Lee and I stared at her in disbelief, then scurried to change out the plates and remove the soup and pork from the table. There was trifle and pudding, but the men only picked at their portions in the ominous residuum of the argument. Tea was brought and ignored, and finally the men filed out, the atmosphere clearing as if a storm had passed.
“A delightful bunch,” Lee muttered as we cleared the table and helped Mrs. Haylam return everything to the kitchens.
I had always liked the dining hall, as it felt cozier and more human than some of the other rooms in Coldthistle, but now it felt stained, as if the family had left behind an imprint of sorrow. Mrs. Haylam stayed behind in the kitchens on our last trip to direct Poppy on what could be saved and salvaged for the pantry. Lee and I remained in the dining room, washing and sweeping.
“I would not want to marry into that miserable family,” I replied, peeling off the tablecloth. I sighed at the massive wine stain on one side, dreading the time it would take me to clean it. “I don’t care how rich they are.”
“Amelia obviously does,” Lee said. He swept under the board and chairs, making a little pile of crumbs near the open door. The dining hall was at the back of the house, around behind the staircase and looking out onto the north end of the lawn and the spring. The house was mostly quiet, but above us I could hear pacing, and I wondered if Amelia was having trouble sleeping after the fight.
“She was poor once,” I told him. “It makes you ruthless.”
“Does it?” He said it softly, but I heard the implicit accusation.
“Yes,” I replied, undaunted. “It can grind you into dust, having nothing, it isn’t noble or romantic, and it’s humiliating to know villains like Mr. Barrow Breen get to wallow in luxury and still turn out to be unbearable heels.”
Lee swept silently for a moment, then paused and turned to look at me as I rolled up the tablecloth for the wash. “And if you came into money? Would you be different?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I should probably learn to hate myself.”
“You would do something good with it,” he assured me, and swept the pile of crumbs out into the foyer. “I like to think you would do something good.”
I’m trying, I thought, silently considering my bargain with the Devil. I will.
I was exhausted by the time Mrs. Haylam excused us. Lee disappeared at once, dodging out of the kitchens and into the darkness outside the house. He narrowly missed Poppy and Bartholomew, who slumped inside to rest while Mrs. Haylam did the final locking up.
With so much dessert left behind, she allowed us to each take a bit of trifle with us up to bed. It was the best thing I had eaten in a long time, but I could hardly taste it. While I battled the fatigue muddling my mind, I thought about what Lee had said. Would I really do something good with a fortune of my own? I didn’t quite know. . . . Of course it was tempting to imagine oneself as a gracious benefactor, foregoing decadence and living modestly as a philanthropist, giving money to orphanages and turning patron to some needy ward. But I could not say if that was my secret truth. Perhaps my secret truth was that I wanted to finally have something of my own, to spend money however I saw fit, to own a great house and fill it with ridiculous gowns and trinkets.
I would not know until that secret truth could be my reality. Croydon Frost and the money he owed me was reality, one that crept ever closer as Mr. Morningside read over the first translation.
Lee was right, I told myself. I would take Frost’s money and help my friends. If they did not want to live with me then I could buy them all houses of their own. How amazing it would be, I thought, to give them the gift of freedom.
In the morning I would bother him about bringing my father to the house, but in that moment I craved only sleep. I finished the trifle, spooning up the last of the cream and shuffling into my chambers. Closing the door, I rested against it gratefully for a moment. In the corridor I heard the familiar scraping gait of the Residents as they began their nightly patrols of the house. I crossed to the bed and left my little empty cup on the table, then changed into my bedclothes with leaden limbs. Crawling into bed, I shifted the curtain to my right aside and gazed up at the stars for a moment, letting the bright moonlight bathe my face.
I must have fallen asleep immediately, but woke soon after, roused by what sounded like crying. Sitting up in bed, I moved the curtain on my window aside again and peered out into the darkness. From there, I saw only the eastern side of the lawn, part of the barn, and the newly built pavilion. Nothing obvious stirred in the yard, and I waited for a moment, listening, thinking that the horses had been startled or a hawk had found a mouse in the fields. But the cry came again, this time clearer and certainly human.
