We had a few mouse-ear mushrooms left, dried ones, and some carrots and sage from the garden, so I made soup. Leaving it to simmer, I went out and put away the shovel we’d left in the garden and brought in the goats from their tether and collected the eggs and fetched more water. By the time my chores were done the sun had gone down behind the sharp spires of the pines to the west, and their shadows had fallen across the clearing.
He would be fine, I convinced myself. Shoe’d had a shock, but he would be well in the morning. Then we’d figure out what to do about the boundary, and the dead man on the path.
BEFORE BANKING THE fire and going to bed I checked on Shoe, but he was deeply asleep, so I climbed the ladder to the cottage’s attic. The ceiling of my room was slanted and low; I had to crouch while undressing and then slid under my patchwork quilt, where I lay for a long time staring into the dark and worrying about Shoe.
In the morning I put on my dress, buttoning it with shaking fingers, and climbed down to the main room. The board floor felt cold under my bare feet as I padded to Shoe’s room and peered in.
He hadn’t moved. His face looked even more gray, his eyes sunken, his hands bony where they rested on the blanket.
“Shoe?” I whispered. Tiptoeing in, I knelt by the bed and took his hand. It was cool, the skin papery and thin.
His eyes flickered open. “Pin?” he breathed.
“No, it’s me.” Who was Pin? Did he mean the Penwitch? “It’s Rosie.”
He turned his head and gazed at me. “They’re coming, Pin,” he said faintly.
“Who?” I asked. “Who’s coming?”
“The trackers,” he answered, and looked away, and as if he saw something that I couldn’t, a spasm of fright crossed his face. “No, I already told you,” he muttered, and his hand gripped mine. “I’m staying with you.”
“Oh, Shoe.” I gulped down a sob.
“Not without you, Pin,” he whispered.
My heart shivered in my chest. He was far, far away from me. I didn’t know what to do to bring him back.
There was only one thing I could think of. “Merry.” The healer from the village. “She’ll be able to help you. All right?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes dropped closed and he gave a rattling sigh. I held my own breath until he breathed again.
“All right, all right,” I babbled as I got to my feet and patted his hand once more, and then hurried from his room. Quickly I laced up my boots and flung myself out the cottage’s front door, almost falling as I jumped from the front step and ran across the clearing and into the forest, panting, my unbraided hair tangling as I ran.
The pine trees were just a blur as I hurried along, and the ferns, and the moss; the path was slick with fallen pine needles. When I reached the clearing where the dead man lay I didn’t even pause. As I ran past, the vultures rose from the body, more of them now, shedding black feathers as they flapped away. They would circle the clearing and then settle again, I knew, as soon as I was gone. Not far past that was the edge of our valley, the broken boundary of my world, where the oak trees grew, and I didn’t pause there, either. My lungs gasped for air; the muscles in my legs burned; a stitch stabbed my side, but I ran on.
At last the path widened and—panting, my eyes blurred with tears—I reached the village. The trees thinned. Ahead was a cluster of low houses built of logs and roofed with moss-covered wooden shingles. I smelled smoke from the hearths and animal dung and fresh bread baking. A stone wall appeared next to the road, and horses—I knew what they were, though I’d never seen one before—shied as I ran past. At one low cottage a white-haired old man stood in a doorway and stared at me as I staggered to a halt. “Merry,” I gasped. “The healer. Where does she live?”
The man pointed, his eyes round. “End of the path,” he said.
With a nod of thanks, I raced away.
Merry’s cottage sat at the edge of the village where it met the forest; heavy oak branches encircled it like protecting arms, and rested on its mossy roof. I stumbled up to the front door and pounded on it until it rattled in its frame.
A muffled voice shouted something from within.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” I gasped, and knocked again.
The door was flung open. An old woman, as plump and fluffy as an owl, stood on the doorstep scowling up at me. Then she blinked her bright-button eyes and carefully looked me up and down. “My goodness,” she said in a high, piping voice. “Look at you.”
