by Kevin Sands
I shook my head, and he left. Tom looked wearily at the palliasse Moppet had slept on when she’d been here. It was far too short for his height.
“Take the bed,” I said.
“You know I can’t do that,” he said. “You’re the lord.”
“Just take it. Robert’s not likely to cause a fuss, and I’ll handle any questions. You’ve earned it.”
Tom didn’t argue further. He groaned as he collapsed, facedown, on the mattress. Moppet curled up next to him. Sally flopped onto the palliasse, just as weary. “I hate throwing up,” she said.
I sighed. All that was left was the chair, so that’s where I stayed. I was still there when Robert returned, his arms full with bowls of piping-hot stew. He regarded the strange scene with some puzzlement. I shrugged and was grateful he didn’t ask any questions.
Tom was too tired to sit up, even to eat. He just turned his head and poured the stew sideways into his mouth. It made me feel like laughing. Though not for long.
We were safe for the night. Soon enough, however, tomorrow would come, and I had no idea what we were going to do. A smear of stew still on his face, Tom fell asleep. Moppet was already slumbering, Bridget beside her.
Sally drowsed on the palliasse, barely able to keep her eyes open. “Are you going to bed?” she mumbled.
“Soon,” I said.
“Do you want the palliasse? We can trade in the night.”
“All right.”
“Make sure you wake me.”
“I will,” I said, and I listened to her breath, slowing until the dreams took her.
Master? I called. Are you there? I need you.
No one answered.
Please, Master, I said. I’m lost, and I don’t know what to do. Please. Please come back to me.
But all I heard was the crackling of the fire.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1665
Ni il a tem pert m es q od non r ve etur;
eque ab cond um qu d on sc tur
CHAPTER
40
NOTHING.
I had nothing.
I spent the whole night trying to piece together what we’d discovered. Trying to somehow make it all fit. But it didn’t make any sense. What do you do when you can’t find the answer?
You flop around aimlessly, I thought. Like I’ve been doing all night.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, different words whispered. You step aside and let your mind find the answer for you.
I’d heard that somewhere before. From . . . Tom?
No, not Tom. From Master Benedict.
Yes. He’d said that to me. But not since I’d awoken.
He’d said it before.
I sat up, excited. I’d remembered something else.
Yet the joy of it didn’t last long, for it got me no closer to solving this mystery. No closer to saving the children—my friends—myself—from danger. Sybil blamed Sir Edmund, who was admittedly a fraud and murderer. I was sure it was Julian; he’d known we were going to Hook Reddale, he knew how to use a bow, and most important, the children knew him from his regular visits to their hamlets. The most likely truth was that it was both of them, working together. Sir Edmund directing his son, Julian actually taking the children.
So what about Álvaro?
He was the piece I couldn’t get a grip on. Sir Edmund had said Álvaro was his old assistant. Was Álvaro a true believer, then? Or did he know Sir Edmund was a fraud?
He must have seen his master getting wealthier and wealthier during the witch trials. Did he know Sir Edmund was selling innocence? Or did he simply think it was just rewards for the best witchfinder in the country?
Even now, I couldn’t place him on either side. On the one hand, Sir Edmund had made a point of saying that no one—not even Álvaro—was permitted to handle the fraudulent pricking needle, which made me think he’d been duped like everyone else. On the other hand, the timing of his appearance—“visiting for the winter” just as children started to disappear—struck me as too much of a coincidence to be believed.
I didn’t know what to think. Sybil had been no help; she’d said she never met the man. This was the most frustrating of the missing pieces, because the more I thought about it, the more I was sure Álvaro was the key to unlocking this mystery. If he was one of the kidnappers, then the reason for his arrival would explain why it was happening. But if he was not . . . I remembered the zeal with which he’d pulled his knife at the sign of evil. He’d be an incredibly powerful ally.
