But Thorn didn’t move. He stood his ground, though Sophie was going to slam into him in three strides. He held out his unbroken arm with the tines in his hand and then—
Claire stumbled to a halt.
Sophie had flung her arms around Thorn and was kissing him. On the lips. Right there, in front of everyone!
And Thorn—he was kissing her back!
Claire, standing behind her sister, didn’t know where to look.
“Purr-ka!” A soft weight landed on Claire’s shoulder and Gryphin nestled next to her neck.
“I thought she hated him?” Claire whispered to Gryphin. The chimera just purred. And then, rising up onto his lion hindquarters, he stood on Claire’s shoulder and let out a piercing screech.
Claire’s ear rang, but Sophie and Thorn had broken apart at last. And Sophie—her cheeks pink but not nearly as pink as Thorn’s ears—casually brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and turned to face Claire and Gryphin. “Yes?”
Gryphin launched himself into the air, along with a series of chimes and whistles. While Sophie listened, Thorn held the tines out to Claire. “They’re real, aren’t they?” he asked, sounding surprisingly shy. “The tines?”
With trembling fingers, Claire accepted the two crown pieces. The tines looked as they had in the pencil’s memory—the Gemmers’ stone on one peak and the Tillers’ oak leaf on the other. But more than looking right, they sounded right. Though the song was not as clear as it had been in the pencil’s memory, it was still there, alive beneath her fingertips.
“Yes,” Claire breathed. “Oh, Thorn—you did it!” Now all they needed was to convince the Forgers to give them the Hammer Tine, and, of course, find the Love Knot Tine, but they were so much closer than before! “Sophie,” Claire said, “look, it’s— Sophie? What’s wrong?”
The happiness that had lit Sophie’s face only moments before had vanished, and Gryphin was already soaring out of the Hearing Hall.
“It’s Francis,” Sophie said shortly and broke into a jog. “We need to hurry.” Claire immediately followed, holding the tines tight in her hands. Thorn stayed back, looking unsure if he was included in the “we,” but Sophie paused and, reaching out, laced her fingers in his and pulled him to the great doors.
The three jogged into the night, following the gleam of moonlight reflecting off copper wings. Other than the thinnest of crescent moons, the night sky was still an inky black. The star shower had not yet begun.
They reached the cottage at the very edge of the forest just as a Tiller healer exited. The healer’s face was grim, and Claire and Sophie didn’t bother to ask what was wrong as they hurried inside.
Flames flickered in the fireplace, and someone had lit candles and set them on the long worktable that took up most of Francis’s home. The straw pallets that had been Sena’s and Nett’s had been piled onto the grown-up-sized trundle bed, making it extra cushiony. Two heads, one black and one auburn, bent over it, but at the sound of Gryphin’s wings, they looked toward the door.
Recent tears shimmered on Nett’s cheek, while Sena’s eyes were rimmed in red.
“Who is it?” a tired voice asked from somewhere beneath the pile of quilts and pillows.
“It’s Sophie, Claire, and Thorn, Grandfather,” Nett said. His eyes widened slightly. “And—is that half of the crown?” Both he and Sena looked ready to explode into questions, but at that moment, Francis began to cough, an ugly rasping that sounded like sandpaper across stone. Answers would have to wait.
“Ah.” Francis sighed softly once the fit had subsided. “Come in, come in.” The old Tiller was small against his pillows. His chest barely went up and down, and his skin seemed as fragile as tissue paper. But his eyes when he looked at them were still bright under his single bushy eyebrow.
“Hello, Mr. Francis,” Claire whispered as they drew near.
“Just Francis,” he corrected with a small smile. “No need to whisper, though.”
Claire ducked her head, feeling shy and uncomfortable. To hide her awkwardness, she set the Oak Leaf Tine and Stone Tine among the broken bits of pottery and piles of soil on the worktable. Nett and Sena, meanwhile, scooted to make room for Sophie and Claire to join them on the bench that had been pulled up to the bedside. Sophie slid in, but Claire hung back, not really sure what to do. Sophie’s face was composed, though. Without a word, she slipped her hand into Francis’s, and the pinched look that had been on the old Tiller’s face seemed to loosen just a bit.
