Free Perfect Shadows by Siobhan Burke

stronger now, a husky, light baritone.
    “It will be better if you can remember on your own. Shall I read
to you? No? Well, rest you then and I’ll look in on you anon.”
    “An it please you, leave the candle.” The heavy man nodded and
shut the door gently behind him.
    I studied my surroundings. The chamber appeared to be
windowless, as the fine hangings on the walls did not so much as sway, though I
could hear the wind outside whistling around the corners of the house. The
candle flame burned steady and tall, and the candle was expensive hard wax, not
cheap tallow. The bed where I lay was adorned with the richest of hangings and
the floor was covered over in peerless Turkey carpets which at home would be
carefully kept on tables and chests, the floors making do with rushes or straw.
I drew a sharp breath. Home! The memory was but a glimpse and try though I
might, nothing more would come of it, so I returned to my contemplation of my
prison. I could hear, faint and far away, voices and music, and beyond that the
forlorn howls of wolves. Though I had not meant to sleep, I soon found a
dulling lethargy stealing over me, drowning my will.
    When I awoke I was in darkness once more. The candle had
guttered out and the smell of the smoking wick brought a burdensome memory: the
cavernous great cathedral, the scent of wax candles and incense, a show of
outward piety rotted from within by secret vice. I could feel the alderman’s
sweaty hands roaming my recoiling body, feel his hot, panting breath as he
pawed the child that I had been—I stifled a cry at the memory and the sound of
my own voice calmed me. Whatever it was, whenever it may have happened, it was
not now. And then the memories were gone, vanished into shadow like the light
of a blown-out candle. I knew that I had remembered something, but not what. I
threw myself against the restraints as if I could physically grasp the
memories, catch them and hold them if only I were free! In a frighteningly
short time, I was too exhausted to move, and slumped in my bonds. A sheen of
sweat covered me, chilling my flesh, so that my skin glistened in the sudden
light of the candle the heavy-set man carried as he entered.
    “Nicolas!” I called out and laughed. “Nicolas.”
    “My dear young friend! You remember me! What—”
    “No. No, I do but remember that that name goes with that face: I
know you not.”
    “But it is a beginning. And what have you been doing to so
exercise yourself?” he asked, pulling a large handkerchief from the sleeve of
his doublet and mopping at my brow.
    “Remembering,” I said, wryly. He smiled at that and turned back
to the door. When he returned to the bed he proceeded to feed me as before. As
we finished a serving man entered bearing a tray laden with shaving apparatus.
The servant shaved me and combed out the dark curls that lay over my shoulders,
then retired.
    “I am half blind—why?” I asked softly.
    “You lost the eye when you were injured,” Nicolas said gently
and tied a black silk patch to cover the empty socket. He held a mirror that I
might study the effect. I looked into the face of a stranger, not unhandsome,
and the eye-patch gave my countenance a sinister air of which I thoroughly
approved.
    “And now, my friend, do you feel up to meeting our host?”
Nicolas beamed at me.
    “Then you are not—yes, I feel quite well. May I not be freed
first?”
    He shook his head gravely. “No, that is for him to say. He has
much experience with injuries and illnesses such as yours and will know best.
Now rest yourself and I shall bring him.” It was only a few minutes later that
Nicolas returned with a man of overwhelming presence. He was tall and well
built with the lithe grace of a professional duelist, and like a duelist, he
radiated a sense of inherent danger. His clothing, somewhat conservative, was
of impeccable cut and somber in color. His full-cut trousers met high boots of
supple leather; his black satin doublet was richly