‘Do not leave the huts, my dears.’ She speaks in the same strange Víndurnic accent. ‘You do not want to touch the earth at midnight.’
‘Midnight?’ says Teddy.
‘At midnight, the earth cannot be trusted.’
‘Yeah, we got that.’ Teddy says. ‘Bastian kept banging on about it. But what’s it mean – another earthquake?’
‘Not exactly,’ Annalísa says slowly. ‘You shall soon be seeing for yourselves.’
As Annalísa passes me a bowl, I turn my back to the wall. A strange prickle curls in my belly. I almost wish I had a neck-scarf to wear. I know I’m only imagining it, but I can’t help thinking that she’s trying to see my proclivity marking.
Bastian must have told her his suspicions about me. She wants to know if I’m evil, whether Lord Farran’s stories are true and my tattoo is somehow … tainted. Maybe she expects the mark to leap up and sting her fingers, or to burn like acid beneath her gaze.
Annalísa’s eyes meet my own.
‘Thank you,’ I say, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘I don’t know how to thank your clan for their help. You and Bastian, and –’
‘We have only done our duty,’ Annalísa says. ‘You are newcomers to our land. Lord Farran requires that we take you in until your proclivities are assessed.’
Her gaze lingers a moment too long. There are heavy bags beneath her eyes, I notice. Not just signs of age, but of a more recent stress. A lack of sleep. Exhaustion. She leans forward a little, and the bags of her skin sag deeper.
‘My dears,’ she says quietly. ‘I must ask you something. Something important.’
We all nod.
‘When you were out in the wilderness … did you see anything? Anyone?’
Almost unconsciously, my hand roams to my pocket. My fingers pick out the shape of Tindra’s pendant: a dead chunk of wood inside the fabric.
‘We saw Bastian,’ Lukas says. ‘And … there were people in the air. People riding foxaries with wings.’
If possible, Annalísa pales even further. Her skin looks as wan as snowflakes now – or the ash that fell when the earth erupted. She steeples her fingers, presses them under her chin, and takes a shaky breath.
‘A girl,’ she says. ‘Did you see …?’
She trails off, and my stomach clenches so hard that I can’t breathe. Piece by piece, it all falls together. Annalísa must have known Tindra’s proclivity. She must have known the girl was planning to flee the country.
And I know what she’s going to ask. The thought of delivering this news strikes harder than a rock upon my skull.
‘We saw her,’ I say. ‘Tindra. Her name was Tindra.’
Annalísa jerks at the name. It’s like she’s been shot: a body crumpling, collapsing back into itself. Then I realise that it isn’t the name that’s stung her. It’s the word was. Not is, but was.
‘Was?’ she whispers. ‘No. No, it can’t be.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
Annalísa’s eyes snap up to meet my own. Her expression has changed again now – not fear, or shock, or horror, but something else. Something … cold. Cruel.
Hatred. That’s what I’m seeing in her eyes.
‘You talked to her,’ she says, the words like acid. ‘She told you her name. You could have saved her. You could have saved her!’
I shake my head, my mouth dry.
‘It was too late,’ Maisy says. ‘We’re so sorry, we didn’t have a chance to –’
‘You could have saved her!’
Annalísa doubles over until her chest meets her knees. It’s like watching the slow collapse of a house of cards. I don’t know what to do. My fingers touch the wooden shape of Tindra’s pendant. Shaking a little, I hold it out to Annalísa, flat upon my palm.
‘She wanted me to give this to her family,’ I whisper. ‘Is that you?’
Annalísa looks up at me. Her eyes flare. She snatches the pendant so viciously that I half-expect her fingernails to leave claw marks on my palm. She gazes at the wooden shape, as though unable to process what she’s seeing.
‘My daughter. She was my daughter.’
I let my gaze fall. I can’t stand to look at the pain in her face any more and I’m so tired that I want to collapse.
Annalísa releases a hissing breath. ‘My daughter liked this cabin. It was empty, most of the time. She came here to be alone. And now you are here, in her place, and she is gone.’
There is a long moment of silence. Then: ‘You could have saved her.’
I don’t respond.
