18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter eighteen
A s check-in draws to a close, and Quillian bids them good day and thanks the night staff for their time, the concierges file out. I try to listen to what else he says, I really do, but watching his mouth form the words and his hands punctuate the points is what draws my attention. Second only to the care he seems to genuinely have for the concierges. Just like Claudius.
‘Luka.’ Quillian’s voice is quiet and coats my skin like honey.
I step towards him, unable to resist the pull to be near. My whole body warms in his presence but burns with the need for answers. Even if they hurt.
He glances at Blossom, who watches him like she’s doing the assessment we spoke of earlier and she’s still deciding how she feels about him.
‘Ready?’ he asks, looking back to me, my skin starting to tingle under his attention.
‘Of course,’ I say as I exhale and follow him from the concierge room, looking back once at Blossom in an attempt to steal her strength.
We walk side by side through the halls of the prison, the warmth of the sun caressing the top of my head and shoulders. Several times, I feel Quillian turn in my direction but I don’t look back. Not yet. Our knuckles brush, as if drawn together like magnets, and I can’t help but wish it was as simple as being able to take his hand. That the action in itself would stop the maelstrom of thoughts and questions firing through me. Would centre me enough to focus on what’s real. To work out what’s real. What’s right.
Many of the prisoners have scattered to do their various entertainments and the prison hums along in her quiet, steady rhythm. We pass one group on our way to Quillian’s office, their voices a hushed whisper as they watch us. The coldness emanating from Quillian is palpable as he ignores them and I find I don’t particularly care to soften their unease any more, either.
But, despite the increasing grating of its inhabitants on my spine, the prison building itself is still spectacular. If I had a choice in the matter, I would even live somewhere like this. It’s the lack of choice that takes the shine away.
I glance around for Nix and River. They seem to have found their own rhythm here and I haven’t seen Nix since the dinner I’d spent mostly with River. And Quillian. But his disapproval was clear from afar and I don’t really feel like running into him now. As it stands, he is the only person that’s directly warned me off Quillian, but the more I get to know him, the more I think that’s a reflection on where Nix is at, and not Quillian. Cortane warned me not to get attached to him, but I had assumed that was because she wanted him dead, but I’m not sure anymore. It’s clear there is history with Nix and River, but how does she fit into it all? How was Claudius connected?
‘Would it be wise of me to ask?’ Quillian says, breaking into my thoughts.
I glance at him, ‘Pardon?’
‘You seem to have a lot on your mind.’
Make absolutely sure you know what he stands for.
‘I think we should partner Blossom with Emeris,’ I say, choosing something we needed to talk about anyway. A topic that’s a bit easier to discuss in the middle of the prison – easier than the questions forming in my mind. ‘She’s still getting too much unwanted attention and we talked about putting some security in place for her.’
‘I did,’ he says, ‘and it will remain. But we can pair her with Emeris as well if you like. Juggle the prisoner allocations as you see fit.’
Reaching his office, he holds the door open for me and I step through.
‘The security you speak of,’ I say when the door is shut again, the soft whoosh of the timber sinking into its frame shuts out the quiet from outside. Making it even quieter in here. ‘Does the prisoner Finn have anything to do with it?’
He stands still in the middle of the office, as if he’s on alert. But the softness he holds when he looks at me remains.
‘He has the perfect background, and was very happy to assist.’
‘But you hate the prisoners.’
It’s not a question, but I still expect him to respond. To explain why this is a situation that he thinks makes sense. Face what scares us , Bloss said. Think for yourself , were Cortane’s words.
They’re both right.
‘Why is Finn okay to watch over one of your concierges when you clearly have no regard for the prisoners here? In fact,’ I say, thinking of a better question, ‘why are you here at all? You clearly loathe everyone that walks these halls.’
He walks to the window where he stands with his back to me. ‘I came here to do a job, an important one. And I don’t loathe everyone here, and I think you know it.’
‘How come most of the concierges don’t know why the prisoners are really here?’ I ask, ignoring his last statement altogether.
