Witherward

by Hannah Mathewson

  Ilsa let the retort on her tongue propel her after him, not stopping to think as the curved, tiled walls of the tunnel greeted her on all sides. Eliot was waiting at the bottom, hands in pockets.

  “I s’pose you’d rather I was like you?” she said.

  He grinned wolfishly. “Absolutely not. If you were like me, you would have taken the information I handed you and come down here alone.” He joined the flow of bodies heading further into the tunnel, and Ilsa gathered every ounce of her courage to follow him. He brought his lips close to her ear – close enough that his breath made her shiver – and added in a taunting whisper, “Although perhaps you needed someone to catch you when you swoon.”

  It was true that she had lost her colour, and her breath was coming in jagged little gasps, but she would not swoon. She’d be damned if, of all the things about the Witherward that might terrorise her, this utterly unthreatening tunnel would be the one to best her – and in front of Eliot.

  “Remember, you’ll bring the wrath of the Psi down on us if you shift in their territory. Don’t so much as spring a second dimple. We’re going to find out who’s been in contact with Gedeon, swap some money for his whereabouts, and be back on the surface by teatime.”

  They descended another set of stairs and the tunnel split – one avenue for those descending and another for the blessed souls about to break the surface. Then she was being swept along on the downward current like a pebble being dragged to the bottom of the sea. Was there any air down here? A pressurised blast of it was swelling from below – stale, suffocatingly warm, and smelling faintly of a thousand strangers’ skins – but it refused to be drawn into her lungs, no matter how deep she breathed.

  Another set of stairs. Bodies surrounded her on all sides but no one said a word. With no other stabilising force to cling to, Ilsa reluctantly grasped for Eliot’s arm and entwined it with hers. He must have felt her fingers tremble as they brushed his shirtsleeve, as instead of mocking her, he threaded her arm tighter through his and pulled her close to him. Ilsa resigned herself to her fate; he would have to catch her when she fainted.

  She had just reached her limit, pulled Eliot almost to a standstill, and opened her mouth to beg that they turn back at once, when the tunnel before her opened up.

  They were at the top of another set of stairs, but these ones weren’t bracketed by polished tiles. Instead, they looked down on an entire city.

  “Oh my…”

  Ilsa instantly forgot that she was underground. The Psi quarter wasn’t formed of a warren of train-track tunnels like she had imagined, but of broad, cavernous boulevards, the height of which stretched several storeys above and below. Enormous turrets carved from the stone acted as supports, and wrapped around them were staircases leading from the surface. Some of the buildings – also carved from the cave and taller than Ilsa had ever seen – also reached to the roof, and bridges cut between them at every level; some so wide they were streets themselves, with shops and houses along them.

  It could have been an oppressive mess, but every bridge, every turret, and every winding set of stairs was so thoughtfully, perfectly placed, like the pieces of a three-dimensional puzzle, that this city beneath the city was nothing short of a wonderland.

  “Not what you were expecting?” said Eliot, tugging her down the broad spiral stairs.

  “No,” was all she managed, her relief hitting her so hard that her head spun.

  The stifling staleness of the tunnel was gone, and by some magic, a cool breeze tickled her skin. Golden light hovered over them, like low clouds, but she couldn’t make out the source, and above that the ceiling of the cave was doused in translucent sky blue. The effect was that of a perpetual dawn; the pale stone all around her was tinged pink and orange and dappled in long shadows. If she couldn’t feel free and unbound in a place like this, could she ever?

  Eliot released her to hail a cab as a wondrous kind of magic went on around them. The Psi, it seemed, used their talents for everything. Crates and baskets of goods and deliveries soared through the air above her; mothers pushed their prams ahead of them with the power of their minds; and the carriage that pulled up in front of Ilsa and Eliot had no horse. A driver sat in the usual place above and behind the cab, but the axle extended before the passenger seat, bearing a second smaller pair of wheels.

  As the cab pulled into traffic, so did another twenty yards behind them. Eliot didn’t notice it, but Ilsa sat at a slight angle to keep it in the corner of her eye.

