Foretold Page 22

  I hate Madame Grey. I hate her with a rage that feels lit by a million suns. When I can’t deal with my part in everything, my regret, my shame, my grief, I plumb the well of rage inside me and I hate.

  The rotunda shows signs of rapid repairs, but you don’t need the scars on the walls or the dry fountain to be reminded of what happened here. We’d stand in a somber shadow even without the tarp blotting out the sun and covering the remnants of the glass dome.

  The surly guard at my side and I pass a group of watchful, whispering girls my age. You’d think I’d be used to being looked at as a freak—I’ve been one at school for the past few years, after all—but I thought Theban would be different. I thought I could reinvent myself here. But here it’s worse. Here I’m a murderer.

  No one knows that yet, though. I’m being escorted by the guard to serve as a character witness for Bacchy, and the girls are only staring because everyone knows how close I am to him. I’m guilty by my association to Bacchy in their eyes. Ironic.

  Regan rushes over, bringing our march to a halt. “I’m here for moral support,” she tells the guard.

  “If you’re not a character witness, you can’t come,” the guard says, pushing me along. “She’s moral support. You can’t be moral support for moral support.”

  Regan makes a face and pauses to bark out an insult at the giggling girls.

  “Regan, it’s not worth it,” I say, stilling her.

  Regan shrugs. “Defending you and Bacchy is a good way of passing the time.” What she means is, it’s a good way of distracting herself. She looks down, and I take in the bandage on her forehead, the bags under her eyes, the sorrow in the curve of her neck. I heard the pain in her voice yesterday when she told me about Theodore. About Ford. About Noah.

  Noah, at least, survived. He’s been in the infirmary since the blast. He’s missing an eye and has a nasty concussion, but the doctors expect he’ll recover when he wakes up. Regan has been beside herself, only leaving his side once when I swore I’d stay with him.

  “How is he today?” I ask Regan. I don’t have to say who I mean. I might as well have plucked out his eye with my bare hands.

  “Better! He’s going to be so pirate-hot. Don’t worry, I’m already bedazzling his eye patch.” It’s all false cheerfulness. I know Regan well enough by now to know the difference.

  “That’s as far as you go.” The guard throws an arm up to block Regan’s way.

  “Tell Bacchy don’t worry! It’ll be okay. And you’re going to do great, Cassie. Don’t stress!” Regan’s corkscrew curls hang limp around her ears, her eyes dishrag gray. I wonder if I look as bad. I can’t sleep. Haven’t really eaten. I’m being torn apart from the inside out. I give her an impulsive hug.

  The guard leads me through the Coil, down a sharply sloping passage. My shivering continues long after we cross that threshold and intensifies the deeper we go. The sounds of our footfalls echo. The narrow path, which wouldn’t look out of place in an archeological dig, zigzags as if taking us down a mountain pass, and it feels as if we’re drilling down to the very bottom of the Coil.

  You’re okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. I pick and bite at my thumbnail, then force myself to stop. Who wins in the short term if I rip my thumb to shreds? Me, momentarily, since my OCD will be satisfied. Who wins in the long term if I don’t? Me again, since I won’t risk a wound that can become infected. My Dad and Mrs. O and everyone who love me will also win, since they’d be happy I haven’t given in to an urge. Pict will be…

  We reach a bridge stretching over black, yawning nothingness. A brown-hooded figure stands sentinel in front of it; he turns, leading me and the guard across and up to a pair of immense double doors that stretch high above my head.

  “Follow him,” the guard says to me, pointing at the hooded man.

  I turn and face a dark anteroom. The hooded man moves through it into a larger space filled with flickering candlelight. I force my feet to do the same.

  “Cassandra Morai, of the clan Morai,” the hooded man intones.

  “They’ll be ready for her in a moment,” another cloaked figure answers. I recognize Ms. Fenice’s voice. She pushes her hood off her head to give me a small sad smile and a hug before leading me toward the back wall, which is lined with wood chairs.

  Up front, nine black-shrouded figures are seated on ornate thrones on a raised semi-circle dais. The Grimoire Council. I always thought they were nicknamed the “Grims” because of the Council’s name, but seeing them perched on their seats like harbingers of death, all that’s missing is a scythe in each of their hands.

