“That is no trouble,” Finch replied, and motioned to his back. “Climb on my back. I’ll have you both to safety in a moment’s time.”
“I am quite capable of walking,” I said with a sigh. “And besides, you could not possibly carry us both.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary had sidled to his back and hooked her arms gingerly about his neck. He reached for me as soon as she did, sweeping me up into his strong grasp and launching into the air. Neither of us had time to properly react, those same huge, white wings sprouting from his back as if they were weightless, as if they were made of pure light.
I let out a shriek of surprise, scrambling to hang on to his shoulders as we flew up and away from the forest, leaving the forest floor far behind. Cool night air rushed over us, and my heart raced with terror all over again. It was more than just surprise, it was also dread, and the chilliness his presence always gave me. Well, and I had never been whisked through the air by a being with wings.
We landed safely in the yard just outside the kitchens. The door was still open, but now Mrs. Haylam was on the other side. Her face, twisted in fury, soon fell as she saw that it was not just me and Finch, but also Mary. I tumbled out of Finch’s grasp clumsily, wrapping my housecoat tightly around me as Mrs. Haylam rushed to Mary and herded her into an embrace.
“At last,” Mrs. Haylam was saying over and over again. It was the closest I had seen her come to tears or even joy. “At last you have returned to us. But you must be so weary.”
Mary wilted, boneless with exhaustion.
“I won’t ask what this was all about until tomorrow,” Mrs. Haylam said in a deadly whisper. Her one good eye locked on me and I pressed my lips together. “Mary is home; that earns you clemency for a few hours.”
She gave Finch an equally sharp look and then guided Mary toward the kitchens. I saw Chijioke inside, his brows knitted with concern as he scooped Mary up and brought her away from the night’s chill.
“A ‘thank you’ would suffice,” Finch muttered, long after Mrs. Haylam had gone.
“How about a spot of tea and a ‘thank you’?” I asked, trooping wearily into the kitchen.
“Are you sure that’s wise? Your housekeeper seems cross.”
“I’m already in trouble, what could it hurt?” I gestured him inside, then went to the range and checked to see that a low fire was still burning. With a wick, I went about the room, lighting a few stumpy candles and placing them on the table. There was pudding still in the pantry, and I retrieved it, laying out a bit of food while I fetched the kettle.
Frosty needles still prickled in my gut, but I ignored it, rationalizing that he had just saved my life and Mary’s, and so I could put up with the discomfort for the length of a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” I said, back to him as I fussed with the cups. “But how did you find us? No one else heard the commotion.”
“We . . .” He trailed off, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I found he had seated himself at the table, but would not meet my eye. His dark mane of hair fell in front of his eyes and he traced a circle on the table with one finger. “Sparrow and I are watching the house. It’s part of why we are here. We came to observe, and I know that sounds incredibly intrusive, but perhaps you can understand, given . . .”
“Given that a ruddy huge wolf just attacked me in the woods?” I finished. “Forgiven. And if it means anything, I don’t mind you so much. The others . . .”
“It’s a shame. A damn shame.”
Scrutiny. Mr. Morningside had mentioned that he was not looking forward to their poking around. He would probably be furious if he knew they had been floating about the house at night.
I managed a tired smile and measured out the tea, listening to Chijioke and Mrs. Haylam fuss as they brought Mary up the stairs to her room. “Should you be cursing?”
“Oh, don’t be fooled by the wings,” he said with a wink. “We can be dangerous.”
“That’s what everyone promises me. What shall they say now that you saved my life?”
His mirth faded and he flinched, dropping his elbow onto the table and his chin into that palm. “We were close once, you know. You are a newcomer to our worlds, so all of this must be deeply confusing. There was more than just passing civility in the old days. We were allies, those of our world and of Henry’s. We had to be. Now we just exist in a kind of . . . tense civility. I hope it can last but I fear it will not.”
