Then Ragweed resumed his pacing, his footsteps leading again to the front of the boat line. Thorn pushed himself to his hands and knees.
“You all right?”
Without answering, Claire jerked her head in the direction of the wraith on the bank.
Thorn furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“Wraith,” Claire whispered, wondering if there were glasses in Arden. Thorn looked to where she’d nodded.
Understanding spread across his face. “That’s not a wraith; that’s a chimera.”
“A what?”
“I’ll show you.” Thorn began to crawl along the bank, toward the spot of dark against dark. Seeing no other choice, Claire followed.
As they drew closer, the shadow began to have a more definite shape. In fact … it looked like a cow. One of those big ones with curved horns on its head that she’d seen pulling covered wagons in history-book sketches. “Cow” wasn’t the right word … it was an ox.
The ox stood still, one leg raised, about to plunge into the river. But as the seconds ticked by, it stayed still, hoof never touching water.
Claire blinked. It was a metal statue! But the metal caster had made mistakes—the proportions were all off. The ox had too many knees and she was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to have fangs. She felt herself turning red. She’d almost given them away because of a statue.
“The chimera can’t hurt you. Well,” Thorn amended, “it can’t hurt you now. It’s left over from the Guild War. You’ll see more as you get closer to Fyrton—they used to be alive, infused with a combination of Tiller and Forger magic, but we’ve forgotten how to animate them.”
He let out a sigh that was more ache than sound. “Just as well. The chimera were vicious. Now, they just stay there, frozen and rusting, a testament to a bloody time.”
The crickets’ nightly dirge filled the silence as they waited for Ragweed to make his way back up the bank.
Finally, Thorn nudged her. “Ready? Ragweed has his back turned.”
Claire nodded, and they crawled to the last narrowboat. Thorn stood and hopped down onto the deck. He held out his hand, and even though she didn’t want to take it, the thought of making another mistake was too humiliating to contemplate.
She swung her leg over the side and let go of his hand as quickly as possible.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, and walked through the hatch.
Claire felt like she’d entered a honeycomb. Everything—from the dinner plates next to the traveling stove to the worn carpet on the floor—was a shade of yellow. The walls were made entirely of small, circular cubbies, in which she could see the polished handles of scrolls. There were hundreds of them, each with their own fluttering tags hanging from different-colored threads.
“What took you so long?” Nett asked. He was already going through the scrolls, eagerly skimming each tag by the marimo’s soft light.
Again, embarrassment simmered. “I fell—”
“Just wanted to be careful.” Thorn hurried in, shooting a small smile at Claire. She scowled and looked at the floor. She didn’t need his help.
“We can hide in the closet,” Sena said, pointing to some small doors, “just in case anyone comes in for a scroll or something, but first we should make sure that all the curtains are closed—”
A strangled squeal interrupted Sena, and they all turned to see Nett staring at a rollaway desk covered in sheets of parchment and quills. Nett swiped a stamp from the top and flung it under Sena’s nose.
“It’s Fray’s seal! We’re in Mira Fray’s floating library!” By this point, Nett was practically dancing on his toes. “I’ve always wanted to meet her, even if she’s a Spinner. She’s the most famous historian ever!”
“Ever?” Sena cocked an eyebrow. “What about Timsnore and that Dull-pants you’re always going on about?”
“Most famous living historian,” he corrected. “And it’s Dupont! Anyway. Fray’s floating library is one of the largest amassed by a single person. She has books on everything and answers for anything!”
But not for where Sophie went, Claire thought. Eyeing the scrolls, she wondered if one of them could contain information on magical chimneys or adventurous great-aunts. Thinking back to the ladder in the fireplace, she turned over a question that had been bothering her: Had Great-Aunt Diana put the ladder there, and if she had … why?
“You’re bleeding.”
Thorn’s voice interrupted Claire’s thoughts. She looked down to see a small tear at her knee where the fabric had ripped. A tiny blossom of blood stained the ragged edges of her pants.
