“What are you doing?” I asked her. “We should not move it!”
“It is not safe here,” Meryt said, and she sounded sure. Chryseis joined us, helping her close the satchel and lift it over my head. The book was amazingly heavy, and I sank under its unnatural weight.
“It must be taken far away,” Chryseis added. “The voice says you must go, Bennu, you must take the book north and you must not be seen. There can be no delay; she must be reunited with her husband.”
“Who? Who told you these things?” I felt tears coming to my eyes. This was so fast, and so unfair! Why must I leave my family? Why had I been chosen for this, and by whom?
“She appeared to us, a beautiful lady all in purple,” Chryseis explained, turning me toward the door. “As soon as she came, I felt whole. Perfect. As if everything around me was made of pure love.”
“The snake, the bird, the spider, the cat, the dog,” Meryt said, “she is mother to them all.”
“I wish I could have seen her,” I replied in awe, hesitating to leave the hut. My shoulder already ached from the cruel weight of the book. “I, too, have always protected the creatures here and worshipped those who made them. Why did she only come to you?”
Meryt guided me toward the dark outside the hut, pressing firmly on my back. “Yours is the most important task of all, Bennu. There are other forces that would see our order destroyed, demons in black and winged things. You must take her north, now, before she can be found.”
“But how will I know the way?” I asked, feet touching the cold sand. “I have only once been farther than Tanis and seen the sails billowing on the sea, but never once boarded one.”
“You will have help,” Chryseis said. Her eyes glittered with urgency. “When the moon is full again you will have help. Our lady is sending you a guide, under the full and milky light; she promised it would be so.”
“Go!” Meryt cried hoarsely, pushing me again. In the darkness, the purple stain on her chin looked like blood.
“Go!” Chryseis chimed in.
They chanted it at me as I left the hut, limping with the heavy book dragging from my shoulder. I yelped and nearly tumbled into the river, shock and fear making a tangle of my feet. Outside the shack, snakes and spiders had gathered in such quantity that I could hardly find a safe place to step. My stomach churned. It was a crescent of wriggling black tails and legs. None of them moved or made to bite, enthralled or ensorcelled into submission. And as I dodged to the patch of reeds far from the hut, they each of them slithered and skittered and turned, watching me go.
Chapter Thirteen
A rich purple sunset darkened the horizon when I finally pulled myself from the house cellar. Mr. Morningside was not in his offices, and I stood ready to present him with the first fruits of my labor. I would not say I thought of handing over that first entry with eagerness—unease had settled in my stomach, a general agitation that I could not understand.
It was tempting to categorize what I had read in the journal as nonsense, but I had read Mr. Morningside’s book and called it silliness only to realize that what he had seen and described was true. If Mr. Morningside’s fantastical book held scraps of truth, then so, too, could this journal. Yet the only connection I found between my employer and the journal was the mention of an odd book—the tome in the attic of Coldthistle had been filled with illegible scribbles and burned to the touch. Mr. Morningside even claimed that anyone not of the Unworld would have died from contact with it. Perhaps there were more like it, although ours was decorated with only one eye.
Tired, I forced myself to stand in the kitchen doorway and face the last comforting tendrils of the sun’s heat. I shielded my eyes from the light, finding it made my brain throb after so much time in the cavernous storage room below. I found the yard unusually bustling—Mr. Mason Breen and his betrothed played a lazy game of lawn bowls against Sparrow and Finch near the pavilion, and Chijioke sat on a stump not far from the kitchen door, a whittling project on his knee.
I rolled my translation into a scroll and tucked it under one arm, shuffling into the glow of sunset and standing beside Chijioke. Little wood shavings flew as he attacked the piece of wood furiously, all the while keeping his hazel eyes trained on Sparrow and Finch. Sparrow had changed into a more expected ensemble for lawn darts, a light, breezy dress of ivory that made her look appropriately angelic. It was clear she and her brother were winning, but judging from Amelia’s giggling, the loss wasn’t upsetting the guests. They only had eyes for each other anyway, Mason and Amelia giving no attention whatsoever to the twins or, apparently, their aim.
