The Flame in the Mist

by Kit Grindstaff

  “What are you doing?” Nocturna streaked across the room and grabbed Jemma’s arm. “You’re soaked to the bone!”

  Jemma opened her mouth, but no words would come out.

  “Well?” Nocturna yelled, thrusting her head forward. Two pendants swung out from under her night robe, almost hitting Jemma on the chin. Nocturna’s black amulet. And the aquamarine Stone.

  Mine! Jemma thought. I mustn’t let her know that I know.… She fixed Nocturna’s gaze, trying not to shake. “I … I was just …”

  Nocturna’s grip tightened. “Explain yourself, Jemma. This instant!”

  Nox strode into the room. “What in Mord’s name is happening? Nocturna?”

  “Ask that of this child!”

  A lightning bolt struck a tree outside, setting it alight. Jemma’s Stone shone in the flames; then a trail of aqua light shot from it into her chest, so fine that she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. Energy jolted through her, and she found her tongue.

  “I … I was sitting with my feet out, Mama, Papa, watching the storm. It was cold, so I’d put my boots on. One of them fell off. Then I heard this horrible scraping sound, and my boot disappeared into the wall. Then that … noise started. What in Mord’s name is it?”

  “Just an alarm, Jemma,” Nox said, stepping forward, “to warn us of intruders. No doubt your boot set it off.” He pried Nocturna’s grip from Jemma’s arm. “There’s no need to worry, Nocturna, my dear. All is well.”

  Nocturna frowned, and dropped her hand.

  Shade and Feo appeared at the door. Lightning threw shadows of alarm across Feo’s face. Even Shade looked ruffled. It steeled Jemma’s nerve.

  “Isn’t the storm beautiful, Mama?” she said, smiling. Thunder ripped the sky.

  “Yes, beautiful …” Nocturna turned her gaze outside. The Stone pulsed against her throat, a pulse that Jemma felt under her skin.

  It’s as if it knows I’ve recognized it, she thought, forcing herself to look away. But the pulse energized her, and her mind was crystal clear. Secrets and lies? Two could play at that.

  “The thunder woke me,” she said. “I felt so weary, Mama, but the storm made me feel strong again. I don’t know why. As if … as if something’s happened to me. I can’t explain it, but I’m … I’m different, somehow.”

  Nox inhaled sharply. Nocturna peered at Jemma, her eyes reflecting the tree still blazing outside. Jemma held her gaze. And held it. Finally, Nocturna’s face relaxed. “Well, then,” she said, “put on some dry clothes and into bed with you. But—what in Mord’s name? Why are your bedclothes piled up like that?”

  Oh, no! Jemma thought. They’re all torn, and sopping wet! They’ll find the food, the book.… She glanced at her Stone to give herself courage. “I had a bad dream,” she said, her thoughts coming as swift as bats’ flight. “I woke feeling furious, and took it out on my blankets. But the storm comforted me. May I watch a little longer? I do love it. Just as you do.”

  “No harm in that, I suppose,” Nocturna said. She looked slightly confused, and scratched absently at the skin beneath Jemma’s Stone, where a faint rash was spreading. “But keep warm. We don’t want you catching a chill.”

  Of course you don’t, Jemma thought, so I’ll be strong for whatever you have planned for me tomorrow.… “Thank you, Mama,” she said.

  “You see, Nocturna!” Nox whispered, a smile spreading across his face. “The storm. Jemma feeling changed. I was not wrong to hope!”

  “Perhaps.…” Nocturna tilted her head to one side and searched Jemma’s eyes for a moment, then planted a kiss on her cheek. “Good night, Jemma dear,” she said. “I shall see you tomorrow. Nox, go and put an end to that tiresome noise; I forget the spell. Come, you two.”

  She swept the twins out of the room.

  Nox beamed. “So like your mama, loving the storm!” he said. “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. Don’t stay up too late now, Flamehead. And don’t forget dry clothes, hmm?”

  “Of course not, Papa. Good night.”

  “Sweet dreams, my child.” Nox closed the door behind him.

  Jemma sat on the sill, trembling. The storm raged; the alarm wailed. To keep intruders out, Nox had said. But it was all too obvious: like the locks, chains, and bolts, the alarm was not intended to keep others out, but to keep her in. Slowly, her trembling subsided, the thunder became more distant, and at last, the wailing stopped. Jemma slid off the window-sill, put on dry clothes, and sat on the bed. Noodle and Pie crawled out from under the chest, then snuggled into her lap.

