It means, Nan, that the whole spell with the returning castle is a cycle spell. It’s set to bring the castle back, so if we can speed it up and complete the parameters of the spell, we should be able to get out more quickly. The only way to get out of a cycle spell is to complete the cycle.
“Oh,” said Annabel, mollified. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. Anyway, whether Peter’s trying to find the source of the castle’s magic or trying to go further in, he’s sure to find something. It’s what Peter does.”
That’s all very well, Nan, but if he keeps going about things this way, he’s going to get you both killed, or maimed, or worse.
“What’s worse than being maimed or killed?”
Blackfoot’s voice was uncharacteristically serious as he said: I hope you never find out, Nan. Pick up your skirts: we should try to keep up with the young hot-head. Really, it continually surprises me that you’re both such good friends.
Annabel, who was sometimes surprised at it herself, said: “Yes, I suppose so.” She picked up her skirts and hurried around the next corner with Blackfoot, more resigned than annoyed at Peter’s behaviour. Once around the corner she stopped, dropping her skirts again, and said uncertainly: “He did come around this way, didn’t he?”
Blackfoot, padding around her skirts, said: Of course he– ah. How unfortunate.
“What happened?” demanded Annabel, rapidly turning in a circle to take in the empty hall they had just come from and the suit of armour that was guarding an alcove behind them. Inevitably, she came back to the sight she had just taken in with such disbelief.
The corridor ahead of them was gone. It existed as far as a few steps beyond the corner, but after that it ceased, in a ragged, uneven sort of way, into thin air. The breeze, warm and summery, swept freely through the gaping hole in the castle, and Annabel, who was beginning to be used to the castle being more complete again, could only say again: “What happened?”
Because it wasn’t just the rest of the hall that had vanished. Peter, too, was gone.
7
“What happened? Where’s Peter?”
Blackfoot, sounding very much as if he were trying not to mention that he had warned Peter, said: I think the castle has taken punitive measures. At a guess, I’d say Peter is wherever the rest of the hall is.
“Yes, but where’s the rest of the hall?” wailed Annabel. There was a sickening pit of fear in her stomach. “What if Peter’s dead?”
Peter isn’t dead, said Blackfoot, but Annabel heard the uncertain note to his voice. He’s more likely to be back where the rest of the castle is– in the past. I’m sure he’ll turn up again, just as annoying as ever.
Annabel, who had been leaning against the wall in a fatalistic kind of way, prepared for it to vanish too, slid to the floor in a puff of airy red satin. Just moments before, the hall had been there: if it hadn’t, she would have already felt the strong summer breeze that was currently sweeping through and tugging at her hair.
“What–” her voice cracked, and she tried again. “What are we supposed to do now? Peter’s the one with magic. I don’t know how to find him! Even if I did, how could I get him back?”
That, said Blackfoot, is the question, isn’t it? Nan, what are you doing?
“I’m going to find Peter,” said Annabel, her voice snubby with tears and worry. “He’s got to be around here somewhere. He’s Peter. He’ll come back.”
The castle is unsafe, said Blackfoot, considerately ignoring Annabel’s self-contradictory assertions. If there’s anything we can take away from today, it’s that none of us should be wandering this section until it’s fully complete.
“You can go back down, then,” said Annabel. She edged closer to the brink of empty space, feeling the warmth of summer on her face, and said: “This one’s different.”
I find myself wondering why it is that you only bestir yourself into action when you’re about to do something I particularly don’t want you to do, said Blackfoot, in some exasperation. No, never mind, Nan. I’m quite well aware that you’ll only ignore me. You said this is different? How is it different?
“The other bits that are gone, they’re different,” Annabel said slowly, to give herself time to think about why that was. “Well, there’s no black stuff here. The other bits have been coming back as if they’ve been pulled out of something– out of non-existence, or the past, or whatever that awful stuff is. But this bit has just gone, and there’s real space left behind where it should be: look, I can see right down into the floor below and the sky through where the wall should be.”