  “I cannot tell you where I got it,” Bacchy says, his small, hunched figure kneeling in front of the platform.

  Agatha Triggs, looking like she was laser-cut from a piece of sheet metal, is seated at a fold-out table and chairs next to Bacchy’s kneeling form. She reaches into a metal urn and holds up a red stone.

  “Well, I could tell you, but I mean I won’t. Magpies never reveal the provenance of our trades. It’s why people trust us.” I walk farther along the back wall of the circular room, passing other observers, Fenice following. I want to see Bacchy’s face. Reassure myself he’s okay.

  “Trust you?” One of the Grims leans forward. “Magpies are not known for being trustworthy.”

  Bacchy brings himself up rigid. “We certainly are. We’ve been atoning for Autolycus for centuries. If we’re guilty for the sins of an ancestor, you bunch should be held to account for a fat lot more than that.” Bacchy pulls at his pointed red beard, then mutters, “I suppose I shouldn’t be yelling at my judges.”

  “So, he does have some sense,” the Grim seated closest to my side of the room mutters. I can’t see any of their faces, but I can tell this one is a woman from her voice. “Let's keep that going, shall we?”

  “Alright, I can tell you the trader was as ignorant as me. Neither of us were—”

  “So, you admit the person was a traitor?” the second-to-last Grim says, incredulous. “How can you defend—?”

  “He said ‘trad-er,’ not ‘trait-or,’” the Grim to his left corrects.

  “They’re one and the same,” the second-to-last one sniffs.

  “I wasn’t involved in the attack. Neither of us was. We didn’t know what that thing was. It was just something valuable to trade.”

  Triggs holds up a red stone, and the crowd gasps.

  “Cripes,” Bacchy mutters.

  “Enough. If you have nothing further to say in your defense, we’ll move on to the verdict,” the old Grim who misheard says.

  A woman rushes forward. She’d almost look like a photo-negative of an old English barrister with her white robe and black curled wig, except her wig’s curls twist and jut out Medusa-like. “Not quite, your Excellency. Mr. Liddell is entitled to character statements. We have some people here who—”

  “A waste of time! No one ever calls forth a neighbor he owes money to. I won’t allow it. We vote now,” the second-to-last Grim shouts. “All in favor of passing a sentence of Cateractus, say ‘aye.’”

  Bacchy and his advocate’s protests are drowned out by a chorus of ayes.

  “That sounded like a majority. The ‘ayes’ may claim his sight,” the old Grim says, a smile evident in his voice.

  “No!” I shout. I break away from Fenice and run to Bacchy’s side. You’re okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. I edge up to Triggs’s table and tap my fingers against the surface five times, as discreetly as I can.

  “Do you know what the sentence for interrupting a Grimoire Council Inquisition is?” the center Grim asks.

  “I don’t.” I clench my fists, my catastrophic thinking coming up with dozens of punishments. You’re okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. “But whatever it is, it’s worth it if I can keep Bacchy from being punished for something I did.”

  The room explodes into confused shouts. Bacchy pitches to his feet, his earring dangling madly. “Cassie, don’t—”

  “No, it’s true. I brought the evil ey
e in. Bacchy had no idea what it was.”

  “Neither of us—”

  A guard’s hand pushes on my shoulder until I drop to my knees. I catch a glimpse of Sebastian to the left of the dais. He whispers to an attendant, who turns and rushes from the room. His brow wrinkles and he shakes his head, mouthing something.

  “What is your name?” another female Grim asks.

  “Cassandra Morai.”

  Gasps again fill the room, and silence stretches.

  “We must hear all. Start at the beginning, Ms. Morai.”

  I hug my arms around me and begin, haltingly telling them about Madame Grey. Oscar. The eye. Seeing them both again the day of the attack—Madame Grey in the building and Oscar dying. I leave out the parts about Colin, which takes a little on-the-spot editing but not too much.

  “Even if you didn’t know that the eye would take down our defenses, why did you think they gave it to you?” the third-to-last Grim asks.

  Sebastian shakes his head. This time I make out what he mouths: Don’t answer.

