The Lost Girl Page 9

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “No matter,” he says, smiling maliciously. “I know everything about you already.”

  An ice-cold finger trails up my spine, spreading fear through my skin. There’s something about his voice that makes me believe him.

  “If I had done something wrong,” I say, “would you have destroyed me?”

  “Naturally.”

  “That doesn’t sound like somebody who cares.”

  “You can’t be powerful without being ruthless,” says Sir Matthew. “If we weren’t powerful, we would crumple like a house of cards. The world is divided. We must remain powerful, and ruthless, and in favor with our supporters. Or our detractors would tear us down. So yes. If we have to destroy any of you, we will, without hesitation.”

  I stare at him for a long time. “Would it hurt?” I ask. “If you destroyed me?”

  He considers me. “It wouldn’t be . . . nice,” he acknowledges with a kind of ghoulish humor. “You do realize you have to be unstitched, don’t you? Unmade. It is akin to watching somebody come apart.”

  My stomach flops.

  “You were lucky to avoid that fate, you know,” he says, as though I should be on my knees thanking him for it. “I gather Amarra didn’t care for you. You were lucky she had her accident before she could find a way to get rid of you.”

  “Others can’t pass the Sleep Order. Only familiars and Weavers can have an echo destroyed.”

  He smiles slowly. “And who told you that?”

  I turn away.

  The train pulls into Lancaster. I glance out at the familiar station rolling in, then at the bracelet of seashells on my wrist.

  Sean.

  There’s a sharp tap on the other side of the thick window glass. I look up, startled. My eyes fly wide open. I blink, certain for an instant that he’s an hallucination, that I conjured him up.

  Sean steps back from the window, watching me. He looks out of breath, like he’s run all the way here to catch us.

  My heart stutters against my ribs. I leap to my feet and am about to run to the compartment door when a hand closes over my wrist. It’s too tight, too strong.

  “Do you want to die?” Matthew demands, his voice dark and disbelieving. I shudder at the sound of it. “Sit down.” Gone is the drawl, the boredom. He is a Weaver. My Weaver. His eyes are blue and dangerous. His warning is clear. But I don’t care.

  I stare back at him. “Let me go.”

  He narrows his eyes. Abruptly the pressure on my wrist is gone. I don’t stay to question it. I run for the door. I might only have seconds before the doors close and the train leaves. I race through the compartment, jump onto the platform, and run to Sean. He crushes me to him. I grip my arms tight around his neck. My eyes feel raw with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he says in my ear, “I’m sorry, I thought it’d be easier if I didn’t see you, but I had to—”

  I look up at him. His green eyes. Like marbles. Vivid and brilliant. “I can’t never see you again,” I say to him desperately. “I can’t do that, I won’t. I’ll find you. I’ll come back and find you when I’m older—”

  “You can’t see me, Eva—”

  There’s a whistle, sharp and shrill. I have to go or break every promise I’ve ever made.

  “Sean,” I say.

  “Go,” he says quietly.

  I let him go. I don’t know how, but I do. His hand tightens against my back before he releases me and steps away.

  “We’ll pay for this one day, you know,” he says. “We’re standing here and there’s a Weaver on the train. He won’t forget.” He swallows and takes another step back. “Get on the train, Eva, or they’ll leave you behind.” And then he turns around and starts walking. I turn, too, because I know he won’t look back, he won’t dare, and I shouldn’t either. I hurry onto the train, just in time, and feel the jolt beneath my feet. And then he’s gone.

  How can I never see him again? How can they ask that of me?

  I go back into the compartment and sit down across from the Weaver. I don’t know what to expect from him, knowing he knows so much, knowing I defied him. But he doesn’t say a word. He sits there and watches me. He doesn’t speak for hours.

  But he doesn’t stop watching, either.

  When we arrive in London, the station is a shock to my system. I never realized just how small and uncrowded Windermere is. I’ve never seen so many people in one place before. The bright lights, crowds, and flashing boards are overwhelming. I stand in the middle of the crowd, trying not to get jostled, as Matthew studies our surroundings. I notice he seems impatient, in a hurry, but I know we have plenty of time before our flight.