Slowly, he turns back to face me, hands behind his back.
‘Because there are few people who can be trusted to know what the system does not wish to be known. Only those that prove—’ He cuts himself off.
There’s a familiarity in his words I can’t place. More than what Cortane said to me.
‘Prove?’
‘I trusted you with information about Kasera, didn’t I?’ he asks.
I nodded. ‘You also know what Aiten did, then?’
Quillian drops his arms and rubs his face.
‘You’re getting very close to asking me things that will be hard to answer, Luka. Which will only make you want to ask them more – are you sure you’re ready for the consequences of that?’
He cocks his head a little with the question and the light picks up his tattoo. I think I can make out the word ‘prove’, but it must be a trick of the sun. I’ve never been able to read it before.
‘I’m ready.’
I walk over to the arched stone window near him and peer out. I’ve always loved this view. There’s not as much of the island to be seen from here, but the severe drop into the sky seems so gentle. Like I could just fly off into the clouds. I try to ignore the prickle of jealousy that, with his Karaylia magic, Quillian can probably do just that. But perhaps, even as Warden, he’s subjected to the wards as well.
I drag a deep pull of the fresh air into my lungs and turn, immediately captured by those deep green pools.
‘I know why Aiten was really here. What I want to know is why he was here and not in Vana.’
‘You sound like you’re surprised.’
I am. I want to say. If the people here, who I have literally served for five years of my life, have committed crimes that mean they should in fact be in Vana – where the worst are supposed to go – then what does that say about my role in this system? Who decides what crimes can be exempt from what is supposed to be a sentence to Vana? Or is it not the crime that’s important, but who commits it that warrants the exemption? Why does there seem to be a growing number of people around me that disagree with this system?
‘I’m just trying to understand it,’ I say.
Quillian stays standing next to me as we each look out at the sky.
‘I think that’s something that takes time. Honestly, I wish it didn’t. I wish I could make everyone see what I see, know what I know, and understand why some of the choices of this government are so wrong. But all I can do is act on the understanding I do have, and hope, in time, others see the facts and come to their own understanding. Like you now know the history of both Kasera and Aiten. Know those crimes should have sent them to Vana. Instead, they were here. On what? Certainly not a sentence of any sort.’
There are no charges. River’s words come back to me and I think on how the Academy would sometimes manage professors that didn’t have the favour of some important person from time to time. If they weren’t hung out to dry, they were simply … removed from the spotlight for a period of time. But, the general public on the mainland doesn’t know this prison exists.
I rub at the space between my brows. ‘Why do they think they’re here?’
‘The prisoners?’ There’s an upward lilt to his question, like it’s ballooning a little with hope. ‘It varies, I think. Most would be very well aware of what got them sent here, even if they disagree. It’s almost like the outcome of a performance management discussion.’
The silence feels expectant around us. Like it also knows Quillian has effectively told me he doesn’t believe in his job as Warden, in this system, and is waiting for my response.
Like I could maybe ask him about using the portal and he wouldn’t have me arrested for suspicious activity.
‘Why are you here, then?’ I ask, testing the waters a little more.
‘Because—’
A knock rattles the door, and I take a quick step further away from Quillian’s side as he calls for them to enter. Emeris, a load of fabrics in his arms, asks Quillian about the budget allowances for tailors, and if it can be extended for one of the new prisoners. At least I think that’s what they discuss. I look between them as if I am following the conversation, but my vision has glazed over as I think about everything Quillian has said. And not said.
He didn’t say he was worried about his job. Or that he is concerned about the comfort, or loss, of the prisoners.
All of which he should have said.
But he doesn’t believe in the role like Claudius did.
Except Claudius sent me to Vana. And made way for Quillian by … sacrificing himself.
Perhaps the two of them are more alike than I realised.
‘Lu,’ Emeris says from the doorway, ‘Paulana isn’t well and I don’t know how to get …’
I look between Emeris’s flustered face and Quillian, who inclines his head, clearly understanding I am now required elsewhere. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks Luka.’
