Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

34 | The Man Who Had No Face

Oliver became torn, shredded. Something inside had broken, something that could never properly be repaired. Sadie could feel it. She knew he'd feel this way forever. He'd carry it with him until the end of all things. Despite this, the boy in the crimson scarf followed her through the rain and snow.

Sadie marched up the side of the house. Placing an untied boot onto the slush-covered lawn, music swirled through the winter air. She froze for an instant, wondering where it had come from.

It wasn't from her.

Somebody else was doing this.

Caught in the music, Sadie wondered if this wondrous, magical, transcendent sensation was how the people of Iron Bridge felt when she played? She crossed the lawn, turning in circles, the music calling to her.

And then, where there had been nobody at all, Sadie bumped into a tall, well-dressed gentleman. She smiled, looking up at his face.

He wore a dark purple suit—which might have been brighter had it not been soaked through—and a top hat of similar colour.

She looked at his face again.

He wore white gloves, possibly velvet, and in one he held an ebony walking cane with a silver terminal. She squinted, the rain running into her eyes, and concentrated on his face.

A moustache, perhaps a beard.

And, on his left lapel, he wore a shiny broach, the letters W.S. sitting proudly over a floral wreath in silver and gold.

She looked towards his face once more.

Something forced her eyes away.

"Don't worry," he said. "Nobody can see my face. Well, not my real face anyway. And especially not here."

Sadie took a step back. She felt warm, as though sitting in the afternoon sun, but all around the rain persisted. The world became quiet, like someone had twisted the storm volume dial down to zero.

"Why can't I see your face?"

"Does it matter?" he replied.

Sadie shrugged. "Sort of. I've never been unable to see someone's face before. Apart from the Ryndai as they cover most of theirs with those shemaghs."

"What do you think I look like," the man said. "Describe it."

"Describe it? Why?"

"You can imagine a face, can't you? It's not hard. I was always imaging things when I was a boy."

"Of course I can. Danver and I are always—" The words caught in her throat for an instant. "I'm brilliant at imagining things," she countered, and closed her eyes. "Well, you have a long, thin face—like a fish—chestnut eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. A long, twisted moustache sitting below a pointy nose. A protruding, knobbly chin covered in rough stubble and, despite the unkempt nature of the rest of your face, your teeth are crystal white."

She opened her eyes and found him kneeling in the snow before her; his face exactly the way she had described it. "Hello, Sadie Madison," he said, their eyes connecting. "My name is Doktor Robey Merrick."

Sadie shuddered, her arms crossing her chest. Fire burned through her, disgust and hate rising in her blood. This was not the face of the man who stole Danver away to Hurtmore House. This was a kind face, a silly face. A face that made Sadie smile just by looking at it.

"What's the matter, my dear?"

She backed away. "I should hate you, but—"

"Hate me? Whatever for?" He twisted his moustache theatrically between long, gloved fingers.