I buried my head in my hands. Sir Edmund, Julian, Álvaro—I had no proof of anything regarding the children. And even believing at least some of them were guilty, that left another question I couldn’t answer.
Why steal children at all?
Sybil had promised that Sir Edmund’s motive was money. It’s all he cared about, she’d said. Except that didn’t make sense. Sir Edmund had made his money taking bribes from the wealthy; the children who’d vanished were poor. What profit could those children provide? Ransom? For what? A pail of milk?
You can’t answer that, Master Benedict said, until you answer a different question. What happened to the children?
I frowned. What do you mean? They were kidnapped.
Yes. But what happened to them afterward?
I was shocked to realize we’d never considered that. At first, we’d wondered who had taken them. When we’d thought it was the White Lady, we’d just assumed they were dead. Once we discovered it wasn’t her, however, we’d asked why the children were taken. And in trying to answer that, we’d missed the most important question of all.
Where had they gone?
If the Darcys were behind it, they had to have hidden the children somewhere. Could they have locked them away on the estate?
No, that didn’t make sense. Sir Edmund had to be keeping the kidnappings a secret from his servants; otherwise, he’d have murdered us in our sleep instead of having Julian ambush us at Hook Reddale. So the children had to be elsewhere, where none of the servants could find them. An interesting idea came to me.
What if he’d hidden them in Hook Reddale?
The lie I’d told Sir Edmund about stumbling upon a brigand camp actually made a certain sense. If you didn’t believe in the White Lady, the abandoned village would be the perfect place to hide. No one would ever look for you there.
Except that couldn’t be it. When we’d gone there, the snow hadn’t been touched. No one had been in Hook Reddale since at least the snowfall. We’d have seen the tracks.
A terrible thought occurred to me: What if the children weren’t being kept anywhere? What if they were . . . I mean, if the Darcys had no problem killing us . . .
I shuddered. That was too terrible. I didn’t want to believe it.
But then where?
Think of Julian, Master Benedict said. What did he say to you? When he told you about going outside?
I tried to remember.
I’ll show you the hamlets, he’d said, and where the best hunting is. . . . And there’s a cave by the river—
I sat up, startled.
A cave. The perfect hiding place. It was hidden. It was sheltered. Depending on how well sheltered, you could keep a fire by the entrance and keep the children warm enough to survive; no one passing would see the light. The Darcy estate was right next to the river. The children might be just a few hundred yards away.
Then I remembered: There were caves all over this area. I sank into my chair, deflated. I’d hoped that maybe I could find them on my own. But the truth was—if the children were even alive—I had no idea where to begin.
There’s still one more piece you’re missing, Master Benedict said.
I knew what he meant almost as he said it. It was right in front of me, sleeping next to Tom on the bed.
Moppet.
She’d arrived at Robert’s farm, seemingly from nowhere. Where had she come from? And how was she linked to the children who’d vanished?
After three days with the girl,
it was hard to believe we still knew nothing about her. Though she clearly adored Tom—and at least seemed to trust me and Sally—two words were all she’d ever given us. “Monmon,” when she first saw Tom. And “Puritan,” when she’d become so scared she’d cried.
“Puritan” had to be the key. But I couldn’t understand how it fit. At first, I wondered if the Darcys were involved with some Puritan plot. I dismissed it when I remembered that Moppet hadn’t seemed troubled at all by being at the estate. Though it occurred to me: Moppet had never actually seen the Darcys themselves. She’d stayed with Tom, in the servants’ quarters, the whole time.
I shook my head. We’d been flailing around for too long, and now we were out of options. We had to convince Moppet to tell us what she’d meant. As I sat there, thinking of how to do that, there came a faint knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said softly.
The deep red of sunrise spilled through the doorway, making me squint. I hadn’t realized it was morning. I shielded my eyes, then let my hand fall, let the rays warm my cheeks. Finally, the clouds had parted.
Wise brought us breakfast, more flat bread slathered with clotted cream and strawberry preserve. His bow slung over his shoulder, he placed the plates on the table next to me.
