Nomad

by R. J. Anderson

  It took Ivy some time to locate the train station, and even longer before she figured out how to get the information she needed. Her ears burned with humiliation when she had to confess to the man at the ticket window that she didn’t understand any of the railway maps and timetables, and the impatient mutters of the people in line behind her made her feel even worse. But once she’d learned that the trains to London ran several times a day, the journey would take five or six hours, and she could easily buy a ticket with the money Ralph Pendennis had given her, Ivy was glad she’d made the effort.

  Still, she couldn’t leave straight away: she’d have to stop at home first, or her family would worry about her. How she’d explain to Marigold that she needed to be gone for a day or more, Ivy wasn’t sure yet—but at least she could change into dry clothes while she was thinking about it. She slipped up the street to the doorway of an abandoned shop, and willed herself back to the house.

  The instant she materialized in the barn, she knew something was wrong. Dodger was prancing restlessly in his box, nostrils flared and dark eyes rimmed with white. He snorted at the sight of her, and let out a fearful whinny.

  “Shh,” said Ivy, shoving her pack under an old feed bucket and hurrying to soothe him. “It’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you.” She blew in his nostrils and patted his shivering neck until he quieted, then unlatched the box door and glanced inside. But Cicely had done a thorough job of mucking it out that morning, and there were no rats or snakes hiding in the straw that Ivy could see.

  Still, it wasn’t like Dodger to be so skittish. Ivy shut the box stall, looking around the barn for other signs of trouble. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so she gave the horse a farewell pat and headed outside.

  All seemed quiet as she crossed the yard, the house as peaceful as ever. But when she passed the kitchen window a sweet, sickly smell wafted toward her, thicker and more cloying with every step. Had Cicely left something on to burn? Ivy broke into a run, sprinting up the path to the front door. It was locked.

  “Cicely!” she shouted, fumbling for her key. “Mum! Are you there?” She unlocked the door, shoved it open—and the stench of charred something billowed out. It curled like a black, slimy worm around Ivy’s tonsils and oozed down the back of her throat, burning as it went. Ivy clutched the doorframe and her stomach at the same time, afraid she was going to be sick.

  “Mum!” she coughed. The blood was pounding in her ears, but beneath its pulse she could hear a chuckle of running water—or was that someone sobbing? She groped across the front room, dimly noting the scorch-marks around the kitchen entrance, the bubbled paint and blackened tiles beyond, the smoky tang of burnt wood mingling with that hideous nightmare odor.

  Then Cicely emerged like a ghost from the hallway, all white face and staring eyes. One braid was soaked, her right arm dripping to the elbow, and her clothes were streaked with ashes and blood. She opened her mouth and closed it again, then whirled and dashed back the way she’d come. Speechless with dread, Ivy chased her down the corridor to the bathroom.

  Water streamed into the bath, gurgling in the half-plugged drain. Marigold lay in the tub with her back to them, her whole body trembling. She did not move as they entered, but Ivy could hear the harsh rattle of her breathing.

  “Mum,” whispered Ivy, clutching the sink for support. From this angle she couldn’t see how bad Marigold’s injuries might be, but the clumps of burnt hair floating around her and the pinkish-grey color of the water confirmed Ivy’s worst fears. There’d been an accident, and her mother had been horribly burned.

  “I did everything she told me,” Cicely blurted, though she was shaking almost as much as Marigold. “She said water and she said bath and she said don’t tell the humans, don’t let them take me away. And I had to smash the thing on the ceiling because it kept screaming and I couldn’t make it stop—”

  Ivy snatched her little sister into an embrace, clutching her wet head against her shoulder. “You did right,” she told her. “If you’d called the neighbors they’d have taken her to the hospital, and that’s not a safe place for magical folk.” She released Cicely and wrapped a towel around her for warmth. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Cicely sniffed. “I took Dodger for a ride after you left and I was gone for maybe an hour, when I got back I took off his saddle and rubbed him dry and put everything away like you showed me, but all of a sudden he started whinnying and prancing like he was scared, and it took ages to calm him down. And when I came back to the house the door was open and everything smelled of smoke, and Mum was… just lying…” She buried her face in her hands.

