I Think They Would Believe the Lie

The first three weeks are the hardest. At least she hopes they’re the hardest. The Mother of Puppets may be patient and willing to play the long game, but she also has a temper and doesn’t like to see her plans come to naught. There were obviously going to be consequences for failing in the mission she had entrusted to her favorite daughter, but she had never expected them to be so severe, never expected they would make her scream in away she hasn’t since she was a small child, never expected they would make her beg for the death she turned away from all those years ago.

There’s a lesson in it, really. Annabelle knows, as all people in her position should know in truth, that the Fears don’t have anyone’s best interests at heart except their own. But even after all this time, she’s foolishly believed that she’s special, that because she is a keystone—she is the Spider, a named entity, like the Distortion, like the Boneturner, like the Dancer—like the Archivist—she is exempt from the worst of the Mother’s wrath.

After all, she did as she was told. It was a gamble. Surely the Guardian would want only to protect the Archivist.

During the next three weeks, when the pain isn’t quite so bad and she can think about something other than wanting it to stop, she tries to pinpoint where it went wrong. How could she have salvaged the situation? The Guardian needed to go to Great Yarmouth, not to protect anyone from the Dancer—no one of consequence was ever in any real danger from the Dancer—but to remove him from the equation. He knew too much. He was the only thing that could stop the plan. Therefore he must be made to go. And yet, she failed. How could she have failed? She gave him what he asked for, a straight answer to his question. She provided him with the truth, that everything would fall apart if he wasn’t there for the Archivist. She left him the clearest of signs and he still turned in the other direction. Annabelle’s mind careens, again and again, down the various twists and turns of the labyrinth of possibilities, trying to find a path that doesn’t lead her back here, to failure and pain.

Over the third three weeks, the torment eases back enough that she can think more clearly, and she recognizes that her straightforwardness was her undoing. Had she kept playing coy and prevaricated, been cryptic enough to keep him guessing…well, he still wouldn’t have been guaranteed to go with the Archivist, but at least it would have been more likely that he’d worry about her intentions if he was left unattended. Perhaps if she had said an Archivist on his own walks straight into danger…but no, that for sure would have tipped her hand too far. There is somewhere else she went wrong, somewhere else she could have put things on the correct path, but she can’t quite put her finger on it.

The fourth three weeks make a mockery of her hopes that the first three weeks would be the hardest.

In the fifth three weeks, the voices begin. Her mother’s voice, both the mother who bore her and the mother who saved her, speak and lecture and scold day and night, enumerating her failures, her insecurities, her wrongs. At first she tries to argue back, as stupid as that probably is, but surely if she’s allowed to explain herself they will understand…but they don’t. They shoot down every one of her arguments, and add to them, piling on her. And the pain doesn’t stop while it’s going on, either, so between what’s happening to her body and what’s happening to her mind, she has no room to think clearly, no room to formulate the right arguments. Eventually she gives up trying.

At the start of the sixth three weeks, one of the voices whispers to her that this can all stop if she figures out the answer, if she tugs on the thread that was woven wrong and unravels the whole messy tapestry. She sets herself to try and find it, even more desperately than she did the first time she tried to figure it out. Again and again she throws herself at the problem, presents a solution, and again and again she is shot down, the flaws in her arguments exposed, the faults in her behavior actions decried as immaterial and unchangeable in the same breath. And it’s still so hard to think, there’s still so much pain that she can’t think clearly through it, and she knows if it would just stop for a minute, she would come up with the right answer, but it won’t stop until she does…

Sometime during the seventh three weeks, she finally rebels. She pushes back, demanding to know what it matters. It’s over, it’s done. What was done cannot be undone, what went wrong cannot be corrected. This isn’t a simple matter of forgetting the bacon, or taking a wrong turn, or incorrectly addressing a letter. They’ve lost, not forever but for now. How will knowing how she could have changed things with the Guardian and the Archivist help in the future, when they’ll have entirely different people to deal with? Assuming she’s even still alive at that point to be the one to manipulate things, the circumstances will be so far removed from the current ones that trying to plan for past failures will be almost as futile as trying to predict the shape of the Unknowing. Why the questions, why the pressure?

