Bitter Seeds Page 28

  And then there was the soulless child. That was entirely his doing.

  He leaned against the wall, listening to the litany of his colleagues’ entreaties and the Eidolons’ prices. Will’s facility with Enochian had progressed to the point where he no longer needed to consult the master lexicon. Even in his current state, he could hear the strained desperation in the warlocks’ voices. Nuances that would have been lost on him merely a year ago: the undertones of a human throat within the screech of colliding stars; the slightest trace of a heartbeat, of wet biology, within the ripple of starlight through empty space.

  Since late winter the warlocks had found only sporadic success in their negotiations with the Eidolons. The ice storms, blizzards, and paralyzing cold never lasted past a fortnight before the Eidolons withdrew and the world snapped back to normal.

  The warlocks had blockaded the Channel for months straight during the worst part of the Blitz. Yet now they were lucky to control the weather for more than a week.

  Exert your volition in this fashion, said the warlocks.

  Give us more blood maps, said the Eidolons. More.

  We won’t, said the warlocks.

  You will, said the Eidolons.

  The stump of Will’s finger throbbed when he glimpsed the bloodstained floorboards beneath Hargreaves’s seat. Odd. He shouldn’t have been able to feel anything.

  It was here in this room, almost exactly a year ago, where Marsh had severed Will’s finger. It was here where Will had pleaded with him to do so. Here Milkweed had repelled an invasion, destroyed a fleet. Today the air tasted like the stones at the bottom of a centuries-old well. The bones of the earth steeped in tainted water and the shells of dead snails.

  The warlocks tried again. Bartering, wheedling, chipping away at the Eidolons’ demands. One soul. Two. A token reduction. Never enough. Everything cost so damn much these days.

  The atmosphere in the room changed. Will caught a whiff of birch wood shattered by the cold that inhabited the void between the stars. This was the lowest blood price the warlocks would see today: fourteen souls, dead by drowning. They’d accept it, see it paid, and hope the Eidolons would hasten the war’s end.

  Nothing happened. Silence ricocheted through the broken reality of the room.

  Grafton snapped at him. “William!”

  “Oh,” Will muttered. “Yes. Of course.”

  Correction: He’d accept it. He’d see it paid.

  It was his turn again. (Already?)

  Will braced himself. He called up his Enochian and gave a short, perfunctory response. Agreement.

  It made him an agent of the negotiation; the Eidolons noticed him. They inspected him, poured through the gaps between the atoms of his body, then withdrew, disinterested. They already had his blood map, already knew the trajectory of his particular stain on time and space.

  But that was enough. He was part of it now. It wouldn’t work unless he did his part.

  The suffocating presence of the Eidolons evaporated. The room returned to normal.

  “Get it done quickly,” said Hargreaves. “And take Shapley with you this time.”

  Ah. He suspects. Well, it had always been just a matter of time. Nothing to do for it.

  Will said, “I’ll need some time to prepare.” He started to look at his watch, but stopped for worry that the others would notice his tremors. To Shapley, he said, “Give me a few hours.”

  Shapley frowned. “What am I to do until then?”

  “I don’t care. Say a maritime prayer. Or learn one.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  “Preparing,” said Will as he stepped into the corridor, eager to get away, eager to kill the ache in his finger. Why wasn’t he numb?

  His voice echoed. This wing of the Admiralty still belonged to Milkweed, though now much of it was empty. But for Marsh, they no longer had field agents. Just the warlocks, and a handful of technicians with nothing to do except tinker with pixies that would never see use.

  He returned to his office and locked the door behind him. He didn’t turn on the light. His chair, an ugly gunmetal-gray thing on squeaky casters, rumbled across the floorboards when he collapsed into the seat. The desk was bare but for a dog-eared, wire-bound copy of the master lexicon sitting on one corner. He’d spent much time here, hunched over that desk, compiling it from the disparate notebooks of the warlocks he’d recruited. It seemed eons ago; he hadn’t cracked the lexicon since December.

