The Doorway and the Deep

by K. E. Ormsbee

  “No,” Lottie said softly. “I used to think that way all the time, back in New Kemble. I thought that way about my parents. Sometimes, I still do.”

  “Hm,” said Adelaide. “Well, coming from you, that’s not much of an assurance that I’m not insane. No offense.”

  “Oh no,” said Lottie. “Of course not.”

  Even though Adelaide had just insulted her, Lottie couldn’t help but smile at her for making a comment that was so—well, so very Adelaide.

  It wasn’t long before Adelaide had dozed off. Lottie waited until she was quite sure she was fast asleep. Then she laced her boots, took a lantern from its peg, and left the yew. She had questions for Mr. Wilfer, and those questions couldn’t wait until a new dusk.

  Lottie may have grown accustomed to waking at dusk and going about her daily tasks throughout the deep of night, but that hardly meant the shadows of Wisp Territory didn’t still unsettle her. Tonight, the wood was far more deserted than usual, and the thought of a blood-draining whitecap—or something else—made Lottie shrink and shiver every time the wind blew too strongly or a branch swayed too close to the path. Though Trouble was flying ahead of her, Lottie could barely make out his black body in her lantern light.

  Mr. Wilfer had still been in conference with the Tailor, the Seamstress, and Dorian Ingle when Lottie and the others had left the Royal Bower. She hoped that by now he would be back at his cottage. If anyone could help stop the anxious twisting inside her stomach, Lottie felt sure Mr. Wilfer could. He was a healer, after all.

  The only entrance to Mr. Wilfer’s cottage was a tall door decorated by wood-carved vines. Lottie knocked once on the door, then waited, hoping for Mr. Wilfer to be in. She did not want to walk farther still to the glass pergola, especially not past the place where they had found the bloodied body of the wisp guard.

  The door creaked open. Mr. Wilfer poked out his whiskered face.

  “Lottie!” he said, opening the door wider. “I thought you might come. Though alone? I told you the wood is dangerous right now.”

  “I know,” Lottie said dismissively, “but this is urgent.”

  Mr. Wilfer showed her inside. The cottage was cheery, lit by a half dozen hanging lanterns. Two tables stretched across the room, strewn with glasses and vials, herbs and flowers. There were other, stranger sights, too: a plate of half-eaten French toast, a collection of shoestrings of varying lengths, a jar filled with pink pebbles, a box of used birthday candles, and a fluffy pile of what looked a lot like cotton candy. Mr. Wilfer was wearing a pair of leather gloves, and he held a strainer in one hand.

  “Please,” he said, motioning to a pair of wooden chairs in the corner. “Have a seat.”

  Lottie sat as Mr. Wilfer set down the strainer and peeled the gloves from his hands.

  “I hope I haven’t interrupted something important,” she said.

  “It’s no matter. Just another experiment. I’m trying to capture my own hiccups.”

  “Is that an ingredient in the cure?” Lottie asked, wrinkling her nose. She still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of how Mr. Wilfer made medicine—with giant scrapbooks and ingredients like limericks, watch hands, and violin strings.

  “It’s a theory of mine,” Mr. Wilfer said. “We’ll see how it turns out.”

  “I guess you know why I’m here,” said Lottie.

  “I believe I do. Though I must warn you, dear, there’s no easy solution to the decision you face.”

  “Limn does mean very much to me,” said Lottie. “It’s just that Eliot means the most.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you disappointed in me?” Lottie asked.

  “Disappointed? Why ever would I be disappointed?”

  “Because I’m a Fiske,” Lottie said. “Fiskes are supposed to be great and noble and do important things, and now I won’t even go on a trip north when I’m asked.”

  “Lottie,” said Mr. Wilfer, “as a halfling, you belong to the human world as much as to ours. Neither I nor any of your friends can fault you for having split loyalties.”

  “But I feel like they do fault me,” Lottie said. “And what about the Tailor? Won’t he try to stop me going back?”

