Chapter 9
Melisande reached absently for her tea but her fingers found the warm wax of the candle instead. Jerking her hand back before her fingers were singed, Melisande glanced up from the bestiary she was perusing long enough to locate her tea, but when her hand closed around the mug she found that it was cold to the touch, so she let it be and turned the page instead.
She had located the legend of the beast; now all that remained was to discern the species, well, the species it would be most like if it were real, she reminded herself. Almost certainly the creature was a mere figment of Rathbone’s imagination, a ghoul summoned from the depths of his tormented mind. But perhaps a name would help him, much in the same way a diagnosis helped a frightened patient, by giving a name to the menace.
She was tempted to switch bestiaries, however. This one was highly illustrated and full of very colorful and deeply vivid paintings of all manner of creatures. At first the lurid images hadn’t upset her, but as the hour grew later and the castle fell silent around her, she found herself growing increasingly anxious with each page she turned.
On the current page, a clawed hand clutched a man by the chest, gripping him so hard that red blood spilled from the gouges in his chest. Nothing could be seen of the beast that was pulling him into the darkness of the night, save for two red eyes that stared out of the abyss, devilish in their intensity. In the next illustration, a man grappled with a beast that looked almost human, save for joints that were bent in ways no mortal man’s body could bear. It was more than half again his size, and its face loomed above his, teeth bared as if it were about to bear down on his neck and savage the flesh of his throat. Its face had been painted in great detail, and the visage was arresting, almost nauseating. Its anatomy tread a faint line between man and beast, but its expression was purely human, made of equal parts pain and rage, and the suffering in its face and the contortions of its form almost seemed to suggest that it was more anguished than the man.
Melisande finally tore her gaze from the parchment, swallowed, and turned the page. She reached for her tea again, and this time she let a few drops of the unappealingly chilled liquid slide down her throat. There was a low moan at the window, and the shutter banged in the sudden wind. Melisande stood to secure it, and as she crossed to the window, she was startled by the glow of the newly risen moon. It was full tonight, almost too big for the sky, and she lingered a moment, staring up at it with troubled eyes.
***
It was a windy night in the Bottoms. Shadows swirled on the docks, bearing dry leaves, crumpled newspapers and the scent of the sea. Most of the shacks along the wharf were dark and silent, but a few were lit from within, illuminating grimy patchwork curtains and the silhouetted figures that moved hauntingly behind them.
The hut they sought was near the end of the row, and Spencer had no need to check the directions on the paper he clutched between two chilled fingers. Unlike the other homes, which had just a few tendrils of smoke curling from their chimneys, if the hearth was lit at all, the witch’s chimney streamed strangely smelling smoke into the sky, and when the ash floated past his face there was a strange tremor on the wind, as though magic was riding on the air that night. The witch had to be quite powerful, for magic was not usually meant to be felt by commoners, and yet Spencer could sense it like a strange stirring in his bones. As they neared the door, he heard the soft tinkling of a single bell. It rang once, twice, three times, and then the block was entirely silent.
Daphne and Lorna were cloaked head to toe in robes of black, meant to conceal their finery and hide their faces. It was the only way they could travel to the Bottoms safely, but there was something uncanny about walking down the street with them gliding behind him. It made particularly disturbing a night that was already eerie enough.
Spencer hesitated at the door, unable to shake the feeling that this next step was one he might regret. At his side, Daphne stirred, reaching forward with a black silk hand. Unwilling to give her the satisfaction, Spencer jerked to attention and reached out first, knocking with far more conviction than he felt.
The wharf was perfectly silent after the sound faded. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he waited for some response from the dimly lit cottage. Then a shutter banged as it was pushed open from within, and he could make out a dark face and a thick head of hair silhouetted in the night. “What brings you to my doorstep, strangers?”
“Um, well. Rolf sent us.”
“Who?”
“Rolf, the moatkeeper’s son. We’re looking for someone and he said you’d give us two-thirds price.”
