by Jeff Wheeler
Only it didn’t.
The estate had stopped falling.
Cettie willed the Leerings to shine, and they did. A fog seemed to linger in the air, but the dust began to settle. No one had kept on their feet. Her heart jumped into her throat when she saw Stephen was grievously injured. He lay still, a giant piece of plaster or stone next to his head. She saw the blood pooling around his head, saw the ragged fall of his chest, heard the wheezing of his breath. The dust made her want to sneeze.
Her mind flashed to another day, another injured young man. Joses. He had died in front of her. Her memory of that day was dagger-sharp from the Dryad’s magic. She could remember every smell, the feeling of the cool mist on her face, the terror as the beast hovered over her, the anguish at her failure to save her friend.
Was she to lose Stephen in the same way?
Fumbling with her dress, she reached into the secret pocket in her vest. There, inside a watertight pouch, she withdrew the little stub of Everoot she’d been given at the poisoner school. She pressed it against Stephen’s bleeding scalp. It might not be enough. It wouldn’t be if he were already gone. She didn’t beg for Stephen’s life, although she wanted to.
Your will be done, she said, closing her eyes, holding the small patch of moss to the wound.
She felt the Everoot’s magic fill the air, its song thrilling and lovely beyond description. The wound closed over, and she could see color rise to her almost-brother’s chalky brow.
Stephen sat up, as others were beginning to do. He touched his forehead and looked surprised to see his fingers weren’t stained with crimson.
He looked at Cettie and smiled weakly.
“You saved us,” he whispered.
The intruder arrived after midnight. The hospital admits serious injuries at all hours, so this was not a surprise. That he ended up in my office, holding a pistol to my face, stunned me. He was a rough man, a man with scars riddling his cheeks and upper lip. His eyes were filled with a fervor that bordered on madness. I stared into those eyes, trying my best to keep calm, and it struck me that I’d seen them before. Had I passed this man on the streets? Had someone he loved died in my care? Why would he want revenge on me?
I asked him what he wanted. He said he’d come to kill me, to put a bullet in my brain. I told him, calmly as I could, that a bullet wouldn’t kill me. That he should put the weapon down. Smirking, he told me that his bullet would. He knew I was a maston, and he’d killed many of us. I realized then that this was no ordinary drunkard or poppy slave of the Fells. He knew of the Mysteries. And that meant that his pistol, likely from the other world, would indeed kill me.
I asked him why he wanted me to die. That was the last question I asked, for then I held my breath. The Leerings in my chamber, connected to the estate of Fog Willows, were already at work, bringing in purer air from the clouds. I reversed the Leering, sending the air in the room away.
All the while those eyes stared at me. He was going to kill me. He would relish it. He said he was killing me because of Cettie. That she had sent him to murder me. How did that make me feel, he wondered, to know that she had sunk so low? I did not respond. I was holding my breath.
Until he collapsed on the floor, unconscious.
—Adam Creigh, Killingworth Hospital
SERA
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE FELLS
A knock sounded on the door. Sera strained against the ropes securing her wrists and ankles, but the gag stuffed in her mouth prevented her from screaming. Through the crack in the door of the closet where she’d been imprisoned, she could see Joanna, still in her nightdress, standing by the door. Lady Corinne nodded to her once and then vanished without a trace, wrapped in magic.
Joanna undid several buttons on her nightdress, mussed up her hair, and then opened the door with a feigned lethargy.
“Yes?” she mumbled and then stiffened in feigned surprise.
“P-pardon, miss. I mean, I beg your pardon, Miss Patchett.”
“Who are you?” Joanna asked, stifling a yawn. She stood in the doorway, blocking the view of the darkened interior. There was enough light streaming in from the hallway for Sera to see Joanna’s face, but not that of the man she was talking to.
“I didn’t know you were here . . . I mean, I’m terribly sorry. I have orders, miss, to search every room. I’ve been down all the rooms on this side. This was the last one. I’m sorry, miss, but I need to search it.”