Thorn quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “It’s clean,” he said as Claire eyed it. Reluctantly, she let him apply pressure to the wound.
While Sena and Nett set about closing the curtains, Thorn leaned in and whispered to Claire. “Can I ask you a favor?” He pulled something out of his pocket. “I was wondering,” he said somewhat shyly, “if—when—you find Sophie, would you mind giving her this?”
Claire was about to say no—she didn’t like the way he pretended to understand Sophie better than she did—but then he placed a small golden bird into her hand. Fine pieces of straw looped and twisted together in an intricate pattern to form wings, plumage, and impossibly tiny feet.
Running her fingers along the bird’s back, Claire felt the careful lines that flowed into each other to form feathers and beak.
“I made it for her,” Thorn said. “Do you think she’ll like it?”
Surprise made Claire forget to be frosty. “You made this? It looks like it’s about to come to life!” A thought suddenly struck her. “Is it going to come to life?”
“I lent my magic to the queen,” Thorn replied.
She looked at him blankly. “What? What does that mean?”
“It’s a saying in Arden,” he replied, looking down at his hands. “It’s what we say when a piece of craftsmanship isn’t magi—as good as we wanted.”
She remembered what Thorn had said Ragweed called him: Lackie.
“It’s beautiful,” Claire said.
He ducked his head shyly. “Thanks. Sophie told me how good you are at drawing. When you and Sophie return maybe you can show me one of your sketches.”
The glow of Thorn’s praise warmed the smile that was finally on Claire’s lips. After all, it wasn’t his fault that Sophie had kept their crush a secret.
She tucked the golden bird into her rucksack. “I’d like that.”
And when Thorn smiled too big, she saw why her sister might like-like him.
When Sena was sure the curtains were tight, she, Nett, and Claire all crammed into a closet. Thorn threw a spare horse blanket over them, just in case. Even though Mira Fray wasn’t going to be using her narrowboat, they didn’t want to take any chances someone else might investigate.
Thorn wished them luck, and with a last quick smile for Claire, he closed the closet doors. She heard him pad to the exit, and a soft thump as the hatch closed. They were alone.
Under the warmth of the horse blanket, Claire must have dozed, because it seemed to be only a few minutes later when she heard people outside the boat calling to one another over the neighs of horses.
But she didn’t think it was either of those sounds that had woken her. In her dreams, there’d been a soft click. Was someone else on the narrowboat with them?
“Did you hear that?” Claire whispered softly.
“They’re just harnessing the horses,” Nett said sleepily next to her. “They’ll pull us upriver. It’s the quickest way to carry a lot of food to the other Spinners, so that it stays fresh.”
“How far away is Fyrton?” Claire asked.
“About thirty miles, give or take a few.”
A horn sounded, and then whips cracked. The cabin rattled slightly as the boat swayed, and then they began to crawl forward like a caterpillar along a stem.
“The Rhona stretches for hundreds of miles,” Nett whispered, “flow
ing through the capital before traveling by the Red Mountains, passing the Dale, then Glen Village, then Treeton, then the Gro—”
“Shh,” Sena mumbled from the darkness.
Twisting to the right, Claire scrunched up as tight as possible. Hiding in the closet reminded her of the time she’d played hide-and-seek with Sophie and climbed into the wooden chest where the Martinsons stored their spare linens. It had been both the best and worst hiding spot.
The best, because she’d won the game, but the worst because as she lay in the tight darkness, she thought she’d been forgotten.
A snore soon tripped out of Nett, and from the steady breathing to her left, it was clear that Sena had fallen back asleep, too. Claire tried to move her leg without waking either of them and leaned her head against the back panel of the closet. It was strange to be in hiding when she was also the one seeking …
A drop of light splashed onto Claire’s face. She squinted through half-closed eyes. The doors to the closet were cracked open.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”
They had been found.
CHAPTER
12
“Run!” Sena yelled as she surged from the closet, butter knife at the ready.
Adrenaline coursed through Claire’s body. Scrambling to her feet, she stumbled out after Sena, the blanket tangling around her ankles. She kicked it off and sprinted to the hatch.
