The Shepherd of Weeds (4 page)

“Now, divine,” they ordered
.

Surrendering, Fifi sloshed the contents around the dented cup and threw them to the ground. Staring intently, she avoided her sisters
.

An uninspired moment passed. Then suddenly, to both Lola and Gigi’s great astonishment, Fifi was seized with a rolling shudder—followed by another, more powerful one, after which she appeared frozen in place. The shock of this fit caused her mouth to drop open, a dark hole among the erupting mushrooms upon her face, her knees locked in an indelicate squat where she had bent to examine the earth
.

For a stunned moment, the only sound was the hiss of the fire. Then, at once, Lola and Gigi overcame their surprise and rushed to their ailing sister’s side
.

“Fifi!” they called. “Fifi—what has happened?”

“Awaken! Blink, dear, if you can hear us!”

There was no response
.

After a minute of continued quiet from Fifi, a different tone from Lola—a suspicious one. “Fifi! Stop this charade at once! When I suggested you apply yourself more diligently to your tea-leaf readings, I hardly had
this
in mind.…”

The small walled garden in which they had settled was silent, which made the slap delivered by Lola to her sister’s lumpy cheek that much louder. Lola lowered her blue-veined arm
.

Progress!

Fifi did blink now—her puff face roiled, producing a contorted scowl
.

But before the other two could react, she sputtered. And spoke
.

From Fifi’s misshapen mouth came a single name in a deep baritone
.

She spoke not of Ivy Manx—nor the ancient Prophecy on which they were now called to action—but instead another. A name the three had not dared utter in many, many years. One that, for the Mildew Sisters, was a reminder of their unspeakable past. An unpleasant reminder
.

“Babette!”
Fifi whispered, her voice raspy and dry, and not at all her own
. “Babette is here, and she is coming for us—”

But before she could finish, her other pitiable cheek was met with a forceful slap—this time from Gigi
.

The darkness around them pressed in
.

ost of the putrid candles in the cellar had guttered, and a pungent smoke was all that remained in the unusual half darkness. Thick snores punctuated the parlor room above, as Mrs. Mulk succumbed to the effects of her sherry, while below, a pair of hands worked quietly, feverishly, on the hemp rope of the oblong package. The binds were erratic and thoughtless—redundant in their loops and often reversing themselves maddeningly. But the small hands were patient, and after nearly an hour the rope lay in a cluttered pile and the strange carpet was all that remained between the contents of the package and the rank basement air.

A crooked seam joined the edges of the textile, and large stretches of knotted thread crisscrossed the closure—the work of a maniac with a fishhook. With a loud
rip
, these parted,
and, along with a large waft of concentrated mildew, the sleeping contents of the package were revealed. Inside: a girl with strands of golden hair, skin abnormally pale even in this low light. She wore a tragic dress made of the blackest soot.

“Ivy!” the owner of the hands called softly, and then again—this time shaking her sleeping form. “Wake up!” the voice pleaded.

After a moment, Ivy’s eyes did flutter open, but with a blank stare, unrecognizing. A frown. Then nothing, as her heavy eyelids fell closed.

“Ivy Manx,” the girl’s voice whispered. “Listen to me. You have been betrayed. Poisoned! You were given a sleeping potion and brought here—to this awful place. You must wake up! And quickly—Mrs. Mulk will be here soon!” The hands carefully smoothed Ivy’s untidy hair.

It was useless. Ivy’s sleep was deep and profound.

And in it, she dreamed.

Currently, Ivy was hearing distant chatter. Bird chatter—annoying and insistent. She scowled. Her mind rolled over, and to escape the intrusion, she burrowed farther into the dark and springy loam that cradled her in her deep sleep. She pulled a dreamy cloak of woven grass and dried leaves over her head and sighed. The earth was her domain! She had found a restful place finally, no heavy expectations upon her shoulders here, no Prophecies, no voices.

Except the one.

When it arrived, peaceful slumber became a nightmare.

Where are you, my child?
came the harsh whisper. A rolling hot wind accompanied it—sickening, poisonous. Ivy held her breath, hiding in her resting spot.

You cannot stray, you know. You and I are one—you shall see. I will find you. There is no escape—no escape from me. From Kingmaker!

The voice. It was her father’s. She knew it at once. He had found her—here even, beneath the earth! She knew something else, too. He was right. There was nowhere she could go that he would not find her.

But in the distance, that bird.

A chatty bird—it refused to hush. In fact, it was louder now, and it was drowning out her father’s despicable rant. And the creature’s song! Persistent and vital, it sang of strange things, of broken enchantments and drifting ash.

The bird was singing her name, over and over.

“Ivy Manx,” it crowed. “Ivy Manx! Wake up!”

Suddenly Ivy was overwhelmed with the vision of her old friend Axlerod—an awful image of the trestleman locked away in a cage, forgotten. Dying.

Ivy struggled to open her eyes, battling furiously against the deep desire to sleep. She forced her mind to retreat from its earthy hole, the deep blanket of crumbling leaves and soil it
had fashioned for her nest of artificial slumber. She moved endless piles of earth and her breath felt stale.

With a gasp, she sat up—awake.

But where was the bird? It was not here. Someone else was calling her name softly, shaking her shoulders, chasing the poisoned sleep away. It was a girl—a pale and sickly girl wearing a filthy robe.

Ivy blinked. Where she was, she had no idea. But she knew one thing: the girl before her was completely and utterly familiar.

“Rue!” Ivy gasped. Rue had saved her life at the Tasters’ Guild, leading her to the safety of her grandfather’s compound after Ivy had been publicly poisoned in the infamous class of Irresistible Meals. Ivy never saw her again, having escaped her father’s clutches into Pimcaux. Judging by appearances, Rue had not fared well. She was thin and drawn, her smooth skin a host to blooms of some sort of angry red rash.