  “I—”

  “My niece is naïve, that’s why. Bedlam filled her head with lies about what we’re doing here, offered up a pretty little gift, and she took it. They manipulated her into acting as a Trojan Horse so they could take down our defenses, try and destroy the ICARUSS mainframe, and murder our ritual expert Sidney Ford.” Aunt Bree walks into the room, her heels echoing like thunder claps. Her voice thickens and she clears her throat. “Because she’s very, very stupid. Isn’t that right, Cassandra?” To outsiders she looks calm. I can tell she’s furious.

  “Stupidity is no excuse. There are at least two dozen dead. At least four times that are gravely injured. Someone must be punished.” The Grim in the center grips the arm of his chair so hard the wood creaks.

  “Yes, someone should be. That someone is Bedlam. That’s why we need this Council to lift all restrictions placed on Julian Welborne’s work. We’ve been rejected multiple times now, and the situation has only grown worse. They strike and we hide. Pathetic. This Chamber now bears some responsibility for what occurred, but you can rectify that wrong.” She lights a cigarette and holds her elbow up with her opposite hand before raising an eyebrow. “Well?”

  The Council begins murmuring. Finally, the Grims sit back in their chairs. The female Grim on the left lifts a hand to silence the whispers. “Before we decide, we must verify your niece’s story. Bring a new batch of stones.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Aunt Bree says.

  “I say it is,” the Grim responds.

  “I can easily verify it.” Pict approaches, hastily throwing on a brown robe and pulling his book from his breast pocket.

  “Martin Pict, what is your interest in this case?” one of the Grims asks.

  “Cassandra Morai is my mentee,” Pict says. His eyes shoot daggers at me.

  “Then you are disqualified due to conflict of interest,” the last Grim says.

  Fenice grabs Pict by the elbow and leads him back to his seat. An assistant runs up to Triggs, holding a large drawstring bag and another urn. He hurriedly removes the old one as Triggs upends the bag’s contents over the new urn’s mouth. I flinch at the deafening sound of red and white stones striking the metal bottom.

  “For the love of…” Pict grumbles. He crosses his arms.

  The guard pulls me to my feet and forces me to the table. Triggs takes one of my fingers and pricks it deeply with her broach pin. I yelp as she squeezes my finger viciously over the urn until three fat droplets of blood fall.

  She releases my hand, and I suck my fingertip, panicked about the sterility of the pin even while my mind recognizes I have bigger concerns. Why does it always have to be blood? You’re okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.

  “What is your full name?” Triggs asks briskly.

  “Cassandra Morai.”

  Triggs draws a red stone from the urn and shakes her head. She sets it down on the table. “False. Your full name?”

  “Oh. Cassandra Claire Morai.”

  She pulls a white stone from the urn and looks up at the Grims.

  “Ms. Morai, did you plot with Bedlam to attack Theban Group?” the female Grim at the start of the dais asks.

  “What the devil—” Pict says.

  “No!” I shout.

  White stone.

  The female Grim quickly runs through questions to confirm my story. A white stone follows every answer.

  “Are you responsible for the attack?” one of the quieter Grims asks.

  “I already answered that—”

  “No. You answered a question about actively plotting to attack Theban group. I’m asking about responsibility.”

  “No!”

  Red stone. A wind whips up in my chest, swirling until it’s a storm of sorrow and confusion and anger. I look to Pict. He’s staring at the stone with revulsion.

  “The stones expose truths you might not be aware of,” one of the Grims say. “Why did you not share any of this with your aunt?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Red stone.

  “Because I don’t trust her.” The truth lands in the center of the room with a heavy thud and a white stone.

  Aunt Bree clicks her tongue against her teeth. “And look how well that worked out for you.” Her lips are pressed together in a tight line. To the Grims she says, “If we’re through airing my family’s dirty laundry, I trust we’re done here. I’ll deal with my niece. She was used by those who were smarter and more experienced.” She flicks a dismissive glance in my direction. “She’s a pawn.”

  The Grims share whispered debate amongst themselves for several minutes, and then the one left of center raises a hand. “A confession means that Mr. Liddell is exonerated of the high crime for which he was charged. But I propose he be sentenced to stable duty for three months for obstructing our investigation. All in favor?”

  A unanimous chorus of ayes sounds.

