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She searched the decks.
Lantern held aloft in one hand the Lady looked here and there; peering into nooks and crannies such as only a child could wedge themselves in; gazing across the deep void of the Prison far above, seeking for a little form crawling about the netting; listening for the telltale pitter patter of tiny footsteps.
She had not been down here in months, not since she had visited the nursery at Roger’s insistence. She kept far from children, more out of self-interest than genuine dislike. There always lurked the danger of the successor. Not even the Ferryman could sniff it out—that task was left to Roger. Inevitably, one child would dislocate themselves from the rest and prowl the Maw. She knew it was not out of a desire to escape, nor because they were mistreated (how that man doted on them)—it was the curse of the Maw working its will upon them.
They had no control in the matter. Once the curse seized them, there was only one outcome. The Lady knew its dreadful power well—she had been born from it.
That time had been different, however.
A creak—far too irregular to be dismissed as timber—alerted her and she whirled about, fluidly, sinuously. As the lantern’s focused light lit up the source of the sound, she tensed. Then… relaxation. It was only a pair of Nomes. Their funny hats twitched and jerked from side to side as they scurried from her sight. Beneath her mask a smile formed. Amusing creatures, the little Nomes. The Chefs complained constantly about them getting in the way, always disturbing preparations and making a nuisance of themselves. She thought so too when they had first been discovered, by Roger no less one day as he puttered about her quarters fixing something that had been broken. But he had convinced her to leave them be, and give them a chance. She allowed this gesture—after, of course, sealing her quarters and warding it from intruders, creating her now beloved Shadows as its guardians.
The Nomes proved invaluable. Apart from creating little communities in the Maw’s innumerable vaults and caverns, they kept it clean, keeping the machinery running without complaint, and (when in enough numbers) capable of controlling the pests that lived off of the Maw’s refuse. All they required was food, which there was aplenty, and that was all. Roger had even reported they were well-received by the children. Always a bonus.
Her light panned, following the Nomes as they skittered off. She glided after. Her little runaway had a particular fondness for them.
The creatures led her down a staircase and a few halls, each one more twisted than the last, through several locked doors (she phased through them, not bothering with the locks), and finally across a thin bridge that only Roger knew how to navigate. At last they brought her to a landing, disappearing through a hole in the wall. She shone the light through, peering in. Sure enough there was one of their communities—oh, how lovely, she thought, they have a shrine.
Inside the tiny room there was a little statuette of her on a little pedestal (made out of some crates and knickknacks), surrounded by candles and little illegible scrawls. The Nomes within made themselves scarce as her light played across.
Chuckling, she withdrew a little ways and shielded the light. She was patient. After some time the Nomes reemerged, one by one, their dirty-white hats fluttering as they moved. It was a crowd—she counted no less than fifteen of the things. They gathered in a little circle, chittering in that tongue of theirs, then with one accord filed away in single-file down the bridge she had pursued the other two earlier. They did not see her off to the side, cloaked in a deeper shadow.
Once the last Nome had left the bridge the shadow followed—slowly, they were very sensitive to movement. In this painstaking manner she trailed after. They led her deeper into the depths of the Prison, past rooms and halls she didn’t know even existed. (Perhaps even Roger did not know.) Down, down, down they went, sinking into the darkest night.
A funny sound made itself known to her—a jingle, incredibly enough.
Her heart momentarily stopped itself. Oh no. It wasn’t in alarm, just resignation. The jingle grew louder and more coherent as the procession neared it. It resolved into a janky tune, a heavily distorted woman’s voice that sounded happy. The Lady nodded. She should have known. What an ever curious little boy.
The Nomes disappeared through another hole in the wall, taking one of their shortcuts. She waited until she was sure enough time had passed, then phased after them. The drip-drip-drip of water intruded on her ears. They had entered one of the lowest levels of the Maw, where the legs would normally be stored when in transit. She knew their destination, it was a small suite of rooms tucked away between two multi-jointed limbs.
Another sound joined the jingle, a hacking cough. Her eyes widened and she abandoned all pretense of hiding. The shadow evaporated with a hiss, and as the Nomes scattered, she flew forwards. Lantern aloft she swiftly scanned the area. In moments she located the source.
Crouched upon a ledge, hacking his lungs up, was her little boy. He looked up as the light fell across. His dark hair was soaked with slime and oil-slicked water, to say nothing of his blue sweater, which was almost midnight in color. He stared fearlessly back into her light. Where could he run to?
