The Flame in the Mist

by Kit Grindstaff

  “There, Jem … Did you see?”

  Jemma nodded, her heart racing. She hastily tied on her scarf, then realized it was too late. Obviously, they’d already been spotted, Jemma’s blaze of hair and all.

  “What if it’s an Agromond spy?” she whispered. “Should we confront them?”

  “No point, Jem. Whoever it is, no sense in givin’ ’em a better look at you. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  As they galloped away, Jemma looked behind at the cottages. An old woman, small and stooped, hobbled out of one of them. Jemma felt the woman’s gaze pierce her, and for a moment, thought she saw a black shadow outlining the wizened form. Then it disappeared, leaving the woman shrouded in Mist.

  Just a harmless passer-by, Jemma told herself. A vagrant. Perhaps she’s deaf, and didn’t hear anything. In any case, an old hag like that probably couldn’t read, much less write messages for falcons to carry. Besides, where would she get paper and ink? Jemma turned away, her mind working at calming her, while her stomach felt like a nest of writhing vipers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Darkness Gathering

  Saturday afternoon/evening

  Jemma’s heart was in her throat as they galloped through the gray countryside. Would they have to be suspicious of everyone who crossed their path? Her fantasies of the Outside dwindled into dust as a horrible realization sank into her: The miles between her and her lifelong prison didn’t make her safe. People out here could be just as treacherous as they were at Agromond Castle.

  The moorlands ended, and they slowed past hills and fields. Rows of people—men, women, and children—were stooped in some kind of hard-looking toil. Land workers, Jemma guessed, remembering Marsh’s descriptions of how potatoes and turnips were grown and harvested. Soon the farmlands turned into more rugged, wooded terrain, and Digby pulled Pepper to an abrupt halt at a bushy copse, then jumped to the ground.

  “Hop on down,” he said. “We’re goin’ blackberryin’.”

  Food? Noodle and Pie nosed out of Jemma’s pockets.

  “But why? We only ate a short while ago.” Jemma took Digby’s hand and slid from the saddle, then followed him into the copse. She plucked a few berries and fed them to the rats, popping one into her mouth. It was sweet, but she was surprised to find she quite liked the taste.

  “It in’t for food, Jem.” He tramped through the undergrowth, grabbing clumps of the fruit as if his life depended on it. “It’s for your hair. We’re goin’ to dye it, an’ cut it short. Come on, use your scarf to collect ’em in.”

  “What? No! You can’t just decide that without asking me—it’s my hair!”

  “An’ it’s like a flag, in’t it, tellin’ everyone who you is.”

  “But … but … all right, so we’ll dye it.” Jemma whisked off her scarf and snatched a few berries. “But you are not going to cut it off— Ow!” A thorn pricked her. “Mord take it!”

  “Jem.” Digby stopped, and turned to her. “You saw what happened back there. First the villagers, then that woman. Your hair is what folks notice about you, soon as they see you. You got to understand how dangerous it is out here. We don’t know who we might meet.”

  Jemma looked into the turbulent blue of his eyes. He was worried—and with good reason. “Sorry, Dig. You’re right.”

  Before long, she was shorn, and Digby had made a paste of the berries crushed with mud from a brackish puddle—a mixture his mother had used recently, he said, to dye an old shirt of his. He packed the paste onto her head.

  “You look like a boy,” he said, grinning, as he tied the burlap scarf around her mud-caked tufts. “Put your cloak on too, an’ keep the hood up. That’ll keep your head warm until the mush dries. Then we’ll crumble the lumps out, an’ your hair won’t be reco’nizable.”

  “I should think not, after being covered in this muck,” Jemma grumbled, wiping her berry-stained hands on her trousers. “But it’s still going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Digby shrugged. “It won’t be flame red, though,” he said. “That’s the main thing.”

  By the time they set off again, the pale sun had dipped toward the horizon. This was the first day she could remember, Jemma realized, whose hours had not been marked by the gloomy sound of the castle bell. She tried not to think about the hacked-off locks they’d left buried in the copse (“Don’t want anyone findin’ ’em,” Digby had said), but the berries-and-mud concoction was like a heavy helmet, reminding her, and her head and shoulders felt strangely bare, even with Noodle and Pie nestled around her neck. She felt a tweak of annoyance at Digby. Grow up, Jemma, she told herself. Think of all he’s risked for you. Is still risking.

