The Ten Thousand Doors of January - Alix E. Harrow Page 0,99
Archaeological Society and the closing Doors and the dying world. Mr. Locke, keeping my father like a leashed hound and me like a caged bird. The Written, and the way certain willful persons are able to rewrite existence. And then I told him about the silver coin that became a knife, and showed him the words I’d written in my own flesh.
The skin beneath my bandages was pale and puckered with fresh scabs, like some injured lake creature that had washed ashore. Samuel touched the jagged curve of the J carved into my skin.
“You did not need rescuing, then, it seems,” he said, a wry twist in his smile. “Stregas rescue themselves in all the stories.”
“Stregas?”
“Witches,” he clarified.
“Oh.” Sure, I’d been hoping for something a little more complimentary but—he believed me, without even a flicker of doubt. Maybe all those years of sneaking pulpy monster stories when he was supposed to be manning the shop counter had rotted his brain just like his mother said they would. Maybe he just trusted me.
Samuel continued, speculatively. “They always end up alone in the stories—witches, I mean—living in the woods or mountains or locked in towers. I suppose it would take a brave man to love a witch, and men are mostly cowards.” He looked directly at me as he finished, with a kind of raised-chin boldness that said: I am not a coward.
I found I couldn’t say anything at all. Or even think, much.
After a moment he smiled again, gently, and said, “So these Society people. They will keep looking for you, won’t they? For the things you know, and the things you can do.”
“Yes, they will.” Jane’s voice came from behind me. She stood in the doorway, framed by the last red rays of sunlight, her mouth set in a grim line. Something about her reminded me of my father, and the way grief stooped his shoulders and carved lines on his face.
Jane moved stiffly to the water bucket to rinse her dirt-grimed arms, saying, “We need a plan, and a place to hide.” She patted herself dry. “I suggest Arcadia, the name your father gave me for a world hidden on the southern coast of Maine. It is inhospitable and inaccessible, or so I am given to understand, which makes it an excellent place to disappear. I know the way.” Jane’s voice was perfectly even, as if a hostile and alien world was a perfectly ordinary destination, like the bank or the post office.
“But surely we don’t need to—”
“January,” she interrupted, “we have no money, no place to live, no family. I am black in a nation that abhors blackness, foreign in a nation that abhors foreigners. And worst of all we are memorable—an African woman and an in-between girl with wild hair and a scarred arm.” She turned her hands palm up. “If the Society wants to find you, they will. And I doubt Mr. Havemeyer was the worst of them.”
Samuel shifted against his pillows. “But you are forgetting—Miss January is not defenseless. She could write you anything you pleased, it seems to me. A fortress. A door to Timbuktu, or Mars. An unfortunate accident for Mr. Locke.” He sounded rather hopeful about that last possibility; he had growled in a very Bad-like manner when I told him about Brattleboro.
A sour smile twisted Jane’s face. “Her powers are not unlimited, I am told.”
I felt a prickle of defensiveness, doused in shame. “No.” It came out slightly choked-sounding. “My father says word-working comes at a cost. I can’t just rip things up and stick them back together however I like.” I snuck a sidelong look at Samuel, my voice lowering. “I’m not much of a witch, I’m afraid.”
He twitched his hand so that it lay very near to mine on the blankets, our fingertips almost touching. “Good,” he whispered. “I’m not that brave.”
Jane cleared her throat rather markedly. “Now, getting there will be challenging. We have two hundred miles to cross without being recognized or followed, and not much money to do it with. I am afraid”—she smiled a tight, chill smile—“Miss Scaller will have to become accustomed to a rather different standard of living.”
That stung. “I have traveled a bit, you know.” I had luggage with my name stamped on little brass plates; my passport looked like a well-thumbed paperback novel.
Jane laughed. It wasn’t a very cheerful sound. “And in all your travels, have you spent a single night in a bed you made yourself? Cooked a single meal?