Chapter 12
“I’m sorry,” Moreau says sympathetically.
I shrug, then realise he won’t be able to see it.
“I appreciate your help, regardless.” I take the tray from my legs and place it between us on the settee, the leftover meal utterly useless to me now.
“I would give you more, but I’m afraid it would only sustain you for mere moments. My ichor is not limitless.”
“I couldn’t ask this of you,” I say.
“There must be another way. An explanation. Something.” He lets out a frustrated huff.
“I wondered this, too. I live a rather simple and dull life. I did nothing extraordinary when it started.”
“Your life doesn’t seem very dull to me,” he says, the quirk returning to his lips.
I appreciate his attempt at levity, but it offers no comfort.
“Would you describe what you did leading up to this change?” he asks. “Perhaps, I can discern something that you might have overlooked.”
“The day before I first felt unlike myself, I went on a small excursion. Like I’ve done countless times.”
“An excursion? What was its purpose?”
“I like to dig,” I say sheepishly.
He lifts an eyebrow.
“It was only for a day. About two hours west.”
I try to act nonchalant, but Moreau looks as if he’s expecting a proper explanation. How can I put it in a way that doesn’t make me sound barmy?
“I like to dig. Sometimes I hope to discover something. Anything really. Artifacts, perhaps. But I’ve never found any.”
“Fascinating,” he says, leaning closer, making me feel like my words matter.
“Well, I—” Everything shifts, and I have to grip the Chesterfield. With my other hand, I push against my temple.
“Are you unwell?”
“I… Something is changing,” I say, unable to describe the strange sensation surging through me.
“Do you need to repose?” Moreau’s hand finds my shoulder.
“No. I think I’m alright,” I try to reassure him.
He watches me for a moment before he speaks again. “Please, continue. You mentioned you’ve never found anything. Not even that day?”
“Well…no, but…it was really just a stick,” I shrug.
“A stick? What manner of stick?”
“At first, it was so crusted in soil that I couldn’t discern that it was a simple stick. So I took it home. Once cleaned, I saw it was just a petrified twig. Not anything of note.”
“Have you considered it might be more?”
I look at his hand, which remains on my shoulder. Even though I am still quite translucent, he must notice me glancing at it, because he takes it back and places it in his lap.
“No. If you were to see it, you would understand.”
“Could I see?” he asks.
“Well, yes, but…you must know, I have staff. They are quite concerned, and I wouldn’t know how to explain your presence without mine.”
“Of course. If you opened your window, I could enter easily.”
“I’m sure I can manage that,” I say, wondering how he could do such a thing. Perhaps he was acrobatically inclined?
Moreau smiles warmly. When he stands up, he shakes invisible crumbs from his trousers. I try to follow him, but the world suddenly shifts askew. The entire room wavers, and before I know it, I’m back on the settee.
Moreau’s hands hold onto my arm. “Let me help,” he says gently.
I try to stand again, but my legs suddenly seem made for a much smaller man than me. Moreau’s strong grip keeps me in place. I take care to steady my breath until I find my footing again.
“I’m alright now,” I reassure him, but he doesn’t let go.
I feel awkward to be held like this, as if I were an invalid. But perhaps I am? Have I not experienced ailments that plagued so many people without help or cure? There’s no shame in needing assistance.
“Thank you, Moreau,” I say.
He makes a non-committal sound in response.
We walk arm in arm through the dark streets.
I imagine Moreau must look funny. With one hand gripping the air, he’s staggering along as if addled.
Every so often, he murmurs words of comfort and reassurance.
It’s strange being treated with such gentle care.
After decades of wanting for something so ardently, it’s rather ironic that it’s finally bestowed on me after losing the ability to feel any of it.
When we finally reach my home, I carefully open the door, sneaking up to my bedroom. It’s not much of a challenge, since it’s the middle of the night and Godfrey is fast asleep.
Mere moments after I open the window, Moreau slides in as calmly as if he just sauntered in from the street.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
He only shrugs and flashes that wicked grin of his.
“Where’s the stick?”
“One moment, please.” I fetch it from the vitrine, then hand it to him.
