Daughter of Chaos

by Sarah Rees Brennan

  “Gracious, Harvey, no,” said Mrs. Link. “I’m already late for my book club. We’re meeting at that new tea shop, and after that it’s quiz night. Some of us have active social lives, dear.”

  She patted Harvey on the shoulder. Harvey tried to recover from being verbally wrecked by a seventy-something quiz addict.

  “Nice for you to have another friend,” she told him encouragingly. “I heard about you and Sabrina.”

  A hollow space opened up in Harvey’s stomach. “How?”

  “Whispers spread like a virus in Greendale. You two were always an odd pair, weren’t you? But it must be hard. I remember you both when you were this high, her with her little nose in the air thinking she knew it all, and you scared of your own shadow. You couldn’t follow her your whole life.”

  “No,” whispered Harvey. Sabrina was always meant to fly.

  “Ask that Nick boy to introduce you to some girls at his church,” suggested Mrs. Link.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why not?” asked Mrs. Link. “Trust me, Harvey. I’m certain young Nick has no trouble with the ladies. It’s written all over him.”

  “Great,” said Harvey. “Judas and I are leaving now.”

  Mrs. Link frowned. “Who?”

  Harvey left, with the baby formula and the baby. Judas had screamed the whole time they were at Mrs. Link’s house, and he kept screaming when Harvey brought him back to the Kinkles’. Harvey understood his attitude. If he were the baby, he wouldn’t want to be stuck with Harvey either.

  He didn’t have a crib or anything, so he pulled out his drawer of winter sweaters and made a nest for the baby. He made the formula the way Mrs. Link taught him, testing the milk on the inside of his wrist. After multiple wrist tests, Harvey smelled like yogurt, but that was better than burning the baby.

  “I can’t call a baby Judas,” Harvey told the baby. “Would Jude be okay?”

  Baby Jude paused in his yelling, his small fists clenched tight, so Harvey took that as permission. Jude took the bottle and drank up the formula, then threw up some of it. On Harvey.

  He wanted to murder Nick. Except that Nick was helping Sabrina. She was in trouble. Harvey’d been certain, down to the pit of his stomach where nightmares lived, that her new world was dangerous.

  If Nick could help her, Harvey had to help Nick. Though when he’d agreed to help Nick, he hadn’t imagined it would mean babysitting a tiny warlock. He wished the baby would stop crying. They liked rattles, didn’t they? He went through the kitchen cabinets and found everything in there that might rattle.

  Baby Jude stopped screaming and stared when Harvey rattled sunflower seeds at him. His eyes went very round, as if to say “What are you doing, mortal?”

  “I’m desperate,” Harvey informed him, and shook a packet of macaroni in the baby’s direction.

  Baby Jude chortled and wriggled in his nest of sweaters. His small face was still sticky with snot and tears, but he smiled gummily.

  Harvey began to grin. “See? We can get along.” He rattled packets for the baby until Jude started yawning, then carried the baby’s drawer to his own bed, where Harvey could approximate rocking a cradle.

  Jude fell asleep with his hand clasped around Harvey’s finger. Since Harvey didn’t wish to wake him, he stayed sitting cross-legged on the bed, fished out his sketchbook, and drew a few pencil sketches of the sleeping baby as Jude snorted and smacked his little lips.

  “My mom’s dead too,” Harvey told the baby. “It’s rough, right?”

  There were so many lost mothers in Greendale, like they were trapped in the wicked beginnings of a fairy tale. But Jude slept, serene as if he were in a cradle under his mother’s watchful eye.

  Eventually he woke up and started to scream again, his cry lifting to the ceiling as he shook his tiny fists.

  “Wow, witches are a lot of trouble,” Harvey mumbled, then scooped the baby up.

  Jude subsided, whimpering and gumming at the collar of Harvey’s flannel shirt, so Harvey kept hold of him. He sang “Hey Jude” to the baby, because it was appropriate, and walked with him from his bedroom to the kitchen. Mrs. Link said you were supposed to walk the floor with babies, and hold them, and rock them.

