“Even if she’s leading us off a cliff?” demanded Ivy. “We’ve been fooling ourselves, Matt. If Betony could watch her own brother getting sicker every day and put it all down to brooding and overwork, what kind of evidence will convince her? She’s not a torch leading us out of the darkness, Matt. She’s more like—like a great stubborn boulder, blocking out all the light.”
As soon as Ivy finished the sentence, she knew she’d gone too far. Jenny had turned so pale that even her lips were ashen, while Mattock’s face was darker than she’d ever seen it.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he told her. “This time. But don’t ever say it again.” He climbed to his feet. “Come on, Jenny. We’re done here.”
“Matt,” pleaded Ivy, but he shook his head.
“I can’t listen to treason, Ivy. Not even from you. Jenny, are you coming or not?”
Jenny smoothed her crumpled skirts, not looking at him. Then she said quietly, “No. You can leave if you want, but I’m staying.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can, and I will.” She got to her feet. “Ivy’s right, Matt. The Joan may be powerful, but she’s only one woman, and there are more than two hundred piskeys in the Delve who deserve better than she’s willing to give. If we can’t move Betony, we need to go around her. It’s the only way.”
“It’s too dangerous. If you’re caught speaking against the Joan—”
“I’m not a fool, Matt. I know what happens to people who cross her.” She moved closer to Ivy and took her hand. “But that’s why I have to do this, don’t you see? After all Ivy did to save the Delve from Gillian, and all she’s suffered because of it—no one could blame her if she’d gone off to join the faeries, or even the spriggans! But here she is, risking her life to help us. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
Mattock didn’t answer.
“We owe her, Matt. We can’t let her do this alone.” She spoke softly now, with a hint of reproach. “And you don’t really want to, do you?”
Mattock shoved his hands through his hair. He paced around the fire, stood a moment staring out of the adit, then turned back. “I’ve done my best to talk you both out of this,” he said. “I don’t want to see a noose around your necks, any more than I want it around mine. But all right.”
“So you won’t try to stop us?” asked Ivy.
“I should hope I’m good for more than that,” said Matt. “I may be cautious, but I’m no coward. If you’re really convinced that going against Betony’s the only way to do this…” His hand dropped to the hilt of his hunter’s knife. “Then I’m with you.”
“There’s nothing written on this. Where do I put it?” Ivy’s little sister blew a stray curl from her forehead and hefted the box in her arms, looking unsteady enough to drop it any minute. Hastily Ivy set down her own load and moved to help her.
“Those are plates, Cicely,” she chided, “you shouldn’t be carrying anything so heavy. Here, give it to me.”
“Why? I’m as big as you are, or nearly.” She twisted away before Ivy could take the box from her. “Just tell me where to put it. I’m fine.”
She was in a snappish mood, and Ivy couldn’t blame her: the two piskey-girls had ended up doing all the work of carrying things into the house, while their mother and David Menadue stood by the moving van and talked. But Molly’s father looked even more sober than usual and Marigold was wiping her eyes, so it didn’t seem right to interrupt them.
“Take it to the kitchen, then,” said Ivy resignedly.
Tired as she felt, she couldn’t really complain; the move had gone well on the whole. Mr. Menadue had called Marigold halfway through the week, offering to rent a mover’s van and drive it over for them. Molly had spent most of yesterday afternoon with Ivy and Cicely, showing them how to look after Dodger while she was gone; the only reason she wasn’t helping them now was because she was in the barn with him, saying goodbye.
Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Molly returned, and with her help the work was soon finished. “They’re talking about Mum, you know,” she said to Ivy as they stood at the front window, watching their parents walk slowly across the garden. “And your dad.”
“I know,” said Ivy. Marigold and Gillian had been friends once, so she would understand David Menadue’s grief better than most. And she was good at talking to humans—really talking, as though she was one of them herself. “I don’t mind.”