  “He should never have made that deal without consulting you,” said Mr. Wilfer. “You and you alone have the right to choose your steps. All the same, the Tailor is powerful, and you are in his territory. I fear he might try to send you north by force. If he’s going to change his mind, he’ll need some convincing from a persuasive party.”

  “You mean you?” Lottie guessed.

  Mr. Wilfer smiled tiredly. During the time she’d known him, Lottie had discovered that Mr. Wilfer was always suffering from some degree of tiredness.

  “Lyre might be the Tailor of the Wisps,” he said, “but I am the only healer at his disposal—the only chance of a cure for the Plague. He knows that now more than ever, after returning empty-handed from the Northerly Court. I have no small degree of leverage.”

  “Are you close to finishing the cure?” Lottie asked.

  “It’s coming along slowly. Since the vital ingredients used to make sprite inoculations are long gone, I’ve been forced to invent an entirely new recipe. Some ingredients will take time to produce. Some I may be wrong about. There’s one ingredient that may not even exist.”

  “What is it?” Lottie asked.

  Mr. Wilfer settled back in his chair, the wood groaning beneath his weight. He clasped his hands across his stomach.

  “There is a fable,” he said, “concerning Queen Mab, the first of the new order of sprites and your ancestor.”

  Lottie leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “It’s said that Queen Mab had a fascination with the human world. This was back when there were far more silver-boughed trees, and when sprites and humans freely traveled between the two worlds. Queen Mab was also said to be barren, and she longed for an heir to carry on her line. One day, when she was roaming a human wood, she came across a cabin, and in that cabin was a newborn babe. The moment she set eyes on the child, Queen Mab fell in love. She decided to steal the baby in the dead of night, while his parents slept.”

  “That’s awful,” said Lottie.

  “That was also the opinion of her husband, King Aldrich,” said Mr. Wilfer, nodding. “He insisted the queen return the child to his home, but Queen Mab was entranced by the human boy. Then something happened that Queen Mab could not prevent: the child grew ill. She realized it was impossible to keep a human baby alive in Limn. She was forced to return the child to his parents. Afterward, she was inconsolable. She wept for weeks and weeks. Then, one day, she dried her tears and returned to her throne, and she vowed to do nothing but good from that day on.”

  “And she became very famous,” said Lottie, “and had poems written about her.”

  “Yes, indeed. And as it so happened, many years later, Queen Mab discovered that she was not, in fact, barren. She gave birth to a daughter, and so the Fiske line continued.”

  “Good news for me,” said Lottie, smiling.

  “Good news for you,” said Mr. Wilfer. “But the matter of note in this story is the queen’s tears. That is the one ingredient I’ve lost the most sleep over.”

  Lottie frowned. “Queen Mab’s tears? But that’s impossible! She lived hundreds of years ago, didn’t she? Who would be standing around to collect her tears?”

  “Then you see the source of my frustration,” said Mr. Wilfer.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” said Lottie. “You weren’t the king’s right-hand sprite for nothing.”

  Mr. Wilfer’s expression darkened. “No,” he said. “No, indeed.”

  Lottie studied the floor, which was nothing more than hard-packed white soil.

  “Mr. Wilfer,” she said. “What happened to that human baby—that’s what happened to my father, isn’t it? He stayed so long in Limn that he got ill.”

  Mr. Wilfer gave a slow nod.

  “And that’s what will happen to Eliot,” she s
aid, “if he stays in Limn for too long. I’ve noticed it already. His cough has gotten worse.”

  “I’ve noticed it, too.”

  “He and I have to get back to Kemble Isle,” said Lottie. “But if we do, will the Tailor let us return?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Mr. Wilfer.

  “Well, why can’t you just tell him I’ll go north after Eliot and I get back in a few weeks?”

  “Lyre is working under a hard-pressed timeline,” said Mr. Wilfer. “Many say King Starkling plans on invading Wisp Territory. Or something even more terrible. So in Lyre’s mind, time is of the essence.”

  “And in your mind?” asked Lottie.

  “I’ve learned from experience that you shouldn’t give credence to fearful rumors. And yet, I know Starkling. I do believe him capable of anything. He’s long been at work on a secret project—one that not even I was privy to during my time as his right-hand sprite. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  “So you think it’s right, what the Dulcets are doing? You think the addersfork will work?”

