City of Ruin, page 6
Both children peer out the window, blinking their tearstained lashes. Jon shakes his head. “I’ve never seen a beautiful morning,” he whispers.
My heart cracks even more. “Neither have I,” I realize aloud. “Which means something good will come of today, no matter how frightened we might be.”
Jon stares blankly out the window, his small fingers playing with the fringe of my long hair. “I don’t want to leave you,” he says with a croak in his voice. “Please don’t let them—”
“You know it’s not up to me,” I answer softly, carefully, and I look at Evie, who is the quietest she’s ever been. “I wish I could keep all of us together and live in a little cottage in these beautiful hills.”
“We could all live happily ever after, like one of the fairy tales in Master Orson’s books,” Nell adds, her thoughts wistful and far away.
“We will have to meet in our memories and dreams instead,” I tell them. “We are safe there, always.” I brush Evie’s hair from her blue doe eyes and then look at Jon.
He nods ever so slightly, and I wonder if he’s tucking the rare occasions we’ve hidden ourselves away, desperate for another storybook adventure, safely in his memories. Or when our fingers hurt from grinding and hammering and digging so much, we took turns making up our own stories to pass the time and find an escape.
“Wherever you are going,” I continue with conviction, “I know you will find new friends. You will not be alone.” I tell myself I’m certain of it. No master only has one laborer, servant, or slave, and it brings me comfort to hope that whoever Jon or Evie meet next might look out for them the way I have.
I’m about to offer more words of comfort—whatever I can muster—when I spot the ruins of a large estate shrouded in fog, and feel a pang of relief at the distraction. “Look,” I whisper, smiling as the children inch their way to the windows.
“Is that a castle?” Evie asks. “Like in Cinderella?”
“I believe it used to be,” I tell her. “But time has forgotten it.” Awe fills my voice. New London is in ruins, but out here, in the sweeping landscapes, it feels like an entirely different realm.
“Do you think a princess lived there once?” Nell whispers.
I smile, though it’s sad. “Perhaps. Whoever she was, she was a fancy lady.”
To think of the old society ruled by those who were simply born with privilege seems like such an impossibility. There are no lords and ladies, not like there used to be.
My mother had taught me about the old ways, about the estate her great grandmother grew up on, and the wealthy family she’d married into against her will. But it was all for naught, because everything fell and the lands were deemed unclean. Everyone, rich and poor alike, was forced away from England or underground, and only skilled folks had something to offer Prince Albert and his council, trying to salvage his fallen kingdom.
As we continue onward, the outline of the castle disappears into the fog, and with it, my drifting thoughts.
“I wish we knew where we were going,” Beatrice says, and she sighs as she leans her head against the window. “At least then we’d know whether to be afraid.”
Blackburn’s dark eyes flash to mind. Yes, be afraid, I want to say. Even though he’s been no more unkind than our masters before him, the darkness coiled in each of his steps is bone-chilling. He is every bit the brute his grandfather was when he sailed to our shores decades ago in search of new beginnings, tearing open the city and creating the festering gash it has become. Blackburn only knows power and greed, and with the Council of Four holding his lineage in the highest regard, he has all he could possibly want or need in our country.
Dread fills me once more as the carriage crosses an iron bridge. Coach wheels echo and clink over it, and I might consider the bridge’s intricate design and craftsmanship exquisite, if it didn’t lead to an unwanted end.
A brick compound emerges beyond, smoke coiling its way from stacks and outbuildings. Men, and even a few women, wheelbarrow limestone and scrap metal from piles scattered between one foundry and another. It’s one of the most perilous employments, and the two big men carrying a wrapped, human-sized form between them only punctuates the danger and steals my breath. It’s all I can do not to gasp aloud.
This is where he’s taking the children? There isn’t a face that’s not coal-streaked, or a brow undampened with sweat despite the cool morning air.
“I don’t want to go,” Jon cries into my chest, and tears prick my eyes.
