by Jeff Wheeler
And then, in the distance, she heard a roar that sent a prickle of fear all the way down to her toes. Had she done something to unintentionally release the creature trapped in the grotto? Had she, unwittingly, thought the word that would release it? Her uneasiness enlarged to worry. Something was wrong, and she feared it was all her fault.
“What was that?” Anna asked, setting down her book.
It felt as if a ghost’s hand had reached in and clutched Cettie’s heart. She began to shiver, but it was not because of the chill breeze.
Anna joined her at the window seat, and together they gazed out at the night. The only view was the stone wall and a little scrub of a garden. Reaching out, Cettie slid the window closed and bolted the latch. Although a pane of glass offered scant protection, it made her feel a little safer.
Anna reached out and put her hand on Cettie’s shoulder, giving her a comforting look. “We’re safe here, Cettie. You needn’t worry.”
Safety. It was a feeling that Cettie had never truly experienced. Safety was for the privileged. Safety was a secret garden that no one else could access. She doubted she would ever truly feel safe. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she rested her cheek on them and stared at the reflections of herself and Anna in the glass. She squelched a pang of jealousy at the sight of Anna’s beautiful golden hair and reassuring smile.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, voices from the corridor announced the arrival of Mr. Savage and Fitzroy. Mr. Savage spoke loud enough to shake the halls. “I imagine the whole valley heard the roar. Send Mr. Tanner, Mr. Cooper, and Mr. Flint with an arquebus each to patrol the street. I want men on watch all night long!”
The door of the sitting room opened, and Cettie drew her legs down as the men entered. Adam Creigh accompanied them, speaking in a low voice to Fitzroy. The serious look on the young man’s face only made her worry more. Fitzroy thanked him and whispered something in reply, and Adam strode away.
Mr. Savage put one hand in his vest pocket and stood, angling his head and staring at the young women in the corner. His gaze seemed accusatory when it settled on Cettie, but he quickly shifted his attention to Fitzroy. “Are you sure you won’t spend the night? It would settle the people who live here, surely, knowing you are among them.”
Fitzroy sighed and shook his head. “I will stay as long as I can, but I have an appointment with the prince regent on the morrow. We should have left hours ago, but I wanted to inspect the mines myself.”
“The prince regent?” Mr. Savage said, inclining his head. “Well, the young ladies will rest better, I think, up in the air.” His expression became stern as his gaze met Cettie’s. There was a sour look, one of disapproval.
“Might I trouble you for some tea?” Fitzroy asked Mr. Savage. He nodded and departed to make the arrangement, leaving the two girls alone with their guardian. Anna hugged her father affectionately, but her eyes were worried. She was not immune to the strange mood that had settled upon the night. He bent down and kissed her hair, and Cettie saw little bits of stone rubble in his graying mane. She felt a sudden pang of jealousy, wishing she felt closer to Fitzroy so that she could hug him as Anna did . . . or that he would at least give her a little pat on the head. Loneliness threatened to choke her with tears.
Fitzroy kissed Anna again and then came to Cettie and gazed down at the book she had discarded. She held it up so he could read the spine.
“Ah, I had such a book myself when I was younger,” he said. Then, pitching his voice lower, he said, “Adam told me about the adventure of the river walk today. Can you tell me what happened?” He sat down at the edge of the window seat next to her, looking concerned.
She did her best to explain it, to describe her feelings and how she’d felt paralyzed by fear. Even now, it felt like some terrible creature was hunting her. As she told him the story, the feeling of shame returned—the worry that she’d drawn the being—making her miserable. Tears threatened to spill out of her eyes, and she wiped them preemptively, trying to stop them.
“It’s not your fault,” Fitzroy said, shaking his head. “There is no way you could have known how to release it.”
Cettie and Anna both looked at him in confusion.
He sighed. “The rumors are wrong. The being held within the grotto is not a ghost. It’s something far more dangerous.”
“What is it, Papa?” Anna asked softly, her tone betraying her fear. “I thought the river walk was safe.”
