1' "Alas he is betrayed, and I undone!" '
- William Shakespeare, 'Othello.'
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Chapter Eleven: Undone
The door closed, and Nagira waited until he heard Doujima's footsteps receding down the hall, the heels on her shoes clicking out a staccato rhythm against the floor as she left. He wondered briefly where she was going, but quickly abandoned that thought before it could turn into worry or, worse yet, the desire to follow her. Doujima was smart enough to keep herself safe, and he was too angry with her right now to want to be near her. Back in the quiet stillness of their shared hotel room, with no common enemy to confront in the form of the Witch Queen, the feelings that their earlier argument had awakened, simmering quietly all evening, had risen back to the boiling point.
With a frown that would haven rivaled Amon at his worst, he crossed the room, settling himself into one of the chairs near the window. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and placed it in his mouth, then took out his lighter, but he didn't light it. Instead, he flicked the lighter on and off, watching as the flame sprang to life and died with the movement of his fingers.
Robin.
His anger faded, washed away by a flood of puzzlement. Robin was here, in Venice, and that was enough to throw him for a loop. He couldn't make heads or tails of it; it seemed like too much of a coincidence that she was here when all of this was going on. Then again, the possibility that it was mere chance wasn't entirely out of the question. After all, she had last written to him from Spain; why shouldn't Italy be the next stop on whatever cross-continental joy ride his brother was taking her on?
That brought him to the subject of his brother. Unfortunately, he knew exactly what to think about Amon, and his presence in Venice. From Robin, the chilly reception had been bewildering, but from Amon it had been completely expected. He and Amon were connected, and probably always would be, but there had never been a lot in the way of brotherly love between them, not since they had been children. Sometimes he thought that he saw some slight lingering trace of affection, but it was nearly impossible to tell with Amon.
"Amon is bipolar," he muttered to himself around his unlit cigarette, with what he felt was a well-earned amount of irritation. "Of course, his poles are about this far apart—," here he held up a finger on each hand, with about six inches of space between them, "—but my point still stands." With the hand that wasn't holding the lighter, he formed a puppet, and started speaking a falsetto that sounded nothing like Amon, but was meant to represent him all the same. "'Robin's a witch! Wait, no, she's not; I guess I'll send her to live with my doting and ever-patient older brother. No, never mind, I've changed my mind again, and now believe that Robin is a witch and in need of a good being hunted. I think that I'll stalk her and generally act like a creep until I get a chance to hit my brother over the head with the butt of a gun.'" Ignoring the fact that it had actually been Doujima who had hit him, Nagira dropped both the voice and his hand, raising it a moment later to rub at the back of his head. "Why should now be any different?"
He chuckled.
The tip of the cigarette smoldered as he finally lifted the lighter to it, and he relaxed further back into the chair's overstuffed embrace. Anger and irritation banished by the Amon hand-puppet (not an effect that the real life version had ever had on him), he began to think about the night's events. Fiametta's coy half-lies, Robin and Amon's sudden appearance… it all raised more questions than it answered. Nagira sighed, and ground out his half-smoked cigarette against the windowsill, leaving a dark smudge on the white plaster. There was only one thing to do about it; he had to return to the home of the Witch Queen, and talk to his brother.
Boy oh boy, how he wasn't looking forward to that.
Except… he almost was. There was a part of him that missed goading Amon when the other man wasn't around. With that thought to cheer him, and his ever-present white coat to warm him, he levered himself out of the chair and left the room.
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Plish, plish, went the water as the boat slid through it.
Whir, whir, went the boat's engine.
Thunk, thunk, went Doujima's heart.
This, she thought, with mild annoyance, is getting a little bit ridiculous. She had been under the impression that she and Robin were going to talk on the boat ride to the Bridge of Sighs, but so far the silence with which they had left the office had been continued, not broken. Robin seemed more concerned with the passing water than with any form of conversation or, more importantly, with answering any of the questions that were once again pressed hard against the back of Doujima's teeth with the effort to keep them inside her mouth.
