And suddenly he could see it just as it had happened. Smoke had billowed from the castle’s central tower and then, stone by stone, it had crumbled; the four spires had snapped and crashed to the ground. The air had smelled bitter, and a pall of ash had settled over the City. Everything green and growing had withered and died.
“After two years of fighting, the Lord Protector won the battle, the Godmother was killed, and Story was subdued,” he said. “That was when the Forest moved to cut off the City from the rest of the world so that Story would be contained there if it ever tried to rise again.”
“That’s when I arrived in the City,” Quirk said unexpectedly.
They both turned to him.
He gave them a wry smile. “Pen was busy keeping an eye on Castle Clair, so even though I wasn’t even your age, Rosie, she sent me to see to things in the City. I got in right before the Forest made its move.” He shrugged. “And I couldn’t get out again. So I stayed.”
“I was right,” Rose said, mock glaring at Quirk. “You’ve always known far more about all this, haven’t you?” She narrowed her eyes. “You clearly knew Pen, and Shoe, too. Who are you?”
“I was there, Rosie, in the cabin in the valley, when Pen brought you to Shoe.” Quirk shook his head. “Such a tiny, squalling mite you were. I was thirteen years old,” he said with a smile, “and I’d never had to deal with a baby before. I left it to Shoe.”
“They were your parents!” Rose exclaimed. “Shoe and Pen? They were your father and mother?”
Suddenly, Quirk sobered. “Yes, lass.”
Rose’s face had turned sad. “You know that Shoe is, that he—”
“Yes.” Quirk reached out with a small hand and rested it against her cheek. “He’s been lost to me for a long time. And Pen, too.”
They sat quietly together for a few moments. “Shoe was a good father, wasn’t he?” Rose asked.
“The best,” Quirk answered.
“Not like the Lord Protector,” Rose added. “He never loved anyone. Not even his wife. Or his own son.”
They both turned to look up at Griff.
“Tell what happened to the little boy,” Rose said softly.
Griff found his place in the story again. Story had been defeated; the castle had fallen. “The boy was too young to really know what was happening. He didn’t understand his father’s new rules or where his mother had gone. Mostly he was alone, and he was frightened.” He remembered going days without speaking to anyone; without anyone speaking to him, left to himself in his father’s cold citadel rooms. Food had been scarce, and he’d been hungry all the time. “A few years after that, the Lord Protector discovered that the boy was a curse eater, and he started training him to become a Watcher.” And it had been such a relief to lose himself in that training until he barely noticed how coldly rational his father was, and he didn’t remember the castle’s fall, or the fact that his mother had abandoned him to serve Story.
“And here you are,” Rose said.
He nodded. As Quirk had said, these things make a kind of sense.
“Well, that was one thing I wasn’t sure about,” Quirk said. “I didn’t know that Griff’s mother was a Godmother.”
“The Lord Protector didn’t let it be known,” Griff said. “And we never spoke of it.”
“Mm.” Quirk looked speculatively at him. “The Lord Protector is very good at silencing the people he doesn’t want speaking aloud.”
When Griff didn’t comment, Quirk went on with his part of the story. “As I said, Pen sent me to keep an eye on the City while she was gone.”
“Why didn’t you become the City’s Protector?” Rose asked.
Quirk gave a wry smile. “Well, look at me, lass.”
“Because you’re small?” she asked.
“Exactly,” Quirk said with a nod. “And I was very young at the time, as I said.”
“I think,” Rose said, narrowing her eyes at him, “it’s more likely because you’re devious.”
Quirk smiled. “Anyway, I assumed at that point that Pen would return. The Forest would have let her through to the City; it’s always been her ally. I knew something had happened when she didn’t.”
“She sent letters to Shoe for a long time,” Rose put in. “And she only died recently.”
Quirk nodded. “I think she must have felt certain Story would find some way to rise here at the castle, and she couldn’t leave.”
“The Godmother lived here once,” Rose noted. “The courtiers told me that today. I saw her library.” She shuddered. “It doesn’t have books, it only has Story.” With nervous fingers, she combed through a lock of her hair. “What would the Godmother do to establish Story here? I mean, how did she do it?”
