Ilsa’s tears had fallen onto her clean dress and soaked it through before she even realised she was crying. She wiped her eyes and looked up into the mirror above the dressing table, but her reflection wasn’t there.
Martha stared back at her.
Her dead friend opened her mouth in a silent scream, horror filling her hazel eyes. As Ilsa grasped her throat, so did Martha. As Ilsa stood, the girl staring back at her stood too.
She had shifted. Somehow, while she was lost in her grief, Ilsa’s magic had brought her friend to her, in its own macabre way. And now Martha stood before the ornate bed in beautiful clothes, just as Ilsa had wished. She could pretend, for one moment, that she wasn’t facing this new life alone.
Ilsa forced a smile. She would see Martha happy again, one last time, and then she would put her to rest. But the smile didn’t look right, and as she leaned closer to the mirror, she saw the flaws in the transformation. The nose was still hers. The brows arched in the wrong place. Reality descended, and with it, the foolishness of what she was doing.
Martha was dead. And even if Ilsa looked exactly like her, she couldn’t bring her back; she could only produce a shade, a phantom. She could only torture herself.
Ilsa shook off the borrowed face. Her own was afraid and flushed from crying, dwarfed by the grandeur of the room around her.
Lost.
She had let her desperation sweep her up and carry her to a whole other world, with nothing but a fool’s hope that things would be better after. But ‘better’ was an easy target to a girl who had just seen her dearest friend murdered. No one could mistake Ilsa’s decisions in the hours since for well-thought-out ones. What if nothing was better here? What if the rebels attacked the Zoo again tonight and she was killed? What if they never found her brother and Camden crumbled without him? What if they did, and he was cruel and dangerous; a tyrant?
She gripped the dress tighter in her fists. She was trapped between two lives, and neither was right; neither was safe. Here, she had security in all the ways she’d wanted, and none of the ways that mattered. What she had carved out in the Otherworld was familiar, and hard-earned. It had a different kind of value. But would these people even let her have it back? If she put her old dress back on, and walked out the door and all the way back through Westminster Abbey, would they come after her? They said she wasn’t a prisoner – that the wolves weren’t there to keep her in – but not being a prisoner didn’t make her free. Only choices made a person free.
Ilsa had to find out if she had any.
So the following morning, she dressed, did her hair, and matched a sensible black hat with a sensible black bag she found among the things Cassia had bought her. She had lost her own somewhere between the theatre and the portal. Then she put on a dark red winter coat and matching stole she had to dig from the back of the wardrobe, where they still resided in the box they were delivered in. It was early February after all, and no one had expected she would need them for months.
But where Ilsa was headed, they would be essential.
She found most of the lieutenants in the breakfast room. Cassia stood by the window, a cup and saucer in her hands and a contemplative look on her face. Aelius was entirely hidden behind a broadsheet, one leg crossed over the other, foot dangling in an immaculate shoe that looked like it had never touched earth. He was whistling a low tune off-key, and Ilsa wondered how no one told him to stop. Beside him, Oren was making careful markings in his notebook. His glasses were perched daintily on his nose, and his empty breakfast plate sat to one side, the knife and fork resting perfectly level with one another at a right angle to the edge of the table.
Eliot was, of course, on the other side of the room, as far as he could be from anyone. His eyes were closed, his elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and he had a teacup cradled in his fist. It was pressed to his temple like he could absorb its contents straight into his brain. The sun shone directly onto his face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes, but when Ilsa stepped into the room, he blinked awake, like he had been waiting for her. He rubbed a hand over his face, a wry smile forming on one corner of his mouth.
“What an eye you have for colour, Cassia,” he said.
Cassia was jolted from her thoughts. “What? Oh,” she said when she saw Ilsa dressed in the coat she had bought, but then realisation dawned in her eyes. “Oh.”
Oren glanced up distractedly. “If you mean to leave the house, I must insist you disguise yourself and one of the wolves accompany you,” he said. “And it’s important you don’t leave Camden.”
Aelius chuckled. “I think she means to go much further than the boundaries of the Changeling quarter, Oren my lad,” he said, turning the page of his paper.