‘You have a temporal proclivity,’ Annalísa says. ‘If my daughter deserved to die for her powers, then so do you. What right do you have to live, to breathe, when my Tindra lies dead in the wild?’
I shake my head. ‘My proclivity is –’
‘Night! Don’t try to deny it. Your magic is –’
Lukas cuts her off, his voice tight with tension. ‘It’s not Night! It’s Shadow. Darkness. That’s what the markings show.’
The others murmur their agreement, but Annalísa’s glare doesn’t waver.
‘I can prove it!’ I offer. ‘If you want, I can melt into the darkness now, and –’
A bitter laugh emerges from her lips. I recognise that bitterness. I felt it once myself, a long time ago, in those terrible nights after the bombing. I had huddled in an alleyway, cold and alone, and wished death for the woman who had provoked King Morrigan’s wrath. The woman who let my family die.
I lost my father, who read quiet stories by lantern light. My brother, who whistled bawdy folk songs in the hallway. And my mother, who coaxed tendrils of light down to wake our sleeping forms each morning. Her proclivity was Daylight. Just like Tindra.
‘Of course you can do it now,’ says Annalísa. ‘It’s the perfect time to use a Night proclivity. But the guards will come at dawn to test you – and the darkness then, I think, will prove less obedient.’
She presses Tindra’s pendant to her lips and kisses it, so hard and ravenous that for a second I think she’s going to eat it. Then she lowers it slowly and presses it against her heart.
‘Sleep well, my dear.’
As she leaves, her footsteps clap like gunshots.
I stare after her. Tendrils of Night crawl across me, dark and damp and cold. My head is throbbing again, as though I’ve stabbed a climbing pick through the wound. But I sense the time in those crawling tendrils, and the thickening of the dark.
‘It’s almost midnight,’ I say numbly. ‘We should go outside to see … whatever it is.’
We don the cloaks on our beds. The fabric is ragged but startlingly warm. It sways and bends with my limbs, trapping pockets of my own body heat like bubbles.
Teddy forces a weak grin. ‘Pretty good, huh? You’d get fifty silvers for a cloak like this in Rourton.’
Together, we trek out onto the wooden balcony. The forest is dark, but for the scattered shine of lamps in the canopy. Most of the cabins are quiet, their occupants asleep. I scan the forest floor, half-expecting to see a sign of King Morrigan’s hunter, but there’s no movement. No hint of a flashing pistol, or a moving shadow. I settle a little, although my skin is still prickling. We must trust Bastian’s watchmen to keep the village secure.
‘Hey, hear that?’ Teddy says.
I strain my ears. I can just make out a tiny scrabble of claws – here and there, dotted around the surrounding forest. ‘What …?’
‘Rats,’ Teddy says. ‘I can sense ’em, climbing up into the trees. They’re twitchy too – don’t fancy being on the ground when it happens.’
The sky roars.
There’s a blast of distant fire, high above the canopy. I only glimpse it in specks – winks of light between leaves and branches – but it matches the sight from our rowboat last night. The blast of scorching red grows closer. And I can hear it. A roar, a choke, a growl …
‘Look down!’ Teddy says.
Smoke rises from the earth, spiralling upwards like
steam from a pot of boiling water.
At midnight, the earth cannot be trusted.
The steam ripples, awash with warmth. A flare of violent heat emanates from the earth and I’m suddenly grateful that my feet aren’t touching the forest floor. Down there, the world is a whirl of smoke and heat. It froths and bubbles, awash with an unnatural shine.
‘The plants,’ Lukas says urgently. ‘The trees. Why doesn’t the steam affect them?’
Maisy shakes her head, her eyes wide. ‘It isn’t natural heat. It feels … wrong.’ She gestures at her body, indicating her Flame proclivity. ‘It’s not coming from flame. It must be alchemically tainted – like the wastelands, or the borderlands. Perhaps it only hurts living creatures.’
‘Like rats,’ I say. ‘Or people.’
‘Didn’t Bastian reckon it was the Timekeeper that stuffed up the land?’ Teddy says. ‘And that’s why Lord Farran’s up on Skyfire Peak, trying to fix it?’