  “I don’t know what to do, Rattusses,” she sighed. “Even if we steal the keys from Drudge, the alarm is bound to go off, no matter which door we try.”

  Eleven-thirty struck. Despair edged into her bones. The swift clarity she’d felt seemed to have been washed away by the relentless storm outside. But it had been real—and it was her Stone that had given it to her. That flash of aqua blue …

  “Pull yourself together, Jemma,” she whispered, imagining what Marsh might say. “First things first. Wait till midnight to make sure they’re all asleep. Then get the Stone. Maybe I’ll be able to think more clearly again once I have it.” But for now, her mind felt as blank as a dead sheep’s face.

  Pie nudged Jemma’s hand with her snout, then hopped off her lap and nosed under the wet bedclothes. A corner of the lilac fabric was peeking out from underneath the mattress: her makeshift pouch, with the book inside it. It was probably ruined, soaked by the rain. But Marsh had said it could help.…

  Jemma’s throat tightened. How was Marsh faring, out in the wild night? Please, please, let her be all right.… She gulped back tears and picked up the bundle.

  It was bone-dry.

  “Strange,” she whispered. She fingered the fabric, noticing for the first time how soft it was—softer, even, than Pie’s belly fur. Her hands began to tingle, and she lifted the bundle to her face. The fabric smelled musty, but there was another scent floating through too, delicate and eerily familiar, making her slightly dizzy. She put the bundle down and untied it. The fabric was a shawl, warm to the touch, and the book and food packages wrapped inside it were also dry.

  “Really strange …” Her heart beating faster, Jemma picked up the book. It was bound in scuffed brown leather, its spine cracked. There was a faint indent of a title, so worn that it was illegible. “This must be as ancient as Drudge! How can it possibly help?”

  The book shimmered in her hands.

  “Look, Noodle, Pie … It’s changing! It looks as though it’s lit from inside.” Sure enough, a title began shining out from the battered cover. “From Darknesse to Light,” she said. “And look at the date—almost three hundred years ago!” She flipped it open to the frontispiece, where the title was written again. Beneath it was the author’s name: Majem Solvay. “Majem? I thought ‘Mother of Majem’ was just an expression. I never knew there was an actual person with that name.”

  The rats’ tails whisked across her thighs. Her fingers were heating up. What was it Marsh had said? Ask … Let it show you.…

  “All right, then,” she said, taking a deep breath. “How can I get out of here?”

  Jemma opened the book. Her hands felt as though they were on fire.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Birthright

  The book flopped open at page thirty-seven, a chapter headed “Hystory.”

  “Thousandes were taken as slaves for the building of the Castle upon Mordwin’s Crag,” Jemma whispered. “All did perish under their toil, but for one Zacharias Bartholomew, who every night for thirty yeares did in secret digge him a Tunnelle from the Dungeons. Thence he did escape, sealing his exitway so that none may discover it.”

  “Noodle, Pie, look—a prisoner escaped, after he helped build the castle! Zacharias Bartholomew … He dug a secret tunnel from the dungeons … But where?” She racked her brain for the most likely place. “There are two locked doors in the South Passage. And that other one, through the Vat Room. They’re the on
ly ones Drudge has never let me into.” Whenever she had asked him, he had frowned and shaken his head and said, “Keys, lossst!” Obviously, he’d been lying; the tunnel must be through one of them.

  Jemma snapped the book shut and placed it onto the lilac shawl with the food packages and knife, once again fashioning a pouch she could tie around her waist.

  “There,” she said. “My survival belt.” It felt hot in her hands. She eyed the wet, torn-up sheets and blankets. “I wonder …” She held the pouch close to them. “Get dry,” she whispered, only half-believing they would. Nothing happened. “Dry!” she said, mustering more conviction. “Dry!”

  With a slow pssshht! a cloud of steam rose up.

  “Sprites! It worked!” Amazed, she tucked the pouch under the mattress for safekeeping. Her fingers touched something else hidden there—a small notebook Digby had given her a year ago, in which she’d written all her secrets and fears. I mustn’t forget to take this, she thought.