Then again, if I don't start talking, I doubt that she will. "Robin?"
"Hmm?" She dragged her eyes away from the water, and turned to look intently at Doujima.
Doujima would never have admitted it, but it was actually a little disconcerting to have all of Robin's attention focused on her. She cleared her throat awkwardly, and blurted the first question that came to mind, thinking about it only long enough to make sure that this time it wasn't anything concerned with Robin's wardrobe or hair. "Where have you been?"
Robin averted her eyes, and Doujima was almost relieved. "On the run," she said, softly. "We knew, or thought we knew, that SOLOMON had declared us dead, but it was still too risky to settle in one place. They're everywhere."
This time, when Doujima suppressed a shudder, it had nothing to do with the heavy weight of Robin's gaze, and everything to do with her words. "Yes, I see. I did my best to keep them from going after you."
The smile that Robin turned to her was as tentatively sweet as it had always been, a brief gleam of white teeth between slightly parted lips. "I know." For a moment, Doujima looked at her, and wondered that she had thought Robin plain when they had first met. Now, the soft, spare lines of the other woman's face put her in mind of nothing so much as some Renaissance painting of Mary by one of the old Italian masters; Botticelli, perhaps. There was the same serenity in her face, the same core of strength, and it was not a comparison that comforted Doujima because it once again reminded her that SOLOMON had decided to hunt someone whom she was mentally comparing to the Madonna.
Oh, she was in so much trouble.
Robin was looking at her with open puzzlement, reminding Doujima that it had been too long since she had said anything. "What have you and Amon been doing? Just traveling?"
Once again, Robin's eyes slid away from her, and this time it felt like actual avoidance of the question. "Oh. Nothing really important. We've, um, met a lot of interesting people."
"Like Fiametta?"
"Like Fiametta," Robin said, more firmly than Doujima had expected. "I know that she's a bit…"
"Viciously hostile?"
"…yes, but she's really not a bad person. She's been very good to Amon and I." Robin paused, her mouth forming a thoughtfully moue. "I've learned a lot from her. It's just… she doesn't trust you."
Doujima's momentary panic about what, exactly, Fiametta could have been teaching Robin was replaced by amusement at the guilt that colored the girl's last words. After all, Robin had survived months in Nagira's care without corruption; surely she could survive a few weeks with the Witch Queen. As for Fiametta's mistrust of Doujima… "Robin, she's not wrong. I'm not going to betray you, or bring SOLOMON Hunters down on your head, but I am what I am. Fiametta Ganza can't know for sure what's going on in my head, but she knows that I'm an agent of SOLOMON, so she's concerned." This, of course, did not make Doujima like Fiametta any more, but it did make sense. "You trust me, right?" At Robin's hasty nod, she smiled with more cheer and charm than she actually felt and said, "Well, that's all that matters."
"Amon—"
"Has never trusted me, and will never trust me," Doujima said, with a little shrug. She didn't bother to add that Amon's mistrust, unlike Fiametta's, was not entirely unfounded. He had accused her once of selling out her friends, and he had been right. To his mind, what was to keep her from doing so again? "As long as he's not about to shoot me to make sure that I keep quiet – he's not, right? – then I think we'll get along just fine."
Another little smile lit Robin's face, but this one had secrets hidden in the corners of it. All she said, however, was, "I don't think that Amon is going to shoot you."
"Good," Doujima said, although she was more concerned with the secrets concealed in that smile than Amon's possible plans to silence her. Not that the possibility of Amon silencing her didn't concern her, but, well, her priorities had always been a little bit skewed. "So," she said, "how does being on the lam suit you?" She didn't really expect a serious answer, and was surprised to see Robin's brow crease with concentration or concern.
"There's so much to do," she murmured, and Doujima didn't think that the words were meant for her. "So much that I need to do, but haven't been able to."