  There was a song Harvey’s mom used to sing. She’d taken it from the title of a book and turned it into her own version of a lullaby. Harvey could remember her singing, the sound of her laughter and the fall of her long hair as she watched over him, though in the memory he couldn’t make out her face. Tommy’d sung the song to him a few times after she died, his own boyish voice rough with tears.

  The sweetness of those songs stayed with Harvey. Music was almost as beautiful as art, he thought. He’d always wished he could sing and taught himself to play the guitar when his dad said he couldn’t have lessons. He’d serenaded Sabrina once, in a burst of courage, and attempted singing the old song of their childhood to bring Tommy back to himself, in desperation. It was no use. Whenever he tried to sing in front of other people, Harvey got self-conscious and his voice cracked. But Jude was a baby, unlikely to be a harsh music critic.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  Don’t get drunk or steal a car.

  Like a diamond in the sky,

  Except please don’t get high.

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  Don’t make me wonder where you are.”

  Harvey had to wonder where they were now, that musical laughing mother and his kind brother.

  The baby laughed. Harvey kissed the side of his head.

  “That’s right, don’t do socially irresponsible things. Except I guess you’re supposed to worship Satan. Let’s leave that one alone, Jude. Up for an encore? Twinkle, twinkle—”

  The front door stood ajar, cold night air creeping in. The door hadn’t been open before.

  It was Nick, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed and that odd surprised look on his face. Harvey stopped singing and glared.

  “How long have you—”

  That was when a bolt of lightning streaked past Nick, screaming a thin terrible scream, and pounced on Harvey with white teeth bared and wild eyes blazing.

  Prudence and I spent the day in the library looking up bad-luck spirits. Mortals think magic is all waving your hands and whizbang. Nobody talks about the research hours witches put in.

  “I don’t think it’s Ardad, the demon who makes people lose their keys,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “But I hate Ardad on general principle.”

  Prudence made a contemptuous sound suggesting mortal concerns like forgetting keys were beneath her, but I was very grateful she was there. The library was a massive room with mazes made of pages and a librarian who stalked the stacks, hunched and glowering like a discontented vulture. Prudence had steered me deftly through the rows of shelves toward the section on demons who turned luck sour, and spirits of ill fortune.

  “Thanks again,” I told her. “I’d already be the prey of Ardad if it wasn’t for you. Which is my way of saying I’d be lost without you.”

  “Was that meant to be a joke, Sabrina?” Prudence shuddered. “That was tragic. Don’t do that again.”

  Being friends with Prudence was uphill work sometimes, but I thought it would be worth it in the end. Prudence wasn’t totally heartless, whatever she tried to pretend. She obviously cared about Dorcas and Agatha. She’d taken a break from reading earlier to visit Nick in the Infernal Infirmary. I’d gone to visit Nick after she came back, but he’d already been released. Apparently witches believed that when walls fell on someone, they should walk it off. It was nice of Prudence to be concerned for him.

  Of course, Nick and Prudence used to date.

  I cleared my throat. “Hey, do you—still like Nick?”

  “Bold of you to assume I ever liked Nick,” sneered Prudence. “He had the bad taste to ditch me. And my sisters. The man’s a raving imbecile. Do I have time for raving imbeciles? Clearly, no.”

  “Aw, Prudence,�
�� said Nick, strolling up to our table. “Enough sweet-talking. Tell me how you really feel.”

  He was wearing a sleek black coat, so apparently he’d gone for a walk. I wondered where he’d gone. He looked entirely recovered and, I had to admit, rather elegant in his coat. I smiled at the sight of him.

  Prudence’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here? I told you to watch Judas.”

  “I left him with two trustworthy caretakers,” said Nick.

  I watched Prudence brighten slightly at the mention of—I assumed—her sisters, then resume scowling at Nick.

  “Nevertheless, I told you to watch him. You are a severe disappointment to me on every level. Personal. Sexual. Sartorial.”

  Okay, maybe Prudence wasn’t into Nick.

  “Please, Prudence, I blush and grow giddy,” said Nick, fanning himself with a book. “We are in a public place.”

  Nick might be into her, though. Who wouldn’t be?

  I laughed uneasily. “We’ve got a lot of books to get through. Flirt later, guys.”