“Aah.” The head withdrew from the window. There was a rustling from within the cottage and then the door opened. “I know the moatkeeper. He hears the wailing of the drowned at night and comes to me for a potion that will chase the nightmares away and bring gentle dreams. So I pluck a hair from his son’s head and put it in a tincture of my own making, and now he dreams of family.” She stepped back from the threshold and beckoned them inside. “Come in.”
Daphne slipped inside first, and Spencer and Lorna followed. It took Spencer’s eyes a moment to adjust to the interior of the cottage. He found himself standing in a smoky workroom scattered with all manner of occult paraphernalia, but most striking of all was the witch herself. Mollfrida stood by the fire, which illuminated her in fits and flashes as the flame jumped. He had never seen such an old woman wearing so much paint and powder. Her weathered, wrinkled cheeks, tanned brown by a lifetime under the sun, were brightened by twin moons of rouge, applied so thickly that excess red powder had collected in the folds. Thickly smudged kohl outlined eyes of a surprisingly pale blue. Iron gray hair was secured in a mass of dreadlocks, and her hands were heavily tattooed, each finger marked with spidery black symbols. Her thin neck was weighted heavily with amulets of all kinds; one or two looked as if they might be crafted with semi-precious stones, while others seemed to be made of bone.
“Who do you seek?” she asked them croakily. Her voice was deep, and her breath was rank with smoke.
Spencer reached deep into his pocket and drew out the black glove, unable to mask the faint tremble of his hands as he handed it to her. “One who wore this.”
She turned it over in her old hands, brought it close to her face and inhaled deeply, her expression betraying none of her thoughts. “You want his location? His name?”
Spencer licked his lips. “Both. Can you do it?”
“Indeed I can, but will I?” Her gaze flicked from one robed princess to the other. “I don’t do business with those who hide their faces.”
There was a moment of stillness and then he saw Daphne’s pale hand at her hood.
He turned anxiously to her, “I don’t think it’s—”
“It’s alright,” Daphne, displaying more faith in the odd little witch than Spencer could muster, drew back her hood, revealing her damningly aristocratic skin, unmarred by scars, the sun or the pox. To her credit, Mollfrida barely blinked.
“Daphne, daughter of Delwyn, son of Tryphena. And which of your sisters joins us tonight?”
The hair on the back of Spencer’s neck raised at Mollfrida’s faint chuckle as Lorna too pushed back her hood. The witch knew the younger princess immediately. “Lorna. Princess of the Lucretius, youngest save for that poor child in the Haligorn. My humble home is doubly honored this night.” She dipped into a low and creaky curtsy, one that toed a delicate line between heartfelt and mocking. “And who are you, handsome young escort of royalty?”
It was a shock to realize she was talking to him. “Spencer.” His throat was so dry his voice cracked, so he swallowed and tried again. “Spencer Tattersall. My mother, Abigail Tattersall, is a servant at the Castle.”
“Spencer,” Mollfrida’s careful gaze went straight to his face. “Another child of the Haligorn. Tell me about your dreams, son of Abigail. Do you sleep soundly on the edge of the Chasm?”
“My mother and I work hard. Our days are long. Chasm or not, we sleep deepl
y.” He made direct eye contact with her for the first time, determined to show her that he wasn’t afraid.
“Do you like your home here?” Daphne’s tone was quite pointed, and if Spencer hadn’t known better he would have almost thought that she was coming to his defense, drawing the conversation away from him and towards Mollfrida herself.
“It suits me.”
“You’d probably like it better up at the castle.”
“It’s close enough for me. Untroubled sleep is difficult to come by in the castle.”
Spencer knew what she meant, but the sisters had lived there all their lives and knew no other way, so they looked confused.
“What do you mean?” Lorna asked.
Mollfrida crossed to her window and peered out into the night. From where he stood, Spencer could see the bulky outline of the castle, crouched like a beast atop Mount Wulfyddia. “For some time now,” the witch spoke raspily, “I have sensed great pain in that castle. Not from many people, but from one. Someone with great power, whose suffering is also great.”
