By the time of Daisy’s funeral, the Kid was as ready as he was ever going to be.
Maggfrid was inconsolably distraught. Apparently he’d taken a liking to Daisy; the funeral was too much for him. Liv sat with him in his room and made soothing noises while he sobbed. She brought down the Child’s History from her office and read him stories of battles, which sometimes cheered him up—not now. Eventually she drew water from the sink at the end of the corridor and measured out five drops of nerve tonic into the glass; that was enough to put Maggfrid swiftly and surely to sleep.
She consulted her ugly noisy golden pocket watch: the Director would be talking for a while yet. She had time to check on her patients. She had time to check on her experiments.
With the help of Renato, who was strong and handy with a saw, and could be trusted not to be squeamish, she had removed Daisy’s brain the night before the burial. What was being buried was an empty husk; everything that mattered of Daisy was pickling downstairs in a jar in Liv’s office. She was eager to study it further. She had already identified some unusual bruising in the thing’s folds. Poor Daisy—something might still be salvaged from her tragedy.
Liv left Maggfrid snoring and slumped mountainously on his narrow bed, and walked out into the silent corridors. She slipped the Child’s History into a pocket of the black jacket she’d borrowed for the funeral.
Unusually silent. At first she put it down to the funereal mood of the day, but as she walked through the corridors and down the stairs—Maggfrid’s room was on the fourth floor—she began to feel uneasy. So many empty rooms. Where was everybody? They could not be walking in the gardens; perhaps they were all in one of the common rooms, but then would it be so quiet?
The legless blond boy in room 320—rolling his chair indecisively back and forth between window and door of his cell—shook his head and told her he didn’t know where anyone was. She left him be.
His neighbor was more forthcoming. “Downstairs, ma’am. Try downstairs.” He refused to say more—but that already was as much conversation as the man was capable of on any typical day, so she left him be.
She took the stairs down and stepped out into the second-floor corridors just in time to see John Cockle emerging from the General’s cell, leading the old man with him. Cockle had his arm around the General’s shoulder and was gently urging him forward on his unsteady legs. Cockle had a heavy kit bag slung over his shoulder. He met Liv’s gaze, and his eyes were terribly cold for a second; then he smiled. “Taking the old man for a walk, Doctor. Fresh air’s good for the lungs.”
There was a tension in the air that Liv did not understand.
“He’s not due for a walk, Mr. Cockle. We don’t want to strain him.”
The General smiled vaguely. Cockle’s own smile stiffened. Liv’s late husband Bernhardt had been a Professor of Natural History and an amateur taxidermist; Cockle’s smile was now like the glint of the glass eye of one of Bernhardt’s stuffed foxes.
“Please return him to his cell, Mr. Cockle.”
“Can you begrudge an old man fresh air and light, Dr. Alverhuysen? On this day, when we are reminded of death’s constant shadow, can you begrudge him that? He’s heavy to hold, though; will you help me with him?”
“I will not, Mr. Cockle. Please return him to his cell.”
“No, Doctor.”
“I will call for assistance.”
Cockle sighed theatrically. The next second—she did not see Cockle move at all—the General was slumped against the doorframe, and Cockle was pointing at her an implement that she realized—it was not immediately obvious to her—was a gun.
“Come here, please, Dr. Alverhusyen.”
She considered her options. She said no.
Cockle scowled.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Mr. Cockle. I suppose you’ve gone mad. But you can’t menace me with that thing. You cannot harm me. The Spirit of the House will not allow it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, ma’am.”
She took a small step backwards. Cockle seemed to think for a second. Then he ran at her. He was terribly fast; he had crossed the length of the hallway and clamped his rough hand over her mouth almost before she could scream; but not quite.