“Half an hour, I’d say,” said Mrs. Neap. She handed the cake of soap to Clovermead. “Don’t give me that sad look, young lady. You can hold out that long. Now then, you use that soap carefully. It has special herbs in it that clean wounds and make swelling go down. The Mayor himself bathes with it. Be sure you touch it to every place you’re injured.”
Clovermead dipped the sweet-smelling soap in the warm water and rubbed it along her arm. Her flesh tingled and the pain in her scars and bruises faded. Clovermead ran the soap slowly and deliberately over her other wounds, while Mrs. Neap sat back comfortably in her chair and sternly instructed her to wash behind her ears and cleanse her matted hair. Her blond stubble and pale skin reemerged as the soap stripped away her disguising stain. When the bath began to cool, Mrs. Neap poured in another cauldron of hot water.
After the soap had dissolved entirely, Clovermead lay back and just let the bath’s warmth soak into her. I have not sufficiently praised comfort, she thought to herself. Adventure is all well and fine, but a hot bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed are lovelier than a cellar of jewels. I should write an epic lay on the virtues of leisure.
Leisure will bore you, said her tooth. Don’t I know you, little cub? You have a taste for adventure.
You’re wrong, said Clovermead inwardly. I’ll stay in this bath for a solid week, you wait and see. . . . She stiffened in her bath. Tooth? she asked. Where are you? She felt fear and joy and completeness. She had feared the tooth so, missed it so.
Where should a tooth be?
Clovermead trembled and reached toward her suddenly aching mouth. The bear tooth was there, where her upper left canine had been. Her old tooth had been ground away and now the stump began to complain bitterly. The bear tooth was lodged in its place, huge and bloody.
I am with you still and always, said the tooth. Could I let Snuff remove me from you? No, disciple, daughter, I could not let him part us. You lay unconscious in the gully and I moved your arms for you. Your arms secured me in your mouth. I made myself seem as small as a human tooth for a while, but no more. I am myself again and now we are bound together forever.
Forever, Clovermead told herself dreamily. How sweet that sounds—but why didn’t you speak earlier? I was so lonely and scared, there in the dark of the prison cart. I was weak and helpless and I needed you.
You needed to learn that lesson, little one, said the tooth. You are nothing without me. Without me is fear, solitude, night, the weakness of the worm. Now you will never forget that.
You were cruel, said Clovermead.
The tooth laughed. Cruelty happens to the weak. Do you want to be weak?
Never again, said Clovermead. Never, never, never.
Power will be yours, said the tooth. I swear it.
I’m afraid of your power, said Clovermead.
Again the tooth laughed.
“I still don’t understand why the Mayor’s doing all this,” Clovermead said hurriedly to Mrs. Neap. “What makes me important?” A sudden, awful thought made her sit bolt upright in the water. “Does the Mayor want to gloat over me? Will he put me in a fine dress and tie me with rusty chains to a great big boulder on the top of a hill near his palace and come out every day at noon to cackle triumphantly and rub his hands with glee and tell me I’ll never be rescued, never, never, never? The Black Knight did that to Lady Amaurette in the Heptameron, and she was just about to go mad and had started singing songs about marigolds and ducklings when Sir Auroche rescued her just in time. I suppose Sorrel or Father wouldn’t be able to tear off my chains with their bare hands, like Sir Auroche, but they could probably break them with a hammer or a file. I don’t think I’d go mad just because the Mayor was gloating, either. I always thought that it was the boredom of being tied up on a rock that would make you go mad, and that listening to the gloating would help to pass the time until you were rescued. And I never did get the point of all that cackling itself. If I was going to be a villain like the Black Knight, I don’t think I’d waste my time with it. Mrs. Neap, couldn’t you please tell the Mayor that he’d just be wasting his time gloating over me, and that he’d be much better off letting me go?”
Mrs. Neap tried vainly to suppress her laughter and then burst into a hearty guffaw. “Dear Lady! There are no boulders with chains in Low Branding. There aren’t even any hills nearby. His Eminence has dungeons and jailers to do his guarding for him, and he has no desire to gloat over little girls who have clearly read too many romances. I’m sure he doesn’t plan anything of the sort for you, so put that kerfuffle out of your head. Are you clean yet?”
“Yes,” said Clovermead shortly, with wounded dignity.
