from her ongoing research to join me for lunch at our local restaurant—a meal marred by bad service and which ended prematurely due to the establishment’s front window suddenly falling in, scattering shards of glass across the entire dining area.
Rather than responding to my musing, my friend, who’d been somewhat preoccupied throughout the meal, suddenly looked around as if only just realising where she was.
“The sky is red!” she murmured. “It’s late! I didn’t realise.”
“The suns are setting,” I said. “You’ve been holed away in that laboratory of yours for ages!”
A strong gust of wind whistled through the eaves of the buildings to either side of us. We’d opted to walk in the middle of the street in order to avoid falling roof tiles. There was little traffic—the city was becoming ever quieter and less active.
“Ages? Really? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“You’ve been busy, that’s why. I, on the other hand, have had very little to do and the time has dragged awfully.”
She didn’t answer.
I looked at her. “Clarissa?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you hear me? What’s wrong? You hardly said a word during lunch.”
She sighed and frowned. “I’m sorry, Aiden. I’m finding it almost impossible to think straight. I appear to have affixed on a memory and it’s replaying over and over, like an annoying tune that lodges itself in one’s head.”
“What memory?”
“Of the blueprints that Sir Philip Hufferton and I drew up when I was a youngster. I find myself dwelling on their every detail, their every line, and I can’t stop myself. I have no idea why.”
“Blueprints for what?”
“Extravagant war machines. Impractical, childish things. Why in Heaven’s name are they playing on my mind so?”
I shrugged. “I remember you mentioning them once. What caused you to recall them in the first place?”
“That’s the thing of it—nothing! They simply popped into my thoughts out of nowhere, and now they won’t go away!”
We stepped over the rubble of a fallen chimney.
“You’ve been working too hard,” I suggested.
“I’ll keep going until I drop, if necessary. Kichyomachyoma may not be fatal to the Yatsill but it’s debilitating enough to bring the city to a standstill.” She put a hand to her head. “I just wish my brain would cooperate with me.”
We arrived home and Clarissa resumed work in her laboratory with Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash, Father Spreadflower Meadows, and Father Tendency Clutterfuss. These three had been a constant presence in the house for no small amount of time now and I was beginning to feel a sense of camaraderie with them—even with Clattersmash, who’d so abruptly denied me my priesthood after the Ritual of Immersion. It was an affection I knew Clarissa felt more intensely—even to the point of real friendship—which, I suppose, was to be expected, as she was more or less constantly in their presence, working to the same end.
A little while after our return, there came knocking at our front door. I put aside the New Yatsillat Trumpet, left the lounge, and went to answer the summons. The wind had died and now yet another of the rainstorms was battering the city. The Koluwaian woman standing on our doorstep was drenched, with water streaming from her lank hair.
“I have a message from Father Mordant Reverie,” she said. “He would like you and Miss Stark to attend him at the Temple of Magicians immediately. The matter is urgent.”
Before I could invite her in to dry off, the Servant turned and disappeared into the monsoon-like downpour.
I closed the door and went to the laboratory. Clarissa and her three colleagues were bent over the paraphernalia of chemical research, each engrossed. I cleared my throat to attract her attention.
“What is it, Aiden?” she asked in an abstracted tone.
“Father Reverie wants to see us.”
She straightened and clicked her tongue impatiently. “I need to finish this analysis. I’m finding it difficult enough to concentrate as it is—I really don’t need to be interrupted. Confound it! Why is my mind obsessing so?” She thudded the base of her hand against her forehead. “It’s getting worse!”
“He wants us at the temple right now, Clarissa. Perhaps the distraction will do you good.”
She gave another inarticulate expression of exasperation and turned to Clattersmash. “Do you feel strong enough to continue for a little while, Mademoiselle? I notice you’re trembling.”
The Yatsill nodded. “I feel weak but I’ll carry on, my dear. Do you mind if I sleep in one of your rooms should I require respite?”