  Prudence sniffed. “I wouldn’t lower myself.”

  “I wasn’t flirting,” said Nick, sounding unexpectedly serious.

  “You’re always flirting,” Prudence scoffed. “You flirt your way out of all your problems.”

  “And it works,” murmured Nick. “But—”

  “You were dirty talking to Dorcas at breakfast.”

  Nick squawked, then coughed and resumed his usual low tones. “Sabrina, I really wasn’t.”

  I turned the page of a spellbook without looking up. “Do whatever you want.”

  “Prudence, tell her I wasn’t!”

  “You were,” Prudence insisted. “You talked about something called lasagna in pornographic detail for forty minutes. I’m not even convinced lasagna is a real thing.”

  “It’s a real thing,” I said, startled. “Aunt Hilda makes lasagna all the time.”

  Nick caught my eye and smiled as if we were in on a lasagna secret together. “It’s good, right?”

  Whenever I had lunch at the Academy of Unseen Arts, it was vile. I’d hoped that was a light form of hazing for the half-mortal student, but apparently breakfast and dinner were no better. I remembered how eagerly Prudence ate when she was staying at my house. Maybe I should invite Prudence and Nick over for dinner.

  Nick might read more into that than I meant, though. I wondered who he was eating lasagna with. Someone pretty, probably. Prudence was right. He was always flirting. I was an idiot for thinking, even for a split second, that he might be serious.

  I returned to my book. “It’s not great when Aunt Hilda adds eyeballs.”

  Prudence sounded shocked. “I can’t believe you get eyeballs.”

  “I know, right?”

  “The teachers at the Academy always selfishly hog the eyeballs for themselves. You are so spoiled and lucky.” Prudence gave a longing sigh. “Mmm, eyeballs.”

  When I refused to eat eyeball lasagna, Aunt Zelda would tell me to think of the starving witch children. I hadn’t thought she meant at the Academy.

  “You’re making me hungry,” Nick told Prudence as I gagged. “And none of this is helping Sabrina. Let me take a guess. Did you accidentally conjure a bad-luck spirit?”

  “How’d you know?”

  Nick shrugged. “Conjuring’s my specialty. It’s the time of year for luck spells to go very wrong, or very right. And I actually did Prudence’s project on luck spells.”

  “Why are you doing Prudence’s homework?”

  “I like homework,” said Nick. “Other people don’t do it right.”

  I rolled my eyes, but in an indulgent way. That was Nick, all confidence. I’d always hated the cocky jerks at Baxter High, but that was because their swagger was empty.

  Nick selected a book from my and Prudence’s pile, then flipped it open. “Where do you think the summoning happened?”

  “In the main street in town. I had to save my friend from getting run over. I broke some glass. Uh, a lot of glass.”

  “Smashing.” Nick smirked in that way he had, both calming and infuriating, as though nothing was ever too big a deal. “So this happened among the mortals.”

  “Does that matter?”

  Prudence spoke up. “A bad-luck spirit will usually stay among mortals, if they can. It’s much easier for them to play their tricks on mortals. Sometimes they’ll take human form, to meddle with the mortals’ minds more effectively.”

  “Maybe you only attracted bad luck from a spirit who was already around,” Nick said thoughtfully. “The broken glass would give the spirit a chance to latch onto a witch, but they might be interfering with mortals already.”

  I remembered Ambrose saying: When bad luck spreads, that’s when it gets really ugly.

  “If there’s a bad-luck spirit in Greendale, what effect would it have on the mortals?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Mine shafts collapsing. Tires blowing out on the roads. Your friend almost getting run down in the first place.” Nick looked grim. “Does anyone come to mind when you think of the physical manifestation of a bad-luck spirit?”

  I immediately thought of the principal of my elementary school and what he’d called me.

  “Mr. Poole can be so annoying. But I don’t think he’s an evil spirit; I’ve known him for years.”

  “This would be someone new in town.”

  I considered. “A new tea shop opened in town. It’s called the Bishop’s Daughter Coffee and Teas.”

  Prudence and Nick gave a collective shudder.

  “Ill-omened name,” said Prudence.

