Turold only had the vaguest understanding of how to reach the cellars from the palace, as the king guarded them jealously and discouraged visitors. Not even Guido could give concrete directions, though he knew it was somewhere beyond the Music Room near the Southern Extension. Turold’s office would gain him access to the palace, but beyond that they would have to be cautious, and preferably unseen. Especially now that anyone might be a Messenger: guards, astrologers, even the king himself.
Yet for all his trepidation, Turold couldn’t help noticing how free, how excited Giacinta felt to be outdoors, even behind a mask. Everything she saw was brand new, bringing words and experiences dramatically to life: so this is what the palace looks like; this is my breath as I exhale into the cold. He wanted to show her everything, to abandon their mission and take her far from the city, deep into the mountains, where they could experience novelty for a lifetime. They just had to survive this first.
As they disembarked from the coach and approached the palace gates, they exchanged glances, as much from joy as fear; for whatever happened next, they would experience it together. The palace guards sleepily confronted them, demanding their papers. Turold flashed his signet of office which suitably impressed the guards.
“Right, you’re the Dwarf Astrologer! You look just like that cartoon they published,” a guard nodded, with a grin to his comrade. “I suppose you can enter. But who’s this?”
Turold froze, as he had assumed his credentials were all they required. Besides, many men entered the palace with a companion in tow, the name was never an issue.
“Who is she? Ah, I thought that was apparent. Naturally, she’s exactly who she is…a woman, of course, but not just any woman…”
“I’m the spirit of a woman who leapt from the palace walls and now haunts this spot of earth,” she said, cutting him off. “I follow strange men inside and prevent them from sleeping by crying in their ear. I’m sure you’ve heard me before.”
The guards stared blankly at her for a moment before breaking into smiles and laughter.
“Ah, I see, you’re having a little masquerade,” one of them nodded, waving them through. “And the astrologer doesn’t even need a disguise. He’s already in costume.”
“I’m so glad you understand,” she said, taking his arm.
“Ingrates,” Turold hissed.
They had a few hours before the palace came to life, as even the servants were allowed a few hours (typically between midnight and three) to catch up on sleep. But even that precluded the occasional demand for an impromptu meal (or mop-up) by a drunken noble. The hallways carried away their every whisper and footfall, as if sharing gossip with the rest of the house. Turold examined the mental map in his head, remembering which way the hallways led, where the servants seemed to disappear for more beer and wine during the interminable suppers.
“It could be this way,” he said, gesturing down a corridor. “But that way looks about the same. And we can’t afford to waste time retracing our steps.”
“Then why don’t we simply ask someone?”
“Ask someone? That’s the last thing we want to do,” he said, pulling her into the shadows. “Servants gossip; within an hour everyone will know what we’re doing.”
“Some servants are quieter than others,” she grinned, pointing down the corridor.
Confused, Turold followed her gesture down the darkened hallway expecting to see…well, he didn’t know what exactly. But there was nothing to see. He was about to protest when she stopped his mouth with a hand, gesturing meaningfully.
“Mmmmf?” he muttered.
“Don’t you see her?”
Turold shook his head. Who was her?
“Over there. The ghost. Or spirit, phantasm, I don’t know what you call them.”
“Ah…I don’t see anyone,” he said, growing alarmed.
“You don’t? Is it just me?” she asked, stepping out from the wall.
The dim shadow of an older woman approached them, though she seemed to be cleaning (ineffectively) the paintings and tapestries on the walls. Giacinta stepped in her path, waving tentatively, not sure if the ghost could see her, too.
“Can I help you, signora?” the ghost asked, the lower half of her body disappearing.
“So you can see me?” she asked, looking back at Turold.
“I can see both of you; it’s my business to take note of my betters,” she said, with a little curtsey. “Got lost, did you? It’s a big house. I remember my first years here, how I used to draw little pictures on the floor to help me along. If you were late the mistress would beat you.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t keep track of those things now, signora. But before, I was here fifty-one years, from a child of six. I know every crook and corner of the house. If you’re looking for the guest quarters, you’ve taken a few wrong turns. You’ll want to head back—”
“Oh, no, no, we’re looking for the cellars. We, ah, came to sample the king’s beer. This is the Astrologer Royal,” she said, gesturing to Turold, who looked alarmed. “He enjoys the king’s special favor.”