  I look once again at his chain-mail vest. Is that why he’s so impatient? He’s afraid of being out in the open in case someone gets us?

  I break our long silence.

  “Why are you wearing armor?”

  “Armor, is this?” he demands scornfully. “Have you ever seen a real knight? I assure you, they wear more than light chain mail. This is for protection.”

  “Protection?”

  “Knives. Wicked thing, knife crime. Most upsetting.”

  “Why would you encounter a knife?”

  “I know you’re only an echo,” says Sir Matthew irritably, “but I take exception to any echo I have woven behaving in such a dense fashion. Haven’t you heard of hunters? They loathe us almost as much as they loathe you.”

  “Yes,” I say, trying not to think of the maybe-hunter leaning against the lamppost so long ago, “but I hardly think they’ll stumble across us here.”

  Matthew gives me a long, flinty look. “You seem to underestimate the dangers in your little world. You defy me, you scoff at hunters. Is that simply a brave face you put on, or are you really that stupid?”

  I flinch. His cutting contempt is humiliating. But I won’t let him make me feel like an idiot. “You say that,” I say, hoping my tone could freeze hell, “but if you’ll notice, I’m still alive.”

  “And it’s a wonder, I assure you,” he replies.

  I don’t back down from his stare. “I don’t see any hunters. We appear to be quite safe.”

  “Nevertheless,” he says, patting his vest with satisfaction, “I don’t take chances. As I have put myself in charge of getting you to Bangalore safely—and lord, I can’t remember why I ever thought that would be a good idea, you are positively irksome—it is now a question of my pride to make sure you get there. Imagine if you were killed on my watch. Or worse, I was! If I allowed myself to be slain by hunters, Adrian would mock my memory for years!”

  I don’t want to think about the hunters. They won’t find me. How could they?

  “Is Adrian your friend?” Changing the subject seems like a good idea.

  Matthew nods. “Oh, indeed. Oldest friend in the world.”

  This only makes me feel worse. I haven’t forgotten Adrian’s cruelty in the interview, his utter indifference to us and his obsession with his art. I haven’t forgotten the things Sean said, about grave-robbing and experiments and other strange, dark rumors about Adrian Borden. It sounds to me that if the rumors are true, he and his oldest friend would probably be hand in hand in it all.

  “Come along,” says Matthew. “We mustn’t dillydally any longer.”

  I make sure I’ve still got all my bags. He has already started walking. I follow, several steps behind, wondering what would happen if I turned around and walked away. Would he chase me? Would he call on the Loom’s seekers, ask them to find my tracker and hunt me down?

  “I understand you make birds,” he says a few minutes later, quite abruptly, while we’re on the Underground.

  My throat feels knotty. “How do you know about that?”

  “I know everything. Do keep up.”

  I consider denying it. Telling him I don’t do anything so un-Amarra-like. But he won’t believe me. And why should I act like I’m ashamed of something that is so essentially me?

  �
�Yes. I make birds. And other things.”

  “And how would you feel if one of these birds, or other things, decided to leap off the table and shatter onto the floor?”

  I wonder if he’s a little bit mad. “Excuse me?”

  “Would you be angry?” Matthew drawls. “Irked, perhaps? Would you be frustrated by the way this creation, one you have spent so much time and strength on, simply threw all your effort away and destroyed itself?”

  “I suppose,” I say.

  “That is how I feel about you,” he says, teeth flashing white. “It is how we feel about all the echoes who break the laws and force us to destroy them. It is a waste of the time and trouble we took to stitch them.”

  “We’re not wax birds!”

  He clicks his tongue in a sympathetic way and pats my cheek. His hand feels like steel. “You are to me.”

  The cold, sour taste of hate fills my mouth and I have to look away to keep my temper. I stay quiet for the rest of the trip underground and only speak when I have to at the airport. Matthew has a passport for me, and a false one for him, both bearing the same last name. Like I’m a genuine human being. Like we’re father and daughter. I almost laugh at the bitter irony.