The front door opened, and the two adults came in. Marigold’s eyes were still a little red from weeping, but she smiled as she made her way past the boxes to join them. “Where’s Cicely?” she asked.
“In my room,” Molly told her. “I think she’s trying to decide which half she likes best. Have you seen Mar—I mean Mr.—” She stopped, flustered, and shot Ivy a pleading look. Apparently she had no idea what name Martin was using.
“Richards,” supplied her father. “I suppose he had you call him by his first name in class?” He turned to Ivy’s mother. “Do you do that with your dance students, Marigold?”
“No, indeed,” she said with a little laugh. “They call me Mrs. Flint. And that must be Martin now.”
Ordinarily Ivy would have been skeptical, since all she could see through the front window was a car, and she was sure Martin didn’t know how to drive. But the copper bracelet had been growing warmer all morning, and when the back door of the cab opened and that silver-blond head appeared, there could be no doubt.
“Well, that’s it then,” said David, managing to sound both cheerful and faintly disappointed. He took a pair of keys from his pocket and handed them to Marigold. “There’s the house and the barn for you.”
Not even six years of living among humans could make a faery comfortable saying thank you, but Marigold managed to convey her gratitude with a smile. “We’ll take good care of the place,” she said.
Martin leaped lightly onto the step and stood in the open doorway, surveying them all with interest. “I didn’t expect such a large welcoming party,” he said. “Have I been especially good, or especially wicked?”
There was something different about him, and Ivy wasn’t sure she liked it. Not that she could find any fault with his appearance, in fact quite the opposite: he looked as healthy and well-groomed as she’d ever seen him. His eyes sparkled like piskey-wine, and a smile teased about his lips. But instinct warned her not to be fooled by first impressions.
“Not especially either,” said Marigold. “Just late enough to avoid all the hard work, as usual.” That surprised Ivy: her mother didn’t usually speak so bluntly, or with such dry humor. “Where are your things?”
“I have no things,” Martin replied, gesturing grandly. “I eat the air, promise-crammed; you cannot feed capons so.”
“You’ve been to the theater!” exclaimed Molly. “Was it Hamlet? Where?” But her father tapped his wristwatch.
“I told Harry I’d have his van back by noon,” he said, “and we’ve got a long drive ahead of us. Say goodbye to your friends, Molly.” He shook Martin’s hand, clasped Marigold’s, and went out.
Cicely came galloping out of the bedroom. “You’re leaving already?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Molly. “I’ve already missed a week of school as it is.” She turned to Martin. “I really appreciate all you’ve done,” she said. “I’ll never forget it.”
Martin dismissed this with an airy wave. “It was Ivy’s idea,” he said. “I just went along with her, as usual.”
“Not just that,” Molly said. “I mean everything. If you hadn’t told me I was a born actress, and that I shouldn’t let anyone, not even Mum, tell me otherwise…” She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. “Take good care of yourself. I don’t want anything to happen to my faery godfather.”
Cicely giggled, but Martin did not smile. He made Molly a slight, respectful bow, and stepped back to let her pass.
“Come to the van with me?” Molly asked Ivy, and the two of them headed outside. The
human girl paused, watching the house until the front door shut. Then she said, “I wasn’t sure whether I should say anything about this. It’s probably nothing. But the last few days, I’ve had an odd feeling that someone’s looking for me.”
That was odd. “Is it a good feeling? Or a bad one?”
“I couldn’t tell at first,” Molly said. “That’s why I didn’t mention it before. I thought it might be something to do with Mum, you know… missing her, and wondering…” She cleared her throat. “Anyway. But now I don’t think that’s what it is. It feels more like—like somebody creeping up on me from behind.”
“You mean to hurt you?”
Molly nodded. “I’m probably being silly, but—”
“No, you were right to tell me.” Ivy frowned, thinking. Molly had no real magic of her own, but being half faery made her more perceptive than the average human. She might be sensing some ill intent directed toward her—an envious schoolmate or mean-spirited neighbor, for instance. But if so, the feeling would surely go away once she’d put some distance between herself and the village.
