Dean brought the anticipated chicken soup. Only it was nothing but broth. All the good stuff had been strained out.
It was warm and thick and I was starving. I sucked it down till I couldn’t hold any more.
Minutes later I declared, “I’m starting to feel human.” Pause. “Well? Somebody going to jump on the straight line?”
“Nobody’s in the mood, Garrett. The last fifteen hours were misery curdled. Ready downstairs, Dean?”
“Steamer’s going. Water’s hot. The tub is out. I’ll get something to dry him off and we’ll be set.”
Tinnie snapped, “Off your butt, big boy. It’s bath time.”
I stood. With help. The world hadn’t gone stable, but it didn’t have that awful wobble where I tripped and stumbled into a nightmare dreamland.
I felt stronger by the time we hit the kitchen. Where the air was thick with steam, the herb stench watered my eyes, and the heat was overpowering.
Dean had dragged the big copper laundry tub up from the cellar. Two smaller tubs were heating on the stove. I said, “This ought to cook a few demons out of me.”
“If only,” Tinnie and Dean sneered at the same instant.
Ifonly. You should be beyond crisis, Garrett. But we must make sure. You are doing most of your own breathing. Secondarily, Dean and Miss Tate wish to render your personal aroma somewhat less piquant.
I didn’t have energy enough to get my feelings bruised.
Tinnie grumbled, “Arms over your head. Off with those filthy duds.”
In the steam and heat I caught whiffs of what everybody else had been suffering all along.
No wonder Singe and her miracle nose were elsewhere.
That weed sweat was pretty awful.
50
They steamed me for the rest of the century. They were generous with water and beer, but still I sweated a good ten pungent pounds. And was too weak afterward to make it back to bed on my own.
My bedding had been changed. Somebody had opened the window briefly, despite the weather. A charcoal burner was warming the room now. Herbs had been added, meant to mask bad smells.
I collapsed. My last recollection was Tinnie cursing like a Marine as she levered loose extremities into bed.
I regained consciousness with a furious hangover- again-and a worse attitude. How many times would I go round this circle of misery? Hell. Maybe I could get my karma all polished up in one lifetime.
I had no strength. I was a big glob of pancake goo, just splattered there. If I’d been able to feel sorry for anybody else, I would’ve reflected on how awful life must be for Chodo. But from the surface of the griddle the horizon is close. Only a strong caution from the Dead Man and a residual dollop of survival instinct kept me from taking it out on Tinnie.
It is not her fault. It is not her fault. He is handy, sometimes.
“The Dead Man says you’re cured.” Damn her eyes, she was chipper. Perky, even. Which made it harder to hold back. “There’s some work you can do today. Notice, you’re breathing on your own now.” Tinnie fed me watery porridge and honeyed tea. “You more inclined to concentrate on the manufactory full-time now?”
Here came some potholes in the high road to romance.
“I thought you all wanted me to stay away.” On account of I mutter and sputter and carry on like the group conscience. Particularly when they’re trying to expand the corporate profit margin.
“You could keep your mouth shut. You can contribute without making everybody want to smack you with a shaping mallet. Security is getting to be a challenge. We’ve had parts go missing. We think somebody is trying to build a three-wheel at home.”
Singe arrived with a tray. But no food. “This tea has willow bark in it. Dean thought you might have a hangover.”
I did, but I was getting better. “Thanks. How come nothing else?”
Singe eyed Tinnie’s tray. “Your gut can’t handle anything heavier.”
I was ready to tie into a mammoth steak. “Not even soup?”
“Soup for lunch. Maybe. Maybe something solid for supper. If you keep the soup down.”
I was cranky enough to chew rocks. But some damnable shred of decency wouldn’t let me snarl and bitch when people were babying me. Probably supplemented by a suspicion that the babying would stop.
I drank tea. I drank water. By the time I finished dressing and got downstairs I was thirsty again.
Dean gave me apple juice. The flavor hit my mouth like an unexpected explosion. After an almost painful moment I understood that I had my sense of taste back, never having realized that it was gone.
How is your writing hand? Recovered, I trust?
I muttered. I grumbled. I made noises like I might not only go to work at the manufactory full-time. I might move there with all my treasures and none of my burdens.
I got a big mental sneer in reply. And a confession that, The transcription is complete. Merry Sculdyte has departed, in a state of vast confusion. He has memories he knows are not his own. But he cannot sort those out from others that are. He is afflicted with suspicions of his brother and benevolent feelings toward Teacher White. Who, he vaguely recollects, saved his life and nursed him back to health after somebody tried to assassinate him.
“You seem to have lost some scruples.”
They are not lost. They are in abeyance.
I was so amazed I forgot to feel sorry for Ma Garrett’s baby boy for nearly a minute. “Oh? Explain a little more.”
The Sculdyte family has a plan. An extreme plan. Not advantageous for TunFaire. Much better if Miss Contague continues to wrangle the underworld. Her victims are her own kind. And deserving.
I understood once I skimmed notes from those Merry memories not recorded in my own fair hand.
Rory did have a plan. It involved destroying the Watch. He expected backing from the Hill once the killing started. But Merry had known no names. It sounded more like raw wish fulfillment than solid scheme, but Sculdyte was convinced that a reckoning with the Watch was imminent. Upon removal of Chodo and his wicked daughter.
The Contague name still had conjure power.
51
I napped while Colonel Block read. The trudge over to the Cardonlos place had worn me out. Even with Tinnie along to pick me up if I got lost in a snowdrift.
My honey shook me when it was time. The poor girl was ragged.
Block was done. And hot enough to boil water. He glared at me. “How dare they? How dare they?” Then, less rhetorically, “Did you really have a close call?”
“You’re going to worry about me? That makes me nervous.” But I sketched my age of suffering.
“I don’t need to hear about every twitch and burp, Garrett.” Then, “That doesn’t allay my natural cynicism. I can’t help wondering, if you’re willing to turn this over, how much more interesting is the stuff you’re holding back?”
“It’s hard, going through life misunderstood.”
“I doubt that anyone misunderstands you even a little, Garrett. Eh, Miss Tate? Nevertheless, we’re in your debt.”
“Really? We could use a visit from some Green Pants guys.”
“That might serve our purposes.” Without hesitation or argument.
“Send a clerk, too. Somebody without imagination enough to be scared of the Dead Man. I can’t write anymore.” I showed him a hand shriveled into a claw.
“It isn’t that I don’t believe you’re literate, Garrett. I’ve witnessed incidents. What I can’t envision is you doing that much work.”
I shrugged. I’d surprised him before.
His heart wasn’t in his banter. It was broken. Somebody out there was so indisposed to the rule of law that he meant to make war on it. “Where is Merry now?”