“It is hard to imagine you and someone like Chijioke getting along. He is not fond of your kind, not even a little.” I filled the cups and let them steep, finding small comfort in the fragrant tea steam that drifted up from the darkening surface. “What caused the . . . How would you describe it? Rift?”
The promise of tea helped, even if my hands were still shaking. When I blinked, I saw the beast’s purple eyes and maw. That hellish voice would forever darken my dreams.
I joined Finch at the table, grateful for the rest the chair provided. It was only then that I noticed my hands were skinned and scratched, and drops of blood stained the housecoat’s sleeve. The blood of the beast. I shivered.
“We can talk of cheerier things,” Finch murmured, noticing.
“As if that were possible,” I said. My hands smoothed around the teacup, absorbing its warmth. “I have seen all manner of horrors here, but never have I seen a wolf like that.”
Finch took up his cup, too, holding it with both hands just under his chin. “There have been no wolves in England for hundreds of years. Maybe that hound I’ve seen skulking about the house has gone feral.”
“Do not tell me what I saw,” I told him sternly. “It was a wolf of a kind, taller than a man, with glowing eyes, and it could speak. Truly you did not see the thing properly if you could mistake it for Bartholomew. Besides, that dog is more interested in napping than hunting these days.”
I heard Mrs. Haylam’s pointed boots clicking on the floor outside the kitchen, and then she swept inside. She had come to retrieve a basin and some rags, which she did, but not before making her displeasure known. Standing in the door, she hitched the basin higher in her arms and nodded toward the kettle.
“Clean this up before morning,” she said curtly, then left in a huff and a whirl of skirts.
“Do not trouble yourself with my well-being, Granny,” I mumbled to where she had been. “Just a bump or two, nothing to fret about.”
Finch sipped carefully at his hot tea and tilted his head to the side, watching me. “If I may be so bold, Louisa, you are not like the others here. I get the feeling that you would not just follow Mrs. Haylam or Henry blindly.”
I shrugged off the praise. So far, I had done too much of what Mr. Morningside wanted. What would Finch think of me if he knew I had just that day signed a contract vowing to help him? Well, that was private. He did not need to know about my father, and I had promised to keep the journal and its contents a secret.
“How could I?” I looked into my teacup, hoping he could not sense the deception. “He was wrong about my friend Lee.”
“Right. Exactly. That’s good—I mean, not good that he was mistaken—but you should bring that up at the Court. It’s important that we have the truth, and that you give honest testimony.”
“Testimony?” I laughed. “Mr. Morningside is under the impression that this is some kind of party. . . .”
“He would be. I doubt he’s taken anything seriously in his life, which is how we got into this mess in the first place. Just reap souls, send them on their way . . . how hard could that really be? Why does he have to make a mess of everything?”
Sighing, I stood and drained my teacup, then carried it to the deep porcelain tub beside the range to wash up. I hadn’t exactly seen Mr. Morningside sending souls anywhere but into birds, but perhaps that was what Finch meant after all. I said nothing to contradict him. Finch’s chair scraped across the tiles as he stood and brought his cup to sit next to mine. The cold knot in my stomach only hurt worse the closer he came.
/>
“Did I say something to offend you?” he asked softly.
“I’m . . . tired. Tired from the day’s work, tired from that ordeal in the forest, and tired of all of you speaking in circles above my head.” It came spilling out of me in a rush of words; whatever thread of patience I had left had finally snapped. I leaned hard against the washbasin and covered my face with both hands. It took just an instant before I could muster the will to take up a rag and rinse out the teacups. “I did not mean to lose my composure.”
Finch returned to the table and brought me the rest of the porcelain we had used as well as the spoons. I stared for a long moment at the tea-stained curve of one of the spoons, feeling heartsick at the thought of that creature bounding off into the forest with the one Lee had given me. Another wave of hopeless exhaustion crashed down, and I wondered if the next time I closed my eyes I would simply drift off to sleep standing up.