I nod. ‘She tried to steal time from the land itself, but she destroyed the natural alchemical balance. That’s why midnight’s so …’
I gesture at the steaming earth, lost for words. Coils of smoke sway eerily like seaweed – like the murky vines that grew in Rourton’s sewers, or sprouted from the wreckage of alchemy bombs.
But as I speak, the smoke flickers away – fading as quickly as it came. The forest falls dark. Cold. Silent.
Midnight is over.
‘We’d have been down there,’ says Clementine quietly, ‘if Bastian hadn’t found us.’
My stomach twists. She’s right. If not for Bastian, we’d have camped in the wilderness. We’d have slept on the ground, hidden in the undergrowth or a patch of boulders. And at midnight …
‘The hunter!’ Lukas says. ‘He would’ve camped on the ground, wouldn’t he?’
I quickly glance at the others. Their expressions range from relief to horror, and the same confusion claws at my gut. Until now, the hunter seemed like an inhuman shadow. Now, he’s almost certainly dead. But to die in such a terrible way: scorched and boiled, in those writhing gyres of alchemy …
I can’t wish such a fate upon anyone.
‘No wonder they added wings to their foxaries,’ Lukas says.
‘Oh yeah,’ Teddy says. ‘Good idea, that. Can you imagine dragging Borrash up a tree? You’d get your bloody head bitten off.’
My throat is too tight to speak. The hunter might be dead, but we’re still far from safe. Every midnight, it seems, Víndurn becomes a scalding smear of smoke and heat. Perhaps it’s even enough to scald a person’s flesh from their bones.
At midnight, the earth cannot be trusted.
‘So, the earth burns at midnight,’ Maisy says slowly. ‘And Lord Farran conducts his experiments on Skyfire Peak, to try to stop the earth from boiling. But those experiments, it seems, set the sky aflame.’
There is a long pause.
‘Well,’ Teddy says, ‘at least it’s a good spot for barbecues.’
In the ensuing silence, I stare down at the earth. It looks so harmless. So normal. No sign of smoke, or steam, or deadly heat. My crewmates’ breath is the only movement in the dark.
My crewmates. In the chaos of midnight, I’ve almost forgotten the real danger. This is our final night together. I’m the one who must flee this village. Not my friends. Not those whose proclivities are deemed acceptable. I have a better chance of survival now, if King Morrigan’s hunter lies dead in the wild. But even so …
Lukas’s hand slips into my own.
My throat constricts, hard and tight. I keep my eyes steadfastly on the ground. I can’t look at Lukas. I can’t. If I do, my resolve will crumble.
But part of me burns to bid him one last farewell. To meet his gaze and hold him tight before I sneak out of his life forever. And with that thought, the realisation of what I’ll be losing really hits me. Not just Lukas, but the others. No more laughter from Teddy, or bossy scoldings from Clementine. No more of Maisy’s quiet wisdom, or the invisible bond that holds our crew together.
Nothing. Just me. Danika Glynn, alone in the wilderness. The same lonely girl who once struck out across Rourton’s city wall.
And suddenly I know I have to tell them. I can’t just sneak away and never look back. It would be more than a betrayal. It would be unforgivable.
‘Lukas,’ I whisper. ‘I have to go alone.’
He stiffens.
‘They’re coming to test us at dawn,’ I say. ‘If I stay here, I’m going to die. But I won’t let the rest of you –’
‘You have to fool them!’ Clementine says. ‘Make them think your proclivity is Darkness, not Night.’
‘I can’t. My magic ends when the night ends.’
There is a long pause. They all stare into the darkness, visibly straining for an answer. Teddy runs a frustrated hand through his hair, and Lukas’s expression is painfully tight.
But then Maisy turns to me, a spark of sudden inspiration in her eyes. ‘Not all your magic,’ she says. ‘Just your proclivity.’
And suddenly, I know what to do.
The guards arrive at dawn.
I’m sitting up when they arrive, bundled in fear and blankets. I cradle a bowl of porridge, courtesy of a nervous villager who knocked on our door ten minutes earlier. It smells sweet, like roasted apples, but the last thing I feel like doing is eating. The others perch in various positions: the twins sit near the end of my bed, where Teddy cups his own bowl of porridge, and Lukas stands defensively near the door.
I have a plan: a plan that might allow me to stay here, to build a new life with my friends. But first, I have to fool these testers.