  “Jem. Up ahead.”

  Jemma looked up to see four silhouettes shuffling from behind a clump of bushes. Digby slowed Pepper to a walk to let them pass: a man, a woman, and two small children. They looked even more cowed than the Hazebury folk earlier. One of the children—whether a boy or girl, it was impossible to tell—stopped and stared at Jemma. She had never seen such a mournful face on a living soul.

  “Don’ look at strangers!” The woman pushed the child on. “They might steal yer away.”

  The family shambled into the Mist.

  “They look half dead!” Jemma said. “Why are they like that?”

  “Why d’you think?” Digby said, kicking Pepper into a trot. “Them Agromonds. This Mist. Everyone’s poor, an’ half-starved, like the spirit’s been sucked out of ’em. Most don’t have any fight left. Not since your folks …” He trailed off.

  “Not since they lost their Powers, you mean, and became too weak to help.” Jemma gripped the saddle, her knuckles whitening. How could she have wondered? The Agromond blight was everywhere. “So why aren’t you like that? You and your family seem full of life.”

  “Hmph. We’re lucky, you might say, bein’ the grocers an’ all. They need us to deliver their food to ’em, so we get extra supplies to keep us happy. But it’s a sham, to suit them. We give what we can to our neighbors, but it ain’t never enough. An’ there’s still the rest of Anglavia. Like them poor beggars jus’ now, their little ’uns barely more’n shadows.”

  Jemma was chilled to the bone. Was there anyone, anywhere, that the Agromond evil didn’t touch? “You know what they used to tell me, when they went out visiting the villages?” she said. “They said they were ministering to the poor. And to think I believed them!”

  “Ministerin’, my eye!” Digby said. “Oh, they do their rounds once a month, all right, grantin’ their so-called favors to this one and that—extra rations, that kind of thing—makin’ everyone hanker after it, hopin’ it’ll be their turn this time. But I see what it does. It hardens folk against each other, makes ’em compete for crumbs, givin’ ’em just enough to keep ’em under control, but not enough that they dare rebel.”

  Jemma gulped, remembering the way she’d been similarly manipulated by Nox’s affection. It had been just enough to keep her compliant, hoping for more.

  “Sometimes I think it’s like most of ’em’s under some kind of sick spell,” Digby went on. “But I s’pose we ought to be thankful that children ain’t disappearin’ no more. Used to happen twice a year or so, Pa said, some little ’uns would be took. Always twins or triplets, it was. It’s even said them Agromonds put a spell on married folks so’s they’d give birth to more twins an’ triplets than normal, an’ to keep up the supply.”

  “Ugh. That wouldn’t surprise me.… But why did they want twins and triplets?”

  “For some kind of … sacrifice, it’s said. Something to do with some kind of bond between twins that breaks when one of ’em dies. S’posedly the Agromonds got Power from it, don’t ask me how. Went on for hundreds of years, But all that stopped jus’ before they took you, thank goodness, or no doubt we’d be worryin’ about our Flora, Simon, an’ Tiny.”

  Jemma thought of Cora, the little girl ghost in Bryn’s cave, and all the other small ghosts who had been wandering the forest for eons
in search of their lost brothers and sisters. “All that suffering,” she murmured. “It’s a wonder you ever gave me a second look, Dig,” she murmured, “since you must’ve thought I was one of Them.”

  “You? Y’know … funny thing is, now that I think of it, it never occurred to me. All Pa said, before he first took me up there, was that he thought you was lonely an’ could use a bit of comp’ny. Then when I met you … well, I liked you, is all.” He laid his chin on Jemma’s shoulder.

  Jemma took a deep breath. “Dig … I’m sorry I lost my temper back there.”

  “ ’S’alright, Jem. I understand. Your hair is kind of your crownin’ glory. But you still look pretty good without it.”

  Jemma smiled, her stomach flipping.

  “Does stink a bit, though,” he added.

