I said nothing as he drew up the contract. It was not all that long or complicated, and I read it over several times while he waited patiently, turning his back to me and fussing with his birds. One hopped onto his elbow and he chucked it under its feathery beak.
I, Louisa Rose Ditton, hereby enter into a forever binding contract with Henry I. Morningside. In a period deemed reasonable by both parties, I will fulfill my portion of the contract, which includes:
A full, written translation of the agreed-upon journal
A statement attesting to its accuracy
Secrecy regarding its contents unless otherwise stipulated by H. I. Morningside.
The second party, H. I. Morningside, will make every possible effort to bring, by force or otherwise, Mr. Croydon Frost to Coldthistle House for a length of time I deem appropriate. His lodging, food, and furnishings will be provided gratis by Coldthistle House. Disposal of any corpse or corpse-like material will be undertaken by H. I. Morningside or his associates. Successful translation of the provided text will also nullify the sworn contracts of Chijioke Olatunji, Poppy Berridge, Mary Caywood, and Rawleigh Brimble, subject to their consent.
Failure to produce the translated journal will result in immediate termination.
So it is sworn by both parties under laws earthly and otherwise, on this May the 29th, 1810.
I spun the quill in my fingers and read the contract once more, searching and searching for some clever point of deception that he might use to trick me. The line about termination did seem a bit troubling, and I put the contract back down on the desk and pointed to it, waiting for him to turn around and notice. He didn’t.
“Termination,” I said. “You mean you’ll let me go from the house if I don’t finish the translation?”
At last he turned around, still cooing over the bird on his arm. It was a common raven, but its eyes sparkled with unnatural intelligence. Mr. Morningside gave me only half attention, one eye dancing in my direction. “That’s your interpretation. It simply says ‘termination,’ does it not?”
“Oh, so you’ll kill me over a silly journal?” I pushed the contract back toward him. “No, thank you.”
Mr. Morningside rolled his eyes at me, placing the raven back on its perch. It cawed softly and began cleaning its feathers. “Always so dramatic.”
“What other meaning would it have?” I demanded. “I want that line clarified or I won’t sign.”
“Fine.”
As I watched, the ink on the parchment describing the penalty for my failure blurred and rearranged, the letters re-forming to say, Failure to produce the translated journal will result in a wage cut and the forfeiture of H. I. Morningside’s pin.
The pin. I touched where it was stuck to my apron. That little thing was my only guarantee of freedom from the house. It would be terrible to lose it, but it at least seemed like a far fairer, and clearer, punishment.
“Very well,” I said, drawing in a huge breath. I felt shaky and light-headed as I touched the quill nib to paper. My nerves were obvious in the quality of signature I gave. But it was signed. I had done it. I blew out that breath and straightened, locking eyes with Mr. Morningside. He gave a slight nod and reached for the contract, adding his elegant signature right next to mine.
With a snap, he sanded the signatures to keep them from running, then folded up the contract and unearthed a stub of wax from the mess on his desk. He held the black wax over a candle, turning it evenly back and forth. I watched it grow slick and runny, and felt a pit growing in my stomach. Had I really just signed a contract with the Devil? Had I gone completely mad?
“Now, that bit of business done, I think we can get you to work, yes? Let’s see . . . Why don’t we say you’ll be finished in one week? That seems like more than enough time.”
And there it was, the rub I should’ve seen coming. Stupid girl.
“One week! That isn’t reasonable at all! You must understand that I’m very new to this. . . .”
“And you’re also entirely capable. Have a little confidence, my dear! A little pride! The Court convenes any day, and this is a pressing assignment, Louisa. An assignment I would not entrust to just anyone. One week is more than enough if you put your mind to it.”
“The Court?” I echoed. “This has something to do with your trial?”
He gritted his teeth and smeared the melting wax over the folds of the contract, pressing his signet ring into the spreading glob. “It might. Does that change your decision? Not that it matters, of course; you did sign.”