I don’t follow Paulana’s shift strictly to the time allotted for it. Instead, I spend the time reshuffling what I can of her load amongst the other concierges, and to her next shift when she’ll hopefully be back. The rest I pick up to make sure we get through as much as we can. Which, unfortunately, means I spent most of my time sorting through concierge requests and complaints from prisoners.
Scrolling through the lists of items allocated to me from my team’s various shifts – any they couldn’t readily fulfil themselves – feels like building a wall in my insides. Every outrageous request, every completely unreasonable complaint, are like layering the bricks the prison is made of so high I can barely breathe.
Coffee imported from Coprath; a consultation with Nuntainia’s best jeweller; milk from a remote farm near the Tae border; a physical paper from Klades delivered every morning because reading it online isn’t immersive enough.
Around me, the concierge room is quiet as I gently run my finger over the seemingly endless list on my phone that mirrors the bottom right corner of the board. I update what I can action easily, what I need to add Quillian to on the task so I can get his approval, and note the ones we’ll have to talk through first before noting any action in the system.
I arch my back as I come to the last few to sort through and prioritise, shifting in the hard seat I dragged over to the board.
Acid burns low in my gut as I absorb the next three on the board.
Playroom request: Blossom, Davorous has entered.
Pack of luxury paper notebooks, Aiten.
It could be a simple request, but my stomach turns over at the thought of what he might have wanted to record anyway.
Playroom rule amendment: guests to determine their playmates.
The last is from Zenaton Blake – one of the newer prisoners – and a drop of surprise finds its way into the turmoil rioting through me.
It’s not an immediate rule change. He can’t do that here. All requests like this have to be approved by the Warden and, if not him, Traelen. But Traelen acts on behalf of the Prime Minister and his sole goal is the smooth running of the prison. Which means happy prisoners. I know Quillian wouldn’t approve this change, the same as Claudius wouldn’t have. He’ll stand by Blossom and others having a choice in what they do – or don’t – in the playroom. But how long would Traelen hold that line if Zenaton went around Quillian?
Fuck. Right now, I wish nothing more than to be done with people like Davorous and Zenaton.
The day is starting to fade when I look around the board and out the large, arch windows, and I close my task list in disgust. I have no choice but to raise this with Quillian – to get in front of it somehow – but I am done with these demands for today.
Closing my task list both on my phone and the board, I drag the table back into place, wincing a little at the sound of its legs dragging on the hard floor. I’m not a prisoner here, but nor do I have the guest-like status of the prisoners, and I wonder now if the concierges are really the captives.
I sigh, a desperate wish that Nix had collected me and that, instead of sorting through thinly-veiled, disgusting requests from people who shouldn’t even be in a position to make demands, we could walk along the riverfront at night. That sparkling, inky blackness that reflects Klades back to anyone who passes by.
But then even that doesn’t feel like it fits now. Doesn’t have all the people in it I want now.
Before I really register how far I’ve come from the concierge room, the doors to our garden are before me and I don’t even think twice. Leaving the building that feels like its occupants are suffocating me, I gasp in the crisper, fresh air.
Wandering the various clearings and paths, I find the place where we held the mourning ceremony for the Warden. The edge of the island is so close here, so unobscured by buildings or forest, it’s like a plateau I could just walk off. I missed the scattering of the Warden’s ashes, and part of me grieves for not witnessing that gesture.
But not more than I mourn the loss of him. The inability to talk with him. To understand what was driving him. To know what he believed in so fervently to have taken this course - to have made way for Quillian and brought Nix and River here.
To leave me.
There were times we would watch the grey herons together as they dove off the island and through the wards. Watch as the wards sparked the slightest shade of gold, so easily mistaken for sunlight, as the birds plummeted through. We’d wait the fifteen seconds until the wards flashed back into place and I would smile, marvelling at both the beauty and the knowledge the island was as secure as ever.
Now, those gold nets that frame the island feel like they’re tightening.
