Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse (33 page)

Bran stopped, a reaction he could not hide when he heard Baslyn’s words.

"You’re beginning to see it now," Baslyn said. "How is it that I follow you, and you alone? How is it that you are the only one who sees me and hears my voice?"

"You are lying," Bran said, not turning, not wanting to face Baslyn again.

"Why would I lie?" Baslyn said from behind him. "You know the truth. The host for my spirit lies within
your own self.
"

The words startled Bran even as he realized what Baslyn was saying, the sheer terror of such magic being done upon him. It was almost as if he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t hold with the thought it something like it—Baslyn’s spirit being a part of him.

"So unfortunate." Baslyn lifted his head. "I was sure that if our project was discovered, I would be killed; I knew too much to be kept alive. That’s why I had prepared it within you before, as a safeguard, waiting for me to give up my first life." He laughed. "And who could convict you, who would even suspect? My spirit would live on, trapped within you, until the moment when I would emerge with new life."

"I don’t believe it," Bran said, trying to deny Baslyn’s words, turning on him to search his face for any lie, but finding none.

"You had better start believing," Baslyn replied sharply. "You are as bound to this as I am."

The realization of the truth in Baslyn’s words came at Bran like one final, powerful blow being dealt. It was as if Baslyn had just placed him one move away from checkmate, with absolutely no alternatives of escape.

"That’s why your men are so careful," Bran realized. "That’s why they waited so long, for my magic to awaken: for you to come back. If something happens to me, you will die as well."

"And you finally have come to realize it," Baslyn said, his voice like the hiss of a snake. "But there are many things other than death to convince you." A thin smile appeared on his face. "And though I am bound to your being, invisible to others, I see and feel things no mortal can see or feel—" He looked away. "—even those happening across the city."

Bran stared at him. Questions raced through his mind:
What could he mean by that?

The corners of Baslyn’s lips moved an inch, as if suddenly, he had seen something he liked very much. He turned his head and looked into Bran’s eyes again.

"What are you doing?" Bran asked, but Baslyn would say nothing. Fear scraped up Bran’s back like claws coming to rest on his shoulders. "Tell me what is happening!" he demanded, but Baslyn only shook his head.

"Where are the black vans?" Baslyn asked.

The question was sudden, and Bran blinked, unable to think of a reply. It was one he had not expected. He tried not to move, but couldn’t keep himself from glancing down the street: there was no van guarding it anymore. And he couldn’t remember seeing one even earlier, all day. A dire feeling passed over Bran’s skin.

"Where are they? Why were they not following you today?" Baslyn asked again.

"I—I don’t know," Bran stammered.

Baslyn smiled. "They
were
following you, Bran," he said. "All day, everywhere. Every step you took, every turn you made. They were behind you, watching, always following." Baslyn lifted his head. "My time for freedom has just come closer," he said, and then he was gone.

Chapter 27

The Escape of Rosie Tuttle

Midnight came, and the house was finally quiet.

Sewey snored, and Rosie poked one eye open. He gave another, so she slid out of bed and started for the kitchen. Bartley was already wheeling himself up with the dumbwaiter. It was such a tight fit, he looked partially flattened.

"You get the taxi," she whispered after helping him out, and then went to her room to pack.

A while later, she checked the alarm clock beside her bed. Half past one. She stuffed the clock into her bag and rushed around the room, picking up things and trying to make as little noise as possible. She went to the list on her desk. Everything was checked except one final thing.

"
As you walk out,
" she read, "
do not forget the envelope. This is IMPORTANT.
" She crossed her arms. "There he goes, ordering me about. I get away from one Mr. Wilomas only to get married to another."

She heard the sound of a car coming outside.

"There’s my cab!" she said, trying to contain her excitement as she closed the window. She grabbed her bags and the envelope, and was just switching off the lamp when she noticed one last thing, sitting on the dresser. She dropped her bags and rushed to it: a single photograph in a tiny frame. The picture was of her and Bran, standing together. They had taken it on Bran’s birthday the year before.

