THE POISONER
The only way to battle the redolence of a dead body is with the merciless spice of isotox in your lungs, burning away any other scent in the form of fresh-cut lilies.
First the breaths were shallow, then deeper, crackling as they filled with air, then deflated in defeat.
Light veiled over the dark, a glow of the outside. The sound of a soft wind came next, I could breathe as it did, mimicking life until my body believed it, then soon my mind came to consciousness.
A mobile horn bellowed so sharp it made my stagnant head dizzy. Too loud.
When my eyes opened, it was a softer light than expected. A blur of cream, some flashes bouncing from the window glass, refractions scattering as quick as they came, like fleeing sprites. Everything was beige or white, the lighting made it hard to tell.
Above me, a canopy, then posts of a bed. Fabric of the frame curtains thick, buttery, and double-faced. The light caught on some of the threads, a silky sheen in the color of buttercream.
The walls were blank, unused. No dresser, no other furnishings, not even a side table. Just a chair placed to my left.
No.
The moment I shot upright was the second I regretted it. Pain in my abdomen, my head too. Some great claw had grasped me and wouldn’t unlatch its talons. A wave of nausea turned me in case I had to expel, not that I felt I had anything to do so.
As my hand propped me on my side, a crisp crunching could be heard beneath it.
A brittle, long-browned rose under my palm.
Not just there, everywhere. The bed was almost completely covered in bundles of rosemary, forget-me-nots, roses, helichrysum, and red carnations; a grand portrait of a garden in all stages of its cycle.
The freshest addition, white lilies. All of which surrounded a silhouette of where I lay.
If my only company was decay, what did that make me?
There were better questions, but the perpetual fog had yet to lift from my mind. The room was disorienting.
It took a couple swallows to properly salivate, my lungs rattled with every gulp of breath, struggling to expand like a new wineskin.
The bunches of flora rustled to the ground as I moved my legs off the bed, slower this time so as not to invite another fit of my apparent migraine.
The windows were open, the tall panes nearly touching the ceiling, the drapes just as lush and long. The light hazed as the thin fabric beckoned, dancing from the inviting breeze.
My toes touched the floor, but they were just coming out of their numbness. Only a slight coolness on the skin.
I pushed myself up. The sheer nightdress hung off my shoulder, brushing against my legs as I approached the window. I collapsed in front of it, taking hold of the windowsill as my knees knocked against the parquet hardwood.
The breeze hit my face, forcing air into my lungs, which stopped my breathing as I tried to adjust. I brushed the hair from my face. It stuck to my skin in tendrils, the humidity making the air feel a bit cooler.
More windows in my view, another building across the street. The road below was teeming with people, carriages, mobiles. The sooty smell of smoke and gasoline stinging more than the lilies.
Am I back in London?
I looked to my left. No, not London.
At the end of the street, a vast green space. Trees and grass, a pond, people walking among little sheep grazing; you could barely tell them apart from so far away. Then, on the other side, more buildings. My window was nearly on the corner of the street. This is Manhattan.
I sat down on my knees, away from the edge of the window to take a proper look at the room behind me.
The ceilings were tall like a palace, expert molding along the walls and around fixtures. It almost didn’t need decor for it to look luxurious.
One foot, then the other, using my grip on the molding of the wall to lift myself up. My knees cracked and whined with every step like unoiled hinges.
Another swallow battled the dryness that consumed my mouth. After a rough gulp of nothing, the saliva began to form at a snail’s pace. The cracks of my lips were painful the more I moved them. If I opened my mouth any wider, my lips may split and bleed.
I coughed finally. My body was finally catching up with its irritated state.
The thirst began to register, along with the new aches that introduced themselves. A sterile smell on my skin, not unlike the patients back at the hospital from rag washing.
Before me were double French doors with ornate brass handles. Perfectly intact, clean, polished. If I grabbed them, would they open? Am I prepared for their being locked? If I am trapped once more? I was almost unwilling to find out, but there was nothing else to do but try.
My fingers wrapped around the handle, adjusting their grip. The numbness now worn off, I could feel everything. The door, the temperature, the pain in my abdomen, my head, the deep-rooted ache that burrowed everywhere it could.
The door opened with ease, not even a creak.
Scratchy, arid arrangements were swept out of the way on the other side of the door, little cracked leaves trailing in the door’s path. It settled on me, then.
The flowers covering the bed, outside of the door. These were funeral flowers, and when the flowers were fresh, there would have been a postmortem photograph taken before they were allowed to wither.
Blooms well past their prime crumbled between my toes and the stone transition of the floor.
The hallway was empty, quiet.
Rosalia marble stretched the length of it, many tall windows not unlike the one in the room, creating bay overwatch areas. Small tables within the nooks held freshly manicured arrangements. Along the wall were small displays and antique decor.