  Ivy knelt beside the bath, stroking the remnants of her mother’s hair. Even on her good side it felt dry and brittle, and bits of it came away in her hands. She’d learned a little about treating burns from Yarrow, enough to know that Marigold would need to drink plenty of water to make up for all the moisture she’d lost, and that her wounds would have to be cleaned and packed with honey before any dressings went on. But if the burns went deep or covered a large area of her skin, not even Ivy and Cicely’s best care could save her—without magical intervention, their mother would die.

  “I’m so sorry, Mum,” Ivy said brokenly. “If I’d known this could happen…”

  The water sloshed as Marigold rolled over. The right side of her face was livid with burns, her shoulder red and blistered beneath the singed remnants of her sleeve. She fumbled for Ivy’s hand and groped up her arm, tugging her closer.

  “What is it?” asked Ivy, leaning down to listen—and with that, Marigold’s fingers brushed her temple.

  —not here? Where is she? Tell me at once, or—

  —faery witch, I’ll make you regret the day you crossed me—

  Shocked, Ivy jerked away, and Marigold’s hand fell. But though their contact had lasted only an instant, the memories her mother had shown her were seared deep into her mind. She stumbled back from the tub, shaking with rage and horror, sick at the knowledge that the house she’d believed safe and the family she’d thought protected were no longer safe or protected at all.

  Because Betony had found the house and tricked her way inside, looking for Molly. And when Ivy’s mother refused to cooperate… the Joan had burned her.

  “Ivy?” asked Cicely. “What’s wrong? Why are you angry?”

  Anger was hardly the word for what Ivy was feeling. A boiling, consuming hatred filled her, a black storm of rage that went beyond anything she’d felt before. It shivered every muscle in her body; it whistled through the marrows of her bones. It made Ivy want to tear apart everything she saw, or smash it to pieces—but she couldn’t let herself give into it, not yet. She clenched her teeth, dug her fingers into her palms, and breathed until the red fog across her vision faded away.

  “Cicely,” she said when she trusted herself to speak, “I need you to be very, very strong and very, very brave. Can you do that for Mum—for me?”

  Her little sister nodded and stood up straight, like a guard waiting for inspection. Ivy put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m going to look for someone who can heal Mum with magic,” she said. “But it might be a day or two before I get back, so you’ll have to look after her all by yourself. I’ll help you get her out of the bath and dress her wounds, and we’ll make her as comfortable as we can—but after that, it’s up to you. All right?”

  Cicely nodded again. Her eyes were wide and fearful, but she didn’t look away.

  “Call the secretary at the dance school, and tell her Mum’s been taken ill and can’t come in for a few days. But don’t tell her any more than you have to. And if anyone comes to the door while I’m gone, don’t let them in. Do you understand?”

  A third nod.

  “Good.” Ivy let her go. “Then let’s get started.”

  By the time she and Cicely drained the bath, tended Marigold’s wounds and carried their limp, moaning mother to bed, the heat-storm of Ivy’s fury had cooled to icy resolve
. She waited long enough to be sure Marigold drank the water Cicely held to her lips, then returned to the sink and washed her sticky hands, scrubbing around and between her fingers until every trace of blood and honey was gone. Next she changed into dry clothes, stuffed Ralph Pendennis’s money in her pocket, and put her copper bracelet back on. Her muscles burned and her feet dragged with fatigue, but Ivy had no time for weakness. She grabbed her coat off the bed and stalked outside.

  She didn’t care whether swifts were supposed to be in England at this time of year, or how many predators might be lurking in the skies. She didn’t care that piskeys weren’t supposed to change shape; she didn’t care if every human in the district was watching when she did. All she cared about was flying, far and fast and fearless, until she reached her goal.

  Only a short time ago she’d been full of self-doubt and uncertainty about the future. Now there were only two things Ivy wanted, and she was ready to do whatever it took to make them happen.