“You need to search my room?” Joanna said. If Sera had not known better, she would have believed the girl was truly confused. “You have a dragoon’s jacket.”
“Yes, miss. I-I am a dragoon.”
“What’s your name?” Joanna asked, inclining her neck. She flicked some hair off her shoulder. Sera bit into the gag, trying to grunt—anything that would reveal herself.
“My name is Baird, if you please. It’s my duty, miss. I must inspect every room, every closet.”
A throb of fear welled in Sera’s heart. Though she wished more than anything to be freed, she knew this young man would have no hope of rescuing her. Lady Corinne would kill him—if the girl posing as Joanna did not do so first. His life meant nothing to them. Sera wrestled against her bonds, but they’d tied her up securely.
Why was Gimmerton Sough being searched? Had a servant gotten word to the Ministry of War?
Go away, Sera thought to the dragoon, willing him to hear her. Forsake your duty this once. You cannot save me. You will die if you come into this room. There are two of them. You will die. Go. Please go!
“If you must, Mr. Baird,” the girl posing as Joanna said, opening the door wide, letting more light spill into the dark room. “Do you have a rank? My brother was a dragoon, you know.” Her voice had a sultry quality to it now.
Sera watched as the young officer took a step forward. She saw the shine of the polish on his black boots. His blue dragoon jacket. He had fiery red hair and a look of worry on his flushed cheeks. As well he should.
Please go. Please go! Sera willed, gazing at him through the crack. Go!
He hesitated on the threshold, his head cocked sideways.
Joanna stood at the edge of the door. Although Lady Corinne was invisible, Sera imagined she was poised nearby with a dagger, ready to pounce on the young man as soon as he entered the darkened chamber. Sera’s insides writhed with worry. She stared at the soldier’s innocent face. This was a young recruit, hardly a man at all. So many had already died in the war, the soldiers were getting younger and younger. He’d probably just passed the Test at one of the abbeys of the realm.
Please, heed me! Sera thought. Go. Leave. You must.
“Aren’t you going to come in?” Joanna asked, a little smile lighting up her face.
The young man was clearly racked with indecision. Did he hear her, or was he merely reacting to the social prohibition that prevented women and men from being alone together.
His cheeks were still aflame with color. Was it embarrassment or some other reaction? Sera couldn’t tell, but she willed him to step back into the corridor.
“I’ll be back later, miss,” he said, then retreated into the hall where Sera no longer could see him. “I think you should dress first, miss. And I’ll bring my officer with me. Sorry to disturb your sleep.”
Sera exhaled her pent-up breath, nearly sobbing in relief. Joanna stood at the precipice, and Sera could see she was wrestling with what to do next.
“Lieutenant!” the young man shouted out in the hall. “Lieutenant, can you come here, please?”
“Allow me to change,” Joanna said, then shut and locked the door. Once she’d done so, she lit a lamp and set it on the table. Lady Corinne reappeared, a dark look on her face.
“He wouldn’t come in,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “Foolish boy,” she added with derision.
Wise boy, Sera countered in her mind.
Joanna looked around in frustration. “This is Rand’s room. I need a dress.”
Lady C
orinne cocked her head. “We’re running out of time. They’re coming.”
“Who?” Joanna asked.
“Mrs. Pullman just told me that the Fitzroy tempest has landed in the yard.” She paused, her head still inclined. “It’s Stephen Fitzroy. And she has come too.”
“Really?” Joanna asked in excitement.
Who did they mean? Anna? Lady Maren?
“It’s time to leave,” Lady Corinne said. “Get your bag.”
Not again, Sera thought in despair. Her rescuers were practically standing outside the door. She was grateful the young man had retreated, but she wished he would return with more soldiers. With his lieutenant and Stephen and enough men and women to defeat her captors.
Corinne opened the closet door, and she and Joanna grabbed Sera’s arms and hauled her to her feet. With her ankles tied together, she wobbled, her knees weakened by the strain of her position on the floor.
“Where are we going?” Joanna asked.
“Somewhere they won’t search. Somewhere they can’t search. We need to bide our time and arrange for the right leverage. But first, we must cut off a stray thread.”
“Who? Mrs. Pullman?”
Lady Corinne nodded. “I’ve wanted to see her die for years. Ever since . . .” She stopped herself, perhaps seeing Joanna’s hungry look, and swallowed the secret. Sera wondered at the crack in composure. Corinne had lost the self-control she’d shown at Pavenham Sky. Her secrets were starting to spill out now after having been bottled up so long.
Why did Corinne hate Mrs. Pullman? It was an unintentional slip, but Sera had caught it and clung to it.
“What are you going to do?” Joanna asked.
“Let Gimmerton Sough fall,” Lady Corinne said with malice in her voice.
Joanna’s eyed widened with awe and respect. “How?”
“I own the deed of this place,” she said. “The keeper works for me. Her mind is so wrapped up in knots, she’ll want to die. She knows she’d be tried for murder anyway. Why not die now, on her terms, destroying her enemy as well?”
Her enemy. Who was Mrs. Pullman’s enemy? Cettie? Could she be the woman who’d arrived with Stephen?
Did that mean her friend was still faithful to her? Hope flickered to life in her heart but was quickly doused by the realization that Cettie and Stephen and all the soldiers in the manor might be about to die. She wished more than anything to buck and fight, but it would do no good. If she truly hoped to defeat them, she would wait for her opening.
“Here, on the bed,” Lady Corinne said. The two wrestled Sera to the edge, keeping their tight, punishing grip on her arms as they made her sit. Lady Corinne drew the Tay al-Ard from a pocket in her skirts. Joanna eyed it hungrily. There was competition between the two women, she realized. Yes, they worked for the same ends. For now. But Sera could sense a deeper rivalry. Lady Corinne’s fame and power had waned while Joanna Patchett’s had risen. No one wanted to give up power or influence, even if it was simply part of a cover.
Sera waited, wishing she didn’t have the gag in her mouth. She heard voices beyond the door. Were the soldiers conferring with each other? They were waiting for Miss Patchett to dress. How long would they wait before they knocked again?
How much time passed, Sera didn’t know. Minutes? A quarter hour? More? But then light began to flicker beneath the door. Lady Corinne glanced at Joanna with a secret smile.
Sera’s stomach lurched as Gimmerton Sough began to plummet. Cries of worry and alarm filled the air. Bodies thumped against the door, then the wall. Joanna’s eyes glowed with silver light. The manor was rushing down, ready to shatter on the plain below. Sera feared for her friends, she feared that the landing would cause another earthquake for her people. The damage wrought by Pavenham Sky’s fall was still felt, a year later.
Joanna’s grip on Sera’s arm tightened. And then the Tay al-Ard yanked them away, adding to the delirium of confusion. They were gone.
When they arrived at their destination, the sudden horrible smell was overpowering. Sera remembered this stench from her time in the house on Kelper Street. Some days, especially after it had rained, she would get a whiff of it while walking past the vents that led to the cesspits below the houses. The smell of sewage and trash had a strange, sickly sweet stench, one that instinctively made her want to gag and cover her nose with a handkerchief. In other parts of the City, she knew, the smell was unbearable.
This—this was so much worse.
They were standing on a little narrow square of wood at the bottom of a set of stairs. Lanterns hung from hooks on the walls, casting light on the support timbers and floorboards above their heads. The sound of rakes scraping through sludge sent shivers down Sera’s back. Human filth covered the ground, which created such a noxious vapor the air was almost unbreathable. Sera felt her gorge rising but couldn’t cover her mouth with the bonds and gag.
There were grunts from a man, followed by the loud bark of an order, then a slap and the cry of a child.
“What is this awful place?” Joanna said, a look of horror and disgust on her face. She turned to Lady Corinne in surprise.
Sera looked at her as well and did a double take. A different woman was standing there. Gone was the prim and composed look of Lady Corinne of Pavenham Sky. This woman, though still handsome, was quite a bit older, with silver in her hair and wrinkled skin around her eyes.