That’s all well and good, Nan, said Blackfoot, prowling along the edge beside her. But what does it mean?
“Don’t know,” Annabel said. Her voice was less snubby now, and it didn’t shake, either. Perhaps that had something to do with the distinct feeling that she was, in some indefinable way, a step closer to finding Peter.
The throne room was unnaturally quiet that night. Used to hearing Peter’s heavy breathing when they slept in the same room, Annabel found it distinctly ominous. She had spent the rest of the day searching parts of the castle that had come back—and had, more importantly, stayed—too intent upon finding Peter to be able to concentrate on anything else. He was nowhere to be found, and having wearily traversed dozens of flights of stairs, Annabel eventually admitted defeat. She collapsed on the dais with a face as red as her new dress, and sought comfort in her stubby little pencil and sketchbook. Unusually enough, it wasn’t the soothing pastime Annabel was used to it being, and instead of starting on a new drawing, she found herself paging through the drawings she had already completed. She added a few lines to the face of the man she’d seen in the glass that morning, looking up instinctively to see if he was there again. He wasn’t. She still couldn’t seem to get his eyes right, either; and since, despite her recent exercises of effort, Annabel still wasn’t in the habit of pushing herself to make an effort, she left the drawing. She dabbled at the other unfinished sketch instead, shading the eyelids she’d drawn earlier, and this time she was satisfied with the result. Whoever this other man was, he looked out on the world through slightly mocking eyes that were only partly open. He could have been sneering, but Annabel still wasn’t sure about how to draw his mouth, and after minimal work around his eyes, she left that sketch, too.
She flipped through the book in a lacklustre kind of way, looking cursorily at the rough sketches she’d made of the castle as it came back. It afforded her a small, colourless pleasure that she’d managed to draw a very good guess of what would come back next in several of them, and that she’d correctly replicated most of the rubble that was now back in its place around the castle. If Peter had been there to share in her success, she would have been very pleased with herself. Now that he wasn’t, the triumph was significantly diminished.
It’s no use fidgeting, Blackfoot said, batting at her foot through the red satin. He had banished the spark of magical light he’d given her quite some time ago, but there was just enough moon shining through the newly vine-free skylights to keep going, despite his obvious disapproval. Stop wriggling and twitching, and go to sleep. We’ll find Peter tomorrow.
“I am,” Annabel told him crossly, but although she leaned back against the dais and stared at the moon through the skylights, it was a long time before she fell asleep.
She went to sleep with her book and pencil stub in her lap, and woke with them there. That was a fortuitous circumstance, since the first thing Annabel saw when she opened her eyes the next morning was the Caliphan stranger. He was in the coloured glass opposite her again, going about his own, mysterious business.
Annabel squeaked and flailed. “Blackfoot! Blackfoot! He’s back! Look, there in the glass!”
He’s been there for some time, Blackfoot said, his voice particularly bored.
“Well,” said Annabel, taken aback. “Well, you should apologise, then.”
I’m entirely certain he’s not there because of any effort of mine. Th
at child’s proof of value has obviously been adopted by the castle.
“That’s not what I meant!” Annabel complained. “You and Peter both thought I was going mad. He– oh…”
Nan, said Blackfoot. Please don’t cry. Look, you’ve dropped your pencil. Pick it up, there’s a good girl. Draw the Caliphan so you don’t forget him and then we’ll visit the kitchen for breakfast. We’ll look for Peter when you’ve eaten.
“I don’t want breakfast,” said Annabel, but she said it very quietly, and it was likely that Blackfoot believed it as little as she herself believed it. She was rather surprised, therefore, upon entering the kitchen, to find herself opening and closing cold-box doors with as little enthusiasm as she had tried to draw the previous night.
Blackfoot, who was prowling behind her, said curiously: Are you ill, Nan?
“No,” Annabel said, and surprised herself yet again by adding: “I’m not hungry, I think. Let’s go look for Peter.”
I never thought I’d hear myself say this to you, Nan, but you should eat.
