The candles in Emily's room burned low as the evening dragged on, melted wax dripping onto the floor opposite of the worn mattress that served as a bed. Shadows danced along the walls and crouched in the corners, threatening to completely consume the room and plunge everything into darkness. Emily was crouched by a candleholder, which held three burning candles, in a corner between the wall and a makeshift partition constructed from an old, soiled mattress stuffed into a broken bed frame turned on its side. With a biscuit from supper in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, Emily raced to finish her last painting of the evening in the dimming light, frowning down at her paper with her thin blanket draped over her shoulders.
Seven months. That was how long Emily had been here, trapped in this room with no way to leave and nowhere to go. Seven months since Emily last saw Corvo, seven months since the man in red hurt Mother and the masked men in black took Emily away, bringing her to this place—the Golden Cat, she learned it was called—and leaving her here with Madam Prudence and the Twins and the fancy-dressed ladies, with only her dreams and her art and her loneliness to keep her company. If it weren't for the kindness of the fancy-dressed lady who told her the date every morning with breakfast, Emily would've lost track of time long ago.
Emily wished that the ladies who brought her breakfast and lunch could stay longer, that they could talk with her more or draw with her. But they didn't. They couldn't. That was the rule; nobody was to visit her outside of mealtime, and nobody was allowed to stay for longer than strictly necessary. Not the ladies who brought meals and lit Emily's candles and changed out her chamberpot; not Madam Prudence, who brought supper in the evening and paints and paper when Emily was out of art supplies; not the Twins, Morgan and Custis, as the Madam called them, who came very rarely to begin with. Not that Emily even liked the Madam or the Twins; the Twins were rude and said cruel things, and while the Madam was civil, she was cold and always had a condescending edge to her voice. Emily suspected that the Madam didn't like children.
In the hours between the receptions of meals, there was little else for Emily to do besides sleep and paint. In the beginning, Emily would paint pictures of the things she saw here; the yellow cat that adorned the posters around this place, the pretty outfits of the fancy-dressed ladies, Madam Prudence's favorite purple silk pants and the cold smiles of the Twins. She tried to express in her art the chill that seemed to permanently linger in her room, the smell of perfume that would waft in from the hall whenever someone opened her door, the strange sounds that would sometimes rise from the floorboards and the whispers that came from the rooms of the fancy-dressed ladies at night. Now, as the loneliness took a stronger hold on her and the homesickness crept into her heart, Emily painted pictures of Mother and Corvo, trying to remember their faces and the way they smiled.
Madam Prudence said that Mother was dead, but Emily didn't want to believe it. The Twins said that Corvo was dead, too, and Emily didn't want to believe that, either. Mother had to have gotten better; she had Sokolov, who could heal and cure anyone and anything, and she had Corvo, who could protect her while she got better. Maybe Corvo even found the man in red and his masked friends and sent them to prison while Mother recovered so that she could be even safer. There had to be a way for Mother to have gotten better. And Corvo… Corvo couldn't be dead. He was too strong to die. The Twins said that Corvo had his head chopped off in prison, but Emily knew that couldn't have been true. She felt it in her heart, a deep ache that never seemed to leave. The Twins spoke nonsense; there was no reason for Corvo to have gone to prison. He never hurt anybody, and he never would, unless they tried to hurt Mother or Emily. He hated hurting people.
And so, Emily waited. All these months, Emily waited. She would paint and eat and paint some more and look up at the door and wait and hope that one day, Corvo would come through the doorway. She hoped that he would take her away from this place, away from the Golden Cat and Madam Prudence and the Twins, so that they could go back home to Mother. She hoped that everything would go back to normal and that she would never have to worry about the Twins or the man in red ever again. Twice, Emily tried to run out and find Corvo herself, so that he could see her and take her home. Both times, Emily was caught; once by the Twins, who yelled vile, vile things as they dragged Emily back up to her room, and once by the Madam, who silently grasped Emily's arm in a steely, painfully tight grip and escorted her to her room, the tips of her fingers leaving bruises on Emily's arm. Now there was a new rule; Emily's door must always be locked. And locked it was, only opened when someone came to feed her or tend to her candles and chamberpot, the door opened just wide enough for someone to step past the threshold and closed again moments later. Now, all Emily could do was sit and wait and stare at a locked door and pray for Corvo to find her and take her home.
Sometimes, Emily would dream of that day. She would dream that the door would open and Corvo would be there, a smile on his face and arms open wide. He would pick her up and carry her out of this room, out of the Golden Cat, and then they would be at Dunwall Tower where Mother waited. Mother would kiss her cheeks and welcome her home and hug her tight, and Mother and Corvo would never let Emily go again. The masked men in black would never come again and the man in red would never come again.