I raise a hand to the back of my neck.
‘Stop fidgeting,’ Teddy says. ‘If you’re gonna wriggle around like that, you’ll just look guilty. Try to look calm.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I snap, ‘but I might be getting a bullet through my neck in the next few minutes. Not quite as calming as piano music and a bubble bath.’
‘That’s better!’ Teddy says encouragingly. ‘See? Find your sense of humour, and you’ll be well on your way to –’
‘Dumping that bowl of porridge over your head?’
‘If it makes you feel better,’ Teddy says. ‘I mean, if you’re gonna con someone, best to do it with a grin.’ He holds up the porridge bowl in mock preparation to dunk himself.
I can’t help smiling a little.
‘Aha!’ Teddy laughs. ‘See? Nothing to it.’
And at that moment, the guards enter the room.
Teddy drops his hands, startled. The bowl shatters and porridge splatters across the floor. The guards’ eyes fix on the mess.
So much for looking calm.
The guards’ cloaks shine in hues of pale blue and shimmering grey. Ethereal proclivities, I suppose. One man hovers about a foot off the floor, melting and dissolving in and out of sight. His proclivity must be Air.
‘The wall,’ says their leader. ‘Now.’
This one rests his hand upon the pistol holstered at his waist. A short white beard bristles across his chin and a gold chain dangles below his throat. He speaks brusquely, every syllable cold and sharp.
We line up against the wall, like prisoners being readied for a firing squad.
Keep calm, I remind myself. Don’t fidget. But my breath is already tight in my throat, and I bet I look as guilty as a child with her hand in the biscuit jar.
‘Right,’ says their leader. ‘My name is Hinrik: magistrate for the eternal Lord Farran. I am here to see that justice is done.’
He steps forward. His hand still rests on the pistol.
‘You are new to our country. I am here to welcome you to Víndurn.’ Hinrik pauses for effect. ‘I am also here to assess your place in our society.’
He points at Maisy. ‘Step forward.’
Maisy looks as pale and grey as the Víndurnic sky. But when she steps forward, she holds her chin high and keeps her eyes determined. Only the slightest tremble in her fingers betr
ays her fear. If a richie girl can hide her emotions so well, I’d better damn well sharpen up my act.
‘Turn.’
She obeys.
Hinrik grabs the back of her head and bows it forward, exposing her bare neck. He yanks down her collar, running his gaze from her neck to her upper spine. I can’t see the flesh from this angle, but I know what he’s looking at. A dark tattoo of curling fire. Smoke and sparks. Tongues of flame.
‘Flame,’ Hinrik announces. ‘Your proclivity is Flame.’
He says this as though it’s some great revelation – as though Maisy should be grateful for the imparting of his wisdom.
‘As your proclivity is low, you are assigned to live among the commoners.’ His eyes flick across to the doorway, where Bastian stands waiting. ‘Are you the leader of this clan?’
Bastian nods.
‘And do you consent to take this foreigner among your people?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’ Hinrik releases Maisy. ‘You may join your clan.’
Maisy glances back at the rest of us. Her eyes linger on me and I see a flash of fear in her gaze. My stomach drops. She doesn’t think I can do this. She thinks I’m going to fail the test, and then –
‘Hurry up,’ Hinrik says. ‘I’m a busy man, and I have other issues to deal with this morning.’
Maisy nods awkwardly and scurries over to join Bastian in the doorway.
‘Next!’ Hinrik gestures at Teddy, and the cycle begins again. He examines Teddy, and then Lukas, before it’s Clementine’s turn. When Hinrik spots a bare neck beneath the blonde curls, he lets out a huff of surprise.
‘You don’t have your proclivity yet?’ he says. ‘Aren’t you getting a bit old?’
‘I’m only sixteen, sir.’
‘Hmm.’ Hinrik tugs Clementine’s collar further down, as though he half-suspects her tattoo is lurking out of sight. ‘Well, as an uncertified soul, you have a choice. Most children live with their families until –’
‘I’d like to stay here, sir,’ Clementine says quickly. ‘With my sister.’
Hinrik turns to Bastian. ‘Do you consent to take this foreigner among your people?’
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