Or at least, she tried to sprint to the hatch.
One second, the world was still, but then it slipped out from under her. Hitting the floor with a muffled thud, she had only a split second to catch her breath before the yellow carpet beneath her came alive.
With a snap, the corners of the rug lifted into the air, collecting Sena, Nett, and Claire like a net, then squishing them together as it rolled them all up in a big, tasseled burrito, with only their heads peeking out the end.
“And that’s why you always check to see if there’s a Guardpet around,” a silky voice said. A chin appeared above Claire, and then the woman bent over. Eyes shiny as wet ink stared at them behind gold-wire-rimmed spectacles. But it was her hair that caught Claire’s attention. Her many braids cascaded down her shoulders, interwoven with colored ribbons and threads.
Their captor crouched, and her hair fell forward like a beaded curtain. She patted the rug. “Good Guardpet.”
“Let … us … go!” Sena wheezed.
“Don’t like Spinners, do you Forger?” The voice was a little less silky now, but it still undulated like a mermaid’s song. “Not too smart to insult a Spinner when you’ve been caught. Who—”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Historian Fray!” Nett burst out with such force that Claire knew he’d been holding it back. “I’m a big admirer of your work, especially your history on the glacial movement across Arden and the Southern territories. Do you really believe that the original cause of glacial deposits was Till—”
“And people often know better than to interrupt me,” Fray said. Though her words were harsh, the melody in her tone remained.
“Y-yes, Historian,” Nett stuttered.
“As a historian and storyteller, I trade in tales,” Fray said, sinking onto the floor next to Claire’s head. “If you succeed in telling me a story that is worth the risk of me being caught with Tiller stowaways in a Spinner fleet, I’ll let you go. If not …”—she shrugged, braids bouncing—“then I’ll trade you to Anvil Malchain for one of his stories. I hear he’s been asking around about you, Sophie.”
The rug had been squeezing Claire a moment before, but now it was crushing her.
“How do you know Sophie?” she rasped out.
The Spinner shook her head. “Come now, Sophie. I know it’s you.”
“She’s not,” Nett said quietly.
“Not what?” Fray frowned. “Speak up, Tiller. You’re too loud when you need to be quiet, and too quiet when you need to be loud.”
“That’s not Sophie,” Nett said in an only slightly stronger voice.
Historian Fray suddenly loomed over Claire. Her arms were covered in thread-woven bangles, making it look like a rainbow slinky had latched on to her. Gently, Fray brushed the tassels off Claire’s face.
“You’re right,” Fray announced. In her surprise, she sounded younger. A white grin flashed across her face. “Well, things just got interesting.”
“You know my sister?” Claire asked. “Where is she?”
“I didn’t realize Sophie had been misplaced,” Fray said, quickly removing a feathered quill from a pocket. “The plot thickens!”
“What does Anvil Malchain want with her?” Nett added.
“And get us out of this rusted rug!” Sena demanded.
“Language, Forger.” Fray sat back on her heels. “As I said, I’m a storyteller. A weaver of tales. A keeper of secrets.” Her voice flowed around them, dipping into sharp consonants and curving around melodious vowels. “Before I let you go, I need a story from you.”
“No,” Claire blurted out. Frustration rushed through her veins and into her clenched fists, which were pinned tightly to her sides by the carpet. She was too angry to be afraid.
She hated when people knew things she didn’t.
She hated being trapped.
And most of all, she hated getting in trouble for something she hadn’t done. This was the third time that she was being held captive, and it was not fair.
“We won’t tell you anything,” Claire continued, “until you get us out of here!”
Fray chuckled. “Sophie was right about you, Claire,” she said as she pulled a grubby string with three knots from another pocket.
Curiosity momentarily dammed Claire’s fury. “What did Sophie say?” she asked.
“That you’re tougher than you look.”
Pleasure wafted over Claire like sheets fresh from the dryer. Sophie didn’t think she was useless after all.
