He swore under his breath and pushed the claret away, then reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out the locket I had seen him fussing with earlier. Snapping open the hinge, he sighed and cooed over the little piece of jewelry. At that distance I could see the thing better and noted that one side contained a tiny painting of Mason, and on the other side was a young woman. A young redheaded woman who did not in any way resemble Amelia.
Amelia’s rival, the one she had murdered to get to Mason.
“Who is she?” I asked lightly. When he glanced at me, I gave him the most dim-witted, vacant smile I could muster. “She is quite lovely.”
“Enid,” he breathed. The claret had put him on the verge of tears. “I adored her. Father adored her. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck at our country home. I found her when we came in from a hunt. It was the worst day of my life.”
I said nothing, watching as he downed his cup and then closed his fist around the locket. Darting forward, I poured a bit more claret for him, which he also guzzled.
“But then Amelia was there,” he slurred. Now he had two dimples as he gazed dreamily over at me. Poor sod. He was gone. “She was so constant, so understanding. I grieved Enid for months and months, but Amelia never wavered. Even after that ugly business in New South Wales, she stood by me. I liked that. She was never as pretty or accomplished as Enid, but she loved me with a kind of desperation that made me feel safe. Have you ever had that? Has anyone ever loved you that way?”
“No,” I said flatly. Did I want that? It sounded exhausting. “You are very fortunate to have found two such women.”
“By God, you’re right.” Mason tucked the necklace away and stood, unsteadily, grabbing the table for balance before stumbling a few steps toward the door. “I am lucky. Amelia will come back. That’s who she is—devoted. Utterly devoted. Thank you, this . . . I needed this. Is it a great bother if I take the rest of that claret up with me?”
I smiled and handed him the decanter. “Just be careful going up the stairs, sir, they are rather steep.”
“And I’m slaughtered, I know, you don’t have to tell me,” Mason said, hiccuping. He turned and fumbled his way toward the foyer, all of his limited concentration bent on keeping the wine upright. That he would make it back to his chambers completely upright was looking less and less likely.
It was a relief to be alone, and I took my time tidying the mess the men had left. The longer I took, the later it became, the greater the chance I could escape up to bed without being asked to do more chores. But I was not to be that lucky. As I extinguished the last of the candles and wiped away the wax, a shadow darkened the room. Mr. Morningside. He waited in the archway leading to the foyer, his tall, slim silhouette unmistakable.
“Louisa,” he said sharply. “Finish in here and then go to the pavilion. Do not go inside, do you understand me? Wait until you are summoned.”
My eyes were drooping with fatigue as I shuffled toward him, arms laden with dirty napkins and the tablecloth. “How long must I wait?”
“As long as it takes,” Mr. Morningside snapped. He vanished before I could reach him, though I had clearly seen him carrying my stack of translated papers. I spied nothing but the tail end of his coat as I made my way slowly from the dining room to the kitchens. Nobody but Bartholomew was there, the hound dozing on his back, all four paws curled in the air.
I gave him a scratch on the chin as I passed, dropping off the washing in the pantry and taking a fresh apron. It was an empty gesture, but just putting on something clean made me feel better and more awake. I ate one of the untouched meat pies on my way to the pavilion. Two blazing torches burned outside the tent, not bright enough to illuminate the entire yard, but enough to give me a clear destination. I welcomed the cooler air, the scent of fresh grass and pine bandied about by the light wind. Even without rain or frost, Coldthistle became something more sinister at dusk. Its slim parapets and slivers of windows became darker even than the night itself. The house was not its true self in the daylight and seemed almost to grow larger at night, as if it could drink the shadows to become strong.
I did not look back at the windows as I approached the tent, but I did hope that Mary was not alone in there. It concerned me that we did not yet know the identity of Amelia’s killer, and Mary, still recovering, would not be able to fend off an attacker. Poppy had gone to fetch bathwater for the men, and surely Mrs. Haylam would be smart enough to set the Residents to watch. Everything seemed piled on top of everything else—the Court, the guests, Mary’s return, the creatures in the woods, Amelia’s death, my deal with Mr. Morningside and the revenge that might come of it. No wonder I felt fit to fall over and collapse of exhaustion at any moment—it was enough to make anyone dizzy with distraction.
