Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [217]
“Grab your scalpel,” I called to Chibbins, but there was no reply. I looked over to see him kissing Ludiya. He had her dipped back in his arms; her mouth was open, and so was his. I shuddered. “No,” I said.
“Yes,” said the Sanctity of Grace, and then the floorboards slid away, and I fell into the dark, like the builders of the Summer Palace, falling into their graves.
WHEN I WOKE, I was sitting upright, strapped to a chair so that my arms could not move. The Sanctity of Grace was before me, lightly tapping my cheek.
“Wake up, Cley,” she said. I opened my eyes and looked around. We were in a kind of study, rows of books lining the walls and gas lamps at the four corners. There was a door off to my right, and the Sanctity had taken her seat behind a desk, facing me.
“My office, Cley. Do you like it?”
“No doubt one of the Master’s secret chambers you died to keep secret,” I said. “Release me or you’ll come to feel the full weight of the Well-Built City’s security force upon you.”
“And what will they do? Kill me?”
“You must have been one bitter ghost to have generated the supernatural energy to perform your deeds,” I said.
“Bitter,” she said, “is too weak a word. For every ounce of saintliness I possessed in life, I now have a thousand volts of hatred in death. You see, I was with child. If it was only me, I’d have gone to my rest.”
“With child?” I said. “Not completely saintly, I see.”
“Only the ruling classes see sex as immoral,” she said. “And then, only for the lower class.”
“I’m to be a sacrifice to your unborn child?” I asked. “Perhaps I can barter Chibbins’s life for mine?”
“No,” she said, “you’re not to die, yet. You’re a tool in my plot.” She then picked up a pen and busied herself with some paperwork, reading documents and making minor corrections.
“There’s paperwork in death?” I asked.
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said.
She was the plainest-looking woman I’d ever seen. Of course, I’d already eyed her physiognomical features, but I’d yet to garner a reading. She was very nearly an exact medium in intelligence and yet, the indicators that divulged her moral worth, chin to hairline, left eye to right earlobe, rendered readings off the top end of the scale. I was baffled as to how the two measurements could coincide on the same face without grotesquely twisting her appearance. It was, literally, supernatural.
“And how long must I sit here?” I asked.
She didn’t look up but said, “Your partner will be along shortly to rescue you, and then we’ll be finished here.”
More time passed, and I wondered if perhaps all I was witnessing was a result of the Sheer Beauty. I watched closely for her image to ripple, for the walls of books to subtly waver insubstantially. And then the door burst in, wood chips flying. It was Chibbins, and he’d expertly kicked it in. I looked back to the Sanctity of Grace, who was rising from her chair. She walked around the desk and stood there.
“Physiognomist Chibbins, I believe you’ve got something for me,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back, like a schoolmarm awaiting an answer.
“Yes, madam ghoul, I’ve got the best thing for you,” he said and leaped forward into a somersault. While his body rolled, his left arm, hand holding a scalpel, was drawing back, so that when he sprang up onto one knee, he was ready to throw. The blade turned as it sailed slowly through the air. We all watched in anticipation, not the least the Sanctity of Grace, whom I was surprised took no effort to duck. With the sound of an eggshell cracking, the thing punctured her skull and dug into her ghostly brain. Her eyes glazed, she coughed up some