And sometimes, in her dreams, Mother and Corvo wouldn't be smiling. Sometimes, Emily dreamed of that day seven months ago, when the masked men in black came and attacked them in the pavilion, when the man in red hurt Mother. Instead of smiles, there would be screams. Screams and blood and panic, Emily's blood running cold and tears burning in her eyes as she cried out for Mother, helpless as one of the masked men grabbed her, the sound of disturbed air signaling his presence. Emily woke from these dreams crying, her cheeks wet with tears and whimpers sounding deep in her throat, the darkness of her room suffocating her despite feeling so vast, so lonely. It was these nights when Emily believed, in some dark corner of her mind, that Mother and Corvo really were dead. It was these nights when Emily felt the hope in her heart slowly start to ebb away. It was these nights when Emily felt that if Mother and Corvo were dead, then she should be dead, too.
Sometimes, Mother and Corvo weren't in Emily's dreams at all. Instead, Emily would float in a vast expanse of nothingness, lonely islands of land and buildings and meaningless, forgotten things scattered across a periwinkle sky. These dreams were filled with the mournful songs of whales, which swam slowly in the distance, and the salty taste of the sea, and more often than not, a young man would be there, black mist swirling around his body. He had a face chiseled from ice and eyes blacker than night, and he would talk to Emily. Emily would never answer his questions about Mother or Corvo or the things she'd seen at the Golden Cat or the loneliness in her heart; instead, Emily asked her own questions. She asked the man who he was and why he was here, what he wanted, and each question was met with silence and a knowing smile, the man with black eyes shaking his head.
And sometimes, Emily would dream of him.
He wasn't anybody Emily had seen before. Not Corvo, not the man in red, not the man with black eyes. He was older, older than Corvo, and short. He wore black clothes that made him look like a shadow and he had hair so dark it looked black, his skin brown, almost like Corvo's, but lighter. And he had eyes unlike anything Emily had seen in the past. They weren't black like the black-eyed man's, nor were they impossibly deep and calm like Corvo's brown eyes; they were sharp and cool, like shards of ice plucked from the river during the coldest of the winter months, and they were green and blue, each eye a different color. He never spoke, and only appeared when the sky was periwinkle and if the man with black eyes was absent. He never answered Emily's calls, her questions. Emily asked the man with black eyes about him, but the black-eyed man never said a word, his cool smile only widening. The man with ice-eyes used to appear only rarely, but over time, his appearances became more and more frequent. Now, he dominated Emily's dreams, the air around him filled with a feeling Emily could only describe as urgency.
It was the ice-eyed man who was the subject of Emily's current painting, the child hurrying to finish before the candles burned out. The urgency that she felt around the man in her dreams lingered long after she woke, and even now she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as if he were watching her with those blue-and-green eyes of his. Emily didn't know what the dreams meant, but she knew that they meant something; the man's presence was a message, that much Emily understood—or, at least, she hoped she understood. Just what he wanted, though, was a mystery. Emily hoped to make sense of the dreams by painting the man; maybe, if she brought him to the waking world, the feelings around him wouldn't be so urgent and confusing.
Emily had worked on this project all day. A pile of discarded papers sat on top of her mattress, all of them rejected attempts at capturing the ice-eyed man's likeness. Emily was only satisfied with her work after supper, and now she rushed to finish the painting before darkness fell over the room and she could do no more. Thankfully, the painting was almost done; the man's clothing and hair were finished, done in black paint, his face done in lightened brown. The world behind him was painted bright blue; Emily couldn't figure out how to mix the few colors she had to make the specific shade of periwinkle she wanted. One eye—the right eye, the blue one—was done, the iris carefully filled in with the same attention Sokolov would give his own paintings, and the nose and mouth were already painted in thick black lines. All that was left was the other eye; the eyes in Emily's paintings were always left for last.
Emily stuffed the last of her biscuit in her mouth, chewing on it as she felt around for her paints. Finding them, she pulled them closer, holding them near the candles to get a better look at the colors. Madam Prudence gave her a rather simple set of paints; white, black, blue, yellow, and red. The five basics. They were in small amounts, much to Emily's frustration, and Madam Prudence refused to get her more colors than the ones Emily had; she claimed that Emily should be happy with what she got. Despite this, Emily could manage with what she was given; Sokolov had taught her how to mix paint so that she could make a rainbow of colors out of just three, as well as how to make different hues and shades with black and white. Briefly, Emily recalled the short lesson Sokolov had given her, holding her paintbrush over the modest palette.
Blue and red make purple, Emily thought, still chewing on her biscuit despite it now being a tasteless mush. Red and yellow make orange…and yellow and blue make green.
