It was strange to be clustered in with those two, but I did not argue. Toward the back of the chapel, next to a handful of crumbling stone tomb markers, lay a heavy cellar door set apart from the main building. A haphazardly constructed stone arch was above it, engraved with symbols that meant nothing to me. Mary appeared just as confused by them. With the toe of his boot, Dalton tapped three times on the cellar door.
A woman’s voice answered from within, oddly accented and melodious, even through wood.
“What is the reward of sin?” the voice asked.
“Death.”
What sounded like six bolted locks were pulled open. The hinges shrieked, and then slowly the door slid open toward us. The spirit taking up lodging in my head resisted, but I pushed past him, knowing I would probably pay for my petulance with a headache later. I simply wanted to be out of the cold and to wear something clean, to drink a cup of tea and decide what we would do now as fugitives.
Almost as soon as we set foot on the steps down into the cellar, we were met by a surprising warmth. I had expected the moist coolness of rock, but the underground lair was fortified with ancient timbers, a felted carpet softening our steps as we descended. Large lamps repurposed from old barrels hung above us, close enough to reach out and touch. An herbal scent clung to the air—mint, lavender, and rosemary—as clean and fragrant as an apothecary’s case.
At the bottom of the long, long staircase waited the woman we had heard before. Dark-skinned and short, she wore an oversize man’s shirt, nipped in at the waist with a sash, and a full, striped skirt. Her black hair was oiled and braided into a thick Dutch plait that hung over one shoulder.
“Fathom Lewis,” she said, offering me a hand.
“I’m afraid my hands are . . . They’re not in a fit state for shaking. Would you accept a curtsy?”
“If you insist,” Fathom replied breezily. She, Mary, and I exchanged curtsies, which felt ridiculously formal, given the circumstances.
“Americans and their manners,” Dalton sneered. “She’s from something called Pennsylvania. God only knows what it’s like there.”
“It’s actually nice,” she told me with a smirk. That explained the unusual accent. “Dalton wouldn’t like it—not enough snobs like him.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“He told me there might be trouble tonight,” Fathom said, ignoring him. She strode off deeper into the safe house, and we followed just behind Dalton. “From the looks of it, he was right.”
“Sparrow made her move,” he explained. “I refused to believe she would strike so quickly. And with such violence. It didn’t end well for her, or her followers.”
The cellar opened up into a larger chamber, the walls covered in mismatched bookcases, each overflowing with papers, trinket boxes, and curiosities. The room reminded me a little of the library Henry had allowed me to use while I translated Bennu’s journal for him, only the objects here did not appear nearly as valuable. Still, the memory filled me with a momentary nostalgia. That I remembered any bit of Coldthistle House fondly was astonishing, and the house and memory felt impossibly far away. I had not been safe then, but surely it was not as bad as all this.
Fathom disappeared into a side passage, then joined us again with a tray laden with cups and, thank heavens, a teapot. She set an ancient and rickety table for four while Mary collapsed gratefully onto one of the padded chairs.
“One more, please,” Dalton instructed her. “We have a gentleman joining us. A royal son of Egypt by day, if I’m not mistaken, and a moon dog by night.”
“An Abediew,” I corrected, feeling offended on Khent’s behalf. Moon dog didn’t seem quite to capture what he was.
“My mistake. Yes, he’s that, and he will be along shortly with their possessions. I don’t think it’s wise for them to return now that Sparrow has struck openly. Others will get ideas, and Finch will come looking for his sister.”
I cringed. Finch. We may not have left things on good terms, but I knew Sparrow’s death would send him into despair. They had been siblings, after all, if strange ones, and it gave me no pleasure to imagine his suffering, or what his retaliation might look like. I did not want to fight him, or anybody—I had only wanted to get away—but even escape and a normal life had been too much to ask for, it seemed.
“So are you . . . you know, one of us? A pixie or a demon or something?” I asked slowly. It was no use dwelling on Finch. If anything, I would do my best to avoid him and further confrontation.
Fathom shook her head. “Oh no, much worse than that. I’m a poetess.”