There are, of course, consequences for daring to challenge the Web, and Annabelle eventually comes partly to her senses with a cool rush of air in her face as a bright yellow door that was not there before opens in front of her. A single finger, preternaturally long with a dagger-like nail on the end, extends from within and slices neatly through the strands of web binding her in place. Two hands then seize her and pull her over the threshold. The door shuts behind her just in time to cut off the first screams of rage.

The Distortion’s corridors should not, under any stretch of the imagination, be considered peaceful, but it’s a blessed relief from pain and a sudden quiet that makes her go weak at the knees. Only the Distortion’s arm stops her from collapsing completely. Annabelle has spent too many years on this side of humanity to be alarmed by how bony it is, or why the joints don’t seem to be in the right places or bending in expected directions, even if she wasn’t too worn and drained to care.

“What do you want with me?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse and raw, as though someone has been dragging long, sharp filaments of silk like fiberglass through her throat for weeks on end.

The Distortion giggles, in its typical fashion—not that she’s interacted with it often, but she’s certainly heard its laughter through the filter of a tape—but the smile it turns on her, far from monstrous madness, is almost kind. “I do not want, Spider. A want requires a degree of identity I can’t ever retain.”

“That wasn’t…funny the first time,” Annabelle manages. “Remember to whom you speak.”

“The Web has no power here, as you well know.” Without warning, the Distortion shifts the arm behind her shoulders and slides its other behind her knees, then scoops her into a simulacrum of a bridal carry. “Which makes you safe for a time. There will be answers later. For now, rest, Spider.”

And as foolish as it is to trust the throat of delusion incarnate, Annabelle lets her head fall against the Distortion’s shoulder and does just that.

She comes to in a bed…well, nearly a bed. A messy heap of blankets and furs in all colors and materials, piled together to make an awkward nest. Someone has draped one of the blankets over her, possibly for warmth, probably for modesty, as she comes to the realization that she is totally nude. Her wounds, those visible from the outside anyway, have been inexpertly but securely bandaged, and it doesn’t hurt to sit up, at least. She can also smell coffee and toast and what might be bacon, and while she doesn’t eat ordinary food as much as she once did, her stomach grumbles at the smell and she decides it won’t hurt.

Plucking one of the larger and less tattered pieces of cloth from the heap, she fashions herself an improvised toga and steps out into the corridor.

Annabelle has a memory, from when she was very small, of an improvised drive-in theater at the beach meant as part of some festival of false nostalgia, herself and her siblings piled in the family station wagon and fighting for the best view. She let them battle for the windows and slipped out when her eldest brother went to get the popcorn, then sprawled on her stomach on the roof of the car where no one could block her. Even back then she didn’t care for the Beatles’ music, but the colors and the unnecessarily complicated and ludicrous plot captivated her. Staring at the corridor, she thinks immediately of the scene where Ringo, John, and Young/Old Fred begin searching for George and Paul, and the way the moment the door closed behind them odd and unusual things began crossing back and forth between the rooms on either side. She almost expects to see a worm in shifting colors or a clown on a unicycle or a pair of giant glasses shielding photorealistic eyes hop across her field of vision.

But the doors remain largely unremarkable, though each is different. Judging by the one now at her back, she doubts the interior can be inferred from the appearance of the exterior, either. She’s pretty sure she stepped out of a pair of heavy brown double doors bound with rusting and blackened iron, but the door that closes behind her with a soft and decided click is an ordinary door with a hollow core and four recessed panes, painted a bright and cheerful red. The smell is stronger here, too, obviously. Faint lines of mist stream towards her and tickle her nose—literally, she realizes with a start as the mist, now in the shape of a hand, beckons several times with one crooked finger before drawing back.