He looked at his daughter and then at Cettie. “It is safe. The creature’s name isn’t important, but it feeds on fear. The protections of the grotto have always kept it safely contained in the past. They should be infallible. The creature’s influence is usually never felt during the day. No one goes on the river walk at night, however. That is forbidden, and for good reason. But the safeguards in the grotto are not the only ones. We will not be harmed if we stay within the boundaries of protection set for us, and Mr. Savage is sending men with arquebuses to patrol the borders of the mining village.”
He paused, then added, “I suspect that the reason it revealed itself to Cettie is because it sensed that she still carries a great deal of fear. If a creature like that ever got loose in the Fells . . . I shudder to think on it. No, if this is anyone’s fault, it is mine for not considering how special Cettie is . . . how delicate she is to impressions. Adam knew just what to do, and he got you both safely back.” He smiled with fondness. “He’s a good young man. I see a lot of promise in him. Just as I do in you.” He gave Cettie a warm smile.
Anna hugged her father again and kissed his cheek.
Another distant howl sounded in the darkness outside, sending gooseflesh down Cettie’s arms. The way he spoke of the creature told her it was another one of the Mysteries, which somehow made it more frightening. How many unknown evils lurked in the world, waiting for her to discover them? Could Fitzroy be right? Had the creature only reacted to her fear, or was it something else, something more that had drawn it to her?
Fitzroy’s mouth turned into a low frown, and he patted Anna’s hand and asked if she’d go fetch his tea. She did, leaving them alone together. Cettie felt like she should tell him about the ghost at Fog Willows. The one controlled by Mrs. Pullman. It was only right, even if it ended with the keeper sending her away when he was gone. He needed to know the truth about the ghost . . . and about the woman he trusted with his household. If any harm happened to him or his children, she would never forgive herself.
“Adam will be coming with us to the City,” Fitzroy said, folding his arms. “I’ll be taking him and Stephen to school soon. It’s time for Adam to learn the Mysteries. I’m glad he was there to look after you.”
“So am I,” Cettie answered. She swallowed, growing more nervous. Her stomach began to clench and twist with dread. She didn’t want to lose her place at Fog Willows.
“Is something troubling you?” he asked.
She nodded, looking down. Words jumbled around in her mind. How could she express her feelings? “I don’t belong . . .” she started, but those were the only words she managed to get out before anguish overwhelmed her and she began to cry. Hot tears burned her cheeks. Her throat seized up, and no more words could come. She tried to blurt everything out to him, but she couldn’t give voice to her feelings at the moment. They were all tangled and ugly, and she wished she could shrink to the size of a dust mote.
His gentle hand touched her shoulder. There was a look of pure compassion in his eyes. His lips trembled, but he did manage to speak, even though she could not.
“It will take time, Cettie,” he said, “for you to feel truly comfortable where you are. Change is never easy. Were it not for happenstance, I could have been born in the Fells and not Fog Willows. Adam Creigh deserves more than what he has, but he doesn’t let the vagaries of fate stop him from taking action. And neither should you. You are a bright, intelligent young woman. You are a true friend to my daughter, unrelentingly compassionate, and fiercely loyal. And y
ou have a determination I find very rare in someone so young. My own children lack it, because of their ease in life.” He sighed and shook his head. “No one truly belongs anywhere, Cettie. We each are given a life to live. And we live it as best we can.”
She bit her lip. “When you first found me,” she said huskily, trying to dry her eyes with a sleeve, “I said my father was the captain of a hurricane. That’s a lie. I’d told it so many times I’d come to believe it.”
His lips pursed, as if he was trying not to smile. “It’s all right, Cettie. I am grateful you trusted me enough to tell me the truth.”
“Even if you already knew it?” she asked.
He turned his head slightly. “Trust is as fragile as an egg. But I have gentle hands. I won’t break yours.”
The comfort and relief that washed over her made her feel infinitely better. She was about to tell him about Mrs. Pullman when the roaring sound burst out again, this time even closer. He took his hand away and started to rub it. She noticed scrape marks and even dried blood on one of his fingers. His hands had taken a battering that day.
