Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I once thought keeping my mother in an elevator shaft was odd.

Time lessens abnormality.

I stretched out on the large bed that was as close to a cloud as I'd ever experienced. Sleeping here didn't feel right after months of cleaning the rooms for others, but until the skull—a.k.a. Kingsie—kicked me out, I'd be the only guest at Hotel Vitale.

I pushed off the covers and checked the clock beside the bed that showed the date too. I'd only slept a night this time.

I released a held breath. I'd been scared to sleep again.

Willboughy, Iz, and Hasbin had guided me here before dusk last night, then left without comment. No instructions, no threats, no rules. The hotel was empty, cordoned off and forbidden, and much as I'd left it three weeks and one night ago other than the thick layer of dust. Vandals hadn't shattered the cracked glass. No one had added further graffiti to the spraypainted red cross and CLOSED statement on the reception door. Whatever Kingsie's standing in Vitale, his hold was powerful enough to deter petty criminals and to control and dismiss agents who suspected a person of murder.

I hadn't dared to think further about what I'd glimpsed in his building nor what I'd felt in his presence. I had thought of how to sell the contents of the hotel to buy food and supplies. I had a good supply already—groceries brought in for the guest meals—which would last several months if I preserved them right. From there, the stacks of bedding, beds, furniture, and other furnishings and equipment would look after me for years. Decades even.

I couldn't see my life at thirty-nine, but I'd focus on today to start with.

I had food.

And I had a mother to bury.

I moved my left arm, and found it mobile and free of pain. I felt along my collarbone and couldn't feel the break that had been there before I'd slept. At least, I'd thought that Kingsie broke my collarbone. Did he or didn't he? My mind squeezed, and I banished the clamor quicker and easier than ever before. A brief look in the mirror showed my pinched face was free of the landlady's claw marks and of any bruises from being dragged around a couple of times. So maybe my broken collarbone really did heal overnight. Blue eyes set over a straight nose—slightly too large—warned me that my current state was illogical to say the least. My ever-puffy lips pressed in a firm line as I banished the clamoring impossible again, and then a third time to be safe.

Now on to important matters. I would bury my mother here at the hotel since I'd be here for a time or forever. She should be close to me, and I was glad Kingsie didn't accept incomplete bodies to his throne. I didn't like to think of her being sat on, even if my mother wasn't in this shell any longer.

I dressed in clothes found in a guest's abandoned suitcase. The black lace dress hugged my body from neck to knee over the silk black lining. I picked up a smaller piece of lace that fluttered free. Clips were attached to the lace on either end. A veil. How fitting for a funeral. I twisted my long blonde hair into a loose bun, then slid the clips into place behind each ear. The veil hung in a curtain over my eyes, nose, and mouth.

Barefoot, I padded from the first level room and peered over the balustrade to where my mother rested in her bedcover in the courtyard.

Crossing the courtyard soon after, I knelt in the exact middle so I would know where to dig her up if ever needed, and pried a broken cobblestone free. Once I'd peeled enough of the cobblestones off the dirt, I took up the broken cobblestone again and stared at the uncovered surface. Dirt was the word for this lifeless, pale brown substance because beautiful black, rich soil it was not.

I scratched at the dirt, then scratched some more, then I scooped and tossed. I'd uncovered enough of the surface so that Mother could lie flat in the grave.

The blissful peace in my mind as I worked was a gift that only grave-digging could have brought me, and while the tragedy of burying my mother spiked at my heart, the tranquility found in the task was something to admire and feel thankful for. I immersed myself in the task and dug much deeper than needed and for much longer than required.

As dusk tipped the scales from day, I sat on my heels, feeling the task complete.

I hooked my dirt-coated fingers on the ledge and pulled up, clawing my filthy feet into the sides of the grave that suddenly felt more like mine.

I rolled across the cobblestones above and gazed at the first twinkling stars. I didn't know much of stars, really, but from my first memories, I'd wondered why no one spoke of the darkness between them. There was so much more of it, and the stars wouldn't be noticeable without the contrast. No one ever seemed to give the inky canvas a thought. Maybe they didn't realize that every light was possible because of a darkness.

I approached Mother, then freed her from the bedcover.

There was no way to manage the task of placing her in the grave other than piece by piece, so I clambered in and out to achieve it. Yesterday, I'd feared her body falling apart in my hands. Today, that didn't bother me, and I had the lingering tranquility of digging the grave to thank for that. After placing her second leg in the grave next to her first, I squinted to check my work in the darkening hole. Incomplete , Sand Cat a.k.a. Willboughy had said of her, but she didn't feel incomplete to me. This felt right to have her close by.

"Goodbye, Mother," I told her in the dying light. "My heart remembers you always, and I'm glad for that, because I don't know who I am without you. My heart will lead the way, and I will know that, really, it's you guiding me. I hope you weren't in pain at the end, Mother. I hope you felt me there with you. I'm sorry if you didn't."

It struck me then that she'd just become the fiftieth mother in our line to wither and die.

I smiled. "Fifty mothers. Fifty gifts, like you said. Thank you for the gift you gave me."

