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.Piled high, stacks of bookswrapped in cobwebs obscured the legs of a plush velvetviolet armchair that Isobel was sure she d seen somewherebefore.Not here in Varen s attic bedroom, but . . .where? Shecouldn t recall.On a table nearby was an empty birdcage, its white wireseaten by rust, its door held closed by a red, heart-shaped pad-lock.Lining the circular bed of the cage, yellowing scraps ofsheet music peeked through a mixture of mismatched skele-ton keys.An old-fashioned oil lamp, its glass casing cracked andsooty, sat next to the birdcage.Isobel went to the table and, touching the base of thelamp, imagined it lit.In response, a tall flame sprang forthfrom the dried wick, sending a flush of warm amber lightdancing up the peeling walls.Along with several flitteringmoths, the shadows fled to the four corners of the room, thefarthest of which held another sheeted form this one humanKELLY CREAGH  107in shape its white covering untouched by the dust, as if thesecret concealed beneath was the attic s most recent.Forgetting the ghostly suit, Isobel hurried to the form,winding her way between towers of boxes, past a covereddesk and a toppled chandelier.She fell to her knees beside the figure, which lay slumpedagainst the wall, its covered head lolled to one side, the sole ofa single black boot poking out from beneath the sheet.Isobel took one edge of the pristine fabric, but before shecould tear the cover free, she caught sight of line-crackledfingers tipped by blue claws, long and curved.The figure beneath the cloth.It wasn t Varen, as she dfeared, but Scrimshaw.Poe s last remaining Noc.Releasing the cloth, she fumbled to stand, hands leap-ing to cover her mouth, feet forcing her into a retreat.Shestumbled, her heel knocking into something solid a bowl.Ashes filled the shallow dish, which, for an instant, totteredand rattled before settling again.Embedded in the soot, like bits of broken shell in sand,jutted a collection of mismatched porcelain shards.On thelargest, Isobel saw an etching of a woman, her lash-fringedeyes open, but only just.Silence pulsed once more, and Isobel held her breath, herattention locked not on the immobile form beneath the sheet,but on that portrait she recognized as Virginia.Poe s wife.The shard had once occupied the place just over the heartScrimshaw did not possess.And the last time Isobel had seen108 OBLIVI ONit, it had still been intact, though much of the rest of the Nochad been reduced to fragments.Pinfeathers had battled and destroyed Scrimshaw in therose garden while trying to protect Isobel, sustaining enoughdamage to splinter himself apart as well.But now someonehad painstakingly pieced the blue Noc back together.Isobel s gaze returned to Scrimshaw s clawed hand and shewondered why.For what purpose? And was it possible the shard etchedwith Virginia s image was being held in reserve, the final puzzlepiece that would restore the reconstructed monster to life?Isobel didn t know.But she didn t want to find out, either.If Scrimshaw awoke to see . . .if he discovered that shewasn t just a dream . . .Fighting her rising panic, Isobel searched for an exit.Shespotted the narrow door, its surface marred with ominousscratches, and began to wind her way toward it, navigating inbackward steps in order to keep the Noc in her sights thetips of those indigo claws that were still poking out from thecorner of cloth she d dared to lift.Then, at the sound of humming, she froze.Someone else was in the room with her a woman.The song, slow and soft, was one Isobel knew.Varen s lullaby.Isobel stalled her breathing to listen, but just as quickly asthe melody had begun, it halted.She scanned the cluttered room, her sight settling finallyon an old dressing screen unfolded in front of the windowthat, in the real world, led out onto the fire escape.KELLY CREAGH  109Squinting, Isobel focused on one of the narrow gapsbetween the hinged panels.She could see someone there, sitting on the other side.As she inched forward, she reluctantly let Scrimshaw sdraped form slide out of her view.Peeking around the screen,she found a woman seated in a cloth-covered chair.Except, Isobel realized with grim fascination, the figurewasn t a woman at all.With seeming disinterest, the life-size doll stared outthrough the slats of the shuttered window, her eyes lazy andhalf-lidded, curled lashes throwing long spidery shadowsover her rouged cheeks.Cobwebs swathed her narrow frame, clinging to themoth-eaten frills of her lavender gown.Frizzed wisps of ash-blond hair framed her somber, crackled-paint features, whilea familiar purple rhinestone comb secured a loose bun at thebase of her neck.Isobel slipped behind the screen, floorboards whining asshe drew nearer for a better look.Triggered by her motions,the brass windup key protruding from the figurine s backtwitched into motion.The key unwound, twisting the cob-webs with it as it rotated, and the humming started again.Isobel grasped the brass key and held it steady, halting thewoman s voice.She checked over her shoulder again and could just makeout the edge of the boot still sticking out from the sheet.Theblue claws, too.Isobel looked back to the doll.110 OBLIVI ONSift through his darkness, Reynolds had told her.Was that what this place was?Crouching in front of the doll, Isobel searched her fixedfeatures for some answer.Madeline, Isobel thought.Varen s mother [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]