It was a harder task still to explain to Rami the existence of demons. She was not sure she’d succeeded in that endeavor, for her brother had walked off exasperated and suspicious.
By the time Mrs. Van had helped her dress and styled her hair, she’d made a plan to ask Arthur to drive her down to the miners’ town. She didn’t relish going back there, remembering the angry faces of the villagers, but she also had a purpose. Through Mrs. Van, she had learned the whereabouts of Percival Avon’s old housekeeper, now in the late stages of memory impairment. It was useless to ask any of Martin’s current staff about Percival Avon, because they were all newly hired.
She hoped that the old housekeeper might be triggered to remember any useful information that could help guide their search. In truth, since the disappointment of the crypts, they’d reached an impasse.
She sat on the box seat with Arthur, her hair tucked into a woolen scarf. Arthur’s red nose looked ready to fall off from the chill. She’d asked Theodore Daye to come along as well, hoping that he might take strength from being outside Weavingshaw. His poor face seemed even more gaunt these days, his eyes turning empty within the marbled house.
Sitting beside her, he flickered in and out like a candle. Her heart sank; she’d never allowed herself to worry this much over a ghost.
“Don’t dawdle too long, miss,” Arthur said as he spat out a wad of chewed tobacco onto the ground beside the carriage. “Something’s brewing in that town.”
“I know,” Leena said. She was aware that Arthur had acquaintedhimself with the local alehouse, likely listening to stray pieces of gossip and reporting back to his master. “Is the entire town owned by Mr. Martin?”
“Aye, but they ain’t too fond of him.” Arthur snapped the reins. “I’d sooner sell my mother off, bless the dead, than go down those mine shafts. They’re built on volatile land, but Mr. Martin refuses to reinforce the beams, making the descent real dangerous.” Arthur’s mouth twisted in distaste. “At any moment the caves may give way, burying everyone inside alive. And the air down there is as thin as a fish bone.”
“Are most of the townspeople miners?”
“Aye, ma’am, and a miner’s life is short and starved. And even after, Martin will not suitably compensate for their deaths.”
Leena shivered, feeling not for the first time that poverty still shaped the Algaraans and the Mors in the same way.
“You seem to know a great deal about this mining town, Arthur,” Leena ventured.
He looked away momentarily. “My father was a miner, may the Saints rest his soul.”
Leena was startled, but held her expression well, murmuring the proper words to rest the dead.
Arthur tucked his hat low over the descending cold. “Do not look so crestfallen, ma’am. The townspeople have taken heart from the Algaraan revolution, and not a single one of them has been to the mines in the past few days. Although…” He paused and, after her plea to continue, reluctantly added, “I hear that Martin’s thinking about sending in soldiers to curb any dangerous ideas of revolt.”
Leena’s eyes widened. “Soldiers? For this small town? Isn’t it a little much?”
“This entire country is dynamite,” Arthur said, “waiting for the first spark.”
She thought of her baba, how they’d beaten him down, crushed the spirit of the union to destroy it. “They’ll kill them, Arthur,” Leena whispered. “They’ll kill them for this.”
Arthur patted her shoulder reassuringly. “I reckon they have more fire than you give them credit for, ma’am.” Still seeing the frown on her face, he flashed a silver-toothed smile. “Aye, don’t fret. You’ll be miles away by then. I’m going back tonight myself; the boss wants me to keep an eye on the shop.”
Her safety was not the reason that Leena felt restless, but she refrained from expanding, as they’d almost reached their destination.
The town’s streets were empty.
It was not for Sweeper’s Cough, Leena knew, for the northern towns were too isolated to catch the raging infection.
Only the bakery, the church, and the posting inn were in decent condition. The rest of the houses were dilapidated, the roofs sunken from years of rain, yet the front steps were swept clean and the gables painted. Newspaper lanterns—likely made by the children—hung from the thatched roofs to welcome the winter celebrations. A few curtains shifted as they passed, and small pointed faces peered at them from darkened windows. Nailed onto every door was a single sheet of paper, and Leena read the first line aloud before stopping herself:By Order of the King…
Leena didn’t need to read any more. She wondered how many of the townspeople were literate. She thought of her father being read his prison sentence in a language he could barely understand.
The housekeeper’s cottage was the farthest down the lane. She left Arthur waiting on the street, rolling tobacco, as she went to investigate. Theodore Daye accompanied her, his steps slow and dragging, but he refused to go farther than the porch. The cottage was as run-down as the others, but this one seemed to be suffering a worse form of neglect. The windows were unwashed, the paint flaking. When she knocked on the door, the broken hinges made it swing open of its own accord.
“Who is it?” a croaky voice inquired.
Embarrassed by the intrusion, Leena stepped over the threshold. The cottage had only a single room, with a bed pushed to one side,a cramped kitchen tucked in the corner, and an armchair in which sat a shrunken old woman. It was surprisingly warm inside, with a hearth that boasted a large fire and several logs of wood piled high.
“Who is it?” the lady vaguely asked again.
“My name is Leena Al-Sayer, madam. May I come in?” Leena hovered in the doorway. “I’ve come down from Weavingshaw to ask you a few questions about Lord Avon.”
“You’ve come from the House?” the old woman asked, beckoning her inside, the wordhouseuttered with reverence. “Leena…is that a foreign name?”