Kneeling, I pressed my face to the cool glass and squinted. There was movement at the very edge of the strip of woods behind the pavilion. I swore it was so. I waited still longer, and this time it was a long, pained wail. A girl’s voice. Had Poppy gotten out of the house and into some kind of trouble? It didn’t sound like her, but I couldn’t imagine who else would be out in the forest crying. Mrs. Haylam had warned us to be careful, to stay in the house, but I ignored her advice, putting bare feet to cold wooden slats and searching for a coat. I had been given an old, quilted housecoat that was tattered and worn, but as it was nearly summer, it would suffice.
I shrugged on the coat and padded to the door, then opened it slowly and checked for any wandering Residents. Down the hall, one drifted up the stairs, just the bedraggled tips of its feet hanging there before it glided up to the floor above. After a moment, I darted down toward where it had been and raced toward the foyer, hoping it would be too late in sensing me. Though I had not often navigated the house in the dark, I trusted that the kitchen door would be the most expedient route. It was also likely to be empty, since Mrs. Haylam and Poppy had their rooms elsewhere. Coldthistle remained silent, filled with the kind of uneasy tension that came in the dead of night.
The kitchens were empty but the door leading out had been locked. Of course. Mrs. Haylam was feeling particularly touchy about security with the Upworlders around. I fished the spoon necklace out from under my chemise and closed my eyes, steadying my breathing. I didn’t think of my father but of the person in need outside. My thoughts raced. What if Poppy had been lured to the woods? Would the Upworlders really try to harm her? Or perhaps Amelia and Mason had sneaked off for some mischief in the spring and twisted an ankle. . . . Whoever or whatever it was, I knew I would never get back to sleep with them wailing outside my window.
The spoon grew hot in my hand and changed as I squeezed it, re-forming into a key. I unlocked the kitchen door and crept out into the moonlit yard. It was far brighter than normal, lending me plenty of light to see by as I tiptoed through the grass. No commotion came from the barn as I passed, but that high, scared cry came from the forest again. This time, I could make out words. . . .
Heeeelp me! Please, help!
The girl was crying. She sounded so pitiful, so lonely. . . . Tendrils of familiarity tugged at my heart. I knew the voice, I could swear I knew the voice. So I approached the forest edge, carefully, the pavilion to my right and back, Coldthistle looming over my left shoulder. There was no path into the woods here, for the only trail cut through farther to my left and led only to the natural spring. As I neared the forest I heard the spring bubbling distantly, and the chorus of frogs and crickets that took up near its moister grounds filled the air with their song. A twig cracked under my foot and I froze, clutching the spoon necklace with both hands. Without my meaning it to, the spoon that had become a key had now, in my fear, become a knife.
That was all right, I decided, swallowing back the little voice in my head that told me to turn back and go immediately to bed. Another voice joined that one, the same that had risen in me when I first met Finch and Sparrow.
The woods are no place for you tonight, child. Turn back.
I did not relish the thought of a woman’s disembodied voice living in
side me, and so far it had not protected me from anything at all. Sparrow and Finch had not harmed me, though admittedly this did seem like a far worse circumstance. I hesitated, clutching the knife, wondering if now was the time to listen to that voice before it was too late. A chill ran through my bones and I swiveled to look back at Coldthistle. Nobody had followed and I did not see any Residents watching me from the windows. The place looked dead, just a black and shadowed husk that seemed as unwelcoming as the forest. The frogs and insects chirped louder, screeching like a bow singing across a too-tight string. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Danger. I would go inside, I thought, I would heed that warning voice at last.
But then the cry came again and I gasped, spinning and plunging into the forest.
Mary.
Chapter Fifteen
Branches sharp and stinging clawed at my face, but I knew my purpose now and nothing would stop me.
