The Silenced Tale, стр. 51

I stand, make my way back over to the door, and turn off the light.

In the gloaming of the street-lamps outside our window, Pip’s scars glow, weak and watery.

“By the Writer,” I breathe, and, horrified, turn the lights back on.

Pip nods, and reaches out for me, and I go. She sobs again, tears soaking into my pajama shirt as she curls into my embrace as if I were the only thing in the world worth clinging to, and then suddenly unclenches. A whooshing sigh of relief escapes her lungs as she drops onto the mattress. She turns her head to the side, and regards me with red-rimmed eyes. “’M fine. It’s over.”

But Pip is covering up the fear that still lingers in the echoing aftermath.

When she lets go of my shirt, a smear of something vibrantly orange is left behind on the white fabric. “What is this?” I ask, touching it.

It is tacky with blood. And in that blood are short, orange fibers, no longer than an inch, a great tuft of them, mixed with small, cream-colored hairs. Fur. By the Writer, it is cat fur.

Pip is back on her knees now, staring at her own hands—smeared with more blood, more fur—like they are foreign, alien things.

“This looks like . . . this is . . . oh, no. Linux,” Pip hiccoughs, and starts wiping the mess off in frantic swipes with the pillowcase.

“Pip, come, we will rinse it off, and you—”

She stands and bolts for the en suite.

“It’s me,” Pip says, scrubbing her hands frantically in the sink. “It must be me.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, squirting soap on her hands when she fumbles with the dispenser.

“What if it’s not . . . what if . . . ? I’m the only magical thing left in this world, aren’t I? Didn’t I bring a spell on my bones? What if this is the magic trying to get out? What if this is the magic reaching out to Elgar because he made it, and . . . ? What if this is my fault? All of it? What if I have to go back into the books to . . . what if I have to stay in the books—?”

“No,” I say firmly. “No. If that is what this is, we will solve it another way.”

Pip looks up at me with big, inky eyes, desperate and brimming with tears. “If it keeps us safe, if it keeps Elgar alive and keeps whatever is happening from lashing out at Alis, I could—I could stand it. I promise. I could—”

“I don’t want you to stand Hain,” I tell her, gently pulling her hands away from the sink before she scrubs them raw. I skim off my filthy shirt and throw it in the tub, then wrap her hands in a towel, tucking them up against my heart. “If we returned to Hain, I would want it to be because we chose to do so. Not because we were chased away from the Overrealm. This is my home now, too, Pip. I shall not give it up.”

Pip sniffles and wipes her nose on my shoulder.

“Delightful,” I deadpan. “How you fill me with such strident ardor, wife. I simply adore being used as a handkerchief.”

This makes Pip laugh, as I hoped it would, and eventually her sobs subside.

Curious, half hoping it will work for Pip’s sake, and half hoping it does not so that my fears will be allayed, I speak Words of Comfort. The Word leaves my mouth, thin, anemic, nearly breathless, but spreads like dandelion fluff in the air and settles in gossamer threads across Pip’s back. What little tension still remains in her posture vanishes and she goes all the way lax, even as her eyes blur and cross slightly, the way they always did when I Spoke Words in Hain.

“Blast,” I curse softly to myself.

“It worked,” Pip breathes, shaking her head and coming back to herself. “What does it mean?”

“It means that whatever is happening, the magic is accumulating.”

Pip shakes out of my grip and throws the wet towel into the tub after my soiled shirt.

“This is ridiculous,” Pip says, and clutches the sides of her head. “If it’s not me, if you’re sure it’s not me, then it’s . . . it’s him. It has to be!”

“There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation save for his, ah, following us.”

Pip peers up at me, scowling. “Say his name.”

“What?” I ask, startled by this sudden and bizarre demand. “Why would—?”

“This is . . . he’s not some boogeyman!” Pip insists. “We’re not going to summon him to our doorstep by saying it. We’re both thinking it. We’ve both been thinking it. It’s the Viceroy. It’s the Viceroy. He’s here. Forsyth, he’s here! And he’s trying to get back inside my head.”

“No,” I reassure her, opening my arms again, inviting her to decide whether she wants this comfort right now or not. She wraps her arms around my waist. I kiss the back of her neck, thread my hands through her hair, massage what little unblemished skin she has on her shoulders. “No, he shall never get back inside your head. You cast him out, once and for all.”

“But he is here. Admit that.”

“I admit it,” I say, reluctantly. “I suppose I hoped that if I did not say it aloud, it would not be true. Could not be true. Is that not how fairy tales sometimes work? To summon a thing, you must name it?”

“This isn’t a fairy tale,” Pip says. “If this is a story at all, it’s definitely not a fairy tale.”

“Fucking trilogies?” I venture, and Pip huffs a laugh against my skin.

I try the Words again, but nothing happens.

“Why didn’t it work this time?” Pip asks.

“We have, I think, exhausted what little excess magic lingered here. It will probably work again if more magic accumulates. Or if he is close by. Is he near? Can you tell?” I ask. I assume