“You’ve got quite an alchemical setup here,” he says, circling my desk.
“I wouldn’t know. I only followed this book.” I point to the tome still open to the last recipe.
“I can’t say I’m surprised everything went so wrong. I was told not to meddle with the occult,” he says, moving toward the lamp.
“Is that so?”
“Apparently, there are unforeseen consequences to which I’m not willing to acquiesce.”
That was certainly one way to put it.
Moreau lifts the stick to his face, inspecting it closely. He turns it several times, then brushes his fingertips gently over the surface.
“There’s something here,” he whispers. “Lend me a brush.”
I hand him one, and with it, he proceeds to carefully sweep over the stick’s surface. Feeling a bit light-headed, I sit down.
“Here, Orlando. Do you see?” he says.
I lean closer, carefully inspecting the object in his hands.
“Hell’s Bells! How did I not?” I gasp.
Moreau offers me the artifact so I can get a better look.
“This must be ancient. I’ve never seen such a thing,” I say in utter disbelief.
The markings on the wood are so faint that at first glance they look like mere nicks. Some of the soil is still deeply embedded, making them even harder to notice. But now that I know they’re there, the pattern is obvious.
Suddenly, my vision blurs, and I have to blink several times until it returns to normal.
“I agree with you, but I’m afraid you meddled with something you shouldn’t have,” Moreau says, leaning against the wall.
“You really think so?”
“I think you’re cursed, Orlando.”
I look at him to discern if he’s being serious. Moreau’s face shows no signs of joking. No smile. Not even a glimmer in his eyes.
I let those words sink in. Cursed? Are such things even real? But here I am, completely invisible, in the company of someone who is obviously not human himself.
“I’m sorry,” Moreau says, putting a hand on my shoulder. He looks genuinely upset. Why does he care so much? He barely even knows me.
“That’s it, then? I’m doomed.” I slump further.
“You’re not gone yet, Orlando. We can try reversing it.”
I look up, surprised to see him appearing confident.
“How?”
“I can only assume you angered something or someone when you removed the artifact. We could try returning it.” He shrugs.
“Just like that?” It was too simple.
“I mean, if you have a better id—”
“I want to try,” I interrupt him, then stand up determined. My knees tremble slightly, but I dismiss it, holding onto the desk to steady myself.
“I have a motorcar. We would be there before dawn,” Moreau says.
“You would do such a thing?”
“How could I not, Orlando?” He smiles, lifts his hand, but drops it immediately.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s nothing. Would you prefer to clothe yourself first, or…?” He gestures non-committally.
I look down at myself. Of course, I’m still translucent.
Moreau steps onto the windowsill. “I’ll pick you up around the corner in 15 minutes.” Before I can agree, he disappears with a wink.
I dress quickly, but take the time to wash my face and comb my hair.
If this is to be my last day on earth, I want to feel at least somewhat decent.
Once finished, I wrap my head in the bandages, adding the hat and glasses.
I step back, looking at myself in the mirror.
Everything seems a bit hazy, but otherwise, I look as I always do.
Besides the bandages, of course. Still, Moreau’s words come back to me.
Had he really said “exquisite”? No. I must be misremembering things.
I fetch the artifact, then sneak from my own home. When I reach the foyer, I stagger precariously. Even though I manage to close the door quietly, I have to sit on the stoop to catch my breath. After a few minutes, my strength still doesn’t seem to fully recover.
In this near-syncopal state, the short path to the agreed-upon location is slow and arduous. I have to hold myself against the brick wall, trying not to fall.
When I finally reach the corner, I’m embarrassingly feeble. I drop to one knee in an attempt to calm my pulse.
An arm reaches around me. I look up, startled. It’s Moreau.
Am I so weakened that I hadn’t even heard the approaching motorcar?
I accept his help gratefully, and once I’m seated, he drapes a blanket over my legs.
“Thank you.” My voice comes out thin and shaky.
Moreau leans in, places a hand on my knee, and squeezes it tightly.
“It’s going to be alright, Orlando,” he says quietly.
When I look at him, I can’t help but notice that his smile is no longer dazzling. Instead, it’s filled with uncertainty and apprehension.