A low thump sounded from somewhere in the room just as Emily dipped her paintbrush in the blue paint, the sound just barely loud enough to be heard. Emily paused, ceasing all movement and not looking up from her palette as she listened for any further noise, quickly disappointed by the stretch of silence that followed. With a shrug, she swallowed the last of her biscuit and swirled her paintbrush in the paint, sighing to herself. Just my imagination.
There was another thump, this one louder. Emily lowered her palette, lifting her head and turning towards the source of the sound. That noise was definitely not her imagination, she decided, and nor was the sound that followed: the sound of rustling fabric and limbs scraping against the hardwood, the sound of air being disturbed. Between the gaps where the mattress-bedframe partition failed to conceal anything, Emily thought she saw the air ripple, darken, the center of the room becoming darker than the shadowed corners—
The masked men.
Emily's heart thudded in her chest as she dropped her paintbrush and palette, ducking her head down and almost knocking over the candles in the process. Curling into a tight ball on the floor, Emily squeezed her eyes shut, tightly clasping her hands over her head. She heard the familiar whoosh of air marking the arrival of the masked men, her blood running cold.
Why are they here? Emily felt tears burn in her eyes, her body starting to tremble with fear she struggled to contain. She wanted to scream, to cry out for someone to help her—for Corvo to come find her—but her voice refused to cooperate, nothing but a small whimper wrenching itself from her tightening throat. Why are they here?
She waited for the sound of boots on hardwood, for the sound of heavy breathing through those horrid masks that the men always wore. And with each passing moment, only silence filled the room, undisturbed by any noise for what felt like forever. Slowly, carefully, Emily dared to lift her head, blinking tears from her eyes as she peered through the makeshift partition, her body still shaking. She didn't see the black-clad men in masks she expected; much to her bafflement, Emily instead saw a black shape curled up on the floor, facing away from Emily. It trembled as if it were cold or afraid. Then, it made a noise.
It…groaned?
Emily stared for a few moments, her fear quickly replaced with confusion as she registered what she was seeing. Despite their dark clothes and the fact that Emily couldn't see their face, the child knew that this wasn't one of the masked men. In the dim, dying candlelight, Emily could see that the clothes were all wrong; the jacket the person was wearing wasn't the same as the heavy coats the masked men wore, and they weren't wearing a hood, the back of their head exposed. The masked men never removed their hoods, ever. Slowly, Emily rose to her hands and knees, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and taking a deep breath. The person on the floor wasn't a threat; that much was certain.
But how did they get here?
Emily crawled around the makeshift partition to get a better look, her knees lightly scraping against the hardwood. The form was still trembling and making small, pained noises as if they were hurt. Emily carefully approached them, then stopped a foot or so away from where the person lay, silently watching them for a few moments; at this distance, Emily could see that the person before her was a man, the soft sounds escaping him deep and almost undeniably male. Still, she couldn't see his face; he had his head turned towards the ground, his forehead pressed against the floor. Slowly, hesitantly, Emily reached for the man, resting her hand on his shoulder. The man stiffened at her touch, then relaxed, a shudder passing through his body.
"Mister?" Emily murmured, gently shaking the man's shoulder. "Are you alright?"
The man muttered something, his voice low and words slurred and inaudible. He pulled his shoulder from Emily's grasp, curling into a tighter ball. Emily frowned, leaning slightly closer to him and reaching for his shoulder again, her fingers brushing against the coarse material of his coat. The coat wasn't black; it was more of a dark grey, darkened by stains that Emily couldn't place. It was torn, too, as if someone had taken knives to the back of his coat. The stains were centered on the tears—
Is that blood? Is he bleeding?
"Did someone hurt you?" Emily asked, the child gnawing nervously on her lip when the man, who still trembled, responded with silence. She gently squeezed the man's shoulder, then gasped and withdrew her hand when the man jerked away, hissing through his teeth. Briefly, Emily considered backing away, but she decided against it; this man needed her help, and she still had to find out who he was.
The man grumbled something, louder this time, but still slurred and impossible to understand. Emily dared to lean even closer, keeping her hands firmly planted on the floor in front of her.
"I couldn't hear you."
"Ostav' menya v pokoe," the man hissed, his voice still slurred, yet understandable. Emily's frown deepened; the man was speaking Tyvian, or at least it sounded like he was, and Emily hadn't learned much of it beyond a few polite words. Her tutor had only just started teaching her Tyvian shortly before Emily was taken away.
"Mister, I can't understand you."
The man turned his head, lifting it slightly from the floor. The side of his face was now clearly visible; his brown skin had taken on a sickly pallor and was mottled with dark, angry bruises, streaked with dried blood. Emily's breath hitched in her throat at the sight, a knot twisting in her chest; someone had definitely hurt this man. The man's face contorted in a mixture of pain and irritation as he snarled, his voice hoarse, "Leave me be."
