Carmiabell: The Black Apple

Chapter 19

The drunk was indubitably an addict. I’d wager he’d trade his own kidney for a jug of beer—and given half a chance, he might do the same with our secrets. Best we keep our words filtered around him.

"Clear this table for me," Simon's cousin, muttered before nodding off, his head lolling back on the chair.

"Wilfred!" Simon barked, as Phoebi and I swept up the empty tankards littering his table.

Honestly, I couldn't help but wonder what his parents had been thinking with a name like Wilfred. It sounded so noble, so… competent. A name like “Wilfred” practically had “future scholar” written all over it. Yet here he was, dribbling like a wet sock after another evening soaked in ale.

A red dreamer, judging by the glow of the lantern flames around him—his lanera. But he was one who’d missed whatever boat of purpose life had set aside for him. He was the very definition of how “destiny” could go utterly wrong.

He sputtered awake, rubbing off a dribble of saliva in a way that made me inwardly gag. "What? Where's he?"

God help us. Any longer around him, and I’d be losing my mind right alongside him.

Wilfred’s room was an absolute mess—like a dumpster set on fire just for the aesthetic. Phoebi and I swept junk from the table, pushing aside half-crushed parchment, empty bottles, and crumbs of who-knew-what. All that was left standing were two lanterns—one on each end of the table—and Mrs. Tuth’s diary, lying lonely at the center.

"Find me a red file with plain sheets," he slurred, nodding off mid-sentence.

Oh, of course, he was going to be this helpful.

Simon leaned back, crossing his arms like some sort of supervisor, while the four of us scattered through the junk piles looking for this mysterious red file. Just when I was about to give up hope, Phoebi held it aloft, triumphant. "Got it!"

This time, Wilfred didn't even need Simon to shout his name. He stretched, his bones cracking loudly enough that I wondered if he’d turned his spine into a pack of fireworks.

After a loud, ale-scented sigh, he plucked out four sheets, took Mrs. Tuth’s diary, opened it to some random page, and placed the sheets on top with the precision of someone who thought they were conducting some high-level calculus. He positioned the sheets with ridiculous care, as if each angle were a matter of life or death.

Then, hands trembling, he raised them over the sheets. The lantern flames flickered, caught in some invisible wind—though how a draft was getting into this airtight room was anyone's guess.

Wilfred closed his eyes, and the flames stood upright like obedient soldiers. He began mumbling strange words, each one resonating through the silent room. Somehow, my senses sharpened with every mutter, like every little sound had been sucked out of the air, leaving only the odd rhythm of his gibberish.

My lip-reading skills—courtesy of losing far too many matches to my sister Marie—did me little good here. Even as I squinted at his mouth, his words remained stubbornly unintelligible.

The flames grew, stretching toward the lanter ceilings, as the ground trembled beneath our feet. His words grew louder, almost drowning out the unsettling quake.

I grabbed onto a shelf as the shaking intensified. Damon stumbled and Phoebi squealed as we braced ourselves, the tremors tossing us up like dolls on a string.

Then, without warning, everything stilled. The lantern flames snuffed out, plunging us into an oppressive darkness. A heartbeat later, the lanterns rekindled themselves, and I blinked against the returning light, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.