Ilsa took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and reminded herself she was not asking for permission; she was issuing a threat. They would let her go, proving she was safe and among friends, or Ilsa was leaving anyway, whatever it took, and she wasn’t coming back.
She would not be a prisoner.
“I’m expected at the theatre.”
Oren blinked rapidly. “You still wish to go back to the Otherworld and place yourself at the mercy of the Seer’s acolytes?”
“Wishing’s got nothing to do with it. Girls what grow up in orphanages are lucky if they ain’t in the workhouse. You learn to meet your obligations pretty quick with that hanging over you, and I got somewhere to be. So I’m gonna do the show ’til Mr Blume finds a replacement, ’cause it’s what’s professional. And” – Ilsa swallowed. She was about to push her luck – “and I’d be much obliged if you’d settle his debts for him. Seems you can afford it. And you are costing him a good assistant.”
If pressed on the risk of her magician accruing new debts with old habits, Ilsa had a speech prepared for that too. She did not intend to abandon Blume with a little money and cross her fingers that he would finally get his feet under him. She wasn’t leaving the Isolde until she had made him understand that this was a new start for both of them; a chance he couldn’t squander.
Aelius waved a dismissive hand. “You can consider his debts handled, my darling, but” – his humour had vanished – “we’re talking of Oracles. Don’t you understand? Heavens, if I were an acolyte, I would already be at the theatre.”
“No, it’s you what don’t understand! I messed up our finale. We got one more chance to stay on the billing or else Mr Blume’s fired, and it’ll be the last time. No one’ll hire him no more and it’ll be because of me. I ain’t the only one with everything to lose.” Even as she said it, she shivered to think of more Oracles coming for her at the Isolde, and a new, thudding fear hit her like a stone. “They’ll know I’m going to the theatre.”
“Of course,” said Oren.
“And they’ll know Mr Blume’s there too?” No one answered, but Ilsa understood. The people who were trying to kill her just to settle some vendetta surely wouldn’t balk at slaughtering Bill too. They had already killed Martha. “They’ll hurt him, won’t they? If they think it’ll get me there.”
“So you see why it’s essential that it doesn’t,” said Oren. He addressed the surface of the table. “I am simply being pragmatic. It’s unfortunate, but we must ask ourselves if it is our concern. You are safe if you stay here.”
“Aren’t you listening?” said Eliot, drawing contemptuous looks from every corner of the room. He rested his teacup delicately on his saucer and rose from his chair. “She’s not staying. You said yourself, she isn’t a prisoner. And she’s right, the magician is in danger.”
Aelius snorted derisively. “Oren’s point remains—”
“Then damn you both,” Ilsa growled, feeling her blood rise. “I’m going to find Mr Blume and I ain’t asking for your help.”
“You can hardly go alone,” said Cassia. “I’m coming with you.”
“As am I,” said Eliot.
“Alright,” said Oren. He didn’t snap, nor raise his voice, but he quieted the room nonetheless. “But C
assia and I will be the ones to take you.”
“Good call,” said Aelius. He shot a suspicious glance at Eliot.
Eliot glared at Oren, then Aelius, and for a moment it seemed as if he would become a big cat and rip their throats out. The glimmer in his storm-blue eyes was one of unchecked malice. But then he smiled, a slow, seductive smile that transformed the hard mask into something as frightening as it was beautiful. He buttoned his jacket with quick fingers and inclined his head towards the group.
“Once again, it seems I’ve roused myself for nothing,” he said. “Please do wake me when I’m actually needed.”
Even over her fear, Ilsa felt the tension resonate between them all as Eliot stalked from the room.
Oren merely shook his head and led them out to find Bill Blume.
* * *
“We’ll see you at the abbey,” Oren said to Cassia when they had dressed for winter and gathered in the forecourt. “Be on your guard.”
Cassia nodded – and vanished into thin air. Ilsa blinked stupidly at the spot where she’d evaporated.
“She’s gone!”
