Spectral Evidence

Apparently, she did.

—

This next part is somewhat hard to talk about, and harder to think on. Yet it had to be done.

Never thought of myself as much of a teacher. That’s too like mothering, by far. But right here is where I gave Doll Tearsheet a lesson in true magie noire, with its pleasures and pains admixed—showed her how there’s always a price, just like I told you, and you can’t hire nobody else to pay it for you. And it can’t be too small, what you give up; can’t be too easy, or they don’t like that. You gotta feel like you’re actually payin’.

I asked and was given, which meant I owed, so I paid. I gave myself over, stuck my hand in the tiger’s mouth—my left, both dominant and sinister—and trusted I’d get at least enough of it back to go on with. Felt the Rot-Pearl Queen’s tongue lick away flesh and skin and sinew together from my ring-finger, debriding it ‘til there wasn’t nothing left but naked bone gone cold and stiff as marble, a corpsefinder-candle alit with dim blue flame; bit my lip ‘til it bled, but I never gave out even a squeak, ‘cause I knew that’d pile insult on insult. And this was justabout the last place on earth I wanted to try and leave while yet unforgiven.

You have grit, witch-woman. Backbone. The Queen’s words traced each of my vertebrae in turn, told them in turn, an ossuary rosary. Let us say you find my acolyte and release him—for this, I will consider our business concluded. But as to your apprentice...

“Don’t think she considers herself such, Majesty,” I managed, through a torn, sour-salt mouthful.

This distinction means nothing to me. She will have to make her own peace, in her own way.

“Might be you tell her that yourself, then.”

I felt Her dreadful gaze shift off me, to where Doll stood once more statue-rigid, studying the turf under our feet. And: Oh, I know she hears me, she said, with just a hint of amusement, a spreading black-on-black stain. Do you not, little girl? Perhaps you will take on your brother’s burden, like any sin-eater, once he has done his purpose—if you wish to bury him again after, that is, and leave him to his rest. If you wish him to lie still, when you do.

Doll shivered a bit herself at that, like she was shaking off the ague. And then we were alone again once more, together—back in t

he world, with only my single-digit Hand of Glory to light our way through a forest so dark, so deep, it was like we were walking the ocean’s floor at its very lowest point, where nothing lives that’s ever seen a hint of sun at all.

We walked a long way, mainly in silence, but we did find that swamp, eventually. I knew it for what it was the moment my foot touched water, not least ‘cause my finger went out—knelt down in the cold and sucking mud right there to plunge both hands in like Pontius Pilate, mouthing my heartfelt thanks, and let something all-too-familiar ‘neath the surface wrench the damn thing free like a frozen-off wart, juncture already itchy-healed.

No wedding ring for me, I thought, without a shred of regret. Then got back up, all a-creak with effort, and brushed my knees off, best I could. “Now,” I told Doll, “given what-all I’ve expended thus far, there’s a couple of somethin’s I need from you in return, missy.”

Dubious: “Like what?”

“First off, a bit of witch-work, which I know you’re familiar with, for all you say you ain’t interested: Shed a drop or two of blood and let it tug on you, then study, ‘til you find where that boy of yours lies sunk. And conjuration skill aside, I’ll just bet you know how to cook a meal using whatever you find, too, don’t you? Most mountain-folk do.”

“...Uh huh.”

“All right, then. Get cracking.”

—

What Doll put together was a mess of handy, hardy fare, such as my Momma and I’d sometimes subsisted on, whenever she blew her Welfare check on cheap liquor and bad men: sorrel tubers sliced sidelong and stick-roasted, with watercress and chicken-of-the-woods mushrooms for seasoning, and a dark, flat bread baked from cattail flower and acorn-meat in our fire’s ashes to serve it on, like them edible platters in Ethiopian restaurants. I helped here and there in the preparation, but felt the spell’d work better if the meal was made mainly by a loved one’s hands.

“Now lay it out,” I told her. “Like you’re servin’ Sunday dinner. Go on, gal.”

“Where?”

“On him, of course.”

I flipped my hand a tad dramatically at the part of the swamp she’d scoped, and up rose Harlan Tearsheet’s body in response, or what was left of it. outer bits’d mostly been gnawed away, with the rest of it froze underwater for some good time, gone thin and sere and slippy; his teeth grinned like keys on a busted-up piano, eyes sunk so far back in his head you could hardly reckon their colour anymore, canted so they stared two entirely different ways.

Doll drew her breath and didn’t let it back out, like she was fortifying herself, or at least trying her best not to heave. But at this point, I think she’d seen enough of my works to trust I knew best what I was doing.

A string of hors d’oeuvres, still lightly smoking, trailing from throat to sternum to belly. She took one, bit the tiniest piece off and crunched hard, her tears silent, crying and chewing—offered me the rest, which I took a far larger bite of, seeing I’d barely had any food at all, the last twenty-four hours or so. Not since the Cornishes and I’d blasted our way out of prison on the wings of old Abramelin the Mage’s famous SATOR box...

It was better than you’d think, but not by much. And at the third chew in a row, old Harlan sat up straight-backed, as if run on strings. Turned his flap-jawed face my way, and said, in a voice still deep-buried: “That all looks good. Is it?”

Doll’s puke-face was back, full force. I just shrugged. “Hard to tell, without you taste it. Want some?”

“Well...just a bite.”

“Care for a sip of something, too, to wash it down?”