A Skinful of Shadows

by Frances Hardinge

  ‘Then why were you waiting here for me?’ asked Makepeace. ‘Why not run to the next hiding place? I think you’re bluffing. You’re wounded, you’re alone, and I have friends looking out for you.’

  ‘I wanted to speak with you in private,’ said Morgan, ‘to demand your unconditional surrender. Let me talk to our captors, and I guarantee that I can negotiate a ransom for us. Once I am talking to the right people, there will be a price, and the Fellmotte family will pay it to have us back safely.’

  ‘No,’ said Makepeace.

  ‘Then why are you here? Ah . . . I see.’ Morgan glanced at Bear, who was now a lot more bear-sized. ‘You brought your beast here to finish me.’

  ‘No. I’ve come to ask you to join my side.’

  ‘What? You really are desperate. Delusional, too. Why would I side with you against my own family?’

  ‘Because you sweated out your whole life to serve them, and they treated you like dirt. And even now, they’re still treating you like dirt. The Infiltrator is the one that has to take all the risks that Elders hate taking, isn’t it? You have to slide out of the body to scout things out, or prune the minds of heirs, even though that means your spirit starts to leak away. That must be torture. And they make you do it over and over again. After everything you did for them, you’re still the expendable one. And that won’t ever change.

  ‘Do you even like the other Elders? Did you ever like them? Because if not, being stuck in the same head as those arrogant, selfish, cold-blooded toads doesn’t sound like immortality to me. It sounds like Hell.’

  ‘What makes you think I am so different from them?’ asked Morgan.

  ‘I don’t know for certain that you are,’ said Makepeace. ‘But you helped me warn Helen. Maybe you just did that so that Helen would survive and report seeing me and Symond. But maybe you saw a fellow spy in danger, and wanted to protect her.

  ‘And . . . you knew about all of this.’ Makepeace waved a hand at the grave, the marshes, and Poplar somewhere in the darkness. ‘You knew my darkest secrets and griefs. You could have used them to torture me, weaken me and break my heart. Yet you never did.

  ‘You’re a ruthless harpy, Morgan, but you’re clever and brave. And you know what it means to have to earn something – that makes you better than the other Elders. I don’t want to destroy you. I want to learn about you, and learn from you. I won’t surrender to you, but there’s a place here for you if you’ll work with me.’

  ‘You’re only saying all this because you want something from me.’

  ‘I do want your help, yes. But I mean what I say, too. Morgan, you’re two lifetimes old. You can tell when people are lying. And you’re sitting inside my brain. You know I’m telling the truth. Trusting you is a risk. It would be really easy for you to betray me. But if you do, I suppose it won’t make my situation any worse than it is already.’

  ‘The Fellmottes always win,’ said Morgan. Little spasms of lightning flickered indecisively through her smoky form. ‘I can serve them, or I can lose everything. That is the world we live in.’

  ‘And what if the world is ending?’ asked Makepeace. ‘Something is happening, isn’t it? Everything’s turning upside down, and everybody feels it. If the world ended in fire tomorrow, would you be glad that you’d been the Fellmottes’ faithful servant to the end? Or would you wish that you’d rebelled, and risked everything, and used all your cunning against them, just once?’

  Morgan had a clever face, but not a happy one.

  ‘I make no promises,’ she said. ‘But you can tell me your plan.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Symond was right. The witch-finders were no longer in a mood to be kind. The little window was covered over with a piece of sacking, which allowed only a thin, seeping light. The bed was removed.

  Makepeace was left to herself. Just as she was wondering whether she had been forgotten, three deafening knocks sounded at the door. She jumped out of her skin, wondering why anybody would knock. To her greater confusion, nobody opened the door, and the footsteps outside passed on.

  Some time later the same thing happened again. And then again, about an hour later. That strange knock became her only clock. Without light it was easy to lose track of time.

  No food or drink arrived. Bear was growing ravenous and restless, and Makepeace could not stop him pacing.

  When night swallowed the little prison, and faint owl quavers ruffled the cool air, Makepeace settled in a corner of the room, and tried to sleep. However, she was jolted into wakefulness by the knocks, over and over again. Each time she woke to darkness and confusion, until Bear’s night-eyes told her where she was.