“Rue—what’s
happened
to you?”

Rue shook her head, looking over her shoulder in a panic. “Not now. Listen to me carefully. You are in an orphanage—”

“An orphanage?” Ivy allowed herself a moment of pleasant contemplation of a world without her parents.

“Not just any orphanage,” Rue growled. “The Wayward Home for Indigent Orphans and Invalid Hotel. The oldest and worst orphanage ever built!”

“That’s quite a distinction!” Ivy smiled.

From upstairs an unsteady clatter of heels upon the thin floorboards, and Rue’s whisper abruptly stopped. A creaking as the door to the basement was thrown open, and a stretch of anemic light hit the stairs.

“Rue?” Ivy looked for her friend, but she was suddenly alone.

Mrs. Mulk was not long on the uneven steps—this was a trip she made often, and in any variety of the teetering footwear that she favored. Something was most certainly amiss with her delivery. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she heard a voice from the floor.

“Oh, hello,” Ivy said sweetly. “May I trouble you for a glass of water?”

rs. Mulk spun around to the package, which was now unwrapped and transformed into her newest charge.

“What did you say?” Her voice was that of an opera singer’s after a strenuous performance, high and wavery. Her lips, from where the voice emerged, were penciled dramatically and smothered in a savage pink.

“I’m parched!” Ivy explained. Indeed, whatever potion she had been given had made her mouth dry and stale, and left behind the taste of bog. “Is there any water around here?” she repeated.

“You little savage!” Mrs. Mulk drew herself up to full size. “Where are your manners?”

“Sorry. May I
please
have some water?” Ivy smiled her most endearing smile—one that charmed nearly everyone—but it
faded quickly when she saw the look upon the woman’s plump face.

Mrs. Mulk inspected this new, pitiful creature before her with interest. Flux had told her the child was a special one. But if looks were anything (and to Mrs. Mulk they were
everything
), there was some mistake. The orphan’s hair was wild and uncombed, her fingernails ragged and dirty. But the carpet she came in was salvageable. Wrinkling her nose at the stench of mildew, Mrs. Mulk decided it would make a fine blanket for one of the children in her care.

The caretaker drew herself up.

“Well, orphan,” Mrs. Mulk said. (She addressed all her charges thusly—even the invalids.) “Which is it?”

“Which is what?” Ivy wondered.

“Don’t take that tone with me, orphan! Do you have the power to heal? Or, is it like I said, that all children are born liars?” Mrs. Mulk challenged.

Ivy blinked.

The custodian noticed that the creature’s face had a strange pallor and her eyes were flecked with glittering gold.

“All of Caux is clamoring about your supposed healing powers. ‘Child of the Prophecy,’ ” Mrs. Mulk scoffed. “You’ve got everyone fooled—but me. Those who expect the return of the old King will soon be disappointed, if I have anything to do about it.”

“I am
not
an orphan.” Ivy narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Mulk.

“Indeed?” She’d heard that one before.

Mrs. Mulk turned to go, but as she did, a strange look passed over the woman’s face—a niggling thought of a lost opportunity.

“Although … I am nothing if not fair.”

“I can see that,” Ivy lied.

Mrs. Mulk leaned in then, her ravaged skin and rouged cheeks aflame with desire. “I will give you one chance.”

“For what?”

Mrs. Mulk’s words were coming quickly now. “I’ll give you one chance to prove yourself. Make me young again. Use your powers and restore my youth. Do it—and I’ll free you. You, and that bag of bones that’s hiding behind the stairs.” Mrs. Mulk wheeled about, pointing at Rue’s hiding place. Rue stood, frozen and panicked, and Ivy’s heart sank.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Ivy whispered. Even if she wanted to, she could not chance a cure—for every time she did, she found herself in her father’s Mind Garden. The risk was too great.

“Just as I thought.”

Satisfied that she had proven yet again that children were nothing if not worthless, the custodian stepped nearer to Ivy. Mrs. Mulk brushed her hands together briskly as if the entire matter was dismissed, and peered closer at the tedious, conniving creature.

The child was wearing a tattered dress the color of a
gravestone’s shadow. Mrs. Mulk could tell that at one time it had been a desirable, expensive frock, the product of fancy tailoring and unique lace, and this realization caused a deep surge of envy to bound about her insides. Yet the dress had seen better days and appeared to be falling apart at the seams—the girl could obviously not be relied upon to maintain it. One of the girl’s shoulders was exposed where the dress had failed. An old family heirloom, she decided. Perfect for the Boil Pile.

“You will tender that dress to me, young lady,” Mrs. Mulk informed Ivy. “The orphans in my home wear this.” She produced a gray flannel rag with a pair of armholes.

“But I’m not an—”

“Hand it over. It’s going to the Boil Pile.”

The history of Ivy’s dress now bears a moment of reflection.

The unusual fabric from which it was sewn is unknown, but its origins are not. Ivy received this dress in an encounter with her father, Vidal Verjouce, in his abominable Mind Garden. His carefully manicured retreat had been laid waste by his appalling desire for a potent and despicable weed, once thought extinct. To consult
The Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux
for a further explanation, a careful reader would soon realize this weed was known by two names. Kingmaker—for those who had fallen under its spell. And scourge bracken—for those who had yet to. Furthermore, Axle wrote, it was just a matter of time before you
would
fall—succumbing to
parched dreams of brutal domination—for scourge bracken would stop at nothing, calling to it ever more power for its evil designs, until all of Caux was laid waste.