"Like what?" Doujima asked, but Robin was shaking her head. Doujima was left with the frustrating impression that she had caught a glance of whatever secret Robin – along with Amon, and Fiametta – was hiding, but only a glance and nothing more, with no answer in sight.
As if she sensed her frustration, Robin turned to her and asked the one question guaranteed to derail Doujima's thoughts. "Why is Nagira here with you?"
"Er," Doujima said, as articulately as she could manage. She lowered her eyes automatically, only to look back at Robin a moment later. She wasn't quite sure what she expected to see; perhaps the wide-eyed naivete of a girl raised in a convent. What she had not expected was the slyly knowing look on Robin's face, her lips curved into a little half-smile. Doujima made a small, indignant sound, then wrinkled up her nose when Robin responded with a giggle instead of immediate contrition.
Well, two could play at that game. "I'm using him for his body," Doujima said, absolutely deadpan. This time, she was rewarded with a blush and another giggle. "Why is Amon here with you?" she added, pushing her advantage.
Robin's eyes shot up to Doujima's face. "Oh, no, nothing like..." She trailed off when she saw the grin on Doujima's face, and turned to careful contemplation of her knees where they poked up from under that horrid yellow daisy pattern. "Amon is my warden. Nothing more than that."
"I see," Doujima said, with mock solemnity. "That is a problem."
Much to her surprise, Robin didn't protest.
Doujima studied her for a moment, then grinned again, just because she could. She felt better, lighter than she had in days. It would pass; the enormity of Alfonso's death and the mystery behind it would come crushing down on her again. The shocked pain of her argument with Nagira and the confusion over Robin's being in Venice would return, but for now she felt... okay.
"We're here," Robin said, softly. Doujima looked up to see the Bridge of Sighs before her, short and enclosed, arching gracefully more than a man's height above the water. "What now?" Robin asked, contemplating the bridge with her, frowning as if that would force it to reveal whatever secrets it held. "Do we go inside?"
"That wouldn't be easy at this time of night," Doujima said, shaking her head. "No, he would have wanted his hiding place to be easily accessible, in case he needed to get to it." Her eyes skimmed across the peaceful water, and the frown etched on her face was an unconscious echo of Robin's. Finally, her gaze moved from the Doge's Palace on one side of the canal to light upon the prison on the other side.
'And that's us, isn't it?' her memory whispered to her. 'Prisoners. Prisoners on a bridge of straw.'
"There," she said, and used the rudder to steer the little boat towards that side of the canal. They came up beside the wall where it disappeared into the water, and Robin winced when the side of their boat scraped against the crumbling stone. Doujima didn't so much as twitch, the whole of her attention focused on the task before her. It was here, she was sure of it, although she couldn't have said how she knew.
It was dark, but she finally found what she was looking for. Higher up on the wall and directly beneath the bridge, just where a person standing in a boat could reach it and still remain hidden from the sight of anyone on the bridge or in the surrounding buildings, was a plaster mold of Saint Mark's lion that matched the one on Alfonso's watch. It looked as old as the stone around it, although it was probably considerably newer, and would have been nearly lost from sight from more than a few feet away. Doujima stood in the boat with as much care as her eagerness would allow, and reached for it.
"Wait," Robin said, and something in her voice made Doujima draw up short, her hand hovering above the plaster lion.
When Robin stood, she did so quickly and not so carefully, and Doujima reached out to steady her as the boat rocked. They both held their breath, but once the boat had evened out again, Robin turned back to the wall. She reached out, her hand held a few inches away from the lion, where Doujima's had been almost a moment before. "Don't you see?" she asked, and Doujima was about to reply that no, she most certainly did not see, when suddenly she did. Scratched into the stone, almost invisible in the darkness, were a series of spiky, illegible markings.
"Craft?" Doujima guessed.
