John Wright - Orphans of Chaos

“Well, the bike wrecked. Was there a point to this story?”

“Broken oaths are bad luck eggs.”

That was so weird, I did not know what to say. So I said, “Eggs?”

“They hatch bad luck.” He stood up, closed his eyes, and held his walking stick out at arm’s length. After a moment or two, as his arm got tired, the stick wobbled.

He opened his eyes, paused for a moment, went over to the door, put his hand against it. He put his hand on the latch…

“Stop!” I said.

He looked at me, curious.

“Vanity thought the door was being watched. We should trust her hunches.”

He nodded. “By your promise, you granted him the authority to be aware of the door. He substituted a physical lock for a lock of a stronger type.” He took his hand away from the door and stepped over toward my bed.

He sat down on the bed with his walking stick held between his hands, his elbows on his knees, his gaze on his feet.

I raised a hand and played with the little ribbon at my throat. Imagine that! Quentin just sitting on my bed, as if I had invited him! I wondered what he planned next.

He looked up at me. “Amelia, I cannot ask you for this. You must volunteer.”

“For what?”

“Bad luck.”

“Oh, come on. There is no such thing as bad luck.”

“Then you will not mind a bit, will you, Amelia?” He tilted his head to one side. “What was the wording of the oath?”

“I said he would not regret his decision. That I would not do anything which would make him regret his decision.”

“Interesting. If he does not find out, he won’t regret, will he?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it works that way. I mean, it wasn’t legalistic, like a contract in writing or anything.”

“Words have their own meanings, despite whatever we would like to impose on them. They are older than us, maybe older than everything else.”

“What are you saying?”

“The world was created with a word. The first thing Adam did was name the beasts.”

“You’re babbling again, Quentin.”

“Sorry. Do you have a coat? I assume you are not going to change clothes in front of me.”

“I am not putting on a coat.”

“Did you promise the Headmaster not to put on a coat?” He looked up at me. His eyes were sad and thoughtful, as they usually were, but there was also a look of certainty in his gaze, of amused confidence, that reminded me of Colin. Or of Headmaster Boggin.

Making an exasperated noise, I turned toward the wardrobe, pulled out a bundle of clothing, and threw it on the bed next to him. Then I picked up a pillowcase and slid the pillow out.

I thrust the pillowcase at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “You expect me to put that over my head?”

“No, you’re right! If you’re smart enough to fool Dr. Fell, I shouldn’t trust you.” And I stuck the pillowcase over his head.

He made a muffled laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded. I wondered whether the pillowcase was opaque, and so I merely stepped into my jeans, and tucked the hem of my nightgown into them in a huge, awkward bundle. I put a sweater over that, shrugged into my nylon quilted jacket.

“There is a symmetry to all affairs,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I yanked the pillowcase off his head.

He stood up. “You’ll find out.”

I pointed at the pile of clothing. “You can find something for yourself.”

He looked arch. “I am not putting on girls’ clothes.”

“Look. A sweatshirt. Big, roomy, comfy. Warm. Sweatpants. You close them with a drawstring. Keep your leg hairs from freezing.”

He said, “It is not that cold out-of-doors. I mean, rather, it is cold when you go out, but you will get numb to it, so it won’t feel cold.”

“That’s OK, because I am not walking out that door,” I said.

“Neither am I.”

“I am not climbing down from the window, either. You are lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

“Neither am I.” Now he was smiling.

“What is so funny?”

“Will you come if I can find another way out, besides the two ways you just said? Not climbing, not walking.”

“Are you saying you can find Vanity’s secret passage?”

“Is it a deal? I put on your clothes, you follow me?”

“What do I have to lose? Sure.”

He slipped on one of my ratty old sweatshirts and a pair of bulky sweatpants. Like I said, he is shorter than me, and the pants fit him just fine.

He slung his huge cloak over his shoulders with a rustle. “Do you have a silk scarf anywhere in your clothing?”

I opened a drawer, took out a long white scarf, and handed it over.

He said, “Turn around.”

I turned my back to him.

He wound the scarf once and twice over my eyes and around my head, tying it in the back with a big loose knot.

“I can still see down my nose,” I said. There was a little crack of light between my cheek and the bottom of the scarf.

“I am not going to throw a pillowcase over your head,” he said.

“Use my goggles,” I said. I waved a hand in the direction I thought was the upper shelf of the wardrobe.

I heard a rustling, and, a moment later, felt him put my lucky aviatrix cap over my head, scarf and all, and put the goggles over my eyes. He adjusted the strap in back. The padding around the lenses was tight against my eyesockets, and held the scarf in place. It was opaque.

“Now what?” I said.

He put one arm around my waist, the other under my knees, and swept me off my feet.

“Careful!” I said. “You are going to hurt your back!”

He said, annoyed, “I am not weak, Amelia. Just short.”

I put my arms around his shoulders. There really was no other place for me to put my hands. He hoisted my knees up, and my hip was resting slightly above his crotch. My bottom was just hanging in midair, surrounded by uncomfortable folds of nightgown stuffed into a jeans waistband. His arms did seem to be plenty strong.

“Now what?” I said.

“Now you trust me, and stay quiet. They are very shy, and they disappear if you look at them.”

He grunted, hoisted me higher, so that my hip was level with his chest, and he took a step up. Then he straightened.

For a moment I could not think of what he was standing on. What was in the room that was a foot or so high, and would support our weight? I assumed it was the hope chest I keep at the foot of my bed.

Another step. I supposed we were on the bed, but why hadn’t the sheets rustled when he stepped on them? Also, had he stepped onto a soft surface, I would have expected him to sink.

A third step. Where was he? Standing on the headboard?

A fourth. Maybe I had been wrong about where we started. Could he be climbing from one shelf to another in the wardrobe? Only if the wardrobe were tilted back at an angle would he have room.

I heard the window slide up. Both his hands were still on me. I felt the ice-cold air flow over me, freezing. How had he opened the window?

I said, “Quentin. You’re not going to jump! Put me…”

He kissed me.

Warm, passionate, firm. No apology, no hesitation. Just his lips on mine.

I waited till he was done, and then I slapped him.

He said, “Whoa!” and his grip tightened on my shoulders and knees.

We were standing on the ledge of the window, I knew. I raised my hands to pull off the goggles, but he sort of pushed my shoulders and knees together, crunching me into a ball, while at the same time he put his cheek against my cheek, to prevent me from getting at the blindfold.

I made my fingers into claws and pulled on his hair, trying to get his face out of my face.

He wobbled.

I held still. He was balanced on a ledge, after all.