16. Sam Oliver Street
Sam: Oliver Street
Like a child, the thew must be disciplined into obedience.
Once inside the lead case, the captured shroud leaves the spirit vulnerable.
Even a slight pressure upon the shroud with the index finger or thumb will awaken a sensation of inner pain and anguish that the spirit finds unbearable.
The spirit will then readily acquiesce to commands.
In extreme cases, the shroud may be grasped, pinched, or squeezed, although I do not recommend frequent use of this method, as it can leave the spirit in a surprising state of lethargy.
—Elián Erquiza, The Nature of Thews
With the benefit of hindsight, of course, I could see what a fool I’d been for trying to pretend I was something other than myself.
And so, while I had no wish to see Clementine foiled in her efforts, some part of me was glad she’d been unmasked.
Clem, who seemed to feel none of the ambivalence that I had felt, would likely have spent the entire year comfortably in disguise.
But now she would be leaving Commonwealth, and there was some relief in this. Now, I thought, she would be safe.
But I was mistaken. Her journey home disabused me of the error.
I followed Clementine back to the dormitory, where she promptly set about packing her few belongings.
It didn’t take long. Everything she owned, other than the autumn cloak, fit in her satchel.
Leaving the Brig, she made her way to the university kitchens, presumably to find Vera, but without success.
She left a note with one of the other cooks who had come to look kindly on the friendship and demonstrated as much by giving Quinn a meat pie.
Quinn ate it outside, under a withered-looking dogwood, before leaving campus.
I’d expected her to visit Throckmorton, but she made her way directly to the main road bordering the campus and began to walk southwest, toward Beverly.
Was she dejected? I could not tell. I sent her a consoling nudge, and she responded with a half smile.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said quietly.
“I won’t miss any of them.” I didn’t doubt that.
She walked at a comfortable pace in the patched-up shoes. The road was deserted. Towering maples, already beginning to yellow gently, reached over the iron fence to litter the pathway. A bell rang the hour from the center of campus, announcing the end of the class period.
At the corner of the campus, where the private properties with grand estates begin, a child waited—a child who didn’t move like a child.
He looked about nine or ten, dressed formally in a suit with black shoes, and he stood with unnatural stillness, watching Clementine approach.
Black hair, cut straight across his brows, mirrored the flat line of his mouth.
As she neared the child, Clem slowed her steps.
The road was otherwise empty. The wind rustled in the branches of the giant chestnut tree that straddled the corner of campus.
Distantly, waves crashed against the cliffs.
The little boy stood motionless, waiting.
Clem stopped. She spun her cloak into the air overhead, saying “Endurecer,” and as it whirled, the fabric hardened, becoming a long, rigid shield. She held it before her defensively.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the boy said. He turned away, sighing, and then Cassandra stood in his place. “You can put that down,” she said dismissively.
“It may protect me from another onslaught of pine needles.”
“That wasn’t me.”
Clem let the cloak soften. She held it in her hand, as if prepared to use it again. “Who, then?”
Cassandra looked away. “I’m here to tell you that I did you a kindness.”
“Forgive me if I’m unable to see how. You revealed me.”
“To protect you.”
Clem shook her head. “I doubt that. How did you even know? I was guarding my thoughts.”
“Yes. You are very good at guarding your thoughts.” Cassandra’s face softened. “I knew because with a beard and mustache, you look just like your father. Someone else would have recognized you before too long.”
Clem, visibly chagrined, said nothing.
“This is no place for you. Not,” Cassandra said, raising a hand, “because you’re a woman.” She drifted a few feet closer to Clem, who held her ground. “I have no time,” she said quietly. “Listen to me, Clementine. Stay away from this place.”
“I can’t,” Clem said, “even if you do mean well.”
A flicker of something like anguish moved across Cassandra’s face. “The stones will come for you.”
“The stones?” Clem asked blankly. The phrase had no meaning for her, but I understood Cassandra all too well.
I felt a stab of anxiety as I thought about Beth Baines, the young woman whose grandmother Maxwell had consoled in a lonely farmhouse.
Cassandra could only mean one thing by warning Clem of the stones.