  “Ms. Aubrey Morai, because of your years of service here at Theban Group, your standing with the company, and your family’s history, and in light of your niece’s tender age, we will spare her punishment. Your niece came here to confess when she found out that someone else was charged for her crime, which is commendable. Cassandra Morai is free to go with a warning. Further, tell Julian Welborne we reject your insulting claim that this Chamber bears any blame for what occurred. And this Council will not grant his request. If we reach for the darkest of rituals each time we face a hardship, where would we be?”

  Aunt Bree protests, and while she and the Grims hold everyone’s attention, Triggs holds up the red stone that proclaimed my responsibility for the attack. She shakes her head, her gaze cutting.

  I didn’t need a rock to tell me all the death and destruction of that day will rest on my shoulders forever.

  Aunt Bree and Pict lead the way out of the chamber, followed closely by Fenice. Bacchy and I bring up the rear.

  “She didn’t know what she was doing. They disguised it,” Fenice says.

  “Yes, Linda. Hence my Trojan Horse comment,” Aunt Bree says with a humorless laugh. Pict looks at Aunt Bree like she’s something he found at the bottom of his shoe.

  “Didn’t even know the Grim Council chamber had proper jail cells. In that room just behind the dais, they are. Wish I didn’t find that out the hard way. And they’re not the nice European kind of cells, either. Cold metal bars and… Well, anyway, I owe you,” Bacchy whispers.

  I tear my eyes from Pict and Bree. “Owe me? What are you talking about? This was all my fault.” I look down, shamefaced. “You’re being punished because of me. I’m so sorry.”

  “Hardly punishment. I don’t mind animals. ‘Cept the smell. And the noise. And the way some of them chew. Don’t be sorry. Besides, the Magpie creed got me punished, not you. We don’t divulge secrets about trades. That’s where the phrase comes from, you know? Trade secrets.”

  That’s not true, but the trivia nerd in me won’t correct him. “I wasn’t going to t
rade—”

  “Don’t know many who would’ve spoken up, by the by. Like the Grims said. To your credit! But that’s not why I owe you. Deal’s a deal and we failed Ford. Poor man.” He shakes his head sorrowfully. “Our original trade still isn’t even.”

  “Bacchy, forget it.”

  “Never. A Magpie without honor isn’t a Magpie at all.”

  We emerge from the Coil. “I need a word with you before you go with Martin,” Aunt Bree says to me. She practically shoves me into a small room and shuts the door before I can call out a goodbye to Bacchy.

  “We could have prepared if you would have brought this to me, Cassandra. People would be alive. Your friend Theodore would be alive.” Aunt Bree vibrates with fury. It’s out of character for her.

  “I know.”

  She holds up her hand, index finger extended and begins counting people off, extending a finger every time. “Theodore. Jacinta Mellor. Brick Griggson, Uther Ekert. Sidney Ford. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. Along with a dozen others.”

  “I know,” I repeat.

  “I spoke with Theodore’s mother, you know. I was the one to tell her. Woman was utterly devastated. Did you know he died on his birthday?”

  “He was going to see his mom soon.” I try to swallow but an ache blossoms in the middle of my chest. Why did it have to be Aunt Bree to deliver that news?

  “Heartbreaking. I’m sure those nice terrorists would’ve skipped him during their murderous rampage had they known it was his birthday or that he was about to visit Mommy. Poor Theodore. Happy birthday to him.” Bree eyes her nails while she talks, avoiding eye contact.

  I feel a tear threaten in the corner of my eye. I swipe at it.

  “Those idiots on the Council don’t realize it, but we’re in a fight for survival. The ends justify the means, and they’ve cut off our means.”

  “Wha—what are you going to do?”

  “Not me. You. You need to make this right.” She pulls a paper and a small plastic bag from her jacket pocket. “The ‘camp’ promised your father you could go back home for a few days for your birthday. The timing is helpful since you wouldn’t be able to pull this off on scryer property. You leave tomorrow.” She hands me the paper and the baggie, which I realize holds a folded handkerchief. “You are not to tell another living soul about this. The handkerchief is stained with their leader’s blood. We haven’t been able to determine her real identity, but she took a bullet during the attack, and her blood is one of the ingredients you’ll need. There is a Gloaming Moon eclipse tomorrow night—charge a mirror with it. You’re going to need that as well.”