“Could you send me a message, once you’re settled at school?” Ivy asked. “And let me know if you still feel the same way?”
The human girl nodded eagerly. “I’ll ring you. First chance I get.”
“Molly!” shouted David. “Hurry up! It’s almost twelve!”
Molly made a face. “I’d better go.” She gave Ivy a hug. “Take care of yourself. And him.” Then she ran and jumped in beside her father. The last Ivy saw she was leaning out the window, waving madly with both hands, as the van drove away.
When Ivy came back into the house Martin was lounging in the front room, surveying the boxes piled about the floor. “Your mother and sister appear to have accumulated a surprising number of things,” he said. “More trouble than they’re worth, I’d say. Where are you going to put them all?”
There wasn’t that much clutter: in fact Mr. Menadue had been surprised at how few belongings Marigold possessed. But Ivy could tell Martin wasn’t really interested in the question.
“Where have you been?” she asked, trying not to sound accusing. He still had that strange, flighty air about him, and if she pressed him too hard he might disappear again.
“Here and there.” He waved a hand in the same vague, theatrical gesture as before. “Where the bee sucks, there suck I. Why, did you miss me?”
Ivy decided to ignore that. “I have something to tell you,” she said, pulling a box close to the sofa and sitting down on it. Marigold and Cicely were banging about in the kitchen looking for the teakettle, so they wouldn’t be likely to overhear. “I had two more dreams about the spriggan boy. Martin, I think he must be your ancestor.”
The lazy humor vanished from his face. He sat up, intent. “Tell me,” he said, so Ivy did.
“But since I saw the fogou destroyed the second time,” she said, “I haven’t had any more dreams. So maybe that’s the end.”
“I wonder,” murmured Martin. “Maybe that was all I needed to know, but…” He shook himself back to attention. “Well, if you do start dreaming again, tell me.”
“That might be difficult if you plan to go on being here and there, as you put it.” This time Ivy didn’t hide her impatience; if he’d had time to see a play and get his hair trimmed, he could have at least let her know he’d got back safe from London. “But if it happens, and when I see you, I’ll try.”
“Do they upset you? The dreams?”
He spoke gently, and Ivy was disarmed. “Not… exactly,” she said. “I’ve seen a few things that made me uncomfortable, but…”
She hesitated. Had she ever put it this way before, even to herself? “I’m not afraid of spriggans anymore. I just wish I knew why my people hate them so much.”
“So do I,” said Martin. “In the past three days I’ve spent more time in pubs than I care to think about, listening to every droll-teller and yarn-spinner I could find. But all they could tell me about spriggans was that they’re ugly little dwarfs who bring bad luck and bad weather.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “That, and a few mildly diverting tales about someone’s great-great-granduncle who went treasure-hunting by moonlight, or took an ill-advised shortcut after a few pints, and ended up with a spriggan horde chasing him all the way home.”
Guilt pricked at Ivy. Even if he had gone to the theater, she should have known Martin hadn’t been idle. He couldn’t forget his people any more than she could forget hers. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But at least you were able to sell the treasure—or were you?”
“What? Oh. Yes.” He seemed preoccupied now, flicking loose threads off the upholstery. “Yes, the trip was… fairly profitable. You should have enough to keep you for another two months at least.”
He always said you when talking about the house, never us. Ivy had to wonder if he meant to spend any time here at all. “I talked to Matt and Jenny again,” she began, “but—”
“Did somebody say Jenny?” Cicely poked her head around the corner, brown eyes wide. “You saw her? When?”
Ivy cast a desperate look at Martin. She couldn’t lie to her little sister, but she didn’t want her getting involved in the conspiracy either. And if Cicely guessed that Ivy was meeting Jenny and Mattock outside the Delve, it would be impossible to keep her away.