  “This must be the biggest quarter of them all,” she said as she watched the Underground go by, her view unimpeded by a horse’s backside.

  “I believe it is, but not by much. It doesn’t span the entire area of the city above.”

  “I hope these people catch the sunlight every so often.”

  Eliot let out a small laugh. “Don’t worry for them,” he said. “The Psi are the most employable people in this city and the one above. They get about.”

  They instructed their driver to make for the Moorgate entrance to the Underground, and once there, it didn’t take them long to find the only chemist Lila could have meant. It was a corner shop called Brecker & Sons, on a junction bustling with the commerce of a farmer’s market.

  Eliot was about to enter the chemist’s when Ilsa took his arm. “What’re you doing?”

  “What we’re here to do, of course.”

  “And what’s that? March into the place and demand to know where Gedeon Ravenswood is? He probably ain’t going to know jack. We need the customers, not the chemist.” Eliot was scrutinising her, his expression stuck part-way between irritated and impressed, but he didn’t argue. Ilsa nodded across the street. “Look, there’s a café right there. We can get out of sight and keep an eye on the place. The thing ’bout a habit is it’s regular, right? I bet you someone’s gonna come along any minute.”

  So they went to the café as Ilsa suggested. As Eliot went to the counter to order tea, Ilsa took a seat by the window and sat on the left-hand side, where she would be able to see both the chemist’s and the street in the direction they had come. The cab that had been following them had dropped its passenger an inconspicuous distance from them; inconspicuous for anyone less observant than Ilsa. She only looked in quick glances, so as not to be seen noticing, but she realised their tail had followed them from the surface. She decided not to mention him to Eliot.

  When their tea arrived, Ilsa’s also came with a huge slice of a cake she had been delighted to discover in the Witherward; a spiced sponge with sour cherries and buttery icing.

  “You ordered this for me?” she asked, blinking.

  “You’re always hungry,” said Eliot, his eyes on the corner shop. When she continued to stare dumbly at him, he glanced over, and his face fell. “I thought it was your favourite. Orlagh said you’re in the kitchen two or three times a day asking for some.”

  “It is my favourite.” And, yes, she had started wondering about her elevenses on the cab ride.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  She forced a flirtatious grin. “You asked Orlagh ’bout me?”

  Eliot’s expression hardened. “I overheard. She likes feeding you.”

  When Ilsa continued to study him, he rolled his eyes and went back to watching the shop.

  She picked up her fork. “Thank you.”

  The cake was rich and moist and even better than Orlagh’s. A little sound of pleasure escaped her lips as she took another bite. And another. She had all but forgotten where she was and what she was meant to be doing when she looked up and found Eliot’s attention was no longer on the chemist’s.

  He watched her mouth as she brought the fork to her lips, her throat as she swallowed, her fingers as she brushed the crumbs from her lower lip. She had never seen anything fascinate him like the sight of her enjoying her cake.

  Ilsa had spent most of her life diligently controlling when people did and did not look at her, whether she was slipping wallets from men’s pockets or distracti
ng them stupid on the stage. But she hadn’t forced Eliot’s attention – she just had it, and it made her feel bare.

  “Does it take so little to make you happy?” he murmured.

  She shot him a smile and took another bite. “You ain’t tried this cake,” she said with her mouth full.

  In a flash, he stilled her fingers between his and liberated the fork. Ilsa made a playful sound of protest as he speared the cake and popped a forkful in his mouth.

  “Hmm. We should get their recipe for Orlagh.”

  “I ain’t gonna be the one to try and give it her.”

  Eliot’s smile widened, and he took another bite of the cake they were now sharing. Ilsa felt a kind of giddy pleasure flow through her. Some part of her mind must have decided she didn’t deserve it, for before she knew it, she was asking the question she had been trying to avoid.

  “Who’s Athena?” Her voice held a lightness she didn’t feel.

  “Sorry?”

  “The girl what gave you that watch you carry.”

  Eliot gave her a look she couldn’t read; intense and probing, but not as cruel as she expected him to be for prying. “Ilsa…” He said it like the beginning of a question, but he trailed off.