  First she would find Martin, wherever he was, and bring him back here to heal her mother.

  Then she would go to the Delve, and kill Betony.

  Ivy broke into a run, footsteps crunching as she sprinted down the drive. Then she hurled herself into bird-shape and soared away.

  It felt strange to be airborne after so many weeks on the ground, and Ivy must have been more out of practice than she’d thought: her body felt heavy despite its swiftness, and the sharpness of her bird-vision was dizzying. The tiniest movement at ground level shouted for her attention—a wood pigeon startled into flight, a badger waddling across the road, the scurry of a mouse through the rust-colored bracken. Even the late autumn landscape, so drab to her human eyes, had transformed into a blaze of hot-metal hues: bronze, tin, and molten gold, with the glowing blue-silver traces of animal spoor woven through it.

  How could she have forgotten how extraordinary the world looked through a bird’s eyes, how full of beauty and life? Under any other circumstances, Ivy would have been amazed that she’d ever taken it for granted. But she had no time to think of such things with her mother’s life at stake. She focused on the bars and featherings of cloud before her, and beat upward into clearer sky.

  The city of London lay to the northeast: Ivy remembered that much from the maps she’d seen in Redruth. Flying at top speed, she should reach its outskirts by nightfall—assuming the weather stayed favorable, and that no mishap drove her from her present course. But though gulls cursed and crows jeered her as she flew, and once a cloud of starlings whirled up to spiral around her, Ivy saw no birds large or fierce enough to pose a threat. It seemed that for the moment, luck was on her side.

  Still, she was determined not to be caught off-guard, by a hobby or anything else. Beak clamped shut to silence her habitual swift-scream, Ivy rose until all the other birds dropped below her, and there was nothing but sky as far as her eyes could see. Then she drove onward, following the dark thread of the roadway across Bodmin Moor, then over the winding ribbon of the Tamar into Devon.

  At this height the colors of the land dulled with distance, and the earth spread out like a tattered brown patchwork, blotched here and there with the iron-grey stains of human cities. One of those cities looked large enough to give Ivy pause, but she’d only been flying an hour, so it couldn’t possibly be London. She banked north, correcting her course, and carried on.

  Over Devon and into Somerset she flew, ever watchful of the sky around her. Late into the second hour of her flight she heard the low thrum of an engine, and glanced around to find a helicopter following in her path. But it was miles away and beneath her, a thing of no consequence. Soon it veered southward, and once more Ivy was alone.

  Gradually the sky darkened as the sun slid below the horizon, its dying fires glowing briefly before nightfall stamped them out. The once-ugly towns and cities became beautiful with light, and Ivy felt a strange peace come over her. She’d made it through dusk—the most dangerous time for a swift—without a single battle. She was tired and hungry, but the winds were in her favor, and the inner compass that was her legacy as both a piskey and a bird assured her that she was flying in the right direction. Soon she would reach London, and her quest to find Martin and save her mother could begin.

  Ivy tucked her wings and dived, slicing through the chill air to the warmer drafts below. She had less to fear from other birds now: the only predators she knew of that hunted in full darkness were owls, and she could easily outfly those. Confidence growing, Ivy leveled her course and pressed on.

  That haze of radiance on the horizon—could it be? The scattered diamonds of light below her were clustering together, stringing themselves into the golden chains of motorways and major roads. Towers lit with blue, green, and white rose up from a sea of lesser buildings that spilled out far to the north and east—so far that even Ivy’s searching bird-vision could not find the end of it. She’d never imagined a city so dazzling, or so huge: it had to be London.

  She angled into a glide smooth as pouring water, feeling the wind ripple over her wing-feathers as the rooftops and streets below came into sharper focus. The longest part of her journey was over. Now all she needed was a safe place to change shape and some harmless-looking humans to talk to, so she could get directions to Thom Pendennis’s shop.