“Do you know where Mr. Morningside might be?” I asked, watching a stray wood shaving land on my boot.
“In his usual spot, I’d wager,” Chijioke grumbled. I watched the knife drive in and out, an instant later a fin where once a shapeless nub had been. Gradually the lump was beginning to look like a fish.
“He isn’t there, I looked,” I replied. “How can you carve so quickly without looking?”
“Don’t know, lass, just helps me relax.” He flicked the knife twice more, adding delicate little scales to the fish. Finally, he glanced away from the lawn bowls, but not at his carving. Instead, he gazed up at me. I had been staring quite rudely at his handiwork. As soon as he looked at me he turned away again, and I heard him give a sigh. “It’s for Mary. For when she returns. She said fish were lucky; she kept a charm of one in her pocket to rub for good fortune.”
“It’s very nice,” I told him. “Were you two . . . I mean, was there some kind of understanding between you?”
It was the first time his knife slipped, and the edge missed his thumb by a hair.
“An understanding? No . . . Well, maybe. A word here or there, but never the right ones. That was my blunder.” He cleared his throat. “That would have been nice to have. An understanding, that is.”
Mary’s absence made me miserable, but I had known her only a short while—Chijioke and the others must have been suffering terribly. Three-hundred-year contracts. How long had they been here? It was selfish of me not to think of it, and to lose myself in another obsession so quickly. Here he was, carving her a lovely token while I did nothing but plot revenge against a rich father I had never met.
“I don’t blame you, you know,” he said, carving and glaring at Finch and Sparrow again. “She made her choice, too. Someone was hurting and she wanted that fixed, and nothing anyone said would’ve changed her mind. That’s just how she is. Was.”
“Is.” I tried to sound resolute. We were quiet for a moment, but I wasn’t ready to leave in search of Mr. Morningside yet. This was important, too. Mary, Chijioke . . . They had become my friends, and I owed them more than passing consideration. I hoped to fix their general opinion of me very soon. “I did everything right to bring her back,” I said, and my voice faltered, not because I doubted myself but because the failure stung. “I followed Mr. Morningside’s instructions to the letter. It was the same spring, the same man giving the riddles, the same wish. . . . I don’t know what went wrong, Chijioke, I’m sorry.”
His shoulders bunched up and the carving stopped. Then I heard another sigh, this one more forlorn than the last. “I believe you, lass. Her kind are ancient and hard to really know. Someone might have needed her more than you this time. Who can say? Mary will return to us when she’s good and ready, aye? All I can do is hope these Upworlder bastards will be long gone before then.”
“Why do you hate them so much?” I asked, going to his other side and kneeling in the cool grass where it was not snowing wood chips. The sun flared as it lowered, and I shielded my eyes again, watching as Sparrow managed a perfect toss.
Chijioke muttered something dark and unintelligible and then spat in the pile of wood shavings to his right. He squinted at the Upworlders and returned to his blind carving. “Adjudicators are dangerous and odd-like, same as us, but they and their followers have got that self-righteous stink on them. We’re the evil ones, aye? What
rubbish. Justice is justice—whether they deliver it or we do. We take souls and so do they, our methods are just different.”
I followed his steely gaze, and while the sight of the twins gave me that cold feeling inside, it was hard to imagine them being killers. That was unfair, of course; I had learned to stop judging on appearances alone. Sparrow stood just behind her brother, rolling her eyes as Amelia missed yet another easy shot.
“Do they have a house like Coldthistle?” I asked. “I thought angels and the like would be in Heaven or something.”
He chuckled and tossed his head, giving me a sideways glance. “I forget that there’s still so much you have to learn, lass.”
“I’m trying,” I said, admittedly exasperated. “It really doesn’t help that I was raised on a Bible and stories that don’t fit anything I’ve seen.”
“Aye, you are at a disadvantage there,” Chijioke replied. With the half-finished fish carving he pointed to Amelia—in red, of course—and her husband-to-be. “What do you see when you look at those two?”
“Must I look?”