“I know, but you must,” I tell him. I’ve pushed the Collector too much already, and I fear his patience with me is running thin. “The future is always uncertain,” I tell him. “Just like yesterday, when we were eating porridge in the dining hall at the orphanage, today we are in a new place, and will meet new people. Of all these men and women, I know you will find a friend and someone to look out for you.”
He sniffles, and Evie wraps her arms around us both.
I squeeze her closer. “This is Master Blackburn’s foundry. We might see each other again.” The words feel false, but I press on. “You’ll see. We must hold out hope.”
Jon nods, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it. I don’t blame him. I tell myself I have hope, but it’s borne of desperation.
As the carriage jerks to a stop, I can’t swallow away my own cries, no matter how strong I try to be. The laborers outside continue to call to one another, straining as they push their wheelbarrows. Even if the world doesn’t stop, it feels as if it should fall to pieces around us.
The coach door flies open and Collins is standing there. Beyond him, Blackburn converses with a very large man with arms as thick as my torso and shaggy black hair. The man looks surprised to see us, but recovers quickly and nods to Blackburn, before the Collector continues toward the corpse being hauled away.
The large man meets my gaze as he approaches.
“Bartholomew will take the boy,” Collins tells me as I wipe the tears from my eyes. Everything in me shouts to do something—to make a scene or grab the children and flee—but there is nowhere to go.
“And the others,” Bartholomew adds, stopping a few paces from the coach.
My eyes widen. “What?”
Collins and I both look at him.
“All the children,” Bartholomew repeats.
My mouth falls open. “You’re taking them all?” I’m not sure if it’s relief or dread making my voice quiver.
Bartholomew dips his chin, and though his face is smudged with soot and his features are harsh and angled, there is a kindness in his eyes—a promise. Suddenly, it’s not a fear for the children that consumes me, but fear for myself. We are being separated, and while the children are staying together, I don’t yet know my fate.
“Come on then,” Collins says a bit more softly, and he motions for the children to climb out. I can feel Nell’s and Beatrice’s gazes on me, the pregnant silence as they wait for me to say or do something, but I can’t take my eyes from Bartholomew. His stare is intent on me, but sympathetic as a silent conversation passes between us, two people who have known this hard life and understand the children’s fears. “All will be well,” he says, and that gaze of his promises he will look after them. Though his large, looming frame and obvious strength should terrify me, it’s a relief to know he can actually protect them, should it ever come to that.
A watery smile parts my lips, and I glance at the children before stepping down from the carriage to say goodbye. “It’s okay,” I rasp, meeting each of their sad expressions, but I actually believe it this time. “You’ll be together—everything will be okay.”
The smoky air is cool and clings to my exposed skin despite my cheeks, eyes, and chest burning with emotion. Metal clanging inside the factory ricochets through the morning, and the children peer around with wide, terror-filled eyes.
I look at Bartholomew. “Beatrice,” I say, my voice shaking. “She’s injured. It must heal properly or—”
“I’ll see to it, miss,” he assures me. “My wife and I know the healer.”
Another swell of relief bubbles up inside me, and I have to blink my tears away. “Come here,” I say, and pull Evie against me. “You take care of your brother for me, okay? Be sure to keep reading, if you can. And tell each other stories.”
She nods against me, crying into my hair. “We will.”
“Good.” I stand and wrap my arms around Nell. “Take care of them for me,” I plead quietly in her ear.
“I promise,” she sobs. “We’ll be okay.” Her strength makes me choke out a happy, proud sob of my own. “I know you will.” I kiss her cheek and straighten. “Beatrice, keep them in line for me,” I tell her with a forced smile. “And be careful of your arm.”
She nods, but says nothing, her tightly pursed lips quivering.
Clearing my throat, I look at Bartholomew. He dips his chin again. “Go with this nice man,” I tell them, because drawing out our goodbyes will only make everything harder.
