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Something about her behavior reminds me of a worker at the Sanctum who counts his steps wherever he goes. The architect tasks him only with stacking and moving stones in wheelbarrows—which he does without complaint, but always in groups of four, giving him the nickname Four-Block Jacques. Magister Thomas calls the number four his “anchor,” because it somehow keeps him from floating away, and the more tired he is, the more important counting becomes to him.
Rhymes are Juliane’s anchor. Simon had soothed her nerves by helping her make them.
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask.
I immediately want to kick myself for not setting up an easy rhyme, but Juliane responds without hesitation. “Out. I just have to let it. Get it.”
“We can do that,” I say. We continue, strolling up the hill, arm in arm, like close friends. Though our words make little actual sense, our conversation becomes a sort of game, and I manage to relax a little, making me painfully aware of how repulsed I was at first. But what was I supposed to feel? What’s happening in Juliane’s mind is not normal. Yet normal doesn’t always mean better. Her memory is a rare gift, but no one would describe it as “normal.”
We step into the square, and the area of sky we can see increases tenfold. A sliver of moon hangs in the west. I can think of many words to describe my own abilities: amazing, frightening, awesome, powerful, and—above all—magick. “Normal” is not one of them. It’s also something I must conceal at all costs. In those respects, Juliane and I are very alike.
I wave cheerfully to Remi on the high scaffolds as we pass, hoping he hasn’t noticed what road we entered the square from. To avoid the chance he might try to come down and talk to us, I turn around the north side of the Sanctum. Once there, I stay in the shade, though the sweat trickling down my spine has little to do with the heat.
What am I going to say when we reach Juliane’s? Lambert has seen her like this, so he’ll probably know what to do. As the Montcuir home finally comes into view, I ask, “Who should I fetch when we get to your house? Your father, or another?”
My words are chosen to allow her to say something about her brother, but Juliane goes in an unexpected direction.
“No, no, I’m Mother. She is me, and I am her. Or were.” A spring comes into her step, and her mood flashes into something resembling delight, like she’s sharing a secret with me. “We’re the same, you know. We could both kill with a thought. Hundreds, thousands. All dead. That’s why he had to kill her.”
The rhymes are suddenly gone, replaced with statementswhich are horrifying, and clearly impossible. I stop walking to stare at her. “Killed who? Your mother?”
“Yes,” she answers solemnly. “But she killed him. Every day.”
Nothing she says makes sense. “Who killed her?”
“Oudin. Father. They’re always trying to kill me now, but I kill them first, every time. It’s fun, isn’t it?” She smiles brightly. “Simon’s very good at killing people. We should go see him.”
“I wish we could,” I mutter, taking Juliane’s arm again, thanking the Sun we have only a block to go. I prefer her rhyming to whatever this is.
Juliane’s old governess, Madame Denise, answers the door. She takes one look at her former charge and pales.
“Hello,” Juliane chirps. “I’m here to kill you, but we can wait until after tea.”
“How long has she been like this?” The housekeeper demands as we help Juliane inside.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Perhaps twenty minutes. It came on quickly.”
As soon as we’ve gotten Juliane to sit at the table in the front room, she hugs her arms across her chest and starts to rock back and forth. Madame Denise prods me in the direction of the door. “You need to leave, now.”
“But I want to help her,” I protest, though, honestly, I’m not sure I do.
The housekeeper pushes me over the threshold and out to the street. “You’ve done enough.”
I can’t tell if that’s gratitude or accusation. Maybe both.