  And then he does something strange. It’s very cold in the airport. With hot, sunny India firmly in mind, I didn’t bother to pack a coat or fleece in my carry-on luggage. I stand shivering by the queue for security.

  “Here,” says Matthew, handing me a jacket.

  I don’t want to take it, but I’m cold and I have a feeling being stubborn will only amuse him. I put it on, muttering a thank-you under my breath. He is delighted by my attitude and whistles a cheery tune as we join the queue for our security checks.

  “How many of us are there?” I ask him. “How many creations do you have?”

  “Hundreds,” says Sir Matthew. “That is, between the three of us, we have created hundreds. I believe most still live. But then there are the hundreds and hundreds our predecessors made. Few of them are still alive.”

  Considering how many ordinary people exist, “hundreds” barely dents the surface. But it’s still an awe-inspiring number. It’s hard to imagine so many of us.

  “Have there always been three Weavers at the Loom?”

  Matthew looks at me like he’s not sure he’s enjoying all these questions. But he tells me, “No, we are the first generation of three. Before Adrian, there was only one Weaver at a time. It’s been in Adrian’s family for two hundred years. There has always been a Borden at the Loom.”

  “Why did Adrian break the tradition, then?”

  “With three of us making echoes,” drawls Matthew, “Adrian has time to spend on his other . . . ambitions. Creating life still thrills him, but it isn’t enough for him.”

  “Is it enough for you and Elsa?”

  “You ask too many questions,” he says wearily. “Do stop. It’s exhausting. I can’t speak for Elsa, but I, at least, still take pride in the act of stitching a life. I’m beginning to regret stitching yours, but that’s neither here nor there.”

  I ignore that. “Is that why you decided to take me to Bangalore yourself? So you could make sure no hunter destroyed your creation?”

  “How quaint,” says Matthew. “In spite of everything, you still attribute good intentions to me. You mustn’t, you know. I am not kind. Handsome, certainly. And undoubtedly brilliant. But not kind. You will learn that yourself, in time.” He yawns. “I think I shall have a little sleep on the plane. Do try not to be noisy.”

  He does sleep. Or at least he pretends to. Even with his eyes closed and his body relaxed in his seat, I still feel him watching me. I don’t know why. He can’t expect me to try to run away from him in midsky. And I stare ahead, hating him with all my heart and longing for something.

  It becomes easy to ignore him as the flight wears on. With ten hours to sit in one place and do very little, it’s impossible to forget everything I’ve left behind. I can’t stop thinking about Sean and the way he looked as he walked away. Or Mina Ma, who I miss so much it feels like sand on my tongue. Or Erik or Ophelia. I can’t fathom not seeing them again. I can’t process the idea of an existence without any of them in it.

  Sean.

  And beside me, instead of a friend or a guardian, I have a Weaver. A man who could end my existence with a word.

  It’s an ugly thought.

  I can’t fail.

  As the plane draws nearer to Bangalore, anxiety bubbles up in my stomach, tightening each of my muscles until they ache. I feel sick. Here is my chance to survive, to live a long and normal life. True, I have to be perfect, but it makes me feel better, knowing I can fight for myself, that it is in my power to live.

  We land all too soon, and I totter a little unsteadily out of the plane. They’ve attached one of those great steel stairways to the door. As we cross a strip of the runway to the airport, the heat is astounding. Like a blanket, the humidity sinks over us, and I smell wet earth, and dust, and something strangely like the sea, though I know we’re nowhere close. Maybe it’s that raw, salty air.

  Out in the sun, before we can step into the airport, Matthew’s hand closes like a vise over my arm again.

  “Understand this,” he says, urbane, friendly, “it is not clever to test me. I like being tested. I like to win. I have watched you break a law in the last eighteen hours. You defied me and I let you, but you mustn’t fall into the trap of thinking that means you got away with it. I know enough to destroy you this very minute. I don’t need a further excuse. At any time, I can take away the rest of your life. Tread more carefully in this city, or you will fall. Have I made myself quite clear?”

