Page 62 of Tomb of Ancients
“Arms to embrace, yet no hands. Pinches to give, yet no fingers. Poison to wield, yet no needle.” I put my hand lightly on Bartholomew’s furry head and scratched. “What am I?”
Had I eyes that penetrated his skull, I might have seen all the wheels turning, all the quick calculations as he stewed over his answer. And were he a teakettle, steam would have clotted his ears, everything suddenly too hot. Mr. Morningside shifted his weight and crossed his arms again, tipping back hischin in an imperious manner that reminded me instantly of Malatriss. That didn’t go in his favor, either.
“A scorpion,” he said.
“Lying or inept, I hardly know if it matters anymore.” I nudged the giant shaggy dog at my side, snapping my fingers in Mr. Morningside’s direction. “Go on, Bartholomew. Is he telling the truth? Does he really think that’s the answer? Or did he hope, secretly, that I would lose a finger for his error, that I would fail or die and become one less mess to sweep up?”
“It isn’t so, Louisa. If I told you something in error, it was not intentional. I wanted dearly for you to succeed!”
Bartholomew glanced up at me with his seeking eyes, puppyish, while Morningside snorted, then stumbled backward, his own gaze widening with shock as the dog leapt toward him. He knocked Mr. Morningside off his feet, startling all of us, and then crawled over his body, the stiffer fur along the dog’s spine standing up, rigid. His lips peeled back, showing finger-length teeth, and his eyes, normally so sweet, had gone feral with purpose.
“Louisa—” I heard Lee murmur.
“Just watch.”
This was when I would know. Mr. Morningside’s scheme would be revealed, his plot to end Mother and me, including the unlikely but certainly not unwanted possibility of Dalton and all the other Upworlders being wiped completely away. Nomatter what, there would be fewer to stand against him. I saw Mr. Morningside paw lightly at the dog’s shoulders, a small, whimpering sound escaping him before Bartholomew lunged forward and... did nothing. The dog neither growled nor licked him. Bartholomew seemed only confused. Maybe it meant that there was no lie and no truth. That Mr. Morningside had not himself known what to expect when I approached the tomb.
“Satisfied?” Mr. Morningside grunted. He shoved his way to his feet and brushed the fur off his trousers. “I told you what I knew, and you did what I could not. Would you indulge an old fool and describe what it all was like?”
“It was... it was... beauty and then sorrow, amazement and then pain.” I pushed my hand through my snarled hair in frustration and winced, even that movement upsetting the other arm in its sling. Was I wrong about him? Had he sent me out in ignorance and not with malice? In the end, it mattered less to me than the knowledge that he had waited until the last moment to sacrifice his beloved birds, long after his friends and employees had jumped in to defend the house. “You have no idea what you asked of me, what that placewas. There were no answers there, only misery. I saw the place where the gods are born and where they go to sleep. I met a Binder, and it ripped my soul in half, then used an innocent to repair what was wounded. I only survived because of what Dalton told me, because of what I read in his diary.”
I spun away, feeling the tears coming on. But the voice insideme, Mother’s voice, emerged, gently at first and then with an insistence that could not be ignored.
“I’m sorry, Louisa.” Mr. Morningside went quiet for a moment, and I could imagine him staring contemplatively into the flames. “I have no idea how you could stomach reading about us. The whole affair was, well, rather Byzantine, to be honest. My kind and his were never meant to mingle, for obvious reasons. Though I suppose Imustbe honest, eh? You have me at a disadvantage, knowing, as you now do, my intimate secrets.”
It struck me as vain and sad that he would worry about such things when so many lives had been lost that day. “You will find that I am the last soul likely to pass judgment,” I assured him. “I can... see, quite naturally, how one could fall hopelessly for Dalton. He was very genuine. Nothing but accommodating.”
“Oh yes,” he chuckled. “Dalton Spicer was certainly accommodating. He accommodated me right into his grave.”
I turned around to see that he was not looking at the fire, but at me. “We are all of us thralls to our better nature.”
“No,” Mr. Morningside said drily. “No, not all of us are, Louisa.”
“Indeed?” It was time to take what was owed, to move on. To bury Mother and find a place to start again. I had an idea for that, of course, or perhaps Mother did. “Indeed. Well, then you will not be surprised when I ask for the house and the book. You did not remove Father’s spirit from me, and thus I want what was promised.”
Lee shifted uncomfortably, and Bartholomew padded over to him, nuzzling into the young man’s hip.
Mr. Morningside laughed again and smiled, but it never reached his eyes. “You cannot be serious, Louisa. It was I who sent you into that place, so in essence I was responsible for—”
“Do I look to be in a bargaining mood?”It came out in a deadly whisper, one that snatched his smile away handily. “I would sincerely advise against taking full responsibility for what occurred in that tomb. You who sees all ends and plans for all possibilities, even you could not prepare for what I learned, what I endured. And I doubt you could have survived it. I’m already feeling rather irritable, and you will hear now the extent of my mercy.”
He stared back at me, fuming, his hands falling to his sides where they balled into fists.
“Louisa—”
The sound of a coughing fit drew my attention, and I turned briefly to see that its source was Poppy. We had amassed an audience, the remainder of the house staff as well as Khent and Fathom having gathered to watch us from a safe distance. I whirled back to face Mr. Morningside.
“You will abandon this place, and it will be torn down,” I said, nodding toward the house. “I don’t want it. Nobody should want it. As for the book...” Turning to Lee, I softened my tone, for he was innocent in all of this. “Lee, should you like to go on living as you are?”
“I... believe so, yes. Yes, I should like to go on, even if it is a strange new existence.”
“Then keep your book,” I said to Morningside. “But you will tear one page from it, and it will go to Lee. What he does with it, where he takes it, will be his business. If the book’s power has sustained so many Residents over the years, then a page should prove more than enough.”
I hooked my arm through Lee’s and coaxed him away from the pyre. The wood had started to burn in earnest, igniting Mrs. Haylam’s stained frock and the bandages I had tied over her arms and legs. The black, black smoke funneled into the air, forming a cloud that hung heavy over Coldthistle House.
“And me?” Mr. Morningside called after me. He sounded ragged, desperate. “What becomes of me?”
“You?” I spared him a single glance over my shoulder. “I never want to see you again.”