He laughed again, or snorted, really, and nodded. “Indulge me, lass.”
“Very well.” I rolled my eyes at him and then studied Amelia and Mason for a moment. I noted that they were doing very badly at bowls, and that of the two Mason seemed to have more aptitude for it, but he frequently made a bad shot because Amelia insisted on draping herself across his arm. “I see two fools oblivious to the fact that they’re being soundly beaten, and that if they wagered anything on the match then surely they will lose it.”
Chijioke tapped his chin thoughtfully with the wooden fish and swayed his head side to side. “Granted. Granted. But I see two people who are so in love with each other they’re not likely to care about losing at bowls or losing coin. I see true love.”
“Goodness gracious.” I glanced up at him, and the look he gave me in return was hooded. Unreadable. “Have you spent even a moment alone with Miss Amelia Canny?”
“I have not.”
“Firstly, I cannot recommend it. Secondly, she has already confessed to me that she did something horrible to win that man’s affections,” I explained. “How can that be true love?”
His smile broadened and he gave me a wink, tapping me on the forehead with the fish. “There are the things that humans see and write down, and there are the things that really happen. Nobody ever said they have to be the same thing.”
“Ah. I take your meaning,” I said. Finch had noticed us watching, apparently, and disengaged from the match, walking toward us at a leisurely pace. I stood and felt Chijioke puff up like a nervous hound as the Upworlder approached. “So the Bible is, what? A misunderstanding? A clerical error?”
Chijioke sprang up next to me, his knife back to work on the fish for Mary. “It’s the best a few could do to describe what the many couldn’t or wouldn’t see. We all make mistakes, Louisa, some are just bigger. A lot bigger.”
“You’re not going to stab him, are you?” I muttered.
That at least made him smirk, but only briefly, for soon he was glowering again. “Adjudicators come in threes, Louisa, so keep your wits about you.”
“Threes?” I frowned and watched as Finch slowed his steps toward us. “Sparrow might think I’m hopelessly stupid, but I can count. Where is the third one?”
“I haven’t the faintest clue,” he said. “Which is why this makes me nervous.”
“Does that mean you’re going to stab him, then?”
“Stand behind me,” Chijioke added, edging out in front of me. “If he tries anything, he’ll get a walloping.”
“He hardly looks like trouble. . . .”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Oh aye, and that’s because you have never witnessed a Judgment.”
“A what?”
Chijioke didn’t answer. Whatever Finch had seen on or near us had made him change his mind. He stopped abruptly, face falling, before he turned on his heel and returned to his lawn bowls. I felt his presence a moment later at my side and my unease appeared with him. Mr. Morningside had found us, and he loomed tall and narrow next to me.
He nodded politely to Chijioke and then gave us both a brilliant white smile. The sun was almost completely gone behind the horizon, and Amelia whined as they decided to end the game in time for a wash-up and supper. Dimly, I heard Mason Breen congratulate Finch and Sparrow on their win, but I was deaf to whatever they said afterward.
“A game of bowls among friends,” Mr. Morningside crowed, leaning back and adjusting his fine silk cravat. The diminishing light turned his black hair to glossy raven’s wings as he took in a deep, loud breath through his nose. “A crisp evening. The splendor of nature. The fading luster of spring . . .” He extended his hand, sweeping it in front of him. “What a satisfactory sight.”
But he was not looking at the horizon or the trees, or the game of bowls, or even my face. I swallowed, feeling cornered even in the open air. Mr. Morningside had seen the parchment rolled under my arm, and all of his appreciable attention was bent toward it.
Chapter Fourteen
The dining gallery glowed softly with candles, the twinkling melody of cutlery on plates and crystal glassware floating lightly beneath the conversation. It had been months since I had last served at a formal supper, and I struggled to maintain the proper attention to detail and regimen. Lee, Mrs. Haylam, and I stood to the side near the serving board, waiting for just the right moment to dash in with more wine or to retrieve a fallen handkerchief.