  “It’s not ill-omened for mortals. And the lady who runs the tea shop seems nice. She’s Welsh, she makes a ton of pastries by hand, and she’s a widow. Doesn’t exactly spell ‘evil spirit.’ ”

  “Depends on what happened to her husband,” said Prudence. “I intend to be a widow myself.”

  I stared at her serene and perfect profile outlined against the clouded stained-glass windows as she turned the pages of her book.

  “What’s going to happen to your husband?”

  “He’ll be the victim of a mysterious tragedy.”

  “Will he?” I said dryly. “How do you already know that?”

  Prudence’s mouth curled like a tiger’s tail. “Mysterious, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I don’t know if Mrs. Ferch-Geg mysteriously disposed of her husband or not.”

  Nick’s voice was sharp. “What did you say her name was?”

  “Mrs. Ferch-Geg?”

  Nick strode off toward the stacks, disappearing into the maze of books and reemerging with a book of Welsh lore that he’d already opened on an illuminated illustration.

  “The Dwy Ferch Geg,” he read aloud. “Handmaiden of hell and daughter of a long-dead bishop called Osbeth, she was a witch-hunter cursed by a witch she killed. After her own death, she became a dark spirit. She waits until food is rotten to consume it with her second mouth, she grows strong through mortal misfortune, and she poisons mortal souls. Once a soul is thoroughly corrupt, she can eat it.”

  He shut the book, his face glowing with triumph. He seemed to expect I’d be pleased.

  “Oh no,” I said. “That’s terrible.”

  “But excellently researched?”

  “Everyone in Greendale is going to that stupid tea shop over the holidays! The mortals are in danger. We have to stop her.”

  Prudence covered her yawn with one hand. “The mortals are in danger? Oh, how shocking. Are you deeply concerned, Nick? I for one am deeply concerned.”

  “If she’s the spirit who laid bad luck on Sabrina, we should stop her,” said Nick.

  “I’m not the important thing here!”

  “You are to me,” said Nick.

  I glanced up. He was leaning against the elaborately carved chair beside mine with his hands in his pockets, as though he hadn’t said anything remarkable. Maybe he hadn’t. We were friends, after all. He cared about me, and I cared about him. Maybe it could be as s
imple as that.

  Thinking of friends made my hand fly to my throat. “I brought a friend to that tea shop yesterday!”

  “Which friend?” Nick demanded. “Your mortal?”

  There was an alarmed note in his voice. I wondered if he might be jealous, but it was difficult to imagine Nick Scratch jealous.

  “No,” I said, and watched Nick relax. “My best friend Roz. If that spirit tried to corrupt her—”

  “Is she very corruptible?” Prudence asked lazily.

  “No, Roz is rock solid. She can’t be corrupted.”

  “I’m sure the dark spirit who used to be a bishop’s daughter believed she couldn’t be corrupted either,” murmured Prudence.

  The thought of Reverend Walker, Roz’s father, flitted across my mind. I didn’t say anything. I clawed through the books instead, looking up banishment spells. The books agreed the start of a new day was the best time to open or close a door between worlds.

  At some point during our studies, Nick left a cup of coffee at my elbow. When I noticed the cup, it was still warm, and I gulped it down gratefully. It made me think of Harvey, who always made me cups of coffee—or tea, if he thought it was too late for coffee—when we were studying. It made me remember glancing up from a page to find his eyes on me.

  I looked up to find dark eyes on me. Nick’s were sharp and bright when Harvey’s were tender and dreamy, but the focused attention was the same.

  The smile I gave Nick was half for Harvey. But half, I had to admit, was for Nick himself.

  Nick smiled back.

  “By the way, I figured I should mention. Even when I’m thinking about you in a nonsexual context, I find you very beautiful.”

  “Oh.”

  Once again, I found myself somewhat at a loss regarding how to respond.

  Nick dropped me a wink. “Thought you should know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course, I do think of you in a sexual context frequently.”

  “I was almost touched for a minute there,” I admitted. “But now it’s gone.”

  Nick leaned back in his carved wooden chair, managing to lounge despite the fact that the furniture was extremely uncomfortable and carved with devils and tiny pitchforks.