“I’m—” I caught my breath, and realized how desperate I must look to her. With shaking hands I brushed strands of hair out of my face. “I’m Rosie,” I explained. “From up in the valley.” I pointed, vaguely in the right direction. “I’m Shoe’s . . .” Shoe’s what? Not his daughter. Not his granddaughter. “Shoe is my guardian.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Yes, I can see very well who you are,” she chirped. “What do you want with me?”
“He’s sick,” I explained. “Shoe is, and I don’t know what to do. He’s just lying there in his bed and he looks sort of gray and sick, and I’m here because . . . because I hoped you could help. Will you come?”
While I’d been babbling, Merry had frowned, and now she pressed her lips together and nodded sharply. “Come inside,” she said, and opened the door wider, and I stepped into her cottage. It was dimly lit and crowded, the ceiling low, just over my head, and hanging from it were many strings of dried herbs; against one wall was a row of shelves crowded with stoppered bottles and cloth bags and pottery bowls. It smelled of the wood fire in the hearth and of something green and springlike, and musty, an old-lady smell.
“Has he been ill for long?” she asked, and bobbed to a counter that was set against one wall, where she climbed onto a stool and started pulling things from the shelves.
“No,” I answered, and smoothed my hands over the blue wool of my skirt, trying to compose myself. “No, it came over him suddenly. I think—” I gulped. How much did Merry know about Shoe, and about me? Enough, I guessed, and the Penwitch must have passed through the village when she’d visited Shoe. “He’s had a shock. I think the Penwitch might be dead.”
At the counter, Merry froze, then glanced over her shoulder at me. “Ah.” Her eyebrows lowered. “It’s his heart, then.” She turned back to the counter. On tiptoe, she reached for a bottle on the highest shelf.
Quickly I stepped closer and reached over her head, seizing the cobweb-covered bottle and setting it on the counter before her. “Are you making some medicine for him?”
“Hush” was her only answer. She opened a bag, took out a pinch of a yellow powder, and sniffed it; with a nod she dropped it into a heavy stone mortar.
Nervous and worried, I paced to the hearth on the other side of the room and back again. My legs were still shaking from the long run from our valley. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“I don’t know,” Merry answered crossly, and added a few drops from a bottle to her concoction, then dumped more herbs into the mortar. “I haven’t seen him yet, have I?” She picked up a stone pestle and started grinding. After adding more of a pungent-smelling liquid, she tipped the contents of the mortar into a bottle and stoppered it. “Hold this,” she said, handing it to me, and she clambered off the stool, then wrapped herself in a red-striped shawl. Muttering, she put the bottle and a few more things into a wooden box with a handle, then latched it and gave it to me to carry.
I followed her from the cottage and onto a narrow, rutted path that encircled the village. We saw no one except for a man leading a cow by a halter, who stared as we passed him. When we reached the path that led to our valley, my feet felt twitchy, wanting to run all the way back to Shoe, but I stayed so I could show Merry the way. She went along at a surprisingly fast pace. At the place where the boundary had been, Merry paused and looked around. I opened my mouth to ask her another question, but she scowled. “Shush. I have to think.”
At the dead-man clearing, Merry stopped and stared as the vultures flew up, th
en picked up the basket I’d dropped the day before and handed it to me. Giving one of her brisk nods, she continued up the path. With an effort, I kept quiet as she’d asked. She was puffing, her steps slowing, as we reached our clearing. From the shed I could hear the goats fretting that they hadn’t been milked and let out in the morning, and neither had the chickens. They’d have to wait a bit longer.
I went up the front step and clattered across the porch, opening the door for Merry; then my impatience got the better of me and I set down the basket, hurried to Shoe’s room, opened the door, and stumbled over to his bed.
The skin of his face was still gray, and loose over his high cheekbones; his eyes stayed closed. “Shoe?” I whispered, and took his hand.
I heard the patter of Merry’s footsteps, and she elbowed me aside. “Don’t crowd me,” she said sharply when I peered over her shoulder. She pointed. “Give me my box, fetch me a stool, and then go stand over there, by the wall.”
Words bubbled in my throat—Can you help him?—but I swallowed them down again and did as she’d ordered.