  Several awkward conversations and two frustrating false starts later, Ivy found herself on a dimly lit street to the north of the city center, gazing up at the dull gold letters of a sign reading T. PENDENNIS, ANTIQUITIES. Most of the humans she’d talked to had warned her that the shop would be closed by now, and it was, but Ivy refused to let that discourage her. She rattled the door and pounded on the metal-shuttered window, then changed to swift-shape and fluttered up two floors to the roof, searching for a way in.

  Ivy didn’t care about selling the treasure now; she hadn’t even brought it with her. Still, Thom Pendennis was the only person she knew of who might be able to lead her to Martin. If she could get inside the shop, perhaps she’d be able to find out where Thom lived—but one way or another, she had to talk to him tonight.

  The hole she eventually found beneath the eaves was a snug fit, and she had to push through a clotted mess of dead grass, old newspaper and bird droppings to reach the attic behind it. But after a bit of scrabbling and a few clumsy hops along the rafters, Ivy found enough room to change back to her own shape—if only at piskey size. Quick as a mouse, her skin-glow lighting her way, she searched the inner walls until she found another hole, with a faint light shining through it. She stuck her head into the gap for a cautious look-round, then wriggled into it feet first and dropped.

  She landed on the top of a tall cabinet, where a mold-spattered plastic curtain had been left to gather dust with an old scrubbing brush and a bar of soap. The streetlamp glowed dully through a curtained window beside it, revealing a small toilet that looked as though it hadn’t been used in years. Taking swift-form again, Ivy fluttered down from her perch and lighted on the tiles. Then she grew to human shape, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway beyond.

  This floor of the building seemed deserted: the only light she could see was her own skin-glow, and the boards at her feet were velvety with dust. Ivy looked in one door after another until she found the staircase, then hurried down past a small landing and another shut door to the ground level.

  The shop was a single large room, twice as wide as it was deep, with plastered walls and wooden beams worn smooth by age. Glass cases lined the walls, displaying chipped bottles and bits of broken pottery, crudely made statues, and other objects that to Ivy looked more like rubbish than treasure. A smaller cabinet held jewelry, including a few pendants, bracelets and pairs of ear-hoops that were pretty in their way, but nothing so fine as the treasure she and Martin had found.

  So where were the pieces from the Grey Man’s hoard?

  Ivy walked around the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. There were a few items she hadn’t noticed at first glance, mostly old document
s and sets of coins hanging in frames upon the walls—but no, they weren’t from the spriggan trove either. Perhaps Martin’s treasure had been snapped up so quickly by eager buyers that none of it was left?

  Or perhaps that door behind the till led to another room, where Thom kept his more valuable pieces. Ivy hurried over and tried it. The knob turned so reluctantly that she feared it was locked, but when she twisted harder the door clicked open.

  It wasn’t the showroom she’d envisioned, only a small office. But behind the desk stood a wooden cabinet with three drawers that looked like it might hold something important. Ivy slipped around the corner of the desk, crouched and tried the bottom drawer. It rattled, but stayed shut. She tried the next drawer up, and the next. All were locked.

  Exhaustion swept over Ivy and she sagged, close to despair. She was no faery tracker, like the Blackwings Martin had mentioned. If she couldn’t find Thom’s address she’d have no way of finding him, let alone Martin, until morning—and a few hours could make the difference between life and death for Marigold.

  Her last hope was the desk. Perhaps Thom had hidden a spare set of keys somewhere. Heedless of the noise she was making, Ivy tugged open the top drawer and began pulling out everything she saw. She’d emptied its contents onto the desk and was picking up and shaking each item in turn when she caught sight of a thin, box-shaped protrusion on the drawer’s bottom edge. She slid her fingers along it, and a key dropped out into her hand.

  So luck was with her after all. Eagerly Ivy turned and fitted the key into the lock at the top of the cabinet. A twist, a click—

  And a hand clapped over her mouth.

  Ivy struggled, but her assailant only seized her tighter, dragging her back against his body and pinning her arms to her sides. It was like being in the hobby’s talons all over again, and for an instant she was paralyzed with terror. But then she heard his voice in her ear, husky with surprise: