CHAPTER 15
H ELENA’S CAPTIVITY SANK BACK INTO MONOTONY.
She only saw Ferron when he came to check her memory, and then a few days later to perform transference again.
She didn’t struggle. Her mind still felt tenuous as spider silk. She was afraid that if she unravelled, Ferron would have free rein.
He didn’t try to push into the hidden spaces but simply settled himself into the landscape of her mind and stayed there.
He blinked, and her eyes fluttered. Her left hand rose; she watched it open and close.
Her consciousness was split between herself and him, but with every passing second, she felt more like him than she did herself. Slowly devoured.
She tasted blood.
It was streaming from her eyes and nose.
When it was over, she stayed limp where she was, head tilted back, gazing at the ceiling until the necrothralls came and picked her up, putting her to bed.
Because of her lack of resistance, she was only mildly feverish for a few days. It seemed she was the animancer after all.
The realisation lay like a stone on her chest. She’d been sure her memory loss had been part of the Resistance strategy, intended to protect some vital secret for Luc.
That it was something grandly self-sacrificing that she had cooperated with, entrusting her mind and memories to the mysterious Elain Boyle.
Had it just been her, hiding herself all this time? Was that all it was in the end? Surely there was something, but nothing she remembered, none of her glimmers of returning memory, hinted at anything of importance.
Ferron was constantly busy, spending most of his time trying to hunt down the last members of the Eternal Flame. When she did happen to see him from the courtyard windows, he looked visibly ground down. Sometimes he came back covered in blood.
She couldn’t help but notice the strain around his eyes and the stiff way he often moved.
She began to suspect that Morrough was torturing him regularly.
Since Ferron couldn’t stay dead, Morrough got the pleasure of killing him over and over.
He wasn’t returning to the house pale with fury; he was in shock from torture. The symptoms showed more distinctly every time she caught sight of him. It was as though he were mentally eroding as the physical ramifications vanished.
She tried not to notice. When she couldn’t help it, she tried not to care.
He was trying to hunt down the Resistance. Every time he was tortured was a sign he had failed. Hadn’t she wanted him punished?
He’d chosen this, after all. Morrough was dying, and Ferron knew it, and yet he still chose to serve him, carrying out everything that Morrough now lacked the strength to do himself.
He deserved to suffer.
W HEN SHE FOUND SPOTS OF blood between her legs, she sat staring in total incomprehension until it dawned on her that she was menstruat ing. Even before the war, the stress of her scholarship had kept her irregular. It had stopped completely after the assassination.
She’d forgotten that it was something her body was supposed to do.
When she’d been sterilised, Matias had wanted her womb removed, but Ilva had insisted that the procedure be as non-invasive as possible. A ligature. Which meant she could still bleed.
She shoved a cloth between her legs, and when her lunch was brought, she had to ask the maid if she could have something for her monthlies.
If it had happened sooner, she might have enjoyed thinking about Ferron’s discomfort at being forced to deal with the reality of a female prisoner, but now Ferron’s discomfort was something she tried not to think about.
Ten days after transference, when he came to her room to check her memories again, he seemed less on edge. When he encountered Helena’s reluctant but fixated concern over him, he broke the connection.
She blinked and found him staring down at her.
“Worrying about me?” His face twisted into a gloating smile. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Her face burned. “Don’t take it as a compliment. I hate torture.”
“What a saint,” he said dryly, laying a hand across his chest. “I’m sure sweet Luc would be touched by your tender heart.”
“Don’t use his name,” she said sharply. “You were never his friend.”
She sat up even though her head was still swimming.
He leaned against the bedpost. “You know, I wonder sometimes who’s responsible for more Resistance deaths, Holdfast and his morals or me. What do you think?”
“It’s not the same.”
His fingers twitched. He almost managed to hide it by crossing his arms. “Is there really a difference between having someone die for you and killing them?”
Anger flared in her chest. “Yes. I’m sure you’d love to imagine there isn’t to soothe your conscience, but you are nothing like him.”
He gave a thin smile. “I don’t believe I have a conscience, but tell me, do you wish I’d kept them alive?” He asked the question softly. “Leaving the Eternal Flame members alive, letting people hope, would that be kinder?”