“Your sister was telling me about a friend of hers back in the Delve,” said Martin mildly. “Tell me, sweetling, is eavesdropping a family tradition, or just an unfortunate personal habit?”
Cicely turned pink, and immediately withdrew. Ivy let out her breath. “Come on,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you the rest outside.”
“If you ask me,” said Martin, “you and your friends are far less likely to start a revolution than you are to get yourselves killed.”
He was leaning against the wall of the barn, well away from Dodger—the bay gelding had no love for Martin, and the feeling was mutual. Ivy stopped combing the horse’s mane and started braiding it. “Why? Don’t you think my people are capable of thinking for themselves?”
“I have no idea what they’re capable of,” Martin replied. “Apart from murdering my ancestors in droves, apparently, but you tell me piskeys don’t do that sort of thing anymore.” He plucked a bit of straw from his sleeve. “But you underestimate how little imagination most magical folk have, and how reluctant they are to change. Why do you think the Empress was able to seize power so quickly, and hold onto it so long? The first generation of faeries she conquered couldn’t adapt quickly enough to stop her, and the generation that grew up under her rule didn’t know how to live any other way.”
“But someone did rise up against her in the end,” said Ivy. “Rob and his rebels. You told him he’d never succeed either, but he did.”
Martin pushed himself off the wall with an impatient thrust of his shoulders. “Only because he and all his followers agreed that the Empress was a cruel, selfish tyrant, and were prepared to fight her to the death. You don’t have that advantage, and from what you’ve told me, you never will.”
“So what are you saying?” demanded Ivy. “That I should just sit back and let my people die?”
“What I’m saying is, don’t set your heart on saving them. They may not want to be saved.”
Ivy clenched her jaw. “I think you give up on people too easily.”
“And I think you don’t give up on them even when you should.” He walked closer, careful to stay out of Dodger’s reach as the horse snorted and bared his teeth. “The problem is, your plan’s too weak. Even if your friends manage to convince a few piskeys—or a few dozen—to sneak outside behind Betony’s back, it’s only going to be a matter of time before she finds out and puts a stop to it.”
“Not if there are enough of us,” said Ivy.
“It’ll never be enough, unless you’re ready for a battle. As long as your Joan is alive, she will always be the most powerful piskey in the Delve, and there will always be at least a few people wh
o are loyal or fearful enough to do whatever she tells them. You can’t change your people’s whole way of life just by talking.”
“I am not going to kill my aunt,” said Ivy angrily. “Or ask anyone else to kill her, either. She’s arrogant and stubborn and judgmental, and she’s hurt people I care about, and I hate—I hate the choices she’s made. But she hasn’t done anything to deserve that.”
“Maybe not,” said Martin. “Yet. But as soon as she suspects someone’s plotting against her, she’ll do whatever it takes to weed out that treachery and make sure it doesn’t happen again. In which case exile will be the best your friends can hope for. But I doubt she’ll settle for less than execution, especially if she finds out you’re involved.”
Ivy clutched at Dodger’s mane. “What? That doesn’t make sense. Why would she kill Matt or Jenny because of me?”
“Because you’ll have proven to her that an banished enemy can still be a threat. You really ought to read Richard II, you know, or better yet see it performed. Shakespeare can be quite illuminating.”
Shakespeare again. Ivy had never heard of the man except from Martin, but she was already sick of him.
“Even if you’re right,” she said, swinging her leg over Dodger’s back and dropping to the straw, “there’s nothing I can do. I can’t go into the Delve myself, so I have to let Matt and Jenny do as they think best, in their own time and in their own way.”
“You’re not doing them any favors,” said Martin. “They need a strong leader.”
“I am not anyone’s leader!” Ivy snapped. She walked out the half-door and shut it behind her, then folded her arms. “Yes, the other piskeys followed me once—just once—when I led them all out of the Delve. But only because Betony was trapped in the Claybane, and they could see the smoke coming, and they were desperate enough to follow the first person who offered to help them. It had nothing to do with me!”
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