Orphans of Chaos

1.

That night Vanity climbed into bed with me, despite that we now had a roaring fire blazing in the hearth. After the lights were doused, all the shadows in the room pointed toward the fireplace, swaying and hopping to the music of the merry crackle of wood.

Mrs. Wren had actually been more watchful than normal, and stared at Vanity while she swallowed her medicine. While Mrs. Wren was looking at Vanity, I put a few drops of the liquid on my lip, and threw the rest of the cup into the fire. When she turned to me at the noise, I only licked my lips and smiled. This puzzled her. Mrs. Wren could hardly be angry for me being too eager to drink my medication, since she apparently did not want to admit she was supposed to watch us quaff it.

After she left, I tried to get Vanity to upchuck into the chamber pot, by putting her finger down her throat, but she was too squeamish to make a sincere attempt.

Now, lying next to me, she whispered in my ear: “If there are peepholes in the rooms, they have been watching us this whole time. Our whole lives.”

I did not bother to tell her my theory that she had created the secret passages, peepholes and all, out of her own thought, and that reality had shifted to accommodate her imagination. The word “reality,” by definition, referred to those things we cannot change by mere wishes. I had always thought the physical world was included in that set. Now, I wasn’t sure.

I said, “They all believed you. About the talking dog. Victor’s question about whether we saw the dog talk was just, you know, for the peepholes. Why do you think we were left alone in the infirmary for so long? They all had to pretend not to believe us. Except that it took Colin forever to catch on. What an idiot.”

“Do you think they were watching?”

“Boggin knows about our codes. He knows about the time Victor and I snuck out to measure the moon years ago. I think he knows everything.”

“But you still want to trust him, don’t you?”

“I don’t think he’d let Dr. Fell kill us, if that’s what you mean. I mean, if he were going to, why didn’t he do it when we were six or eight? Why wait till now?”

Vanity replied, “Well, if I knew the answers to that, maybe I’d trust Headmaster Boggin also. Because then he would not be keeping the answers from us.”

We heard noises from outside: the sound of an automobile engine, the noise of tires crunching the gravel on the carriage circle before the East Wing. Vanity and I hopped out of bed, went over to our North-facing window, and raised the sash.

The warmth of our nicely firelit room rushed away; the icy wind was shockingly cold against our faces. We heard motors, doors slamming, voices raised in welcome. From the reflection of the light against the trees in the distance, we could tell the East Wing windows were lit up. Faintly, over the snow, came music. Miss Daw was playing her violin, a haunting melody of a few simple notes, some Highland air I did not recognize. Nothing was visible from our side of the building.

Vanity said, “It’s the bigwigs.”

The Visitors and Governors. Plus whoever or whatever Dr. Fell had referred to as “the Pretender,” who might be the same person as Headmaster Boggin’s Trustee.

The noise of car engines receded, as the vehicles were driven in the direction of the horse stables. Vanity said, “Chauffeurs. They are parking the cars away from the house.”

The sound diminished. We heard the dull boom of the main doors being pulled to.

Vanity and I both turned and looked at the heavy oak door, bound with its enormous iron hinges, unlocked for the first time in our lives.

I said, “I promised not to.”

Vanity looked at the door and bit her lip. “But I didn’t.”

And she scampered over to the door.

I raised my hand, but then I couldn’t think of anything to say. Had the Headmaster actually not talked to her because he was not proud of her, as he was of me? I closed the window and moved over to stand in front of our new, warm, lovely fire.

She put her hand on the door, frowned, put her cheek to the door, her wide green eyes turned toward it.

Vanity jumped back. She put her finger to her lips, as if to hush me, but then said in a loud stage whisper: “He’s watching the door.”

“Who?”

“Boggin! Headmaster Boggin! He’s just waiting out there. Waiting for you to open the door. What a sneak!”

“How can you tell?”

“What do you mean, how can I tell? When I touch the door, I get that feeling I am being watched.”

I walked over to the door and put my hand on it. “Feels like wood, to me.”

She rolled her eyes in an animated fashion. “Oh, come on Amelia! You’ve had that feeling!”

“What feeling?”

“That feeling of being watched when no one is there. Everyone has it. It’s in all the novels! Are you the only person on Earth who doesn’t?”

“I might be. But how do you know your feeling isn’t just, you know, a feeling? Your imagination?”

“Well, I found the peepholes, didn’t I?”

