Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

Eventually, Virgilia stepped back and licked at her bloodied hand. Dora lost sight of Hyssop as the other nobles crowded in to inspect Virgilia’s work and mumble their appreciation.

“His pattern is done,” Walpurgis announced over the murmur.

“A hunt!” Virgilia shouted. “I call for a hunt!”

“Excellent,” Mnemosyne said from her throne. “We shall have a hunt when this game is complete. Come here, little Hyssop, and sit at my feet.”

Hyssop shambled over to the dais and sank down on his knees. Dora could see his face now, twisted and tearful. He knew what awaited him. So did Dora. And there was nothing she could do. Hyssop was all grown up, and his flower was finished, and so he must die.

Walpurgis waved off all the servants except Thistle, who was ordered to move the hoops around. Then Walpurgis clapped his hands, and the game resumed.

Cymbeline and Virgilia gripped their club together and swung it. Their ball hit Augusta’s so hard that it rolled into the woods. The others jeered. They continued the game as Augusta walked in among the trees. She walked past the spot where Dora was hiding and deeper into the woods. She was gone for a long moment.

When Augusta came back, she was carrying a small locket in one hand and her ball in the other. She paused at the edge of the trees and peered at the people on the lawn. From where Dora was crouching, she could see the sweat that scored a pink trail down Augusta’s temple. Augusta flipped the locket open. She froze, staring at whatever it was she saw, and frowned.

“I know what this is,” she muttered. “What is it?”

Then she closed the locket again and slipped it into a pocket on her waistcoat. She glanced briefly over her shoulder, shrugged, and returned to the lawn.

Dora walked back the way Augusta had come. It wasn’t far to the dog-rose bush where a dead man lay on the ground, faceup. He looked different: his face was lined and his hair salt-and-pepper. He was old . His clothes looked strange, the black coat oddly cut. Dora had never seen anything like this before. Children had wandered into the Gardens. Never a full-grown man. How had he gotten here? Had someone let him in? Dora left the dead man as he was.

Dora had sat down by the conservatory again when Thistle came wandering between the trees.

“There you are,” he said.

He sank to the ground next to her. His kohl was running.

“Hyssop is gone,” he said. “They chased him into the woods and killed him.”

“I know,” Dora said.

“The servants are not real people to them. Just playthings.”

“Maybe you could run away again,” Dora said.

Thistle looked at her. “You know what happens. We walk into the forest, and walk and walk, and then we end up in the orchard again.”

It was true. Dora and Thistle had tried, many times, when everyone else was asleep. It was always the same: a long walk through the woods, in a seemingly straight line, and then in not too long the conservatory rising beyond the trees. As if the path turned back on itself. As long as Thistle was still in Lady Augusta’s service, as long as she kept his true name hidden from him, he could never find his way home. And because Dora was Walpurgis’s child, she was stuck, too. She wasn’t a servant, yet also not a lady. Just a reminder of failure and grief, free to exist but not to be a part of anything. Walpurgis renounced her every time he saw her. But perhaps not next time. Perhaps he loved her a little. Or so she hoped.

“Thistle,” Dora said. “I found something.”

Thistle cleared his throat. “What did you find?”

“When they knocked the lady Augusta’s ball into the forest. I saw that. And Lady Augusta walked after it, and then…”

Someone clapped their hands: once, twice. Calla was standing a little distance from the apple tree. Her mouth was still swollen from the ball that Lord Tempestis had shot into her face. She didn’t speak; she had no tongue. It had been cut out. Her mistress liked her page mute.

Calla held her hand out to Thistle.

“Please tell me later, Dora,” he said. “I have to go.”

Dora followed a few steps behind Calla and Thistle. As they arrived at Augusta’s pavilion, Dora snuck around to the back, where she could peek between the lavender lengths of silk. A smell of musk and lily of the valley wafted out from the interior. Augusta sat by her desk, the shiny locket in her hand. Her curls were piled high on her head, strands of them tumbling down the sides of her face. Her eyes were such a light gray that they were almost translucent. She turned around when Thistle rang the little bell above the opening.

“Boy,” she said in her hoarse voice, and stood up.

Thistle looked her in the eyes; his jaw was clenched. Augusta slapped him. Thistle lowered his eyes and walked over to the bed, preparing to remove his coat. He must have been expecting her to carve him. Dora had seen it before. Thistle never complained, never asked Dora to intervene. Dora wondered how much Augusta would scream if Dora did the same to her.

“No, not now,” Augusta said.

Thistle turned around. Augusta tossed the locket at him. He caught it with both hands.

“You will tell me what this is,” Augusta said.

Thistle frowned at the locket and opened the lid.

“It’s a watch,” he said. “I have seen one, maybe before…”

“And what is a watch?” Augusta interrupted.

“Mistress doesn’t know?”

Augusta slapped him again. “Insolence.”

Her nails bit into his jaw. Thistle’s eyes watered. His eyes met Dora’s. Dora stood up. Thistle shook his head faintly, and Dora sat down again.

“You will tell me what a watch is,” Augusta repeated.

Thistle sniffled. “It measures time.”

“Show me,” Augusta said.

She pulled Thistle down on the bed next to her, and put her arm around him as if she were his protector, not someone who might stick her thumbs into his eyes because he looked at her in the wrong way.

Thistle pointed at the clockface. “This hand moves forward, and then the shorter one, and then the shortest. That knob winds it up to make it run.”

As he spoke, Augusta shuddered and made a noise at the back of her throat.

“I know it. Somehow, I know what this is,” Augusta said. “Does it measure time?” Augusta said. “Or does it just move forward and call that time?”

Thistle blinked. “Time is time,” he said. “If it goes, it goes forward, from moment to moment.”

Dora remembered time. She recalled crawling out of the earth into a rosy dawn. The sun, traveling across the sky to set. Shifting light and darkness. Heat and cold. But here it was always an azure summer night, an eternal sunset tinting the western sky green and gold.

Augusta twisted the little knob on the side of the locket. A ticking sound filled the air, faint and deafening all at once. The air trembled.

“Very well,” Augusta said. “That is all.” Her voice echoed.

Augusta let go of Thistle’s shoulders. Thistle stood up. When he was almost at the door, Augusta spoke.

“This will be our little secret. Kneel.”

Thistle did as he was told. Augusta picked up a long knife that lay on her vanity. She grabbed Thistle’s jaw and, with her other hand, held the knife against his throat. Dora stood up, prepared to leap through the curtains.

Thistle spoke between Augusta’s fingers: “Wait!”

Augusta blinked and released Thistle’s jaw. “You dare?”

“My pattern isn’t done,” Thistle said. “You’re not allowed to kill me until it is.”

“I can finish it now, if you like,” Augusta replied in a sweet voice. “Undress.”

“You have to call a hunt, too,” Thistle said. “It’s the way of the lords and ladies.”