  “Using addersfork is a risky business,” said Mr. Wilfer. “It’s dangerous enough to obtain, and the actual process of administering the poison . . .” Here Mr. Wilfer flinched, his face clouding over. “But Lyre believes addersfork is the only foolproof way to kill Starkling, because it is the only poison that can be used remotely.”

  “You mean,” said Lottie, “it’s not something you’d have to slip into Starkling’s food or tea? You could just poison him from afar? Like—like voodoo?”

  Mr. Wilfer raised a brow. “I’m not familiar with this voodoo, but yes, that’s the general idea. If the components of the plant are extracted properly, all one needs is a part of the person to be poisoned—a hair, a tooth, a fingernail clipping—and the work can be done. This appeals to Lyre since he has no wisp spies in the Southerly Court. And, truth be told, very few Northerly spies remain. After Dorian Ingle exposed his own allegiance by rescuing us from court, the king has been especially vigilant.”

  “So the addersfork really could work,” said Lottie. “Which means I really could do my part to make things better for the wisps.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wilfer. “Though you should not be coerced into it the way Lyre intends. And just because the Dulcets can use the addersfork does not mean they should. For my part, it’s simply not an option. As a healer, I swore to help, not harm. I refuse to participate in the extraction process, should it come to that, and I’m not particularly proud of the Northerly healers who suggested the use of addersfork in the first place. I consider them a disgrace to our practice.”

  “I do care about what happens on Albion Isle, you know. It’s just Eliot—”

  “I understand,” said Mr. Wilfer. “If I were given the choice between the well-being of the Isle and the health of my dear departed wife . . .”

  Lottie went still. Mr. Wilfer had never once mentioned his late wife. Lottie had only learned about her through Fife, and even then she had been warned never to bring up the topic around the Wilfers.

  Mr. Wilfer shook his head, as though bringing himself out of a daydream.

  “I may not be able to convince the Tailor,” he told Lottie, “but I will do my very best.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilfer,” said Lottie, getting to her feet.

  “Try to rest easy tonight,” said Mr. Wilfer, walking her to the door. “You worry far more than any twelve-year-old ought.”

  Lottie fetched her lantern from its peg at the threshold. Outside, the world had grown blacker. It was the dead of night, and dawn was as far off now as the dusk before.

  “I will accompany you,” said Mr. Wilfer, taking down his own lantern.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Lottie, even though the fright she’d felt before was creeping back in. “I got here in one piece, didn’t I? After all—”

  Lottie was interrupted by the sound of a terrific thump, just feet from where she stood. She jumped back with a yelp.

  “Who’s there?” she called, though her mind was already whirring fast with images of blood and bone. Whitecaps.

  The shadows were moving—something gray against the black. Then came voices.

  “It’s us! It’s only us!”

  Mr. Wilfer shone his lantern into the shadows.

  “Oliver?”

  Oliver lay sprawled on the ground, covered in white dirt, bits of yew needles caught in his curly hair. It looked as though he’d fallen. Lottie shone her lantern upward to reveal Eliot sitting in the curve of a yew branch, Fife beside him. Oliver, too, must have been sitting there until the thump.

  Lottie offered Oliver a hand, but she realized a moment too late, after she’d already knelt, that this was of course impossible; his touch would burn painfully into her skin. She retracted her hand immediately, but Oliver had seen the gesture. As he stumbled to his feet, unassisted, his eyes turned black.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Lottie called up to Fife and Eliot. “Were you spying on me?”

  “Eliot said you’d sneak out,” said Fife. “And of course you would when there’s a bloodthirsty murderer at large. We weren’t going to interfere or anything. We just wanted to be sure you were safe.”

  “All three of you?”

  “None of us wanted to be left out,” said Eliot.

  “I think,” said Oliver, hobbling a step forward. “I—I think I’ve hurt my foot.”

  Mr. Wilfer placed the back of his hand to Oliver’s forehead.

