Chapter 21
Maeve slept better than she could remember having slept in ages. It was still dark when they departed The Hanged Man the following morning. The sun was only beginning to make its rise. Hues of purple and orange lined behind the trees.
They made their way through the village, just as the earliest shops were showing signs of life.
Fresh newspapers were being dropped on each doorstep by a young boy.
At the edge of the village, the cobblestone turned to dirt.
The trees became scrawny. The path darkened and narrowed into a dense wood.
“Is this the way?” Said Maeve, with a glance over her shoulder.
Ragsling Village had nearly disappeared behind them in the morning mist.
“Of that I am certain,” said Mal. He pointed ahead, where thick fog lingered over the path. “It’s calling to me.”
Maeve squinted ahead, and through the mist and wood was a flickering yellow light. As they drew closer, the outline of a small stout house came into view.
Once through the fog, Maeve could feel there was magic close by. Nature had mostly reclaimed the Gagner’s home, which was overgrown with vines and its frame sinking into the hill on one side.
A rickety low-lying fence scattered before them, with a metal mailbox nailed to a post. It was covered in dirt and cobwebs. Maeve snapped her fingers to clear the dirt.
Carved in primal writing was GAGNER.
“This is it,” she said.
Mal looked back at the house and continued up the winding stone path.
Maeve followed closely behind. The house looked nothing short of abandoned.
Shattered windows, rotted boards and a slumping frame.
Without hesitation, Mal opened the front door of the house.
Maeve’s hand shot to her face at the smell. It reeked of death.
There was a ripped chair in the corner. It was occupied.
“Who are you?”
A brutish man leaned forward, his eyes slipping back into his head.
“My name is irrelevant. I’m assuming yours is Gagner?”
The man smacked his jaw together a few times, drool slipping out at the corner. He didn’t answer.
Maeve looked at the picture frames that ran along a small table. They were covered in years of grime and dirt. She bent close to one. Written in elegant handwriting was “Thaddeus Gagner, age twenty.”
She looked from the photo and then to the man. It was him.
“Your name is Thaddeus,” she said.
He tried to push himself out of the chair, and failed, resigning himself to his position. He laid limply in the torn chair.
“Thad. Me Mum called me.”
Mal moved towards him calmly. He took a seat in the chair opposite Thad.
“I’m not here to harm you,” said Mal. “I’m looking for someone.”
Empty bottles of Human liquor littered the floors. Maeve glanced back down at the photos. She blew on them, dust flying up into the air. There were many pictures of the Gagner family. They had been living in squalor for some time, it seemed.
Thad shifted in his chair, as if to get a better look at Mal. “What time is it?”
Mal flicked his wrist up and looked at the watch Maeve had given him on his birthday. “Six forty-two in the morning.”
“What year is it?”
Maeve looked to Mal, who remained calm and patient.
“1945.”
Thad shook his head and lifted his hand, like he was going to strike himself, then lowered his hand.
Maeve looked back down at the pictures. There was a picture of Thaddeus, much younger, with a young girl. Maeve blew hard on the frame as more delicate writing appeared.
Thaddeus Gagner, age 14. Mary Gagner, age ten.
Thad moved to the edge of his seat and squinted at Mal.
“You look just like that rat Peur boy my sister Mary was sold to,” said Thaddeus.
Maeve’s eyes shot to Thaddeus. Then to Mal.
“What?” Asked Mal quietly.
Thaddeus pointed at him, his finger shaking and his mouth turning into a scowl. “You the spittin’ image of that filth across the valley.”
Maeve’s heart was roaring to a racing speed. She moved a step towards them.
“You come ‘ere to take more from me family?” Asked Thaddeus, his aggression boiling over. “My sister wasn’t enough?”
“What’s his name?” Mal asked calmly.
So calmly it terrified Maeve.
“What is this man’s name I resemble?”
“I won’t never forget it,” said Thaddeus. “The rats name was Malachite Peur.” Thaddeus spat on the floor.
Fear flooded through Maeve’s mind all the way down to her toes. Mal didn’t move an inch. He stared at Thaddeus with a controlled serenity.
Thaddeus continued. “No, I won’t ever forget it.
She thought he hung the damn moon. But after a while he sold her to some Englishman up in London.
I never saw her again. She died, that’s what that paper said, giving birth.
That was twenty years and some odd change now.
” Thad scowled. “You looked about twenty and some change.”
That slither of paper found in Mal’s Mother hand after she died giving birth to him. It was a desperate attempt for his father to be found. Alerted. For Mal to be delivered to safety.