  Quietly, so as not to jangle the keys and announce his presence to passersby in the corridor, he fished the key ring from his vest pocket. He unlocked the bottommost desk drawer. The drawer where he kept his stolen morphine.

  The syrette needles twinkled in the half light leaking through the gap under the door. Half-grain dosages of miracle opiate, ready for use on the battlefield, for snuffing the most incapacitating pain. Yet they didn’t work so well as they had in the past.

  Will counted half a dozen left unopened. He counted again. Surely he’d had more than this? They had to last until Aubrey sent him more cash. He couldn’t remember how long that would be. Not long. Not if he asked.

  One dose wouldn’t be enough to get him through the night. Not if he and Shapley were to spend it extracting another blood price for the Eidolons. He fished out two syrettes, placed them on the desk, and closed the drawer.

  He pulled the hood off the first syrette, pinched the wire loop, and pushed the needle back through the foil seal at the narrow end of the tube. Then he snapped off the loop, exposing the hollow needle.

  Will opened his vest and the lowest button on his shirt, just above his waist. A small lump had formed beneath his skin at the spot where he’d been administering the injections. He’d started bleeding there, too, which tended to dilute the dose. An entire dose had been wasted that way. (Yesterday? Three days ago?) He picked a new spot, a few centimeters to the left.

  The needle bit into his waist at a shallow angle. Will worked his thumb and forefinger up the flexible tube, dispensing every drop of the precious morphine tartrate into his bloodstream. The injection stung for a few seconds, but then he couldn’t tell if it ached or not.

  He tossed the empty syrette back in the drawer. A second dose followed the first. Warmth flowed through him like sunlight, like molten gold. Through his belly, across his chest, into his heart and out to the rest of his body. It washed away the pain in his finger, quelled his shivering. He could breathe again. Even here, underwater.

  The second syrette slipped through his fingers. It hit the floor tube-first, bounced, and then plinked as the needle wedged itself between the floorboards.

  There was something important he had to do.

  Something about a barge on the Thames. Something about the Eidolons, about a price. Something about a war.

  10 May 1941

  Walworth, London, England

  A gnes’s first birthday.

  Candles and Liv singing, cake and streamers and a delighted, bewildered little girl. That’s what today was meant to be. Instead, it dawned to find Marsh standing just outside the door of what had been his home, a key in one hand and an envelope in the other.

  His shirt stuck to his back and shoulders. It bunched up when he moved, like a bedsheet twisted during fevered sleep or frantic lovemaking. Covering the final mile on foot—lest the taxi wake Liv—had left his covered skin moist with sweat. Yet the clamminess of predawn had chilled the exposed skin of his hands and face. The end result was a cold sweat.

  It had been early when he finally abandoned the pretense of sleep. He’d gone upstairs and rummaged through the many empty Milkweed offices until he’d found a fountain pen and stationery. At first he’d intended merely to post a letter to Liv. But the date brought a new rawness to Agnes’s death, ripped the scabs from that half-healed wound, leaving him tender and unprotected. The reality of the empty offices caught him unaware, forcing him to accept the reality he’d disregarded for months.

  The offices were empty because of
him. Milkweed had been decimated because of his mistake. Because there was no reasoning with the inarticulate rage he felt.

  The same rage that had become a hammer pounding on the grief wedged between himself and Liv, driving it until they’d been thrown apart. She couldn’t live in the margins of his agony. She needed her own space to grieve.

  Now he stood in a sterile gray sunrise in front of his home. (His home? Liv’s home?) He looked from the key to the envelope and back again, unsure of what to do.

  His stomach gurgled. He wondered idly if Liv would plant new tomatoes next summer. Marsh had considered taking a cot out to the garden shed, or even sleeping in the Anderson shelter, though only in passing. It was cruel to stay so near to Liv. He had become a mirror for her sorrow, a looking glass that framed her loss.

  As always, the envelope contained most of his pay. He saved what he could for Liv; his expenses had been minimal since he’d started sleeping at the Admiralty, and Liv needed the money more than he. She had a mortgage to pay. She’d rejoined the WAAF—once, he’d seen her leaving the house in her uniform—but he knew doing one’s part for the war effort didn’t always pay the bills.