“Then, bath time is over,” said Mrs. Neap. “Here’s your towel.” Clovermead stepped from the bath into its thick fibers with scarcely a second exposed to the winter chill. Mrs. Neap brought her the nightgown and slippers as she dried herself off, and helped her slip into them as quickly as she could. Clovermead sat down in the chair opposite Mrs. Neap.
“Now, child, I can’t tell you why His Eminence wants you dolled up so fine,” said Mrs. Neap ruminatively, “but I can give you some good advice.”
“I should be a sweet little girl who curtseys at the drop of a hat and speaks respectfully to her elders? That’s the advice I usually get.”
“That is good counsel, dear,” said Mrs. Neap with a smile. “But I meant something else. It’s never too late to draw out the bear tooth, Clovermead Wickward.”
“What?” The tooth roared rage and fury through Clovermead, and her hands jerked toward Mrs. Neap to rake her cheeks. Clovermead made her alien arms fall still. Slowly, slowly, she made her nails grow short and lowered her mutinous hands. The tooth growled hate and alarm, but Clovermead would not let it rule her. Not yet. “How do you know about my tooth? How dare you . . .” Make me hope? she almost said. How dare you make me despair? another part of her echoed. Clovermead was pale and shaking. “Mrs. Neap, how do you know my name? I never told you that.”
“Yes, you did,” said Mrs. Neap. “Weeks ago and many miles to the north. You were very kind and gave me a towel to dry myself with, so now I’ve been able to return the favor.”
“But that was . . .” Clovermead looked straight at unmemorable Mrs. Neap. The woman’s face blurred. Her skin shook like water on a moonlit lake, roiling with light. Her body shone bright as fog in the morning sun. Mrs. Neap wavered in and out of view, disappeared, and left in her place a tall woman with raven hair, a faint scar on her cheek, and a mouth constantly on the verge of laughter. She was stout about the waist, and under her brown dress she wore a pale gray habit. Around her neck she wore a silver pendant of Our Lady. Her eyes were as thick with dreams as ever.
“Sister Rowan!” exclaimed Clovermead.
“I told you it was fun to sneak up on people unawares. Hello, Clovermead,” said Sister Rowan. She stretched out her arms and enfolded Clovermead in a long hug. The tooth raged, but Clovermead clung to the nun, her body all atremble as Sister Rowan patted and soothed her. She didn’t cry, she wouldn’t cry, but she was awfully glad to see the nun. She felt younger in Sister Rowan’s embrace. She felt more human.
“Are you here to help me escape?” Clovermead asked at last. “Can you teach me that disguising trick?”
“I’m sorry, Clovermead,” said Sister Rowan. “It takes years to learn that art. You’ll have to stay prisoner a little longer. I’m here because I had another vision of Our Lady, at the Royal Abbey in Queensmart. She said the same words I just told you about the bear tooth, and then she said, ‘Tell Clovermead Wickward.’ I was terribly distraught when I woke up, because she’d also told me where to find you, but I’d already forgotten that part of her message.” Sister Rowan blushed brick red. “Abbess Medick always did say I had a head like a sieve.”
“I’m glad you were able to warn me, and that’s all that matters,” Clovermead said tactfully.
“Thank you, Clovermead. People do carp so—anyway, Our Lady is bountiful in her providen
ce, and she sent Abbess Spurge another vision on the same night. Our Lady told the Abbess that I would find you outside Chandlefort, in the Army of Low Branding. Abbess Spurge wasn’t very happy when she told me this—she gets a splitting headache when she has visions, poor dear—but I must say, she was much more cooperative than Abbess Medick was. Abbess Spurge sent me north right away to find you. I got here a few days ago and I hid myself among the servants. They don’t know one another that well, so it was easy to pretend I was one of them. I looked for you, but I didn’t find you. Then today the Seneschal showed up with a brown-haired, brown-skinned waif who I could tell at once was Clovermead Wickward, and here we are.”
“I’m awfully glad to see you,” said Clovermead. “I’ve never been alone before—there was always Father while I was in Timothy Vale, and then there was Sorrel while I was traveling south.” She told Sister Rowan the story of her journey. “And now the Mayor seems to want to keep me captive,” Clovermead concluded. “Do you know why?”