“Martinson sisters,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about you.” He struggled to sit up against the pillow, but Sophie shook her head, the single white streak in her hair glittering like a tear.
“You need to rest,” Sophie said firmly. “You need to get better.”
Francis ignored her and pulled himself up anyway. “I have so many things to say, the first of which is that I’m sorry. From the depths of my heart, I apologize. I made a grave mistake.”
At his words, Claire realized how tight she’d been holding herself. Anger, sadness, fear, hope, despair—all these emotions had been threading through her, and she’d gathered each bit, wrapping them into a tight ball that sat heavily on her chest. But at Francis’s apology, it unraveled.
“Why did you do it?” Claire asked, unable to sit. “Why were you going to let the Royalists kill Sophie that night on the Sorrowful Plains?”
“I never thought they intended to kill her,” Francis said, bringing his eyes away from Sophie’s and to her. “But I am a foolish old man, who was so focused on making the past come back that I ignored what was happening in the present. I dreamed of the old days. Of when guilds could mix freely and my dear friend Mathieu wouldn’t be condemned for falling in love with a brilliant and beautiful Forger and forced to abandon their bright daughter. Of a time when wraiths were few and wraith-made orphans even fewer, so that my son and daughter-in-law could have seen what a kind and clever soul their son has grown into.”
Claire looked at Nett. The tip of his nose was red as tears rolled down his cheeks. Sena wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Her eyelashes were wet.
“I dreamed,” Francis continued, his eyes landing on Thorn, who had also remained standing, “of a time when no one was considered lacking. And”—his gaze flitted to Sophie—“of unicorns.” He breathed in, and the breath seemed to rattle around his rib cage rather than in his lungs. Eyes still on Sophie, he said, “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m only telling you my dream so that maybe you can keep fighting for it.”
Another deep breath. “I look around at the five of you. And I hope. A Tiller with a Forger sister. A Forger with a Spinner friend. And a Gemmer, working to fix the mistakes of the past.”
The certainty in Francis’s voice was too much.
“But I can’t,” Claire said, her voice cracking. “We might have half of the Crown of Arden, but we still don’t know where the real Love Knot Tine is and the Forgers seem unlikely to have anyone be their queen—legendary or otherwise!”
Claire wrapped her arms around herself as her overwhelming emotions and memories of the night threatened to burst out. “Meanwhile, Estelle has the Royalists, who believe her. She controls the wraiths. She has the moontears! And the unicorn I freed is trapped somewhere, and we can’t find him!” The others looked at her, their expressions bleak, all except Francis.
“Nett, Sena, help me up,” Francis said, pushing off the quilts. Clean dressings had been applied to his chest wound, the bandages seeming expertly wrapped by a Spinner of high level. “Come, take me outside.”
“You—you want to garden now?” Nett asked, puzzled.
“You’re not strong enough,” Sena protested.
“I’m strong enough for this,” Francis said, swinging a trousered leg over the bed’s side and pulling on a thick green robe. “Will you help me or not?”
Using Nett, Sena, and, eventually, Thorn’s good arm, Francis was able to hobble out of the candlelit cottage and into the night. When Sena and Nett
asked him to sit on a quilt in the pumpkin patch, Francis shook his head. “No, take me to the north wall of the cottage.”
Sena and Nett exchanged confused looks, but they did as they were told, and the group headed around the cabin. Still using his grandchildren for support, Francis leaned forward, examining the ivy that grew over the cottage and its wooden planks. After a moment, Francis plunged his hand into the leaves. First his wrist disappeared, and then his elbow, and then his entire arm. Claire blinked. She had no idea ivy could be so thick.
“What are you doing?” Sophie asked, curious.
Francis, panting heavily from even the simple act of standing, didn’t have the breath to answer, so Nett did instead. “It’s Concealing Ivy,” he said. “It’s a very loyal plant, passed down through generations. Anything hidden in its leaves can only be retrieved by a member of the family.”
Francis huffed and puffed and then withdrew his hand. It was empty. “It’s in there,” he said, “I can feel it, but I’m afraid I need to sit. Nett, Sena, can you try?”