Noticing her worried expression, he set his hands on his lap. “It’s getting closer,” he said simply.
“What can we do?” she asked.
He looked perplexed. “I don’t think it can get past the defenses.” Fitzroy clapped his hands on his knees. “One day at a time. One worry at a time. As my grandfather used to say—it is folly to cross a bridge before you come to it, or to bid a ghost good evening before you meet him.” He smiled, and Cettie could tell he relished the quote. He found the discarded book and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. “It’s still a ways off. And Adam said I’ve neglected your education. That I haven’t told you the parable of the man, the boy, and the mule.”
Cettie nodded eagerly.
He stared down at the book, thumbing through its pages. “I heard this one when I first went away to study the Mysteries. It was shared with all of us, but I don’t think all of us heard it the same way. That’s the thing about stories. They can touch on truths that some people just are not ready to hear. The tale goes like this. Long before the first flying castles and sky ships and cauldrons of molten steel—before the Fells—life was simpler. A man and his son needed to sell their mule to buy food to last the winter. So they started walking to get to the market, which was very far. They met a fellow traveler along the way who criticized them for not riding the mule. So the man, realizing that his beast of burden wasn’t being used for its purpose, put his son on it to ride. But when they arrived at the first village on their path, some men in the square scoffed and said how inconsiderate the son was for making his father walk. They stopped and watered the beast, and so the father ordered the boy to walk while he rode. Again, they reached the next village, and what did they hear? Some washerwomen complained that the father must be evil to force his son to walk while he rode. Ashamed by their words, the father decided to change yet again. Do you know what he did?”
Cettie shook her head no, eager for him to continue.
Fitzroy wagged his finger at her. “So they both rode the mule into the next town. By this time, the mule was getting very tired, and when they reached the next village, they were ridiculed for being lazy and working the poor beast half to death! The market was in the very next town, and they feared they’d not be able to sell the poor creature, now it was so spent. And so the father and son cut down a sapling, lashed the mule to the pole, and carried it to the next town. You can imagine what the townsfolk thought as they saw the father and son laboring and exhausted as they approached the town. Who were these country bumpkins who carried a mule on their own shoulders? As they crossed the bridge into town, suffering the jeers and taunts of passersby, one of the ropes broke loose, and the mule kicked free. The boy dropped his end of the pole, and the beast fell into the river and drowned.”
“No!” Cettie said, mouth wide open.
Fitzroy nodded sagely. “A man with a crooked staff had been following them into town. As he passed the grief-stricken man and his son, he said, ‘Please all, and you will please none.’”
He leaned back against the edge of the window seat, folding his arms. “The longer I have lived, Cettie, the more those words have rung like a bell in my heart.” He paused, staring at her with farseeing eyes. “What do you learn from the story?”
She was still reeling from the horrifying ending. “Don’t listen to other people. That poor mule!”
Fitzroy smiled at her. “The mule died rather quickly, I should think. The man and his boy had nothing to sell. They may well have starved to death that winter. You see, they lacked a plan from the start that went beyond the need to sell the mule. One of the things I have noticed in life is how others use the bludgeon of ridicule and shame to beat us off our intended track. It wasn’t that the villagers gave poor advice. They just lacked the ability to see the travelers’ circumstances for how they really were. The first group of villagers didn’t know how far their journey would be. The second didn’t know the sacrifice already made. By changing to suit the crowd, they heaped trouble on themselves. And because they listened, they failed to provide for their own needs.”
Cettie was beginning to understand. It felt like Fitzroy had opened a window of sorts and let in a breeze of ideas.
“Is that why you do not wear gloves?” she asked him, remembering Adam Creigh’s comment from earlier that day.