"Yes," Robin said. She braced her arms against the wall on either side of the patch of plaster, and leaned forward slowly so that she wouldn't push the boat away from the wall. With her face tilted up towards the molded lion, she inhaled slowly, once and then twice, like a hound trying to catch a scent. It reminded Doujima of the first time that she had seen Robin work, when she and Zaizen had followed the young Craft-user through the warehouse as she hunted. What was it that Zaizen had said? Something about the way that Craft Masters worked in their native country; it seemed that some habits died hard, although Doujima couldn't help but reflect that Robin looked just as strange sniffing at the architecture now as she had then. After a moment, the young woman turned back to Doujima, puzzled. "If the Spaniard was the Craft-user who set these in place... he's dead?"
"He's dead," Doujima confirmed. She didn't wonder that Robin knew who Alfonso was; most of SOLOMON knew him by reputation. What made her wonder was the almost dubious tone to Robin's voice when she had asked if he was dead.
Robin seemed unconcerned, though; she simply nodded, and returned to her examination of the plaster and the markings around it. "The Craft used here hasn't faded with his death. It's rare, but not unheard of. If the will of the Craft-user is strong, or they pour a lot of their power into a spell, or even if they're feeling some extraordinarily strong emotion while they're using their Craft, the effects can sometimes outlast the person that the Craft originated from." She leaned closer to one of the markings, although this time it was to squint at it in an attempt to make out the design, using her eyes instead of her nose. "He must have put a great deal of effort into making sure that whatever he hid here remained hidden."
"That does sound like Alfonso," Doujima allowed.
"Was that his name?" Robin wondered. She didn't wait for Doujima to answer, but held out a hand. "Do you have something that I can write with?"
Doujima checked her pockets. "No," she said, with an apologetic shrug. She had brought the watch, the papers and everything else she might need, but a pen was not among those things.
For a moment, Robin looked frustrated. Then she glanced back at Doujima, and her expression lightened. "Your earring, then. I can use it to mark the stone." Doujima almost balked at the thought of sacrificing any part of her wardrobe in such a way, but she stopped herself, and reached up to take the earring off.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess," she grumbled, dropping the backing for the earring into her pocket and handing the rest of it to Robin. Robin smiled, and turned back to the design on the wall. To Doujima, it looked like she was changing the pattern of the markings, subtly altering them by adding a line in one place, or chipping away another until it was no longer a part of the overall pattern but merely another indent in the already uneven stone. Another careful line was added near the lion's mane, and—
There was a muffled whumph, like an explosion within an enclosed space, and sparks showed around the edges of the molded plaster. Robin winced. Doujima looked up, half-expecting the ancient wall to collapse on them.
"Was that supposed to happen?" she asked Robin.
"Well, almost," Robin said. "It was a little... flashier... than I had anticipated. There was a booby-trap."
Doujima considered that. "Yeah, that sounds like Alfonso, too." She laughed, a little nervously, and ran a hand through her hair. "All the same, let's try not to blow up any monuments of a bygone era, hmm?"
"Okay."
Robin had always had only a passing acquaintance with the concept of sarcasm, and for a moment, Doujima missed Nagira fiercely. It was only for a moment, though, especially since she was relatively certain that he wouldn't have been able to disable Alfonso's leftover Craft and, beyond that, that any attempts of his to do so would have ended with them getting blown up. This was much better.
Or so she thought at first, but after ten minutes of watching Robin struggle to remove the plaster in a variety of different ways to no avail, Doujima was beginning to reconsider. Finally, frustrated with watching Robin and being unable to do anything herself, Doujima reached out to touch the plaster mold of the lion.
She screamed when her hand passed through the plaster, and into the apparently solid wall.
Robin tilted her head, and leaned forward to consider the place where Doujima's wrist was sticking out of the wall. "How interesting."
"This isn't interesting," Doujima said, her voice going a little shrill. She cleared her throat, and carefully modulated her tone, so that neither Robin nor the neighborhood dogs had to suffer. When she spoke again, she thought that she sounded remarkably calm. "This is disturbing. What just happened?"