Annabelle smiles to herself, closes her eyes, and leans forward, inhaling deeply. In the manner of these sorts of things—the Fears operate on a similar sort of logic to cartoons and dreams—her feet leave the ground, such as it is, and she drifts down the corridor until she bumps into something solid with a soft thunk. Naturally, her feet touch the ground the second she opens her eyes, and she fumbles for the knob, then pushes the door open.

On the other side is a tiny, surprisingly cosy and surprisingly ordinary kitchen. The walls are a soft and tasteful yellow, the cabinets a natural pale ash wood with white enamel knobs finished with stainless steel. The blue and white checked gingham curtains are tied back on either side of the window with a white tasseled cord, but the thin organza shade beneath it is still drawn, letting in plenty of light but obscuring the view out—or in. Or, more likely, obscuring the fact that there is no view, that this entire room is just another part of the Distortion’s realm. Just below the window is a round country kitchen table made of natural wood the color of pale honey, well scrubbed, with three sturdy chairs to match. At each seat, neatly arranged on a China blue woven placemat, is a plate with four rashers of crispy bacon, two eggs prepared sunny side up, and two triangles of buttered toast, arranged—she can see even from a door—to look like a cat’s face with the toast for ears, silverware correctly placed on either side, a glass of orange juice, and a teacup. At one seat, the teacup is upside down on the saucer; at the other two, they are upright and, presumably, filled with tea poured from the pot that must be under the knitted tea cosy shaped like a chicken. They are also in the hands of the occupants of those two seats.

The man in the chair to the left of the table is not one Annabelle has ever met before. He looks as though he, too, has just woken up and rather wishes he hadn’t had to. His dreadlocks, tied back in a sort of half topknot, are even more streaked with grey than the Archivist’s hair was the last time Annabelle saw him, and there are dark circles that are practically bruises beneath his nearly black eyes. He clutches the cup in both hands like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored to reality, poised over his lips and just below his nose as if he’s forgotten how to drink it. He wears a somber old-fashioned black suit and tie, complete with a long frock coat that reminds Annabelle of the costume given to Mr. Sowerberry in her school’s production of Oliver! She wouldn’t be surprised to see a threadbare silk topper set on the extra chair. It’s not hard to mark him as an avatar of the End.

The figure opposite him both is and is not familiar to Annabelle; that is, the face is one she only half recognizes, but the being is quite obviously the Distortion. It has a more female appearance than it did when it brought her here, dressed in what might have once been a skirt suit and pumps, possibly quite sensible before the Distortion got hold of it. While the man’s suit would not be out of place at an undertakers’ convention, the colors and patterns on the Distortion’s appears to have been brought straight out of Pepperland. It looks like it should have difficulty holding the cup, with its long fingers like knives of bone on incongruously small hands; whoever once owned the body must have been quite dainty in her first life. However, those fingers follow their own rules, especially here in what is certainly its own domain. The fingers pinch the body of the cup on one side and loop through the handle on the other where the original person’s true fingers must once have been, but the bone and keratin knives on the ends of each, fastidiously painted a bright and glossy red, pass harmlessly through the wrist and one another as though either fingers or wrists or both are mere holograms. Its massive waves of golden curls toss about independent of any actual movement of head or air, rearranging styles and reaching for various corners of the kitchen behind it, although they seem to be respecting the space surrounding the empty chair and the opposite side of the table.

Both of them turn to look as she steps into the room and rise politely, setting their cups in the saucers. The Distortion gestures grandly at the table. In a musical, mellow alto, it croons, “My dear Spider, won’t you join us?”

“Why, thank you, good Distortion,” Annabelle says dryly with a small mock curtsy.

She comes into the kitchen and takes her seat. Like gentlemen—as much as parody as the kitchen itself—both the Distortion and its companion wait for her to sit first before they resume their own. The End avatar lifts the glass in front of him and raises it to her in a sardonic salute.