“Don’t want to,” said Annabel. It wasn’t so much that she wasn’t hungry: the thought of food was simply and completely unappetizing. Even the apricot pies she and Peter had eaten with such relish yesterday weren’t appealing. “Let’s just go back to where Peter vanished yesterday and see if the corridor has come back again. Maybe it’s come back and brought Peter back with it.”
I wouldn’t expect too much if I were you, Blackfoot warned, but he padded along behind her again as she climbed the stairs, anyway.
Annabel was steadfast in her determination to expect exactly what she wanted to expect, but she wasn’t given the chance to find out if her determination was warranted: shortly after they began climbing stairs in their quest for the missing hallway, they found themselves back in the kitchen.
“Hey!” said Annabel in surprise. “What happened? We’ve been climbing up the whole time!”
Oh, this is interesting, Blackfoot said. Or is it terrifying? I can’t decide.
“Maybe it’s another kitchen?” Annabel suggested, though she sounded unconvinced even to her own ears. The kitchen they were now in was very obviously the same one they had just left: she could even see her own and Blackfoot’s dusty footprints going through the opposite door.
A kitchen above stairs? I think not. I have the horrible feeling, Nan, that Mordion has given the castle a proof of value.
Annabel peeked into one of the cold-boxes and was gloomily unsurprised to find it stacked familiarly with pies and sauces. “Does that mean he’s in the castle right now?”
For the first time since she and Peter tumbled into the castle ruins, Annabel heard the sound of fear in Blackfoot’s voice. It shouldn’t be possible. He shouldn’t be able to get in here. Even if the castle accepted his proof of value, it shouldn’t have given him access to the castle itself. No: it’s far more likely that he’s playing games with the corridors and stairways to make it harder for us. Even that would be a stretch– nothing should be able to affect the castle’s growth at this stage.
“Oh!” said Annabel, as a far-too-belated thought struck her. “Then Mordion took Peter!”
I find it extremely unlikely, Blackfoot said. He’s had his opportunity and it’s too late now. The castle won’t let Mordion in even if he’s given proof of value. All proof of value will give him is the ability to piggy-back a spell on the castle’s magics.
“Well, but all he’d need to do is take away some of the corridors,” argued Annabel. “He could do that, couldn’t he?”
That– Nan, it’s unlikely in the extreme! Do you never listen to me? I told you about proof of value!
“I still think it’s Mordion,” muttered Annabel, and stomped back out of the kitchen. “And you just said he could establish proof of value.”
Where are you going, Nan?
“I’m going to find Peter!”
We’ve already come this way.
“We’re going to keep coming this way until it goes upstairs instead of back to the kitchen,” Annabel said obstinately.
Nan– oh, very well, if you must trudge up and down myriad stairways, at least wait for me! Who would have thought the child was capable of such a turn of speed?
“I can hear you,” Annabel said coldly. She bunched the red satin of her skirts to her chest and climbed determinedly back up the stairs with Blackfoot padding behind her on silent feet. Unfortunately, his voice wasn’t as silent as his feet, and he continued to mutter in the recesses of Annabel’s mind as she tried to retrace her steps through the castle.
This time, the route was longer and more circuitous, but it ended in the same place it had begun: the kitchen. Annabel stared around at the kitchen for a pent moment and then wheeled and stomped up the stairs again.
How exciting, said Blackfoot. Whatever will we see this time, I wonder? More staircases? New window frames? Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to spot a new corridor! How will I manage the exhilaration?
“I’m not listening to you,” Annabel said. This time, instead of trying to retrace her steps, or even trying to find her way back to the partial hallway where Peter had disappeared, she simply climbed stairs and wandered hallways. Wherever her steps took her, she went. This morning the castle was more whole and less inclined to sudden, gaping spaces where walls should be, but the effect didn’t put Annabel any more at her ease. Now that she couldn’t even count on the missing pieces as guides, she found herself even less sure of her surroundings than she had been yesterday.