“Ack! Visituhs!” shouted a grimy man as he approached them, dragging a shovel or rake behind him.
“Mr. Trimble,” Corinne said with a slight bow.
The man was filthy from head to foot. Muck was splattered on his pants, his boots. He wore gloves, but they were the working kind, not the velvet sort favored by the upper classes. His long beard was caked with the filth, and as he extended his arms wide, he showed them a grin that was missing at least one tooth.
“It can’t be her!” he bellowed with a nasty look. The right part of his head was shaved, and his long dark hair and beard were riddled with gray. His eyes had a cunning look. “Thar she is! My precious Tyna has returned home! Look how fancy you are! Is this a social call?” He leered at them.
Sera felt her skin crawl.
“I need to use the lockroom, Trimble,” Corinne said. “Just for a day or two.”
“What? Only a day or two? You haven’t brought me more workers?” He ambled up the few steps to the landing and leaned his rake against the wall. His boots were oily in addition to being filthy. He looked over Sera with a sneer and grabbed her chin with his befouled gloves. “Who is this pretty little bird, eh? All trussed up and gagged. Look at her face. Did her father carve her up like this?” He laughed, and Sera felt a hideous sensation swell in the room, more powerful even than the stench.
“The lockroom, if you please,” said Lady Corinne.
“Of course, of course! I could put her to work, you know, Tyna. Make her scrape the muck like the children. You can’t know how hard it is to find workers now with this cursed war on. Mostly girls on my crew now anyway. How old is this one, seventeen? I like ’em young.”
He leered at her again, and Sera shuddered. Glancing at Joanna, Sera saw the other girl had a growing look of revulsion. Joanna did not look contented to be there. Her eyes narrowed with distrust.
So this was not part of the plan, then. Sera would try to use that.
“This way, my dears. You follow Mr. Trimble this way. Watch your step, if you can!” He cackled with glee and tromped down, hoisting his awful rake and trying to clear a path ahead.
“Cut her ankles loose,” Lady Corinne ordered.
Joanna reached inside her bag and withdrew a gleaming dagger. She crouched by Sera’s feet, wincing at the specks of filth that had already collected on their persons. She sliced through the bonds, freeing Sera’s legs at last.
“Walk,” Corinne ordered, pushing her down the steps. Sera’s hands and mouth were still bound, and she had little choice but to follow. As she gazed down at the miserable gallery, she saw children scra
ping the muck. Some as young as seven or eight years old. They were filthy, their faces smeared beyond recognition, their clothes soiled. It struck her that they were made to work at night so that people wouldn’t see them. This work was the lowest of the low. Her heart ached at the realization that her programs for the poor had not gone far enough. Young children should not be doing this sort of work. And then she noticed that each had an ankle chain, and the chains were fixed to rings that lined the support posts.
Were they in the City? Or the Fells?
Mr. Trimble escorted them to a room with a door made of iron. He pulled out a large ring of keys and jiggled one of them into the lock at the door. As he pulled it open, the hinges squeaked and groaned. Some of the children shuddered and looked away from the terrible noise, working with their little rakes to clear the sludge.
Joanna was walking in her slippers, wincing with utter contempt with each step she took. The pretty silk was soiled and soaked through. It was obvious she cared much less for this assignment than she had impersonating the fashionable Joanna Patchett. By the time they reached the room, Mr. Trimble had already lit a candle. The horrible stench clung to Sera’s skin, her clothes.
“Welcome to the lockroom,” he said, setting his rake aside as he swung the door open. There were chains fastened to the walls, pegs holding manacles of different sizes, most of them small but many large enough for adult men. The floor was dirty cement. He went to a wall and, wrinkling his nose, picked one. “There . . . this should fit ’er. Do you mean to lock up both of ’em?”
“I am not staying here,” Joanna said under her breath.
“Yes, you are. We’ll discuss it later,” Corinne shot back.
“Come in, come in.” Trimble gestured with his hands. Sera entered the dark cell. There were no windows, no light at all except for the half-melted candle. There were no Leerings at all in there, or in the cesspit.
