Chapter Nine
The Curled Ribbon
‘An exuberant, loose stitch that can provide a needed counterpoint to those that are more formal. There is room for some experimentation and variety with this stitch, giving the seamstress a chance to express some individuality in its use.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
For Plaguenight, I chose the butter yellow dress that I had purchased on my first day in Quell.
It would be eye-catching, but I would be masked, after all, I thought—and something in me longed for color after spending my time in the tea-brown light of the bookshop.
Baldbeak was staying behind this time. I knew that a large raven on my shoulder—particularly a large raven that had already evaded capture—would mark me out to anyone who might be searching for me.
Part of me knew that this was a terrible idea.
I had just murdered a Temple guard, after all, under what even the most pragmatic of judges would call “mysterious circumstances,” using powerful and dangerous magic that I could neither understand nor control—and which seemed to take possession of me without any conscious thought on my part.
Just because no one had seen me do it didn’t mean I was safe.
But with a mask, with my Hair hidden, with Mieka …
I longed to experience Plaguenight, and I thought that for just a couple of hours I would be safe enough.
The Book Man had grudgingly agreed, saying that the crowds were so dense on Plaguenight that the king himself could probably pass unnoticed if he hid his face.
I do not like it, Baldbeak said.
“I’m sure the Book Man will let you out for a while if you need some fresh air,” I said, purposely misunderstanding.
He nudged my ear with his beak. That is not what I mean. I do not think you should go alone.
“I’ll be fine.” I stroked his head. “You stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll take good care of your friend,” said the Book Man. He peered at Baldbeak a little uncertainly. “I have enough biscuits for the evening, I think.”
Baldbeak clicked his beak approvingly.
“Enjoy yourself, my dear,” said the Book Man, and surprised me by stooping and brushing a dry kiss against my cheek. Impulsively, I hugged him around the neck. When I pulled away, he was flustered, but smiling.
“And I have some good news,” he said. “I have heard tell of a bookmaker who may have helped worked on a volume extremely similar to the one you described.”
“Really?” I gasped.
“Yes. He is, er … not a Temple-sanctioned bookmaker, if you take my meaning. He works in the scriptorium at the monastery at Spire.”
“I have to go there,” I said. “I have to go now.”
“My dear,” he said gently. “Take this one night. It will be dark soon. Spire will still be there in the morning. I will do all I can to help you on your way tomorrow. Agreed?”
After a pause, I nodded.
“Now, go and enjoy yourself, my dear.”
I couldn’t believe it. I had really done it.
I had found the Book Man, and he in turn had found the book—or rather, I corrected, trying not to be too hopeful, someone who had worked on the book with Mother.
Who knew her. Who might know where she was—or what had happened to her.
And I would leave in the morning, mere hours from now.
As I walked down the narrow alley away from the concealed and warded shop door, an antlered deer skull loomed out of the shadows, jaws snapping.
I would have screamed, but fear closed my throat, and all I could muster was a gasp as I fell back against the wall, hands outstretched to keep it at bay.
The creature laughed and laughed until it was doubled over and wheezing.
It reached up and tipped back the mask, revealing Mieka’s face, lit up with merriment.
“Mieka,” I tried to say, but the word came out as a squeak. “You scared me!”
“That’s the idea.” She lowered the deer skull back into place and cocked her head to the side, smiling. I could just see the gleam of her small, neat teeth behind the squarer, yellower ones of the deer.
“I brought you a mask, too. Here.” Mieka fished in her bag and pulled it out partway—a sharp, rodent-like skull with protruding front teeth, top and bottom, meeting together in almost a point. I had no idea what kind of creature it could be.
“Where did you get this? It looks …”
“Expensive?”
“I was going to say terrifying.”
Mieka laughed. “It’s both. So don’t break it.”
“What is it? It looks like a giant rat.”
Mieka lifted the whole thing out. Behind the skull, attached to some kind of mesh, was a forest of black-and-white striped quills, hard as ivory and fiendishly pointed at the ends. The whole thing formed a headdress, designed to cover the head and shoulders as well as the face.
“It’s a porcupine,” she said, sounding very pleased with herself. “It will cover your Hair if you put it up underneath the quills, see? Here, duck down so I can reach.”
I eyed it dubiously, sighed, and dipped my head so that Mieka could place the elaborate thing over it.