  And then the door swung open with a crash, and there were lanterns in the room, making her blink. She was pulled to her feet and dragged out into the little study where the quiet man in black was waiting.

  He had questions for her. Did the Fellmottes ever put curses on their enemies? Could they pass through stone walls? Did they rub ointment on themselves and fly? Had she ever flown?

  He had pictures to show her. Woodcuts of witches’ familiars. Had she seen anything like these at Grizehayes? A black hare leaping. A crudely drawn fish with a grimacing woman’s face. A cow with a snake-like spiralling tail. A bristle-covered frog the size of a baby being fed blood with a spoon.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ All the while, a vast Bear made of shadow and rage stirred in her mind, wanting to rear up and strike off heads. ‘No,’ she said, and the men in black thought that she was talking to them.

  Not yet, Bear.

  She was put back in her cell, and left in darkness. The knocks came ever and anon. The men meant to rob her of sleep and soften her will, she could see that. The thirst was even worse than the hunger. Her head ached and her mouth was like glue.

  After this broken, sleepless night, when the birdsong told Makepeace that it must be morning, Symond came to visit.

  He was clearly gratified to see her huddled in a corner of the room, the very picture of misery. He made a show of holding a handkerchief to his face to shield it from the stuffiness of the closet.

  ‘I thought you might be ready to talk, but you’re clearly enjoying your repose. Perhaps I should go, and come back in a couple of days . . .’

  ‘No!’ cried out Makepeace, in tones as plaintive and piercing as she could make them. ‘Don’t go! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you where I hid the—’

  ‘Hush!’ Symond swiftly closed the door and locked it. ‘Keep your voice down!’ And then, as Makepeace had hoped, he crossed the room so that she could murmur to him.

  At the last moment, he saw her body tense, but before he could react she was leaping to her feet. Bear had Symond’s scent. Symond smelt of thrown stones, dragged chains, blood and cruelty.

  Makepeace let the roar erupt from her, knowing that it would echo through the woods. She lashed out at Symond’s face, knocking him backwards. He struck his head against the wall, and slid groggily down it.

  Makepeace grabbed Symond by his collar. For a moment she felt that she might break his neck. Then she remembered herself, and her plan.

  Now, Morgan!

  There was a brief, shuddersome sensation as though a piece of clammy gauze had been pulled out of her ear. A smoky, sinuous shape was weaving its way down her arm towards Symond’s face.

  Outside the room she could hear muffled shouts and loud attempts to kick the door in. Morgan’s wraith reached Symond’s mouth and was drawn in by his breath, half a second before the door yielded with a splintering crash.

  The new arrivals managed to wrestle Symond away from Makepeace, and drag him from the room. They were too wise to try to subdue her straight away, though. Only when there were four of them did they venture back into the cell, throw a blanket over her head and bind her with ropes.

  Later, when they thought she seemed calmer, they brought her back to see their leader. They kept her bound, for they had a hearty, superstitious respect for the strength of the Evil One.

 
‘You are leaving me few options,’ the man in black said.

  ‘You could let me go,’ said Makepeace, with sudden boldness. ‘All I ever wanted was to be left alone. Let me go and I swear I will never harm anybody.’

  ‘You know that I cannot do that,’ he answered. ‘Such powers as yours can come only from an evil source, and can only lead to evil. We must save you, and save others from you.

  ‘There are burns on your hands,’ he continued, leaning forward and lacing his fingers, ‘from cooking pots and kettles. Such pain when an inch of our flesh burns, even for a second! But imagine that your hand was held against that red-hot kettle for ten seconds, not one. Now imagine the agony of a full minute, unable to pull away, or do anything but watch your skin blacken.

  ‘Now . . . imagine a searing anguish through every inch of you, that went on for a week, a year, a lifetime, a million lifetimes. Imagine the despair of knowing that this, and a thousand other torments, would never, ever end. Imagine the grief of knowing that you might have known true happiness, but that you traded it for an eternity of horrors.

  ‘That . . . is Hell.’