  Ilsa had never been one to blush, but she could feel it happening. Her eyes found her teacup. “Don’t say no one,” she warned. “It’s in your hand even when you don’t need the time. It’s precious to you.” When she dragged her gaze back to his, she knew she was right. “So?”

  In answer, Eliot produced the watch and put it, engraving up, on the table. With all my love, your Athena. All her love. His Athena. Ilsa could still feel his eyes on her as he flipped it over, revealing a second engraving: E.Q. His initials.

  “You’re right,” said Eliot, leaning back in his chair. His voice had taken on an edge. “It is precious to me.”

  He was gauging her reaction, that wicked amusement pulling at one corner of his mouth, his eyes alight and liquid in a way Ilsa had never seen them. She schooled her face into indifference and pretended to be concentrating on Brecker & Sons. Without meaning or wanting to, she found herself imagining what Athena looked like – tall, immaculate, devastating – when Eliot cleared his throat.

  “Elijah Quillon,” he said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “E.Q.” He sipped his tea. “Athena is my mother.”

  The beautiful penny dropped. Ilsa’s mouth fell open in indignation. She wanted to say something mean – to put them back on equal ground – but first, she was too absurdly relieved to stay angry, and second: “Elijah was your father.” He raised his head when she said was. “Cassia told me…”

  Eliot swore. “Of course she did.”

  Ilsa shifted in her chair and toyed with her teacup. “I know what that’s like. The not knowing, I mean. I din’t know what happened to my family ’til a couple weeks ago.” She meant to go on, but when she looked up, Eliot had closed back up. He was staring out of the window – or perhaps just at it – with that mask of unforgiving ire she had first seen him in.

  “I don’t want to speak of my father.” His tone left no room for negotiation, and Ilsa flinched.

  “Alright.” She shouldn’t have asked him about the pocket watch. She should have dealt with her jealousy without prying. She was about to apologise when Eliot’s hard mask cracked, revealing a sliver of aching sadness.

  “It’s just” – he let out a long breath; carefully, like he was struggling to control it – “I don’t know how to mourn somebody I—” He shook his head.

  “You don’t need to tell me,” she said softly.

  Eliot nodded stiffly, and Ilsa felt a pang. He didn’t need to tell her, but she couldn’t help wishing he would. She wanted to know it all. Instead, they fell into silence. While he kept his eyes trained on Brecker & Sons, Ilsa leaned close to the window, tilted her head up, and gaped at the majesty of the cavern above her.

  “I wish I’d known it was like this,” she said.

  “You were afraid to come down here.” Ilsa nodded, her eyes still on the window. “And you were afraid of Hester’s hidden room. Why?”

  Ilsa stiffened, but as Eliot watched her patiently, her discomfort began to wane. He had declined to talk about his father, and looking at him then, she knew she could do the same. He wouldn’t push. He wouldn’t pry.

  “I don’t want to feel trapped,” she heard herself breathe.

  Eliot frowned. “Trapped?”

  “I know it’s in my head, but sometimes… it feels like I’ll be stuck forever. It’s alright if I can see the way out, and I can get to it if I want, but…”

  “And yet you came down here, imagining it was a warren of tunnels.” He shook his head, but smiled. “You’re something of a masochist, aren’t you?”

  “A masochist?”

  “You court pain. You like to hurt.”

  “Who likes to hurt?” replied Ilsa, a little louder and a little higher than she had intended.

  Her incredulity made him frown. “Plenty of us.”

  “I can see why you’d think that, but it ain’t true.”

  “No?”

  Ilsa paused, and rolled his words around her mind. “If I don’t like to hurt, but I do it anyway and don’t complain, that still make me… what you said?”

  “A masochist?” The humour in his eyes was rapidly dimming.

  “Right.”

  “No,” he said softly. “That makes you something else.”

  “What?”

  “I suppose the word is courageous.”

  Ilsa scoffed. “Courageous people don’t get scared because the room’s too small.”