“Actually, Vanity, you found the secret passage. But we did not actually see and find peepholes when we were in there. It was dark, and holes leading to lit rooms would have sent a beam of light…”

But Vanity was already hopping across the room to where the seven-foot-long candlesnuffer was kept. “Thanks for reminding me.”

And she took up the candlesnuffer and tugged in the mouth of the gargoyle mask on the wall eleven feet above.

Nothing happened. No secret door opened.

“It must be on a timer,” Vanity pouted, putting down the pole and seating herself on her bed.

“I think you are doing it. It is some sort of unexplained phenomenon. But you cause it. Dr. Fell’s medicine must be inhibiting the effects.”

Vanity giggled, threw her arms overhead, and fell back with a soft sound onto her mattress. “Oh, I am doing it, eh?”

“Your thoughts trigger it.”

She giggled up at the ceiling. “Let me see if I have this straight. I think, Gee, there is a secret door. A special Russian-made satellite picks up my brain waves with its mind-reading radar, and beams a message back down to a waiting pack of dwarfs. Working with oh, just incredible silence and precision, the dwarfs dig a tunnel into the house, move walls and bore through solid stone, insert doors, clock panels, hinges, and floorboards. Then they spread dust and have their Soviet-trained cadre of speed-spiders weave cobwebs across the crawl space. That’s your theory?”

“Actually, I had hoped it used a more elegant mechanism, but, yes, basically, that’s the theory.”

Vanity yawned a huge yawn. “All that exercise last night… you know, it’s really nice having a warm fire here in the room…”

2.

For purposes of storytelling, it would have been appropriate to have Vanity nod off right at that point, but she actually got up, changed into her night things, and we talked a little more before she drifted off to sleep.

It did seem sudden, though. There I was, alone in my own bed, watching the red firelight dance and jump across the walls, while Vanity breathed softly in the other bed.

But the Headmaster was right. I lived in very comfortable circumstances.

3.

I was awakened by a tap-tapping. The embers had died in the hearth, and a cold wind was whistling in the open flue. I turned to the North window, where our star dial was, to see what time it was, and I saw the silhouette of a hunched figure pressed against the glass.

I screamed, sitting bolt upright and clutching the sheets around my throat. The hunched shape behind the glass hissed softly, “Not so loud…”

I squinted. “Quentin…? Is that you…?”

“Open the window, please. It is really quite cold out here.”

I slid out of bed, and was rewarded with the sensation of ice-cold floor stones stinging my feet. I hopped over, undid the latch, and slid the sash up.

“Well?” I said.

Quentin was hunched over on the rather large stone sill on the outside of the North window. One hand was clutching the marble grain bundles that flanked the window; in the other he had his jackal-headed walking stick. He was wearing a rather voluminous high-collared cape with a half-cloak. Beneath that he had on a T-shirt, and a pair of swim trunks. His legs were bare. No muffler, no coat, no gloves. No socks. He was wearing running shoes. He was shivering.

“Please invite me in,” he said, teeth chattering.

“W-what?”

“Please, for the love of God, invite me in. It’s freezing.”

“Sure,” I said, stepping back. “Come in.”

He slid in over the sill in a slither of huge black cloak. It was made for someone more my height than his; the hem was dirty where it trailed on the floor. The silk inner lining made a sinister hiss as it slid over the stones. Quentin crossed to the fireplace and poked at the coals with his walking stick, while I wrestled the window shut.

A reddish light leapt into the room. Quentin had stirred the coals to momentary life again. He put his stick aside in the fire iron stand and was rubbing his hands together. He crouched down.

In the red light, I could see Vanity, her lips parted, her expression soft and innocent, still asleep.

“Well,” I said stiffly, hugging myself in my nightgown. “Some people can sleep through anything.”

“Unless the medication had sleeping powder in it, tonight,” said Quentin. “Victor and Colin are out like bricks; Dr. Fell watched them take the draught.”

“And you?”

He looked up from his crouched position. The light was behind him, and all I could see was his eyes glint in his silhouette. “I always keep an empty cup from Dr. Fell’s cabinet up my sleeve. I palmed his cup and put mine to my lips. Dr. Fell is very intelligent, but he makes Victor-like assumptions.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Just what do you mean by ‘Victor-like,’ Mister Quentin Nemo?”

