City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(81)

Except the door at the very end, which is shut, and its keyhole flickers with a faint yellow light.

I like this less and less, thinks Shara.

Again, Sigrud stops. “I hear it again. It is … laughing,” he says finally.

“Laughing?”

“Yes. A child. Very … quiet.”

“From where?”

He points at the closed door.

“And you can hear nothing more?”

He shakes his head.

“Well,” says Shara. “Let’s proceed.”

As she expects, all the rooms leading up to the closed door are empty. And as they near, she hears it, too: laughter, faint and soft, as if behind that door a child is having a merry game.

“I smell something,” says Sigrud. “Salt, and dust …”

“How is that remarkable?”

“I smell them in remarkable quantities.” He points at the door again, then squats to peer through the keyhole. The squinted eye on his face is spotlit; his eyelid trembles as he strains to see.

“Do you see anything?”

“I see … a ring, on the floor. Made of white powder. Many candles. Many. And clothes.”

“Clothes?”

“A pile of clothes on the floor.” He adds: “Women’s clothes.”

Shara taps him on the shoulder, and she takes his place at the keyhole. The light pouring through the keyhole is staggering: candelabras line the walls in a circle, each holding five, ten, twenty candles. The very room is alive with fire: she can feel the heat on her cheek in a concentrated beam. As her eye adjusts, she sees there is a wide circle of something white on the floor—Salt? Dust?—and at the edge of her vision she thinks she can see a pile of clothes, just on the opposite side of the white circle.

Her heart sinks when she sees the dark blue cloth that is almost the exact shade Mrs. Torskeny was wearing when she last saw her.

Then something dances into view. … Something gauzy and white, moving in drifting sweeps—the hem of a long white dress? Shara jumps, startled, but does not take her eye away: she sees a head of hair at the top of the cloth, thick black locks that shine in the candlelight, before the white thing trots away.

“There’s someone in there,” Shara says softly.

Again, the childish laugh. Yet something is wrong. …

“A child,” she says. “Maybe …”

“Step back,” says Sigrud.

“But … I’m not sure …”

“Step back.”

Shara moves away. He tests the knob: it’s unlocked. He squats down low, knife in hand, and eases the door open.

Immediately the laughter turns to shrieks of pain. Shara is positioned so she cannot see what’s inside—yet Sigrud can, and he drops any suggestion of threat: he glances at her, concerned, confused, and walks in.

“Wait,” says Shara. “Wait!”

Shara bolts around the open door and inside.

*

Things move so fast that it’s difficult for Shara to see: there is a blaze of light from the candelabras, which are so densely crowded she has to dance around them; a wide circle of white crystals on the floor—salt, probably; and sitting in the center of the ring, dressed in a huge, shining white dress, is a little girl of about four, with dark black locks and bright red lips. She sits in the ring of salt, rubbing at her knee … or Shara thinks she rubs her knee, for almost all of the little girl is hidden below her white dress. Shara cannot even see her hands, only the kneading motion under the white cloth.

“It hurts!” cries the little girl. “It hurts!”

The scent of dust is overwhelming. It seems to coat the back of Shara’s throat.

Sigrud walks forward, uncertain. “Should we … do something?” he asks.

The salt.

“Wait!” says Shara again. She reaches out to grab his sleeve and hold him back; Sigrud is so much larger than she is that he almost knocks her over.

The little girl spasms in pain. “Help me!”

“You don’t want me to do anything?” asks Sigrud.

“No! Stop! And look.” Shara points down. Two feet away is the outer edge of the circle of salt.

“What is that?” asks Sigrud.

“The salt, it’s like a—”

“Please help me!” begs the little girl. “Please! Please, you must!”

Shara looks closer. The dress is far too big for such a small girl, and there is a lump under it, as if her body is swollen and malformed. …

I know this, says Shara.

“Just stop, Sigrud. Let me try and …” She clears her throat. “If you could, please,” she says to the little girl, “show us your feet.”

Sigrud is bewildered. “What?”

“Please!” cries the little girl. “Please, do something!”

“We will help you,” says Shara, “if you show us your feet.”

The little girl groans. “Why do you care? Why do you … ? It hurts so bad!”

“We will help you quite quickly,” says Shara. “We are experienced in medicine. Just, please—show us your feet!”

The little girl starts rocking back and forth on the ground. “I’m dying!” she howls. “I’m bleeding! Please, help me!”