  And before I can reply, before I can shake off the steely hand that has blotted out the sunlight, he delivers his final blow.

  “And while we’re on the subject, Eva,” says Sir Matthew conversationally, “what is Blackpool Zoo like these days?”

  3

  Stranger

  I have no appetite. I move my hand mechanically, taking the fork to the pasta and bringing it to my mouth. It’s difficult to swallow. I am aware of every sound. The chink of cutlery, fork on plate. The steady breathing of the people on either side of me: Matthew and a young boy with a lean, pale face and soft, dreamy eyes exactly the same brown as mine. He doesn’t say a word. Matthew’s foot moves against the leg of the dining table, tap, tap, tap, and it’s annoying. There’s the occasional crunch when the youngest person at the table, a little girl of five, bites into her peppers. I keep glancing at her. I can’t help it. I’ve watched her grow from a baby to a little girl from a distance, and it’s surreal to see her in the flesh. She smiles at me without reserve. Her teeth are small and even, and her smile is sweet, her dark hair soft and unruly. People always said Sasha and Amarra looked very alike. Sasha swings her feet to and fro. They don’t touch the floor, she’s too small, and there’s a rush of air every time they swing. Swish, swish.

  There’s no conversation at the moment. Even with my head down, I sense their eyes flicking to me and then away again, all of them except eleven-year-old Nikhil, who has a peaceful, faraway look on his face, as though nothing in the real world can shatter him.

  It was a long drive from the airport. The house is close to the city center, set on a quiet cul-de-sac flanked by trees. It offers some breathing space in this busy, brightly lit city. Through the window, I can smell the wet trees, and they smell clean and raw and untouched by the city scent, the dust and hooves of town-bred cows that stand in the middle of streets and refuse to budge.

  We saw one of those cows on the way. It had planted itself in the middle of the road and stood there peacefully, swinging its tail back and forth. When cars slowed down and honked, the cow did little more than lift its head to note our plight. I leaned out of the window to gawk at it. I was so sure that Mina Ma had been lying the time she told me about this particular phenomenon.

  Alisha, Amarra’s mother, met us at the airport. It was a shock to see her brought to life.
I had only ever known her in photographs and videos. But there she was.

  She stood outside the sliding glass doors of the terminal. Behind her, I could see rain slowing to a halt, the red sign of the airport Coffee Day, the cars in a line waiting to pick somebody up or drop them off.

  We saw her before she saw us. She was beautiful, still slender, and didn’t look like she was in her forties. She had a soft, earthy look, with wide brown eyes in a heart-shaped face and thick dark hair. She wore jeans and a blouse open at the neck but made them look more glamorous than most cocktail dresses. As we got closer, I could see her fingers were stained with paint and pencil. It was the only thing that made me smile.

  She spotted us as we got to the doors, the blood draining from her face. She was wringing her hands so hard they were nearly white. I couldn’t help noting how familiar the gesture was. How many times had I caught myself knotting my fingers together, knitting and twisting my hands?

  She reached for me, then stopped. Her eyes swept across my face, drinking in every detail. She stared into my eyes for the longest time, until I couldn’t stand to see the agony, the grief, the wild, desperate hope.

  I was about to look away when her face split into a smile so happy it hurt to look at it. She put her arms around me and held me tight, her entire body trembling.

  “It is you,” she breathed, and I looked up to see tears start down her face. “I wasn’t sure—I didn’t know if it would work—but your eyes. I’d know your eyes anywhere.”

  I didn’t know how to feel. Part of me felt like the lowest form of flea for letting her believe this pretense. Another part of me was just so glad to see that awful grief fade off her face. I stood very still, too scared to hug her back.

  “People are staring, Alisha,” said Matthew, his lazy drawl firmly in place.

  She stepped back and wiped her face. “It’s an airport, Matthew,” she said. “Everyone cries!” She smiled at him, a sweet, slightly tentative smile, as though she wasn’t certain of his reaction to her. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and for once resisted the urge to be flippant. It intrigued me. They acted like they knew each other, better than I’d imagined a familiar and Weaver would.