As if he can’t help himself, he lifts his hand and with his fingers traces the line of my jaw. My skin tingles at his touch. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“She never said?”
“Pen, don’t—” he starts.
But I am relentless. “Did you ever kiss her?”
His lips are on mine. “Yes,” he breathes, and his arms come around me and the kiss we share is warm and deep and desperate. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t help it. It is nothing at all like kissing Cor.
A shadow falls over us. We break the kiss. I can’t tell if I am shaking or he is. The moon has gone down behind the fortress. The night is dark enough. I catch my breath. “Time to go,” I whisper.
I can barely make out his face in the darkness, but I feel him nod back at me.
CHAPTER
35
THEY GET OVER THE WALL AND PAST THE BRAMBLES WITHOUT any trouble. The courtyard, covered with a pristine blanket of snow, stretches before them, interrupted only by the stark line of the post in the middle. Beyond it, the fortress is a huge, dark, humped shape with lights burning in many of its windows. The slaves to Story work day and night with little rest. Owen can feel the weight of the place settle over his shoulders.
But it’s heavy in a way that is different from when he was a slave. Then, he was ruled by his fear, and he had nothing to fight for. Now he knows about his Before.
He thinks of his mother, tiny and brisk, wrapped in an apron too large for her, always the center of their loud, rambunctious family. He remembers that when he was eight years old he’d been apprenticed to a shoemaker on the other side of Westhaven, and he’d crept away from the noise and bustle to worry about it. It was baking day, and the house was filled to bursting with the whole family, plus his third-oldest sister, Jenny, and her husband and new baby, and his oldest brother Charlie’s two kids, but his mother had sought him out in a corner of the dark smithy. He remembers wrapping his arms around his knees and sniffing away tears. What if I’m not any good at it, Mum? I don’t want to go. What if I miss you too much?
Ah now, his mum had said, settling beside him in the sooty corner and putting an arm around his narrow shoulders. I know it’s hard. But you’re not going to hide here in the dark for the rest of your life, are you? Some things have to be faced up to. It will be all right. You’ll see.
She’d smelled of fresh bread and lavender soap, and she’d used a corner of her flour-dusted apron to dry his tears. Then she’d found the smithy cat for him to cuddle. Come back into the house when you’re ready, my dearest, she’d said.
He’d loved her so much; he’d loved them all. He couldn’t imagine a world without them in it. But he’d lived in that world for seven years.
What if his mother or his dad were taken by the Godmother? What about one of his brothers or sisters or one of their many children? All the blank-eyed people in the city, or the slaves in the fortress—they had all been somebody’s son or daughter or mother or dearest love.
If he and Pen and the others fail, the Godmother will steal even more people away from their real lives. Story will turn again, and grow even stronger.
He can’t hide away from that. He has to face up to it.
“I’ve got the thimble ready,” Pen whispers.
Owen nods and they start across the courtyard. Anyone looking out the windows will see them, shadows against the snow. Their breaths huff in the icy air, and they hurry past the post to reach the fortress wall. There is no sound of alarm.
“Wait a moment,” Pen pants. Handing him her wooden staff, she crouches in the snow. He sees the glint of her thimble as she touches it to their trail of footprints. The warm wind swirls out and brushes away their tracks, just as it did in the forest. She stands, swiping a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Onward,” she says briskly, taking her staff back.
Her steady bravery makes him want to kiss her again, once more for luck, maybe, but there’s no time for that. Now that they’re over the wall, they have to move fast. They’ll try first for the Jacks, the slaves whose dread of the post might make them most eager to escape. Skirting the fortress wall, Owen finds an open door—the same door he and Pin escaped through before. It is unguarded. He cracks the door open and peers inside.
Pen leans over his shoulder to see. “This is strange,” she says, seeing the empty hallway that stretches before them, lit only by an oil lamp turned low.
Not if all the guards are out in the forest hunting for them. “Maybe they’re counting on the workers to guard themselves,” he whispers. He knows what he’d been like as a slave. He’d sat hunched over his workbench working, working, working, terrified of drawing the Godmother’s attention again. The possibility of escape would never have occurred to him without Pin.