With excruciating slowness, she unwrapped her shawl, set it aside, and started examining Shoe. She studied his hand, peering at his fingernails; she pried open one of his eyes; she groped under the blanket to feel his feet. From the box she pulled a hollow wooden cone, rested it on his chest, and put her ear to it.
“What—” I started.
She held up her hand to silence me. Her face settling into grim lines, she straightened and put the cone away. “His heart was broken long ago,” she said with a sigh. “He’s only just dying of it now.”
Dying. The word hit me like a blow to the stomach. I dropped to my knees next to the bed and rested my head against Shoe’s arm.
“There is nothing I can do for him,” Merry said. Her voice sharpened again. “You understand?”
Without raising my head, I nodded. Tears overflowed from my eyes, and I gasped, trying not to make any sound. I heard the hinges of Merry’s box creak as she closed it, and a rustle as she picked up her shawl and went quietly out of the room.
I choked back another sob. My whole body was shaking at the thought of losing Shoe. He had been fine yesterday. Fine. His blanket was becoming wet with my tears.
Then I felt a hand rest on my head. I looked up, sniffling, my hair sticking to my damp cheeks.
His eyes were open.
“Sh-shoe,” I said in a broken voice.
His face softened, almost a smile. With a trembling hand, he brushed the tangled hair from my face. His lips moved. “Rosie,” he breathed.
Swallowing down sobs, I nodded and gasped. “I’m right here.” I tried to hold back my next words, but they spilled out of me. “Please don’t die, Shoe. I don’t know what I’ll do without you. Please be all right.”
His hand moved to mine, then turned it over; his fingers brushed the birthmark on the inside of my wrist. “Rose,” he said again.
“Yes, it’s my rose.” I pulled back the sleeve of my dress. The birthmark was blush-pink against the pale skin of my wrist, the shape of a petaled rose just about to bloom.
“You are . . . ,” he started. His face sagged and his lips moved, but no words came out.
“I’m cursed,” I finished for him. “I know that’s what my rose means.” Another sob threatened, and I choked it back. “I’ll stay here, and the curse won’t rise, and it’ll be all right, don’t worry.”
His head moved on the pillow. No, it meant. His lips moved again and I leaned closer to hear. “You can’t . . .” He took a rasping breath. “Boundary. They will . . . find . . . you.”
“Who?” I asked desperately. “Who will find me?”
“The spindle . . . ,” he whispered. “Be careful. Can’t stay here.” His eyes dropped shut.
“Where should I go?” More tears spilled from my eyes.
A few more rattling breaths, and he spoke again, his voice just a thread. “Rosie. Tell me a . . .”
“A story,” I sniffled. “I can do that. You just listen, Shoe, all right?”
He gave me the faintest nod, his eyes still closed.
Every night from the time I’d been a tiny girl, Shoe and I had settled by the hearth, him in his rocking chair with a cup of tea, me on a pillow at his feet, leaning my head against his leg, and he had told me a story. Sometimes his stories were about people he knew, and sometimes ones he made up. When I was old enough, I started telling the stories, too. And he had told me about stories, about how we needed them, how they worked, how they made our lives make sense. And how they had power.
But he’d never told me his own story.
With my palms I scrubbed the tears from my eyes. Carefully I took his gnarled hand in mine. “Once upon a time,” I whispered. The beginning words, the words that, like a magic spell, unlocked all stories. “There was a young man named Shoe. He was a shoemaker, which makes sense, given his name. He had green eyes and he was very handsome, but even more than that, he was kind.” I really knew nothing about Shoe’s life before the Penwitch had brought me to him. I should have demanded that story, I realized. I’d thought he’d have time to tell it to me, but now it was too late.
“One day,” I went on, trying to steady my voice, “he met a girl called the Penwitch. She was bold and . . . and she could do magic, and she had . . .” I closed my eyes, trying to imagine the Penwitch. “She dressed all in black, and her hair was black, too, and she looked, perhaps, a bit frightening to most people, but Shoe loved her. Not immediately, of course, but over time, and she could hardly help but fall in love with Shoe, too.”