For a moment she stopped and completely forgot about the car and Bartley. She picked up the photograph and turned it so she could see it straight. Something caught in her throat, but she forced herself to keep her chin high.

"Come now, Rosie," she said. "It’s no time for sad thoughts."

She turned and tried to stuff it into her bags, but try as she could, it just wouldn’t fit.

"Oh, rot," she said to herself. She swiftly covered her mouth.

"Goodness, fifteen years and Sewey finally rubs off on me!" she said with shock. She zipped her bags back up with effort.

"I guess I’ll just have to carry it," she said, tucking it into her pocket. She looked up at her room. It seemed so empty without her things. She shook her head sadly.

"This was a good room," she nodded. "I wonder what strange and interesting people will inhabit it one day."

And with that, she turned, keeping her head high, and started out the door. Her shoes were silent as she went down the stairs. When she got to the bottom, she turned and looked back up, all the way to the top, getting one last look at the place she had called home for so many years. Then she remembered the envelope.

"You," she said, dropping it on the couch, "go here."

She chuckled just a little bit.

"And how I wish I could be here when Sewey finds you," she said to it, and then she turned and marched for the door. But she stopped.

"Wait a minute…" She slowly set her bags down and looked back at the stairs. She bit her lip.

"This is no time to be leaving things undone," she said, and she started back up with slow, intent steps. When she got to the top, she moved for Bran’s ladder and looked up. It was awfully high. But she grabbed the sides of the ladder anyway, hoisting herself up. One step after the other she pulled, until her head went into the attic, and she finally crawled over the edge, her face red with exertion. She wiped her brow and spotted Bran’s bed by the window. He was sleeping.

"Now’s no time to wake him," she said, pulling herself to her feet and slowly walking toward the bed, the boards creaking under her steps. She came to the edge, looking about the room where he had lived for so long, and she looked down at Bran sleeping there. She felt something swelling up inside of her. She was leaving him.

"One day," she whispered, "you will have your very own room, with a new bed and pillows."

She nodded, but she felt her lip trembling. As she stood there, a bit of wind must have rustled through the hole in the window, for the papers on Bran’s desk moved slightly. It caused her to turn and look at the rows of drawings tacked to the board next to his bed, and her eyes presently fell on the one that was sitting in the middle of his desk. When she saw it, she drew closer.

It was fresh and unfinished, the pencil sitting next to it as if Bran had intended to complete it in the morning or had stopped abruptly in the middle of his work. The words written on the paper were what brought Rosie to look closer, and what brought tears to her eyes.

TO

BARTLEY AND ROSIE

ON YOUR WEDDING DAY

The letter B was large, just like on all her letters from Bartley, with what looked to be dim markings of flames on its edges that Bran had tried to erase. Below the words was a penciled silhouette of two people holding hands, and around the page, the sketching of an unfinished border. It was more beautiful to Rosie than any priceless painting in the world.

"And one day, you shall have the best drawing paper money can buy," she said, though her voice was choked so much they hardly came out. Quietly, she reached into her pocket, and pulled the photograph of her and Bran out; and with one last look at it, she set it on Bran’s desk, taking the drawing and holding it close. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

"There, that’s good-bye for now," she whispered, and a tear started to fall from her other eye, but she wiped it away and started for the ladder, holding the paper. She stopped once, looked back at Bran, and then disappeared into the darkness.

If she had stayed a second more, she would have seen a tear go down the side of Bran’s face, though he didn’t move until the room was silent again. And she was gone.

Bran opened his eyes—awake, as he had been minutes earlier when he had heard Rosie coming up the ladder. He heard the cab pulling from the house. He hadn’t slept any, and probably wouldn’t sleep at all that night.

He sat up, wiping the edges of his eyes. He couldn’t be that way. He tried to tell himself that she was happy, that she would come back sometime, but nothing could ease the pain away. The air in the house seemed to whisper to him, making him wish that Rosie would come back and he would hear her voice in the doorway or cooking downstairs or bringing in the newspaper.