Quentin said nothing, but continued to look at me. I became very conscious of the fact that I was standing there in my nightgown. To be sure, it was a winter nightgown—all white cotton with a lace collar and shoulders, and the frilly hem fell past my knees—but it was still a nightgown. And I had the impression that Quentin was staring at my ankles and feet. Somehow my feet weren’t simply bare; they were nude.

I stepped back over to my bed, picked up the coverlet, and hesitated. Somehow, climbing back into bed with a man in my room would be worse. He would be there, seeing my nice bed, still warm from my body, the sheets still rumpled with the imprint of where I had been lying… and my hair spread across the pillow…

I was being ridiculous. This wasn’t a man. This was Quentin. He was three or four years younger than me. And short. He was just a child. He probably did not even know which sex I was yet.

I turned back to him. “Are you a vampire, all of a sudden?”

“I called on God without choking. No, that was just in case Mrs. Wren’s ward would interfere.”

“Interfere with what?”

Quentin had a quiet, solemn voice. “I am performing a demonstration.”

“How did you get up to the window?”

He just shook his head.

I said, “You climbed, right? Why didn’t you dress more warmly?”

“I needed lightweight things. I hope you trust me, Amelia, after all these years. None of us has any other family.”

Something in the way he said that brought a tear to my eye. I raised my hand and wiped my cheeks. I said, “I trust you.”

“I need your help. There is a weight too heavy for one person to lift. I am not sure what your Talent is, but I know it has to do with weight.”

“Mass,” I said.

“Will you come with me?” he stood up. “The Visitors and Governors are determining our fate, and one of us must be, simply must be, in a position to overhear the meeting.”

I shook my head. “I promised the Headmaster.”

“Ah…” He sank back down again and crouched before the dying embers.

I said, “You’re not going to try to change my mind?”

“Had I that power, I would have used it on you long ago, Amelia.” He stirred the ashes with his walking stick, and red flames jumped up for a moment. “Do you remember when I wrecked my bike?”

“The same summer you almost drowned.”

“I also fell from a tree that June.”

“You actually did fall from a tree? I thought you were just saying that. I thought Colin beat you up.”

He stirred the coals. “Colin does not beat me up. You all think I am a coward, when all I am is polite.”

He was silent for a moment, but he turned his head and looked at me in my nightgown. His gaze traveled up and down.

I said, “What about the tree fall? Yes, I remember that summer.”

“You were upset because I had a finer bike, a boy’s bike, even though you were older. You held my head in the sink until I agreed to let you ride it. Do you remember?”

“I am sorry about that, Quentin, but you make me so mad sometimes…”

He raised his hand slowly. “Do not apologize. Never apologize. You don’t know what you are giving away. The fact is, I did not keep my promise, did I?”

“Well, the bike wrecked. Was there a point to this story?”

“Broken oaths are bad luck eggs.”

That was so weird, I did not know what to say. So I said, “Eggs?”

“They hatch bad luck.” He stood up, closed his eyes, and held his walking stick out at arm’s length. After a moment or two, as his arm got tired, the stick wobbled.

He opened his eyes, paused for a moment, went over to the door, put his hand against it. He put his hand on the latch…

“Stop!” I said.

He looked at me, curious.

“Vanity thought the door was being watched. We should trust her hunches.”

He nodded. “By your promise, you granted him the authority to be aware of the door. He substituted a physical lock for a lock of a stronger type.” He took his hand away from the door and stepped over toward my bed.

He sat down on the bed with his walking stick held between his hands, his elbows on his knees, his gaze on his feet.

I raised a hand and played with the little ribbon at my throat. Imagine that! Quentin just sitting on my bed, as if I had invited him! I wondered what he planned next.

He looked up at me. “Amelia, I cannot ask you for this. You must volunteer.”

“For what?”

“Bad luck.”

“Oh, come on. There is no such thing as bad luck.”

“Then you will not mind a bit, will you, Amelia?” He tilted his head to one side. “What was the wording of the oath?”

“I said he would not regret his decision. That I would not do anything which would make him regret his decision.”

“Interesting. If he does not find out, he won’t regret, will he?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it works that way. I mean, it wasn’t legalistic, like a contract in writing or anything.”

“Words have their own meanings, despite whatever we would like to impose on them. They are older than us, maybe older than everything else.”

“What are you saying?”

“The world was created with a word. The first thing Adam did was name the beasts.”

