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SNEAK PEEK
CATHERINE EGAN
CATHERINE EGAN
CATHERINE EGAN
ALFRED A. KNOPF
NEW YORK
ALFRED
A. KNOPF
#JuliaVanishes
NEW YORK
ALFRED A. KNOPF
NEW YORK
Egan_9780553524840_2p_all_r1.indd 3
10/22/15 10:2
ATTENTION, READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT
The cab crosses the bridge by Cyrambel Temple, and Jani hears
Forget me
She looks after the cab, puzzled, trying to remember who gave her
the paper. Lord Snows house in Forrestal is a long way off, and the
night is cold.
What am I doing? she says aloud.
The soft hand on her throat comes like an answer to her question,
choking off her scream. In one swift motion the blade cuts her loose of
the dark night and all that was to come.
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door. That doesnt worry me. Most likely he fell asleep over
a book. The stairs leading to the second floor are wider. I
skip down them quickly, a hand to the wall to guide me in
the dark. I know every floorboard that creaks, and my descent is soundless. Here is the library, the music room, Mrs.
Ochs reading room, and my destination tonight: Professor
Baranyis study. We do not clean this room, so I have never
been inside. It is locked at night.
Not that a lock is any great impediment.
There is no light coming from under the door, but I press
my ear to it and listen just in case. With my free hand, I
slip a pin from my hair and flatten it out. Im not a practiced
lockpick, but I have the basic skills and get it open in under
a minute.
Ive stitched a match into the hem of my nightdress. Shutting the door behind me, I feel my way to the hearth and
strike the match against the stone. Once the candle is lit,
the room leaps into view around me, bookcases looming, the
furniture sending monstrous, grasping shadows my way. Ive
never been one to quake at shadows: I make my way straight
for Professor Baranyis desk.
The professor is not a tidy man, to put it mildly. Precariously stacked books and papers cover every inch of space.
Three ashtrays overflow with cigarette butts, there are two
half-full glasses perched dangerously atop a pile of large
leather-bound folders, and his inkpot lies open, pen leaking
onto the blotter.
It would help if I knew what I was looking for.
interesting. I wiggle the hairpin until the lock gives and slide
the case open. I can see why these books are locked up, with
titles like A Scientific Analysis of Elemental Forces at Work and
Legends of the Xianren I through Legends of the Xianren VII. Ive
heard of the Xianrenmythical, winged wizards in the old
days who could supposedly speak their magic. Folklorish
stuff. I shouldnt be surprisedProfessor Baranyi spent a
number of years in prison for heretical writings, and you can
go to prison just for owning books like these. So you see, Im
not snooping through the private rooms of honest, upstanding citizens of Frayne. Criminals every way I turn.
My hand is on Legends of the Xianren I, pulling it off the
shelf, when I hear a creak on the stairs. I push the book back
and slide the glass door shut, blowing out the candle. I work
the cabinet lock shut again, but there is no time to get to
the door. I hear a key in the lock as I tread softly through
the dark. I bump against a sedan chair piled with books and
freeze, afraid of knocking something over. There is some
fumbling with the door, as I left it unlocked, and whoever is
at the door has mistakenly locked it again. But he tries the
key again, and opens the door.
I draw in a slow breath and release it. The door opens and
light pours into the room. It is Professor Baranyi with a lantern. He is wearing a thick robe and house slippers. By day
he is an affable, genial-looking man, but the light from the
lantern makes his swarthy, bearded face look sinister. He
drops the key into his robe pocket, glances around the room,
and then goes to the owl on its perch and scratches it under
its beak. The owl nibbles at his fingers and bobs its head in
my direction. Treacherous little thing. But Professor Baranyi
does not look my way, going instead to his desk. He places
the lantern atop a pile of books on the floor that reaches to
the height of the desk, and fumbles in the drawer for a cigarette.
I bite back my curses. Hes going to be a while.
In my sixteen years, Ive seen as much as, or more than, someone five times my age, and Ive acquired a number of unusual
skills. Some of those skills required endless practice, while
others came to me more naturally. One particular skill has
always been mine. I dont know what to call it, except to say
that I have the ability to be unseen. Its not invisibility or anything so absolutethis I learned from hard experience when
I was a child. But there is a space I can step into, a space between being myself in the world and I know not what, where
peoples eyes simply pass over me, as if I were a piece of furniture so ordinary they barely take it in. Since I got the hang of
doing it on purpose, only one person has been able to see me
when I did not intend her to.