One thing of which she was quite certain, however, was that in her scurryings around the castle, she saw north and south vistas in the blinking between one window and the next. There were more windows than there had been yesterday, too, their outlook never quite consistent. When she grew dizzy with trying to keep her position straight in her mind, Annabel stopped looking out of them entirely. Instead, she watched the reflections, and in those reflections saw not only a clear echo of herself, marching determinedly through the traitorous halls, but the same Caliphan she’d seen earlier. Like herself, he was hurrying through the castle, but where Annabel was confused and angry, the Caliphan seemed surprised and inclined to nervousness. She wasn’t quite sure why, but Annabel got the feeling he was being pursued by someone or something.
“He’s still there,” she said to Blackfoot. “He looks worried. Maybe Mordion is playing with his version of the castle, too.”
There was a silence before Blackfoot said: Even if it’s possible for Mordion to be interfering with the castle, how could it affect the castle in the reflections? One problem at a time. And speaking of problems, do you think we’ve wandered enough? Shall we return to the kitchen and try to think of another way to proceed?
Annabel scowled. “No. We’re going to start opening doors.”
Blackfoot seemed to sigh. Of course we are. I hate to complain, but what exactly is your plan? Are we to continue wandering the castle at random, opening convenient doors, or is there more to your thoughts?
“If someone is making the corridors go where they don’t usually go–”
I believe I’ve explained about the castle. Nobody should be capable of affecting its growth or removing sections: not even Mordion.
“If the castle is making the corridors go where they don’t usually go,” continued Annabel, not to be put off, “then it’s doing it for a reason. I’ve seen this hallway three times already, actually. So now I want to know why the castle keeps bringing us here.”
All right, Blackfoot conceded. We’ll suppose you’re right.
“Thanks.”
Don’t be sarcastic, Nan: it’s my particular pleasure to provide any and all commentary of a sarcastic nature that is required in your life. We’ll suppose you’re right–
“Yes, we’ll suppose I’m right,” said Annabel, grinning in spite of herself. “Someone or something keeps bringing us back here, and I don’t think that door is locked.”
Blackfoot’s velvet nose turned cautiously this w
ay and that, studying the doors along the hall. Which one?
“This one,” said Annabel, and flung open the door. She recognised the form of a person instinctively before she was aware of it rationally, and flinched back into the hall as the door hit the inside wall.
The sound of metal connecting with quarried stone sounded loudly in the uneasy silence of the hall, and Annabel’s pale blue eyes met Mordion’s vibrantly cerulean ones. She heard her heart thundering loudly in her ears, but even with the shock of it all, Annabel was certain that Mordion was just as startled as she. He was still a pace or two away from the door-frame, as though he’d been approaching it from his side.
To Blackfoot, Annabel said: “You said– you said he couldn’t get in!”
“I really wouldn’t listen to the things your cat says,” Mordion said. “He’s quite a slippery sort of cat: you’re never entirely sure you’ve got him pinned down.”
I could say the same thing of him, said Blackfoot. Nan, back away, please.
“He’s returning the compliment,” Annabel told Mordion, and shifted her weight as imperceptibly as she could. Mordion’s eyelashes flickered, and she saw him smile faintly.
“I really hope you’re not planning on running, darling.”
“Of course I’m planning on running,” she said. “What else would I do?”
Just two steps back now, Nan, said Blackfoot’s voice; and it was so calm that even though Mordion took one step forward for each of those two steps she retreated, Annabel found herself less afraid than she’d expected.
As leisurely as ever, Mordion rested his hands against the frame of the doorway. “Now I’m curious. Where exactly is it you’re planning on running?”
“There are a lot of hallways and stairs and rooms,” Annabel said. Perhaps she wasn’t as unafraid as she’d thought: her heart was beating steadily and she felt very wide awake, but it was strangely difficult to speak without gasping.
“There are,” agreed Mordion. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but I’ve seen you run. You’re not particularly fast, and what in the Three Monarchies makes you think that I’d be so injudicious as to underestimate you a second time?”
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