“Owen, there must be guards in there somewhere,” Pen whispers.
“You’re probably right,” he whispers back. But he’s not afraid anymore. Just determined.
“Let’s go,” she says.
With a nod he pushes the door open and they pad down the hallway. Pen walks lightly, the staff held across her body, as if she’s ready to fight. Owen listens for the sound of footsteps, an alert shout. But all is silent. They turn a corner, go down another hallway until they reach a series of closed doors. “This one,” he remembers. “You can open it with the thimble.”
Pen touches the door’s knob with the thimble and he turns it and peers into the Jacks’ workshop.
When he’d been here before with Pin, the air had been loud with bangs and clanks, and thick with sawdust, the Jacks hard at work. Now it is silent. He pushes the door open wider and steps inside.
The only light comes from a lantern set on a table; a pile of crumpled blue requisition slips is there too, overflowing onto the floor. The rest of the workshop is filled with shadows, the machines and workbenches and forge silent.
There is a rustling sound. Owen freezes.
“What . . .” Pen glances alertly around, raising her staff.
“Shh,” he breathes, listening.
A scrabble, and a shadow twitches behind one of the workbenches.
They’re in here. “Jacks,” Owen says, and even though he keeps his voice low, it shatters the silence. The shadows quiver with held breaths. “I know you’re in here,” he says. “It’s me, the Shoemaker.”
Another scuffling sound, and one of the Jacks—the Jack who built them the grappling hook before—edges into the light. He holds himself stiffly; Owen knows that hunch-shouldered look. This Jack has been to the post. He’s the one who will have to lead the other Jacks out.
“I remember you,” the Jack says. “And her.” He nods with his chin at Pen. “The Seamstress.”
“You got into trouble because of us,” Owen says.
Another glance over the shoulder. “Yes,” the Jack answers.
“We’re very sorry for that,” Owen says, but goes on quickly. “We escaped, and we’ve come back for you now.”
The Jack blinks.
“We haven’t seen any guards or overseers,” Owen adds. “And the outer door is open.” He turns to Pen. “Tell him the signal?”
She nods and holds up the thimble. “A flash of flame.”
“Wait by the outer door,” Owen goes on, sounding more confident than he actually feels. “When you see the flame you’ll know it’s time. We’ve brought people with us to help. We’ll fight the rest of the guards and try to take over the fortress.”
“Take over . . . ?” the Jack asks, his voice wavering.
“There are far more slaves here than guards,” Owen says. “You have things here you can use as weapons, don’t you?”
That decides it. The Jack gathers himself and says, “Yes,” then glances to Pen and back to Owen. “You got away, you say?”
Owen can’t take the time to explain that their escape wasn’t really an escape at all. Instead he nods.
“Righty-o then,” the Jack says, and he’s standing straighter. “We’re with you.” Other Jac
ks creep from behind the workbenches, their eyes wide. “Wait for the signal, is that it?” he asks.
“Right,” Owen answers. “The signal.”
CHAPTER
36
FROM THERE WE MAKE THE ROUNDS, GOING FROM ONE workshop to the next, warning Lacemakers and Glovers and a surly old Shoemaker—a new man, a replacement for Owen—who tells us to go away and turns back to his work, and Bakers of gingerbread, and all the rest. Watch for the signal, we tell them. It’s time to fight.
Nothing about the fortress is even remotely familiar to me. I thought I might remember the smell—musty—or the feel of the air—damp—yet it is as if I have never been here before.
Owen saves the Seamstresses for last. We are hurrying now, knowing that the Godmother’s slaves are on the move, that we need to get to the wall and give the signal for the Huntsman and Templeton and Cor and the rest to come over.
“Here.” Owen points to a door at the end of a hallway.
I open it. The room of the seamstresses is long and narrow with whitewashed walls and a low ceiling stained with candle smoke. At the table sit old women, hunched, squinting, their gnarled fingers gripping silver needles. There is no color in the room except for the brilliant cloth they are stitching into dresses—sapphire velvet, ruby silk, gold satin shot with silver threads.