I watch the professor as if through a fogged window now,
everything slightly blurred. He reaches for one of the leather
folders, moving the glasses of who knows what. I clench my
jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. The house is frigid at
night, and I hope he will think to light the fire.
He licks his finger and turns a page. I try to warm myself
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you. I was ever so frightened. But I ought not to have bothered you. Im so embarrassed, sir.
Nobody need hear about it, he comforts me, and I hope
he means it. Mrs. Och would be less inclined to credulous
sympathy, I somehow think. Now, perhaps you had better
get back to bed.
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I duck out the door.
The relief of moving again is tremendous. I nearly fly up
the stairs, slipping back into the housemaids room as quietly
as I can. I ease myself onto the cold sheets. The bed screams
its usual protest, and Florences eyes fly open.
Where were you? she says, in a cold and alarmingly
awake little voice.
Privy, I grunt back, pulling the blankets over me. After a
minute I give a snore, but I can feel her beady little eyes still
watching me.
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TWO
are given the day off. Besides Florence and Chloe, Frederick is the only member of the household to attend temple
with any regularity. I am supposedly going to my hometown
of Jepta, a nondescript village about an hour north of Spira
City. Gregor even took me out there once in case I encountered anyone who knew the place, made me walk around
memorizing alleyways and chatting with grocers and cobblers so that I would know their names. Esme, for her part,
concocted an impressively dull family for me; I have endless
dull details about them and their dullness to share should
anybody be interested, but nobody is. After all, Im just the
new housemaid.
Except, of course, that Im not.
Mrs. Och generously gives me the fare to Jepta, so I buy
myself a hot breakfast on Lirabon Avenue, sitting shoulder
to shoulder at the bar with the students and artists and poor
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She rises, clapping the ashes from her hands, and gives me a
warm smile. I am of an average height, but Esme dwarfs me.
She wears mens trousers because shes impossible to fit for
dresses and cant be bothered to go to the expense of having
them made specially. Her short hair is nearly white, but her
face is only subtly lined.
Ill get you some coffee, love, she says, and hands me a
towel to dry my hair with. Good to see you.
You too, I say, toweling off and then throwing the towel
at Dek to make him look up. He catches it and laughs at
me. I peel my wet coat off and throw myself down in a chair.
The fire is blazing nicely now, and I shift a little so my feet
are closer to it. Its such a blessed relief not to have to scrub
a floor, carry water or coal up the stairs, polish a grate or another blasted candlestick. To be home.
Saw a dead girl over by Cyrambel, I tell them, and repeat
what the gossipy old hen told me.
Poor thing, says Esme, handing me a mug of steaming
coffee. This city is a dangerous place for a girl on her own.
You be sensible, my Julia. I dont want to hear about you on
a bridge one day.
Wouldnt happen to me, I say, slapping my boot where I
keep my knife tucked away.
It wont happen to you because youll be smart and not
go wandering about on your own at night, says Dek, giving
me a hard look. Not because youve got a six-inch knife so
snug in your boot lining it would take you five minutes to get
it out.
Nine inches, I say, grinning at him. And look.
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I whip the knife out at the same moment that he lunges for
me, twisting my wrist back so the knife falls to the ground
with a clatter and I spill my coffee.
Flaming Kahge, Dek, relax! I shout.
He is breathing hard, his bad leg twisted beneath him.
Esme chuckles, sips her coffee.
My point, he says slowly, is you be smart, Julia. You be
careful.
Im careful, I say, shoving him away from me. Im only a
little bit angry, though. He worries about me, I know, and
the truth is, it makes me feel safe to have him worry. Like
his love can keep me safe. Youd think Id know better; love
doesnt keep anyone safe. But hes my older brother, and worrying about me is what he does.
Dek and I were born in the Twist. I was seven and he was
ten when our mother was killed and our father disappeared.
He begged, I stole, according to the fortunes the Nameless
One had bestowed upon us. That was the summer after the
Scourge swept across Frayne, decimating the population. It
was the worst Scourge in living memorycorpses were rotting in ditches and people barely went out. In our house, it
touched only Benedek. I was sent to stay with an aunt in the
countryside who beat me, and I cried every day, not because
of the beatings but because Dek was going to die.