“I know I did.” I closed my eyes tightly and covered my face with both hands. God, but I wanted to strangle him. A week. If I could somehow find a way to consistently use my Changeling powers, then it might just be enough time. If not . . . “I will do what I can.”
“And that’s all I ask, Louisa.” Mr. Morningside picked up the journal and trotted around the end of his desk, flashing me a brilliant smile before inclining his head toward the door. “Now, let’s see if we can’t find a cozy hideaway for you and this wee book of secrets.”
Chapter Eleven
My idea of cozy and Mr. Morningside’s idea of it obviously did not align.
He led me into the circular rotunda outside his office and then to the right. I had never even looked there, as I assumed it was just the narrow area allowed by the spiral staircase. To any nonchalant passerby, it would appear unimportant, but now I saw that a curtain hung there. It was dark red and the bottom of it had been embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of locks and keyholes.
Mr. Morningside strode up to the curtain, the leather journal tucked under his arm. He swept aside the crimson fabric, revealing a hallway beyond. An impossible hallway. It looked to go on forever, dotted here and there with heavy iron-bound doors.
It looked, quite frankly, like a row of prison cells.
“But how . . . ,” I murmured, hesitating in front of the curtain. It was hard to see much, as the only light bleeding down the corridor came from the rotunda in which we stood.
“Only a fraction of my artifacts and sundries fit in the house itself,” Mr. Morningside explained, gesturing me forward. “A man of my taste and interests requires a good deal of storage.”
Cautiously, I took a few steps down the dark hallway, and just as they had when I first visited Mr. Morningside’s office, candleholders on either side of me flamed to life. Pale blue fire burned at our sides as we journeyed forward, and each new flicker made me jump. We passed several doors, and I began to count them out of curiosity.
“Here will do,” he said.
We had stopped six doors in, though clearly there were many, many more ahead of us, vanishing into the gloom that the blue glow of the candles could not reach. Mr. Morningside simply touched his open palm to the door, and a locking mechanism released. The hinges squealed as he pulled on the handle, and we were both met with a blast of stale, cold air.
“As a rule only I would be able to enter,” Mr. Morningside told me, holding the door while I stepped inside. “But that pin allows you to do more than just leave the grounds.”
“Then I could have come in here whenever I wanted?” I asked.
“Indeed. If you had known it existed,” he replied. “I wouldn’t let that knowledge go to your head, Louisa. As you discovered, there are dangers in this house, and I cannot promise that poking your nose into every corner and cranny will be good for your health.”
I thought at once of the large room upstairs, and the dark book that waited there, guarded by the shadowy Residents. My fingertips tingled at the memory, still burned from where I had touched the book, a touch that should have killed me but instead left only a permanent mark. That had been luck, really, and though I might never lose my inquisitiveness, it would be better to temper that curiosity with care. Accordingly, I took only a shallow step into the chamber, allowing Mr. Morningside to close the door behind us and stride into the unlit room.
He disappeared into the heavy swaths of shadow, a
nd then I heard a crackle and a fireplace to my left filled with bright sapphire flames. The chill in the air lifted, and as Mr. Morningside made his way back to me, the candelabras on the wall blossomed with fire, too. The growing light revealed a large study, tidier than the upstairs library, with wall-to-wall shelves covered in all manner of antiques. I moved slowly along the wall toward the hearth, finding urns, daggers, dried flowers, a jar of teeth, and a tiny skull. Musical instruments I did not recognize, one like a flute but curved, and candles of every color, unlit but marked with runes and incantations. An unfinished portrait of four figures leaned against an ornate cupboard. The walls behind the shelves looked like those of a cave, as if this underground wonder had been scooped out of the earth ages ago. A charming collection of mismatched rugs was scattered across the bare earth floor, and the whole place smelled like cool, clean mud.