“Does he now?” she said, with approval. “Never put much stock in astrologers myself. The only way to tell the future is to live long enough. It’s always the same old story, the same characters, the same amount of work to do. But if you’re wanting the cellars, follow me. Though I’m afraid I don’t have the key.”
Giacinta followed, gesturing Turold along, who merely shrugged with confusion. Who were they following? She tried to fill him in as the servant continued chattering away, her body sliding in and out of focus.
“Begging your pardon, signora, but you’re a lot like me, ain’t you? That is, not like your companion here.”
“Excuse me?”
The servant ventured a look back, fixing her with a knowing glance.
“Like me…you’ve passed. Though you came back somewhat different.”
“No, I’m not…” she stammered. “Well, yes, I was, in a sense. But that was an accident.”
“No one dies on purpose,” the servant said, with a chuckle. “But we all come back in the end. I remember when I passed, I saw what seemed like two doors: behind one was everything I ever loved and enjoyed in life. Behind the other? I wasn’t so sure. It seemed dark, empty, like the grave itself. So I chose the one I knew. Best choice I ever made. Now I’m back here, looking over things proper, even if I’m never paid.”
“Wait…you chose to come back?” Giacinta asked.
“All of us did,” she nodded, righting a portrait that hung askew. “Where else would we go? Same with you, I imagine. You chose to come home. We can all see each other, though the others can’t. If they knew how many of us wound up right back where they started, it would take the sting out of religion. And put the priests out of work.”
“I don’t remember choosing, I was just here. Do you remember…everything?”
“Not so much, just bits and pieces,” the servant said, with a resigned shake of her head. “I think it’s best to forget.”
“But I want to remember. At least who I was, where I came from.”
“Well, you can see us and talk to them, so that says something,” the servant said, pointedly. “None of us can do that. So you must have been someone important. Like that other one, perhaps.”
“What other one?” Giacinta said, stopping cold.
“The dark one that comes skulking about. He can do the same. We generally avoid him, and he never speaks to us.”
“The dark one? And he…was dead, too?” she said, taking Turold’s arm.
“Both dead and alive, it seems,” she nodded.
“Giacinta, what’s it saying? What dark one?” Turold asked.
She brushed him aside, eyes wide with wonder.
“When did you last see him? Is he here now?”
“I can’t say, signora. He comes and goes. I think he’s waiting for something.”
“Have you seen him…at the cellar?”
“No, signora, you’re the first. It’s just this way, down the stairs here. But like I said, I haven’t the key. You won’t get in without it.”
Giacinta followed her down the stairwell in a daze, haunted by the clues that suggested a greater puzzle. How could she be like him, whatever he was? She had been someone, a woman of this earth, brought back to life through Sir Otrygg’s magic, while he and the other Messengers…had never lived at all.
Unless she hadn’t, either.
“Turold, I think I know…I understand,” she said, in a whisper. “It all makes sense now, why I’m here, why I can understand the Codex.”
“But we already understand that. Sir Otrygg conjured the spell, trying to resurrect his sister. He just got the wrong woman.”
“No!” she shouted, her voice snaking down the stairwell. “He didn’t get a woman at all. He got me, or whatever I am. Don’t you see? I’m just like them!”
“Who? This ghost you’re talking to? I still can’t see anyone here…”
“No, not like her, like them. The Messengers! I’m a Messenger, too!”
Turold stopped dead just a few steps before the stone floor that led to the cellar. As soon as she said it, some part of him agreed and understood. So many things he couldn’t account for now squared away. But the other part of him refused to believe it, for if she was one of them, then she wasn’t, and could never be…
“But that’s not possible! You’re human, alive,” he said, steadying himself on the railing. “You can’t be one of them.”
“I can see you, I can see them. I can read the Codex. I can’t be killed. My face…it’s why his spell didn’t work,” she said, removing the mask. “It’s why I’ll never look like you.”
“Well, here you are, signora,” the ghost said, gesturing to the door. “Where His Majesty keeps all the prize liquor. Fine ales and the like. Though I suppose if he favors the astrologer so much he lent him the key.”
Giacinta gave a weak smile rather than admit the truth. They had made it this far, but now they had to turn back and search for the key, wherever it was. Of course, that would take time, and today’s window would close leaving a slim opportunity tomorrow…if the Messengers didn’t find it first. And if they had control over Sonya Vasilyevna and Lord Gramsteed, the key would be close at hand.
“Stand aside, I didn’t spend my childhood picking locks for nothing,” Turold said, approaching the door.