But my purpose in that moment was clear, or at least, it ought to be. I pictured Lee’s hopeful face as I mentioned a way to rid ourselves of the Adjudicators. He was already living—“living”—with so many changes, the least I could do was set him free of the pain their presence caused. And yet that would require lying, lying to Finch, who had already heard me say that Mr. Morningside had been wrong about Lee. There were rules here I still did not understand—was he supposed to be infallible? Of course that would be so. Chijioke and Poppy had such pure faith in his decisions. . . . Did they waver in their dedication now that they knew he had been mistaken once?
As I reached the pavilion, I shuddered, thinking of what I had read in Bennu’s journal. No doubt what he had witnessed were creatures like Finch and Sparrow using their powers to pass judgment. There were always three, Chijioke had said, and three were mentioned in Bennu’s account. If I lied, would one of them pull the truth out of me and my very life with it?
I hovered near one of the torches and waited, hands clutching one another nervously. There was nothing for it—I would have to lie, I owed that much to Lee, but I reserved the right to anticipate that moment with anxiety. Fidgeting. Pacing. I heard low voices in the pavilion and grew more and more curious about what they might be saying inside. At the same time, I grew aware of the darkness around me. The small island of light around the torch felt safe, but as the sun vanished on the horizon, I couldn’t bear to stray too far, watching for any signs of movement along the edge of the woods and the pasture to the east.
A strong wind came up from the west, rattling the leaves in the forest and making them shimmer louder and louder, the scent of distant wood smoke overwhelming my senses with childhood nostalgia. It smelled of home. Home. Or whatever occasional comforts I had experienced there, mostly alone or with my imaginary friend. I closed my eyes against the feeling. When I opened them again, the torch beside me roared, fighting the wind. Another sound, like the gale in the leaves but softer, whispered along the fringe of the forest. The nearness of the torch made it difficult to make out anything far away, and I moved out of the light for a moment, waiting for my sight to clear and then watching as the bushes and saplings deformed, shaking, moved by something traveling along the trees.
My skin prickled, whatever it was moving quickly, concealed by the darkness and the density of the brush but visibly coming closer. Nobody else was outside but me, and I huddled closer to the torch again. What if it was that wolf creature? I was vulnerable out in the open like that, and totally defenseless. I tiptoed toward the pavilion’s opening, preparing to dash inside the moment the monster showed itself.
The moon glowed softly, a sliver missing, the dense cloud coverage in front of it diminishing its light. No, I would have only the torch to protect me. I took the far torch out of its holder, brandishing it in front of me as I peered into the shadows, then began to advance. Whatever moved among the trees came closer, and closer still, the shivering of the leaves so loud now that I felt it echoing at the base of my spine, a trill of fear and danger rippling up toward my neck. The torch blazed but my skin was cold with fright. No squirrel could make trees bend that way. A shape no bigger than a man materialized out of the woods, running at
speed toward me.
I panicked, gasping, retreating to the safety of the pavilion and holding the torch at the ready. Whoever it was ran with incredible ease and swiftness, with not the grace of a man but of a deer or fox. I knew the moment the figure saw me that they had the advantage, for I was almost blind with the torchlight so near to my face. They had seen me watching them and stopped, stooping as if to pounce, then turned and fled back to the safety of the forest.
I heard something soft thud in the grass. They had thrown something at me.
Perhaps foolishly, I hazarded a few steps out into danger. The voices in the tent grew softer as I padded along the grass, sweeping the torch this way and that, looking for whatever object might be hiding in the weeds. The leaves at the edge of the woods rattled again and I glanced up, freezing in place, but it was only the person plunging back into the bushes.
“Hello?” I called. “I see you! I see you hiding out there! Who are you? What do you want?”
Nothing. Just the crackling of the torch in my hand and the hoot of an owl.