He holds out his hands to each of the twins and looks at Beatrice and Nell. “It’s warmer inside. And I will show you where you will be living. You can meet my wife.” That they would live in a factory makes me sad, but their life would’ve been no different in New London. At least the presence of this man and his wife puts me at momentary ease.
“Goodbye, Selene,” Jon cries, and runs to me once more. He grips onto me one last time.
“Goodbye, Jon,” I whisper in his ear. “See you in our memories.”
Evie comes over and kisses my cheek, then finally allows Nell and Beatrice to lead her away. My vision blurs as I watch them, reminded of how cruel this life is, that we should be used to such sadness and fears. And yet, my heart still breaks. The children look back once before disappearing inside.
“They will be cared for here,” Collins says quietly, startling me. “Bartholomew and his wife are good people.” My heart lightens a little. “And there are plenty of children in Emberbrook—they will not be alone.”
Though I appreciate Collins’s words, it’s at that moment I decide I hate Master Blackburn. He is a slaver, a man who would collect human beings to build his empire—who would collect children—and there is no kindness, or honor, in that.
10
SELENE
I barely notice the jostling, squeaking carriage in the quiet absence of the children. I’m too consumed by what I knew would come—what I’ve tried to brace myself for these past nine years. It feels as if I’ve failed the children somehow, and the hole in my heart burns with every beat, and my chest is almost too tight to breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ll likely never see them again, and I’ve never felt more alone.
Hammering and people calling to one another echoes in the distance, and I hold my breath. Dozens of workers take form in the haze of daybreak, their clothes clinging to their sweat-dampened bodies. Men, women, and even children haul bundles of wood, and buckets. Laborers climb roofs, jerk wenches and pulleys, and pound what look like slabs of steel, piercing the air with each metallic clank.
We drive past frame after frame of outbuildings being constructed, and the work site stretches on and on until the woods thicken once more. So much green. So much I cannot see through the mist.
A figure shifts in the fog, a man’s face and dark hair flashing into view between two trees in the forest. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I hold my breath, but as the carriage continues onward, I see no one. My heart pounds, wondering if it was my imagination, or more bandits, like the men from the road.
I’m grateful as the forest gives way again, only this time, to an overgrown graveyard scattered throughout a gnarled beech tree grove. All the weathered headstones are eroded and worn by time, save for two. Lichen crawls its way over the engraving on the largest of them, and I squint, trying to read it, but the carriage rolls forward and the headstone disappears behind the trees once more.
A rut in the road sends the coach lurching forward, and I brace my palm on the window as I’m nearly tossed from my seat. “For all that is—” My breath catches in my throat as a sinister limestone face with a gaping, fang-lined mouth peers up from the overgrowth through the window.
I blink, realizing it’s the head of one of many statutes littered among the remains of a toppled chapel. I can’t balk at the beauty of what’s left of the intricately carved, arched windows and stained glass. The colors are beautiful, surrounded by so much drabness, illuminating the solemn gray morning.
The carriage turns down a gravel lane, and my looming future feels fresh upon me. Blackburn rides somewhere ahead, and Collins leads our procession on his chestnut horse, a dozen paces in front.
I could jump out of the carriage here and now, and run. Now that the children are gone, I could take my chances with fate. A small voice tells me the children are close, and I should not risk it. But, oh, how tempting it is. My fingers twitch on the door handle before I clasp them in my lap.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up inside me as I realize that, for all my brother’s effort to hide me from powerful landowners, I’ve still managed to become one man’s plaything after another’s. William died in the process. Yet here I am, riding to the estate of the most notorious landowner of them all.
We follow a tree-lined path, passing what looks to be another castle. I cower in its shadow. It’s nothing like the ruins we’d seen on the side of the road, and my heart nearly stills. This one still looms, its facade a wreckage of structure and stone. Vines grow over much of it, coursing and curving like veins, breathing life into what little remains. A single stout turret, cracked and eroded by time, is only an echo of its former glory. The castle’s windows are glassless and gaping, and save for the light filtering through the holes in the roof, everything inside is menacingly dark. It’s a husk of a place, a dangerous place. Every raised hair on the back of my neck tells me so.