Emily watched as the man dropped his head again, turning as if he were trying to bury his face in the hardwood. The child continued to gnaw on her lip, trying to figure out what to do. This man was hurt badly; she had no doubt now that the stains on the back of his coat were bloodstains. Someone had attacked him, and someone brought him here; maybe it was the masked men after all. But why would they attack someone, then leave that person with Emily? What was the point of that?
Who even is this man?
After a moment's hesitation, Emily crawled around the man, moving so that she was between him and the door his body faced. If the man could hear her, he didn't react, now intent on ignoring the child as she moved around him. It was harder to see the front of the man; he was facing away from the candlelight, and his face was turned towards the floor, his features wreathed in shadow. She could see, however, that whatever was visible of his face was covered in bruises and cuts, dried blood crusted along the angle of his cheek and on what Emily could see of his forehead. He was curled in on himself, so Emily couldn't see the front of his clothes very well, but she saw that while the front of his coat wasn't as cut up as the back, it was almost just as bloody. Emily couldn't tell who the man was, his features hidden from her by shadow and by the fact that his face was turned away.
"Mister?" Emily murmured, the man not reacting to her voice. Ignoring her, it seemed. Emily reached for the man again, gently brushing her fingers against his shoulder. When he didn't react, she pressed her palm against him, fingers curling in the fabric of his bloodied coat. "Who are you?"
The man's lips moved again, though whatever he said was inaudible as he shifted out of Emily's grasp, starting to roll over and away from her. Slowly, the man rolled onto his back, the light from the candles inching across his face the more he turned, revealing more and more of his features—
Emily's breath hitched in her throat.
I know him.
His face was covered with bruises and cuts, and one of his eyes seemed to be swollen shut, but Emily still recognized the man. It was him. The ice-eyed man she'd seen in her dreams, the one she spent all day trying to paint. He wasn't just a dream anymore; he was real, here and breathing and existing in Emily's room. Emily stared at the man, wide-eyed, as he continued to roll over onto his other side, once more facing away from Emily and curling into a tight ball. The child quickly crawled back around so that she faced him again, planting herself before him and leaning down so that she could get a better look at his face, which was once more pressed against the floor.
It's him. He was here. Emily reached for his shoulder again, wanting to touch him again so that she knew that he was really here. Through the material of his coat, the ice-eyed man was warm, his body still shivering, though not as much as it had been before. Emily swallowed the lump in her throat, her heart fluttering in her chest; so this was what the dreams were trying to tell her. This was why they were so urgent, so frequent. The dreams were telling her that the ice-eyed man was coming.
But Emily still didn't know from where, and she still didn't know how, or why.
The ice-eyed man turned his head away from the floor, facing Emily fully. One of his eyes—the blue one, on the right—opened into a tiny sliver, the man peering up at Emily with his brows pulled together and lips twisted in a scowl. " Leave me be," he repeated, his voice hoarse and cracking. Emily drew her hand away from his shoulder, her brows knitting together in worry, and the man's eye closed again, his head turning back towards the floor.
Part of Emily wanted to heed the ice-eyed man's request, to go back to her mattress and blow out the candles and let him rest. Another part of her wanted to stay, determined to help him and find the answers to the questions swirling around in her head. The man's arrival may have answered one question, but it also sparked a flurry of other questions, each one dancing in Emily's mind. How is he here? Why is he here?
Did the Madam know he was coming?
Immediately, Emily recalled the first rule that the Madam and the Twins set into place; outside of feeding her or tending to her other needs, no one was allowed in Emily's room. Not even the Twins or the Madam stayed for long, and the fancy-dressed ladies only stayed for a few fleeting moments. Guests were completely out of the question. Unless that rule had suddenly changed, there was no way the Madam would approve of this man's presence in Emily's room, and it was likely that she didn't even know the man was here in the first place. If the Madam had brought him to stay with Emily, he would've come during the day, or perhaps during supper, with the Madam's supervision—but he hadn't come that way, simply appearing in Emily's room much like the way the masked men in black appeared from thin air, the space around him shuddering and changing with his arrival. If the Madam didn't know that he was coming, and she came and saw him here…
No. The man had only just arrived, his arrival announced by Emily's constant dreams. She had so many questions, and the man was hurt and needed help; she couldn't let the Madam take him away. Not now. Not after seven months of being alone.
But where could I hide him?
Emily turned and stared over her shoulder at the back of the room, gnawing on her lower lip. There were two makeshift partitions that she had made, little room dividers constructed for the sole purpose of giving her some semblance of privacy in this already lonely room. The first was the mattress-and-bedframe partition she'd been sitting behind just a few minutes ago, and the other was constructed of a table turned on its side, an old, worn out side propped up against it. Neither of them did a good job of hiding the back of the room from the door; so much was still exposed, rendering the partitions useless when it came to hiding. There was a desk shoved against the far wall, but that was useless, too; the space underneath, while more than enough space for the ice-eyed man to lay in, would be clearly visible to anyone who walked in the door. The man would be seen immediately.