As I step into the room, the old seamstresses peer up at me. I stare back at them.
I remember what Owen said to me out on the terrace, at the prince’s ball. I was wearing the stunning flame dress that Lady Faye had given me. Where did you get the dress? he had asked. No, he’d demanded—and I hadn’t understood; I hadn’t seen why the dress mattered.
But now I know. These slaves of Story had made it. The Godmother had taken my measurements with her thimble, and these sad, bent women had measured the silk, cut it, and sewn it with stitches no bigger than a grain of sand. This is all they know. The endless labor, the pain of gnarled hands and hunched backs, and then . . . an ending.
Once I’d worked on dresses just like the one I’d worn to the prince’s ball. I run my thumb over the calluses on my fingertips. For the first time Pin is physically real to me in a way she never was before. The memory of it takes shape, the ache in my hunched shoulders as I bent over my work, my eyes straining in the meager candlelight.
Then I feel Owen’s steady strength at my side. “Tell them,” he whispers.
My Pin-self fades away, and I straighten and feel my new calluses as I grip my staff. “Do you remember me?” I ask, even knowing how frightening any question about memory might be for them. “I was a Seamstress like you. I was a rebel, but I didn’t end up stabbed by thorns on the wall. I got away. You can, too, if you come with us.”
Even before I finish speaking, the old seamstresses are dropping their work, pushing themselves off their benches, hobbling toward us.
The oldest Seamstress pauses and squints up at me with watery blue eyes. “We remember,” she says in a cracked voice. “We helped you find scraps of silk for the rope.”
“The rope?” I glance questioningly at Owen.
“The one we used to scale the fortress wall,” he tells me. “Pin made it. She persuaded the Jacks to make the grappling hook, too.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I’m starting to like Pin—her cleverness and resourcefulness.
“This way,” Owen says, and we gently help the old Seamstresses out the door.
And then we hear it. A shout, and the sound of running footsteps. A scream echoes down a hallway.
“Hurry,” Owen says, his voice tense, and the seamstresses shuffle faster. They go around a corner ahead of us, and Owen casts a look back the way we’ve come. He skids to a halt; I crash into his back and we both stumble.
Coming down the hallway behind us is a woman. I blink. The woman has lidless eyes with slits for pupils; her hands are covered with scales. As she sees us, her wide mouth opens and her forked tongue flickers in and out, tasting the air.
“The Seamstresses’ Overseer,” Owen whispers. “We have to hold her off so they can get away.”
“Sahhh,” the Overseer breathes. She glides closer on silent, scaly feet. “So, Seamstressss.”
Owen and I back up a step.
Three pig-faced guards in blue uniforms lurch around a corner and run to join the Overseer.
Owen pulls the knife from the sheath at his back.
I dig into my trousers pocket for my thimble and slip it onto my finger. At the same moment, the three guards charge us. A tusked face pushes close to mine; strong hands seize me. I twist in their grip, and fire flashes from the thimble, and a pig-guard grunts and collapses. The two other guards duck past us, trying to attack from behind. I slip the thimble back into my pocket.
Gripping my staff, I take up a low guard stance, my back to Owen. He’ll have to handle the Overseer while I deal with these two. The moves I’ve practiced come without thought. One guard lunges at me with a sword and it’s as if the blade slows down. I see the glint of light on metal, the grimace on his pig-snouted face, and I am turning, blocking the blade and coming around to strike with the top of my staff, right in the middle of his chest. I feel the blow all the way up my arms, but I hold my ground. The guard falls to the floor, groaning. The other guard flails at me with his sword and I dispatch him, too, block and thrust.
Then I whirl, staff at the ready, and see the Overseer weaving closer. Her mouth gapes; her fangs drip with poison. Before I can move, Owen lunges at her with his knife. She writhes out of his way and strikes back. With a shout, I swing my staff around until it slams into the side of the Overseer’s head; she crumples to the floor.