“Take this.” Cassandra swept close to Clem and placed a small, gray lump in her palm.
“For your armor,” she said. Abruptly, she gripped her chest and gasped, seized by a sudden pain.
“I must go,” she whispered. “He calls me back.” She slipped away swiftly, a white shape vanishing between the iron bars of the fence that bordered the campus.
Clementine watched her go.
Then she looked down at the gray lump in her hand, turning it carefully. It was the size of a small acorn, asymmetrical and smooth. Was it a stone? A piece of wood? I couldn’t tell. For a time she stood there, considering the gray lump, and then she turned southwest again to continue her walk.
I hoped fervently that the strange gift from Cassandra would indeed provide some protection, but as yet I couldn’t see how. Clem would not be safer, then, away from Commonwealth, as I had thought. She did not understand about the stones, and she would require my vigilance.
A mile passed, and then another. Clem descended along quiet roads lined by old trees, the oceanside mansions set far back from the road.
Coaches and riders passed her; no one in this well-heeled neighborhood traveled on foot.
She kept the same pace as she circled Beverly Harbor, but as she crossed the bridge to Salem, where all the seedier relic and token vendors opened their doors to the public, I noticed that the satchel had begun to wear on her injured back.
She passed by the glint and glitter of the shops without sparing them a glance, even though for a novice enchanter the shops are hard to ignore.
They are stuffed to bursting with the belongings of the dead: jewelry and fountain pens, combs and ribbons, spectacles and buttons and hats.
The more exclusive stores with glass window fronts displayed larger, precious items: artwork and furniture and book collections.
Clementine walked past them, ignoring the toy seller who waved a china doll and the umbrella vendor who held up a lace parasol, calling cheerily, “New relics! New relics today!”
By the time she turned onto Oliver Street, a narrow road on the north side of the Common, she had walked almost four miles.
Her footsteps slowed before a yellow clapboard house with gray shutters and lavender bursting from the window boxes.
The ground floor windows were open, and someone inside was playing “Pretty Polly” on the fiddle—rather well, in fact.
She removed the spectacles and the fox pin, tucking them into the satchel, and unlocked the side door of the house. She took the steps wearily.
In the pretty second-floor apartment, conveying at a glance bright light and tidy surfaces, a young woman sat at a desk by the window.
She froze, pen in hand, at the sound of footsteps.
“Hello?” she called. “Oh,” she exclaimed happily, seeing Quinn’s face appear in the doorway. “Clem! You’re here early!”
“It’s good to see you, Rosie,” Clem said, dropping the satchel.
Rosie fluttered over, her smile dimming. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Clem assured her. “But I hadn’t counted on being exposed before an entire class by a spirit thew.”
“A spirit thew,” Rosie echoed, dismayed. “What a devil!”
“She claims to have done me a favor.” Clem shook her head. “I’ll tell you the whole story, but I should go out first if the pantry is empty. You weren’t expecting me home.”
They were sisters. I could see this now, the clear resemblance in their wide brown eyes, arched brows, and slightly long faces.
Rosie’s hair was carefully styled, her yellow dress trimmed with ruffles and lace, and she had a quick, wide-eyed vivaciousness quite unlike Clem’s guarded stillness.
She was loaded with tokens, all of them offering some means of protection.
Many were of the kind that blunts ill will; in their presence, hostility becomes a slippery thing, hard to hold on to and even to remember.
Others worked upon the wearer herself, supplying calm and steadiness.
They were an unusual collection of tokens for a young woman, since not a single one enhanced Rosie’s appearance or charm.
Apparently, Rosie, or her sister, worried for her safety.
“Oh, but I was expecting you!” Rosie declared happily. “You promised to come home for a visit tomorrow.”
“It’ll be a longer visit than we thought,” Clem said heavily.
Rosie looked suddenly bereft. “Clem.” She put her hand to her heart. “Is there no hope?”
“There’s always hope, Rosie.” She smiled grimly. “But it won’t come from my studies at Commonwealth.”
“I want to hear everything. Let me light the stove while you change.”
Clem nodded. “All right. Thank you.”