  Makepeace felt goosebumps prickle over her arms. There was something about this man that reminded her of the minister in Poplar. His faith was fierce like a blade, but one more likely to cut others than himself.

  ‘It would perhaps be a kindness,’ he went on, ‘if I held your hand in the candle-flame, to give you taste of the suffering that might be yours if you do not forswear evil. Better to lose a hand than your soul.’

  ‘The Bible says we should know a tree by the fruit it bears,’ Makepeace replied, a little sharply. ‘If you burn my hand off, what should I think of you?’

  ‘Suffering is sometimes the greatest blessing,’ the witch-finder answered calmly. ‘The child learns from the cane as well as the book. The sorrows of our lives teach and cleanse us.’

  ‘God send you many blessings,’ muttered Makepeace, but too quietly for him to hear.

  ‘You can perhaps be saved, you see,’ he went on. ‘Would you not wish to be clean and free again? Would your soul not sing?’

  Makepeace stayed quiet for a long time, pretending to consider his words, then broke down into choking sobs that she hoped were convincing.

  ‘It would,’ she whimpered. ‘Oh, if such a thing were possible! There is a demon in me – ’tis all true – but I never asked for it! I think the Fellmottes sent it to plague me!’

  ‘And why should they do that?’

  ‘Because I . . .’ Makepeace dropped her gaze again and let herself stammer. ‘I . . . stole from them when I ran away. There was a piece of parchment they treated as more precious than gold, so I took it with me to see if I could sell it. But when I looked at it, I was frightened – it was a fancy-lettered thing, talking of the family’s dealings with spirits. And there was the King’s signature on it too, and a wax seal as big as a conker.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ All the blood drained out of the interrogator’s face. His eyes had the exultant but panicky expression of one who has just hooked a whale while fishing for trout, and now needs to haul it to shore. ‘The King’s signature? Where is it now?’

  ‘I sent it to a friend and asked her to hold it for safekeeping,’ Makepeace lied blithely.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oxfordshire – not far from Brill.’

  His face fell. As Makepeace knew all too well, Brill was in the perilous zone between the two armies. But she could see him calculating the risk, and judging the worth of the gamble. A document linking the King to witches!

  ‘Where is her house?’ he asked. ‘How should we find it?’

  ‘Oh, she will not give it to anybody but me,’ Makepeace said promptly. ‘I told her anyone else who came after it was probably a Fellmotte spy, no matter what they looked like.’

  ‘Then you must come with us,’ he said grimly. ‘This can be the start of your penance, and proof of your repentance. No time must be lost, for the Fellmottes will be seeking this paper too, and who knows how their imps may help them trace it! We shall set off today – as soon as Lord Fellmotte is well enough to ride.’

  A few hours later, in warmer clothes, Makepeace was led out into daylight that seemed uncommonly bright. What strange beasts people are, she thought. We adjust to everything so quickly. Perhaps we would even get used to Hell.

  To her dismay, she found that she was to share a horse with Symond. He did not look happy about this either. There was a storm-coloured bruise on his jaw, but it looked as though it were fading, not darkening. Perhaps adding ghosts to his diet allowed him to heal more quickly.

  Makepeace was helped up to sit sideways in front of him, and her wrists and ankles retied. Evidently they were taking no chances. Makepeace’s interrogator and his two colleagues each had their own horses.

  How far can we rely upon Morgan? asked the doctor.

  I asked her to tell the Fellmottes that I was being taken to Brill, Makepeace answered him silently. I fancy she’ll do that whether she decides to betray us or not. With luck, by now the cunning spymistress had used Symond to write a coded letter while he slept, and placed it somewhere Helen would find it.

  Makepeace had been dealt a poor hand, and her only hope was to dash the cards from the other players’ grasps. Chaos sounded better than hopelessness.

  ‘Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work.’ Symond’s muttered words cut uncomfortably into Makepeace’s thoughts. ‘Sooner or later you’ll need me as a friend. If you get that charter to me somehow, I’ll pardon you. But if it ends up in anyone else’s hands, I swear I’ll see you hanged for a witch on a hawthorn tree. And then I’ll come for your ghost. I’ll flay your mind away, one sliver at a time, over a whole week, until there’s only a whimper of you left. Then I’ll keep that forever to frighten other ghosts, like a hunting trophy on my wall.’

