The Lady of Chains (Part Two of Five)

When she finally returned to her bedroom that night, Viola found that she wasn't in the mood to explore the tower. She hadn't even bothered to look at the light orb outside her door, which she was still curious about. She was tired and miserable and missing home far too much. But what she did discover was that Mrs Casket had returned at some point. The old woman had left her a book, The Wicked Player's Handbook and a rather nasty letter. Apparently it was Viola's fault that she had been dismissed so abruptly earlier on and whether Viola succeeded in killing the Lady of Chains or not, Mrs Casket was going to give her a 'right good clout across the head'.

Mark my words, girl, the letter said. You've got something awful coming for you and it is going to damn well knock you off your feet.  

"Oh sod off, you old trout," Viola said, ripping the note up into a dozen pieces. She went across to the desk and pulled out the knife, weighing it in her hands again. She sheathed it by her side and pulled her shirt over the top, so that the weapon was properly concealed. Could she really do this? Kill someone?

She straightened up and cleared her throat. "Good morning, my Lady."

Quick as lightening, Viola pulled the knife out and jabbed the air. She sheathed it and did it again and again. She crept up on an unseen assailant and slit their throat. She dodged a blow, ducked and stabbed. She did all these things over and over until she was buckled over, gasping for breath.

"What's this? It's just for buttering scones, my Lady . . ."

She sighed and put the knife back in the drawer, pushing it out of her mind. She went across to Mrs Casket's puzzle collection and looked at the array of boxes with more scrutiny than she had previously done so before.

There were eighty-eight puzzle boxes in total and underneath each one, written in black ink was one word:

Completed.

Viola got the image of Mrs Casket, her lips pursed as she sat, hunched over the desk, bony fingers working overtime as she solved them one by one. But there was another puzzle tucked away at the bottom of the shelf, an eighty-ninth.

It bore no such label.

Hesitantly, Viola picked it up and turned it around in her hands. It was hefty and if it wasn't for the scroll of numbers in the centre and the finger holes at either side, she would have thought that it was some kind of animal trap. She didn't understand how it worked, but took a quill from the desk and stuck it inside.

The dials started to move.

Viola grinned. This was easy.

And then the puzzle box sprang shut, jumping out of Viola's grasp and snapping the quill clean in half. She swore, watching as the mechanical jaws slowly stretched open once more, forming a big, razor-toothed smile. The thing made her skin itch. She removed a shoe and pushed it back against the shelf, daring not to touch it again.      

"I've had enough of this tower. Nothin' here is safe," Viola complained. She took off her clothes, shrugged into a nightdress, rolled her maid uniform into a ball and tossed it into the far corner of the room. She discovered a bottle of gin in a drawer and a box of biscuits and helped herself. Before she'd even so much as glanced at the book Mrs Casket had left, she was sound asleep.

Sometime later Viola woke up. It was the middle of the night and her breath was ragged, her heart racing in her chest, and she had absolutely no idea why.

And then she heard it again.

Arrghhhhhhh!!

The scream went on and on, reverberating throughout the tower.  

Viola had never heard a sound ruptured with such anguish in her life. It didn't even sound human. Before she had left for bed, she'd loosened the lady's chains when the door to the tower was properly secured behind her. There was no way she was going upstairs to check on her—she was too afraid of what she might find.

The following morning, after working the valves and tightening the chains, Viola walked into the lady's room, gummy-eyed and groggy from her lack of sleep. She hovered by the door, feeling the lady's presence rather than seeing her.

It was cold in here, too.

Cold and heavy.

Like something had died and stagnated the air.  

"Good morning, my Lady."

"Good morning, Viola."

Without another word or a glance, she made her way across and pulled back the curtains, greeting the gloomy backdrop. In typical fashion the rain was bucketing down. Breakfast would be arriving shortly via a small freight lift in the corner, and Viola wanted to be organised—well, as organised as she could be at this time of the morning. She grabbed a feather duster and turned around.

And then she froze.

Dotted around the room were bundles of red flowers.

Viola's mouth flapped about before the words finally emerged, "A-a-are these real?"

"As real as you or I," the lady replied.

"They can't . . ."

"I assure you, they can."

"But how? Why? Where? What are—?"

"Take a deep breath, Viola. Exhale. And repeat."

She did just that, but no sooner had she opened her mouth, than the words came out in a rush again, tripping over each other, "How? Why? Where? What are—?"

"You and your questions," the lady sighed. "It doesn't do to be curious about a place which prides itself in being shrouded in secrecy."

But Viola was no longer paying attention as she turned back to the plants. Flowers didn't exist in Greylock. They just didn't. That was the thing about the city; nothing grew apart from brittle grass and tumbles of dragon weed. Even the artificial flowers sold at Bowerstone market were nowhere near as beautiful or as vibrant as these. They sprouted from makeshift plant pots—tea cups, jam jars and even an old shoe—anything the lady could obviously get her hands on.

She couldn't believe this.

This wasn't real.

It wouldn't be, not until—

Viola's fingertips glided over the smooth, waxy leaves right to the very tip and when she leaned forward to inhale, she felt the knot of tension in her head slacken and then she smiled, her first easy smile in a long time.