“A feeling like that can mean nothing good. Pain attracts pain. If I were your grandmother, I’d devote some time to finding whoever is so powerful and so tormented. Something should be done, before the scent of it brings birds of darkness to circle the roost.”
There was a bang, sharp and sudden. Daphne leapt nearly a foot in the air, and Spencer’s heart jumped to his throat. We should never have come here. The thought flashed through his mind even as he was reacting to the shock. A throaty chuckle stopped them in their tracks. Mollfrida was laughing, her mouth open, expelling smoky air with every wheezing laugh. “It’s the cat,” she told them simply, gesturing to the window ledge, where a monstrous tomcat had materialized, fangs bared as he meowed at the glass for admittance. “Shoo now. Shoo! He doesn’t come in unless there’s a storm brewing, and he knows as much, the old beast. He’s waiting for my senility to creep up on me. What a pity for him that I have never felt more,” her eyebrows twitched, “aware.”
Now that their eyes had adjusted to the gloomy lighting, Daphne seemed to be drinking the interior of the cottage in, absorbing every detail. Lorna still looked uncomfortable, and Spencer just wanted what they had come for. “So, you know who the glove belongs to?”
“In good time, Mr. Tattersall.” The Witch turned to the long workbench by the hearth, a jungle of assorted equipment and ingredients. From the chaos she produced a handful of feathers, a mortar and pestle, and two more items that Spencer could not identify. Daphne inhaled excitedly, and Spencer turned to see her watching the witch with utmost fascination.
“I’ve never actually seen Melisande perform any magic.” She said excitedly. Lorna was watching silently, one hand thoughtfully curled under her chin.
Mollfrida hunched over her workbench for a time, muttering to herself. In the hearth, the fire began to flicker and dim. Spencer stood alert, ready for anything, but for a few minutes there was nothing but Mollfrida’s murmuring and the sound of her grinding herbs to dust.
The change, when it came, was abrupt and startling. Mollfrida staggered back from her work bench, head falling back, and Spencer was horrified to see that her irises had gone oddly pale, almost milky, as though she were blind.
“What’s happening?” Daphne murmured, but Spencer held up a hand to silence her.
“Ahh,” Mollfrida sighed suddenly. “Aha.”
“You know who it is?” This time Spencer spoke up, hope blooming in his chest. She could end this nightmare for them.
Mollfrida squinted, her irises still milky. “I see.” She said finally. “You will know.” She held out her hands, which burned brightly with a strange flame like glow. “Here, come here quickly, before it fades. Quickly!” Mollfrida urged when Spencer hesitated, but he was wary to draw any closer to her hands when they shone like embers.
Daphne stepped forward when Spencer flinched, and as a nod passed between the two women, Mollfrida stepped forward and pressed her hand to Daphne’s forehead like a brand. Daphne’s eyes flew open, though whether in pain or shock Spencer could not say.
“I see him! I see him!” She said breathlessly, her eyes open and staring at something that remained unseen to Spencer and Lorna.
“Who is it?” Spencer asked, but before Daphne could respond the witch had rounded on him, clapping her free hand to his forehead.
The vision came to him as swiftly as if he had sunk suddenly into a dream. It was as if he was back in the gloom of the library, though this time his vision was tunnel-like, so that he could see just a narrow path in front of him. A black abyss loomed on the fringes of his vision.
A cloaked man moved stealthily through the shadows and found his way to a locked glass cabinet. Spencer knew immediately which book he would reach for. It was hardly the most remarkable tome on the shelf, but it was the only one with no title, and Spencer recognized it from that first fateful day in the Haligorn. The robed man broke the glass, which cracked strangely, crumbling rather than shattering, perhaps because some spell altered the natural properties of the glass.
Spencer saw everything. He watched the man grab the book and saw the glove catch on the jagged glass. He saw the man tear his bleeding hand from the glove and flee the library, the door opening unexpectedly under his hands despite the magic that Spencer knew protected it. The man fled down some corridor, his shadow lurching on the wall behind him as he retreated rapidly down the hallway.