“An American poet. Good Lord.”
She and Dalton subsided into laughter, and I shared a glance with Mary, who shrugged and sipped her tea. They did not seem to be scheming against us or sharing furtive looks, and they had given us tea and a warm place to hide, but I still held on to my doubts. Their laughter clawed at something in me. An Upworlder, nasty as she was, had just died. Many people had just died. How could they laugh? Did they not understand the weight of the pressure on my shoulders now, with the red evidence of that death drying all over me?
It was Father’s power that answered, my head suddenly full of that crimson mist again, my own thoughts diminishing until I heard and felt nothing but the steady crescendo of a drumbeat. My hands tightened around the teacup until it cracked, a hot drip of tea on my hand surprising me enough to break the spell.
When I opened my eyes, all three of them were staring.
A fine dust of plaster drifted down to us from the ceiling. My anger must have shaken the entire cellar, too.
“Forgive me,” I whispered, hoarse. “There is something not quite right with me.”
Nobody spoke. Mary reached over and squeezed my hand.
“I suppose you haven’t heard about the thing sharing my soul.”
Dalton shook his head slowly, and I rubbed at nothing on the table with my thumb. For a moment, Fathom left, and when she returned, she handed me a warm, wet washcloth. I scrubbed at my hands and sucked in a shaky breath.
“I’ll begin at the beginning,” I said.
And so I told them; piece by piece, I told them, trusting strangers, laying bare the whole fantastical story, hoping there was a solution to the danger lurking in me, knowing that I was likely to be stuck with the curse of my father forever.
Chapter Six
Dalton and Fathom listened. With saintly patience, they listened.
“Sparrow must’ve heard about that soul ferrier, Chijioke. That must be what set her off,” Dalton said gravely when I had finished and described the process of having an ancient soul placed into my body.
“’Tis not his fault,” Mary shot back. “He only did what he could to save Louisa!”
“Nobody is casting blame,” he assured her, pouring us all more tea. My cup had sustained only a small crack, but they gave me a new one all the same. “But Finch would never keep that to himself. The shepherd must have been livid, and now he’s grasping for power with these zealots of his. He fears whatever Henry has become, whatever he’s been cooking up in that house.”
His eyes darted swiftly to mine, and I frowned.
“If you mean to ask what his plan is, I have no idea,” I said. “Mary?”
She bit down on her lip, her cheeks swishing from side to side as she thought. “We only ever did as he asked, eliminating the bad people that came to stay at Coldthistle, and Chijioke helped him keep their souls in a menagerie of sorts. Birds, hundreds of them. He kept them all, I know that, but he never shared his reasons.”
“How many birds?” It was Fathom who asked, leaning toward us across the narrow table.
“Hundreds,” Mary answered. “I think . . . I think hundreds.”
“Hundreds of trapped souls? Does that sound like an army to you? Because that sounds like an army to me.” Fathom whistled and nudged Dalton.
“That’s Henry all the way down, always thinking of himself and never what consequences might hurt everyone else. No bloody wonde
r the shepherd is desperate for followers.” Dalton pushed away from the table and wordlessly retrieved a small decanter from a nearby shelf. It had been sitting next to a jar filled with what looked like pickled pig’s feet. Whatever was in the decanter was added generously to his tea.
“I just want to stay out of all of this,” I said, impatient for . . . something. Answers. Anything. Even if the answers were hard to hear. “Henry. The shepherd. It’s their fight, not mine. All I want is to get this monster out of my head.”
Dalton nodded, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the side of his teacup. “That would be quite beyond me, but I know who might be able to help.”
“Please do not say Henry.”
He cleared his throat. “It’s Henry.”
“Of course it is.” I motioned to the decanter, and Dalton hesitated before shrugging and pushing it across the table toward me.
“Louisa . . .” Mary looked sleepy, but she rubbed the tiredness from her eyes and sat up in her chair. “We intended to write Chijioke soon, aye? Is this really so different?”
“I had hoped to keep Mr. Morningside out of this,” I said shortly. “You know I am not eager to return to Coldthistle.”