Sister Rowan shook her head. “Abbess Spurge may know—she got terribly excited when I told her all the visions of you I’d been having. But she wouldn’t say why.” Sister Rowan blushed again. “She said, ‘You’d gab the Abbey password to Lord Ursus himself and not realize you’d done anything wrong.’ She was very stinging.”
“You would have,” said Clovermead. She curled back her lips and pointed to the bear tooth embedded in her jaw. “He’s in me, Sister Rowan. He hears my thoughts.” Sister Rowan gasped as she looked at the tooth and the tooth growled with satisfaction.
Now Clovermead told Sister Rowan how she had been changing since she picked up Snuff’s bear tooth—how she had learned to talk with bears and command them, about the blood-draining, the tooth-talking, the fur and claws, her hunger and thirst. She told her about her dreams of the valley of Snowchapel.
“That’s exactly the way it looks,” said Sister Rowan. “I couldn’t have described the place better myself. That much was a true dream.”
“I’m afraid the rest will be too,” said Clovermead. All her fears and dark desires spilled out of her—how she had missed the tooth when she thought it was gone, how glad she had been to discover it still with her. “Half the time now I want to be a bear,” Clovermead finished, whispering, trembling. “I want to become like Lord Ursus. Sister Rowan, I don’t think I believe what Our Lady told you. I’m not strong enough to take out the tooth. It’ll be the other way around—he’ll draw me out of my body and have the husk for himself. Sister Rowan, can’t you help me?” Clovermead was crying, and the tooth was laughing at her puling weakness. “Help me draw the tooth.”
Tentatively Sister Rowan reached out her finger to touch the bear tooth—and jerked her finger away, crying out in pain. Her flesh had been ripped open. “It bit me,” she cried out. “He bit me.” She reached out her fingers again and Clovermead growled. Clovermead’s hands seized Sister Rowan’s and held them still between tight claws. Sister Rowan looked at Clovermead’s eyes. They were wide open, mad and yellow, and Clovermead wanted very badly to tear into the nun. The tooth savored the taste of nun’s blood and hungered for more. “I won’t try to draw the tooth,” Sister Rowan said, speaking slowly and clearly. Clovermead nodded and released the nun’s arms. Sister Rowan drew back and the madness faded from Clovermead’s eyes. “I can’t help you. Clovermead, listen to Our Lady’s message. You can draw the tooth yourself. It’ll never be too late.”
“What does it matter?” Clovermead asked. She was crying again. Her tears were bitter and despairing. “I freed Father. That’s all I wanted to do. Let Lord Ursus have me now.”
“You also matter,” said Sister Rowan. “Our Lady sent me a vision about you. She cares what happens to you.”
“Why doesn’t She send me a vision, then?”
Because she is dead, said the tooth. Because she never was.
Sister Rowan sighed. “Lord Ursus is very strong, Clovermead. His claws can block Her light. Her light still exists, but you must search for Her, even in darkness.”
Clovermead laughed, an echo of the tooth’s mocking guffaws. “Then, what use is it to pray to her? Lord Ursus’ way is better. He helps his worshipers. He doesn’t abandon them.” Like Waxmelt. Like Sorrel. Like Sister Rowan. Our Lady was like the rest of them. She had left Clovermead alone in the darkness. Only Lord Ursus was true to her. He was terrible, but he would never leave her.
Never, the tooth promised. I will be with you until death and to the end of time. Together we will hunt prey when the sun is a dying ember and the earth is cold as ash. On a far dusk we will kill the last man. We will hear his last scream. We will drink the last pool of human blood.
Promise? asked Clovermead. Promise me, my Lord. You won’t lie to me? You won’t leave me?
I swear it, said Lord Ursus, and Clovermead knew he spoke the truth.
From a great distance Clovermead saw that her words and laughter had horrified Sister Rowan. “I don’t mean that,” she lied. “I’ll listen to Our Lady’s message.”
“Good, good,” said Sister Rowan with relief. “You must, my dear. You have to.” She clasped Clovermead’s hand in hers. Clovermead’s hand felt nothing. It was dead flesh.
At last Sister Rowan rose. “I wish I could stay more, but they’ll get suspicious. Don’t worry—I won’t go too far and I’ll have my eye out for you. If I can, I’ll try to get word to Chandlefort so that Lady Cindertallow’s soldiers can rescue you.”