  Twilight fell. They had passed a few stragglers on the path, and several more tumbledown hamlets, stopping occasionally for Pepper to snatch a mouthful or two of grass. Now, the mare was lagging, and she stumbled increasingly on the stony path. They would rest soon, Digby said; he knew of the perfect place, described to him by Marsh, where Jemma’s still-damp head would dry in no time, and they could sleep for a while. From there, Oakstead was a mere four hours’ ride, and they should be able to arrive soon after dawn. Jemma felt a thrill of anticipation. Not long now, she thought, hoping, somehow, that her parents could pick up her words on the ether.

  A chill breeze nipped through the air, and she reached behind Digby into the saddlebags, pulled out the book, and hugged it. Noodle and Pie rested on her forearms, close to its warmth.

  Jemma peered over Pepper’s ears into the dusk, hearing a distant rush of water, punctuated by a rhythmic whomp, whomp. She saw a faint glow off to the right, which became brighter as they approached, and the whomping grew louder.

  “Digby, what’s that noise? And that light?”

  “We’re gettin’ close to the Elm River. The noise is a waterwheel. An’ the light … well, you’ll see.”

  The glow took on a rectangular form. Digby drew Pepper behind a large bush nearby, then slid to the ground and tethered her reins to a branch.

  “Wait here a mo’,” he said. “I’ll check there’s nobody around.” He ran off, leaving Jemma and the rats alone with the sound of paddles working through the water. She tucked the book back into the saddlebags, then patted Pepper’s neck nervously. The mare seemed bigger without Digby there. Although Jemma had often lingered in the castle stables after mucking them out, and imagined riding Stag, Nox’s old stallion, to be actually sitting astride a horse on her own was another matter.

  “All clear.” Digby reappeared through the Mist. “So, here we are, Jem—our palace for the night: Blackwater Greenhouses.”

  “Greenhouses?” Jemma slid to the ground, then plopped Noodle and Pie into her pockets and followed Digby along a muddy path toward several long, low, luminous buildings with strange-looking shadows inside. She tapped one of the walls. It was glass, whitewashed on the inside. “Why greenhouses? They’re white.”

  “You’ll see.” Digby strode ahead of her, opened a door, and stood aside. “Enter, m’lady.”

  Jemma was hit by a wave of warmth. Lamplight glared from the ceiling. Rows of trestle tables held pots of all sizes, containing all manner of plants. She recognized herbs—basil, rosemary, tarragon—and cucumbers, fennel, and asparagus, but there was a host of other fruits and vegetables in other shapes and colors that were unknown to her.

  “Mother of Majem! What … How …?” Already, she felt hot, and tore off her cloak and burlap scarf, dropping them to the floor. Several clumps of purple mud fell from her head. Digby snorted, suppressing a laugh, and Jemma whacked him playfully. “Thank you, warthog!”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am. Things can’t grow proper-like in the Mist, see,” he went on to explain, “so there’s greenhouses. Mos’ towns an’ villages by rivers have ’em. The light’s made by the waterwheel, goodness knows how—some kind of Agromond sorcery, usin’ the water. Makes the warmth too.”

  Jemma noticed small stoves placed along the aisles, pumping out blue-red heat.

  “All this food!” she said. “So why are so many people starving?”

  “Mos’ greenhouses jus’ grow a few basics—them rations I was tellin’ you about, remember? The only other place that has this many is Hazebury. For them Agromonds.”

  “Hazebury. For the Agromonds,” Jemma repeated, unease bristling under her skin. “Why here, then? Digby, what are you not telling me?”

  “Well … these greenhouses belong to Blackwater, an’, thing is, Blackwater …” He took a deep breath. “It’s rife with Agromond followers an’ henchmen who get special treatment. But don’t worry, Jem. The town’s a mile or two away, an’ Marsh said as long as we steer clear of it, we’ll be fine. We jus’ got to be careful, is all, an’ if we run into any Inquisitors, act half-dead, so’s they won’t suspect nothin’. Anyways, there’s very few around these days since the protests petered out, an’ them what’s left is more interested in drink than anythin’.”

  “But … Agromond henchmen? Inquisitors? What are Inquisitors, anyway?”

  “Jus’ … them that enforce Agromond law.”

  “What? No! Digby, you should have told me before now!”

  “An’ worry you ahead of time? Why would I do that? If you’d been anticipatin’ the worst all day, you’d’ve been miserable!”

  “But I have a right to know, Dig! It’s me they want, not you. Why did we come this way if it’s so dangerous?” She stuffed her hands into her pockets, forgetting that the rats were there. They squealed with surprise.

