The Crown left without another word. The Heir glanced at us, eyes hidden behind his glasses, and followed her. The door shut, and Carlow sunk to her knees, choking on a scream. Her fists slammed into her table. Creek’s blood was still warm on my hands.
“You asshole!” She kicked him as she had that first day I met them, but this time, he didn’t move. “I can’t be the only one left. I can’t be.”
His ribs crumbled like withered grass. I swallowed. Stay clear, my mother had always said, and focus on doing. I could panic later. The scent of blood filled my nose.
“I’m so—”
“Shut up!” Carlow kicked him again. “Del…”
I flinched, and the quick patter of my heart pounded in my ears. White specks danced before my eyes.
Take my sorrow and anxiety as sacrifice, I prayed to my noblewright. We’ll create something soon.
I had never asked them to save sacrifices for creation and destruction later, but we would need all the help we could get to pull this off. My noblewright passed through me. The world cleared, and my attention sharpened. We had to act.
“Does he have anyone who would want to claim him?” I asked.
“Who would want him?” asked Carlow, rounding on me with bared teeth.
I held up my hands. “We should move him now.”
If we didn’t, he would get stiff and heavy, and if Carlow was the sort of person I thought she was, she would soon have plans for him.
“I can take care of him,” I said, “unless you’ve got an undertaker here.”
They were grieving. I wasn’t. It was the least I could do.
“Carlow,” I said, “do you want to say goodbye?”
“Yeah.” She wiped her face and leaned her forehead against his. “Fuck you for leaving me alone here.”
I found a guard to carry Creek to the healing houses. There was a small building meant for undertakers near it, the stone pool and tools far too nice to waste on the dead. Safia helped, showing me where everything was, and Basil stood watch with Carlow near the door. Neither could stand looking at Creek for long, but they couldn’t leave either. Carlow came while we were draining his blood.
“You don’t want to be here for this,” said Safia.
Carlow sighed, pulled a small bottle of mourning wine from within the pockets of her coat, and nicked the back of her hand. The cork came free with an easy pop. Her blood vanished. The cut remained.
“My father died because he loved me, and his death passed this curse to me,” she said. “Poppy died because I loved her. There is nothing in this world left that can frighten me now.”
“If you’re certain,” I said and cut into Creek’s body with trembling hands.
“He was an ass until two years ago, you know, and then after Poppy died, something changed, like a new person with his face. Too little, too late.” She poured a finger of wine into the water at my feet. “The Crown likes me because I have suffered and my suffering has made me hard, but I don’t want to be. She likes suffering, thinks it makes us strong.”
Carlow stared down at Creek’s corpse and dipped her finger into the water.
“She doesn’t understand me at all. My suffering comes from fear for others, not fear for me,” said Carlow. “All she sees is a suffering girl and kinship. As if the only thing the world has left us as bond is pain. It left its mark, but I’m more than that. We are more than what the world has done to us.”
“I’m sorry.” I did my work with my back to her, hiding the state of Creek’s body with mine. “The court, the council—all the folks running Cynlira right now should—”
“Die,” she whispered.
“—not be ruling over so much as a grocery list,” I said. “She doesn’t like us. She likes us as tools she can use.”
Carlow nodded. “It’s guilt, I think. She wants to have suffered to make her accomplishments seem greater, like pain is a contest and she must be the winner.”
She had suffered. Then, she had taken that suffering and made the rest of us drown in our own while she flourished. So what if she wanted to save me? That still left most of the world dying and dead. The Heir’s apathy would be worlds better than her violence. We could continue with the Door. If we did, the Crown would kill us. If we didn’t, the Door would open.
“Do you remember?” Carlow asked. “All mortals are doors if you pry hard enough.”
Wrist-deep in his chest, I froze. “You want to use Creek to make a new Door?”
Every part of his death would be used—his loss for the Heir and his body for our work.
“His noblewright was a piece of a Noble soul.” She paced around the table, ignoring Safia’s gestures for her not to, and peered into his corpse. “Finally, Del, you’re going to be useful.”
“I’ll prepare him.” I looked at the sparse supplies of the room. “But we’ll need a way to get him to the laboratory.”
“Bring him to the laboratory once you’re done. I’ll figure out how we can test it,” said Carlow.
The Sundered Crown had threatened us all and told us to stop our research, but Carlow had come to this so easily. I grinned.
“That’s a terrible plan. No sense at all.” Safia shook her head and patted Creek’s cold hand. “First, test out small pieces—bone, blood, and flesh to see what works best.”
“Great,” muttered Carlow, “and if it works, we can drag him across the grounds, get caught, and be executed.”
“Come.” Safia washed her hands clean and took Carlow by the arm. “Let’s give Lorena room to work.”
They left me standing in the water I’d washed from Creek. I didn’t mind. I was soaking in the death of their friend, dress knotted around my knees and stockings off. I had nudged Creek toward death, so it was only fair I carry him through it. I placed his heart, two ribs, and a patch of unblemished skin aside. Carlow and he had spent so long trying to create things to stop the Door.
“Maybe it was you all along,” I whispered.
“Doubtful,” said Creek.
I spun around. The room was empty, and Creek’s mouth hadn’t moved. I wiped his blood from my hands.
“Just guilt,” I whispered and finished preparing him. “Rest well, Delmond Creek.”
Carlow and Basil were in the laboratory when I arrived. Basil’s eyes were red, and Carlow’s hands shook. I set the box containing Creek on my desk. Carlow set the bowl of red dirt next to it.
“You destroy some of the granules, and we trap what’s left in different versions of a lockbox made from Creek,” said Carlow. “We’ll see if using the body of a noblewrought keeps the granules from replicating.”
Basil shuddered.
“We create the containers first,” said Carlow, voice flat.
We sat in a circle on the floor, the pieces of Creek and the Door between us, and contracted our noblewrights.
From Creek’s bones, Carlow made a lockbox with one side so thin we could see through it. From his flesh and blood, Basil made a small puzzle box. From his heart, I made a chest no larger than my hand that would seal shut once I closed the lid. For it, I sacrificed some of the last good memories of my mother, and Basil gave up nearly all of their blood. Carlow refused to share her sacrifice. We had to spend two hours recovering after. Our wrights whined and ached.
“Place three granules in each box,” muttered Carlow. “Let’s get this over with.”
She placed three granules into two of the containers. I destroyed all six using Carlow’s blood as sacrifice, and she passed out immediately. The grains went up in smoke as they had every time before, and Basil caught the smoke in their bowl. I locked and sealed the other two. My wrights slumped against me. My awareness of them quieted.
“That’s all I can do today,” I said, voice hoarse.
Basil nodded. “That’s all I think we should do.”
“Did it work?” mumbled Carlow, forehead pressed to the floor.
Basil turned the box over in their hands and passed it to me. “See for yourself.”
I leaned so that Carlow could see inside too.
Inside the box, the black smoke of the destroyed Door pieces writhed and blustered but never reformed into granules. I peeked into my box. None had regenerated.
“Well,” Carlow said, “he was finally good for something.”