  A deep sound reverberated through the room: the first toll of midnight.

  It was time.

  “You wait here, Rattusses. I don’t want the weasels attacking you.”

  Slowly, she opened her bedroom door and stepped into the corridor. The bell continued its clanging through the storm, announcing the new day. Then it struck her. Today was her birthday. What better moment to take back her Stone—her birthright.

  Darkness billowed out of Nocturna’s Bed-Chamber and into the corridor. Even with her night vision, Jemma could barely make out the shape of the huge bed, and Rook’s domed cage next to it. She closed the door and tiptoed in. One step, two … She heard rustling from Rook’s cage, and stopped. Silence. Three steps, four, five … Jemma could see her Stone’s faint aqua glow, beckoning from the bed. Her hip brushed the edge of Nocturna’s dressing table. The vials and bottles on top of it rattled; she stopped again, and held her breath. More rustling, this time from the bed. Two weasel shapes turned around, then settled again.

  But something else had caught Jemma’s attention.

  In the middle of the dressing table was a glass jar, in which two cylindrical crystals were immersed in dark liquid. In all the times Jemma had brought Nocturna’s breakfast tray to her, she’d never noticed them before. Take the crystals out! Take them with you! a voice in her head urged. No—she mustn’t falter now. Not for anything. But the voice insisted: Do it! Take them!

  Jemma reached for the jar and hastily removed the crystals. They were cloudy and gray, about three inches long, and pointed at each end. She slipped them into her pockets, and quietly replaced the jar. Just steps away from the bed, she crept toward it again.

  Nocturna lay sprawled across her four-poster island, satin sheets in twisted disarray as if they’d been besieged. Her face, illuminated by the soft aqua of Jemma’s Stone, was beautiful, but her chest was now covered with a livid rash. It’s as if the Stone is attacking her skin, Jemma thought, now that I’ve realized it’s mine.

  More rustling, as the other two weasels stirred. They started snoring, gently at first, then louder, like the saw Drudge used to cut up carcasses. No wonder Nox slept in his own room.

  Nocturna groaned and turned over, then started thrashing her arms and legs. Jemma stiffened, but Nocturna rolled onto her back, arms splayed, revealing her own amulet lying on her chest, next to Jemma’s. The weasels snuffled, stirred, and continued their rattling snores.

  Jemma stood beside the bed, and leaned in. Her Stone’s clasp lay on Nocturna’s shoulder, tangled in her hair. As Jemma inched her hands toward it, her Stone’s light began to pulse. But so did Nocturna’s, blood-red glowing from deep within its blackness.

  Jemma found the clasp, her fingers working fast. The blood-red pulse grew stronger, its heat burning her hands. Suddenly, Nocturna’s eyes shot open. She sat upright, arms and torso stiff, and stared straight ahead of her.

  “Jem-maaah!” she hissed, her eyes like glass. She was still fast asleep.

  Jemma held her breath, petrified, while her fingers kept working. But now Rook had woken, and fluttered frantically under his blanket.

  “Caw! Caw!”

  Nocturna began to shake as if possessed.

  “CAW!”

  With one last frantic scramble, Jemma’s fingers freed the chain’s clasp. Her fist closed around her Stone. Nocturna keeled backward in a dead sleep, her face reflecting the fierce, red glow of her own amulet, which throbbed under her chin like a warning signal.

  Jemma dashed from Nocturna’s room and leaned against the cold wall of the corridor, clutching her precious Stone in her left hand. Waves of euphoria flowed through her. After a few gulps of air, she hastened toward her Bed-Chamber. Lightning flashed through the hall windows below, illuminating the upstairs landing.

  Someone was outside her door, holding a candle. Nox. He turned, and saw her.

  “Jemma—you’re up!”

  Jemma’s mind leapt into action. She glazed her eyes, stiffened, and glided past him.

  “Jemma?”

  She continued along the East Corridor toward Marsh’s tower.

  “Jemma!” Footsteps hurried behind her. “Flamehead, are you asleep? It’s me, Papa!”

  Nox touched her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. Jemma widened her eyes and gripped her Stone harder.

  “Flamehead, wake up!”

  “Mmmm?” Jemma blinked. “Oh, Papa!” She looked around. “Why—what—?”

  “You were sleepwalking,” he chuckled.