“Announce yourself!” I cried again.
I stumbled forward, watching for movement in the forest. All was quiet, but I advanced anyway. I felt bolder now that I had chased them off. The toe of my boot collided with something in the grass and I knelt, running my palm over the ground until I felt a bump and my fingernails scraped over a huge, curled leaf.
The leaf had been bundled around something and knotted with a piece of long, dry grass. Standing, I held the strange parcel up to the torchlight, pulling away the tie and unwrapping the leaf. I almost dropped the thing in surprise.
A spoon. My spoon. It was mangled and bent at odd angles, as if a giant had tried using it. Obviously someone had tried to work out the kinks, but to no avail. The necklace chain dangled from the loop at the end of the spoon, broken. I pocketed the spoon, mystified, and turned back toward the pavilion, nearly missing the design in mud on the leaf.
I unrolled the leaf, pressing it to my thigh to keep it from snapping shut again. Whoever had found and returned the spoon had tried to write a message on the veined, rough surface of the leaf. It was done in shaky, childlike smears of mud and read:
SO RY.
Sorry. I gazed up from the leaf to the woods, dumbfounded.
“Hello?” I called once more, wondering if just one more try might get me a response.
“Louisa! There you are!”
I shoved the leaf message in the pocket with the spoon and whirled, trotting toward Mr. Morningside as he took loping strides toward me. He had come from the pavilion, and he looked to be in good spirits. He squinted and inspected the forest behind me, then laughed.
“What are you doing out here? Mrs. Haylam doesn’t want you wondering around after that shock you had in the woods, and neither do I. It isn’t safe here right now, you know that.” He took me by the shoulder and guided me back toward the pavilion. “Don’t tell me you were thinking of running away.”
“No . . . No, I just thought I saw something,” I mumbled.
“Were you startled? Shall I give you a moment before we go in?”
“I should be all right. But what am I expected to do?” I asked. We had returned to the opening of the pavilion. The pennants above us snapped in the wind while I put the torch back in its place.
Now in the light, I saw that Mr. Morningside had dressed exquisitely for the occasion, his suit pinstriped with iridescent silver and red, his ebony silk cravat studded with a ruby-encrusted broach in the shape of a bird’s skull. I felt woefully drab by contrast, my fresh apron now stained with soot and grease from the torch. He walked me to the flap in the pavilion and held me at arm’s length, seemingly unaware of how underdressed I felt.
“It shan’t go on much longer this evening, Louisa. I know you’re tired.” He ducked inside first, then waited for me to join. “You only need answer a few short questions, mostly about the nature of the translations you’ve been doing for me. If you get nervous or afraid, just say you need more time to think.”
“Wait,” I whispered, and he hesitated with the canvas in his hand, his head lowered to clear the short door. “Should I tell the truth? What if I say the wrong thing?”
Mr. Morningside gave me one of his big white smiles and shook his head. “You just say whatever you think is . . . Well, your version of the truth. One man’s truth is another man’s lie, what you see is not necessarily what I see, and what I believe is not what you believe. Does that make things more clear?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “Not at all.”
His chuckle vanished into the pavilion with him, and I took a deep breath, stepping forward. That single step into the tent felt like walking off a cliff, and that was apt, because what I found inside would leave me stunned and reeling.
Chapter Twenty-One
I had not expected an ordinary tent, but this was altogether astonishing. It felt as if I had stepped into a fairy glade, dark and cool, tiny twinkling lights of every color dancing on the air above us. They were connected to nothing, freely lending their blue or rose or yellow glow before skipping off to light another corner of the pavilion. Even the boundaries of the place were hard to describe, as there seemed to be no walls or ceiling, just a shroud of black mist encasing us in air that smelled as sweet and honeyed as an apiary.