The pace of it made me itch. Lee did not seem any better off, fidgeting at my side. We watched Miss Canny, her betrothed, and his father and business associate dine on white soup and roast loin of pork studded with cloves, the smells so rich and tempting that my stomach growled in protest. Our meal, by contrast, had been a cup of stew made days ago, filling but not nearly as decadent as the spread being served now.
Amelia wore dazzling pins in her hair to match her scarlet gown. I couldn’t help but stare at her and wonder what it was like to own so many frocks that a new one could be donned for each part of the day. Mason Breen and his side of the family dressed far more soberly, in simple grays and browns, though the cut of their suits and the quality of the fabric hinted at their wealth. Mason Breen’s father, Mr. Barrow Breen, had the look of a sailor, with very tanned and weathered flesh, and gnarled knuckles. Such men were commonplace where I had grown up, which led me to believe he might be one of the newly rich, perhaps a man who had made his fortune in exports. The two men shared a strong familial resemblance, both with bright shocks of blond hair and pale gray eyes. Mason was quite handsome, angular and austere, and his father simply looked like an aged, tired version of his son.
Their business partner, Samuel Potts, had a swarthier appearance, also sun-dappled and leathery, with shaggy, thinning gray hair and a monstrous beard. His suit, while fine, fit on him strangely, as if he were a bear wrestled into a waistcoat.
“I do find that young Mr. Finch very agreeable,” Amelia was saying. She had managed the bulk of the conversation at the table, which did not seem to upset any of the men. They listened dutifully and drank just as intently. A dark rosy stain was spreading across Mason’s cheeks.
“His sister is far less . . . Well, she is rather opinionated, is she not?”
Samuel Potts grunted into his wine, ruffling his mustache.
“Where did they say they were from again?” Mason Breen asked, helping himself to more pork.
“London,” Mrs. Haylam said suddenly, startling us all. The room fell silent at her single, barked word. She gave a mild, faked smile and added, “By way of Calcutta. Merely passing through, I’m afraid.”
Amelia recovered from the shock of Mrs. Haylam’s interruption with a giggle. “Now that is a shame. It is excellent to make new friends, they could even attend the wedding—”
“Out of the question,” Mr. Barrow Breen grumbled. “The very idea!”
“Oh, it was only a silly suggestion,
” Amelia replied, but she hid her face, concentrating on her dinner plate. “I cannot see the harm in—”
“Girl, I know what you see; you see whatever it is you want to waste my money on next,” he thundered. The hall rang with the boom of his voice, and Lee and I both flinched, then shared a look. He raised both tawny eyebrows and then rolled his eyes slowly toward the table. I tried not to laugh.
“At least we won’t have to put up with it for long,” I whispered, and I saw him smile.
“I won’t have you speaking to my betrothed that way!” Mason had finally spoken up, jumping to his feet and rattling the table. The wineglass perched on the edge near Samuel Potts upended, and he roared in surprise, shooting up out of his seat and grabbing for something to wipe at his soiled shirt.
“Quickly now,” Mrs. Haylam directed, snapping into action. “Help Mr. Potts, Louisa.”
I turned to the board behind us and took a clean napkin from the folded pile and dabbed it in a glass of water, rushing to the bushy man’s side. He snatched the napkin out of my hand and shooed me away, rubbing furiously at his clothes.
“This wedding is enough of a farce without that brainless ninny inviting strangers to gawk at our lives!” Barrow Breen shoved a finger in his son’s face, which was immediately batted away.
Mason was as tall as his father and now puffed himself up to be even larger. “How . . . How dare you, sir? How dare you?” He whirled and motioned to a dumbfounded Amelia. “Come, Amelia, we do not have to endure this.”
She gave a soft little pout and rounded the table on tippy-toes, taking Mason’s elbow and following him out of the room.
In the aftermath there was only silence. Mr. Breen breathed so erratically I could see his shoulders jumping up and down as he struggled to contain himself. Samuel Potts continued to work fruitlessly at his shirt and then scoffed, throwing the napkin down on the table.
“Just a short dessert, then,” Mrs. Haylam said brightly, as if nothing at all had happened.
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