“Ah,” Quirk said with a brisk nod. “Griff’s mother acted as a true Godmother. She created the castle and the servants, and she brought a man and a woman here, took their memories, and forced them to become your parents. She was able to do all of that because”—he held up a stubby finger—“she had an item of power.”
Thanks to Timothy, Griff knew exactly what Quirk was talking about. He reached into the pocket of his ragged coat and drew out the thimble. It seemed even colder and heavier than usual. He held it up.
“The thimble,” Quirk acknowledged. “It was lost when the Godmother was killed, and then found again, as such things always are. It was held in trust by Precious, the leader of the Breakers. Storybreakers, they are, and their purpose has always been to fight Story. I assumed it would be safe with them.”
“Why didn’t you take the Godmother’s thimble?” Rose asked. “You were the son of the Penwitch, after all, and you could have hidden it safely away.”
“Nobody knew that,” Quirk explained. “I never told anyone, not even the Breakers.” He shrugged. “And I suspect, despite the Breakers’ attempt to keep it safe, that the thimble has a way of finding its intended heir. Your mother, Griff, must have been related in some way to the previous Godmother. Just as the thimble found her, it found Griff. You can imagine my surprise in the Forest when the thimble wasn’t working for Timothy and it seemed like we had no choice, that Griff would have to carry it. That’s when I started to suspect who he was. At first I couldn’t believe the irony of it: the son of the Lord Protector was also the son of a Godmother.” He paused and studied Griff. “And even then, lad, I didn’t know what kind of power the thimble would have over you. If you could wield it as a Godmother would.”
Griff felt a sudden lurch in his stomach, a keen sensation of falling. A creeping horror.
But it was Rose who spoke the horror aloud. “He did use the thimble,” she said slowly. “He used it to get us out of the Forest. He led us here, to the castle. Into Story.”
“Now we come to it.” Quirk gazed up at Griff, and his green eyes were so clear. “All along, Story has had a plan for you, Griff.” His voice was strangely even. “You are the son of a Godmother. Not a curse eater, but one who can control curses. You are not a Watcher. You are Story’s weapon.”
Rose was staring at him. And he could see it in her eyes. Doubt.
The icy cold of the thimble crept over his skin, striking deep into his bones, freezing any word of denial he would have spoken.
And the wind rushed past him, howling in his ears. He hurtled through the last part of his fall, and his body slammed into the ground.
Strange, he found himself thinking numbly, as if from a great distance from himself. His landing hadn’t made a mess at all. He must have been completely obliterated.
CHAPTER
25
IT WAS HARD ENOUGH TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF THE fact that I had been born as a construct of Story, and still would be, if Shoe hadn’t raised me.
But now I knew that Griff was Story’s weapon.
And he had the Godmother’s thimble.
But I had kissed him . . .
What did it all mean? The words were there, the sentences, but we didn’t understand. Not yet.
I could
still see his face as he’d turned and left Quirk’s tiny sickroom. Pale, his gray eyes bleak, the way they’d been when I’d first met him. I’d wanted to leap up, to take his hands in mine, to warm him, but instead I’d sat frozen until it was too late.
Feeling bereft, I wrapped my arms around myself for comfort. It was late, very late, and oh, I was weary.
Quirk, looking troubled, had leaned back on his pillows. He seemed tired, too.
We stayed quiet for a few minutes.
I didn’t want to believe it. “Quirk, I was created for Story, but you said I could fight it. Why can’t Griff?”
“Love, and warmth, and happiness are our greatest weapons against Story,” he answered. “Shoe gave them to you, as he did to me. Story has a much harder time using someone who is truly loved. Griff wasn’t raised the way you were, Rosie. He grew up in the citadel.”
A prison, I’d thought the citadel when I’d first seen it. Cold, comfortless. “His father is horrible.”
Quirk nodded. “From the sounds of it, his mother was worse.” He was silent for a moment. “Griff is so quiet, it’s hard to see what he is thinking. We can’t know for sure what his motivations are.”
