Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

“Then I shall do so, dear,” Augusta said.

“But you just had one.” Thistle’s voice broke. “You’re not finished dining on Hyssop. The lady Mnemosyne will be angry.”

“Mouthy little shit. I regret taking you at all.”

“You could give me my name back,” Thistle said quickly, “and I would go away and be gone from here. I would never trouble you again.”

“Give it back? Go away?” Augusta smiled. “There’s no leaving this place, boy.”

Thistle looked at the ground.

“Take that jacket off now,” Augusta said. “And your shirt.”

Thistle did as he was told, folding his clothing beside him. The flower stems Augusta had carved up his arms and over his chest were raised welts against his skin. Augusta bent down and trailed the sharp nails of her right hand across his chest. Thistle froze as she pressed her index finger against his left clavicle. He gasped as her nail bit into his skin.

“Almost done,” Augusta whispered. “Nearly there.”

She dropped her hand and straightened. “Leave me.”

Thistle stood up, blood running down his chest. He rushed to gather his things and stepped outside. Dora watched as he left, then backed away before she could be noticed. If anyone caught her, Thistle’s pattern would be finished for sure.

Dora began to head to the conservatory. She passed the dining tables, where some of the servants were busy cleaning up. The food heaped on the tables was returning to its original state: moss, bark, toads. It happened at the end of a party, when the lords and ladies had left to sink back into their stupor. All but the bones sitting in the middle of the center table. They would be buried.

Walpurgis sat in a corner of the dance floor, overseeing the cleaning procedure, wine bottle in hand. He looked up at Dora as she went past. Her heart beat stronger for a second. Perhaps this would be the day the story came true and he took her back.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Your face, cretin.”

Dora quickly pulled the veil over her face. She had forgotten.

Something hit her leg: the wine bottle. It didn’t break but spilled its contents over Dora’s feet.

“Your fault,” Walpurgis mumbled. “It’s all your fault.”

Every time he happened to see Dora, he said the same thing, over and over again. Your fault .

“Father,” Dora whispered.

“Not your father!” Walpurgis shouted. “No. Not your father. I don’t care what Mnemosyne says. You’re not mine.”

He said that each time as if it were the first. Dora raised her veil slightly and looked at him where he sat. He was weeping.

“Then where do I go?” she said.

“I don’t care,” Walpurgis replied. “Don’t show your face here.”

Dora found Thistle under their tree. He was curled up, seemingly asleep, a blotch of blood on his shirt. Dora wrapped herself around him. He mumbled and shifted a little against her chest.

“He still says he’s not my father,” Dora whispered to Thistle’s sleeping form. “But I will always be his daughter.”

As they lay there, the lady Augusta came walking through the orchard, the pocket watch swinging from her hand. Dora stiffened, ready to defend Thistle if needed. But Augusta didn’t seem to notice them at all. She walked up to the conservatory, rubbed a sleeve over one of the panes, and looked inside. Staring at the watch in her hand, she twisted the little knob on the side. There was that ticking noise again, and a sense of something shifting, a twitch in the air.

“Look at that,” Augusta murmured.

Dora ruffled Thistle’s hair and stood up. Thistle was dreaming now, eyes moving behind his eyelids. She looked down at him. He should be allowed to sleep for as long as he could. She walked back through the orchard, after Augusta. Augusta would finish Thistle’s pattern soon. What if Dora could find his name? Maybe there was somewhere Thistle hadn’t looked.

As Dora passed through the apple trees, they smelled different, sweeter somehow. Dora touched a red apple hanging from the nearest tree branch. It fell to the ground with a thud. She picked it up. It was bruised, and a worm crawled out of a hole it had made. Dora dropped the apple and continued out of the orchard. The swish of grass against her skirts was loud in the still air.

Dora snuck in behind Augusta’s bower and waited, watching through a crack in the curtains. Inside, the lady sat on the edge of her bed. She hummed a song to herself and drummed an uneven rhythm on the bed frame. Her eyelids were heavy. Eventually, she lay down on the bed without undressing, then crawled in under a rose-colored duvet and closed her eyes. When her breaths had lengthened, Dora went around to the entrance and stepped inside.

Lady Augusta didn’t look so scary in her sleep, tucked under her duvet. Her eyebrows were drawn together, as if she were considering something very hard. The bower was a mess of furniture, clothes, strange ornaments. In the center, a sloped table with some papers. Dora picked one up. It was a sketch of something with bristles and angles. There were more drawings under the first one: contraptions, buildings, something with wings, other things Dora couldn’t name. A paper was covered in curlicued writing that must mean something. Perhaps it was important, but Dora couldn’t read much except for her own name and Thistle’s. None of them were there. She put the paper in her pinafore anyway and looked around. If it wasn’t written down on paper, there must be something else here, somewhere the lady kept Thistle’s name. Could it be engraved on a jewel in a box? Could it be as a breath in a jar? It must be kept very safe. But would she recognize it if she saw it? She had to try.

Augusta shifted in her sleep. Dora gingerly opened the drawers on the vanity, looked under chairs, in the folds of the wall hangings, and even lifted a corner of the mattress on the lady’s bed. She found paint pots and little bird skulls and crystal ornaments, but nothing that looked like a name.

“Dora,” a voice whispered.

It was Thistle. He stood in the doorway and looked at her with wide eyes. He made a come-here motion with his hand. Dora picked her way through the mess and joined him. Thistle tugged at her sleeve. Behind them, Augusta stirred and mumbled something Dora couldn’t hear. Thistle broke into a run. Dora followed him.

When they entered the birch grove, out of sight from the bower, Thistle grabbed Dora’s arms and stared up at her.

“What were you doing?” he hissed.

“I was looking for your name,” Dora said. “I couldn’t find it.”

“I don’t think it’s a thing . If it was a thing, I would have stolen it while she was asleep,” Thistle said. “I think I need her to speak it.”

“Can we make her do that?” Dora asked.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Thistle replied. “I’ve tried to make her say it by accident. I’ve tried to bargain. I’ve tried everything.”

“I could threaten her,” Dora said. “I’m strong. I would do it for you.”

“No, you can’t,” Thistle said. “She would use her voice. She would hurt you.”

“She’s not allowed to,” Dora replied. “They don’t hurt their own kind.”

“She’d do something to you. Please don’t give her the chance.”

Thistle’s eyes were tearing up. Dora could feel her own throat constrict.

“I don’t want you to die. I would be all alone.”

Thistle gave her a thin smile. “We’ll think of something.”

“What will you think of?” someone said.

Next to a birch tree stood a person who hadn’t been there moments before: a very tall woman wrapped in robes and a flowing headscarf that seemed made of shifting shadows. Her long face was the purple shade of storm clouds, and her eyes shone yellow. She smiled, and the smile was sharp and toothy, but not unfriendly.