  “In Mord’s name! Really?”

  “Yes, really!” Nox smiled. “And with your eyes wide open! You should see how they’re glowing—like beautiful blue-green lamps. Now, to sleep with you, my little storm lover. Come. I’ll tuck you in.” He took Jemma’s right hand and led her toward her Bed-Chamber, candle sputtering.

  Oh, no—he would see that her sheets were all ripped up.…

  Just as they reached her door, Jemma feigned a sneeze and blew his candle out.

  “My poor child, have you caught chill? Quickly, into bed. Keep your clothes on; you’ll be warmer.” Nox fumbled into the room. Jemma leapt under the blankets and hastily straightened them over her, hoping he wouldn’t notice the two furry shapes that nestled in behind her.

  “My dear Flamehead.” Nox leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “You remind me so much of someone I knew, long ago. When you were little—around the same age she was when she died—I used to watch you while you slept, wondering what you were dreaming.”

  “Oh.” Jemma’s heart squeezed a little, remembering the twin sister Nocturna had mentioned. Then, thinking it might be suspicious if she didn’t show curiosity, she asked, “Who was she, Papa?”

  “Someone very dear to me. But it doesn’t matter now; it’s all in the past. Sleep tight, Flamehead. And happy birthday! Midnight has struck, you know.”

  “Oh? I didn’t hear it.” Jemma clutched her Stone. “Thank you, Papa.”

  Sometimes, she thought as Nox closed the door, he seems so ordinary. It’s hard to think that he could possibly do anything to harm me. But he had harmed her. Had torn her away from her real family. She steeled her heart and closed her eyes, knowing that she must wait yet again for a safe amount of time, until he was asleep. Then she could make her move.

  Never had she imagined it could be so easy to escape the castle. Being Outside felt completely natural, as if she had been there her whole life. The air was part of her; the breeze defined the edges of her skin, the sound of it in the trees invigorated her bones. Golden light dappled everywhere, and danced in her veins. She was free! Free at last to twirl and swirl, to run from the forest and out under the Mistless sky, the sky Marsh had described so often. Then she was standing on a cliff, looking down at a sparkling expanse of water the color of her Stone, the color of her eyes.…

  “Jemma … Jemma!” A voice lilted from behind her. She wheeled around. A woman was running toward her, arms outstretched, auburn hair streaming like a sunlit flag. The woman began to sing, the song
beautifully familiar, lilting like a lullaby: “Jemma—my darling angel!” Jemma was flying then, over a field of flaxen waves, cloud shadows racing her, and then everything turned lilac-colored, the lilac of the shawl the woman was wearing—the same shawl Marsh had wrapped the books in! Jemma felt its softness on her cheek, breathed in its fragrance as strong arms held her, safe at last.… But—how could this be? Wasn’t the shawl at the castle, under her mattress with the books …?

  The sky blackened. Clouds, playful only moments ago, menaced and lowered. A bell tolled. One … Wind whipped up, pulling her away. Two … The woman’s arms were letting go.…

  Jemma woke on the last strike of three, clutching her Stone. Pie was tugging at her clothes. Noodle, tangled in her hair, was nipping her ears. Neither the storm outside nor the rats’ attempts to wake her had broken into her sleep.

  “Oh, no! The night’s half over—we must fly!”

  Jemma leapt out of bed, tied her Stone around her neck, and yanked on her weekday boots. Then she grabbed the lilac pouch from under her mattress, knotted it around her waist, and fled from her room, with Noodle in one pocket, Pie in the other. The Stone dangled from her neck, like an aquamarine beacon lighting her way to a new life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Behind the Third Door

  Monday, early hours

  Jemma crept up to Drudge’s sleeping alcove just inside the Corridor of the Dungeons. A wire was strung across it, on which his tattered velvet jacket and doublet hung like a makeshift curtain. She winced as she pulled them aside, imagining decades of filth swarming onto her hand.

  Drudge lay on his pallet as if someone had dropped him from the ceiling, a skeletal mound whose snores ricocheted around the granite walls. Jemma peeked under a corner of his worn blanket. The keys were on a large ring tied to a thin, leather strap around his waist. Noodle and Pie hopped from Jemma’s pockets and quickly gnawed through it. She grabbed the keys. They clanked loudly.