Only he didnt. A child surviving the Scourge was unheard
of. Dek not only survived; he survived with his self intact, un-
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like the trembling, ravaged, half-witted survivors you sometimes see begging along the river. A decade later, he wears his
curling black hair long to cover the scars and the unmistakable dark blots of the Scourge that deform the right side of
his face, the empty eye socket now sewn shut. His right side
is blighted, the arm and leg withered and nearly useless. It is
as if the Scourge raged through him but stopped halfway and
turned back again. From the left, he is quite handsome, with
a strong jaw and a straight nose. He gets around well enough
with a crutch. Most days he counts himself lucky to be alive,
but I know there are dark days too, when it doesnt feel so
much like luck.
People are terrified of Scourge survivors, as if the contagion
might still be present in them, but Esme never flinched at the
sight of him. Shed lost her own son to the Scourge, and her
husband to a failed revolution, and I dont think anything
frightens Esme anymore. She took us both in, taught us how
to read and a great many other things besides. They became
our new family: Esme, her colleagues Gregor and Csilla, and
beautiful Wyn, her adopted son, a lanky ten-year-old then.
I fell in love with him on first sight, when I was barely eight
years old. He winked at me, and I was lost.
Gregor and Csilla arrive midday, after temple, as I am writing up my report. They come sweeping in and have a way
of making the comfortable parlor seem suddenly dingy and
small. They are recently back from working a long con in
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Ingleone of their classics. Csilla plays the damsel in distress, a Fraynish lady trapped in Ingle with her abusive husband, lacking funds to escape him and flee to her powerful
family. Each time, several rich, besotted gallants come eagerly
to her rescue and provide her full fare home, that she might
be free of her monstrous husband. Im sure Gregor has had
a wonderful time playing the ogre. Needless to say, theyve
both been having a better time than I have.
Hallo, everyone! says Csilla, pulling off her white gloves.
Gracious, Julia, Ive got to give you something for those circles under your eyes. Dont housemaids sleep?
Not this one, I grumble, stretching my legs out selfconsciously.
Poor thing, says Csilla, settling into a chair and taking out a silver cigarette case. Well take you to the cabaret
when the job is done, wont that be fun? You can borrow one
of my dresses.
I laugh. Id never fit into her clothes, which require all bust
and no waist.
Everything went smoothly, I take it? says Esme. No
angry Inglese aristocrats chasing you across the channel?
See for yourself how smoothly it went, says Gregor, tossing her a thick packet of Inglese bills. Csilla charmed them
senseless, of course, and I was a drunker lout than youve ever
seen.
Really? I ask, raising an eyebrow. Hard to imagine.
Dek shoots me a warning look.
Gregor was, once upon a time, the wayward son of an aris-
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streets of the Scola and crosses Ganmorel Bridge, heading into the
Edge, where Spira Citys destitute and desperate make their way. He
passes the cheap brothels and opium dens, and the cab climbs the hill
toward Limory Cemetery.
Something follows on swift, dark legs, unknown to him but pushing him on.
He parks the motor cab and gets out, pulling his coat around him,
confused. Winter is in the air already, and the street is deserted. He
walks uncertainly through the cemetery gates, then stops, turns, and
looks around.
Hullo? he says. His breath puffs out in a great white plume.
He hears something move in the shadow of his motor cab, or sees it
perhaps, but then there is nothing, silence.
Flaming Kahge, he mutters. He reaches into his pocket for a pipe
and then changes his mind. Turns to head deeper into the cemetery,
then stops again. His mind is a fog. Why has he come here?
The air gets colder, and now he hears, clear as anything, something
breathing nearby.
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Whos there? he calls. Fear surges in and clears his mind. Get
out of here. Dangerous. He heads back toward his motor cab at a
trot, but there is something at the gate, barring his way.
The moon is behind the clouds, and he doesnt see the thing clearly.
It stands upright, but the face is not a human face, the body too tall
and lithe to be a human body. He lets out a strangled yell, turns, and
runs.
There is a sound like a growl, and he finds himself facedown in
the gravel. He thinks of his wife, at home waiting for him, their child
about to be born any day now, his fear dissolving into another horror,
for how will they survive without him? A hand jerks his head up by
the hair. A wetness at his forehead, a spreading blackness. He thinks
of struggle, but fleetingly, as if from a great distancealready this
sudden, brutal ending has become part of somebody elses story.
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