“Louisa.”
It was Finch, recognizable only because of his voice. When I looked past him, I saw two other figures like him, featureless but gold, waiting at the raised platform. Seated there above them in an ornate wooden throne was the shepherd. He hadn’t changed a jot.
“Yes, all right,” I muttered, putting the cup back on the table and turning quickly to Chijioke. “Wish me luck?”
“You won’t need it,” he said with a chuckle. “You have your wits.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. I felt completely disoriented, assaulted from every direction with strange images. It was like stumbling onto a foreign shore and being expected to know the language and customs within minutes. Could I not stand a moment and just breathe it all in? Get my bearings? No, I was being marched through the tent, all eyes trained directly on me.
There were no words of encouragement from Finch; he simply walked ahead of me and then motioned to the empty spot next to Mr. Morningside. Gradually the conversations behind us started up again, but now I knew they were all about me.
“Well, well, well.” I glanced up at Mr. Morningside, whose ever-changing eyes swept from the antlers on my head to the hem of my green silk gown. “Are you ready?” he asked. Even his voice was strange, reflecting the different faces that pulsed in and out, each word pronounced by a man younger or older.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” He winked—or one of his faces did—and then cleared his throat, tucking his hands behind his back and beaming up at the shepherd. Three golden figures joined him by the throne, flanking him like a small army.
“Is that the third Adjudicator?” I whispered.
“Hm? Oh, no, that’s the dog,” Mr. Morningside said, rolling his eyes. He was not whispering back but bellowing all of this loudly enough for the room to hear. “Always found it ironic, making the voice of God masquerade as a mutt. Bark, bark, heed my word! Bark, bark, fire and brimstone!”
Could that thing really be Big Earl? The shimmering tall man to the shepherd’s right squared his shoulders. “Dogs are the noblest creatures in the kingdom. It is my privilege to take their form.”
“A privilege to piss on fence posts and sniff your own arse? Noted.”
“That’s enough.” The shepherd put his hand up, and both of them were silent. The only difference I could divine, looking up at the bearded old man, was that his voice sounded richer and louder, like the thunder of horses charging.
He drew in a long breath and gave his speech not with force but with a kind of disappointed melancholy. “We are here to ascertain whether Henry Ingram Morningside is guilty of dereliction of his duties. Long ago, in an effort to create peace between our two sides, it was agreed that he would ferry on the souls of the wicked and damned, that doing so would suit his dark nature and prevent crueler urges from being indulged. For our part, we agreed to look to the souls of the good, and to intervene with the wicked only in extreme cases. These are simple terms and simple duties, but they carry unsimple weight. This balance we have achieved can be broken, Henry, and the consequences of such imbalance hurt us all.”
He turned his pale eyes on me from where he sat in his throne, his legs too short even to reach the floor. “Are you here willingly, my dear?”
Oh. It was my turn to speak. I felt small and frail under the pressure of so many expectant eyes, but I lifted my chin and tried to reply as loudly as I could. “I am, yes.”
“Finch tells me you have quite the story to tell,” the shepherd said. He smiled, smug. “Do you agree to tell your truth here, when instructed, and to speak with honesty and integrity? You may refuse, Louisa, if that is your preference.”
“N-no,” I said, cursing the stammer. “I agree.”
The shepherd leaned toward me, and at once that nasty, icy feeling in my bones returned, so acute and intense that I went rigid, then felt my knees threaten to fail. I struggled to keep my eyes open as he told me in clear, short bursts, “If we suspect you of lying, you will be submitted to Judgment to discern the truth. Is that clear? We will enforce our ancient agreements by any means necessary.”
“I . . . I . . .” The cold was so terrible I was half convinced I would see my breath puff out in white clouds as I hesitated. Judgment. I knew what that meant. I knew what a lie could do, the pain and death it could bring.
“That won’t be required.” Mr. Morningside spoke up. He held up the papers I had translated, flashing them high for everyone to see. “I am submitting my own evidence. Thanks to Louisa’s marvelous skills of translation, I will soon have the location of the long-lost third book.”
He handed the stack of parchment to the shepherd, who leaned back in the throne, shying away as if the papers might pinch. “That’s impossible.”
“This is ridiculous!” Sparrow exploded. She rushed forward to intercept the papers, but Mr. Morningside flicked them away. “Theatrics, pure theatrics! This is nothing more than a vulgar distraction!”