Something inside begged me not to fill in the grave. I brushed at my dirt-covered lace gown, dislodging a few clods. I scooped dirt from the towering pile beside me and sprinkled the handful over her legs. Her face… there was just something sinister and ugly about covering her face with dirt.

I scooped more and more dirt. Each scoop became easier, and soon there was no option but to cover her face.

You're the fiftieth daughter.

I was the fiftieth daughter in our line to bury her mother while knowing she'd be next to endure such a fate. Fifty daughters joined me with their aching hearts as I stood there, and fifty resolves shackled to mine. I was alone, and yet those fifty daughters stood with me, some touching my shoulders and arms as I finally dropped dirt onto my mother's face.

I filled the grave as dusk settled in, and continued into night.

I didn't replace the cobblestones. Sealing her under them felt wrong. I wouldn't like that. Perhaps I could find some seeds to scatter here and turn dirt to soil in time.

I had nothing else to do.

My lips curved. How terribly unset and directionless of me. What would Kingsie say? Unfortunately, I really was unset with too much possible now.

The night chaffed at my skin—or maybe that was the thick layer of dirt covering me from head to toe. I'd slept all day, and now I'd be up all night. The hour of day didn't matter, really. There was much I could do to get a gauge on what my future would be, to secure items of value, or to form a plan. But instead, I dug my toes into the dirt of my mother's grave and peered at the moon, imagining howls and thinking of twisted, yawning statues.

"And are you well, Lady Patch?" a man spoke from the dark corner beside reception.

I squinted but couldn't make out a form in the deep shadows. Perhaps just a towering height. No matter, the voice was familiar.

Iz—Stag, though I shouldn't keep calling him so—had come to visit. "Iz," I greeted. "I am well." I bit my lip, accidentally thinking of how impossibly well I was without the claw marks on my cheek and the fracture in my collarbone.

"You're covered in dirt."

"Yes."

"You have buried your mother."

"Yes."

"With a broken cobblestone."

"I did not look for a spade."

"Sometimes, broken cobblestones feel better to dig with."

I nodded and drove my gaze to the darkness between the stars again. What was it made of? "Is Kingsie okay after I blinded him?"

"Who is Kingsie?"

"Kingsie, your skull. The man who roared and ballooned me into the wall."

A chuckle. His chuckle seemed bland without Willboughy and Hasbin to chime with him. "You have a delightful way of speaking, lady."

"Thank you. Kingsie, did he see possibilities again?"

"He did, lady."

I smiled. "That's good. He'll be happy about that."

"Happiness is of no matter to my liege."

Wasn't happiness a matter for every person? "Neither is supposing."

"No, my liege certainly doesn't do that."

I sighed. "Where are Willboughy and Hasbin?"

"Who are Willboughy and Hasbin?"

"Why," I said, startled, "Sand Cat and Ox."

Another chuckle. Was he teasing me?

"They aren't with me. We find ourselves in disagreement in the wake of… Kingsie's blindness."

I hummed. "I'm sorry for this. You believed that coming to check on me was right?"

"Yes. You are well?"

"I have said so."

"It's just that I have seen many burials, and this is not at the regular end of that spectrum."

I glanced to the shadows where he continued to hide. "Where abouts am I on the spectrum, then?"

"About the middle."

Not so bad. "You know, I don't speak to many people in shadows. You… might?"

"I would say that's correct. Yes, that's correct. Some conversations are better from the shadows."

I could see his point. I felt as if I were confiding in a friend or writing in a diary. "I worry that you've taken my calling you Stag as a reason to hide away. I only had the thought that your power was graceful, no more."

"I took no offense. A stag is a wondrous thing."

"You've seen one?"

He chuckled, then told me of the herds of stags allowed to roam free in another walled city far across the globe.

"Goodness," I said after. "I've never been to another walled city."

"All pulses are much the same."

Pulse. He referred to the cities, I thought. "Our pulse does not have vast herds of stag, though. That would be a sight to see."

"It has stayed with me. And will you be okay here, do you suppose?"

I didn't mind supposing. "It shall suffice, Iz."

"Is," he replied.

I shot a glance to the shadows.

"You're saying my name like there's a ‘Z' on the end. I'm called Is."

"I apologize. Your name short for something? Isaac, perhaps?"

"No, just Is."

Is. "My, and now I worry that I've misheard other names. Is that why you chuckled?"

"I confess, lady, you've a delightful way of pronouncing them, so I didn't wish to say anything." He moved in the shadows.

Bother. "Have I messed up Willboughy and Hasbin's names?" I brushed at the dirt on my arm. Was it the night or the dirt making my skin itch? I needed to wash.

"You're close, but their names are two words."

I pulled a face. "How does that make a difference?"

"This might change how you see us, and seeing is half the doing. Will Boughy. Has Bin."

After I repeated the names, he chuckled again. "Let me spell them for you."

I exclaimed after, "Will Be and Has Been. Those are their names? Whatever do they mean? And ‘Is' for that matter. They're your real mother-given names?"

"Mothers, no. Ancients, yes. Together we are what Will Be, what Has Been, and what Is."

His explanation struck me. I could only speak my first thought. "Well, that is beautiful indeed. I do see now. Thank you. Ancients named you very well, for you are here right now."