In fact, I had hoped never to return. I’d told myself that if our new life in London proved impossible, then I would try any number of places before journeying back to Yorkshire. Even the First City, with all its ancient ghosts, appealed to me more. But now I watched Mary, noticing a small twitch in her arm. My eyes darted below the table, and I saw that she had taken the little carved fish Chijioke had made for her and was worrying it with her thumb.
“What makes you so sure Henry can assist me?” I asked Dalton, who stood yet again and went to rummage among the overstuffed bookshelves. If I was going to relent and return to Coldthistle, potentially walking headlong into a conflict between Henry and the shepherd, then I wanted a very good reason do it. I glanced at Mary, and while I could not be certain, of course, I could swear she looked the tiniest bit hopeful, a bright glint in her eyes.
“I keep reminding you to organize all that rubbish,” Fathom muttered, stealing a nip from the decanter for herself.
“You might do it yourself, poet.”
“Poetess, thanks very much.”
“Ah! Here we are . . .” Something about Dalton’s posture and mannerisms reminded me sharply of Mr. Morningside. I wondered just how close they had been, considering they appeared to stand and gesture in much the same way. They were even similar in build and height, though opposites in the hues of their eyes and hair. It was natural to imagine them as a pair, contrasting but compellingly similar.
Dalton returned to us with a handwritten diary, and I cringed, memories of a cramped wrist surfacing as I thought of furiously translating Bennu’s journal for Mr. Morningside. Well, perhaps I did not have so much secret nostalgia for the library after all. This diary, however, appeared to be in English, and Dalton handed it to me carefully, as if it were made of spun sugar and not sturdy parchment. It was covered with dust, a musty scent rising from the well-worn and well-loved pages. The embossed leather cover was tied ’round with a bit of yarn, and it simply read: 1248–1247 BC.
“You seem a bookish sort, so I doubt I need warn you that this is the only copy,” Dalton said, his face tense as I took the diary in both hands and studied the cover. “When Henry and I traveled together, we discovered some remarkable things about where we had come from.” He paused and swept his palm toward me, then Mary, and then back to himself. “Where all of us come from. Henry was obsessed with the Black Elbion—with all the books. He wanted to know how they had come to be. It was . . . a fixation. He searched tirelessly for the answers.”
“And?” I prompted, admittedly excited about potentially learning more about the mysterious, godlike books. My own experience had found me bound to Coldthistle House after merely touching the Black Elbion, and my friend, Lee, was tied to it still by the housekeeper’s dark will. She had used shadows and spells to return him to life, but it was only a shadow life, sustained by the book itself.
“Not one for surprises?” he teased.
“Mm. I’d love to hear your story in full, but I am somewhat anxious to be rid of the vicious god creature twisting my every thought and feeling,” I said with equal tartness.
“Right. Well, I only mean to say that the beings who made the books of power can surely help you, if anyone can. Henry is convinced he knows where those beings are and how to infiltrate the place, but to my knowledge he refuses to do so. Or can’t. It’s all in there,” Dalton explained, nodding toward the diary. “Maybe you can make more sense of what happened to us than I could. You said that your father somehow consumed the book for the Dark Fae, yes? The bindery where it came from could be of interest, then.”
“And Henry knows where it is,” I murmured. “He never told you?”
Dalton smiled, but it never touched his eyes. He turned his head away from me, resting for a long moment on the diary. It was dim in the cellar, but I could swear a sheen of tears filled his eyes. “You know him, don’t you, Louisa? He’s a man who covets his secrets. Even from . . .” Sighing, he wiped at his mouth and reached for the decanter. “Well. It doesn’t matter. The diary is yours now. Read it closely. Still, I fear the solution to your problem resides in Coldthistle House.”
Chapter Seven
Mary settled down to sleep not long after Dalton produced the diary. The cellar contained a labyrinthine series of narrow corridors, an improbable number of doors leading to storage, pantries, a toilet, and several cozy chambers with bunks and bedrolls. I had followed Fathom and Mary through this snaking tunnel, but I found when we reached the bunks that I had no desire to sleep. I was wide awake, the diary tucked under my arm too tempting to be abandoned for dreams.