“To the sunrise,” he says with a hint of irony.

Annabelle eyes him curiously, but returns the salute. “To the continuance of the world.”

The Distortion raises its own glass, somehow neither crushing it nor spilling it on itself. “To second chances.”

For several moments, they eat in silence. Then, suddenly, the Distortion lays down its fork and claps its hands. “Oh, where are my manners? What a terrible host you must both think me. Allow me to present Annabelle Cane, the Spider…Spider, please permit me to introduce Oliver Banks, the Tower.”

Annabelle studies Oliver with renewed interest. Her knowledge of tarot is admittedly limited—enough to recognize the title bestowed upon him as one of the Major Arcana, but not enough to grasp the significance. That he is a named entity, though, speaks to his power and importance.

And here they are, sharing a nice little breakfast in the Distortion’s facsimile of a kitchen.

“Tea, Miss Cane?” Oliver says politely, lifting the cosy off the kettle.

“Annabelle. Please,” Annabelle tacks on. “And yes, thank you, that would be lovely, Mr. Banks.”

“Mr. Banks was my father. Please call me Oliver.” Oliver manages a smile that tells her he, too, is playing a role, at least a bit.

The Distortion slides the sugar bowl towards her. “Since we are being informal, you may both call me Helen.”

Oliver starts in some surprise. “I thought you were going by Michael?”

The Distortion—Helen—purses its lips. “Michael isn’t me. Not now.”

“Was Michael ever you?” Annabelle asks as she stirs a spoonful of sugar into the tea.

“Yes. I did not want to be Michael, but neither of us had any choice in the matter.” For just a moment, Helen’s eyes darken before going back to the wild kaleidoscope of color. “He got…distracted. Let feelings that shouldn’t have been his overwhelm me. Lost my way.” It focuses on Annabelle. “Michael didn’t agree you needed a second chance.”

Annabelle considers that for a moment. “Well. Thank you.” She lifts the tea to her lips but, like Oliver, doesn’t drink it, merely inhales the steam. Finally, she asks, “How long have I been here?”

Helen makes a face. “Time is difficult to determine here.”

“Maybe I’d better ask differently then.” Annabelle turns to Oliver. “How long since the…” She flounders for a moment, wondering which incident to ask about, then settles on, “Disruption?”

“The…oh. You’re talking about the Archivist and his people stopping the Unknowing the same day the Institute got blown up?” Oliver purses his lips. “Closing in on six months. So I suppose that’s two powers that won’t be able to try again for a while. Obviously the Stranger…and a good deal of the Eye’s power went with the loss of the Institute.”

“That’s what the Mother of Puppets is so upset about, isn’t it?” Helen contrives to look innocent as it sips at its tea.

“Yes,” Annabelle admits.

Oliver raises an eyebrow and taps a piece of bacon against his upper lip. “Why?”

The redirect, the urge to shift the focus away from this conversation, rises to Annabelle’s lips, but she swallows it down. Something in both Oliver’s and Helen’s expressions tells her that they both already know, to some extent, that the Web was invested in at least one of those plans. And even if they don’t…something pulls under her ribs and she suddenly decides, to hell with it. If they’re still within the Distortion’s corridors—which they seem to be—the Web truly doesn’t have any reach here, which means she can make her own choices free of consequence. For the moment, anyway.

“Gertrude Robinson worked it out first, and it seems Elias Bouchard—Jonah Magnus, which I’m sure is no surprise to either of you—worked it out not long after,” she says. “Any ritual that intends to bring only one Fear into the world is doomed to failure.”

Helen hums. “And how long has the Web known that?”

“Probably decades, if not longer. It’s why she nudged Gertrude to bind herself to the Desolation’s messiah, in the hopes that she would collect sufficient marks to be a keystone.” Annabelle sips at her tea. It actually tastes like tea. “It has to be the Archivist at its core, which is why a devotee of the Eye has to be the one to assemble the ritual. The trouble was that Gertrude was too on the ball. She never would have allowed herself to be used, which is why the Web alerted Jonah to her plans so she could be…eliminated.”