There was no reason for my hesitance other than my disorientation. Nothing seemed amiss, I was still in New York, just not where I last remembered. Yet there was very little trust that I was in good hands.
I stared down at my own hands. Pale, but I was no specter. I was as real as the crumpled foliage piled in the bed.
My palm swept across the leaves of a potted fern along the wall. It was lush and green, waxy to the touch. The light was filtered now, orange. It was afternoon, not morning. Which means it will likely be dark soon.
Move, I urged myself.
Voices echoed from somewhere, vibrating in my ears and tickling my jaw in the process.
I couldn’t walk fully, only limp. What happens if I’m seen? Will they throw me back in the room, whoever they are?
On the wall, a mounted display of pristine sixteenth-century rifles with bayonets under a painting of hunting dogs on a fox chase. I pulled one from the hooks, the gun heavier than expected, but that could easily be my fatigue.
A curdling of my stomach pinched me, along with a wave of lightheadedness. My vision blared with vivid colors in between the pulses of pain in my skull.
I tucked myself behind a curtain within a bay window area.
The voices were closer, laughing, merry chatter.
Below me on the outside, people walked along the pavement. If I shouted, would they hear? Would they see?
A cold sweat made the solid piece of wood and brass between my fingers hard to grip, the weight not as manageable, but there weren’t many other options.
I couldn’t steady my heart, each beat makes me tremble, there was no satiating it.
There was no point counting the beats; it was all too fast. It was loud, so incredibly furious in my ear.
Two women passed, a blonde and brunette I could only see from behind as their voices chimed, their words jumbled as if my brain couldn’t work fast enough to decipher them. Dressed in fine silks, daywear put to good use after an afternoon of parading.
The scent of something was in my nose again, different this time. It was like a rich perfume oil, except I couldn’t place any notes.
When the voices dampened, I moved. The farther I ventured down to the end of the hallway, the more voices I heard. A small crowd, I guessed. Mumbling, chattering, some laughter.
I leaned against the wall, clutching the gun to my chest.
There was no doubt now that I was in a Nest. There may be too many to take on myself. There was no gunpowder in the rifle. No, it was too clean. Display only. But the bayonet was sharp and solid, it would have to do.
My toes curled against the marble before stretching again. Don’t fail me now, throw me out the window if you have to, I thought, as if my own legs would respond back.
On the other side of the wall, a melodic voice. It tickled my ears. My mind swam, searching for the familiarity. It was just on the tip of my tongue, a hazy image in my mind as I searched.
“No!” A shout. Phoebe.
As promised, my legs carried me in what could have been my last twenty seconds of being brave, of being strong.
A shot of adrenaline so fierce I forgot that my stomach was ready to shrivel and expel.
Enough to where the colors around me burst into vividness, enough to make my eyes tingle, they were on fire.
If it weren’t for adrenaline, I’d be sick.
The rifle pressed into my shoulder, pointed straight with my last thread of strength.
A grand, red room. The chandelier so dazzling, I had to squint. A giant parlor palm in an ornate vase, so large, in fact, there was bench seating around it. The mirrored walls made it seem larger; it frankly didn’t need it. A parlor room gilded as if it were built by Catholics.
Screams cracked in my ear, a mass of movement around the room as people stood. They clutched one another, staring.
They were staring at me, in abject horror.
“Alina . . .”
I swung, the rifle pointing to the voice. The crowd ducked the barrel like they were some sort of tidal wave.
At the end of the bayonet, wide green eyes.
She was as I remembered her, like I was watching a memory of her from before, a return of what was once familiar.
Swathed in a lustrous pink day dress, it matched her cheeks.
Her hair is so vibrant, red and curled in a perfect silhouette.
Except her face was different, taut with an unpleasant kind of surprise, a deep sadness ready to unwind in front of me.
My eyes hurt, the sickness was beginning to tingle at the back of my head, the pulsing of my temples almost too much to bear. It was hard to swallow, or perhaps the words were just getting stuck.
So many words could have come. An apology was my first impulse. The only thing that came was a recoiled weep.
With one shaky step forward, I dropped the gun and my legs gave out.
Phoebe hooked her arms under mine and held me up. Her silk-covered fingers grasped at my nightgown, my hair, whatever she could to hold me up.
I couldn’t control it any longer, the pain came all at once and released all the same, in a cry into her bluebell-scented hair.
In the mirrored wall, uncertain shuffling and hysterical faces shifted between the bleary view. When I looked at us, though, Phoebe and I . . . I saw her back. It was her. I saw my own fingers grasping the fabric as I embraced her.
What looked back at me was not me. There was a horrifying sight, pale with black-filled eyes.
My reflection was no longer recognizable.
A creature had replaced me.