“Thank you,” I said absently. I didn’t have much appetite, even for this.
Wise touched me lightly on the shoulder. He pointed at me, then placed his hand on his chest, concern on his face.
“No,” I said. “I’m not all right.”
He pointed to my mouth, then to himself. Do you want to tell me?
I sighed. “Someone tried to kill us yesterday.”
He looked shocked. He spread his hands, a question.
“I don’t know who. We couldn’t see him.” I motioned to Wise’s bow. “But he shot at us when we visited Hook Reddale.”
Wise stiffened and shook his head. At first, I thought it was because I’d mentioned the home of the White Lady. Then I realized what had worried him.
“I know it wasn’t you,” I said. “You’re too tall. I think it was Julian Darcy.”
Wise frowned and cocked his head.
“You don’t think so? Do you know him, then?”
He nodded. He pointed to his eyes, then his bow, then outside, and made a motion like his fingers were walking. I see him out hunting.
Wise hesitated. He waggled his fingers beside his temple. Then he placed his hand over his heart and shook his head. I think I understood what he was saying. Julian’s odd, but not a bad person.
“Sybil said the same thing. She thought maybe his father was tricking him into doing it.”
Wise’s frown deepened, but he didn’t respond.
Tom roused with a grunt. He sat up for a moment, bleary eyed. Moppet shifted and wrapped her arms around his waist.
He groaned. “Is it 1666 yet?”
“Another week, I think.”
He flopped back down on the bed. “Wake me when the year turns.” Moppet snuggled into him.
“Sorry,” I said. “We have to talk. Moppet? Moppet.”
She kept her eyes shut.
“I know you can hear me, Moppet.”
Tom sat up again. Sally woke, too, stretching on the palliasse. “What’s going on?”
“We have to talk to the girl.”
The girl in question was no longer pretending to be asleep. She clung to Tom, looking scared.
“Why?” Tom said.
“Because I think she knows things. And we can’t wait any longer for her to tell us. We need to know them, too.”
I leaned forward. Moppet stared at me, eyes so big and blue.
“I know you’re afraid,” I said. “I am, too. But we really need your help. Not just for us. There are a lot of other little boys and girls out there who are lost. They miss their families, and their families miss them. Will you tell us what you know? Please?”
She trembled, her eyes welling up. Tom cupped her face, turned it toward him, wiped her tears away with his thumb.
“You don’t have to be scared,” he said. “No one will hurt you ever again. I promise.”
He took his sword from where it leaned against the wall. He pulled off the sheath that hid the hilt and drew the blade. He laid it across their laps.
“You see?” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. Eternity will protect us.”
Moppet stared at the sword. Her eyes tracked along its length, from the shining blade to its brilliant, beautiful moonstone. Then, blinking away tears, she whispered.
“Puritan,” she whispered, so faint I could barely hear her. “Hit foreign Puritan.”
I rose from my chair. “What? ‘Hit foreign Puritan’? What does that mean?”
“Did she say ‘hit’?” Sally said. “I thought it was ‘hat.’ ”
That made even less sense. I knelt by the bed, and Moppet shrank into Tom’s chest.
“Gently,” Tom chided me.
“Moppet,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Did you say ‘hit’ or ‘hat’? ‘Hat foreign Puritan’?”
Tom frowned. “Christopher.”
At first, I thought he was chastising me for scaring the girl. Then I realized he was looking behind me. I turned.
It was Wise. The man had backed up, right against the wall. He stared at Moppet, terrified.
His mouth worked silently. I went to him. “Wise? What’s the matter—?”
I reached for his arm. He jerked away from me, raised his hands.
“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s just me.”
Wise’s senses seemed to return. He stared at me, then pointed at Moppet.
My heart began to race. “Do you know what she’s saying?”
He nodded.
“Is it Puritan? Hit foreign Puritan?”