  Extra cash wouldn’t dispel the grief that had taken root inside her, nor would it smooth the harshness that had taken root in corners of her eyes. But it would ensure that she could feed and clothe herself, and that she could keep the house if she chose to do so. Though he couldn’t understand how she’d stayed there as long as she had, surrounded by hints of a family life that might have been. Liv had always been the stronger of the two of them.

  The envelope also contained a letter. The first he’d written since before the new year. His chicken-scratch handwriting was an unworthy vehicle for laying bare tumultuous thoughts and feelings. Unworthy of Liv, too; it felt disrespectful, somehow, to send her something so coarse. He wished he had Will’s penmanship, the elegant hand that came naturally to moneyed people.

  He dropped the key back in his pocket. The cold metal flap over the mail slot creaked when he lifted it. He pushed the envelope through the slot, listening for the pat-slap sound as it fell to the vestibule tiles. The flap clanked shut when he released it.

  Marsh was back at the walk, his hand on the wooden gate that had replaced the wrought iron, when the door opened behind him.

  “Raybould?” Liv’s voice made everything a song, even when she was confused and tired.

  He stopped, suddenly feeling anxious, ashamed, cowardly. Like he’d been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. He was afraid to look at her, but hungry for it, too.

  Marsh turned. Liv stood in the doorway, one hand on the door and the other clutching the belt of a flannel robe. Her hair was shorter than he remembered. Curlier.

  “Liv,” he blurted. “It’s early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Today, it’s . . .”

  He sighed. “Yeah.” He shifted his feet, unsure of whether he should release the gate and step forward in order to see her better. He hadn’t intended to speak with her, but now that she stood before him, he didn’t want to drive her back inside.

  She looked thin. “Are you eating well enough?” he asked, nodding to the envelope at her feet.

  The hem of her robe lifted slightly, revealing the bare ankles above her slippers as she shrugged. He’d kissed those ankles, long ago.

  “The rationing,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  A long hush fell between them. Birds twittered to each other. Somewhere, a lorry grinded its gears.

  “I’ve miss—,” she said, at the same moment he said, “I’m sorr—” Another hush. Six years long.

  Liv bit her lip. “Do you . . .” She opened the door a little wider, unable or unwilling to voice the invitation.

  His hand hovered on the rough wood of the gate. Stay or go? Stay or go?

  The chasm between the gate and the house felt ten leagues wide, and his shoes full of lead shot.

  Only when she had closed the door, and they were alone together, could he meet her lovely, lovely eyes.

  “You’re shivering,” she said.

  “I . . . I’ve made so many mistakes,” he said.

  “I’ve missed you terribly.”

  “You’re my compass, Liv. I understand that now.”

  “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have sent her away.”

  “Hush, love. We did it together. Hush.”

  “I feel so useless.”

  “I wanted so desperately to punish them. The people who killed her.”

  “You can’t. It was done by people we’ll never know.”

  “Well . . .”

  Liv’s light touch, a fingertip on his lips.

  “What?”

  Quiet laughter, warmth in the dark. “You were talking in your sleep again, love.”

  “I’m sorry, Liv.”

  Her breath tickled his earlobe. “Don’t be. I’ve missed it more than you know.” She laced her fingers through his.

  “I’m glad I came back. I’m sorry it took so long.”

  “So am I.”

  That evening, Marsh studied the map of Europe tacked to Stephenson’s wall. It bristled with more pins and flags than a hedgehog had spines.

  He sipped from his tumbler. Brandy washed across his tongue and burned on the way down; it soothed his throat.

  “I thought we’d decided this plan was dead,” he said in a voice made hoarse by daylong conversation with Liv.

  “Not dead,” said Stephenson. “Moribund.”

  The plan was to lure the Soviet Union into the fray. Break the Wehrmacht’s back, use the Eidolons to freeze the German war machine to death, and let Stalin’s predatory instincts do the rest.

