She saw his look as she set a pot to boil on the little stove. “I have to clean the wounds, Finch,” she said.
He nodded. “I know.”
She began wiping away any blood that hadn’t already come off.
Ignored him when he winced. Stopped only if he cried out.
She looked different in that light. Older. Tougher. More experienced.
“I think two of my ribs are broken,” he said.
“Or bruised,” she said. “You might be lucky.”
Tried not to scream when she washed the places where his toe and finger had once been. Replaced Sintra’s field dressings with proper bandages. Cleaned his swollen eye. His broken nose.
He stared at the ceiling as she pulled the towel back and gently dabbed at his thighs. Past modesty.
“Oh, Finch,” she said, betraying tenderness that had been disguised by action before. “Who did this to you?”
“A Partial.”
“How did you get away?”
“I killed him … Will I live?”
Didn’t answer. Just replaced the towel, said, “You have deep cuts on your arms and legs.” She began to wash and dress the wounds. The warmth stung and comforted all at once. The smell of piss had faded. There was an antiseptic feel to the air.
“Turn over now,” she said. “I need to check your back.”
With a groan, he managed that delicate maneuver. Ancient, creaky, feather-weak.
“You have more cuts,” she announced after a second. Her voice not quite as even. Not quite as under control. She’d stopped working. Knew she was staring at him.
“Is it that bad?”
“I’ve seen worse,” she managed.
“Can’t even feel it,” Finch said. Shock? Infection? Some last blessing from Shriek?
She worked on him for long minutes. Finally, had him sit up.
Wrapped bandages around his ribs. Her head next to his. Her arms stretched around him.
Slowly reached out to her. Wrapped his arms around her. Though it hurt him.
Rathven held him. Held him like a friend. Solid. Comforting.
“Why are you doing this for me, Rathven?”
“You saved my life.”
“I put you in danger.”
“We both did.”
“I have to tell you something,” he said.
“Whatever you need,” she said.
Understood that she might give him more than he had any right to expect.
* * *
It was hard. Halting. But after he began, it was hard to stop. He told her everything. All of it. Leaving nothing out. Sparing no one, least of all himself. As if truly confessing. Needing it out of him.
He told her about the Lady in Blue. About how he’d left Stark. Wyte’s death. About Bliss. The Partial. How Shriek had come out of him. About Sintra. Heard his voice. Detached, normal. Wondered how it sounded to her. Rational? Insane?
She said nothing. Just held him. Listened. When he was done, she gave him water. Made him eat a little. Then gently pushed him back onto the cot. Whispered that she would bring him clean clothes soon.
He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
SUNDAY
Fading in and out of consciousness. Restless and exhausted. A dryness to his skin. An attenuated feeling. The sense that he could blow away in the wind. Did it come from Shriek? From having given part of himself away? He didn’t know.
Lying on a cot or sitting in a chair seemed like a kind of sloth. Also a kind of gnawing ache that was half for Sintra and half, perversely, for what the Lady in Blue had shown him. The sentimental thought that he had never had a chance to tell Wyte about any of it.
Strange, but when he closed his eyes he had an image of the hotel above them restored to its former grandeur. A concierge and porter in the lobby. Someone behind the desk waiting to take his key. Sintra in an evening gown. They’d be about to take a motored vehicle to the opera. The streets would be busy with merchants and people coming home from work. The buildings, the storefronts, would be bright and cheery with lights. Like it had been in those mayfly beautiful moments between wars, before the Rising.
Waiting for a bomb to fall through the ceiling. Waiting for Partials to come up the tunnel to kill or arrest him. Waiting for salvation or disaster to come tumbling out of the space between the towers.
When he couldn’t stand what he was feeling, he shook the shadows from his head. Went over to the map of Ambergris and the overlay. Removed the globe and star chart to fit them on the main table. Didn’t know if it was Finch or Crossley who liked working on the project. Or both.
Rathven had just left to get some more supplies. She’d told him it was Sunday morning. Ordered him to get back on the cot.
Whatever is coming through the towers, the world will change again.
Still, for now, the world had only changed a little. He used a soft cloth on the map to erase what had been lost. Slowly, with regret, removed the Spit. Knew that even if parts survived, no one lived there now. Erased the station. Removed the words “Wyte’s apartment.” Removed the words “bell tower.” Didn’t think any of the detectives would ever go back there. Each red mushroom on his map, he now changed to a symbol indicating a fortified position. Added Stark’s mushroom house, whether occupied now or not. Added the towers in the bay, which he had resisted until he knew they were complete. Out of fear? He didn’t know.
Question: How could I know they would burn the body?
Answer: Because it would’ve been stupid for them not to.
The memory bulbs he’d eaten. The feel of Sintra’s body beside him in bed. The full and terrible force of Heretic’s gaze. The Partial’s scorn for his weakness. The look in the Lady in Blue’s eyes as she tried to convince him. The ruined fortress.
Then: disrupting his thoughts, a flash of gold-green light. A fizzling, popping sound. The sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs.
Finch stood up beside his map, grabbed his gun.
Bliss appeared at the edge of the carpet. Dark smudges on his face. The ragged edges of his jacket had a burnt look to them. His dark pants had darker stains on them.
“I should be more surprised,” Finch said. And he wasn’t. Just scared. Another test to pass.
An odd dueling smugness and humility to Bliss’s expression. “Rathven has fewer secrets than she thinks, and I have more. You look well.”
No indication from those eyes of what to expect.
“I look like shit. I feel like shit.”
“Better that than dead,” Bliss said, walking into the room. “Since you’re still alive, I assume the mission was successful.”
“Wouldn’t you know already?”
“The towers will be operational very soon. Then we’ll know. Where’s the piece of metal Shriek used, Finch?”
“You’ve healed well,” Finch said, ignoring him. “Almost as if I never hit you.”
Bliss pulled up a chair next to the map. “I took a vacation. Somewhere remote. Somewhere I expected would be a little less … exciting … than it was.” An enigmatic smile. “I see you are busy changing the map. A little premature, don’t you think?” Bliss’s features hardened. “The mission is complete?”
“Yes,” Finch admitted. “There were complications. But it’s done.” Hesitant to tell him just how many complications.