The lady appeared by her side. "Careful. Even the most precious things are not without their thorns."

"I . . ." Viola didn't know what to say or where to begin. She was curious by nature—and yes, like most curious people, probably far too much for her own good. She had at least a thousand questions burning on the end of her tongue, but before she could ask any of them, she suddenly grew aware of how close the lady was, how intently those steely-blue eyes were regarding her. And for a moment, Viola was afraid. Deathly afraid. In her sluggish state she had neglected to tighten all the chains.

She closed her eyes. Oh, Viola, you absolute prize-winnin' twit. She expected to feel the lady's long fingers around her neck at any moment. But the lady merely came forward, so close that Viola could smell the sweetness of her perfume and feel her breath tickling her ear. And when she spoke, her voice was very low, so low that it was almost a purr. "Forgive me, but you don't look so well, Viola."

Viola thought she was going to pass out then and there. But when she opened her eyes, all she saw was the lady's black shape drifting back across to her chair, chains clinking against the ground.

Afternoon tea took place in silence. The kitchen had sent up an array of sandwiches, jams, butter, fruit scones, cakes and a milky tea in a beautiful china teapot. Viola had never tasted food like it before and struggled not to wolf it down. She sat by the window, listening to the rain patter off the roof, feeling the wind cool against the back of her neck. She liked this type of weather when she was indoors, particularly the smell of the rain. The Lady of Chains sat opposite her. She had barely touched her food and had yet to raise her eyes from the teacup and saucer nestled in her hands.

"Does Mrs Casket know?" Viola said, gesturing to the flowers.

"That depends; do you plan on telling her?"

"No."

"I hide the flowers when she's around. Otherwise she'd have them burned."  

"How'd you get them, my Lady?"

"I grew them."

"Nobody can grow anything."

"Nobody tries."

"Well, where did you get them from?"

The lady looked up and a dreamy sort of smile played across her lips. "I caught the seeds one morning when I was standing by the window. They were blowing in the wind, and I just reached out and scooped them out of the air."

Viola didn't know if the lady was pulling her leg or not. It wasn't unusual for people to try and make a fool out of her—she'd been laughed at most of her life, and had heard every put down under the sun (as well as every threat). But things had been changing recently. Yes, they'd been changing in a big way. And it was one of the reasons why Viola had decided to run away from the brothel.

She looked down at her teacup and sloshed the contents around before taking a sip. Speaking of change, she could remember somebody telling her that the city had altered in a great many ways after the Lady of Chains had tried to destroy it. It wasn't just the flowers and the trees. Animals had also stopped thriving in the wild and in their place something dark and maleficent had taken root. Even the weather, which had been rubbish to begin with, had become worse. But, if the lady had been the cause of all this then surely she'd be able to fix it too?

"Are you a witch?" Viola said quietly.  

"I suppose I could be a witch, but I don't think so. Don't they rely upon spell books and
have warts on the end of their noses?" She smiled. "Or is this your way of telling me, Viola, that I am the owner of the biggest most unsightly wart?"

Viola shook her head. On the contrary, the woman was pretty. Beautiful even. "If you're not a witch, what are you?"

"I'm like you."

"No. You're not."

"Oh, and what is different about me?"

Viola bit into a marzipan cake thoughtfully. "The things you do."

"The things I've done."

Viola shrugged.

"And I'm not sure if they really count," the lady said, sipping her tea.

"Since you can't remember any of it?"

"Exactly."

There was silence then, as thick as the rain clouds outside. Viola picked at her cake, removing the strip of marzipan from the sponge. She didn't buy the idea that the lady's memory had failed on these matters. It all seemed rather convenient to say the least.

"You don't believe me, do you?" the lady said, reading her mind.  

"It's not that I don't believe you. It's just that I don't get it, y'know?"

"Get what?"

"How you can forget."

"This tower is full of voices, Viola. They're crawling behind the walls. They drive me mad most nights. Surely you've heard them?"

"No."

The lady looked down, her face unreadable as Viola's confession sunk in. "Then perhaps I really am mad." Her fingers were moving slowly across the curve of the armrests as if trying to find purchase on something—anything. It was only then that Viola noticed the scars on her left arm, just below her shoulder.

They looked like battle scars, too.  

Viola hadn't brought her knife. She had decided that after such a rubbish night of sleep, there was no point. There was no way she'd be able to concentrate. She'd probably swing for the lady and end up stabbing herself in the eye or something as equally grotesque and stupid. "What's the big deal with the light orbs?"

The lady frowned.

"Mrs Casket said I wasn't to touch them," Viola said.

"Oh. They contain scarabs."

"What are those?"

"Have a look for yourself."

Viola made her way through the chains. The light orbs were humming tunefully, giving off a soft glow. She squinted. Inside, she could see two of the biggest insects she had ever seen, easily bigger than her fist. Their shells were golden and their eyes were like rubies. Instead of thin, spindly legs they had huge pinchers.

"Wow," Viola exclaimed.

"Yes and Mrs Casket asked you to leave them alone with good reason. Scarabs are dangerous. They're surprisingly strong. Aggressive. Once they sink into your skin, they're a bugger to remove."

