F is for fawning, false, and for fake, who lives to be liked by those that he hates.
—The Unlikable Alphabet, a Primer for Children by Anon.
Byron held his gloves lightly, not choked up in a fist, but pinched precisely between thumb and forefinger as a reader might hold a book or a doorman the brim of his cap. He’d learned the mannerism from a powerful man, an admiral from some ambitious ringdom, who’d once visited the Sphinx to beg for a military advantage he would not receive. The admiral punctuated his arguments by slapping his gloves into his palm, and then, in a fit of frustration, the side of his leg. It was quite a display of authority and disdain, which was only a little diminished by his summary expulsion.
The trouble was, Byron never knew what to do with his hands. Or his feet, for that matter. Or any of it. Especially at first. It had taken him two humiliating months to learn to walk. That was when he could still remember what it was like to bound along on four strong legs. While acclimating to his new man-shaped shell, he’d been so terribly awkward that every visitor felt obliged to point it out. The way he moved, stiffly, lurchingly, swinging his arms too wide or holding them too firmly to his sides, was apparently the very pinnacle of comedic entertainment.
Making a concerted effort to improve, he began to collect a repertoire of mannerisms for an array of occasions.
This morning, he had hoped to project authority, self-possession, and the sort of fatalistic stoicism unique to men in uniform. Instead, before he’d even had a chance to snap his gloves upon his hand, Edith had announced that Adam was gone.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Escaped. Run away. Scarpered off,” Edith said. “He has departed the premises.” She realized she was feeling a little punchy.
Byron squinted at her. She looked terrible, even by her marginal standards. Her slate-colored hair only needed a pair of birds to make it a perfect nest. Her eyes were raw and underscored with bruises. Her broad lips were chapped; her blouse, knotted at one sleeve, was in desperate need of a launderer at the least and an arsonist at the most. It seemed a shame to him, because he suspected she could be attractive, even striking, if she would just make a little effort on her appearance.
“Have you been drinking?” he asked in a tone of delight, though his expression was aghast.
“I had stopped, actually, but if you insist.” Edith tilted the stone jug over her teacup. “I can pour you a snort while I’m at it. Or, if you’d rather save time, I can just throw it on the floor for you. You won’t even have to get it on your costume.”
“You helped him escape,” Byron said, hands now behind his back, an ideal pose for correction and disappointment, though Edith looked resolutely unimpressed. “You took advantage of the master’s hospitality, his trust, to take your sailor out for a little canoodling.”
Edith rallied her self-restraint and set the teacup down to keep from throwing it at the stag’s head. “I won’t have you slandering my crew.”
“It’s not slander, Edith. It’s an accusation based on the evidence at hand. Either Adam took advantage of your dalliance to assist his escape, or you willfully abetted the enemy.”
“The enemy?” Voleta inserted herself into the conversation with a diplomatic laugh. “He’s my brother, Byron. Come now. There’s no need to blow this out of—”
“Miss Voleta,” Byron said, turning to her with a staid and distant expression, one meant to discourage any memory of having seen him with his suspenders off. “You’re appealing to the wrong person. I’m merely a forecaster. You’ll have to make your case to the Sphinx yourself during your next visit.”
Forking her hands into her hair, Edith collected the strays and shaped the rest as best she could. “All right, I’m ready,” she said. “Take me to him.”
If you looked at it, if you really inspected it, the pink wallpaper had a pattern as fine as a fingerprint. Edith had never noticed it before. But marching with Byron ahead of her and the jangling Ferdinand at her back, the corridor took on a merciless clarity. The tattered rugs revealed their frantic mazes, the congested growls and clanks of the elevating hall and the juggernaut seemed to compose a song. She felt the pleasant pressure of a breath, the heart-like throb in her fingertips, all vivid symptoms of a mortal dread. She felt as one marching to the gallows.
She thought of Tom, wandering through the recesses of the Bottomless Library. She and the crew had a routine to distract them, beds to console them, and a stocked kitchen to spoil themselves with. What did he have? A backpack full of cat food? His ghost? His habit? His memories? She recalled the moment he had grabbed her hand inside the Golden Zoo’s elevator, recalled the tense look she had given him, which probably seemed aloof or horrified or otherwise discouraging, though she hadn’t meant it to be. She had only been surprised. He’d done it so naturally.
Byron stumbled ahead of her.
The toe of his boot caught upon a hole in a rug, and he only had time to voice a single startled noise before he crashed onto his knees.
Edith rushed to him without thinking, knelt beside him, and got his arm over her shoulder before he could disagree. They stood together and quickly disentangled.
Byron couldn’t look at her when he thanked her in an emphatic whisper. He pulled on the points of his jacket and continued as before.