We pass a murky pond and drive through an unkempt pergola, grown over with thistle, until finally, we stop in a square courtyard. I steel myself, realizing we’ve finally arrived at whatever impending fate awaits. It’s no factory, but the estate house is far from welcoming.
I stare at the lichen-covered walls. Its eaves line the angular roofs like angry brows, and the row of metal-braced, brick chimneys stacked along the center gives me pause. There must be a dozen rooms at least, and my mind spins with possible reasons I’ve been brought to this place. To be a servant? A plaything? Or will I be a breeder?
The driver pounds on the outside of the coach, making me jump. “Out you go, miss!” he calls, and I swallow thickly. The carriage wobbles as he dismounts his seat in the front, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. The children aren’t too far away, I remind myself. I can brave whatever I must, for them.
The carriage door opens, and an impatient Collins stands there, not the driver. “Well?” Collins prompts. He gestures toward the manor, ominous against the gray sky. “Don’t you want warmth and a meal? You won’t find any of it out here.”
While that sounds pleasant enough, I can’t help but wonder what such luxuries will cost me. With no other option, I climb out of the carriage, the whole thing creaking as it settles back into place. The three horses heave with exhaustion, and the driver barely gives Collins a moment to latch the door shut when he clicks the steeds onward. They turn in the courtyard, then disappear through the archway. I survey the rest of the grounds and note that the pond is barely visible through the willow trees in a wooded area to the right of the manor.
“This way,” Collins says over his shoulder, hurrying toward a heavy, wooden double door. I notice Collins’s horse milling about, unattended as if he’s waiting for his master to return, and reluctantly, I follow Collins toward the main entrance. Unlit torches mark both sides of it, and I have little time to take much of anything else in when the doors open, and a woman in a white bonnet and a gray, woolen dress and apron steps out. Her expression is one of surprise when she sees me, mouth agape. The woman’s gaze shoots to Collins as I take in her pointed nose and anxious blue eyes, wrinkles crinkling the corners.
Collins clears his throat, and a cacophony of keys jangle as she takes a step back for us to enter. I can feel her attention fixed on me as I pass.
Evergreen fills my nose as I peer around the foyer, taking one hesitant step and then another. The entry is narrow, with a grand staircase leading to the upper floors directly ahead, then fanning to the left and right. Uncertain where to go, I stop at the foot of the stairs and the dread that’s been pooling inside me for hours froths anew.
I am to be bred. I feel it with every churn in my stomach. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and while I shouldn’t be surprised, I can’t help the wash of panic that asphyxiates me, and the sudden need to run away from this new cage, gilded as it may seem.
“I—what’s—” The woman stutters as she closes the door behind Collins.
He hands her his hat and removes his cloak. “This,” he says, his eyes meeting mine, “is Prudy, the housekeeper. She runs everything in this place,” he explains. “Prudy, this is Miss Sinclair. The master asked me to bring her to you while he speaks with Gibson in the stable.”
Miss Sinclair. I haven’t heard someone call me that since I was a child. How odd that sounds on a stranger’s lips.
“I thought he was going to New London for workers,” Prudy says, still confused. “The master knows I need no more staff—I can barely find things to do for the ones I have. What am I to do with this one? Unless . . .” she hedges.
I can’t help the furrow of my brow as I stare between them, speaking about me as if I’m a lost dog the master has brought home.
“It’s not as if I chose to be here,” I assure Prudy, far too exhausted and put out to mind my tone. “I didn’t ask to be someone’s slave.”
Prudy’s eyes widen as big as saucers this time, and she rests her fists on her hips. “A slave is it?” With a quirked eyebrow, she looks at Collins. “She’s a mouthy one, isn’t she?” She harrumphs. It’s not a question, but a statement.
