Free Illusionarium by Heather Dixon Page B

the window, and called out to theyeomen in the courtyard below. They patrolled the area, lamps held aloft.
    â€œHo there!” I yelled. “Yeomen! Why the bells? What day is it?”
    The yeoman nearest called back to me, and his voice broke.
    â€œThe queen is dead,” he said. “God rest her soul.”
    The bells were drowned out by my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I sank onto the stone under the window and buried my face in my hands, despair seeping into my soul. The queen. Our symbol of Avalon. My father had not been able to save her.
    She had looked so much like my mother. . . .
    I bit my tongue to keep from showing emotion in front of Lockwood, though I fear my shoulders shook. He silently watched me from the other side of the cell.
    I must have somehow fallen asleep in the following hours, because abruptly I was shaken awake by Lockwood, his face so intense you could have sparked fires with it.
    â€œGet up,” he said shortly. “Something’s going on.”
    I groggily pulled myself to my feet and squinted out the window, Lockwood poised beside it as tight as a wound spring. He nodded his head at the courtyard below, where the four dim pinpricks of the patrolling yeomen’s lanterns swung.
    â€œTwo of them aren’t patrolling anymore,” he said in a low voice.
    I saw he was right, even through my broken glasses. The two lanterns farthest had fallen to the ground, still lit but unmoving. As I watched, a third lantern tumbled, and the yeoman made not a sound when he fell. The winter air held its breath.
    My heart began to thud.
    The fourth lantern fell.
    â€œHello!” I cried out. “Hello, ther—”
    Lockwood grabbed me by the vest and flung me away from the window.
    â€œIdiot!” he seethed. “You don’t make a move until you know what’s going on!”
    Silence encased us. It wasn’t normal silence. It was the silence of a thick fog. The sort of silence you’d find in Fata’s cloud canals. Suffocating silence.
    â€œThey’re after us,” said Lockwood.
    â€œWhat? After us? How do you know?” I whispered back.
    â€œWe’re the only tower in this direction. Don’t you notice anything ?”
    â€œOf course I do,” I snapped. “Just because it’s all under a microscope—”
    The hairs on the back of my neck rose. The silence had become thicker. Lockwood pressed himself againstthe wall next to the door, ready to pounce on whatever tried to come through. I copied him on the other side of the door. The silence was so strangling now a dropped pin would be a cannon.
    A pin did not drop, but a voice beyond the door whispered, “ Jonathan .”
    And the door exploded.
    The force threw me back against stone. Splinters rained over me; twisted iron and broken wood staccatoed over the wall. Smoke choked me. My ears rang and I couldn’t inhale, the wind knocked out of me. Dust stung my eyes.
    It settled like a snowfall. I coughed, my swollen nose throbbing, and in the thinning haze, a grandmotherly figure faded into view. She was surrounded by an odd assortment: a dozen men in facemasks and long red uniforms. They settled themselves about her in military formation.
    â€œWell, Jonathan,” said Lady Florel, beaming. “Shall we fetch that cure?”

C HAPTER 7
    I stared. The scene could only be taken in by pieces, as everything all at once was too much whole.
    Piece 1: Lady Florel. She wore a small red mask that covered the upper half of her face, and a costume that covered almost every inch of her in striped rags and gathers. She looked like a seabird that had got caught in an airship engine.
    Piece 2: The guards that stood around her. Like Lady Florel, they wore masks, but these covered their entire faces. Their clothes looked as though they had been stitched together from pieces of various costumes from the past hundred years, and all of it—even the masks—had been