“Maybe he’s fond of midnight executions.”
“I’d take a bet on who’s top of his list.”
“I wish I felt stronger. If they come for us, we’ll fight, right?”
“Of course,” Pie said. “But until they do, why don’t you sleep for a while?”
“You must be kidding.”
“At least stop pacing about.”
“I’ve never been locked up by anybody before. It makes me claustrophobic.”
“One pneuma and you could be out of here,” Pie reminded him.
“Maybe that’s what we should be doing.”
“If we’re pressed. But we’re not yet. For Christ’s sake, lie down.”
Reluctantly, Gentle did so, and despite the anxieties that lay down beside him to whisper in his ear, his body was more interested in rest than their company, and he quickly fell asleep.
He was woken by Pie, who murmured, “You’ve got a visitor.”
He sat up. The cell’s light had been turned off, and had it not been for the smell of oil paint he’d not have known the identity of the man at the door.
“Zacharias. I need your help.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Huzzah is . . . I think she’s going crazy. You’ve got to come.” His whispering voice trembled. So did the hand he laid on Gentle’s arm. “I think she’s dying,” he said.
“If I go, Pie comes too.”
“No, I can’t take that risk.”
“And I can’t take the risk of leaving my friend here,” Gentle said.
“And I can’t take the risk of being found out. If there isn’t somebody in the cell when the guard passes—”
“He’s right,” said Pie. “Go on. Help the child.”
“Is that wise?”
“Compassion’s always wise.”
“All right. But stay awake. We haven’t said our prayers yet. We need both our breaths for that.”
“I understand.”
Gentle slipped out into the passage with Aping, who winced at every click the key made as he locked the door. So did Gentle. The thought of leaving Pie alone in the cell sickened him. But there seemed to be no other choice.
“We may need a doctor’s help,” Gentle said as they crept down the darkened corridors. “I suggest you fetch Scopique from his cell.”
“Is he a doctor?”
“He certainly is.”
“It’s you she’s asking for,” Aping said. “I don’t know why. She just woke up, sobbing and begging me to fetch you. She’s so cold!”
With Aping’s knowledge of how regularly each floor and passageway was patrolled to aid them, they reached Huzzah’s cell without encountering a single guard. The girl wasn’t lying on her bed, as Gentle had expected, but was crouched on the floor, with her head and hands pressed against one of the walls. A single wick burned in a bowl in the middle of the cell, her face unwarmed by its light. Though she registered their appearance with a glance, she didn’t move from the wall, so Gentle went to where she was crouching and did the same. Shudders passed through her body, though her bangs were plastered to her brow with sweat.
“What can you hear?” Gentle asked her.
“She’s not in my dreams any more, Mr. Zacharias,” she said, pronouncing his name with precision, as though the proper naming of the forces around her would offer her some little control over them.
“Where is she?” Gentle inquired.
“She’s outside. I can hear her. Listen.”
He put his head to the wall. There was indeed a murmur in the stone, though he guessed its source was either the asylum’s generator or its furnace rather than the Cradle Lady.
“Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear.”
“She wants to come in,” Huzzah said. “She tried to come in through my dreams, but she couldn’t, so now she’s coming through the wall,”
“Maybe . . . we should move away then,” Gentle said, reaching to put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was icy. “Come on, let me take you back to bed. You’re cold.”
“I was in the sea,” she said, allowing Gentle to put his arms around her and draw her to her feet.
He looked towards Aping and mouthed the word Sco-pique. Seeing his daughter’s frailty, the sergeant went from the door as obediently as a dog, leaving his Huzzah clinging to Gentle. He set her down on the bed and wrapped a blanket around her.