“She wasn’t naming you,” said Maeve quietly. “She was naming your father.”
Mal had already realized it as well. That Thaddeus’ sister was his mother.
“She was a human,” he said. “Your sister?”
Thaddeus’ face contorted. “She was special, but there was nothing wrong with her. I told those mens in fancy suits that too. Just strange things happened sometimes. Things she didn’t mean to do.”
“What men?” Asked Mal.
Thad’s shoulder’s pulled up. “Some pricks from London that came asking about her after she died. Called himself a funny word I ‘ad never heard of.”
“The Orator?”
Thad snapped his fingers and smiled at her. “That the one.”
Maeve shook her head, smiling weakly back at him. She looked back down at the photographs. Mal’s ten-year-old mother smiled up at her.
“They came after she died and I tried to kill that rat meself.”
“Are the Peur still here?” Asked Mal.
“Oh, they’re still here alright. Towards the Manche.”
“The what?” Asked Mal.
“He means the English Channel,” said Maeve. “‘The Manche’ is the French title.” She stepped towards Thad. “Do you know much French Mr. Gagner?”
“Only what me sister taught me before she went to London. She said the Peur was French.”
Mal stood and extended his hand to Thaddeus. “Thank you.”
His voice was short. Curt. Void of all emotion.
Thaddeus looked up at him, and then at his hand. “You my sister’s boy?” Thaddeus’ eyes returned to Mal.
“So it seems,” said Mal.
“I tried to find you,” said Thad, his face soft and discomforted.
Maeve’s heart tightened.
“But you was long gone. No trace. I didn’t think you’d have his last name. . .”
Thaddeus raised his arm to strike himself. Mal snagged his wrist swiftly. Thad looked up at him, shocked.
His arm relaxed and Mal released his grip.
“Where is she buried?”
“Here. Down the hill.”
Mal nodded and extended his hand to his uncle once more.
Thaddeus reached for Mal’s hand and made to stand. As their fingers brushed, Thad fell limply back into his chair, his large belly rising and falling in a deep slumber.
Through the forest and across the southern valley was a large manor.
It sat in perfect opposition to the Gagner House.
It was clean, with planted flowers sitting in the windows.
The painted white wood shone in the morning light.
It was a slim manor with two stories. It’s window’s sat open, yellow linen curtains flowed in the breeze.
The pair silently climbed the pale stone steps to a large white door. Mal opened the front door with a flick of his wrist, the locks clicking. The door fell open silently.
Muffled voices and music came from inside the house. Once inside the foyer, it was clear the sounds were coming from just one room over. She heard a man’s voice, followed by a woman’s, followed by laughter.
Light jazz music flowed through the house.
Mal waltzed through the large archway, lowering his hood. The woman screamed. Maeve stood back in the shadows as she heard the sound of glass breaking.
“Who are you?” Said a man’s voice.
“Is it not obvious to you?” Asked Mal. “I am told we favor.”
Maeve made her way into the drawing-room. It had expansive windows that faced the valley, allowing sunlight to pour into the room. They were wealthy.
Extremely wealthy.
The men were on their feet, the woman cowering behind the older of the two men. There was a teacup shattered across the black and white tiled floor. It seemed they had interrupted their morning tea.
Maeve gasped upon seeing the man who was undoubtedly Mal’s father. He was just as handsome as Mal, only older. The pair were almost identical. The other two, Maeve surmised, were Mal’s grandparents.
“I don’t have much time,” said Mal, “but I do want to know something. Why did you abandon my mother when you found out she was pregnant?”
His father’s eyes were wide.
“I don’t suppose you have an answer that would please me or change my mind about killing you.”
The woman began sobbing, clutching onto the older man. “It’s alright, Cherie,” said the man, his French accent thick.
Mal laughed in an unsettling way. “I desired to know you for so long. I blamed you for so long,” said Mal. “Now, I want nothing except your human existence erased.”
He pointed a slender finger at the woman, and then at his grandfather. They fell to the floor, limp, smashing their heads on the glass table in the process.
This was the first time Maeve had ever seen magic kill.
It was illegal, deemed so by the Orator’s Office, to use any Magic to kill, let alone a dark spell designed just for that.
That was ancient and feared Dread Magic.
They were redacted from the curriculum at Vaukore long before Maeve’s time, but maybe Mal found the killing curse in one of their stolen Library books.
Maybe Magic was more instinctual.
Maybe Mal wanted to kill. And his Magic obeyed.
Mal’s father looked at his parent’s dead bodies in disbelief. His skin turned pale. His voice was broken and shaking as he turned back to Mal.
“You’re my son.”