Komako wet her lips. She felt the cold come over her wrists, the icy pain, and she breathed in sharply as the dust began to swirl around her fingers. If this woman knew as much as she claimed, then she’d have known ropes would be little use against Komako’s talent.
But Mrs. Ficke made a soft clicking noise, as if in disapproval. “That is neither necessary, Komako, nor useful. Not if it is answers you are seeking.”
And the old woman took out one of her alembics with her good hand and came around the table and poured a dark powder in a circle around where Komako and Oskar lay. All at once the pain went out of Komako’s fingers, the dust settled, her talent was gone.
“What—”
“It is a muting powder, child. Of my own devising. I got the idea of it from study of a bone witch, oh, many years ago. It doesn’t work for long. But it will allow us to be civil with one another, at least for now.” Mrs. Ficke stumped back around her long worktable, shifted some bottles and jars, poked at the smoking liquid. The lantern was shining from a stack of ancient books beside her.
“You are afraid my intention is to harm you. But we are not at odds, you and I. Our kind should not be. It is not right. Besides, Henry will have his own punishments for you, when you return to Cairndale.”
“Our kind?”
“I’m like you. Or used to be, at least. You look surprised.”
If Komako’s face betrayed her disbelief, she couldn’t have helped it. She lowered her chin so that her hair fell across her eyes.
“I’m one of the exiles. Ah, you’ve heard of us? Not much though, I expect. They rarely spoke about it in my day either.” The old woman frowned. “There’s some as lose their talents, when they come of age. For no reason anyone can explain. They just … fade, one day. An if that day comes, it’s the Cairndale way—it’s Henry’s way—to ask them, politely, to leave.”
“She was sent away,” Oskar whispered, understanding.
“Dr. Berghast would never do that,” said Komako quickly, firmly.
But Mrs. Ficke just raised her face in the glow of the lantern. Her voice was soft. “You know Henry so well, then?”
“She’s been alone ever since,” Oskar whispered to Ko. “Imagine…”
“I’ll have none of that, boy,” she said, glaring at Oskar. “No pity from you. I’ve had a life more interesting than most. There’s no shortage of experiments to be done, knowledge to be acquired.” She gestured at the cellar around them. “It don’t look like much, it’s no fancy university. But it’s mine. There’s never been much room for a woman in the Royal Academy, anyhow. But their kind wouldn’t much care for my interests. Think only what they’re supposed to think, they do. Whereas I have made a life’s study of the opposite. I’ve studied what ought not to exist.”
Komako glowered. “Yeah. Candles.”
“Alchemy, dear. An older branch of knowledge than science, and a wiser one. Oh, the scientists are afraid of what we alchemists once knew. When Henry sent me away, I was nineteen years old. I was of little use to him then.”
“You think he needs you now?”
The woman’s eyes glittered. “Oh, I have made myself useful.”
“Because of the glyphic.”
“My tinctures, yes,” murmured Mrs. Ficke. “I’ve kept him alive this long. You are a clever little bird, hm? But I’ve done more than just that, my pet.”
The knots at Komako’s wrists bit into her flesh. She glanced at Oskar in the lantern light; he was staring wide-eyed at the old woman, frightened.
“What’re you saying?” Komako whispered slowly, dreading the answer. “What things have you done?”
* * *
Ribs stopped at the top of the stairs. Below her, the shop was quiet. She could hear the sound of the rain drumming against the roof, faintly, somewhere. She took a cautious step forward.
The upper floor of Albany Chandlers was unlit and dim. Ribs found herself in a long hallway running the length of the building, ending at a street-facing window. That window had been bricked over sometime in the past. There were several small high windows set in the right wall, casting what little light there was; on the left were many doors, as in a boardinghouse, all of them closed.
It was then she heard the sound. A kind of whimpering, coming from the nearest door. It might have been a kitten, crying. She tried the door pull but it didn’t open and then she pressed an ear against the door. The mewling stopped; started again.