“They should hope, because there is someone out there. Someone from the Eternal Flame that you haven’t caught.”
“Not for long.”
The blood drained from her face. “Did you—?” Her voice wavered.
He shook his head. “Not yet. But I can guarantee it.” There was anger in his smile. “Whatever happens to Morrough, the killer will be dead and gone long before he is.”
“You don’t know that,” she said fiercely.
“I do, though,” he said, his expression so hard he could have been carved from granite.
“This is a story with only one ending. If your Resistance wanted something else, they should have made different choices. Perhaps some hard, realistic ones, and given up their fanatical notions that the righteousness of their cause made their victory inevitable. They were fools, every one of them.” He sneered.
“If the gods were real, they would have made Apollo Holdfast harder to kill.”
Helena stared at him, watching the way his face twisted, the tangible fury in his eyes.
“Who do you hate so much?” Until then, she hadn’t realised the depths of his anger. It was like the ocean that went on and on, and all its promises were death.
He seemed briefly startled by the question, then his emotions vanished like a box snapped shut.
“Many people,” he said with an insolent shrug. He smiled, mouth curving like a scythe. “Most of whom are dead now.”
L ANCASTER’S VISITS TO S PIREFELL RESUMED as winter faded. Helena paid little attention. If there was any chance that he was a member of the Resistance, Ferron would have gone after him by now.
When she heard frequent footsteps, she knew that the Ferrons must be hosting some new event. The main wing of the house was bustling with activity. New necrothralls were brought in, and the decaying corpses constantly stationed outside the main doors were banished to elsewhere.
There were boxes of flowers scattered all over the foyer to be arranged. They were shipped from somewhere farther south or grown indoors; Spirefell’s garden beds were still bleak.
Helena calculated the date and realised that it was the vernal equinox.
Aurelia would have a party.
There were large braziers set alight in the courtyard as the motorcars began pulling in.
Helena watched from a high window as the guests emerged.
It was a smaller party than the winter solstice.
The solstices were Paladia’s most significant celebrations, while the equinoxes tended to be heralded more in agricultural countries.
Novis was said to have grand parades each spring in celebration of Tellus, the earth goddess.
When all the guests were inside, Helena waited for half an hour before she slipped towards the main wing. The thralls were too busy with the guests to supervise her, leaving only the eyes in the walls to watch.
She could hear the voices before she reached the dining room. The party sounded drunk. She crept into the next room. The voices were muffled through the walls, but when she strained, she could still make out the conversation.
“It’s a ghost, I’m telling you. Holdfast has come back for vengeance. No other explanation,” came a loud slurred voice. “Straight through the damned walls.”
“Do shut up,” drawled someone. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, you fuck.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen Vidkun. He’d bricked himself up in his house with nothing but his thralls with him. A rat couldn’t get in there. How’d anyone kill him?”
“Just because you can’t transmute anything that isn’t half copper doesn’t mean the rest of the world can’t.
Everyone knows the Holdfasts collected alchemists from all over.
It’s probably one of those freaks. Besides, Vidkun was an idiot.
He stayed home and lived alone. If you don’t want to die, just fuck someone in their bed instead of your own. ”
There was braying laughter.
“Speaking of fucking,” came a new, sly voice, “how many of you have been to Central lately? Stroud show you the works?”
There was audible chuckling.
Helena went still, not even breathing.
“Always glad to perform my civic duty. Paladia can never have too many alchemists,” replied a leering voice.
“Stroud lets you have anyone you want?”
“Well,” the sly voice replied, “it probably depends on your repertoire. She’ll give you a list of room numbers to choose from.
There’s this one girl, pretty thing, scars weren’t too bad.
Little bitch managed to bite me, but she was very cooperative after I broke her jaw.
I told Stroud to let it heal the old-fashioned way.
” There was a dramatic sigh. “I’ll go back again this week, make sure she’s knocked up, and if not, I guess I’ll try again.
I rather hope it didn’t take, I think I’ll like her better with her mouth wired shut. ”
Helena felt as though someone had stabbed her. Pain twisted through her chest and stomach.
“Is that all? I thought from the papers that there’d be more of a process. I’ll have to go see what I can get.”
There was more laughter then.