I sink into the cool grass and watch the sky darken slowly, the clouds bobbing around the island as night starts to fall, creating space for morning. Trying to remember a time when each new day felt like an opportunity. But I can’t see past the monotony. The brief glimpse I had of a possible freedom, gone. Because Nix didn’t come. And, then, because I couldn’t make a hard choice.
But perhaps I made a harder one.
‘Sorry,’ Quillian’s soft voice startles me from just inside the treeline behind me, my heart hammering in my throat for a moment, but it’s also somehow comforting. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be here. I’ll leave you—’
I breathe in time with the soft steps he takes away from me, back towards the prison.
‘Stay,’ I say as I turn my head as if I’m looking over my shoulder at him, but I keep my gaze on his black boots. The ones he wears under the navy pants of the Warden’s uniform.
‘You okay?’ he asks as he draws near, the memory of the first time we met flooding my senses.
I will the tears not to come, but they’re defiant.
Am I okay? Not really, but how do I articulate everything that’s running through my mind? Is it even safe to do that with him?
There’s a dull ache in my chest and I can’t help but feel like I know I would be soothed by him. A need to be close to him that’s like a soft hum just under my skin. Quietly, Quillian sits down next to me in the grass and crosses his legs, his left knee close enough to mine I can feel the heat of him through my uniform.
‘You can talk to me,’ he says gently, and I close my eyes.
I want to – so desperately. I’m bursting with the truths I want him to know. I know my judgement isn’t off about Quillian, but telling him everything is still a very risky thing to do.
Turning to look at him, soft tears still on my cheeks, there’s nothing but open concern in his expression. And what still looks like the word ‘prove’ on his neck. But perhaps that’s just the memory of my conversation with Cortane playing on repeat in my mind. Either way, it feels right. I want to prove where my lines are – I’ve shown it to myself, made a stand for what I believe in. Now, I want people to know what they are. Including Quillian.
‘I gave someone information about movements in the prison in an attempt to garner her help.’ I look out at the sky as I tell him, my heart in my throat at what he will think. What he will do. But some unnamed part of me begs me not to stop now.
‘And then Kasera ended up with a dart in her face.’ I cringe at the lack of sympathy in my voice. ‘I was … having to prove myself trustworthy and the person I was hoping to help me asked for information on you.’
I wait, still looking at the dusky sky, and I feel him turn to look at me.
‘And?’ he asks carefully.
‘I couldn’t do it,’ I whisper. ‘I told her I wouldn’t give her anything on you.’ I turn to look at him again then but there’s no emotion on his face. But nor is his complete mask in place. ‘And now I have no way to save my friends.’ A soft sob catches in my throat and briefly fills the silence that falls between us.
‘The Kilroy brothers, I assume?’ he asks, although it’s clear he already knows the answer.
I watch him, waiting for the reaction – any reaction. Deep, forest-coloured eyes run over my face but I feel too raw to even look away.
‘Why didn’t you tell her anything about me?’
‘Because I didn’t want you to get hurt.’ My voice is barely a whisper, my body flooding with relief he didn’t condemn me for my relationship with Nix and River. Not yet, anyway.
He looks back out over the edge of the island – where Claudius’s ashes were scattered – before propping his hands behind him and leaning back. The action making his shirt pull taut around his chest.
‘More of me is grateful you made that choice than I should admit,’ he says, talking to the open space before us. ‘But I’m also sorry it was such a painful request for you.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, his acknowledgement warming me a little from the inside.
‘You’re confident they should get to leave this island?’ he asks, but it feels like there’s something else underneath his question.
The profile of his nose and lips catch the last rays of light, gently illuminating them in a silvery gold.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ he says finally, drawing himself up to standing. ‘Then we each have a day of prison work to complete and it seems like we’re both going to need a drink to do it.’
He stretches out his right hand towards me and the air around us seems to thicken with a silent question. Placing my palm against his, I let him pull me to standing, bringing me so close to him we’re almost touching.
‘Let’s make it two,’ I say quietly, my cheeks burning. ‘One for work, and the one we haven’t had yet.’