“Naughty, naughty boy,” she said, alighting before him. She did not need the ledge. “I’ve told you many times, the lower levels are off limits.”
“But I wanted to see Granny again,” he said, defiantly.
“I said, next time, we will go there again. You shouldn’t be going off on your own.”
“How did you find me?” Always curious. He knew she had ways of tracking him, but she decided to be straightforward.
“Your Nomish friends led me here,” she gestured, pointing back to where she knew they were hidden. “I followed after them.”
“You shouldn’t have,” he mumbled. “Now they won’t visit me again.”
“That is besides the issue: you broke curfew, you are soaking wet, you probably have a cold from this nasty water, and you disobeyed me.”
“But mom—!”
“No buts, young man, you are grounded again.” With an imperceptible shake of her head, the Lady’s little runaway was hoisted into the air, his arms and legs drifting freely, and levitated before her. “Come along now,” she ordered.
“Lemme go!”
“No.”
This time she forsook the roundabout path she had taken to get down here, instead ascending directly through to the uppermost heights. The Prison lay sprawled out in its enormity, huge ventilation shafts drawing out musty air and replacing it with fresher air, flavored by the sea. It was sectioned into multiple compartments, each with its own collection of rooms, halls, elevators, and stairwells. All this she could see with her mystic sight, but all he could see was impenetrable shadow. Gradually the Prison was replaced with the upper decks of the Maw, rooms where the Guests rested, their every need tended to by invisible servants (in actuality, just the Nomes, allowing her to be free of a large workforce), and the Chefs’ exclusive domain, the enormous kitchens and adjacent storerooms.
She could see the older (by twenty minutes) berating the younger for some minor thing—whatever it was, it warranted wild gesticulations and soundless shouts. The younger was not at all abashed, for he was arguing back just as fiercely. If only she could hear them, what an amusing spectacle that would be. Alas, she had more pressing matters to attend.
The peace and quiet of her quarters enveloped them as she materialized. Still holding the boy firmly in her telekinetic grip, she guided him straight to the washroom. His wet clothing was stripped off and discreetly sent away to be incinerated while soap and hot, clean water scrubbed his skin raw. Then, at last, freshly laundered and new clothing assembled themselves on him. Unfortunately there was nothing that could be done about the cough with magic.
“Off to bed now,” she said, breaking the silence. He didn’t answer, sullen.
Cradling him in her arms, the Lady carried him to his bedroom and tucked him in. “Now stay, and I’ll be back with something for that cough.”
At this he sat up. “No, please not the medicine,” he pleaded, but she strolled from his room without hearing him, the door swinging closed and locking behind. He attempted to climb out of bed, but decided against it as three Shadows appeared from the dark corners and stared at him.
Humming a tune the Lady entered her personal kitchen, a small room she had decided was necessary all those months ago, and busied herself. She was by no means as good a cook as the Chefs were (they would laugh at her earliest creations if they knew of them), but there were some things she could put together decently.
Her little runaway had been staring at his dark keepers for some time now, fighting in a mental battle of wits (will he, won’t he, climb out?), when the smell hit him. His nose twitched and mouth watered. He stopped the staring contest and looked at his closed door. A moment later she appeared, her smoky entrance marred somewhat by the room’s brighter lighting. In one hand was a tray with a steaming bowl.
“I’ve been told this is the universal cure for a cold,” she said, setting the tray down. “And plenty delicious.”
He tested the soup. Lightly salted, with herbs for added flavoring. “I thought chicken was a myth,” he said, taking his spoon and eating more rapidly, but with an eye for his manners.
“In a manner of speaking,” she admitted. “Not everything is lost. Much better than medicine?” she asked.
He nodded, mouth full of soup.
“Eat up, leave the bowl on the table. I’ll collect it later.” she arose, gracefully, and turned to leave.
“Is it true that I’ll have to kill you when I grow up?”
The Lady froze.
“Where did you get that notion?” she asked, not turning her head.
“G… Granny,” he mumbled. “I don’t know much of what she was saying, honest. But is it true?”
She considered the question. She decided on a partial truth. “I hope not.”
“Me too, mom.”