I told Mary good night and waited briefly while she nestled down into a fluffy bedroll. Fathom was good enough to find me some old clothes to wear, as my gown was a tangle of threads and dried blood. The frock she gave me was oversize, but it would keep me warm enough, its velvety maroon sleeves fringed with expensive lace that had yellowed with age. Mary fell asleep almost at once, curled on her side, Chijioke’s fish hidden in the palm she tucked under her cheek.
Fathom and Dalton had disappeared into one of the other rooms. As I crept back toward the main den, I listened to their muted voices and stopped outside their door.
“I need a bit of air,” I told them through the door.
“Right. Tap on the cellar lid to be allowed back in. Be careful, Louisa. More than your shapeshifting friend is prowling London tonight.”
That did not dissuade me. I traced my steps back through the safe house, then climbed the stairs up and up, shouldering open the heavy door and letting it back down with a quiet thump. At once, the predawn chill enveloped me, but I welcomed the shock of the air. The cellar felt suffocating, or perhaps that was something inside me, a growing fear that hourly intensified as my return to Coldthistle became certain.
All roads, it appeared, led back to Coldthistle. Over and over again. I hated it. And I hated even more that it would prove Henry Morningside right. The self-righteous git would be overjoyed to know that I could not keep away, that I needed his help yet again. The moon, stunningly white, emerged from behind a long wisp of cloud, filling the churchyard with its light. I wandered a few steps from the cellar door and followed no clear path among the tall grass and gravestones. A high brick wall hemmed in the yard, pale placards placed there as markers for those who had passed.
I untied the piece of yarn around Dalton’s diary and lifted the cover, then stopped myself. As of late, reading mysterious books had only gotten me into trouble. More than that, I worried that what I might find inside would change my feelings toward Mr. Morningside. I had no desire to know him better. I only needed his help, and a deeper understanding of his life was not required.
A light rain began to fall as a bank of clouds stretched across the full moon, though the moonlight hardly waned. I huddled
close to one of the brick walls and under a tree, hoping to protect the diary but hesitant to go back inside. My shoulder touched the wall, and through the velvet fabric of my dress, I felt the cool resonance of stone. It was still bright enough to read the placard I had leaned against: NEAR THIS SPOT LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
I found myself laughing, not at his demise but at the irony of having once taken that man’s pin from Mr. Morningside and used it to free myself from the binding magic of Coldthistle House. Now I had returned that pin, and yet still I would have to return to the place again. No pin nor overwhelming wish for freedom could keep me away, it seemed.
There was a faint rustling in the grass behind me, and I turned to find Khent skulking across the graveyard in my direction. His arms were laden with our possessions, and he wore a heavy pack on his back filled to overflowing with clothing and books. In his right hand, he carried a small cage. Mab, our pink-and-purple-colored spider, peeked out from behind the bars.
“You remembered her,” I whispered, and he joined me under the cover of the tree. His hair was slick with rain, and he shook it out, much like a wet dog would do. “How did Agnes and Silvia take it?”
“Well enough,” he said. “I told them you had been trampled to death by a horse and their services were no longer needed.”
“Khent.” I sighed, but then laughed again. “You might have been gentler.”
He shrugged, apparently unbothered by the household’s worth of goods strapped to his body. “They took some coin from me and left, is that not what you wanted? Why are you standing in the rain?”
“I just find the safe house a bit stifling. And I do not . . . I doubt I will sleep at all.”
“No, no, you must rest. It was an exhausting day.” He turned in a circle, glancing up and down. “Where am I taking these things?”
“That cellar door,” I told him. “Here, let me show you.”
Khent followed me through the steady drizzle to the door, and I tapped it three times, then gave the correct answer before the safe house door swung open. I gestured for him to go first and took the spider cage from him, holding it at arm’s length as we descended. Something about the fat, fuzzy colorful tarantula had always bothered me; looking at it caused an itch in the back of my mind that often grew into a throb. It was simultaneously repellent and familiar.
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