Lowering my head, I rested it against Shoe’s shoulder. “You and the Penwitch had a story together, didn’t you? Some kind of adventure?” I whispered. “Something terrible, and also wonderful. And after it you lived happily together? Maybe you even had children, and you were a family. But not forever.” No, there was no ever-after. Shoe had taught me that. Even if the adventure ended, the story went on.
“Maybe . . .” More tears welled up in my eyes. “Maybe Pen had to go off to fight again, using her magic. You missed her desperately, Shoe, and she missed you, but she was needed elsewhere. So she went, and you stayed here with me, because my story was only just beginning.”
Just over sixteen years ago, the Penwitch had brought him a baby with a rose birthmark on her wrist and a curse hanging over her. And the Penwitch had gone away again. “But she always loved you, Shoe, and you loved her. That never ended.” I sighed. After my frantic run down to the village, I was weary. I closed my eyes, just for a moment. There in the darkness I imagined a young Shoe and a sharp-eyed Penwitch standing together, then leaning closer for a kiss.
When I opened my eyes again, I was alone in the room.
CHAPTER
2
GRIFF LEANED AGAINST A BRICK WALL, KEEPING TO THE alley’s shadows, and surveyed the run-down tavern. It was rumored the Breakers had been gathering there in secret to tell their twisted stories—stories that, when repeated, would threaten the governance of the City’s Lord Protector and give strength to the City’s most dire enemy.
“What d’you think, junior?” Quirk asked, from behind him.
Griff gave a one-shouldered shrug. It could go hard; or it could go easy.
“You hear that, lads?” Quirk asked. “Our loquacious colleague has spoken. Be ready.”
Turning, Griff looked down at Quirk. His partner was almost twice his own age, but half his height, and, like his name, quirked. His face was lopsided, one eye all a-squint; his nose had a bend to the left where someone had hit him long ago, and he had a gap between his front teeth. His eyes were green, and his thick thatch of hair was straw-yellow. Like Griff, Quirk was dressed in the sober gray uniform of the City Watchers, but Quirk’s had a simple stripe on one sleeve, an indication of his higher rank.
“Who are you talking to?” Griff asked him.
“The lads,” Quirk said, flexing his short arms. When Griff shook his head, not understanding, Quirk blew out an
impatient sigh. “My muscles. I’ve named them.” He paused and looked at Griff expectantly.
Griff turned to keep an eye on the tavern. “What have you named them?”
Quirk stepped up beside him. “This one is the Hammer,” he said, flexing his right bicep. “And the other is the Anvil.”
Griff nodded, only half listening. Their orders were simply to make an appearance at the tavern, as a deterrent and a reminder that the Watchers were always, well, watching. He didn’t expect any trouble, but the Breakers weren’t always rational, especially in their dealings with those who enforced the City’s laws.
A lantern hung by the tavern’s front door, and light gleamed in its grimy windows; the cobblestoned street before it was slick with the day’s rain. A few people hurried past, their shoulders hunched against a chilly wind, heads lowered, going home late from a factory shift, or carrying packages of food they’d waited in hours-long lines to obtain. Griff noted them, but focused on the tavern. It had, he guessed, a back door, an easy exit into the winding alleys of that part of the City, a way for any of the Breakers to enter without being observed. A perfect meeting place, really.
“You ready?” Quirk asked. Straightening, Griff checked the long knife sheathed at his back, gave Quirk a nod, and together they set across the street, opened the tavern door, and went in. As he’d been trained, Griff surveyed the room in one glance. At some subtle signal that he didn’t catch, a plainly dressed woman got up from a table and edged out the back door. He tensed. “Go after her?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Quirk answered. “Just observe.”
Griff nodded and tried to relax. He stepped up to the bar that stretched across one end of the room; the rest of the tavern was crowded with rickety tables and benches, the ceiling smoke-stained, the floor sticky with spilled drinks. It smelled of sweat and sour beer and the smoke from the hearth, and was busy with workers just off a shift, all sullen and silent. With a nod, he greeted the tavern keeper.
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