  “Don’t get huffy with me, Jem! Look, maybe I should’ve said, but I’m doin’ my best, all right? An’ I’m doin’ it for you. It ain’t like there’s another road north. I’m jus’ followin’ Marsh’s directions.” Digby sighed, and pulled something from his bag. “Here, have a turnip. I’ll go an’ settle Pepper, an’ bring the saddlebags in. These lights should go out soon, then we can get us a bit of shut-eye. Do us all good, I reckon.” He paused by the door. “Sorry I upset you,” he said, and walked out.

  Jemma glowered at the turnip in her hand, feeling a twinge of guilt at losing her temper with Digby again. But it was his fault, making decisions without telling her! She wasn’t helpless, after all. Hadn’t she managed to escape from the castle and through the forest?

  He saved you. Two heads peeked from her pockets.

  “Oh, Rattusses. I know. But … but …” But nothing. “I’m just not used to having someone else around all the time, I suppose. You’re right, though. If Digby hadn’t found me …”

  Jemma bit into the turnip and strolled along one of the aisles, her footsteps in time with the whomp, whomp of the waterwheel outside. Munching as she went, she took in the variety of leaves and odd-shaped objects poking from under them, some bulbous and green, others long and yellow. Such an assortment of food! If the Agromonds could grow all this for their own kind, why not for everyone? Come to that, why not make light for everybody too, and heat?

  “Hoarding it for themselves and their followers, and keeping everybody else starved,” she muttered between gritted teeth. She took another chomp of turnip and stuffed the rest of it into her pocket. “Oh, sorry, Rattus.” Noodle wriggled out, sniffed, and then he and Pie hopped onto the trestle and began munching on some round, red objects growing on tall stems nearby.

  “Trust you two!” Jemma chuckled. “Go on—eat them out of house and castle!” She took a swig of milk from her wineskin. It had soured over the course of the day, and was just right—though Digby, no doubt, wouldn’t like it. Where was he, anyway?

  Her scalp prickled from the warmth, and she scratched her head. More clumps of dried mud fell from her hair, which felt stubbly and granular, like matted fur.

  “Dig-by …,” she growled, then stopped herself, and thought instead of what she liked best about him. Warm, kind, dependable … her irritation turned to concern. Dependable. Surely he should be
back by now? Perturbed, she started toward the door.

  Suddenly, the greenhouse plunged into darkness. The stoves went out. A dark fear crawled up Jemma’s spine. Between the whomp of the waterwheel and the rush of the river, she heard sounds from outside: growling, barking, shouting.

  “ ’Ere—got ’im!”

  Lamps threw long shadows across the white walls. Jemma dropped to a crouch, then crawled to the door and peered through a broken pane of glass. Two men were yanking Digby from a shrub. A wiry boy stood behind them, pulling back on a leash attached to a snarling barrel of hate: a hound, just like the one that had pursued her that night in Agromond Forest.

  “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!” Digby yelled. “Let me go!”

  “This the bloke wot you seen prowlin’ around earlier, Sharky?” said one of the men, picking up a large bag and throwing it over one shoulder.

  That voice—so grating, cold, callous … And the long coat the man was wearing …

  “Yes, sir, it was, sir. I come as soon as I seen ’im, sir, like you said I should.”

  “You done good, boy” said the second man. “Now, let’s get this piece of dross back to town. What should we do with ’im, eh, Lok—put ’im in the stocks?”

  Lok! The thug whose hound had almost caught her—

  “Stocks is too good fer the likes of ’im,” Lok growled. He dragged Digby, wriggling and cursing, toward a thicket of trees. “I’ll think of somethin’, Zeb, don’t you worry. Somethin’ tonight’s rabble will like. Come on, Fang, you useless mutt!” He kicked the dog, which yelped. Lok laughed. The same, chilling laugh Jemma had heard from the Aukron’s lair.

  The boy led three horses from behind the trees. He leapt onto one of them, Zeb onto another, then Jemma watched, dismayed, as Digby was bound and gagged, and thrown like a sack of potatoes onto the third. Lok tied him down and climbed up in front of him. Then men and boy lurched into the night, with Lok’s vicious hound on their heels, baying like a banshee.