But Edith couldn’t stand the silence any longer. Not now. Not so close to the end. “I’m sorry I got you drunk.”
Byron turned his head a fraction. “And for Captain Lee?”
“I thought you liked Lee.”
“Awful man,” Byron said. “I shudder to think of the two of you petting each other over my inebriated sprawl.”
“We absolutely did not do that. I fully admit to pouring the rum, but I wasn’t trying to poison you. How was I to know mechanical stags are allergic to liquor?”
“I thought we were friends,” Byron said in a voice that shivered with emotion. “I thought we were sharing a drink. I was flattered. I didn’t know I was in the way. You could’ve just asked me to leave, to look the other way. Instead you had to humiliate me.”
Edith was flabbergasted. In those early days of her recuperation from the loss of one arm and the addition of another, the stag had never, not once, shown her the slightest shred of kindness. In fact, every time she saw him, they bickered. He called her names, she called him names—back and forth like a pair of cooped-up children. She hadn’t thought anything of it. It was just banter to stave off boredom. But Byron, apparently, had thought they were becoming friends.
“Wait,” Edith said, stopping, forcing Ferdinand to come to a clomping halt behind her. Byron paused but did not turn around. “Why would you ever want me as a friend?”
“It’s nice to be talked to,” he said over his shoulder, adding after a moment, “And you’re not the worst person in the world.” He hurried on before she could imagine what she should say.
It was a room Edith had never been in before, which, in itself, was not very remarkable; the Sphinx’s home was mostly mysterious to her. And yet this chamber seemed especially odd.
The main of it was occupied by a long, brass tank that resembled a silo lain on its side. Quivering, ticking plumbing curled between it and the ceiling. The floor, tiled in white and fitted with drains, would not have been out of place inside an abattoir. The air was warm and thick as a spring mist. It beaded upon the cluster of dials set over the porthole where the Sphinx stood, turning a large socket key as if he were winding up a toy.
Byron seemed to be fighting the animal urge to run.
Edith refused to be afraid. No matter how terribly the Sphinx scolded her, no matter what punishments he threatened, she would be contrite. In the end, she could only hope that he would not deprive himself of a useful subordinate just to begrudge her a second chance. She would have her arm back, Senlin would come home and be captain, and all of this would be put to right.
What else could she believe?
“You look proud of yourself,” the Sphinx said. He moved the key to another bolt in the porthole. Edith realized he was opening it. She was close enough now to feel the warmth of the tank, to see the condensation on the window, the gold light within.
“No, I am horribly ashamed,” Edith said. “I betrayed my oath, I—”
“No, please, Edith, spare me; spare us both. Let’s not carry on like strangers. I know why you did it. You were being sentimental. All you could think was, save the boy! Save the boy! Save him from what? Save him from me.” The Sphinx’s metallic voice squawked like a crow.
“Yes,” Edith said, lifting her chin. She was not ashamed of what she had done—disappointed at the result, perhaps, but not ashamed.
“See, there. Honesty suits you. And I’ll forgive you the boy. The girl is more than enough.”
“I’m sorry?” Edith said.
“The girl. I have taken her under my wing.”
“Voleta?” She felt light-headed. She couldn’t tell whether it was from the closeness of the room or the thought that while she had been busily shielding Adam, his sister had fallen prey to the Sphinx.
“Why are you surprised? Because she is young? Because she is small? Because she is willful? Edith, for someone so … untraditional, you certainly are judgmental.” The Sphinx shifted the socket key to a new bolt.
“I have you to thank for that.”
“Haven’t you outgrown that story yet? Do you honestly believe I did this to you, that I turned the world against you? I did not maim you, my good woman; I made you whole.”
Feeling chastened and drained of her optimism, Edith’s voice sounded thin even to her own ears. “Will you put her in harm’s way?”
“In a heartbeat,” the Sphinx said, pulling the last bolt free of the steel ring. “She wouldn’t love me if I didn’t.”
“Could you pick someone else?”
“No.”
Edith was starting to feel as if she were drowning.
“I’d like to show you something. Come here, Edith. Come look.”
As Edith left his side, Byron pawed one boot on the tiled ground in agitation. The black Sphinx loomed before her, tall as a charmed snake. He opened the porthole and a great hiss of steam fogged the mirror of his face. Edith felt as if she were moving automatically. She set her foot upon the rail that encircled the tank and pulled her face level with the window. Inside, there lay a man, his loins swaddled, his limbs posed in the formal attitude of a corpse. His veins were visible beneath his pale, white skin, and they glowed red as an ember.
The man’s eyes fluttered, struggled open, and then moved to find her. The Red Hand smiled.
Edith’s foot slipped, or her knee unlocked, or the Tower shook beneath her. Whatever the cause, she fell as if bucked from a horse.