39. Sam Residues #2
“Of course. We have agents—an agent—investigating the matter.” She glanced at Clementine and then at me, changing the subject.
“I’ve learned a great deal about the realm during my travels.
I’ve learned about the Weer and the wall, the Oarings that travel overhead, and the scree.
But all the spirits who inhabit the outer ring between the wall and the first isle know almost nothing of what exists beyond the first isle.
It’s rumored that there are seven isles, each larger than the last, and that there is, at the very heart of the realm, a passage that returns the spirit to the living world as a being reborn.
” She glanced at me again. “Have you ever heard such rumors?”
“I have. But only rumors, for no spirit who leaves the first isle returns to it.”
Wister nodded. “Yes, it is a mystery we may never unravel.”
We fell into silence. Dawn was lightening the world beyond the window, and Clementine shifted in her sleep, slowly emerging from her restorative slumber.
“There’s only one residue in this room,” Wister said quietly.
“Behind you, a woman knocks on the wall to send messages to someone in the adjoining room. She’s the most benign apparition in the house, but the sight of her is still disturbing to the uninitiated.
” She got to her feet. “Constable Maxwell will be arriving early. I’ll ensure that we are ready. ”
Wister left the room. As Clementine gradually emerged from sleep, the house around us also began to wake.
I could hear the sound of pans clanging in the kitchen and footsteps gently thudding overhead.
Clem’s thoughts appeared as her conscious mind woke.
Her first thought was of Rosetta—but not of Rosetta’s death.
She pictured her sister at a grand estate, someplace I’d never seen, holding hands with Walter Ainsley.
Then, suddenly, her thoughts returned to the cold, stony vista of the realm.
Her eyes opened, and her thoughts were abruptly shrouded.
She looked at me without rising. “You’ve been here all night? ”
“I have. How do you feel?”
Her eyes drifted to the ceiling. “Tired.”
I reached for her hand instinctively, and then I realized that the touch of a cold, clammy spirit would hardly be consoling. But she did not recoil; she left her hand listlessly in mine. “I know, Clem.”
“I’ll stay here a little longer.”
I looked at her, worried. It was unnerving to see my indomitable Clementine so entirely drained of her usual fortitude.
Her expression was as listless as her limp hand.
But I didn’t say so. I said to myself that she had every right to be tired, and to her I said, “Of course. Rest a little longer before Maxwell comes.”
An hour later, Wister knocked on the door of the lilac bedroom. But though her eyes were open, Clem said nothing. It was I who said, “Come in.”
Wister put her head through the door. “Constable Maxwell is here.”
“Come, Clem,” I said. “Let me help you up.”
She turned to look at the wall. “You can go without me, Sam. I’ll stay here.”
I exchanged a worried glance with Wister.
“It’s good for her to rest,” Wister said to me. “You can apprise her of the conversation.”
Reluctantly, I followed Wister into the corridor, where she spoke quietly. “She’s quite exhausted.”
“Yes—it’s concerning.”
“Don’t forget; she’s lost a sister, and the furious energy that propelled her toward that journey is now spent.
She’s feeling grief as well as physical fatigue.
Give her a little time,” Wister said reassuringly.
We’d reached the library, where Maxwell stood by the window.
A tray with tea and toast waited on the round table.
As we came in, he stared at me with amazement. “So it’s true,” he said. “Miss Quinn has returned with a thew.”
I took a few steps toward him and gave a small bow. “Good morning, Constable Maxwell. We’re already acquainted. Perhaps you recognize me?”
His amazement turned to puzzlement. “I apologize—I don’t. Would you remind me how we’re acquainted?”
I smiled, unable to resist prolonging the intrigue a little longer. “We met during the summer, in Gloucester, while you were seeking the identity of Beth Baines.”
“ ‘In Gloucester…’ ” he echoed, frowning.
“And since then we’ve met almost weekly, on Saturday mornings. My name is Samuel May.”
His eyes lit with understanding. “Sam!” he exclaimed.
He stepped toward me with hands outstretched, taking one of mine in his without any apparent repugnance and pumping it enthusiastically.
“Samuel May,” he repeated, with an air of wonder.
“I’m delighted to meet you. I feel that we are old friends already.
I never…” He shook his head. “I never dreamed that I would meet you in this way. I’d speculated that you were a constable. ”
I smiled. “No, I’m definitely no constable. But I can see how you would think so, eager as I’ve been to insert myself into your investigations.”
“To my great benefit,” he declared. “Without Sam,” Maxwell said to Wister, “I would be exactly where I was last year, which is nowhere. And I certainly wouldn’t have the list of Cisneros members.”
“Ah,” Wister replied, smiling sagely. “Then you are practically a member of the Sor Juana Alliance already, Sam.”
Now it was my turn to be amazed. I looked from Maxwell to Wister, realizing what should have been evident from the beginning.
They knew each other. Of course they did.
Their conversation in Clem’s apartment had been a discussion between confederates, not a dispute between a constable and an illegal practitioner of enchantment.
I had a sudden vision of the spiritoscope, the knob engraved with the letters SJA, and all became clear.
“You’re part of the Sor Juana Alliance,” I said to Maxwell.
Maxwell imitated my little bow, smiling.
“Roy Marcel, of Port-au-Prince, known in Massachusetts as Constable Roy Maxwell. I’ve served the alliance since I was sixteen, and I’ve been an agent in Greater Boston for the last three years.
I answer to Wister Amsel, the head of the Massachusetts chapter. ”
Wister looked at Marcel proudly. “It was Roy who managed to seize the Providence portal from the Cisneros Society.”
“I had help,” Marcel said, smiling at Wister.
“You astonish me.” I shook my head. He was an islander, like me! He was not really a constable at all. “I wondered how…why you were so inclined to my suggestions.”
“Yes. Sor Juana members are doubtlessly more open to the influence of spirits, given our work.” He smiled. “But I confess—I’m a little dismayed at the prospect of what I’ll do without your omniscience.”
“Perhaps I can still be of assistance in my new guise.”
“Of course. You know more than any of us how all these many threads—Miss Quinn, the Cisneros Society, the stoning deaths—are connected. They’re all part of a single weaving.”
“Or of a single knot, perhaps. But yes. All are intertwined. And between us perhaps we may untangle it.”
“Excellent. It will be much easier to understand the nature of this knot now that you can speak directly. Please, Mr. May. Tell us everything.”