Mary was hurt. Mary was in danger. I would not let her slip through my grasp. Knife still in hand—for who could say what had given her cause to cry?—I followed the sound of her voice whenever it rose again. She had ceased calling for help and instead wept softly. My heart ached, and I panted, running, ignoring the burn in my chest and the cutting branches scraping at my cheeks.
The forest was deeper than it looked from a distance, but I soon reached a tiny clearing. Thank God for the moonlight, else I might have stumbled and broken my ankle as the ground dipped into a shallow divot. A few larger rocks were strewn around the clearing, and there was Mary, kneeling, clinging to one of those boulders. I ran toward her, elated and afraid, then dropped to her side. Her face lit up as she caught sight of me and she flung her arms around my neck, still crying.
“Louisa! You came!” She held me tightly and I held her back.
“Are you well? Did you fall?” I held her at arm’s length, inspecting her from head to foot. She had her same wild brown hair and green eyes, and those freckles clustered thickly over her nose, the same gentle Irish lilt to her voice. Her garments were travel stained and her hem and boots were caked with mud, as if she had walked a long distance. A light lavender cloak was bunched around her neck and shoulders, and she used it to dab her wet face. Her cheeks were too hollow, as if she had gone hungry, and it made her eyes look only larger and more innocent.
“I tripped,” she said, and gave a weak laugh. “So clumsy, can you believe it? This close to the house and I had to get tangled in my own feet.”
“Is your leg badly hurt?” I asked. It didn’t look twisted or swollen, but then her skirts hid most of her lower half. “Where did you come from? I went to the spring to summon you ages ago; did something go wrong?”
Mary gave a relieved laugh and wiped more at her face, then leaned against the rock and gazed into my eyes. She reached up and touched my hair, and I felt a surge of hope. I had not failed her completely. She was back, and now things might be the slightest bit more normal, if normal existed at Coldthistle House.
“You were perfect,” Mary assured me, taking my hand and squeezing it. “I was stuck in the Dusk Lands, it was just dreadful, and then I heard you call me back, call me through. But . . . I wasn’t ready to come back. I needed time. Time for myself.”
I nodded and looked away, a little shy. “Of course. I’m . . . I’m terribly nosy, I’m sorry. After what happened with Lee . . . Well. Nobody could expect you to be jumping at the chance to return. I’m sure I’m the last person you wanted to come to your aid.”
Mary seemed calmer and began to shimmy up the rock, putting careful pressure on her left foot. I jumped up and helped, letting her lean against my side as she stood. She winced, but otherwise looked ready to be upright.
“You came,” she said softly. “That’s what matters. Oh, I’m sure my leg is not as bad as I thought. I’m just so tired. . . . It was a long way. I thought the walk would help me, you know, help to put things right in my brain.”
“You walked all the way from Waterford? That . . . How?”
She giggled and swatted my shoulder. “No, Louisa, not all the way. I wanted to walk the last bit to . . .” Mary chewed over her answer for a long moment and then shrugged. “I wanted to walk the fields, get a feel for my home again.”
“In the dead of night?” I teased.
Mary’s answer was cut short. Her eyes widened as we both heard a bloodcurdling call emanating from deep in the woods. We froze, looking at one another. I had never heard anything like it—a high, unearthly wail, almost the scream of a Resident but less hollow, filled with the raw throatiness of an animal. It was not a wolf, or if it was, it was an unnatural one.
“I have a knife,” I whispered. “But let us hasten; you are in no fit state to fend off an animal. . . .”
“Hurry,” Mary agreed with a little hiccuping cry, pulling on my shoulder.
The shrill animal scream came again, and closer, and my spine rippled, warning me, primal fear of whatever the hell that was taking over. Heavy footsteps shook the clearing and the trees behind us as I tried my best to carry her toward the house. The thing was running now and Mary forgot her injury, taking my hand and yanking me across the clearing.
“We must hurry,” she shrieked, panting. “D-do something, Louisa, you must change, change into a bear, into anything—”
“Can you shield us?” I was panicking. A bear? How could I possibly do that? I could hardly change a spoon into a sad little knife! “Are you too exhausted?”