Emily turned her attention to the curtains hanging above the desk, held up by rather weak curtain rods that could barely handle the weight of the curtains. The curtains were made of a thick, red fabric; perfect for hiding behind, if only they reached down far enough—
Wait. The curtains were long; they were just hung up high, the edges of the fabric just barely touching the surface of the desk. If Emily were able to pull them down, she would be able to drape them over the desk…then the ice-eyed man could hide underneath…
Emily drew a deep breath. She could do this. She would have to do it quickly, before the candles—which were now burning dangerously low—went out, but she could do this.
The man needed to be comfortable under the desk; that was the first thing. Emily rose to her feet, running up to the mattress-bedframe room divider; she needed her own mattress to sleep on, so this one would have to do. Carefully, Emily pried the mattress from the rusty, broken bedframe, wincing as some of the fabric of the mattress tore and the stuffing started to come out. She managed to free the mattress rather quickly, wasting no time in dragging it around the bedframe and up to the desk, careful not to knock over the candleholder on the floor. She shoved the mattress beneath the desk, then kicked at it, making sure that it was completely concealed before turning and running back up to the man on the floor. She crouched down again, firmly grasping the man's shoulder and shaking him gently, trying to ignore the way the man both winced in pain and scowled in irritation.
"Mister, I have a better place for you to rest, but you have to move," Emily said, her voice coming out firmer than intended. The man didn't budge, ignoring her words. "Please," she added, her voice coming out as a low whine, "If you don't move, you'll get in trouble."
Emily drew in a shaky breath as the man's lips twisted in a grin, the expression cold and ironic. He let out a sharp exhale that might've been an attempt at a laugh before wincing, his face crumpling as he gasped in what Emily assumed to be pain. Emily shook the man again, urgently, willing him to move before the candles went out. The room was only getting darker, and if the candles all went out before the man was hidden, it would all be over.
"Please," Emily pleaded. "I want to help you."
A few moments passed before the man turned his head towards Emily again, his blue eye peeking open. He looked up at the child, not scowling this time, though his lips were turned downwards in a frown.
"I promise, I'll leave you alone after you move," Emily whispered. She forced her lips to curve into a smile, attempting to encourage the man into listening. After a few heartbeats, the man grunted, his eye slipping closed again. Emily scooted out of the way as the man rolled over onto his stomach, and then lifted himself to his hands and knees, his body still shaking. Emily felt a stab of pity as the man let out a pained groan; she hated to make him move when all he wanted to do was lie down, but it was for the best. If he stayed where he was and the Madam saw him, he and Emily both would get into a lot of trouble; just how much, Emily didn't want to find out.
"That's it," Emily whispered. The man pushed himself into an upright position on his knees, facing the back of the room. His blue eye peeked open again, his other eye still shut, and the man slowly, carefully, rose to his feet, his legs swaying and ready to crumple beneath him. Emily jumped to her feet and reached for the man's hand, which was gloved in dark brown leather, and took it firmly in her own, gently yet urgently tugging on it.
"This way," she muttered as and started walking to the back of the room, careful not to go so fast as to throw the man off-balance. The man took uneven, staggering steps forward, his knees threatening to give way with each step; when Emily looked up, she could see that the man was staring straight forward, his face grey and set in a determined expression. She thought she saw a few beads of sweat start to form along his forehead, his messy dark hair starting to stick to his skin. A few strands were stuck in the dried blood in a cut along his forehead, the wound long and ugly; he needed tending to, but for now, all Emily could do for him was hide him.
The ice-eyed man's legs finally gave way as soon as they made it to the desk, the man letting out a sigh as he fell to his knees, one hand shooting forward and grasping the edge of the desk, the other tightly squeezing Emily's. The shivers that had started to recede earlier had come back full-force, the man trembling almost violently as he took a few deep breaths, his face twisting in pain with each inhale and exhale. Just walking this far had taken so much out of him; Emily wished that she could do more, that she could help him feel better. But for now, hiding him was more important.
"You can stay under this desk," Emily murmured, glancing back at the candleholder to check how much time they had left. Emily's heart pounded in her chest when she realized that one of them had already burned out; the second and third were soon to follow. The child faced the man beside her again, squeezing his hand. "Please hurry. We don't have much time."
The man slowly pulled his hand from Emily's grasp, releasing the table and returning to his hands and knees. He crawled under the table, feeling around with his gloved hands until they found the mattress Emily had placed there. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, the man crawled on top of the mattress and laid upon it, curling back up into a tight ball and letting out a low, relieved sound.