Sena shook her head. “But I’m not—”
“Hush, Sena,” Francis said. “You are as much my granddaughter as Nett is my grandson. Of course the Concealing Ivy will recognize you.”
Sophie hurried to take Sena’s place next to Francis. Nett plunged his hands into the leaves without a second thought, while Sena was more cautious. Claire saw the look of wonder on the Forger girl’s face as her hand slipped in easily.
“What are we looking for?” Nett asked.
Francis opened his mouth, but only a wheeze came out.
“We’ll find it,” Sena said firmly. “You relax.” Rolling up the sleeves of their Forger disguises, she and Nett got to work, while Thorn, Sophie, and Claire guided Francis to a grassy spot in his vegetable patch. Once settled, the old man managed a ragged “Thank you.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Thorn said, sitting down next to him. A leaf still clung to his hair. “You—you saved my life.”
Francis managed a small smile. “Your grand would have murdered me if I had let anything happen to you.” He grimaced, and the wrinkles of his face deepened. “Estelle is doing the opposite of what your grand, me, the Royalists dreamed of. The Royalists were a society dedicated to the eradication of wraiths. We thought that by waking the last queen of Arden, we would rid ourselves of the shadow scourge. Instead, they only seek to do her bidding.”
He broke into a fit of coughs, the price for all his words. For a little bit, they were all silent as they watched Sena and Nett pry deeper into the Concealing Ivy.
“How does Estelle do it?” Sophie asked suddenly, turning to Francis. “How does she control the wraiths?”
Francis was slow to answer, his breath shallower with every exhale, but at last he managed a few whispered words. “The queen promised to reunite the wraiths with the sun.”
“Diamonds above!” Sophie’s mouth dropped open and Thorn looked as sick as Claire felt. If the wraiths could withstand sunlight, then all of Arden was in danger. Everyone would soon look like that poor wraith-burned boy she’d seen in Fyrton. “How is she going to do that?” Sophie demanded.
“Not sure,” Francis said. He was so quiet, Claire could hardly hear him above the rustling ivy leaves. “I think it has something to do with her want of a unicorn’s heart.”
“But why?” The question flew from Claire before she could stop it. “I don’t get it. She’s so terrible—what she wants is awful for everyone! Why do the Royalists still follow her?” Claire asked, and let her tone carry her other accusation. Why did you?
“Some because of fear,” Francis said. “Others because of power. Once you’ve had a sip, it’s hard to never thirst for it.”
There was a sudden commotion at the cottage wall as Sena let out a small yelp. “Francis! Is it—?!”
Whatever Sena had found in the Concealing Ivy had left her speechless. A smile appeared on Francis’s face as Sena slowly began to withdraw her arm from the ivy. At first, Claire thought that Sena was so happy that she was singing, but then she realized the girl’s lips were closed, and the song was coming from the ivy. A familiar song, one she’d heard before in a pencil’s sketched memory. A moment later, a bundle wrapped in rags broke loose from the leaves.
“Dogwood’s bark,” Nett gasped as Sena unwrapped the rags to reveal the ebony point of the Love Knot Tine. “How?”
Francis opened his mouth to speak, but a sputtering cough came out instead. Thorn ran inside to grab a soothing tincture from the bedside table, as well as a quilt. Together, the children tucked it around the old man.
“I think I know how,” Claire said, at last taking the Love Knot Tine from Sena’s hands. The same bursts of song echoed against her skin. Thinking of what Lyric had told her, Claire slowly pieced it together. “Some Royalists went to Needle Pointe a couple of weeks ago to check on the Love Knot Tine and build extra protections around it. Francis—you were one of the Royalists who went, right?”
He nodded, but Claire needed to be certain. “You were the Tiller who helped craft the jumbled Diamond Tree Vault, the one that could only be opened by the queen’s hand? But you switched out the Love Knot Tine with the fake to delay Estelle in becoming even more powerful.”
Francis nodded. His lips moved, and Claire leaned forward to make out the barely formed words. “I knew I had to stop what I had done,” Francis said. “I knew I had to help.”