“I’m awfully glad, Sister Rowan,” said Clovermead. But now it was just words. Clovermead hugged the nun farewell. “Thank you for trying to take out the tooth,” she said. “It will never leave me,” she added, but by that time Sister Rowan had turned into Mrs. Neap and had left Clovermead’s enclosure.
Miss Quay bustled in with the tailor, and there was a great deal of measuring and turning and noting of sizes and shapes. The tailor went away, and Mr. Cofferdam came in and put a table on the ground, then set it with plates, silverware and glasses, hot roasted chicken, baked potatoes, and corn muffins. The glasses were filled with sparkling water and red wine, and Clovermead got pleasantly tipsy as she devoured the meal. She was still hungry, still thirsty, but the food and drink had taken the edge off her hunger.
The tailor came back with white silk petticoats, a canary yellow dress, an ermine coat and hat, and thick wool-lined boots. Wonderingly Clovermead felt the clothes. They were so beautiful! And then she had to put them on, and though the materials were fine and soft, she had never been in anything so restricting and uncomfortable in her life. She could mince in them, but she couldn’t run or jump or bend down to scoop up a stone or anything. They would laugh at me in Timothy Vale, thought Clovermead. I’d laugh at me. I look like a lemon pie. I would much rather have a sensible, comfortable vest and trousers. She was on the point of saying so, but then Miss Quay cooed delightedly that Clovermead was dressed in the height of fashion, and that she had never seen a girl look so lovely in her life, and that Clovermead must be simply, simply thrilled. Clovermead concluded that Miss Quay had the brains of a chicken, so it wasn’t worth saying anything at all.
When she had been dolled up to Miss Quay’s satisfaction, the screens came down. The Seneschal gave her an appraising look, nodded his approval, and marched her back to her prison cart, escorted by the soldiers. The cart had been cleaned of its straw and its filth, and now a freshly made bed with sheets and blankets lay in the cage.
“In you go, Miss Wickward,” said the Seneschal. He offered his hand to Clovermead and helped her up into the cage. She lay down on the bed. It was soft and comfortable. “I’ll have to lock the door, Miss Wickward,” said the Seneschal apologetically. “I’m afraid that you still have to be treated as a prisoner. But do call during the night if you need anything—anything at all. The soldiers will attend to you.” Then he let the black curtain fall.
So Clovermead fell asleep mightily perplexed—locked in a cage, dressed like a princess, and warm in a snug, clean bed.
And Lo
rd Ursus was with her. The lullaby of his perpetual growl was a comfort to her.
Chapter Seventeen
What Waxmelt Wickward Stole
Clovermead woke to a tantara of trumpets. Martial music bugled forth and cannonaded off the stone walls of Chandlefort. The sound swelled loud and louder.
Snuff ripped the curtain from the cage and the morning sun streamed in. “Good morning, girlie!” he said. “Time to rise. Action at last! His Eminence has been waiting for this day for twelve years—you should see how excited he is! He’s so frantic that he can’t button his shirt properly.” Snuff unlocked the door of the cage. “You coming, or do I have to drag you out? Say I have to drag you, chit. You owe me for my tooth.”
Clovermead meditated on Snuff’s cruel face with cold hatred. You corrupted my father, she silently accused him. You persecuted him, captured him, would have killed him. You corrupted me with your tooth. It will all be worthwhile to kill you. To humiliate you.
I will give you that power, said the tooth.
I am yours, Lord Ursus, said Clovermead, and she abandoned herself to darkness.
At last! said the tooth with joy. Lord Ursus rushed into Clovermead. He was darkness, pain, and blood. Above all, he was power. Clovermead was him, he was her, and they could devour an army or tear down a fortress. Their feast would start today.
“I used your tooth better than you ever did,” said a low voice in Clovermead. Its very tone hinted at cruelties beyond Clovermead’s imagination. She hoped she would learn of them soon.
Clovermead rose from the bed and faced Snuff without fear. “I broke your net. I set the bears on you. Could you have done that, weakling?” She balled her fists—then unclenched them. All ten of her fingers grew thick, curving claws. This time her fingers were transformed, not just her nails. Her clawed, furry fingers grew, horribly fast, until each was half a foot long. Their tips dripped with fresh blood. She advanced toward Snuff as his face suddenly blanched. She reached out her claws through the cage door to his face. Snuff stood still, craven and trembling. “You owe me for your life, prey.”
In the Shadow of the Bear Page 19