Emily didn't have time to waste; she rose back to her feet and scrambled on top of the desk, confident that the strong wood would be able to support her weight. All she had to do now was to pull the curtains free and drape them over the desk, hiding the space beneath from anyone who would come in the door. Emily grabbed onto the thick red fabric, tugging on it; the curtain rods bent, but didn't break, the curtains still secure and hanging far too high to be of any good.
"Come on!" Emily pleaded, glancing over her shoulder at the candleholder again. She looked just in time to see the second candle burn out, leaving just one candle with a weak flame, wax dripping down the holder and onto the floor.
No! Panic gripped Emily as she saw the candle burn lower and lower, just moments away from going out. It was now or never. Emily turned back to the curtains, filled with a new burst of energy. With a grunt, she yanked as hard as she could on the curtains, her effort rewarded with a resounding snap as the curtain rods finally broke, the rods and the curtains falling upon the desk. They made a loud noise, but Emily didn't have time to worry about it. The child leapt onto the floor, holding the ends of the curtains in her hands, and threw the thick fabric over the opening beneath the desk, hiding the new occupant underneath.
The final candle went out.
"When will we send Corvo out?"
Havelock took a deep drag of his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a few heartbeats before letting out a slow exhale, the smoke winding up to the ceiling. The former Admiral was sitting at his desk in his quarters, staring up at the ceiling with Overseer Martin standing on the other side of his desk, leaning against it. Martin stared expectantly at Havelock, his fingers lightly drumming against the wood of the desk. Havelock's breakfast sat, untouched, before him, the jellied eels spread over toast pushed as far away from the older man as possible.
"Soon," Havelock muttered, still looking up at the ceiling. The blinds on most of the windows in his quarters were open, and now, early morning light filled the room, eliminating the need for any lamps. The wood stove still burned on the far side of the room near Havelock's bed, warding off the chill of the draft. "As soon as possible. Tomorrow, maybe."
"I still don't trust the information in Campbell's journal," Martin stated, standing up straight and crossing his arms over his chest. "Who knows if she's where we think she is."
"He states her location directly," Havelock pointed out, turning his gaze on Martin as he takes another drag. The Overseer frowned, pursing his lips and staring down at the Black Book, which currently sat on Havelock's desk. The journal was now accompanied by piles of papers, notes and translations on the things hidden within Campbell's journal, organized by date and topic.
"His last update on Emily that we translated was written months ago," Martin responded. Havelock looked back up at the ceiling as Martin continued, "She could've been moved since then, and in the time it took us to translate this, she could've been taken to some completely different location in response to Campbell's death."
"Isn't that more of a reason to send out Corvo now?" Havelock pressed. "There's a chance she's still there, and if she is, we want him to get her before Burrows decides to move her."
Martin huffed. "True. But we aren't even done translating the journal yet; there's still some more entries to go through, and that'll take another day. Maybe two, at most."
"And you think there may be something more there?"
"I think it's possible."
Havelock remained silent for a few moments, thinking. For the past few days, the inner circle of the Loyalists had been hard at work deciphering the contents of Campbell's journal, which was written in code and thus took a little longer to go through and pull important information from. And there was a sea of information in that journal; names, locations, allies to the High Overseer and the Lord Regent, blackmail on other Overseers, secrets of the Abbey that could destroy reputations if uncovered to the public, plans and plots that the Lord Regent had confided in Campbell but had not yet set into motion. There was so much that the Loyalists got, and among all the things they learned was the bit of information that they were looking for: the location of Lady Emily Kaldwin.
Problem was, the last time Campbell had written about her was during the Month of Harvest. It was now the Month of Ice.
Havelock wanted to send Corvo out right away. Martin, on the other hand, wanted to wait and see if Campbell's journal had anything left to offer them about Emily. Despite his desire to get all of this done straight away, Havelock could appreciate why Martin would want to wait; perhaps something had changed in the recent months, especially with the escape of Corvo. It was possible that Burrows could've had the child moved after Corvo's escape, and the Loyalists hadn't found that information yet; they were only just getting into the entries written around the time Corvo escaped from Coldridge. It would be foolish of them to send Corvo out to fetch Emily, only to find out that she had been moved to a completely different location, causing the Loyalists to waste precious time and resources on a mission that yielded no reward.
And, there was another problem. Lord Pendleton's older brothers, who currently held the Pendleton voting bloc in Parliament, were stated by Campbell to be the ones in charge of holding Emily until the time was right for Burrows to uncover her and frame himself as the hero who found the Empress's missing daughter. The fact that the Pendleton twins had power in Parliament was enough to make them potential targets before; now, they practically had red targets painted on their backs, a fact that Treavor knew all too well. From what the younger Pendleton said of his older brothers, Havelock and Martin gathered that the Twins were vile men all around; still, Pendleton didn't like hearing that he might have to order the death of his brothers. In fact, when he first heard that his own brothers were the ones holding Emily, he refused to believe it. He had come to terms with it now, but he still wasn't happy with the circumstances.