Mr. Morningside waited for me at a desk near the fireplace. A big, overstuffed chair was there, too, and he pulled it out, angling the fluffy seat toward me. He left the journal on the desk and crossed his arms, his foot tapping impatiently.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me not to touch anything in here,” I said, taking the proffered chair.
“Oh no, Louisa, by all means, please go digging through my personal belongings,” he said with a snort. “Rummage at your own risk, but do try to remember that time is of the essence. Wouldn’t you like to free your friends sooner rather than later?”
He tapped the leather journal and pushed off from the desk, crossing briskly to the door. “I’ll tell Mrs. Haylam to leave some dinner outside the door if you disappear for too long. There should be fresh parchment and quills in the desk, but don’t be shy if you need replacements. . . .”
“Wait,” I said, twisting in the chair. Mr. Morningside stopped in front of the door, his pointed chin turned toward me, one lock of black hair falling in front of his catlike eyes. “This place . . . The journal. Why do you trust me with these things? Poppy and Chijioke could help you. Or Mrs. Haylam. Why me?”
Laughing softly, he shook his head and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Poppy and Chijioke are not Changelings. Mrs. Haylam has the eyesight of a vole. A vole with one eye, even. You are uniquely suited to this task, and I do so love efficiency.”
That wasn’t good enough, and perhaps he sensed it, because he did not immediately leave.
“You really can’t do this yourself?” I asked, waving my hand over the journal. “That doesn’t seem right; after all, you’re the—”
“I am many things, but I am not the right tool for the job,” he interrupted, and now his impatience had returned. Mr. Morningside’s mouth curled, but not pleasantly, and he set his gaze on me like an accusatory finger. I felt suddenly cold inside again, blood turning to ice as it had at the sight of Finch and Sparrow.
“Besides, I need to make this house appear as if it all runs smoothly. There are extra eyes on us now. You’re special, whether you appreciate that fact or not,” he said, a desperate edge to his voice. “Dark Fae are special. I did not ask the others because they are not Changelings. Perhaps it’s for the best that you’re going to meet your father one day. Maybe when you meet him you will understand how few of you there are left, how spectacular your gift truly is.”
Chapter Twelve
It was almost impossible to work with my mind split in ten different directions. A part of me wanted to chase after Mr. Morningside and demand more answers from him, but I had made myself a promise, and fulfilling that promise would bring me answers, too. It would also, fortune allowing, provide a way to protect and free the people I had come to consider friends.
Indeed, if my blood father was also one of the Dark Fae, then he would have even more knowledge of our kind than Mr. Morningside. The thought spurred me, and invigorated what I already knew would be draining work. Using any kind of magic left one exhausted, and now I would have to fight off that tiredness to translate this odd journal. As indicated, there was plenty of parchment and ink for me to use, but first I would have to learn how to consistently harness my powers. One segment, I told myself, just translate one segment and Mr. Morningside will have to fulfill his end of the deal.
I reached for the journal and flipped it open to the first page. What was I expecting? No introduction. Nothing in English. The blocks of tiny snakes and waves and birds captured my imagination for a moment. What must it be like to think this way? To write not with words but images? Or maybe to the author, these were words. Yet it seemed somehow more fluid, more emotional, than what I was accustomed to reading. Paragraphs of little images were followed with bigger sketches, and those I could decipher, no Changeling powers required. Mr. Morningside must have seen the sketches, too; perhaps that was what convinced him the journal was an artifact of interest.
As long as I stared at the snakes and rivers, they remained snakes and rivers. My focus was drifting. This was a dangerous room, filled with distractions. Concentration. Determination. I had a job to do. But how?
Apparently the key to unlocking my powers whenever I needed to was close at hand. My mind wandered, and as soon as it did, the anger quickly followed. While my eyes roved over curiosities and treasures amassed over who knew how long, my pulse quickened at the thought of owning such a place. And I might have. I might have done a great many things if I had been given the childhood and upbringing owed me by Croydon Frost.