Owen and I stand next to each other, panting. “Did she get you?” I ask, checking his sweater for blood from the Overseer’s bite.
“No.” With steady hands, he resheathes the knife at his back. He’s not afraid, I realize. Just determined to do whatever needs to be done.
A sudden silence falls. After a moment, I hear pounding feet in the distance, more guards shouting, then another scream.
“The outer door?” I ask. We must give the signal at once, or we risk losing before the battle’s even begun.
Owen nods. “Come on.” Taking the lead, he guides me through the fortress’s winding passages. A guard looms up before us; I don’t even hesitate. Using one strike I lunge past Owen and sweep the guard from our path.
“Well done,” Owen says breathlessly, and leads us on.
When we reach the door, I expect to see the fortress slaves waiting there for the signal, but apart from a tight knot of old seamstresses, only the Jacks have gathered. They are holding lengths of pipe, chunks of wood with nails hammered into them, and shards of glass, ready to fight. “Where are the rest?” I pant, pushing past them to the door.
“Too afraid,” the lead Jack answers, and hefts an ax.
“This way,” Owen says urgently, pointing at an outer door. “We have to give the signal!”
The Jacks and seamstresses and I stumble out of the fortress. With Owen at my side, I hold the thimble high, and a brilliant flash flares out, flooding the courtyard with light. “Come on!” I shout. In the light I can see that the wall around the fortress is crawling with brambles; the Huntsman and Cor and Templeton and the rest are fighting their way down it. I clench the thimble in my hand again and turn. Fortress guards are spilling into the courtyard, some with pig snouts, others with naked rat tails or furry ears, or paws bristling with claws.
I turn to Owen; his face is pale and determined. “Stay with the Seamstresses,” I tell him. “Protect them.” A swift nod, and he goes.
The guards, seeing how few we are, break out into howls of triumph.
The Jacks cringe; in a moment they will break, and flee.
“Come on, Jacks!” I shout, and step forward, swinging my staff. The lead Jack comes with me, and then the rest follow, and so do Owen with his knife and the seamstresses, armed only with needles. The fortress guards roar out a challenge and advance across
the snow-covered ground to meet us.
I block and strike and try to keep the Jacks from losing their nerve. I catch a glimpse of Owen protecting the oldest Seamstress. A footman with hooves thrusts his jagged sword past him; the tip of the blade slashes across the Seamstress’s arm. Drops of blood scatter, staining the snow; she collapses, and Owen stands over her, gripping his knife, outnumbered. The fight boils around us. I catch torchlit glimpses of horns, tails, claws, snarling mouths—we are surrounded.
Then, with a shout, the Huntsman pushes through the Jacks and bulls into the center of the fortress guards, swinging his ax. Behind him comes Templeton, screaming out a challenge, and Zel, whose blade flickers as she slices through the first line of guards.
There are still too many of them and not enough of us. We need more help; somebody has to rally the other slaves. The Jacks look to me for direction.
I fight my way over to Owen and pull the old Seamstress out of the worst of the fighting. As Owen gently eases her to the snowy ground, I catch sight of Cor’s tall form. “Cor!” I shout over the crash and clash of weapons. He stabs a guard with his sword, follows up with a punch, and then glances my way. Owen stays with me like a shadow as I push past two Jacks until I reach his side. “Cor,” I pant, my breath steaming in the cold air. “I have to go for help. Can you take the lead here?”
The Huntsman heaves up beside me; he bends to pick up a handful of snow and uses it to wipe off his bloody ax. “Where are the rest of the fortress slaves?” he rumbles.
“They’re frightened,” I snap back at him. “I’ll go rally them in a moment. But first—”
“Pen!” Templeton shouts. “I need your thimble here.”
“Coming,” I answer over my shoulder, then I address Cor again. “Cor—”
“Yes, of course,” he interrupts. “Go do what you have to do.”
No protest that I need protecting; I feel a surge of appreciation for him. “We’ll be back as quickly as we can.”
Cor nods and, avoiding a cluster of snarling, goat-footed guards, grabs a few Jacks to ready an assault on the fortress door.