When I had rebounded from the shock, I gazed around in wonder at the volume of attendees. Where had they all come from? The pavilion was bustling with activity, men and women, young and old, some in long black cloaks and others in shimmering gowns of ivory. To my left was a long wooden table with plenty of goblets and decanters, though food looked scarce. A banner hung over that table with a large embroidered version of the pin I wore for safe passage. But the banner did not have the I AM WRATH script across it, just the serpents. Those who hovered around that table wore the black cloaks; those in white clung to a table at the far end of the tent, near a raised dais. That table had a banner on it with a simple coat of arms, four quadrants, two with wings and two with sheep. To my right stood a third table, but it was completely empty. Nobody lingered near it. A banner hung above that table, but it was simply black and tattered, as if long forgotten.
Our entrance did not put an end to the din of conversation, and I glanced around sheepishly for any familiar faces. At last I spied Chijioke in a sea of black cloaks. His garb was far more brilliant—a scarlet coat, wide in the shoulders, with billowing sleeves and a diamond pattern down the front. He wore a small round hat, too, and his eyes glowed like red coals, as brightly as they had when I watched him doing his ferrying ceremony in Derridon.
I hurried over to him, amazed at his appearance. When he caught sight of me, he looked equally stunned.
“Ah, lass, I was curious indeed to see what the Court would make of you,” he said with an inscrutable smile.
“Make of me?” I asked.
“You cannot hide what you are in here,” he said, gesturing to the room. “No magic, no incantation, no spell would be strong enough to mask your nature. That is why I appear as I do, and why you appear as you do.”
I felt a fool as I looked down at my own frock, gasping when I found my dowdy servant’s clothes and apron were gone, replaced by an evening gown of green silk with a pattern of tiny vines. A light-as-gauze fichu was tucked around the neck, replacing the plain, sturdy one that had been there before. Chijioke had a good laugh over my surprise.
“What? You’ve done this before?” I reached for one of the goblets behind him on the table, trying to find my own reflection.
“No, but your reaction is the best I’ve so far seen. Here,” he said, taking the goblet and holding it so I could get a look at myself.
My hair had changed, too, swept up and braided into twisty ropes that secured a tall headdress of leaves and antlers. And my eyes . . . they were completely black, vast and startling, and I turned away from my own reflection in revulsion. There were plenty of other things and people to gape at. Chijioke stayed by my side, th
en handed me another cup, this one filled with what tasted like ice-cold honey wine.
“Where did they all come from?” I asked. “I saw no one enter the grounds. . . .”
“That surprised me, too,” Chijioke replied. “But there is a door in the back, by the judge’s seat. It leads to . . . well, lass, all kinds of places. I think the shepherd wanted a whole mess of witnesses just in case Mr. Morningside tried to wiggle out of the trial.”
I had almost forgotten that I was there to testify. Through the milling crowd I spotted Mr. Morningside and watched him proceed through the pavilion toward the dais at the other end of the tent. His magnificent suit did not transform, but he did, his image flickering as if one were rapidly turning the pages of a book and catching glimpses of illustrations here and there. One instant he was an elderly man with a curlicue beard, the next he was as I knew him, then the next he was childlike and rosy-cheeked. Before my very eyes, the Devil was showing his hundreds of faces.
“Can I hide here with you?” I murmured. “I do not want to be questioned.”
“I don’t envy you, Louisa,” he said, finding his own cup. “But my time will come soon, too.”
“And will you tell them the truth?” I pressed. “About what happened with Lee and his uncle? About Mr. Morningside’s mistake?”
Chijioke’s easy smile died and he looked to his feet, red eyes suddenly dimmer. “I . . . hadn’t thought about it. The truth seems wisest.”
“It seems wisest until it doesn’t,” I said with a sigh. “What if they leave the Adjudicators to spy on us because Mr. Morningside isn’t doing his job properly? Don’t you think whatever the punishment is, it will be for us, too?”
He nodded, slowly, raising the cup to his lips and leaving it there as if the liquid inside could give him the answers he needed. “I’ll chew it over, that’s for certain. Don’t look now, but I think you’re being summoned.”
The chatter in the tent had died down. In that silence, I turned and found a path had been cleared toward me. A tall, liquid gold figure stood in front of us. It was sexless and ageless, just the shape of a man or woman with skin like burning aurous fire.
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