"I think it was keyed to you," Robin said, as if this was a very obvious explanation for the fact Doujima was wrist-deep in a wall. "There's an illusion of some sort in place, which makes it appear that there's plaster molding and wall where there really... isn't. It feels solid to me, which means that you must be the only one able to penetrate it. I guess that I didn't have to trigger that booby-trap after all."
"Oh," Doujima said weakly. "So nothing else is going to explode, right?"
"I don't think so. Try pushing your arm in, and see."
This was not terribly reassuring, and Doujima said so. ("What do you mean, you don't think so?!") She also expressed her aversion to the idea of pushing her arm further into the wall. ("In? I want it out!")
The look that Robin gave her bordered on exasperated, and Doujima didn't need Robin to say anything to know that she was being a baby about this. "Doujima, nothing is going to explode, and you're not going to find what you're seeking unless you start looking. Well, feeling."
Doujima grimaced, but nodded. "Fine. But if there's anything creepy-crawly in here, I'll never forgive you."
Her hand fumbled around behind the wall, and she looked away, because watching her arm move through stone was disconcerting and more than a little distracting. It was damp behind the wall, and the angle that her arm was at was awkward, so it took a few minutes before her fingers brushed against something. Not the cold roughness of more stone, nor (thankfully) anything living, but paper. A pile of paper.
Slowly, Doujima withdrew her hand. In it was a thick stack of manila file folders.
"I've got it," she said, her voice shaky with triumph. She flipped open the top folder, glanced over it, and quickly flipped it shut again. Then she looked at Robin. "Thank you."
Robin smiled, but for the first time, Doujima sensed a reluctance in her. "You're welcome. Doujima..."
"You don't want me to hand these over to SOLOMON, do you?" she asked. She didn't know for sure, but it was a good guess. Robin's face looked very pale in the dim light beneath the bridge, and she nodded, then shivered in her thin dress.
"I know what's in those files. Personnel records, for everyone who's ever spied for SOLOMON. Doujima... I told you once that if you ever stopped hunting, you would become the hunted," Robin said quietly. "Shouldn't... don't you think that those people should have that choice? If they really want to work for SOLOMON, they'll come forward. If they don't... then shouldn't they be allowed to get away, without SOLOMON trying to reel them back in?"
It was too close to what Nagira had said earlier, and Doujima drew back from Robin, suddenly angry. "So that's why you came with me tonight?" She shouldn't have felt betrayed. God knew that she had done worse, in her time.
"No," Robin said, her quiet serenity a jarring counterpoint to Doujima's sudden anger. "I came because you needed the help. But I want you to think about what handing over those files will mean before you do it."
"You could take them," Doujima said, "if you wanted to. You have the power."
For a moment, Robin was silent, and Doujima wondered if she had upset her. When she spoke, though, her voice was as slow and even as it had ever been. "I could," she admitted. "I won't." Another momentary pause, before she reached out and touched Doujima's hand, dirty from fumbling around inside the wall and still clutching the folders. Robin's hand was warmer than she had expected, although she didn't find it surprising considering the girl's Craft; warm and amazingly reassuring.
"I need to think about this."
"Yes, I know."
"I'm still a SOLOMON agent." Now she sounded defiant, her voice hoarse and harsh in the stillness beneath the bridge.
"I know that, too." Robin just sounded sad, and a little bit tired. She dropped her hand, and carefully settled back into the boat. "Will you take me back to road near the Grand Canal? I can find my way back to Fiametta's from there."
Doujima nodded, and moved to do as she asked, settling the files on the floor of the boat between them before revving the engine. When they reached the Grand Canal, only a short distance away, she steered the boat up to the road, and held it steady while Robin climbed out. Then she paused, unwilling to let their little adventure end so awkwardly when it had started so well. Maybe Robin felt the same, because she lingered on the bank, unmoving, even though she was still shivering beneath the atrociously ugly flower print of her dress.