Oren glanced up from where he was tucking his notebook into his jacket and hooking his umbrella over his arm. “Good. Fly as close to me as you can. We should be safe within the borders of Camden, but if you see anything untoward – an arrow, a spell coming your way – turn right around and fly back here as fast as you can. Don’t wait for me. What’s your fastest bird?”
“Uh – I can do a falcon,” said Ilsa. “I saw one in a bird show at the zoo once. The Otherworld zoo, I mean.”
“Very good. Falcons it is, then.”
Before she could ask about Cassia vanishing herself or what an oncoming spell might look like, Oren shrank, his feet left the ground, and he soared straight upwards in the form of a falcon. She followed in haste.
They dashed south, side by side, and Ilsa thought about the magician boy she had seen the day before. He had vanished into thin air just as Cassia had – that must have made him a Sorcerer too.
She wanted to tell Mr Blume. She wanted to tell him about a lot of things since they parted. The Witherward. The Changelings. How she was sorry for the finale. How she’d been thinking about family and whether it meant what she had always thought it did.
She finally had somewhere to belong, and suddenly the place she was desperate to be was back in the Otherworld, back at the theatre with Bill Blume. She didn’t know how she’d bear it if he’d been caught up in this. Not after Martha.
When Oren touched down in the crowded street in front of Westminster Abbey, Ilsa made another circle overhead. She wasn’t used to a world in which a falcon could transform into a man, and not a single onlooker would pay him any attention. Hesitantly, she dipped towards the pavement, and landed on her own, human feet. A man with his nose in the morning paper almost walked into her as she reappeared. He only tipped his hat and begged her pardon.
Oren replaced his glasses on his nose and looked her up and down. “You’d better wear a disguise,” he said. “Just in case.”
She became another girl from her boarding house – Eliza, red-haired and round-faced – and followed Oren towards the abbey.
When they reached the cloisters, Cassia was waiting for them. Like yesterday, the quadrangle was guarded by several wolves. But instead of surrounding them, they bowed their heads to Oren and Cassia, and stood aside to let them approach the portal.
“Would you like to take my arm?” said Oren at the top of the stairs. “The portal can be quite jarring until one gets used to it.”
Ilsa took hold of the crook of Oren’s arm. Again, they had only descended a handful of steps when the sensation of falling while standing still hit her. She gripped hold of Oren and kept walking, once again missing the exact moment they started heading up instead of down.
“You’re a natural,” Oren said, his eyes kind, like they hadn’t just been arguing about whether to leave Blume to his fate. He had called himself pragmatic, but he meant ruthless, yet he was also a gentleman. Ilsa couldn’t figure him out.
The sound of scraping stone came from above, then Cassia appeared around the corner. “The coast is clear,” she said.
Oren raised his umbrella to shield them both before they were doused in rain and ice, and the three of them stepped into the dark quadrangle. Even expecting the winter weather and the dark hadn’t fully prepared her. It had been so clear and bright in the Witherward.
Ilsa could just make out the time on the abbey clock. “The variety show will be ending right ’bout now. He should be at the theatre.”
“Where?” said Cassia.
Ilsa gave her directions and the Sorcerer vanished again. Then Ilsa and Oren took off on wings into the freezing rain. In five minutes, they had made what was a half-hour journey on foot. Ilsa directed Oren to a secluded spot where they could land – in the alley alongside the theatre – and before they had shifted, Cassia was upon them.
“He’s not here,” she said. Panic leapt in Ilsa’s chest. “I asked for the magician and they said he never showed up. They’re giving people their money back.” She shifted her umbrella and glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, the crowds were exiting onto the street. “They said if I saw him, I should tell him not to bother coming back.”
Perhaps it wasn’t what she feared. Blume had forgotten his curtain call before, and Ilsa had always been there to run from pub to pub until she found him. But after what Mr Johnston had said, this was his last chance, gone.
Bill Blume wouldn’t work again. His gambling and drinking had burned too many bridges. Ilsa thought about the big house in the Witherward, on the corner of Regent’s Park. There’d be space for him. They couldn’t refuse to protect the only friend she had left.