"How'd they get them into these orb thingies?"

"It's a case of music soothing the savage beast. It relaxes the scarabs. Makes them somewhat docile."

"I can sing," Viola said thoughtfully.

"Would you sing for me?"

Viola could feel herself blush. "Well, I mean . . . I'm not very good . . . sometimes I'll sing for the little ones at the orphanage."

"Oh yes. You grew up there, didn't you?"

"No," Viola said, feeling her skin turn to a deeper shade of shame. "I was born in a brothel. My mother was a prostitute. She died when I was little and I worked there until about a month ago—not as a rent-girl, but doing odd jobs and running errands for the women. Before I turned sixteen, I ran away and went to the orphanage. I was too old, y'know? But they took me in just the same. They didn't have to."

She wanted to stop there. She was never really good at talking about things which mattered, but somehow it felt very important to tell the lady all about it. She told her how the orphanage was falling apart; how it was the only place in Greylock which had felt like home to her; how the children didn't have enough food or clothes to keep warm; how ultimately, if they didn't get their hands on some money soon, it would have to be closed down.

"And that's why I'm here," Viola said, pausing to take a breath.

"You won't earn much as a lady's maid."

"My Lady, I would do everything I could to help those kids."

"I see."

"Everything."

Viola stared at her. She felt weak and shaky at her sudden outburst and wondered if she'd said too much.

And then the lady yawned.

"I'm sorry, my Lady. I didn't mean to bore you with the details," she said pointedly.  
The lady's eyes slid up to meet hers and Viola felt trapped by her gaze. "You're not." And then she lapsed into silence once again and Viola couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking about.

"You're very kind, Viola."

"Nah, I'm not. Not really."

"You are."

"I'm nothing but an idiot. A simpleton."

"On the contrary, I think you're a rather exceptional young woman."
Viola looked down at the cracks on the floor. Nobody had ever said anything like that to her before. She wasn't sure how to react, especially since—

"Take one of the flowers."

Viola's head snapped up. "Are you being bloody serious? I mean, err . . ."

"Yes." The lady smiled, and the gesture creased the corners of her eyes. "You can have one, but you have to promise me that you will keep it safe; don't show it off to just anybody."

"I won't." Viola picked the smallest one, which was sprouting from a chipped teacup. Its leaves were the size of her fingernails and its stem quivered as she exhaled. Nobody had ever given her anything before, either. Especially something as precious as this. With the flower cupped in her hands, she sat back down by the window, feeling a strange kind of pleasure tingling inside her.

"Hide it when Mrs Casket arrives."

"Would she really burn them?"

"Yes. She's—"

"Horrible," Viola said.

"I believe the technical term is 'sadistic bitch'," the lady said, moving a coil of chain down to her wrist so that it wasn't rubbing the welts on her forearm. "Then again, I am nothing if not flexible."

"I've seen her puzzles boxes," Viola said, shaking her head. And then she started to think about the one she'd tried to solve the previous night, the uncompleted eighty-ninth, and how lucky she'd been that she hadn't put her finger inside it. If she had, it would have been snapped clean off.

Imagine that.  

And then a terrible feeling crept over Viola.

She could suddenly see Mrs Casket's stump of a finger wiggling at her, and the nasty sneer behind it. You'll have to watch this one, she'd said, blaming the lady. She bites. And then Viola knew—definitely knew—that there was something more to all of this.

But what?

She tried to push it out her head, the lot of it. Mrs Casket had lied to her. So what? Lots of adults told lies; they sprouted more freely from their mouths than anybody else. But the realisation had come with claws, and Viola couldn't get rid of it. If she'd lied about something like this, what else?  

The lady leaned forward, and Viola could feel the warmth in her gut disappear as something malevolent wormed its way inside. "Are you quite certain we haven't met before?"

Viola's mouth was dry. She shook her head. She shook it for longer than was necessary. No, she wanted to scream. No, we haven't. Your head is scrambled! An' maybe you've been right all along, maybe there is a reason an' somebody has been rooting around in there. An' maybe I'm the only one who can do something about it. She got up and cleared away the dishes, placing them in the lift. She even thought about climbing in amongst them, hoping that by chance somebody would call the lot back down. Then she could make her escape. Then she could—

No.

Nothing worth doing was ever easy, was it?

I can't kill her, Viola thought. And that was the simple truth to the matter, as it had been all along. Viola was a lot of things, but a killer wasn't one of them. For a moment she felt like she wanted to cry. But she swallowed back her emotion, gulped it back like sour milk. She wasn't going to let this tower beat her. Wasn't going to be afraid any longer. And if there were secrets to be found, she would find them.

She turned around. The lady was gazing out of the window, there and not, consumed by something. The sky had gone dark all of a sudden and the light orbs were on, illuminating the broken city before them. Her city, Viola thought. After all, the lady had certainly left her mark more so than anybody else.

Hadn't she?

And then Viola heard them; the steady thud of the officers in the distance. Never more
had their footsteps sounded like an executioner's drumbeat.

"My Lady?"

The Lady of Chains turned around.

"I'm going to do it."

"Do what, Viola?"

"I'm going to find your memories."