But nothing happened. All was silent. The house felt dead.

He looked toward his desk, where Rosie had taken the drawing he had been making for them. In its place, he saw the silver frame of a small photograph, and slowly he reached for it.

He remembered when the photo had been taken. She had preoccupied the Wilomases with a special dinner party at the Mayor’s Palace and had brought Bran out for ice cream on his birthday. It was the most anyone had done for him, as simple as it was, but it was something a mother would have done, if Bran had one. And Rosie had been more a mother to him than anyone else…until the time had come for her to leave.

Bran looked at the photograph again, and, unable to hold the tears in any longer, he fell to his knees next to the bed, clutching the picture. In a rage, he pulled at the magic inside of him, suddenly and viciously. He reached and tore his pillow into pieces, feeling magic coursing through his arms. He grabbed another and tore it also, sending shreds over the bed and onto the floor. His eyes fell onto the photograph next, and he reached to break it also. But the moment his hand touched it he saw Rosie’s face in it again, smiling back at him, and immediately his anger was brought to nothing, and he fell against the bed and cried against the side.

He felt a cold hand on his shoulder, and didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

"There, there," he heard Baslyn’s voice, comforting him, the iciness of his fingertips like a sting against his skin. Bran went silent, feeling Baslyn near him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Why have you done this?" Bran hissed, not looking up. Baslyn was silent. "My mother’s gone," Bran said. "Now Rosie’s gone. And you have cursed me."

"I have not cursed you," Baslyn said. "Your curse comes from your own mother."

Baslyn stroked his shoulder, a chilling touch that Bran could not bring himself to push away.

"Every day, I grow stronger," Baslyn said. "And every day, you grow weaker." He turned to walk away, and as he moved, his form left no reflection in the mirror over Bran’s dresser. He stopped in the doorway and turned slightly to look back at Bran.

"It’s like Polland said," Baslyn whispered. "There are only two ways to get rid of me: either you return my spirit to my body, or you must die and take me with you."

Bran clenched his teeth together. "I’m going to Adi. She’ll find a way to get you out."

Baslyn gave a small, evil smile, knowingly, as if he could see the turmoil within Bran.

"Why don’t you answer that first," Baslyn said, nodding his head toward Bran. And in that same moment, Bran heard a sudden buzzing sound. It took him by surprise, so that he jerked upward, looking about, and he saw a soft light coming from the top of his dresser. He rushed to his feet, and saw in an instant that it was Joris’s cell phone, the screen all lit up. It was shaking; someone was calling.

Bran looked back up, but Baslyn was gone. The screen on the phone flashed again insistently, and Bran finally grabbed it, shakily flipping it open and putting it to his ear.

"H-hello?" he asked, his voice cracking. There was silence on the other end, almost as if whoever was calling had hung up. He could hear something humming lowly in the background.

"Hello, Bran," a voice said. "I see you made it back from the tavern?"

"Joris," Bran hissed, instantly recognizing the voice of the man who was searching for him.

"Bran," Joris said with fake surprise. "I do believe you have something of mine in your hand."

"What do you want?" Bran demanded, tightening his jaw and keeping his voice to a whisper. He was on his guard. He slid down next to the bed, pressing his back against the side.

"What do I want?" Joris said. "All I want is my phone back, and for you to bring it to me."

"I don’t think so," Bran whispered, reaching to hang up the line.

"Oh you won’t?" Joris stopped him, and the catch behind his voice caused Bran to stop.

"But your friend was so insistent," Joris said. "She very much wants you to come over and see me face-to-face again."

Bran’s grip on the cell phone tightened. "What, who is it? Who do you have?"

His palms were sweating against the cell phone, the side of his face hot from pressing it against his ear. Joris was quiet for a few seconds, moving somewhere.

"Let’s have her invite you herself," Joris said. Bran heard the phone slide next to someone.

"H-hello, Bran," came a voice. Bran closed his eyes.

"Astara?" he whispered, but before she could reply, he heard the phone pulled away.