  “Evidently, some of them do,” said Eliot. Ilsa rolled her eyes. “Fine, don’t believe me. But I know plenty of courageous people, and they’re all scared of something. Hester goes white as a sheet at the smallest drop of blood, but she’s never let it stop her. Don’t tell her I told you.” He nodded towards the window and the underground city beyond. “Look around you, Ilsa. We’re all scared. It’s only a weakness if you give in to it.”

  “And what matters to you?” she said, leaning across the table. “What d’you fear?”

  Eliot’s jaw clenched. “Hurting the people I love.”

  “And who—”

  She cut off as Eliot’s gaze snapped suddenly towards the chemist’s.

  “Here comes someone,” he said.

  “Told you.” Ilsa turned in time to see a skinny, sluggish Oracle man approaching Brecker & Sons. His hair was a ghastly shade of orange and his pale face was spattered with freckles. His upturned button nose was familiar too. The family resemblance was uncanny.

  “That’s got to be Lila’s brother!” Ilsa hissed.

  Hardwick’s gaze swung towards the café like he had heard them. His eyes widened as he tapped into the power he tried so hard to smother with a pipe. He had Seen them, and he ran.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Ilsa’s chair tottered on its hind legs as she leapt up.

  “Ilsa—” Eliot reached for her elbow as she passed but he was too slow. “Damn it.” There was a rattle of change as he tossed some coins down and chased after her, but by the time they were out on Marin Street, Hardwick had disappeared among the market stalls and their patrons.

  “He went that way,” said Ilsa, and they dodged through the shoppers after the Oracle. But the lane beyond the market was barely any quieter, and Hardwick was at the next corner, vanishing again. Eliot made to chase after him, but Ilsa stopped him.

  “We ain’t going to catch him like this. We got to shift.”

  Eliot laughed, eyes wide. “No thank you. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to us if we’re caught?”

  “Will it be any worse than what the Zoo’ll do to you if you arrive back alone?” Ilsa took from his hesitation that he knew he couldn’t stop her. “I’ll herd him into an alley. You fly above and block him off.”

  Before Eliot could speak further to the recklessness of the plan, Ilsa shifted. Her leopard wouldn
’t do; she needed a canine’s nose. She dropped onto all fours, relishing the sting in her muscles as they moved to support four long, sinewy legs. She shivered as a bloodhound’s long ears sprouted from her skull. The colour definition leached from her vision, and her world exploded in a chorus of shrieking and a maelstrom of scent. A second round of screams told her Eliot had taken flight, but she was already bounding to the door of Brecker & Sons to catch Hardwick’s trail. Some of the Psi grabbed their children; others shouted abuse at her. It was already a scene, and it was about to get much worse.

  She tore after Hardwick, following the ripple he’d created and throwing everyone she passed into even more chaos. She had him back in her sights in no time. Hardwick was casting his eyes upwards. He knew Eliot was there – a swallow haunting his movements – and he would do his best to lose him. As Eliot swooped lower, Hardwick made a hard right, diving down a passage covered by a bridge; a bridge Eliot nearly collided with trying to keep Hardwick close. The Oracle had known; he’d baited Eliot to come lower so he could slip him.

  Ilsa couldn’t see him either, but she still had the scent, and she barked to direct Eliot as she dodged a horseless cart and plunged after him. Eliot picked up speed as he chased and then overtook her. With her eyes on the swallow and her nose to the street, Ilsa caught up with Hardwick as he tried to cut an evasive path through the maze of streets. She was practically on top of him, her hound legs an impossible match for his human ones. Looking ahead to the next turning, she came up on her prey’s left flank, steering him right, and that was when Eliot saw his moment.

  It made no difference what the Oracle did and didn’t See. He was in an alleyway: Ilsa at one end, steps ascending to a footbridge at the other. He made a break for the steps, but Eliot was faster. He became human again as he landed; big enough to block Hardwick in. Hardwick skidded to a halt, instinctively doubling back, but Ilsa – a girl again – was behind him and had closed the distance. Before he could rush her, Eliot threw an arm around the Oracle’s chest and put a knife to his throat.