Jonathan stared at his mother, lying still beneath the sheets. He went downstairs. He poured himself some lukewarm water from the cracked ceramic jug on the windowsill. The little window box was flowering. He drank the water slowly, savouring it. The parched lump in his throat began to ease. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and wished it was his turn for a bath that day.
Placing his mug down slowly, he turned and made his way up the groaning stairs. The room still looked the same: bare boards, broken table, threadbare rug. His own bed was pushed against the wall, unmade and unslept in.
The ticking of the clock was unnaturally loud. It was the one luxury, that clock. The elegant silver frame, the patient face, the still-functioning clockwork...it all spoke of times long ago. It was a miracle that had never been forced to pawn it.
Jonathan forced himself to look at his mother's bed, a thin, iron-framed affair with thin, flat pillows. She was still lying there. Was it his imagination or was her unmoving face a little paler than before?
He approached, pressed two fingers to her neck. Nothing. Silence. Stillness.
"I can't find a pulse," he said aloud. "Oh, mother, I'm sorry, so sorry. I can't find a pulse."
He drew back the sheets and saw the evidence: a neat incision with surprisingly little blood to soak into her dress. It was a day dress, dusty blue. That made sense. He breathed in deep and smelled the familiar sting.
Yes, she would have been killed elsewhere, before being placed in the bed and her spilled blood being scrubbed away. A marked killing. Clean and surgical. It was probably painless. This wasn't about her, or about horrifying him. This was simply a message saying, "We can take."
Jonathan walked back down to the other room in their tiny apartment. It was one of many in the vast tenement block built to house widows and the destitute: a dark, crumbling building, crammed and thin-walled. Jonathan could hear the children crying below and the couple next door having sex. In the distance, he could make out the muffled oaths of the drunk along the corridor laying his fists again in his young daughter's face.
There was nothing Jonathan could do about that.
How cruel that his mother, who had been so admired and had loved pretty things, had ended up dying here. At least they had cleaned up after themselves. She always kept the apartment neat and gleaming, almost in defiance of their meteoric fall.
He felt numb. He kept waiting for the pain but it wouldn't come. It seemed impossible to comprehend that she would never again berate him for carelessness, never chide him to study, never wash and darn his ruined clothes with pursed lips, never exclaim in horror at his fresh wounds when he came home in the early hours. She was over.
That didn't make sense. He had lost people before, the devil knew, but his mother wasn't part of that and she was just lying there...
He tried to think. They were after him, so he must act first and fast. He had places he could stay, naturally. He was surrounded by brothers. The scars on his back would open doors everywhere, doors behind which would be friendly faces, floors to sleep on, alcohol to drink to wash away it all and safety. Even if he surfed from place to place, he would be fine.
No, the problem was his pursuers. They would take out those closest to him first, neatly and calmly, systematically, like pruning a tree. They would cut him back until there was nothing left to grow. He had to stop them. And that meant...
"Lucia," he whispered.
Jonathan tucked a bundle of clothes into a bag, wrapping a shirt around the precious cloth. He kissed his mother's forehead and ran, not bothering to lock the door. He sprinted past a weeping child and took the stairs three at a time. They trembled precariously beneath his pounding feet, as if they might fall in at any second.
Jonathan hammered on the flaking door, his urgency knocking chips of paint to the ground. His heart stuttered for the seconds he waited. Supposing they had already got her?
The door opened a girl stood framed the entrance. Two small children were fighting on the kitchen floor behind her. Another sat scribbling at a table laden down with unwashed dishes. In another room, a baby was wailing pitifully. The noise was unbearable.
"Jonathan?"
The girl had a baby under one rm. There was ink on her hands and a stain on her unironed blouse. Her hair was rumpled and her eyes ringed with exhaustion. Her smile, however, was seraphic, radiant. Jonathan wished he could bottle it, keep it safe to take out at his lowest moments.
"Lucia."
He stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him.