  “You’ve sprained your ankle,” he said. “Come inside. I’ve something for it.”

  Oliver followed Mr. Wilfer into the cottage. Fife, meantime, floated down from the yew tree.

  “You could’ve helped him,” said Lottie, pointing to Eliot, who was struggling with his own descent, feet scuffling to stay afoot on the branch below.

  Fife shrugged. “He’s fine.”

  “Yeah,” called Eliot. “I’m fine! Fife isn’t any better than me just because he can float.”

  “That’s right,” Fife said, tossing his hair. “I’m not better because I can float; I’m just inherently better.”

  Lottie laughed, but a part of her was worried. She’d heard the little jabs that Eliot and Fife had exchanged in the past weeks, and she’d begun to worry that it wasn’t all in jest. She had a horrible suspicion that they didn’t get along.

  Eliot eventually made it down, and Lottie hurried over to catch his hands and say in a whisper Fife couldn’t hear, “You’ll see your dad tomorrow.”

  The way Eliot smiled at that made the twisting in Lottie finally stop.

  When Mr. Wilfer and Oliver emerged from the cottage, Oliver was no longer hobbling. The blue stain of medicine rimmed his lips.

  “Better?” asked Fife.

  “In perfect health begin,” quoted Oliver, “hoping to cease not till death.”

  “Now, straight back to the Clearing,” said Mr. Wilfer. “All four of you. No diversions, do you hear? It’s not safe out of doors until the Wisp Guard has made a more thorough investigation of the attack.”

  “Has he said anything?” asked Eliot. “The guard who was attacked? Can’t he tell them what really happened?”

  “I expect he could,” said Mr. Wilfer, “if he were still alive.”

  “He died?” whispered Lottie.

  “I visited the barracks after our meeting,” said Mr. Wilfer. “There was nothing anyone could’ve done to prevent it, myself included. He’d lost far too much blood already.”

  “But he wasn’t drained,” said Oliver. “That’s the thing. Whitecaps are supposed to drain their victims entirely. And then there’s the matter of the spear . . .”

  “The Seamstress and Tailor are looking into it,” said Mr. Wilfer. “It’s not a matter that concerns—”

  “Children,” Lottie said loudly, a scowl on her face.

  “Back to the Clearing” was Mr. Wilfer’s reply.

  The four of them set out, leaving Mr. Wilfer behind at the cottage door. There was far less
excitement in the air than there had been moments earlier. Lottie didn’t doubt that the boys had followed to look out for her, but she suspected they also must’ve wanted more information about the day’s events. Now they had been sent away with nothing to show for their efforts.

  At least, thought Lottie, I’ve made my decision. I’m leaving with Eliot, whatever the cost.

  They walked two across down the path—Eliot in step with Oliver, and Lottie with Fife.

  “Are you really that angry about heading north?” Lottie asked him.

  “Not nearly so angry as I’m acting,” he said.

  “I would go, too, only—”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Fife. “Eliot’s top priority. Anyway, you can’t just let the Tailor sell you off to Rebel Gem.”

  “When I heard he banished you, I didn’t believe it,” Lottie admitted. “I didn’t think anyone could be that cruel. But now that I’ve seen the Tailor, I—well, he really doesn’t like you, does he?”

  “Oh, you caught that? Good eye, Lottie.”

  Fife’s tongue was peeking out the corner of his mouth. Lottie knew he was using his keen to affect their conversation, but she could still tell, however cheery his tone, that Fife was sad about something.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Fife tucked his tongue back in his mouth. He frowned into the darkness.

  “The worst of it,” he said, “is that I want to go up north. I want to see the Northerly Court. I never have, you know. But it’s all got a bad taste now, because I have to go.”

  “So you’re not upset about leaving?” As she asked it, Lottie felt a pang in her chest that felt a lot like jealousy.

  “Are you kidding?” said Fife. “I’ve been itching to leave. Following Mr. Wilfer around has been informative, I guess, but it’s not exactly how I imagined it. He’s distracted all the time, and he never explains things clearly. Honestly, he’s a terrible teacher.”