He shook his head.
“Not ‘hit’? Or is she not talking about Puritans?”
Wise looked around the room. Suddenly he pointed at the fire.
“Fire?” I said. “Was there a fire recently?”
He shook his head. He moved closer, pointing frantically at the flames.
“Flame,” I said. “Smoke.”
He shook his head.
“Hearth,” Tom said.
“Chimney,” Sally said.
Wise slumped. Then he straightened, as if he had an idea. He ran outside, beckoning us to follow.
We did, not even stopping to put on our coats. Robert, coming from the farmhouse, halted in the snow, puzzled. “Something wrong, my lord?”
I didn’t answer. The sun peeked over the horizon through a gap in the cloud cover, staining the sky a brilliant red. Wise pointed at it.
“Sun.” I thought of what he’d been trying to tell us inside. “And fire. Fire . . . in the sky? A shooting star? A comet? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Wise looked as frustrated as I was. He thought for a moment. Then, suddenly, he grabbed my shirt. He shook it, rubbed his hand over the material.
“Silk?” I said. “Smooth?”
He shook his head. He yanked my shirt up and began rifling through my sash.
Robert was appalled. “Wise! You can’t manhandle his lordship—”
I waved the farmer off, watching Wise carefully. He lifted each vial from my sash, then slid it back again. When he found what he was looking for, he pulled it out and shook it triumphantly.
Pills rattled inside the glass. They were small and blue. I’d seen them the first time I’d searched the sash.
“The blue mass?” I said, confused.
“What are those?” Tom said.
“Pilula hydrargyri. They’re called the blue mass. They’re a remedy for constipation, or consumption, or . . . well, a lot of things.”
“What’s in them?” Sally said.
“Quicksilver, mostly.” I didn’t understand what they had to do with anything.
Wise placed the vial next to my shirt. He shook both of them, looking at me intently.
I still didn’t get it. The only thi
ng I could think of that was remotely the same was that both my shirt and the pills were—
“Blue?” I said.
Wise nodded, delighted.
“Blue. You’re trying to say ‘blue.’ But what does that have to do with—”
He pointed downward.
“Ground,” I said. “Blue ground? Underground?”
He shook his head. Then he grabbed a fistful of snow.
“Snow.”
He shook the pills.
“Blue . . . oh, you mean the color of the snow. White.”
He nodded. And then he pointed back at the sunrise.
“Red,” I said.
He shook his head and angled his arm higher.
“Orange?”
He nodded vigorously.
Now I understood. “That’s why you pointed at the fire. The flame—it’s orange. But what—”
Wise dropped to his knees, drew with his finger in the snow. He leaned back and looked up, so we could see what he’d sketched.
“Looks like a flag,” Tom said.
A flag. Blue, white, and—
“Orange.” I gasped. “That’s the Prince’s Flag!”
“What prince?” Tom said.
“Of the Netherlands. William of Orange. It’s the old Dutch flag. It used to be orange, white, and blue.” I turned to Wise, mind racing. “That’s the flag you’d know from your sailing days. But what does that—”
Wise pointed at Moppet insistently. And I finally realized what he’d been trying to say.
“Dutch?” I said. “She’s speaking Dutch?”
He nodded, relieved.
We stared at the girl, stunned. Tom grabbed my arm. “Now you can talk to her!”
“Me? I don’t know Dutch.”
“I thought Master Benedict taught you every language.”
“I can’t know every language. The closest I know is . . .” I tried different tongues in my head. “German.”
She might know that. I knelt in close as she hugged Tom’s leg. “Sprichst du Deutsch?” I said.
She looked at me blankly.
“I guess not. Um . . . Parles-tu français? No? Parli italiano? ¿Hablas español?”
Her expression didn’t change.
“You know more than that,” Tom insisted.
“The rest are classical languages.” I supposed Latin was worth a try; if her parents had been educated, she might have learned it. “Loquerisne latine?”
