tightly as I could without smothering the doll in his arms. “It’s all right now.”
“But!”
“I’m here. I’ll take care of it. Whatever happens, so long as you’re not hurt, I can take care of it, I promise.” I wiped his tears with my fingers, and he granted me a smile. “What happened to your tracker?”
“I left it while I went to swim.” He saw the silent scolding on my face. “I know. But the Major says I shouldn’t turn it on again. The bad guy did something to it, the men on watch saw!”
“The Major’s right.” I held the child gently, feeling his trembling subside. But I did have to ask. “Was it Dominic Seneschal?”
The Major answered, seated with his men on a set of dice on the bedside table, just the right size to serve as stools. “Blacklaw, late twenties, sensayer’s scarf, antique French men’s costume, light skin, brown hair tied back, moves like a monster.”
“Dominic must have found something in this room when they searched before.” I gave Bridger’s shoulder a squeeze. “Was anything sitting out in the cave that was obviously miracled? Did Dominic take anything? Anything you’d made?”
“I was packing!” Sobs resurged. “I was packing like you said, just the important things, and they took my backpack! It was full! It had my drawings, and my red shirt, and my Robin Hood book, and the ammunition, all the army men’s ammunition, and Mommadoll’s best little frying pan, you remember the one you got her that’s just the right size?”
“We can get another one, sweetheart,” she reassured.
My mind inventoried what else the backpack must contain: hair, fingerprints. “The ammunition, was it already miracled?”
Bridger sniffed. “It wasn’t miracled yet, just lots of little paper guns and boxes, and some paper Healing Potion tubes, I made some ahead of time so I’ll be ready. I even have some in my pocket, see?” His trembling hand produced the now-crushed paper tube, already labeled.
“What about the resurrection potion you made for Private Pointer?”
“I have that safe in my shoe. But the No-No Box! They took the No-No Box!”
Thisbe’s voice rose behind me, as soft and sweet and threatening as I had ever heard it. “What’s the No-No Box?”
I turned to find her on the threshold, the click of her boots cold as the clatter of old bones.
Instinct made me clutch the boy more tightly. “That doesn’t matter right now.”
“More secrets?” She slipped off her fine jacket, and set down the parcel of leftovers I did not yet realize was from Chagatai. “We were hunting Dominic Seneschal ourselves when we got the bleep that Bridger had come in here. I didn’t know you were here, though. Slipped our tracker again, have we?”
I cursed, spotting wide-eyed Carlyle behind her. The shadow of my hat would have been enough to conceal the absence of the tracker at my ear, but not now.
“Bridger isn’t up to dealing with you in one of your moods right now, Thisbe,” I warned. “Take a minute to relax, and take your boots off.”
“Why was Bridger packing?” She stepped toward me, enjoying the unease each step instilled. “You weren’t going to spirit Bridger off to J.E.D.D. Mason without telling us, were you?”
I helped Bridger sit beside me on the bed, so I could shield him from her glare. “Not to J.E.D.D. Mason, but this area isn’t safe anymore, not with this investigation. I have a safe house ready.”
“So you run and leave me in the hot seat?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Mycroft. You were trying to take Bridger off somewhere and hide them from me.”
I found myself wondering why I was so frightened as the witch loomed close. Was it pathological? She seemed a witch to me in all senses then, a good witch, bad witch, weaver of curses, stalker of children, solver of problems, healer, black widow, conjurer, the devil’s whore who chews through mortal mates, an old maid too, young but on course to bloom into that unmarried, ungrounded, uncontrolled old crone which drove past societies to purge with fire or bind in nunneries those thorny women wedlock could not hold. I had come to her with Bridger years ago, just as a village girl might have, desperate to conceal a child born out of wedlock, turning to the midwife who is something more than midwife after dark. Now this same protector-friend loomed before me, like the boogeymen kids fear before they learn real dangers. Was it all in my mind? Her threat? Her craft?
Yes, Mycroft, it was. Remember, thou art mad.
Am I?
Indeed, thou art. Thou provest it often, and if thou doubtest now, read over thy descriptions of this woman, from the incipit to here. Hexes and witchcraft, would Reason use these words? Would I?
You are right, reader. Apologies. You corrected me about this once before, but sometimes, in this hazy present, I forget.
Is that apology sincere?
Sincere? Of course, dear master. All these labors are for you. If you are not satisf—
Then act on it.
How?
Stop calling her a witch. Thy common biases are distraction enough without these fever dreams. Say ‘she’ if thou must, but no more superstitions. Even thy barely enlightened Patriarch was civilized enough to fear no witches. Follow his good example.
I hesitate, reader. I find Thisbe’s masks and layers difficult to describe already. It will be much harder without the frame through which I myself understand her, or try to. But I will attempt, reader, I promise you, my fragile, failing best.
“I’ll bring Bridger back later,” I pledged. “In a week, a month, when this is over. If you don’t know where the safe house is then Dominic can’t force it out of you.”
Thisbe laughed aloud. “Mycroft, you just confessed you place J.E.D.D. Mason above even the Major. They’ll have a far easier time forcing it out of you.”
“Quit being stupid, Thisbe!” Bridger piped up, glaring at her, bold as day, over my shoulder. “Mommadoll’s hurt and the scary person might know about me. This isn’t the time to be mad at Mycroft!”
Thisbe was all smiles in an instant, and the room filled with the scent of warmth and mothering. “Bridger, honey, Mycroft and I both want what’s best for you, but it’s hard when Mycroft won’t be honest with the rest of us. They’re sincere, but they don’t always know what’s best.”
The Major rose from his die-stool. “Bridger’s right this time, Thisbe. There’s a shadow over your house. We can’t let that fall over Bridger, whatever the cost.”
Thisbe flinched, a real flinch as his reprimand reminded her how precariously things were teetering.