"Hello, Jonny," the girl at the table looked up.
"Hello, Hyacinth."
She had a choppy boy's haircut and eyes too big for her face and too old for a girl of ten. She looked as though she hadn't slept in weeks. She was easily Jonathan's favourite of the Carter children, being the eldest and quietest.
"Jonny!" one of the fighting boys yelled.
"Jonny!" the other echoed.
"Daniel, Martin," he nodded.
The door burst open behind him and two more children stood panting in the doorway.
"Anna! Jackie!" Lucia cried. "Curfew was half an hour ago!"
"Sorry, Luci," Jackie put on his best lisp. "We didn't notice."
"Keep your voices down then and your parents don't need to know," Lucia sighed. "And Anna, take your sister."
The little twin took the baby in her arms and cradled it, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back up against a cupboard. Lucia pulled her hair back with a rubber tie and rolled her eyes at Jonathan. He couldn't explain why, but he had always found there something magical in the way she tied her hair.
"The new baby is teething," she explained. "And little Becky has an upset stomach. So it's all been a bit chaotic today."
"You're a saint," Jonathan kissed her cheek. "How is the Mrs Carter?"
"Lavender is...loud, tired," Lucia grimaced. "For all she complains, I don't think she could cope without me to help with the children."
"Well, she's going to have to."
Lucia bit her lip. "If this is..."
"I'm marked," Jonathan interrupted her.
Lucia's mouth fell open and the children were abruptly silent.
"Jonny?" Anna looked up, wide-eyed. "Are you a resister?"
"Outside," Hyacinth ordered, suddenly. "All of you. Get out!"
The children filed past out into the corridor beyond, grumbling and casting Jonathan awed looks as they past.
"I already knew," little Hyacinth whispered. "But you can trust me."
Jonathan nodded. He did trust her. He and Hyacinth had had reason before to rely on one another.
"Marked," Lucia mumbled. "Oh no. I thought..."
Jonathan sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"Someone reported me," he said. "Or dropped a hint. My mother is dead. I need to get out. But they'll be coming for you."
Lucia sat down heavily. The blood drained from her face.
"I can protect you," Jonathan promised. "But you'll need to come with me. I cannot have you endangering the children."
Lucia nodded mutely. She looked dazed.
"Jonny?" Hyacinth's voice was hushed. "Are you...?"
Before she could finish the question, a young woman appeared in the doorway, scowling. Jonathan had vague memories of her once being beautiful, with ringlet blonde curls and rogued cheeks. Now, seven children and an argumentative ten years of marriage later, her hair was drab, her hips and stomach wide, her young face creased with worry lines. She glared at her eldest daughter, who stared calmly back.
"Where are the others?" Lavender snapped.
"Outside," Hyacinth answered. "I thought their noise might be upsetting the baby."
Lavender scoffed. "The beast it sleeping now. Oh, when will you be old enough to get rid of?"
She didn't mean it, but she sounded sincere.
"Lavender," Lucia spoke up, bravely. "Lavender, I'm going to be leaving."
Lavender stopped short. "Leaving?"
"With Jonathan," Lucia clarified.
"You fool. I thought I warned you about marrying a wastrel like him."
"It's not that," Lucia swallowed. "I'm just...leaving."
Lavender shook her head. "You can't."
"She must," Jonathan said.
Lavender laughed bitterly. "You stupid boy. Getting her caught up in your mess. Yes, I know. Don't look so shocked."
"She must leave," Jonathan repeated, swallowing down his surprise. "Or she'll die, and you'll all be at risk."
"Yes, she must," Lavender's tone was clipped, brisk. "God knows, she's been nothing but a burden on this house. Glad to be rid of her."
But there were tears in her eyes and she hugged Lucia tightly as she hustled the girl from the room to collect her things.
"You take care of her," Lavender said, viciously. "You take good care of her, Jonathan Sand."
"Yes, ma'am," Jonathan bowed his head. "I shall."