"The present does call me forcefully, it is true."

I brushed at my arm again, scratching the flakes off with my short nails. "And Kingsie. You found that name amusing too. Am I saying his name wrong?"

"What's that?" Is cut me off.

I stilled and glanced at the sky.

"Not the sky. On your…" Urgency filled his tone. "Lady Patch, come closer, please."

Looking first to where my toes were dug in the dirt, I considered his request. "I can come closer."

"Quick now," he urged.

"I'm not sure about quick," I muttered. I'd kept my body still too long, and my movements were clunky and numb.

I shuffled toward the shadows, then took larger steps as blood pumped into my legs. "Let me know when I'm close enough. I wouldn't want to disturb your shadows."

"There."

Coming to a halt, I faced where I assumed him to be and waited, trying not to fidget. "What do you see, Is?"

"Something impossible. Nothing to worry about."

My brow cleared. "Oh good. I'm glad for that. This night is too peaceful for worry."

"Kingsie will need to hear about this." He sighed and shifted in the shadows again.

His head seemed far higher than what I remembered.

I wrinkled my nose. "Tell him, then, if you must."

"He will need to see, Lady Patch."

I peered down my body. "Is it the dress?"

"What dress?"

That was a no. "I hadn't thought to venture out tonight is all."

"Not tonight. This must be handled with care. Might I collect you before dusk tomorrow night?" he asked. He'd lost his cheer and gained a distracted irritation.

A shame. I was enjoying his visit.

Did I want to see Kingsie again tonight or any night? He'd broken my collarbone. I wouldn't guess that he'd known it might heal so fast. Or did he never break it? I couldn't recall what I'd chosen to believe on that front. "No, I think not. I care not for skulls any day." I grimaced. "Please don't tell him."

"I wish you would reconsider."

How surprising to be given a choice. Then again, Will Be, Has Been, and Is had often given me a choice in matters, nearly always. "Why should I?"

He fell mute. "I'm unsure of what to say, and words are very important in moments like these. Your lack of possibilities unnerve me, so I'd like to consider my speech ahead of time."

That was wise of any person, and I commended him for it, though the mention of my lacking possibilities did seem to convey that I might not have a future and would soon die. After all, when Hotel Vitale became impossible, Kingsie closed it. So hopefully Is didn't consider his words for too long, or I might miss them. Or did Is mean that my options in life were limited? In which case, I already knew that.

I should remind myself that while Hotel Vitale had closed, the place was now my home… so maybe possibilities and impossibilities weren't concrete notions. "When you are ready to say something, you know where I'll be. I will not see Kingsie again."

Is blew out a breath. "I'm sorry for that. He will want to witness this for himself, but I'll say goodnight for now."

"Goodnight, Is. Good luck with your words."

"Good luck…"

I wanted to ask with what , but I could sense he was gone already, the shadows now empty. He sure moved fast.

I walked past Mother's grave to my room. The temptation to peer into the mirror and decipher what Is had seen did niggle, but I gave the curiosity a good shove, certain that I wanted no part in more oddity. Just to be sure, I hung a pillowcase over the small mirror in the room, taking care not to look at my reflection. Then I did the same on the bathroom mirror.

My chest loosened. "There now."

This dirt had to go, my skin was on fire. I reached into the shower cubicle to turn on the water. When steam filled the bathroom, I peeled off the guest's borrowed dress and tossed the mud-coated garment in the far corner. I'd need to handwash that and see if it was salvageable. Allowing a resource to get ruined in such a manner didn't sit right.

Stepping into the shower, I groaned at the warmth. Maybe nothing could warm me ever again, but the water did its best. Mud formed on my skin, and dirty water filled the tub. I scrubbed at my face, accidentally thinking of the lack of scratches and healed collarbone for a few seconds before I remembered not to. Then I rinsed my hair, holding it off my neck as I rubbed mud off my shoulders and back. I released my hair and worked at my arms next.

I…

I held my arm in front of my face, staring at the jagged black lines across my wrist and at the base of each finger and thumb. The ugly lines were bumpy and crisscrossed. One cut across my elbow, too, beneath the joint. I moved to rub away the black, only to find similar lines on my other arm.

My breath quickened as the strange black lines fled my mind.

Because my skin didn't match. I didn't know how else to say it. My skin was different tones. Each of my fingers, hands, both forearms and above the elbow… the skin tones were all different. My right pointer finger was tan, and my left pointer finger was porcelain.

"What," I whispered.

My right forearm was freckled, and my left hand had scars I didn't have yesterday or three weeks ago.

I thudded against the shower wall, then ripped the soap from the holder and scrubbed at the black lines and skin between. My mind squeezed and shimmered. I shrieked as the soap suds uncovered more and more black lines instead of achieving the opposite. All over my stomach, all over my legs and kneecaps and toes.

More mismatched skin.

None of it mine.

I sank to the bottom of the shower tub to let tears join the water. Each and every one of the black lines stood stark against my skin, some bleeding from my attempts to be rid of the ugly slashes. But I couldn't any more than I could pull off my arm.

Because the black lines were stitches.