“You’re babbling again, Quentin.”

“Sorry. Do you have a coat? I assume you are not going to change clothes in front of me.”

“I am not putting on a coat.”

“Did you promise the Headmaster not to put on a coat?” He looked up at me. His eyes were sad and thoughtful, as they usually were, but there was also a look of certainty in his gaze, of amused confidence, that reminded me of Colin. Or of Headmaster Boggin.

Making an exasperated noise, I turned toward the wardrobe, pulled out a bundle of clothing, and threw it on the bed next to him. Then I picked up a pillowcase and slid the pillow out.

I thrust the pillowcase at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “You expect me to put that over my head?”

“No, you’re right! If you’re smart enough to fool Dr. Fell, I shouldn’t trust you.” And I stuck the pillowcase over his head.

He made a muffled laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded. I wondered whether the pillowcase was opaque, and so I merely stepped into my jeans, and tucked the hem of my nightgown into them in a huge, awkward bundle. I put a sweater over that, shrugged into my nylon quilted jacket.

“There is a symmetry to all affairs,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I yanked the pillowcase off his head.

He stood up. “You’ll find out.”

I pointed at the pile of clothing. “You can find something for yourself.”

He looked arch. “I am not putting on girls’ clothes.”

“Look. A sweatshirt. Big, roomy, comfy. Warm. Sweatpants. You close them with a drawstring. Keep your leg hairs from freezing.”

He said, “It is not that cold out-of-doors. I mean, rather, it is cold when you go out, but you will get numb to it, so it won’t feel cold.”

“That’s OK, because I am not walking out that door,” I said.

“Neither am I.”

“I am not climbing down from the window, either. You are lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

“Neither am I.” Now he was smiling.

“What is so funny?”

“Will you come if I can find another way out, besides the two ways you just said? Not climbing, not walking.”

“Are you saying you can find Vanity’s secret passage?”

“Is it a deal? I put on your clothes, you follow me?”

“What do I have to lose? Sure.”

He slipped on one of my ratty old sweatshirts and a pair of bulky sweatpants. Like I said, he is shorter than me, and the pants fit him just fine.

He slung his huge cloak over his shoulders with a rustle. “Do you have a silk scarf anywhere in your clothing?”

I opened a drawer, took out a long white scarf, and handed it over.

He said, “Turn around.”

I turned my back to him.

He wound the scarf once and twice over my eyes and around my head, tying it in the back with a big loose knot.

“I can still see down my nose,” I said. There was a little crack of light between my cheek and the bottom of the scarf.

“I am not going to throw a pillowcase over your head,” he said.

“Use my goggles,” I said. I waved a hand in the direction I thought was the upper shelf of the wardrobe.

I heard a rustling, and, a moment later, felt him put my lucky aviatrix cap over my head, scarf and all, and put the goggles over my eyes. He adjusted the strap in back. The padding around the lenses was tight against my eyesockets, and held the scarf in place. It was opaque.

“Now what?” I said.

He put one arm around my waist, the other under my knees, and swept me off my feet.

“Careful!” I said. “You are going to hurt your back!”

He said, annoyed, “I am not weak, Amelia. Just short.”

I put my arms around his shoulders. There really was no other place for me to put my hands. He hoisted my knees up, and my hip was resting slightly above his crotch. My bottom was just hanging in midair, surrounded by uncomfortable folds of nightgown stuffed into a jeans waistband. His arms did seem to be plenty strong.

“Now what?” I said.

“Now you trust me, and stay quiet. They are very shy, and they disappear if you look at them.”

He grunted, hoisted me higher, so that my hip was level with his chest, and he took a step up. Then he straightened.

For a moment I could not think of what he was standing on. What was in the room that was a foot or so high, and would support our weight? I assumed it was the hope chest I keep at the foot of my bed.

Another step. I supposed we were on the bed, but why hadn’t the sheets rustled when he stepped on them? Also, had he stepped onto a soft surface, I would have expected him to sink.

A third step. Where was he? Standing on the headboard?

A fourth. Maybe I had been wrong about where we started. Could he be climbing from one shelf to another in the wardrobe? Only if the wardrobe were tilted back at an angle would he have room.

I heard the window slide up. Both his hands were still on me. I felt the ice-cold air flow over me, freezing. How had he opened the window?

I said, “Quentin. You’re not going to jump! Put me…”

He kissed me.