She turned around to find him already beneath the covers, bowl on his bedside table. His little head was dwarfed by the enormous pillow. “Sleep tight,” she said, bending down and lifting up her mask to give him a little peck on the cheek. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
Not that they would—the Shadows would see to it that nothing disturbed his rest.
“Night, mom.”
“Good night, sweetie.”
Not long after she was on the move again—down, down, down she descended, going back into the depths of the Maw’s deepest reaches, to a point just above the bilge pump. Here the darkness assailed her, offering her a cloak against the dim light which filtered down from the occasional errant Eye casting its gaze.
The little jingle intruded on her senses again. It was irritating, but one she had to tolerate. Passing through the door, which was locked, the Lady entered the suite the Granny occupied. It was small compared to her own quarters, even next to a guest room, but it was comfortable enough. It had a small kitchen, though none of the appliances worked, food instead being delivered thrice daily through a dumbwaiter that was too fragile to support even a child’s weight; a washroom and closet; bedroom and combined living room. In the latter sat Granny.
To the best of the Lady’s knowledge, Granny never left her chair, always watching the small television that constantly played. It had a few stations but the music channel was the only one she was interested in, as it played that particular song on loop at certain times of the day.
She loomed imperiously behind Granny’s chair, watching the deranged woman on the screen wave a meat cleaver and pot about as she sang the jingle. It became too much for her hearing; with a wave of her palm she extinguished the TV.
“Ohhhh, has Poppit come to visit again? What has little ol’ granny done to deserve this honor?” The chair slowly turned on its swivel, and Granny looked upon her. Her features were gaunt and pale from lack of sunlight.
“What have you been telling him?” The Lady was having none of her games.
“You don’ need to mind little ol’ granny,” the old woman mumbled, her eyes widening with a mock laugh. “Just a secret between her and Poppit.”
“That secret can spell both of our dooms,” the Lady answered firmly. “Yours, his, mine.”
“Ohhh, but surely Poppit deserves to know the truth? Granny always has known that telling lies is bad, bad, bad for Poppit’s health.”
“You want truth?” Her eyes hardened behind the mask. “I could kill you right now and come into my inheritance.”
“And granny welcomes it!” The old woman spread her arms wide. “Go on, Poppit, kill granny and release her from this pain.”
The Lady shook her head slowly. “No. The curse will die with me. You will not die because I will it so.”
“Yet Poppit keeps poor granny locked away from her palace. This place used to be granny’s—”
“I know, I know, as did the woman before you and the Lord before her.” She was tired already. “Why did you tell him?”
“The curse! The curse is strong, yes, Poppit? It cannot be denied. This hungry maw must feed.” She opened her mouth, pointing at the few teeth left inside.
“I reject the curse. But I do not reject you. I keep you here because I must, for both our sakes.”
“Is Poppit afraid His Lordship will find granny?”
The Lady’s mask darkened to black, and she grew in height and presence. “Do—not—mention—his—name,” she hissed, leaning towards Granny as she spoke. The old woman shrank back from her gaze. “He is dead to me, and you will do well not to say it to me.”
“Granny only speaks truth,” the old woman answered, now visibly shaking. Once upon a time she had been as regal as the Lady, full of vitality and power. Now only a shriveled husk remained, the curse having almost worked through her completely. Only death would seal it. “You are afraid of the truth.”
“Yes I am.” The Lady retreated back. “I am afraid of the curse; I am afraid that everything I have worked towards building will disappear. Roger, the twins, the bellboy, the children. All of them, undone by the curse’s existence.” She spat the last. “I hate it.”
“Then… Poppit must kill, yes?”
She threw up her hands. “You are impossible. Just don’t mention it to him ever again.”
“What if Poppit asks granny? What will granny say?”
“Granny will say nothing. Mommy has already explain—” She got no further as the old woman interrupted with spasms of laughter and coughing.
“You!” she choked out with ironic amusement. “You are not a mother, never will be a mother. This world runs on death, that is how it always has worked. You will doom poor granny and poor precious Poppit to ruin.”
“…a price I am willing to take on myself.”
“Is Poppit sure?”
“I know it.”
Without another word, the Lady willed the TV to turn back on, attracting Granny’s attention once more. Momentarily the image of an Eye flickered on the screen before the singing woman replaced it. Resisting the urge to spit at it, she phased away from Granny’s quarters and up, up, up, far away.
She will outlast the curse, she vowed. Not even Mono will stop her.