“On the contrary,” Mr. Morningside said smoothly. “It’s entirely relevant to the proceedings. We’re here to determine my fitness, yes? My competence? The missing book and the Lost Order are linked, and I will prove it to you.” He pivoted and addressed the shepherd directly. “You cannot call into question the competency of a man who has done what you have tried and failed to do for centuries!”
The shepherd stood up and the excited noise of the onlookers died at once. He leaned far out of his throne, and as he glared at Mr. Morningside, I saw not an old man but a warrior, aged, perhaps, weathered, but glowing with as much white-hot fury as the blazing figures around him. I shrank back, afraid, regretting that I had chosen this side, and that I had ever been asked to choose one at all.
Silence. Then the shepherd broke it like a clap of lightning and something in the room snapped. “Give those to me.”
The tension evaporated. Mr. Morningside handed over my work and then said nothing, offering no more insults or mockery.
“If what you say is true—” the shepherd began.
“No!” Sparrow was quick to interrupt. “You cannot possibly—”
“If what you say is true and these findings are authentic,” he continued, dismissing her with a look, “it will indeed alter the nature of this Court. I will study what you have here, Henry, and determine the best course of action. That is all.”
The Court erupted in outrage and excitement. The reactions were quite obviously split between two halves of the room, the loudest protests coming from Sparrow, who stormed back and forth across the dais, haranguing her brother for not warning her that this was coming. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Finch, who had no way of knowing what Mr. Morningside was up to. Perhaps she had expected him to pump me for information, but I had only offered him the mistake with Lee, a dry crumb compared to the far tastier morsel I had concealed.
“Off we go,” Mr. Morningside said cheerily, taking me by the elbow and dragging me through the near riotous crowd. “Don’t need anyone trying to take your head off before you can finish that journal.”
“Should I be worried about that?” I asked, dodging the curious, penetrating looks of strangers, all of them swarming close to us as we tried to leave the pavilion. I flinched away from them, wishing I could disappear quietly, not on the arm of the person who had just caused such a flurry of anger and wonder.
“About Sparrow? No. Maybe. She’s always been an embarrassing lunatic, ever the loose cannon, but it’s only gotten worse with Spicer gone,” he told me. We at last reached the exit and he half tossed me outside and into the darkness. He followed, and instantly his appearance subsided into the familiar one with wild black hair and golden eyes. “Which reminds me, I should find out what that imbecile is up to.”
“Is he the third one?” I asked. “Spicer? I know that name somehow. . . .”
“Yes, he’s the third one,” Mr. Morningside said impatiently. He took off toward the house and I tried to keep up, worried that if I were left alone Sparrow m
ight come looking. “His absence is conspicuous and I don’t like not knowing what it means. They probably sent him to dig up dirt on me somewhere, or maybe he’s gone in search of the Lost Order. Whatever it is, it’s suspicious.”
I was too tired to make sense of what he was saying. Once inside the kitchens, we startled Bartholomew awake. He had been sleeping by the range for warmth. I stopped at the sight of him and knelt down, rubbing his ears until he stuck his nose in the air and touched it to my chin. The noblest creatures in the kingdom.
“What are you doing? Did I dismiss you?” Mr. Morningside whirled around, looming over us with his hands on his hips.
“I want him to sleep in my room tonight, or at least outside my door,” I said sternly. “There’s a monster in the woods, someone killed Amelia, and those insane golden people want to suck out my soul if I lie! Forgive me if the thought of sleeping alone is impossible.”
His eyes softened and he glanced away, nodding as he turned toward the foyer. “Peace. Peace, Louisa. Of course. Take the dog. I suppose I have been . . . a touch neglectful of the house. Mrs. Haylam is looking into it, but I’ll do my part, too, Louisa. Take Bartholomew; I shall walk the grounds. If there is a wolf and a murderer in our midst, then they will be found.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was late when I opened my eyes and found the door to my room ajar. Bartholomew must have left, and I was all alone. I shivered in the darkness. One of the candles I had left burning was still clinging to life, just a smear of wax with a dying flame flickering out beside the bed. I still felt so tired, though I must have slept, and distant from myself, as if my thoughts were an arm’s length away at all times.
Laughter. Distant laughter. It was too late for anyone to be up at this hour. . . . I longed to go back to bed but felt drawn to the sounds of celebrating. Clinking glassware. Amiable conversation. Had the guests in the pavilion stayed and moved their merrymaking into the house? I doubted Mrs. Haylam would allow such a thing. Taking up the little candle stub in its holder and pulling on a shawl, I tiptoed out of bed and down the hall.