At his words, Claire felt the last of her anger recede. But she didn’t know what to say. What words would be enough. So instead, she reached for his hand and squeezed, trying to convey all her emotion in that one little gesture. He squeezed back. Francis understood.
“I can fix this,” Sophie said suddenly, loudly. “I can fix you!” She looked down at her hands. “I’m not sure how exactly, but I’ve healed Claire’s ankle.” She stopped as Francis shook his head.
“Sophia,” he said, quiet as the moon. “Some things are beyond even unicorns.”
Claire turned away from the pained expression on Sophie’s face. And as she did, a flash momentarily illuminated the garden. A storm was rolling in. But then—
“Children,” Francis whispered, “the sky!”
Claire looked up, expecting to see clouds, but instead she saw a clear canvas of dark, broken by a single burst of light. Then another. And another. And then a night that had only an hour ago been filled with screams now sang with starlight.
“Spectacular,” Sophie breathed, seemingly unaware that the brightness of these falling stars matched the newly bright silver ring in her eyes, and Claire wondered for a moment how the queen’s illusion could have ever fooled her. Unicorns weren’t just horns and silky manes; they were creatures made of the same fire that burned in stars.
From somewhere up the path, Claire could hear far-off cheers, as all of Arden looked up. She didn’t know how long she sat there, in a vegetable patch with her friends, the Love Knot Tine in her hands. It could have been seconds. It could have been hours.
At some point, though, a breeze full of winter’s promise brushed Claire, pulling her back to the earth. Only then did she realize that Nett and Sena were staring down at Francis, whose eyes remained fixed upon the stars he could no longer see.
Nett bowed his head, and Sena began to weep.
CHAPTER
23
The wind picked up. Claire’s hair blew into her eyes, but she didn’t bother to brush it or her tears away. Her arms felt too heavy to move, and her entire body ached, as though she had the flu. She wanted Mom. She wanted Dad. She wanted—
“Claire,” Sophie said quietly. “Do you hear that?”
Claire dragged her eyes away from Sena and Nett, who’d remained huddled close to Francis. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the stars were still falling, and she sensed dawn was still an hour or two away.
“Hear what?” she asked, voice thick. But before Sophie could answer, Claire heard it, too.
Claiiire? Soooophie?
Someone was calling their names. Claire had the sudden memory of another time she and Sophie had been off alone. Sophie had just climbed a few rungs on the ladder, her turquoise sneakers disappearing the moment before Dad poked his head into the gallery. Claire’s heartbeat sped up. Could it be—?
“Claire! Sophie! Where are you?”
It wasn’t Dad after all. Claire’s heart returned to its normal rate as disappointment seeped in, even though she knew she was being foolish. After all, how would Dad find them in Arden with the old stone well destroyed? And what had happened on the other end, to the fireplace? Did it still exist at all?
“We’re over here!” Sophie cut through the ever-darkening turn of Claire’s thoughts. “Here!” She waved her arms in the direction of the fields, and a few seconds later, Lieutenant Ravel and his chimera, Serpio, came into view. Ravel was Nadia’s second-in-command, and though he was a Spinner, he was a talented chimera keeper. Gryphin poked his head up, intrigued by the larger chimera, but he stayed where he was, wrapped around Sena’s neck, as the rider lurched to a stop.
“You’re all right!” Ravel said, his many loops and braids bouncing as he leaped off Serpio and ran over to them. “And Sena and Nett, too! Nadia’s been so worried.”
“Where is Aunt Nadia?” Sophie asked, wiping a bit of dirt from her palm onto her purple dress and standing up. “Is she all right?”
“She will be when she sees you,” he said. Ravel’s cloak billowed a bit in the wind and Claire caught a glimpse of his oakwood woven tunic, which doubled as warmth and protection, and the whip coiled on his hip. “If you’re not hurt, she needs to see you in the Seed Cellar. She, Scythe, and the grandmasters are … are talking.” By the way he said “talking,” Claire knew he meant “arguing.” “Nadia—everyone—has questions for you.”
“Will they listen to alchemists?” Sophie asked sharply as Claire scrambled to her feet, brushing bits of leaves and twigs from her trousers.
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