“Now stand still.”
She fussed about with it a bit, smoothing the quills and making sure the mesh lay evenly over my shoulders. The Hair wriggled about a bit in protest, but lay obediently once she was done.
“Not bad,” she said when she had finished.
The interior of the skull mask was dry and smelled of something chemical—perhaps the glue that had been used in its construction.
The eyeholes were so close to the top of my head that I had to peer out through the mouth, but as the four enormous front teeth formed a pillar of white in the very centre of my vision, I had to turn my head a little awkwardly to see past them.
“It’s so heavy,” I said.
“Good. It’ll keep the Hair down.”
The Hair rustled in mild complaint, but it did seem to be accepting the weight of the mane of quills.
“Just try not to poke anyone in the eye when you’re dancing,” said Mieka.
“I doubt anyone will ask me to dance in this,” I grimaced, running my hands over the giant white teeth.
“Why wait to be asked?” said Mieka, grinning.
The dour, smoky streets of Quell had transformed into a tattered rainbow of color and light.
Lanterns made of colored paper swung from ropes strung overhead between the buildings—some shaped like flowers or stars or crescent moons, and still others with eye- and mouth-holes cut in them to resemble skulls.
There were probably more organized, formal parties happening indoors in other parts of the city, but this street revelry seemed to have sprung fully formed from the ground like mushrooms after rain.
The crematoriums still pumped their endless clouds of smoke above the rooftops, but colored powders had been added to turn even the ashes of the dead to shades of purple, pink, and orange.
The color, noise, and movement were better than meat and drink.
The white, whispering void of my memory and the dry, papery air of the bookshop retreated, replaced by a whirl of sensation.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“Not bad, is it?” said Mieka. “Come on. I want to get a good spot for the parade.”
I remembered bits and pieces of Plaguenight traditions as we walked.
Mother had told me only a little about it, as she disapproved of frivolity in general, but even in the Tower we had baked fresh sugar bread when Plaguenight came around.
Bread symbolized life and prosperity for the year ahead, and despite Mother’s contempt for superstition, the tradition was so deeply ingrained that she had continued to observe it.
I saw now that the streets were filled with bakers dressed in white and garlanded with flowers, carrying sacks of sugar and grain dyed in all colors, which they threw in handfuls into the crowds.
Soon everyone was covered in a thin, shining layer of sweet dust, which melted with their sweat to become rivulets of color running down the skin.
Children with sugar-crusted faces darted between the legs of passersby, shrieking with laughter as their mothers scolded them and singing the old Plague rhyme:
“First the fever, then the flame,
Burn the body, speak the name.”
Mieka linked her arm through mine as we walked through the crowd, inhaling the smell of fresh baking from the sweetmeats that vendors were handing out from decorated baskets.
I took a sugar rat on a stick and tried to maneuver it past the mask’s long teeth and into my mouth, making Mieka giggle.
The sugar and excitement in the air were intoxicating.
I found myself laughing aloud, accepting twirls and kisses on the hand from strangers as I walked.
“Being a porcupine agrees with you,” said Mieka.
I shoved her a little, gently, and she laughed.
The crowd started to part and move as if it were many creatures with one mind—a swarm of bees, or a susurration of evening starlings. The Hair writhed under its headdress of quills. It, too, seemed to feel the burgeoning energy and excitement.
“The parade must be coming past soon,” said Mieka. She was about to say more, but was interrupted by an irritated voice saying, “There you are.” It came from a bird skull wearing a peacock-feather headdress and an iridescent green-blue gown.
“Zlata.” Mieka raised her mask briefly to kiss her. Zlata’s impossibly large brown eyes flickered over me from behind the bird’s eye sockets, indifferent.
“Is that a porcupine?” was all she said. “Really, Mieka.”
“The parade will be passing in a moment,” said Mieka. “Have you seen it before, Netta?”
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry, I forget that you’ve never …
Well, I’ve watched it every year since I can remember,” said Mieka.
“I was so little the first few times that my father had to put me on his shoulders. It was the most exciting thing I had ever seen, then.” She smiled a little wistfully, and then, “Here it comes!” she cried, sounding like that excited little girl again.
Two figures danced at the head of the parade. As soon as they came into view, the crowd fell silent.
“The Plague and the Plague Doctor,” Mieka murmured in my ear.