Chapter Text
Prelude in smoke
The dust and the damp were not so bad after a while, but the smoke was another story. There was the coughing, the sneezing, the dry throat and the red eyes, but the taste was always the worst part. The books in the archives gathered dust, like all books do in libraries the world over, world without end— but even the dust in this place was never quite right, so the smoke never stood a chance.
Smoke layered itself over the pages, over everything. More than dust, more than damp, it made its presence known. It had a taste, a certain stench. And it was not like the smell of smoke lacked companionship, up there in the towers. There was the formaldehyde, of course, probably from the leaky jars of poorly stored specimen. And besides the formaldehyde, there was the mold, the sweat, and the constant note of blood that leaked in from… From somewhere else.
But that was all nothing to the smoke.
There weren’t many windows to be found as one approached the uppermost levels of the orphanage. For good reason—the smoke was unbearable enough out there, and nigh intolerable in the small doses that crept inside despite sealant, despite stone and glass. It crept in, formless, and found its way into the stacks, the corridors, and then finally the studies that were housed far above the main atrium. Shapeless, bodiless, but it was not a trace. Not a remain. It took up all the space there was, and it left her choking.
The taste would follow her into the baths, and she wondered if others could taste it on her when they came close. She wondered if it was like perfume, a little invisible signature that they would taste on their tongues or maybe in their throats. No one ever said anything, so she let it stay behind her eyes, under her skin. On her tongue. Because if no one ever mentioned it, even after all their indulgence, then it did not bear mention.
She did her work, late into the night, bathed with whoever woke early enough to share the morning, and then she went back to her room to sleep until the sun just about fully rose into the sky. She missed everyone at dinner and breakfast. Never in the baths, but sometimes when she passed them someone would say, “It’s been so long, Snowe!” or “Why don’t you come back with us for an hour? Can you spare the time?” Saccharine tones, wide smiles, and hands like moths fluttering at her face.
“You look drawn, dear.” Yes. “You’ve been so different lately, locked up there all day, all night. Do you hate it?” Yes. “You don’t mind taking it all off our hands though, do you?” Yes. A caress to her jaw, loving and regretful. “Our Snowe”—then a titter, a pat to her cheek— “so gentle, and so sweet. We’ve neglected her.” And then they’d see to that.
This was how one should view the days before she found Edmund’s body. It was not how she viewed them, since she was altogether drowning in the jars and the dust, the books, and the smoke from the chimneys. But this was how one should understand the way that Luce Snowe lived her life in the uppermost spires of the cathedral ward.
She was a silent martyr inhaling fumes, a favored but often overlooked indulgence for her fellow orphans, and a stoic gaze fixed upon the narrow, high windows of the archives. She lived quietly, she did her work, she withstood the dust and the taste, and then she slipped. Or that was how she thought of it. She pictured herself walking through the corridors and then slipping. There was blood pooling on the marble, of course, and her palms were covered in blood later. Someone had held them by the wrists and then stepped back, silent.
It was nearing the time when she would take the little lantern and go back to her room; the sun was gone, and the moon was high above the window. Its light hit the sill, and it lit up the stone and the dust there like metal and water. No light but the light of the little lantern reached her work, nothing touched her fingers but ink, candlelight, and dust. Her fingers were dry with it, and the skin around her nails cracked and turned white as she flipped through the work she had done, the pages and pages of copied marginal notes, asides, handwritten thoughts and queries, ready to be printed tomorrow and sorted into sort of physical footnotes beside the tomes that carried them.
All in the name of growth, of expansion, of change, she did this. She flipped through the pages and pages of scribbles and scrawls and felt satisfied that so much was covered. She was tempted, then, to look over the work meant for her tomorrow. So, she reached out for the next book in the pile.
It was thin. She inspected the cover and saw nothing amiss; it was a greenish volume, a shade that hinted that it might have been another color once, but green it was now. Flipping through it now she saw that the actual text was minimal. The print was well set and clear, but the margins were wide and long. They were covered in writing. There was no page without writing. She stared in horror, the prospect of copying all this out into legible, simple summary was, to her, more daunting than the prospect of copying out the same thing spread out over five volumes.
At the time she was too disgusted and discouraged to read what she saw before her. So she took the lantern with some unnecessary force and left, jamming her mask back onto her head and deciding that tomorrow she would not even stir for the bell. She would sleep until someone knocked, and she would not rise a moment before. Maybe they would take pity and let her sleep. Maybe they would wake her gently.
Another time, a month ago, a day ago perhaps, she would have slept in like she had planned to, and she would have woken up bathed in sunlight, mostly naked. Her hair unbound, her hands encased in the most delicate gloves—the kind a nun should be wearing. Her people had a habit of confusing the church and the academy, especially after the research halls. Wasn’t it all the same?
The mirror by her bed would have been angled to the moonlight, because the moonlight made everything perfect, and everything had been so dark, so gloomy as of late. Her companions would have been chasing beauty, seeking it where they could, and the gloves would have been part of it, maybe. Her hair would be a mess, someone’s hands deep inside. But she would have slept.
But that was how it would have been months ago, days ago. Last night. Yesterday morning, even.
On this night, she slipped.