Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(62)

I think?

Or else . . . or else it’s something odder yet. There’s always the possibility (there’s always a possibility, another one, another two, another thousand) that this is a force of my own creation. This invisibility, for that’s what it is . . . it might be a skill I’ve acquired—like my ability to see the carnivorous black smoke. But if that’s the case, then how did I acquire it? And from whom?

It hardly seemed wise to stand there philosophizing, when I’d been handed all the information I needed in order to find Lorino. The very ease of it all suggested I was on the right path, or so I chose to assume.

(I choose many assumptions these days. I choose to believe in my own valor, in the righteousness of my acts, in my sanity, in the successfulness of my campaigns against the reverend. And I might be wrong about any of them.)

I pushed the swinging door and it gave way easily. I entered the chilly corridor of the hospital, and I walked along it—checking the doors for numbers, checking the faces of those I passed for some sign that I’d been seen. None of the doctors, nurses, nuns, or any other official person gave me a second glance.

One or two of the patients did, but none of them called any attention to me. More small blessings, or small gifts from the Patterns That Be.

Room 14B was halfway down and on the left.

It was unlocked, from the outside. Or rather I should say, when I put my hand on the latch, it unfastened and it let me come in. I do not know if it would’ve opened for anyone else who might wander up without a key.

Mr. Lorino was seated on his bed, his feet dangling over the side. His toes dragged upon the floor when he waved them back and forth—his cotton socks sagging low, and leaving small streaks of sweat that vanished as soon as they appeared.

He did not look up at me, but he knew I’d arrived. “Was it a good idea, do you think? Did the stars suggest it, or did the numbers?”

“I’m not sure.” I let the door slip shut behind me.

There was a chair positioned under a window, across from his bed. I took it, drawing it forward so that I could face him.

He looked up at me then. He was older than I recalled, but then again, I’d only seen him by the light of a streetlamp, the sort of light that’s kind to everyone. He observed, “You’re running out of good ideas.”

“I never had many to begin with.”

“That isn’t what I mean,” he said. He didn’t exactly frown, but his forehead wrinkled with concentration. “The good ideas you’ve been given . . . they’re drying up. Is that why you’ve come?”

“It must be.” I sighed, and leaned back into the chair. “Drying up, you said . . . that’s one way to put it.”

“You have a better one?”

“No. But to hear you say it . . . I’m all the more worried. I’d hoped it was my imagination.”

He nodded slowly, but at the same time, he spoke quickly. “Almost nothing is imagined. The numbers came, and you did your best. Now the messages come fewer and farther between, and you want to know what it means. You come here, you slip inside the fortress like a ghost, like the true ghost you are. Or no, that’s not what I mean. I am the ghost, summoned by the witch at Endor—and you, you are Saul upon the battlefield, casting about for some hint that all is unfolding according to plan. Some plan. Any plan. You want to believe that there’s a plan. I suppose you need to, given the task you’ve been assigned, and subsequently accepted.”

“Do you mind being my Samuel?” I asked him frankly. My voice cracked, a very little bit, when I added, “I have no one, you see.”

“I do not mind. You and I, we are bound these days.”

“I wish it were not so.”

“Wishes . . . well, I know. What’s the point of them? They can’t help, and might hurt. It’s done, that’s the sum of it. And you’re almost done, that’s the answer.”

I felt a warmth behind my ears. It crept down my throat, and blushed my chest beneath my shirt. “Do you mean . . . I’m almost done with the axe? I hope that’s what you mean. I’m sorry, but I’m not sure. I don’t understand.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Of course you’re sorry—you’re human still, not like some of the others who’ve killed because the stars and the sea had conspired against them. And that’s why—” He sat forward, locking me down with those earnest eyes. “That’s why it’s not so bad, what happens next. Too much longer, and you would change too much. You’d lose yourself to the other side, or to the middle state. You’re losing yourself already, aren’t you? The first deaths were hard, and the last ones were easy.”

“Easier,” I corrected him, sounding more defensive than I’d intended.

“The next ones would be easiest of all, and on the other side of easiness is pleasure at a job well done. Beyond that lies anticipation for a task yet to be accomplished. Do you see what I mean?”

I did see, and that was the horror of it. He wasn’t wrong.

“I must stop what I’m doing before I enjoy what I’m doing. Is that somehow part of the pattern? That only a reluctant knight can perform the duty?” I was flailing about, and I believe we both knew it. “Will the numbers stop coming to me altogether? Or is it worse than that?” I had the . . . nerve? fortitude? courage? . . . to ask him the only question that mattered in the end.