“I would be more worried if you weren’t overwhelmed,” he said, and out of the corner of my eye I could see him give a polite bow before he moved toward the kitchen door. “Try to rest if you can. I wish I could say the days will get easier, but I would not want to give you false hope.”
Nodding, I dried the teacups with a worn cloth and listened to his retreating steps.
“Aye, I will try to rest,” I said. “Good night.”
Good night. I had to grimace at the thought—it would be just as well if I stayed there at the basin until dawn came and I was needed in the kitchens again. How could I sleep soundly knowing that monster was out there? Could any of us stand against it? I shivered and tidied the kitchen, then pulled the door shut and stared across the room into the dark foyer. If that thing came back for Mary, mere doors would not stop it. I had to console myself with the idea that Finch and his sister would continue watching the house, and perhaps if the beast returned they would see it before it could strike.
It was cold comfort, and when I returned to my chambers and slid into bed, it was a long, lonely time before restless sleep allowed me to escape and dream.
Chapter Sixteen
Year One
Journal of Bennu, Who Runs
I followed the river north and composed in my head messages to my family. Do not worry, they began, I will return soon. These would be lies, but they would not be the first I told. My mother and sisters already disliked my fervent devotion to gods they did not recognize or respect. They worshipped as everyone else did, and thought me foolish for bowing low to the river, to the bee, to the very palms that sheltered our house.
If they knew that no more than a shared vision of Meryt and Chryseis’s had sent me on this task, they would lock me up and lose the key.
Still. Composing the messages made me feel better, because if I was allowed to write such things or even see my family again, then it meant I had survived. How far would I have to go? How would I know when I arrived? The book and satchel grew heavier as I stumbled along the banks of the river. The ground sloped up and down, sometimes cluttered with reeds and shifting stones, sometimes open to the sun, and occasionally cooled by the shade of date palms. Would the guide I had been promised meet me at the next village, or the next? My belly demanded food and my thirst had become such that I tasted blood on the cracked edges of my lips.
As night fell on that first long day, I stopped in a small gathering of homes near a flooded bend. It was a farming community, and with the day’s work over, the villagers had returned to their homes to relax and drink honeyed beer.
I swatted at the mosquitoes swarming my arms and prowled the homes quietly, hopeful for a sign. The land grew hillier as I traveled away from the water. A woman sang to her child, the haunting melody drifting out through an open window. My feet felt raw, my body on the verge of collapse. And then, cause to hope! I noted the red-and-white paint flecking off the bottom of a brick house. It was just a modest place, not much more than a squat hut, but a snake had been painted to the left of the door, and though it was old and faded with age, I knew what it meant.
Sanctuary.
“Hello?” I called, and tapped lightly on the wooden door. “A friend is at the door. I kneel in the river to pray. I wash the feet of jackals. I do not go to the temple, I do not speak the names.”
It was dark inside, and I wondered if nobody waited within. Then a light and a single eye appeared at the crack in the door. A gruff male voice said: “Are you lost, child?”
Smiling, I hitched the pack higher on my shoulder and replied, “My feet are on the path.”
The door opened, as I’d hoped it would, and I slumped gratefully inside. The man who greeted me was old and hunchbacked, and he leaned heavily on a cane that was little more than a branch. A few leaves still clung to the top. He limped across the straw floor to a table surrounded by three stools. He had farmer’s hands, strong and scarred, and though his furnishings were meager, the smell emanating from his small brick oven was excellent. Of course a man who worshipped all of nature’s beauty, as we did, would have a special touch when it came to farming the land. I had no doubt his crops grew better and hardier than all the rest.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said, setting down the satchel with a sigh.
“Don’t thank me yet, boy,” he replied. “Meti is my name, but my daughter will soon be back. She will not want you here.”
I hesitated near the door, my stomach giving a loud rumble as I did so.