Spencer did not know the castle well enough to recognize the path the man took. He knew only that the thief was retreating farther and farther into the depths of the castle, with the book clutched tightly to his chest. Finally, he reached some dark, cramped chamber, and the man stopped to hide the book. The man was smiling, triumphant. He stowed the book somewhere in the earthen chamber, and Spencer knew that it had to be there that the sisters had found the book. It was then that the man turned, and Spencer finally recognized him. It was the Fool.
Suddenly it all made sense. Of course none of them had recognized the Fool’s name when the ghost warned them. He did not use his name. At court he was only the Fool. It was all he had ever been to the aristocracy. Spencer wondered how long it had been since Sansano had shed his name and become a caricature. He opened his eyes, and found himself immediately caught in Daphne’s wide gaze. She had taken it harder than Spencer. Her face was white and her voice shook slightly.
“It’s the Fool, Lorna.”
“What?” Lorna looked even more panicked that her sister. “No.” Spencer remembered suddenly her great fear of the Fool. Apparently her instinct was better than either of them had realized, because he was the man they had been warned would come for the book. He was the man who would kill.
“He’s not working alone,” Mollfrida warned them. “Someone helped him escape that library. Someone is protecting him. Someone with power like mine.”
Spencer knew at once who she was referring to. “Felunhala.” Lorna said with great resignation.
“Ssshh!” Spencer rarely saw Daphne flustered, but she was completely unnerved then, and obviously didn’t want her sister saying anything more in front of the witch. Daphne fumbled with the pockets of her cloak, her fingers shaking slightly. “How much for your services?”
“I couldn’t charge the granddaughters of my Queen. What sort of patriot would I be?”
“Oh, surely you’ll accept some token?”
“No. I have no need for a token. Go home, princess of Wulfyddia, and attend to the snakes in your garden.”
“We should talk to the Librarian.” Lorna murmured.
“Not likely,” Daphne hissed back.
“Thank you,” Spencer said again, since the sisters apparently didn’t realize that one did not accept the complementary services of a witch without thanking her profusely for it. Royalty or not, it would not behoove the princesses to upset a practitioner such as Mollfrida. “Thanks so much.”
“Hmm.” Mollfrida responded. She watched them leave, and it was only as th
ey were letting themselves out of her cottage that she spoke. “Children,” she called after them, and there was something chilling in her tone. “Children, be sure you proceed carefully with what you’ve learned here tonight. This night has raised the stakes. From now on, any misstep could be deadly.”
“Of course,” Daphne ducked her head compliantly, and Spencer was startled by her acquiescence.
“And, if I were you, I’d find the one whose soul is crying out, or sooner or later someone will answer for it.”
***
So absorbed were they by the witch’s revelation that they did not see the man who followed them from the shadows. He treaded in their footsteps as they slipped from the rough streets of the Bottoms to the cobblestones of Midtown, and they did not lose him until the moat, which he dared not cross. But he stood there, with the black looming Haligorn at his back, and watched their little vessel as they traversed the seething water. It was only when they had vanished into the Castle that he emerged from the shadows. The full moon shone down on him and gleamed off of a locket clutched in his hand, gripped so tightly that the chain had imprinted itself in angry red on the skin of his palm.
Only then did he seem to recall that it was in his hand, and he stared down at it emotionlessly. Force of habit made him open the locket to read the words inscribed there, though he had long since committed them to memory. First, though, he spared a glance at the portrait, a stunningly crafted miniature painted in extraordinary detail on the inside of the locket, opposite the inscription. It depicted a serious-eyed young woman with dark hair and a pleasing face. Her cheekbones were high, and she could be said to have a noble brow, which was amusing because the woman in the portrait was of common birth.
Then, only then, he turned his gaze to the inscription, and the words that were seared into his memory.
Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) Page 10
