Weaveworld

3

For several minutes after Suzanna’s departure from the prisoners’ compound, Immacolata sat in the murk of her forgetfulness. Sometimes she wept. Sometimes she stared at the silent rock in front of her.

The violation Shadwell had visited upon her at the Firmament, following as it had upon the destruction of her wraith-sisters, had driven her mind into a wilderness. But she’d not been alone there. Somewhere in those wastes she’d been reacquainted with the spectre that had haunted her so often in the past: the Scourge. She, who’d been happiest where the air was thickest with decay, who’d made necklaces of entrails, and soul-mates of the dead – she had found in the presence of that abomination nightmares even she’d prayed to wake from.

It still slept – which was some small consolation in her terror – but it would not sleep forever. It had tasks unfinished; ambitions unfulfilled. Very soon it would rise from its bed, and come looking to finish its business.

And on that day?

‘… all sand …’ she told the stone.

This time it didn’t answer her. It was sulking, because she’d been indiscreet, talking to the woman with the grey eyes.

Immacolata rocked back and forth on her heels, and as she rocked the woman’s words drifted back to her, tantalizing her. She only remembered a little of what the woman had said: a phrase, a name. Or rather, one name in particular. It echoed in her head now.

Shadwell.

It was like an itch beneath her scalp; an ache in her skull. She wanted to dig through her ear drum and pull it out, grind it underfoot. She rocked faster, to soothe the name away, but it wouldn’t leave her head.

Shadwell. Shadwell.

And now there were other names rising to join the ranks of the remembered –

The Magdalene.

The Hag.

She saw them before her, as clear as the rock; clearer, her sisters, her poor, twice-slaughtered sisters.

And beneath their dead heels she saw a land; a somewhere she’d conspired, to spoil for such a long, weary time. Its name came back to her, and she spoke it softly.

‘The Fugue …’

That’s what they’d called it, her enemies. How they’d loved it. How they’d fought for its safety, and in the process wounded her.

She put her hand out to the rock, and felt it tremble at her touch. Then she hauled herself to her feet, while the name that had begun this flood filled her head, washing forgetfulness away.

Shadwell.

How could she ever have forgotten her beloved Shadwell? She’d given him raptures. And what had he done in return? Betrayed and befouled her. Used her for as long as it had suited his purposes, then pitched her away, into the wilderness.

He hadn’t thrown her far enough. Today, she’d found her way back, and she came with killing news.