Claire watched as the historian’s fingers deftly untangled the three knots on the little string in her hand. Suddenly, the Guardpet relaxed its grip on her, and Claire found she could move her arms and legs again.
Magic, she realized once again. She wondered when it would stop surprising her. Maybe never. Quickly, the three kids wriggled out of the rug.
Standing up, Claire saw that Fray was shorter than she had thought. And younger, too. Much younger. Why, she couldn’t be more than sixteen!
Nett was staring at the Spinner, too—specifically, at her arm, where there was only one white band around her sleeve.
“Get your butter knife, Sena,” he said grimly. “This isn’t Historian Mira Fray. She’s an impostor!”
Before Claire could register his words and what they might mean, Sena threw herself on the Spinner and yanked her arms back.
“Our turn to ask the questions,” the Forger growled. “Who are you?”
“Ow!” Fray-who-was-not-Fray yelped. “I may not be Mira Fray, but I do have permission to be on this boat. Which is more than you can say!”
“Let her go!” Claire cried, coming to the Spinner’s side. “She knows Sophie. She said so.”
“She also only has one ring around her arm,” Nett said, pointing at her sleeve.
“So?” Claire asked.
“So one ring means she’s only a journeyman,” he explained. “Two means you’re a full member of your guild, three means you’re master ranked, and four is reserved for grandmasters.”
“Why should we believe anything you say?” Sena asked the Spinner. Even though the Spinner looked older than Sena, Sena was taller.
“You can believe me or not,” the girl huffed. “But if you look in the desk, you’ll find traveling papers with my name on them: Kleo Weft. I was Historian Fray’s apprentice, but I graduated to journeyman last month. She’s letting me use her boat this summer, so I can get a head start on my master ring.”
Nett hurried over to the desk and rummaged around.
“Found it!” He skimmed quickly. “I think she’s telling the truth
this time.”
Claire peered over his shoulder to read handwriting that looked like spider legs.
KLEO WEFT
Guild: Spinner
Rank: Journeyman
Occupation: Storyteller-in-Training
Transportation: Water Bobbin Fleet
This document provides access to all settlements along the Rhona River. Visits not to extend more than one night’s stay.
Executed by: James Stich, Grandmaster of Ribbonshire
Painted along the edge was a border of unraveling spools, the threads looping up into the shape of a bird with tall legs and a long beak.
“See?” Fray—Kleo—said, her voice once again mellifluous. “I never said I was Mira Fray. You just assumed it.”
Nett opened his mouth, then suddenly shut it. “She’s right,” he said to Sena, eyes wide. “She didn’t say she was Mira Fray.”
Claire nodded anxiously. She didn’t care if this was Mira Fray or Kleo Weft or a snowman. All that mattered was that the Spinner knew something about Sophie.
“Slug soot.” Sena seemed to deflate. “I’ll let you go. But only if you promise your hands stay away from your hair.”
“What do you mean?” Kleo asked, her eyes widening.
“Don’t think I don’t know the old saying Spinner’s hair, beware,” Sena said. “You’re just as dangerous with your hair ribbons as Forgers are with swords.”
Claire looked at Kleo’s intricately woven hair with new appreciation—and apprehension.
“Fine.” Kleo sighed. “I swear by all the unicorn artifacts not to touch my hair. Good?”
Sena grunted in a way that let everyone know it was far from good, but she released Kleo anyway.
Claire could no longer contain the question that felt like it was eating away at her insides. “How do you know my sister?” she asked Kleo. “When was the last time you saw her?”
Kleo eyed Claire warily. “She came to Master Fray with questions every trade day for the past few months. Kept wanting to hear different passages from the poem The Queen and The Unicorn.” Kleo paused, as if for dramatic effect. “Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes,” Claire said automatically, but her mind was more focused on something else Kleo had said. Months? The idea that in the four days that had passed since they’d first climbed the ladder, months of Arden’s time had gone by was similar to trying to balance a spoon on her nose—one moment Claire thought she had it, then it fell away.
The Unicorn Quest Page 9