“Ha. We can fix that,” the man, Meti, said. Then he waved his hand toward the oven. “Take a bowl. Help yourself. We have more than enough to eat.”
“Mother and Father always provide,” I murmured, rushing to the oven. It was rude to look so desperate, but I had no shame in my weariness.
“They do. Lean times come for others,” Meti said. “Not for us.”
I filled my bowl and began to eat the fish stew. It was redolent with onion and garlic, and I washed it all down with gulps of thick, sweet beer. It was not food fit for the pharaoh, but it was more than enough for a tired traveler.
As I finished my second bite, the door banged open and a homely young woman walked in. She had Meti’s same narrow eyes and skinny frame. Her black hair was braided tightly back from her forehead, and she frowned at me and then at my satchel.
“No, Father!” she said at once, dropping the basket of onions she had been carrying. “No more of this! These visitors only bring trouble.”
“I told you so.” Meti cackled from the table. “Bring me a cup of beer; I am thirsty, too.”
The daughter stomped up to me and poked a finger in my face. “Finish that food and drink that cup, then you must go.”
“Hush, Niyek, hush. Let him stay the night.”
“No!” She whirled on her father, bringing him a cup of beer and slamming it on the table. “You are too old for these ridiculous people and . . . and their make-believe!”
He pointed to the overflowing basket of onions, each bigger and more well-formed than the last. “Is that make-believe, child? When the drought did not touch our crops, was that ridiculous, too?”
Niyek scoffed and threw her hands into the air. “That is because I prayed and made offerings day and night to Tefnut, not because of your cult.”
The old man did not raise his voice; he simply sipped his beer and shrugged knobbly shoulders. “The other villagers prayed to her. What good did it bring them?”
There was shouting outside. Doors opened and shut, and I could hear growing confusion as villagers emerged from their houses. Niyek ran to the small window at the door and peered out, her hand held out behind her as if to keep us silent.
“More strangers,” she said with a grunt. “More trouble.”
The beer in my stomach soured and I dropped the bowl and cup on the table near Meti and then joined the girl at the window. She shoved me aside angrily and pointed at the satchel.
“Take your things and go before you bring more problems to this house,” she hissed.
The old man stood unsteadily with his ca
ne and hobbled over to us. There were screams then, and a sound like the shaking of leaves after a sudden wind. It was the whip and whoosh before a storm. Someone outside was in anguish, wailing as if in mourning.
“Out the back, then,” the man told me, taking me by the arm and guiding me toward a curtain near the brick oven. “There have been raiders lately; they know our granary is full.”
“Maybe I was followed,” I whispered.
“Why would you be followed?” Niyek scrambled away from the window, chasing after us. “Do you see, Father? Now you have brought a criminal into this house!”
“Be quiet, girl.”
Meti ripped the curtain aside and pushed me out into the cooling night. I smelled smoke and heard the distant crackle of flames. The village was burning.
“Get out of here,” he said, silhouetted against the light in the house. “Put your feet on the path. Mother and Father will guide you.”
Then he was gone, muttering to his daughter as they debated what to do. I crouched down behind the house, moving the curtain aside just as their door exploded in a blinding flash. Two hulking figures entered. They had the shape of men but were unnaturally tall and emanated such a bright light it was difficult even to glance at them, men with yellow hair and bodies that glowed like embers. Great white wings spread behind them as they wrestled Niyek and her father to the ground.
“Where is the writer?” Their voices were so loud, so piercing, they made my own head throb.
The writer? Great Snake, did they know about the book? Did they mean me? To think that I had brought this evil down on innocents. . . . They wanted me. I huddled behind the curtain and prayed, wondering if I had the strength to run after a long day of travel and only a bit of food. My feet were covered in new blisters and my shoulder ached from the burden of the book. Niyek shrieked, and when I looked again, one of the glowing creatures was kissing her. . . . No, not kissing her . . . Some kind of light stretched between his open mouth and hers, stealing the sound from her screams.