  Makepeace said nothing, sitting as straight as she could on the horse’s broad back. Being slowly digested by Symond sounded more like Hell than a cauldron of fire.

  PART SEVEN: WORLD’S END

  CHAPTER 36

  On the long ride, Makepeace felt exposed, the ropes around her wrists and ankles drawing every eye. Thin, nervous rain trickled down her neck and nestled in her eyelashes, and she could not wipe them away. Before her, Symond’s gloved hands gripped the reins, and the horse’s neck bobbed.

  After time, however, the motion started to lull her. Bear wanted to sleep, so Makepeace let him have his way. There was nothing she could do now, and she would need to be awake later. She let her eyelids droop, leaving her enemy with the task of keeping her on the horse.

  Makepeace woke again at a little riverside village stuffed to the gills with troops, horses and tents amid the sloping woods. Her interrogator was talking to some of the soldiers.

  ‘We can spare a few men, but no horses,’ said one of the officers. ‘We’ve trouble enough. That truce is fraying like a slut’s hem. The King talks a good peace, but wise heads say he’s keeping us dangling till his queen can raise more troops and smash us to splinters. His promises aren’t worth a fart.’

  Four soldiers joined their group. Two carried muskets and wore bandoliers strung with little wooden gunpowder bottles. Makepeace was helped down from the horse, and her ankles untied. From here, she was told, the journey would be on foot.

  The little group stayed close to the hedgerows, one man moving ahead of the rest. Makepeace guessed that they were trying to avoid being seen.

  At last she glimpsed ahead the cottage where the Axeworths had lived. She was relieved to see that the chickens were gone, which probably meant that the little family had left. The barrow was missing too, along with the sorry relic that had lain beneath it.

  ‘That is my friend’s house,’ Makepeace said.

  ‘It seems very quiet.’ The interrogator peered at the cottage, and seemed to be weighing his options. ‘Come – let us go to the door. You can talk to your friend.’

  ‘Like this?’ Makepeace held up her bound
wrists. ‘She’ll see I’m a captive!’

  With evident reluctance, he untied her hands. The two of them walked to the door, and the interrogator knocked. As Makepeace expected, there was no reply.

  After a few more knocks, he opened the door, and entered with two soldiers at his back. A couple of minutes later, he emerged again.

  ‘This house is empty,’ he said.

  ‘Then she must be out,’ Makepeace said quickly. ‘If we wait, she’ll come back.’

  He took hold of her arm, and pulled her in through the front door.

  ‘Will she?’ he asked. ‘This place looks abandoned to me.’

  The little cottage had been stripped bare. All the portable furniture was gone, along with the pewter, the rush-light stand, and all the firewood and kindling by the hearth. Even the chair in which Makepeace’s patient had sat was missing.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened!’ She looked at the interrogator with a prepared expression of bewildered innocence. ‘My friend said she would wait for me here!’

  ‘Did she hide the charter in the house, or take it with her?’ he demanded.

  ‘How should I know?’ Makepeace retorted.

  ‘Search the house,’ the interrogator ordered the soldiers. ‘I’ll have a man at the window, and another in that tree out there, to look out for trouble.’ The soldiers began taking up floorboards, knocking holes in walls and poking sticks up inside the chimney flue. ‘Don’t forget to check the rafters and the thatch!’

  Makepeace stayed near the door, gazing out across the fields, looking for some sign of movement. Behind her she could hear smashes, and even the occasional swear word. The interrogator’s snapped insistence that the soldiers ‘mind their Billingsgate tongues’ sounded just as ill-tempered. There was anger everywhere, she realized, just under the surface. Somehow she had grown used to tasting it in the air.

  ‘Soon they’ll realize that you’ve been selling them a tarradiddle,’ Symond said in Makepeace’s ear. ‘How do you think they’ll all react when they know you’ve been wasting their time? Give me one good reason to stop them from shooting you in the yard.’