“Why would he bring us here?” I asked. “I mean, we’re in terrible danger, aren’t we?”
“He wouldn’t have known that,” Quirk explained. “Story was using him.”
Another silence. I knew we were both thinking the same thing: what if Story used him again? Would he be able to fight it?
“I don’t know what to think,” I said at last. We had to do something. “Timothy has gone for help, Griff said. Can we try to get away and join her?”
“No,” Quirk said. “The servants would be ordered to pursue us.”
“Unto death,” I murmured.
“Yes,” Quirk agreed. He rubbed his temple. “I have an idea. You’re the one Story wants. If I left the castle alone, and quietly, I don’t think the servants would come after me. There’s something, if I can find it, that might help us. If I go, do you think you’re strong enough to resist Story, to stay away from the spindle? It would only be for a few days.”
“I think so,” I said wearily.
“All right.” Quirk settled into his pillows and pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I’ll go as soon as I can. You’ll have to be very careful. And stay away from Griff, too. Even without intending it, he could be a danger to you.”
“I will,” I said.
But that wasn’t going to be easy.
AFTER I RETURNED to my pink room in the tower, I climbed into my chilly, lacy bed and lay awake in the dark. I was in danger. I missed Shoe, and our cottage, but I was glad to know that Quirk was his son. I shivered at the thought that Griff had the Godmother’s thimble. Story had used him once. It would certainly try to use him again.
I knew he was in the stable; I knew he wasn’t sleeping. He was alone, and probably in despair. My heart ached for him; I wanted to go to him, but I knew that was the last thing I should do.
In the morning, I was still awake. The room was dim, the bed curtains drawn; I heard a clatter followed by an unhappy hiss.
I sat up, blinking, then peered out of the curtains. The snakelike servant, Sally, was kneeling at the hearth, trying to light a fire. “Good morning,” I said, and my voice sounded creaky. “Do you need some help with that?” Shoe had always left the fire starting to me; I was good at it.
“Sahhh,” Sally said, and stuck a burned finger into her lipless mouth.
I climbed out of the bed and went to help, kneeling beside her. Sally hadn’t put any kindling in; she’d been trying to light a log with a match. I started building a proper fire. “Where’s Dolly?” I asked. “Doesn’t she usually do this?”
“Ssshe . . .” Sally was usually so smooth, but now she seemed flustered. “Mousesss are all the sssame,” she hissed. “Silly, sometimes.”
“Silly?” I asked. “What do you mean? Hand me the box of matches, would you?”
Sally gave me the matches. Her fingers, when they touched mine, were cool and scaly. “She is slipping,” she said.
I lit a match and got some wood shavings burning, then started adding bigger sticks. “Slipping,” I repeated.
“Slipping backwardsss,” Sally said, as if explaining. “Moussssing.” She drooped, and her forked tongue flickered out to taste the air. “Snakeses like to eat mouses.”
I sat back on my heels and studied her. Sally’s neck was longer than it had been before, I realized. And scalier. If Dolly was . . . mousing, then Sally was snaking.
Something was wrong. The castle’s servants were reverting to their animal selves—Story was slipping, somehow. Maybe we still had a chance to resist it.
ONCE I WAS dressed in yet another rose-pink silk gown, with my hair rather haphazardly braided, Sally brought tea and buttered muffins, and whisked the tray and plates away again when I’d finished.
The day stretched before me. My eyes felt heavy from my lack of sleep during the night. In the evening I would have dinner with my parents, but neither of them would show any interest in me at all. I felt caged, needing to act, and I was desperately worried about Griff, but the only thing I could do was stay quiet, unnoticed, until Quirk returned. It’d be ladylike accomplishments, then. With a sigh, I went down the stairs to the sitting room.
Strangely, my ladies-in-waiting were not waiting. The room was empty, the heavy velvet curtains drawn. A few golden threads in the tapestry glinted in the dimness. Just one sliver of light came in from outside, running like a line across the carpet, pointing to a small, round table.