"I trust you," she said, after a moment. "You'll make the right choice."
Of course, that made things more awkward, and not less. Doujima almost sighed, and let her eyes drop to the pile of files, trying to ignore the feeling that working for SOLOMON was going to isolate her from everyone she liked. Because she did like Robin, considered her a friend even, but the moment that SOLOMON came into the picture...
Just like Nagira.
Struck by sudden inspiration, she reached for the pile of folders. She set the file on top off to one side without even looking at it, and reached instead for one below it. Sheet after sheet of paper, all filled with Alfonso's cramped-yet-neat writing, all with a passport sized photo attached to the right-hand corner. They were alphabetized, as she had suspected they would be; Alfonso was nothing if not methodical. This file contained the A's and the B's, and she found the one she wanted midway through the stack. Carefully, she pulled it out from between the other papers, and passed it to Robin.
"What's this?" Robin asked, as she took the paper. She studied the picture in the corner; an Italian man with plump cheeks that looked like they were made for smiling and a deep scowl engraved on his face.
"One person that SOLOMON won't be reeling in," Doujima said. She took a deep breath. "Think of it as a good faith gesture."
"Doujima—"
"I need to think about the rest of them," she snapped, before Robin had a chance to finish.
Robin cast her a startled look. "Okay. I was just going to say thank you."
Doujima felt her cheeks flush in the darkness and, in all honesty, was surprised to find that she still could blush. It was embarrassing, though, because she should have known that Robin wouldn't use the opportunity to push for the other files. At least, not without first expressing gratitude for what she had been given. "You're welcome." Robin smiled, and it was still a little embarrassing, but at least the gesture had smoothed over some of the awkwardness between them, and soothed Doujima's conscience. Like the blush, the presence of that small inner twinge was surprising, much less the fact that she actually felt the need to heed it.
She pushed the boat away from the street with a final wave to Robin, and made her way back onto the canal. Once again, her conscience (pesky, pesky thing) rose up to plague her, and it got worse the further she got from where she had left Robin. She couldn't tell what was causing her sudden guilt; whether it was because she had given Robin Marco's file, or whether it was because she hadn't given Robin the rest of the files. She returned to Alfonso's office because she didn't want to go back to the hotel, but didn't go inside. Instead, she settled herself on the creaky old dock, the stack of files beside her.
Almost hesitantly, Doujima reached for the file at the top of the stack, the first one she had opened after finding them beneath the bridge, and the one she had so quickly discarded when looking for Marco's personnel file. Inside was a single sheet of paper and a thin, square envelope, carefully sealed with wax. At the top of the paper was her name, staring boldly out at her as it had when she had first opened the folder.
She looked blankly at her name for a moment, then forced her eyes to move downwards.
Yurika,
I shouldn't be writing this letter. There are things that I now know which I need to tell you, but still, I shouldn't be writing this. You can have no idea how much this decision has bothered me because, while I know that you will have need of the information contained in this letter, I also know of the trouble that such information may cause you. It's trouble – and pain – that I would spare you, if I could. But there's more at stake here than my comfort or your's, my girl, and besides, I know that you'd never thank me for withholding knowledge from you for the sake of your comfort, or even your safety.
So be it. I've taught you everything else I know, so you'll inherit this, my most dangerous secret, as well. Perhaps you can guess how dangerous it is when I tell you that it's most likely the reason that I'm dead, or missing, or both. You're surprised? Of course I'm dead or missing, or you wouldn't be reading this letter. I left it for you to find, knowing what might happen. No one but you could follow my trail, after all; think of it as a final test from your mentor.
You weren't looking for this, I'm sure. You were looking for other, more commonplace secrets, like the files I left with it. Well and good; I leave those in your capable hands as well, although you may come to regret that inheritance, too. Which brings me back to this letter, and the envelope that came with it, which, incidentally, contains one of those disks that can be played in a computer. Yes, I hate the blasted things, but there was no other way.