“Enter Jonathan Sims,” Oliver murmurs.

Annabelle nods. “He was ideal, as far as the Web was concerned. Already marked by her, so easier to…guide. Afraid and angry enough to pretend skepticism, but also curious, meaning he would be more likely to plunge headfirst into danger and come out the other side more or less intact. And, of course, his early experience left him with a deep feeling of survivor’s guilt, meaning he would do whatever it took to keep his people safe, including continue to put himself in harm’s way once he did admit to knowledge. There would never be a point he would choose to step back—as long as certain knowledge was kept from him.”

Helen snorts. “Enter Tim Stoker.”

“Yes. As I said…Gertrude was too good. She left a tape for Tim telling him about Jonah, and to prepare for the Unknowing and what that might entail. But she must have worked out somehow that the Web was listening to the tapes, because she told him the truth in a letter. One he read silently to himself, so she had no idea he knew.” Annabelle sighs. “He was an unplanned complication, especially when he began his transformation.”

Both of Oliver’s eyebrows go up this time. “He’s one of us?”

Annabelle notes the grammatical tense, but doesn’t comment on it. “He is the Guardian. Guardian of the Archivist.”

“Jonah Magnus quivers before him,” Oliver says, not quite under his breath.

Annabelle giggles before she can stop herself; Helen just looks politely confused. “Anyway. The Web had trouble getting at Tim, since that ring of his warned him when he was being spied on, but eventually the Mother of Puppets was able to learn that he knew Jonah was the biggest danger to the Archivist. She sent me to try and…convince him that his best option would be to go to Great Yarmouth with the others.”

“Ah.” Helen’s kaleidoscope eyes dance just a bit more with obvious amusement. “Because of course Jonah planned to go into hiding. Even I can see that the Archivist’s powers are coming along by leaps and bounds, and surely he’d begin to get suspicious, too, if given the opportunity. Get the Guardian out of the way for a while and give Jonah—perhaps with a nudge from Mother dear—the time to figure out how he fits into the plan, is that it?”

“Frankly, I don’t think that was ever even a possibility,” Annabelle replies. “I told Tim that the patterns showed that the Archivist’s fate would be different based on whether he had the Guardian by his side, which…may have been stretching the truth a bit. The reality is that it was whether Tim lived or not that changed his ultimate fate. As long as Tim Stoker lived, he would never let Jon fall into Jonah’s trap. Or the Web’s. He was supposed to go to Great Yarmouth and die in the explosion there.”

“But he died in the explosion at the Institute instead,” Helen says shrewdly. It runs a long fingernail around the edge of its glass of orange juice. “Why should the Web need to punish you if he died either way?”

“He took Jonah Magnus with him,” Annabelle points out. “I was listening through the tapes…the Mother of Puppets sent one of her other children to alert Jonah Magnus to the explosives planted in his office, and Jonah put it together with remarkable speed and came downstairs to stop Tim. If Jonah had been faster on the trigger than Tim, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But Tim got the jump on him and managed to actually destroy Jonah Magnus, and now nobody has a ritual handy and there isn’t a way to succeed.”

“And Tim isn’t dead,” Oliver adds quietly.

Annabelle and Helen both turn to look at him sharply and say in unison, “What?”