My skirts rustling, I went farther into the room. On the table, illuminated, was Miss Olive’s wad of fluff, and a ball of thread, neatly wound.
And the spindle.
I stepped closer to see it better.
It was as dark as shadows, but the metal point on its end gleamed wickedly in the faint light.
“That’s close enough,” I whispered to myself, when I was four steps away.
The way the spindle was lined up with the crack between the curtains made it seem as if it was drawing all the light out of the world and into its own darkness. The air felt heavy. The room seemed to revolve around me. Shadows swirled in the corners.
I hadn’t moved, but somehow I found myself standing next to the table.
I clenched my hands and put them behind my back.
With a huge effort of will, I fought to take a step away.
Quirk was gone, Timothy was gone, and Griff was not to be trusted, at least for now. I was alone in this fight. But I had my will.
No.
I would not touch the spindle.
ARNY WAS DRUNK again. He sat slumped on the hay bale, snoring heavily. His blue vest was stained with food, he hadn’t shaved, and the bristly whiskers, added to the yellowed tusks that protruded from his mouth, made him look more like a wild boar than a man.
Griff’s brain felt numb. He didn’t know what he could do to help Rose and Quirk. Instead of doing nothing at all, he started the morning chores, mechanically mucking out stalls, carrying water to the horses, forking hay from the loft.
After his fall had ended and he’d been obliterated, he’d stumbled back to the stable. He’d sat in the darkness for the rest of the night. Rose was right to be horrified. He was horrified. All his life he’d been trained to fight against Story.
And now he was Story’s weapon. He didn’t have any choice about it. He knew from his training as a Watcher that this was how Story worked—it used people, entangling them until their will was destroyed and any action they took was warped until it served Story’s purpose.
He wasn’t sure what to do. Try to explain? Try to convince Rose and Quirk that he wasn’t their enemy? He thought he wasn’t, anyway, even though he’d been the one to bring them to the castle, into terrible danger.
Could he throw the thimble away? Somehow he knew it would come back to him. The thimble has a way of finding its intended heir, Quirk had told him.
>
He was the Godmother’s heir. It explained his father’s coldness and his enforced silence, didn’t it? Griff had never thought about his mother—he’d been trained not to—but the Lord Protector must have decided that strict rationality would excise Story from his son, just as he’d burned the Story-mark from Rose’s wrist.
As he worked, his eyes felt gritty. He hadn’t slept at all. Maybe he’d never sleep again.
In the afternoon, he watched for Rose, in case she came for her fighting lesson. He watched, and waited, then cursed himself for being an idiot. Of course she wouldn’t come.
Later, as Griff lugged a last bucket of water from the pump into the stable, Quirk came out one of the castle doors and headed across the courtyard. He stumped up and put his hands on his hips. “Well now,” he said, looking Griff up and down. “You look a bit rough.”
Griff set the bucket on the paving stones.
“Didn’t sleep?” Quirk asked.
Griff shook his head.
“Right, well,” Quirk said, after a silent moment. He frowned down at the paving stones, then back up at Griff. “Listen—”
He was interrupted as a door to the castle was flung open, and a clot of shouting servants spilled out into the courtyard. In their midst was a thrashing figure, a servant with gray-furred ears, yellow eyes, and a long nose. The other servants shoved him away, gathering around to watch as he snarled and snapped in a frenzy. With clawed fingers he started ripping at his blue uniform, scratching at his own skin until blood spattered on the paving stones around him.
Griff could only stare, but Quirk darted into the stable and came out with a length of rope, then hurried over to the servants, issuing orders. “Grab him, now,” he shouted, and when the wolf-servant was pinned to the ground, Quirk got him wrapped up with the rope. “A secure room,” he ordered. “Keep him bound so he doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“Thin’s is fallin’ apart,” Arny said. He’d staggered up to stand beside Griff, watching as the wolf-servant was dragged away, howling. The other servants, looking frightened, trailed back into the castle.
Quirk rejoined them, rubbing at a few drops of blood that had splashed on his gray tunic.
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