“Follow me,” said Ilsa.
It was only two streets over, but the sleet was coming harder when they reached the street where Blume had a fourth-floor flat. Oren and Cassia were hesitant as they followed Ilsa inside, but everything appeared normal. The mewling of the landlady’s fussy cat was coming from the ground-floor flat, where Mrs Holmes had cared for her as a younger girl. The couple who lived below Blume were shrieking at each other as always. But on the top floor, just under the rafters, all was quiet.
Ilsa followed Oren and Cassia’s lead as they crept up on the door with soft, slow footsteps, listening as they went. When nothing presented itself, she became the girl whom Blume would recognise and reached for the knocker.
But then Cassia’s hand shot out and gripped her arm, and she put a bone-white finger to her lips. Sure enough, light, quick footsteps were sounding from inside the flat, heading away from the door. A second later came the shattering of glass.
Bill.
“Stand aside,” said Oren, and Cassia pulled her away from the door. The slender, ageing man reared up and kicked at the lock with more force than he looked capable of. The door burst open and Ilsa failed to stifle a sob. There was Bill: a gag tied around his sagging head, his arms fastened to a chair.
Oren made straight for the broken window and leaned out into the rain.
“They’re getting away over the roof,” he called, before shifting into a bird.
“Oren, wait—” said Cassia, but he had already disappeared in pursuit.
Ilsa was before her magician before she’d decided to move, his face in her hands. His eyes were open, but glazed. There was blood in his hair, on his clothes, and worst of all, on his lips. His skin felt cool – too cool. But it was a miserable night, and there was no fire. Ilsa was suddenly very cold too.
“Mr Blume? It’s me. It’s Ilsa.” She untied the gag. “Mr Blume? Please wake up.”
“Ilsa, I think…” began Cassia, but Ilsa wouldn’t listen. She untied him from the chair and he slumped into her arms.
“Help me get him on the couch,” she said. Heavens, there was more blood than she had thought. Maybe it was just the light, but it looked black where it had pooled on the floor around him. Black because it was old.
/> Cassia lifted his legs and they lowered him onto the couch.
“Why’d they do this to him?” Ilsa said, her voice cracking.
“To get you here,” said Cassia. “To get… exactly this.” She was distracted; her gaze swept the room. “If this was only one person, they must have expected you alone. I don’t think this was an Oracle.”
“Please wake up, Bill,” said Ilsa weakly. She put a hand to his mouth to check for breathing and was surprised to find she was trembling.
“Ilsa, we’re not safe here,” said Cassia. “The acolytes will be coming. They’ll know you’ve left Camden, and…”
There was a thud from below. Then another. Heavy feet were ascending the stairs.
“Stars help us.” Cassia positioned herself squarely in front of the open door. “Ilsa. Look at me.”
Ilsa dragged her eyes away from Bill. Cassia fixed her a fierce gaze. “Are you intimately acquainted with any predators?”
A sound of despair escaped her. Bill might be dead – was almost certainly dead – but their next threat was now on the floor below them and getting closer. She was going to be attacked again, and this time she needed to fight.
But how? All of her best transformations were for hiding or fleeing. She had tried some of the big animals she had seen at the zoo, but only for fun. She didn’t have the practice.
Ilsa shook her head, doubt clawing at her. “I ain’t sure I—” They both started as the footsteps burst into the corridor with a crash, and Ilsa realised: there was no time to let grief cloud her mind, no time to form a plan. A survival instinct that had failed her among the crates in the fish market took over as a familiar electrical charge coursed down her spine.
A dog had teeth and claws. That would have to do.
The form, the figure, the mass and motion of a wolfhound only flickered through her mind for a moment before her body took over. She dropped helplessly to her hands and knees as her bones moved and changed. Her skin prickled as a coat of shaggy fur erupted from it. Her joints twisted, her legs elongated, her hands and feet rounded into paws. Her mind dulled at the edges; her senses honed. She poured all her strength into conjuring the largest, most powerful creature she could. When she was done, her ears reached Cassia’s shoulder.
Witherward Page 11
