Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

‘What was the thing the Architect asked for?’ asked Not-Triss.

‘Something belonging to your brother, and tied to his death, I believe.’ The Shrike shrugged. ‘The Architect never told me much more than that, but I would guess that it was something he needed to fulfil his half of the deal.’

‘That’s…’ Not-Triss thought of the tormented tone of the letters. ‘That was a cruel, horrible trick! He must have known they thought Sebastian would come home! And now he’s trapped somewhere…’ She thought of the way the Crescent family had ruptured and folded in on itself, like a paper hat in the rain. ‘Wasn’t that enough? Why did the Architect kidnap Triss as well? Hadn’t he done enough harm?’

The Shrike looked genuinely surprised by her outburst.

‘The bargain you make is the bargain you make,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If Crescent didn’t heed the wording, more fool him. He wanted to believe a lie, so he did. And maybe there were arguments when he didn’t get what he expected, but he had enough sense to keep his side of the bargain and build the Architect’s designs. Until a few months ago, that is.’

A few more pieces slotted into place. The article in the newspaper. The mysterious conversations Not-Triss had overheard between Piers and Celeste.

‘He stopped building what the Architect wanted, didn’t he?’ she said slowly. ‘He started working on that Meadowsweet suburb instead…’

‘He broke the bargain. ’ The Shrike’s voice was suddenly pure venom, as if he was naming a sin far beyond the pale. Not-Triss remembered the Architect’s reaction when Pen suggesting ‘telling’, and going against the terms of her deal with him. She shuddered as she recalled his wild, child-like loss of control.

That would be breaking our bargain!

‘There’s nothing in this world more likely to drive the Architect insane than that ,’ commented the Shrike. ‘And that’s what he is now, where it comes to the Crescent family. Vengeance is on his mind, pure and simple. He has some plan for young Theresa – something that will see its end in a few days, if you ask me.

‘Because that’s where you come in. He needed you to stand in for little Theresa, just long enough for him to do whatever he plans to do. Now, usually when there’s a switch of this sort, it’s enough to leave an ordinary doll cloaked with a simple glamour… that is to say, a touch of something to fool the eye. The doll doesn’t need to think. If it’s a baby doll it just squalls and asks for food, then withers over the course of a week. If it’s older, it lies there as if it’s in an impenetrable sleep, and wastes away until it dies. But Crescent knows about the Besiders, you see, so the Architect wanted you to be more convincing. Much more convincing.

‘ That one,’ he nodded towards Pen, ‘brought us everything we needed. Diaries to supply memories. Things dear to her sweet sister, all with a power to them. And then I pushed my craft to its limit… and I gave you the power to think. To remember. To believe you were Theresa. To act. To feel. And I cloaked your body of thorns and straw with the most powerful spell I had to make you move and look human. That’s why my dolls here started to move when you drew close. They came within range of the spell. They don’t have a mind the way you do, but they can mimic having one, just while the spell touches them.’

‘So all my memories come from Triss’s diary entries?’ Not-Triss tried not to wonder what would happen if those pages fell out through her sides. ‘But… then I would just remember what was written down, wouldn’t I? I remember more than that – what things looked like and how it felt to be there. I remember… Sebastian.’

‘The diaries were invested with Triss’s memories,’ answered the Shrike. ‘They’re a link, if you like. You only remember events written down in her diaries, but you remember them as she remembers them.

‘There.’ He broke the thread and examined his handiwork. ‘Those seams should hold.’ He gave Not-Triss another shrewd glance. ‘And… I cannot help noticing that there’s matter in those innards that I never put there. Other things belonging to dear Theresa, are they?’

Not-Triss flushed. It had not occurred to her that the objects she had swallowed might be visible to the Shrike through the holes in her side.

‘So that’s how you did it! That’s why you’re still so spry. By now, I thought you’d be flat on your sickbed, barely able to raise your head or talk. Clever girl. Won’t make a difference in the end, of course, but good for you.’

His manner was bright and approving, and an unacknowledged little flame went out in Not-Triss’s heart. He was her maker, but he was not her father. He had the pride of a chef who revels in seeing his masterpiece, but does not care what happens to the remains after the banquet. He would not help her.

‘Triss?’ Pen stared at her. ‘What does he mean, “It won’t make a difference in the end”?’

‘Oh.’ The Shrike looked from one face to the other. ‘How sweet. You haven’t told her, have you?’

‘What does he mean ?’ Pen glared at Not-Triss.

‘I’m afraid she’s not designed to endure,’ the Shrike explained, with a tiny shadow of regret in his voice.

‘I’m falling apart, Pen,’ Not-Triss said quietly. ‘I’m made of pieces, and I’m losing them, little by little. That’s why I’m hungry all the time, and keep losing weight.’

‘ What? ’ For a moment Pen looked totally lost, then she turned on the Shrike. ‘Then… put more stuffing in her! Take bits from them!’ She pointed around at the other dolls.

‘It wouldn’t work,’ the Shrike responded promptly. ‘Sticks and stones may strengthen her bones, but all that is keeping her on her feet is objects closely tied to your real sister. And even that will not help her in two days’ time when the enchantments all run out.’

The rooster squirmed in Not-Triss’s grip and gave a muffled abortive squawk. The Shrike visibly flinched, and cast a glance towards one of the narrow windows.

‘Dawn is coming,’ he muttered urgently. ‘The two of you must go – quickly! If you are here when the sun rises, that bird will give a full-hearted crow and… well… that will be the worst for all of us.’

Remembering the way gravity had started to reassert itself during the cockerel’s crowing spree, Not-Triss had some idea what he meant.

‘Come on, Pen!’ She managed to take the younger girl’s hand again. ‘We’ve got to go.’

‘But… you don’t mean you’ll die in two days, do you?’

‘Pen, please! If we don’t go, we’ll die now !’

As Not-Triss left by the door, Pen in tow, she saw the Shrike lift one hand to his brow. Perhaps it was a lazy sort of salute. Or perhaps he was adjusting his hat.

Outside in the street, some of the restlessness had returned. There was a nervous crackle and rustle, as if everything were made of brown paper and had sensed the fizzle of sparks.

The rooster made another attempt at crowing, and in a reflex of panic Not-Triss squeezed the bundle under her arm like an accordion, cutting the call short and occasioning some very annoyed clucking. Faint rays of light could be seen creeping out of the folds of the cloth, as if Not-Triss was grappling a little swaddled sun.

There was a voiceless whisper from every corner, every cobble. It rose in pitch, in volume, in ferocity and urgency.

Get out! Get out! Get out! GET OUT!

‘Run!’ shouted Not-Triss. She set off at a sprint with Pen beside her. The buildings parted before them, unseen hands pushed at their backs and then snatched them up and bore them on, so that their feet hardly touched the cobbles. The streets were a blur, a distorted mosaic of fleeting faces and clutching fingers… and then the world fell backwards off its chair, there was a sickening second of weightlessness, and they were crashing into a heap on to cold paving stones in a darkened alley.