"Farley." Martin's voice distracted the former Admiral from his thoughts. Havelock tapped the ashes from his cigarette, then took another drag, his gaze wandering back down to Martin. The Overseer was leaning against the desk again, his weight supported by his hands. He looked expectantly back at Havelock, his expression carefully neutral.
Havelock paused a moment, holding his breath before exhaling another cloud of smoke. "Do you really want to spend more time looking through the journal?" he muttered, glancing at the Black Book sitting on his desk. "Do you really think we can afford that?"
"I'd say it's worth it," Martin responded, standing up straight once more. Havelock pursed his lips, then took one final drag from his cigarette before crushing it in the ashtray sitting beside his lamp.
"Tell Pendleton to get his ass moving, then," Havelock grumbled, glancing out the window. "You want more time? We have two days. Maximum."
When Makarov woke up again, all he could see was darkness.
His lungs no longer burned, nor was his throat tight, each breath coming easier and easier with each passing moment. He no longer felt like there was a fire in his lungs, restricting his breathing and filling his world with pain. His thoughts were no longer a swirl of pain and confusion, and when his eyes opened—both of them, with little effort—he could see that the world around him, like his mind, was blissfully, blessedly empty, filled only with darkness.
Makarov remained still where he was, drawing a slow, deep breath. The air that entered his lungs smelled of dust and dirt, and was stale, as if this place never received a fresh breeze. That was fine. Makarov didn't care. His lungs weren't on fire and he could breathe right. Before, Makarov had taken that for granted. Now, breathing felt like a luxury.
Makarov's eyes slid shut, the Russian letting out a low sigh. There were a few moments of peace, a few moments where his mind remained wonderfully blank, before his memories crept back in from the back of his mind.
Hotel Oasis. Price. The skylight. The cable. Makarov was dead. Well, he should have been dead; he was still breathing, which…shouldn't have been possible, given the circumstances. Or maybe he really was dead, and one still needed air in the afterlife; it felt more believable that Makarov was now in the afterlife. The darkness, the emptiness, the silence and calmness that filled the stale air around him; maybe Makarov had passed on to whatever came after one died. There was still a deep ache settled in his muscles, and while his throat was no longer tight, it was still sore, but despite this, he felt more at peace than he did when he initially woke up, when his world was consumed by agony and confusion, each thought swirling around him in a whirlwind that refused to make any sense. Maybe this was what it was like to be dead.
Then, there were more memories, fleeting and faint, but still there. The voice, the child, the firm hand that never seemed to leave his shoulder and the hand that guided him to this place. That's it. This way. Under this desk. Makarov remembered forcing his limbs to move, the way his legs shook and threatened to collapse from under him with each step he took, the way he crawled until he found something soft to lay on top of. He now registered a musky smell, not as strong as the smell of dust, but still perceptible. He wasn't lying on something cold or hard anymore; Makarov turned his face towards what he was lying on, sniffed, then turned his face away again, his nose wrinkling. The musky smell was coming from whatever it was he was lying on. A cushion, maybe? Or a mattress. An old one.
The child had refused to leave him alone, despite his demands. Makarov was irritated then, but now, he was just happy to have somewhere quiet and soft to lie down in, his body no longer shaking, wracked with pain and the chill that had permeated the air before. Perhaps the child was some spirit that came to ease Makarov's transition from life into death. Maybe the child was a guardian of purgatory or limbo. Maybe they were an angel.
Part of Makarov's mind wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that some spirit or angel helped him here so that he could ease into his existence in the afterlife. Another part of him told him he was being ridiculous. Told him that the child from before wasn't a spirit or an angel or some guardian, that they were just that: a child. Told him that he wasn't in the afterlife, that he wasn't in Heaven or Hell or limbo or purgatory. Part of him told him that he wasn't dead; instead, by some miracle, by some extraordinary act of God or fate or whatever the hell it was that lead him here, Makarov was still alive.
How.
Makarov closed his eyes again, drawing a deep breath. He started to move his limbs, stretching out his legs until his shoes hit something wooden with a light thump. The desk; they hit the end of the desk that the child had guided him under. One of Makarov's hands reached out and brushed against something hard; a wall. Slowly, he shifted onto his other side, opening his eyes again. He reached forward, his fingers pressing against something thick that moved with his touch: fabric. Thick, heavy, like curtains.
There was the sound of fabric rustling, the sound of knees scraping against a floor. The fabric Makarov had been touching shifted, then was pushed completely out of the way, the tips of his fingers meeting empty air. There was no light, but Makarov did feel a presence, the feeling followed by the sensation of something small and warm brushing against, then gently grasping his outstretched hand.