“I—I can’t. I—”
The creature broke through the trees and into the clearing, crushing a sapling under its massive foot with ease. My instinct to run was overtaken by sheer terror as a beast, upright as a man but furred as a wolf, crashed into the open. I opened my mouth to scream, huddling against Mary as she, too, stared in openmouthed horror at the creature. It was taller than a large man by at least a yard. Ripples of scarred muscle burst through its brown-black fur in places, and its face was pointed, almost fox-like. Narrow, glittering purple eyes found us at once, shining brighter as it chose its prey. I was trembling so fiercely I could hardly stand, but I did what I could, shoving Mary behind me, shielding her with my shaking body.
My eyes traveled slowly from its face to its hands, those, too, like a man’s but longer, capped with razor-like claws. A black sash around its middle rippled as it went low and then pounced, leaping toward us with a snarl. We must have both screamed but I couldn’t hear my own voice, not as its thick arm collided with my shoulder, knocking me to the ground.
There was a ringing in my ears as I tried to sit up, pain dulled by fear as I stumbled away from the tree I had hit and raised the knife. The creature had rounded on Mary, ignoring me completely, raising one of its clawed hands and preparing to strike.
I couldn’t say when the knife had transformed into a pistol, but it had. My terror as I flew through the air must have forced the change. Whatever caused it, I did not care, raising the gun and firing, reeling back as the bullet grazed the side of the creature’s face. It roared, that same horrible, animal scream filling the clearing. I clapped my hands over my ears, deafened, watching in mute horror as it swung toward me, purple eyes brighter even than the moon above.
Now I had drawn the creature’s attention and I had no idea what to do—the pistol held only one shot and I scrambled to change the spoon yet again, this time into a knife, a spear, anything. . . . But I was too unfocused, too panicked, and the beast was upon me, its black nose tracing the shape of my head before it snorted and showed me its fangs.
And it spoke.
I closed my eyes, feeling death near, smelling the musky scent of its fur and the grass and brambles caught in its coat. One crunch of its teeth and my throat would be ripped to tatters. Blood dripped down its sharp cheek from where the bullet had torn open a wound.
“Nebet, aw ibek,” it growled, or something that sounded like those jumbled words.
How it spoke, I know not, but the voice was from the pits of Hell itself, full of malice and unnatural trem
ors. It turned away from me, but not before grabbing the pistol from my hand and crushing it in its great fist. I lunged, trying to reach for it, the one weapon I might have boasted against the beast, and then gasped, a flash of light blinding us all.
The creature snarled again, and when I could finally see through the haze of gold filling the clearing, I saw the thing go on all fours and sprint away into the forest. The ground shook at its going, trees creaking and groaning as it rent them in its retreat. I rubbed at my eyes, stumbling forward to try to find Mary, but she was not alone.
Finch stood over her, a pair of immense white wings flaring from his back before they folded behind his back and vanished. A glow remained around him, the obvious source of the flash that had startled the beast and made it flee. I touched my neck, feeling the raw spot where the beast had ripped at the chain on my necklace. It was gone—spoon, knife, gun, whatever it was, it was gone.
“What was that thing?” I murmured, hoarse.
Mary got slowly to her feet, helped by Finch. He was still dressed in his slim gray suit, but his hair looked rumpled from sleep.
Frowning, he turned and looked toward the path of destruction left by the creature as it escaped. “I only caught a glimpse of it,” he said, guiding Mary to lean against his shoulder. “The sound it gave was enough. I thought it better to blind first and get a good look later.”
“It . . . It was like a wolf or, or a fox, but so much bigger,” I stammered. My back ached from colliding with the tree and my hands were still shaking from shock. “What if it comes back?”
“Then I will deal with it again,” Finch said. He looked sure, but I detected a jumpiness in his gaze, his eyes shifting side to side as he held Mary. “We should get you both back to the house.”
“Are you hurt, Mary?” I asked, watching as she stared around at the edges of the clearing, vigilant.
“I . . . I don’t think so,” she said. “But I fear my leg will not allow me to return on foot.”