Oliver sips at his tea, his eyes growing pensive and distant. “The Archivist survived, sort of. Caught in a state between life and death, the state we’ve all been in—you know what I’m talking about, Annabelle. He has to make a choice. Matter of fact, one of your…uh, siblings stopped by to pass on the message suggesting I give him a talk, let him know he needs to make that choice. I don’t think he realizes that’s why he’s stuck. I was actually on my way to the hospital to pay him a visit when our friend here waylaid me and suggested I join the two of you for breakfast.” He nods at Helen. “Last night I, well, took a stroll around the Land of Dreams to confirm the Archivist was there. I found him…but there was something behind him, something that wasn’t the Ceaseless Watcher. I actually didn’t know what it was when I saw it, just that it was there and shadowing him and it seemed to sense me, even if it couldn’t see me. It felt…malevolent isn’t the word. Watchful isn’t right either. But I was definitely…warned. I was safe as long as I didn’t come near with ill intent.” He refocuses on Annabelle. “I take it that was Tim.”

Annabelle nods. Her mind races. That the Web suggested to Oliver that he visit the Archivist—Jon—says that she’s still hoping to use him, even if Jonah is out of the picture. Or else she’s hoping he’ll be out of the picture, that he’ll choose not to come back, and that she can start over with a new Archivist, because as long as the current one lives, there cannot be another. Either way, she recognizes that the torture she’s been put through for the last six months has been as much about keeping her distracted as it has been about actually punishing her. Maybe because she knows Annabelle holds a key she can’t be trusted not to use.

She looks up at Oliver. “What does the Tower signify in tarot?”

“Chaos. Sudden upheaval. Disaster. Loss.” Oliver tips his head to one side and smiles slightly. “Unexpected change. The destruction of something built on false beliefs and foundations. Like most cards, it depends on where it falls within the reading.”

Annabelle smiles back. “Are you still going to give Jon his choice?”

Oliver nods. “Seems only fair. Like I said, he doesn’t realize why he’s stuck. He’s not in the worst place in the world, all things considered, but Martin’s suffering, and one way or another Jon needs to make a choice and put him out of his misery.”

So Martin made it through the Unknowing intact. That’s something, Annabelle thinks. “I wonder if I might…ask you a favor.”

At that, Oliver looks momentarily wary, but he nods cautiously. “You can ask.”

“Can you offer that choice to Tim as well?”

“If I can find him. Physically, anyway.”

“If they haven’t found his—” Annabelle starts to say if they haven’t found his body, then stops. He’s not dead, after all. Not yet, anyway. “If they haven’t found him, he’s still under the remains of the Institute. Unless they’ve started clearing it away.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Not yet. The surrounding buildings have started doing repairs, but there’s apparently some dispute over ownership of the property where the Magnus Institute used to be. I’ll get as close to him as I can.”

“I can take you there,” Helen offers, unexpectedly. “Once you’ve finished talking to Jon. Annabelle’s right, he’ll need his Guardian. You know. If we want to stop this from happening any time in the next few decades.”

“I’ll accept a lift.” Oliver studies Annabelle. “Have you thought about what we’ll do if he doesn’t choose to come back?”

“I suppose we’ll have to see to the Archivist’s safety ourselves,” Annabelle replies. “I’m not sure he’ll choose to leave the Archivist undefended, though.”

“The Guardian might not,” Helen says. “Tim might, though. Especially if Gerard didn’t make it out.”

Oliver purses his lips briefly. “I may be able to sweeten the pot a bit. If we do end up needing to have a discussion with the Archivist, I’d rather go through the Guardian’s security perimeters than Martin Blackwood’s.”

Annabelle can’t help but laugh. “That’s a fair point. Thank you, Oliver.”

“Hey, I don’t want the world to end any more than you two do.” Oliver raps his knuckles lightly on the table. “Right. This meeting of the Society for the Prevention of Doomsday is hereby adjourned. Who wants more tea?”

Annabelle sighs and settles back in her seat, watching as Helen whips off the tea cosy and pours three more steaming mugs. They’re not out of the woods. Not by a long shot. But for the first time, she feels like they have a chance.

The Web might have Annabelle tightly locked in its strands, and she is almost certainly going to suffer for this down the road, but at the very least, she feels like she’s done something good. And if nothing else, maybe this will be the olive branch that gets Tim to forgive her for what she’s done.

She doubts it, but hey, she can dream.