"Mister?" a voice whispered. It was the child's. "Are you awake?"
Makarov didn't respond. He didn't know what to say, and he didn't want to say anything to begin with; instead, he simply pulled his hand from the child's grasp and pressed it against his chest, his eyes sliding shut again. He couldn't see a damn thing; there wasn't a dim light like before to aid his sight. The world around him was completely dark; whatever the source of light had been before, it was gone now.
There was a moment of silence before the sound of rustling fabric and scraping knees returned. Makarov reached out, and once again felt the pressure of heavy fabric against his gloves. The child was gone, returned to whatever dark corner they had come from. That suited Makarov just fine; they may have brought him here, but he didn't owe them his words. Unless they had answers, unless they knew whether Makarov was dead or alive, the child was of no use to him.
Maybe they do know. It's most likely.
Makarov frowned. That thought, despite coming a little late, rang true, and in that case, the child's presence would be useful; still, he wasn't about to ask this child if they were a mortal or a spirit. Not yet, anyway.
There was the sound of something clinging, like metal colliding with metal, and then a loud creak, as if a door were swinging open on hinges that badly needed oiling. There was a deep tapping, like the sound of heels against wood, and another voice.
"Hello?" This voice didn't belong to the child. It was adult, mature, yet gentle. A woman's. Makarov remained still, simply listening; perhaps he could learn where he was that way.
"Good morning!" It was the child's voice this time, followed by the sound of lighter tapping; flat-footed shoes, maybe. The footsteps weren't soft enough to be made by someone barefooted or wearing socks. The child was walking away from the desk, now ignoring Makarov's presence.
"How did you sleep? Oh, the candles! You let them burn all the way down!"
"There was a painting I wanted to finish. Pears and bread this morning? And milk?"
"Yes, we had some extra fruit this morning, so you get two pears instead of one. I'll fetch you some more candles, alright? Bring me the candleholder."
There was the sound of running footsteps approaching the desk, then footsteps heading away to the far end of the room. After a lowly uttered thank you and the sound of heels against hardwood, there was the creak of door hinges again and the sound of a door being shut, the woman leaving to replace the candles that had apparently burned out. So that had been the source of light before, and perhaps the source of the child's worry as well; without the light of the candles, even without the fabric blocking his view, Makarov couldn't see anything, and the child wouldn't have been able to see anything, either.
There was a clink as a glass was set down on wood above Makarov's head, followed by a few dull thuds—the pears, probably. He wouldn't have heard the bread. The child was receiving a meal; breakfast, as indicated by the child's greeting earlier. How much time had passed between when Makarov had initially woken up and now?
There was the rustling of fabric again as the heavy fabric was pushed out of the way. There was a light tapping as if someone's hand was patting the floorboards. Makarov reached out, his fingers finding the back of a smaller hand; it was the child again. The child immediately gripped Makarov's hand, gently squeezing.
"Are you awake now?" the child whispered.
"Yes." Makarov was almost surprised at how hoarse and weak his voice sounded. Almost.
"Good." The child squeezed his hand tighter. "Just stay here, Mister, and please stay quiet like before. I'll tell you when it's okay to talk, alright?"
"Fine." Makarov pulled his hand from the child's grasp again, and he heard fabric rustle as the child left once more.
A few more minutes of silence passed, and then the door opened again, the sound of heels on hardwood returning. There was the sound of flat-footed shoes against hardwood as the child walked away from the desk and up to the source of the high-heeled tapping; the woman was back, finally, presumably with the candles she had promised.
"What's this you've done with the curtains?" the woman asked. Makarov briefly held his breath, wondering what the child's response would be.
"I just…wanted somewhere a bit more private to sleep," the child muttered after a moment's hesitation. "Someplace safer, you know?"
"This room is rather private already, don't you think?"
"I wanted something more private."
"Alright, alright. Enjoy your breakfast, okay? Good day." Heels again, then a creak, then a door closing. Then, finally, silence once again.
The child walked back to where the desk was, pausing a moment to place down the candleholder, Makarov assumed. He was right; his assumption was quickly followed by the sound of something metal tapping against the floorboards, the child letting out a relieved sigh. A few moments of silence passed, and then the child walked up to the desk. There were another few heartbeats where Makarov heard nothing, and then there was the rustle of fabric again, and suddenly, there was light.
It wasn't bright light, but it was enough for Makarov to see. A small hand was holding the fabric—thick, red curtains—out of the way, and through the opening, a face peered through at Makarov. The child. She was a girl, her face small and round with baby fat and framed by dark brown hair that hung just past her jawline, her eyes big and round and a deep, dark brown. She blinked at Makarov, then smiled, the expression warm and genuine.
She reached towards Makarov. In her outstretched palm sat a pear.