Benedikt looked up at the summons, his hands stilling around the pocketknife he was testing. He wasn’t in the main Montagov headquarters often, dropping by only to swipe a few new weapons and rummage about the cupboards a little. Even so, in all the times he had been here previously, he had caught incensed discussions from Lord Montagov’s office, usually about the new threat of madness and what they were to do if an assassin let loose monsters on the city. It always ended the same way. Ever since the Podsolnukh, they paid the demands that came.
Today was the first time in a while that the floor above was silent; instead of voices wafting down, a White Flower was leaning on the handrail of the staircase, waving for his attention.
“We need extra hands to install a wardrobe,” the White Flower said. Benedikt didn’t know his name, but he recognized the other boy’s face, knew that he was one of the many occupants in this labyrinth of a house. “Do you have a moment?”
Benedikt shrugged. “Why not?”
He stood and slipped the pocketknife away, following the White Flower up the stairs. If Benedikt continued climbing, he would approach the fourth floor, where his former bedroom used to be, where Roma and Alisa still resided. It was the core wing of the house, but instead of continuing up in that direction, the White Flower he was following pivoted left and ventured deeper into the middle rooms and hallways, squeezing by bustling kitchens and ducking under poorly installed ceiling beams. Once one walked farther away from the main wing of the headquarters and into the parts that used to be different apartments, the architecture became a fever dream, more nonsensical than logical.
They came upon a small room where three other White Flowers were already waiting, holding up various panels of wood. The boy who had summoned Benedikt quickly grabbed hold of a hammer, securing one of the panels from a White Flower who was visibly sweating.
“If you—ow! Sorry, if you could get the last few panels over there?”
The first boy pointed, then put the thumb of his other hand to his mouth. He had accidentally caught it in the path of his hammer.
Benedikt did as he was told. The White Flowers working on this wardrobe seemed a rumbling cauldron of activity, throwing instructions at each other until their voices overlapped, comfortable in their routine. Benedikt had not lived in this house for years, and so he recognized none of the faces around him. There weren’t many Montagovs left in this household, only White Flowers who paid rent.
Really, there weren’t many Montagovs at all. Benedikt, Roma, and Alisa were the last of the line.
“Hey.”
Benedikt’s eyes flickered up. The White Flower closest to him—while the others were arguing about which way the nail went in—offered a wan smile.
“You have my condolences,” he said quietly. “I heard about your friend.”
His friend. Benedikt bit his tongue. He knew little of those in this household, but he supposed they knew of him. The curse of the Montagov name. What was it that Marshall had said? There’s a plague on both your damn houses. A plague that ate away at everything they were.
“It is the way of the blood feud,” Benedikt managed.
“Yes,” the White Flower said. “I suppose it is.”
Another panel was hammered in. They tightened the hinges, jiggled about the boards. As soon as the wardrobe was standing on its own, Benedikt excused himself, letting the others continue with their task. He backed out from the room and wound along the floor, walking until he found himself in a vacant sitting room. Only there did he lean against the fraying wallpaper, his head going light, his vision flooding with absolute white. His breath came out in one long wheeze.
I heard about your friend.
Your friend.
Friend.
So why couldn’t he mourn his friend like others had? Why couldn’t he keep going like Roma had? Why was he still so stuck?
Benedikt thudded his fist hard against the wall.
Sometimes, Benedikt was half-convinced there was someone else’s voice in his head: a miniature invader relentless against his ear. Poets spoke of internal monologues, but they were supposed to be nothing save metaphors, so why was his so loud? Why could he not shut himself up when it was just him?
“。 . . non?”
An unfamiliar murmur floated along the hallway then, and Benedikt’s eyes snapped open, his mind silencing at once. It seemed he couldn’t shut himself up, but oddities in his surroundings certainly could.
Benedikt surged out from the sitting room, his brow furrowing. The murmur had sounded feminine . . . and nervous. He knew he was out of touch with the White Flowers, but who in the gang fit that description?