Warm, passionate, firm. No apology, no hesitation. Just his lips on mine.

I waited till he was done, and then I slapped him.

He said, “Whoa!” and his grip tightened on my shoulders and knees.

We were standing on the ledge of the window, I knew. I raised my hands to pull off the goggles, but he sort of pushed my shoulders and knees together, crunching me into a ball, while at the same time he put his cheek against my cheek, to prevent me from getting at the blindfold.

I made my fingers into claws and pulled on his hair, trying to get his face out of my face.

He wobbled.

I held still. He was balanced on a ledge, after all.

He said, “Could you let go of my hair, Amelia?”

I said, “I was saving that kiss. That was my first kiss. Now you’ve ruined it.”

He said, “Could you… please… let go of my hair, Amelia?”

I said, “I am taking at least half of your scalp with me, you little twerp.”

He said, “It is really quite painful.”

I said, “I hope I am drawing blood.”

He wobbled again. “Don’t say such things. It is just as bad for us if they start giggling.”

“Put me down.”

“Let go of my hair, and I will put you down.”

“Put me down, and I will think about letting go of your hair.”

He lowered his left hand, releasing my knees. I felt a surface underneath my boot toes. Then I remembered how narrow the ledge was on which we were standing. With a little yelp, I put my boots right up against his shoes, and grabbed him around the shoulders, pulling myself close to him.

His arms came up under my arms, as if he were a man about to embrace his lover. I was too afraid to push him away, for fear that we would both fall three stories to our doom.

But he was not hugging me. He gently tugged the buckle holding the goggles. They slid loosely around my neck. He pushed back my cap, so it hung by its chin-strap. He plucked at the knot holding the scarf.

I blinked in the sudden moonlight.

4.

We were on a rooftop. We were standing on a scaffolding. Underfoot was a sea of tiles. To our left and right, dormer windows peered West toward the main Manor House. Before us and above us rose the dome of the Great Hall. Little round windows, piercing the base of the dome, were ablaze with light. There was a noise of voices issuing up from below us. There was a metal door, built on an acute slope like the door to a cellar, abutting the dome.

I looked left and right in wonder. Then I realized I was still hugging Quentin, staring at the scene over the top of his brown hair.

I stepped back, and slapped him again. This time, I could put my shoulder into it, and it was a solid blow.

He staggered, winced, and rubbed his jaw. He said, “If you had said ‘put me down,’ they would have dropped us. That’s why I kissed you. You didn’t need to slap me twice.”

I said, “The second time was for a different reason. My first flight through the air! My first time flying, and I missed it!”

He rubbed his jaw and said nothing.

I said, “I was expecting a sensation of motion.”

“The air moves with us. There’s no wind.” He bent down, and picked up his walking stick, which just happened to be lying at his feet.

“So you really are a magician.”

He snorted. “Don’t be an ass, Amelia. There is no such thing as magic. This is the One True Science.”

“How did you do that, if it wasn’t magic?” I said, pointing at his jackal-headed cane. “Did it follow you on its own? And what did you step up on to get to the window? How did you open the window with no hands?”

He just shook his head. “Jaw numb. Can’t talk.” He pointed with the walking stick at the metal service entrance.

“That is what you want me to lift?”

“It’s not locked, just heavy.”

I strode up the tilted surface of the tile, with Quentin coming after me, his too-long cape sliding on the tiles. I put my hands on the door, tugged.

“You’re right,” I said. “It is massive.”

“Let me get on the other side.”

“Just stand back.”

5.

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to picture the door in my mind’s eye. It was both an object in space and an event in time. This door had a beginning, a middle, and an end. Because time and space were actually one thing, one substance, this thing before me was not merely an object, it was an object-event.

Weight was not a property of that object-event. Weight was an action, a behavior, if you will. Earth was distorting the local space-time continuum in such a fashion that this object-event selected toward-earth paths, rather than away-from-earth. As they moved forward through time, those paths seemed to manifest themselves as the energy-conserving behavior known as toward-earth acceleration, what Quentin incorrectly called weight.

If space-time were folded in any other way, the toward-earth behavior could be deflected into other energy channels.

I opened my eyes, stooped, put my shoulder to the door, and lifted it aside easily. I set it down without making a sound.

The two of us stood, looking down into a circular staircase. Gloomy steps wound around and around. There was a light at the bottom.