The disk came into my hands several months ago, shortly after you completed the Orbo assignment. Not in its present form; it was included in a box that Charlie rescued from the Factory after its collapse, part of a computer that was almost completely destroyed. Still, I thought that no harm could come from attempting to recover the data contained therein, and that something interesting or perhaps even useful might come of it. I had Charlie find someone in the city who could work on restoring it, and thought no more about it until that disk was unexpectedly returned to me. On it, I was told, was all of the information that could be restored from the computer, although much had been lost.
Most of it was concerned with the running of the Factory; progress reports, blueprints, accounting records, much of which would have been helpful during your time working on the Orbo project, but which was useless after the Factory's destruction. Then I found the recording. It changed everything.
I am important enough within the organization to have had heard rumors before this, of secret research done years ago and what came of it. You may guess how carefully such information was hidden, if even I had only heard rumors. The truth behind these rumors was the reason for your inclusion in the Orbo project, and the Assembly's desperation to see it destroyed, but few of the Assembly's members knew the whole truth. Julianno knew, although he never told me. Cardinal Crocetti, who heads the Assembly, almost certainly did. You father may have.
The recording was of a man named Toudo, who had been left in charge of the research, all those years ago – fifteen years, to be precise. The project was shut down, but Toudo continued his research, and in so doing, he betrayed the confraria and all that it stood for. I still don't know what he hoped to accomplish; perhaps he himself had realized that there was a great wrong that needed to be addressed, or perhaps he was simply hoping to, as you might say, piss SOLOMON off.
Needless to say, Toudo died. But he left behind him the Eve, the fruit of his life's work, and the fruit of his wife's womb.
Hope.
You have no idea how long I have lived without that, without hope. You can't, Charlie can't, no one within the syndicate who isn't a Craft-user truly can. From the moment we're recruited, we're taught that there is something within us that is inherently evil, something which belongs to the Devil, something which is more than half demonic itself. We're taught that the only way to redeem ourselves is to fight against those that are like us, to hunt and to kill them, and that even that probably won't work. Most of all, we are taught to despair.
There is nothing like being taught, from childhood onward, to hate yourself; nothing that I can compare it to that would make you understand. And there is nothing like finding out, finally, finally, that all those things they taught you were wrong. Finding out that, instead of trying to redeem you, they were trying to keep you weak, and use you to kill those that you should have embraced instead. No words could describe the guilt, the anger, and – the hope.
We were gods once. They never taught us that, when they were teaching us to hate.
I'm not a foolish man, Yurika. I didn't listen to Toudo's words and immediately believe that what he said was true. After all, he had his own reasons to believe as he did, and to believe that what he had done was right. But what he said... ah, my girl, it was like the final piece in a puzzle, a puzzle made up of all the things that SOLOMON had done over the years that had made me hesitate, made me wonder and doubt. Such doubts were easy to dismiss before, but that's changed. Everything has changed, and although I cannot regret those changes, and they fill me with joy like I've never known, I fear that they will also be my undoing.
If I could ask you one thing, it would be to reconsider your own allegiance, and to keep her safe if you can. I don't know who she is, although I have my suspicions, but she's important, she's all we have. And keep yourself safe, of course. I don't have any right to ask these things of you, I know. I have loved you as if you were my own daughter, I have taught you everything I know... and I have used you shamelessly, betrayed you, betrayed the organization that you believe in, and given to you secrets which should never have been revealed, and which may be your undoing as well as my own. But if you would grant an old man one last favor, that would be it.
I love you. I can't forgive them. I hope that you can forgive me.
Alfonso
With trembling hands, Doujima placed the letter back into the file, sliding it carefully under the envelope which contained the disk.
"Oh, my God," she whispered. Then, because that didn't seem like enough, she said, "Fuck." That was better, although it didn't come close to summarizing her feelings. Then she gathered the files and went inside, because she could think of nothing else to do.