Fitzroy’s eyes twinkled. “I’m not old by any stretch, only fifty, but I have seen fashions come and go. When I was younger, some matriarch in the City complained that the bodices of young women were too low. It was a scandal.” He fanned himself theatrically. “And now almost everything is covered. There are no soft bodices; they are all made of bone to shield the eyes. Scarves and hats disguise ladies’ necks and hair, which they once wore in elaborate styles. And everyone wears gloves to protect against the temptation of physical touch.” He shook his head, frowning. “I’m probably getting too old, because I see evil in either extreme.” He chuckled to himself. “You fall off a bridge by going off either edge. Try to steer in the middle.”
She looked him in the eye, feeling so full. Not with food—it wasn’t that sensation—but with peace and gratitude and respect. Even a feeling of safety, despite knowing that there was a beast loose in the forest—one that she still worried she might have unintentionally set off. Unintentionally freed. She reached out and laid her hand on his.
“I will never lie to you again, Fitzroy,” she promised. She meant it. And as she spoke the words, she felt it, like a jolt going through her heart.
His other hand capped hers. “I believe you, Cettie.”
And she knew he would hold her to that promise.
It was after midnight when the creature approached the village. Tension hung in the air like the strange fog that had settled over the hamlet during the night. Fitzroy had insisted that Cettie and Anna wait in the sky ship, ready to float upward at a moment’s notice, but he was down with Mr. Savage’s guards, holding an arquebus himself. The village gate was barred shut, and the men stood on the rampart above it, ready for a possible bombardment. Adam stood beside Fitzroy, gripping a lantern to provide light to the men.
“Let them be safe,” Anna prayed, shivering. The temperature had fallen considerably. The pilot of the tempest remained at his post, but his eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding beneath them.
Cettie could feel the thing venture closer yet. She looked over the railing, the puffs of mist coming from her breaths joining the fog to obscure the scene even more. The hair on the back of her neck tingled.
Do not fear me, little one. All these I will hurt. But not you. Open the gate.
Cettie shuddered, feeling her mind darken as she heard the creature’s thought whispers.
“Do you see it? Can anyone see it?” Mr. Savage yelled.
One of the guards shot off his arquebus. Another man let out an oath.
“Steady,” Fitzroy said firmly. He raised his
weapon to his shoulder and aimed into the darkness.
“How did it get loose?” Mr. Savage demanded. “Is this that girl’s doing? Seems mighty convenient it got out right after she left the grotto. The beast’s never escaped the protections before.”
Cettie’s heart quailed at the accusation.
“Steady, Mr. Savage,” Fitzroy said, ignoring his comment. “Mind the moment. It cannot get past.”
“It got out of the grotto,” he said angrily. “How could that happen?”
“I see it!” Adam shouted, pointing.
“Easy, Mr. Creigh,” Fitzroy said calmly.
“It’s coming,” Mr. Savage warned.
Open the gate. Do not fear me.
Cettie squeezed her eyes shut. Anna started to whimper with worry. “Come back, Father. Come to the ship.”
The sharp crack of the arquebus sounded, making Cettie gasp and peer into the mist. A bellow of rage sounded. Of rage and pain. It was wounded. Cettie saw its hulking shadow retreat.
“Good shot, Fitzroy!” Mr. Savage said.
Cettie saw her guardian lower the arquebus. The beast slunk away into the night. But it was only wounded. She sensed its wicked, brooding thoughts, its growing hatred for the man who had struck it.
And then it was gone.
SERA
Some think that politics should be the fifth Mystery. But of all the phenomena observable to society and students, the relationships between people are not unknowable. Just as a plum will drop to the ground after falling off a table, so our fellow creatures respond in predictable, even self-injurious ways. Women, above all, want to be perceived as desirable above other women. They will go to great lengths to ensure this. True, our society has prescribed this, but this tension has always existed. That is why there is fashion and why the milliners and dressmakers and hairdressers will never lack employment. And it is why fashion will never stand still. It must change. It always changes. Men, above all, desire power. Either for public office or simply, as in the case of my husband, to be known as the wealthiest of them all. Power is a heady thing, and men will put themselves in desperate circumstances in order to achieve it. For who can resist the whispered urge of feeling important?