  The enemy of my enemy . . .

  Marsh cracked his knuckles. None of this speculation seemed to matter. He said so: “Isn’t this all a bit academic? The warlocks can’t deliver.”

  They’d scrapped the plan because the warlocks had failed repeatedly to produce the necessary results.

  Stephenson dragged on the cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth. Marsh took a marble ashtray from the windowsill and handed it to him. Stephenson placed it on a stack of papers. Construction manifests and requisition orders for building supplies, by the look of them.

  Stephenson snuffed out his cigarette. The hunter-green Lucky Strike box bobbed up and down as he shook out another. American tobacco was virtually impossible to get via legal means these days. But with position came privilege, and the old man had many contacts.

  “Well. As it happens, that remains to be seen.” He skritched a match along the edge of his desk. It released the sharp and unpleasant smell of sulfur. “Had an interesting discussion with Hargreaves and Shapley yesterday. They’ve unearthed the root of the problem.”

  Marsh returned to the mullioned windows behind Stephenson’s desk. The base camp for the December raid had long since been dismantled. St. James’ was a park once more, and a greening one. Sunset glinted off the lake, causing Marsh to squint. The same lake from which Milkweed had fished several bodies after the raid in Germany.

  I’m sorry, Will. I should have listened to you.

  He sighed. “It’s Will.”

  Behind him, Stephenson’s chair creaked. “He’s become a liability.”

  Marsh turned. “What are you proposing?”

  “Oh, relax, for God’s sake. He’s out of Milkweed, but we needn’t do more than that,” said Stephenson. “Though of course, we’ll have contingencies in place. If he talks, we’ll destroy him.” Outside, robins serenaded one another.

  Destroy him? We’ve already done that, haven’t we?

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “It’s my job. But I thought you should know.”

  Quietly, Marsh said, “I’m the one who brought him into this in the first place.” He shook his head again. “It’s my responsibility.” I’ve made my amends with Liv. I owe Will at least as much.

  Stephenson harrumphed his assent. �
�Very well. But see to it quickly.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.” Marsh’s voice cracked again. He drained the tumbler.

  So. Milkweed would have at it yet again. Like a hound begging for a soup bone, getting kicked away time after time but still coming back for another try. He turned his attention back to the map.

  Black pins and little swastika flags marked the known positions of Nazi army groups and divisions across the Continent. They weren’t entirely static, but the overall pattern hadn’t changed appreciably since the consolidation of forces in January and February. Pins moved most frequently in the region around the Balkans, where German and Italian forces dealt with the guerrilla tactics of Greek and Yugoslav partisans. Farther south, beyond the bottom edge of the map, the Afrikakorps had been much more dynamic. Britain had reluctantly written off North Africa as another casualty of the Dunkirk failure.

  The locations of the red markers and hammer-and-sickle pennants on the eastern side of the map were a bit more speculative. Reliable intelligence regarding the distribution of Red Army forces was difficult to obtain.

  Twin rows of blue map pins indicated corridors the warlocks would attempt to open in the weather by nudging the Eidolons aside, thus providing the Soviets with routes into Germany. Several of the corridors converged on Berlin. The weather would be peeled back as the Soviets advanced.

  A single orange pin marked the location of the Reichsbehörde; there the Eidolonic weather would be strengthened into a bulwark that kept the invaders at bay.

  It was a tricky balancing act. They needed the Red Army to strike deep into the heart of a paralyzed Reich, to deliver the killing blow that would end the war. But they also had to make damn certain von Westarp’s farm didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Which meant, given Britain didn’t have an army on the ground with which to occupy it, the REGP couldn’t fall into anybody’s hands.

  Hence the long-range bombers in southeast England. Britain’s aircraft production was a pale shadow of what it had once been, but the RAF could scrape together enough bombers for one particular mission. The Luftwaffe was effectively grounded so long as the warlocks could keep the weather in place; Jerry’s radar and antiaircraft measures would be similarly blind.