She didn't expect to find Charlie there, half crouched near the door as he looked through Paradise Lost, which she had left abandoned on the floor. He set down the book and straightened when she came in, and his expression turned concerned when her saw her. "Yurika? Are you okay?"
"Why?" she mumbled. "Don't I look okay?"
"Not really," he replied, with a promptness that would have been insulting had she been in any mood to notice it. "Come on, sit down." He reached out and led her around the desk, to sit in Alfonso's chair. As he did so, he noted the stack of file folders in her arms, and excitement sparked in his eyes. "You found them?" he asked.
Doujima laughed, and didn't like the edge of hysteria in her voice. "I found more than I ever wanted to find."
"What?" Charlie asked, his brow furrowed with confusion. "You're not making any sense. What happened to you? You came ripping through my hotel earlier, and now this…"
"I wouldn't even know where to start," Doujima said, raking her hand through her hair and leaving blond tufts sticking out in all directions. "I didn't expect to find this, Charlie. That's not why I came here. I mean, it is, I wanted to find out what happened to Alfonso, but I didn't come here to find this." The words escaped her in a half-panicked rush, and she couldn't have stemmed the tide if she had tried. Charlie stood next to her chair, his eyes fixed on her face, summer sky blue and helplessly uncomprehending. "I didn't want to find this," she added, her voice softer but no calmer. She reached out and touched the top of the stack of file folders, her fingers curling reflexively against the thick Manila paper as if she could gouge out the secrets hidden within, erase them, and replace them with something smaller and easier to swallow.
"You're still not making any sense," Charlie said, his own voice soft with sympathy. No wonder, she thought, a little bitterly. He had never seen her fall to pieces like this; it had to be very disconcerting. He reached out, and very gently removed her hand from the top of the files, studying it with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. "Jesus, you're shaking. You need to calm down."
"No shit," she muttered weakly, and that seemed to reassure him, because the frown turned into a very faint smile and he released her hand.
"Right," he said, and stepped away from her, going over to the shelf nearest to the desk. "I know what you need: a drink. That'll get you nice and relaxed, and then we can talk about what's got you so shaken up."
"I'm not shaken up," Doujima protested, "just a little upset." Already she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of sharing what she had learned. It was so much to process, and so much of it didn't make sense, even to her… how could she tell anyone else? Added to that was the fact that the things in Alfonso's letter bordered on heresy, and heresy was not something one spoke of when working for SOLOMON. Little by little, the coldly calculating part of her brain started to wake up again and take charge, and she tried to decide what she would do, or not do, with what she had learned. All the same, she didn't protest when Charlie reached for the decanter of brandy on the shelf. One drink would clear her head without muddling her thinking; one drink was harmless.
He poured her a glass, and placed it in her hands before retreating around the desk to sit opposite her. Absently, she raised the glass to her lips, tilted the drink back into her mouth, and swallowed.
For a moment, the burn of the alcohol hid the taste.
She looked across the desk to where Charlie was sitting. His tall scarecrow's body was folded neatly into his chair, slightly slumped, with his hands folded across his stomach. The look of shrewd attentiveness on his face belied his relaxed posture, and showed no evidence of his earlier concern or confusion, although she thought that she saw a hint of apology lingering around his eyes.
Doujima raised her half empty glass, and inhaled deeply. It was a good brandy, rich and heady, but beneath the stinging scent of the liquor there was another smell, fetid and unpleasant. "Poison," she whispered, and wondered why she wasn't more surprised.
Slowly, Charlie nodded.
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Disclaimer: Witch Hunter Robin might not be mine, but Signor Nagira's Amazing Hand Puppet Theater will be here through Saturday.
Notes: Praise be to WiccanMethuselah for proofreading. On next week's episode, The Burial-Ground, (which so totally won't be written by next week)... stuff will happen. Why are you still reading this? Shouldn't you be reading something else, such as Misora's now-finished story, The Burning Time? Run along.