Heat. A surge in the blood. There it was, that outrage, that fury, and the sound of thunder gathering in the back of my head. Just as steady was the flicker in front of my eyes as the tiny pictures became text. English words. My right hand sprang into action, hurrying to copy down the paragraphs as they came to new life in front of my eyes.
Well, that was one thing I could thank my blood father for—he was an endless source of anger, and I would use that well until it dried, until he was standing before me ready to reveal what he knew.
But until then: the journal.
Year One
Journal of Bennu, Who Runs
Before, none of the books existed and none were required. I think I was a happy boy before the books, but afterward nothing was the same.
Meryt and Chryseis summoned me to the usual meeting spot, and I knew this was an unusual time. Our prayer hour was midnight, but the little spiny mouse had sneaked under the crack in my door, a note tied to a collar of beads about his neck, at just past dawn.
They needed me. It was time.
We met at the birthplace of the book. It had emerged from the water, slick but otherwise undamaged, and sat there like a stone baking in the sun. It had appeared the day the moon overtook the sun, in the last days of Akhet, while the river was swollen and overflowing. We had no word for what it was at first, its pages not papyrus but something smoother, the language inside a mystery to us all. Meryt said, let us call it “Spells” or “Book,” and we three agreed. If one of the gods had sent it, then surely it was filled with spells for us to one day learn.
My feet knew the path to the place by the water, and I slipped on silent, bare feet across the night-cooled sand to the grassier banks. A striped snake slithered along beside me, and then another, but I paid them no attention. Though a chill hung in the air before Apep could banish it, I felt hot with fear, and sweat dripped down my arms to my fingers.
Date palms sheltered the meeting place, fronds draped in front of a low stone hut no taller than a man. The snakes followed as I stepped into muddier terrain, the wet earth sucking at my feet as I dodged into the hut. The two women waited for me on their knees, their heads bowed over the book. It always looked shiny and slick, despite having been pulled from the river weeks ago. When we touched it, it felt like warm calfskin.
The women were in meditation, and had been almost constantly since the book arrived.
I waited, impatient, eyes always on the strange thing between them, its cover glittering, embossed with what looked like eight ovals. Perhaps they were eyes.
Suddenly, both of the women before me beg
an to shake. The tremors were terrible, contorting their bodies in every direction, as if their bones had vanished, as if they were not humans of flesh and blood at all but empty sleeves of skin. A thick violet foam exploded from between their lips, running down their chins and staining their clean white garments. Meryt swayed back and forth, arms flailing, her face bending so low that her forehead brushed the book. It was cursed, I thought. An accursed thing brought forth from the river to trick us.
I rushed to Meryt, taking her dark brown shoulders in my hands and squeezing.
“Come back to me!” I shouted, shaking her, but the spell that gripped her made her too strong, and I flew back against the wall, dazed.
As quickly as the tremors had begun, they ceased. Chryseis opened her eyes first, blinking as if she had just had a long, deep nap. She wiped at the foam on her chin and then studied it, turning her hand this way and that, though it did not seem to trouble her.
“You frightened me,” I said, climbing back to my feet.
It was amazing. She looked herself again, a healthy glow on her cheeks. Her golden-brown hair was twisted into braids around her face, and in that moment she appeared almost like a goddess.
“Did you see her?” Chryseis spoke to Meryt, who was now also awake and no longer shaking.
“Yes,” she whispered back, eyes big with wonder. “She was beautiful.”
“So beautiful,” Chryseis agreed. “Impossible to describe . . .”
“But what did you see?” I begged. “Are you both well?”
“There is no time,” Meryt told me, rising from her knees. She took me by the hand to the corner, where her personal satchel had been laid flat near a brazier. With purple foam still on her chin, she took the bag and emptied it, then returned to the middle of the room, taking up the strange book and shoving it into the satchel.
Court of Shadows Page 7