The black ragged tails of Residents disappeared just ahead of me. There were three of them, all heading down the stairs toward the foyer. I passed the bird paintings cluttering up the wall, though the images seemed hazy, my eyes bleary with exhaustion. A dread cold hung over the house, as if the warmer months were long gone, the depths of winter returned. I saw my breath on the air and felt my skin prickle as it did in the moments before the sky broke and snow fell.
I followed the Residents, always just a step behind, watching them float ahead of me and toward the kitchens. Perhaps they, too, sensed something was amiss. The laughter was far off again, too far off, moving whenever I drew near. With chilly bare feet I crossed the foyer and peered into the kitchens, seeing the ghostly fringe of a Resident drift out the door and onto the lawn. Where the devil were they going? I had never seen any of them leave for the grounds except Lee. Faster I chased after them, faster, shielding the candle flame with one hand as it threatened to die.
The air outside stung, but the laughter was getting clearer. Oh, but it sounded like a jolly gathering indeed. The Residents sped across the grass, swift, black shapes that went with no hesitation to the pavilion and then forced their way inside. My heart ached. It felt like a joke I was not privy to, like a conversation whispered in the next room, a conversation you know is pure gossip and all about you. I ignored the candle flame, running hard, slipping across the lawn before better judgment could intervene and send me back to bed.
When I plunged into the tent it was brightly lit, though dyed silvery blue. All the wonder and beauty of it was gone, replaced by a deadness on the air and a horrible smell that made me gag and press my wrist over my mouth. The trestle tables had been removed. The pavilion seemed to go on forever, a long, horrible gauntlet of enduring that stench. It was worse than the docks at low tide. Worse than the stables on a hot day. It was old, bad flesh, a butcher’s cart in high summer. It hung around me thick as a fog, but at last I had found the source of the laughter.
There, at the far, far end of the tent was the gathering. I recognized everyone from behind—Mr. Morningside, of course, and Chijioke, Mrs. Haylam, and Poppy, but also Finch, Sparrow, the shepherd, and his dog. What could possibly make them all so happy? And why would they go there to have a revelry in the middle of the night?
It was all wrong. It was a dream, a nightmare, and I knew it then but to my horror found that I could not wake myself. I was locked into this endless walk and would not break out of the dream until I saw it through.
And so I ran on and on, feeling breathless and hopeless, convinced that I would never reach my destination. They were laughing harder now, uproariously, and the smell was so aggressive I could only breathe through the fabric of my shawl, and even then tendrils of the stench clawed at the back of my throat. At last it was over and time slowed, and it was like watching them underwater, their voices distorted and low, the laughter insane, forced, only for my benefit.
I stopped dead. It was a joke I wish I had never been in on. Their faces were messy with gore; they had been eating sloppily. My body was on the table in front of them, all of it torn open, unrecognizable but for the face. And there my eyes were missing. I saw then that Poppy was holding my eyes in her palm; she squealed with too much delight and popped them into her mouth.
“Her eyeballs exploded!” she giggled, gray juice running down her chin.
There was almost nothing of me left, just the head with its empty sockets, Big Earl rooting around in the viscera left on the table, his jowls slick with blood. Even the shepherd had feasted, his lips limned in red, eyes wild and ecstatic as he chewed and chewed.
I tried to back away, feeling my stomach give out and my limbs go soft, but Mr. Morningside took me by the shoulder and pulled me in. I could smell the reek on him, see stains all down his once immaculate suit.
His brow knitted with concern as bloodied fingers tilted my chin up and he studied me intently. Mr. Morningside pouted and let his head fall to the side. “Are you lost, child? Are you lost?”
“Are you awake, Louisa? Louisa! Wake up!”
I was. I was? Strangely, my eyes were already open, but only then did normal sight return. And I was still choking, gagging. I coughed, hard, nearly crashing my head into two pairs of concerned eyes. Poppy and Bartholomew both sat on the bed, leaning in close enough for me to feel their breath on my face. My chin felt wet. I couldn’t stop coughing. What was the matter with me? Could a dream really be so powerful? I wiped at my chin, expecting to find an embarrassing amount of drool from the night; instead the back of my hand came away stained with pink foam.
Shit.
“Why are you spitting up pink stuff?” Poppy asked, poking at my hand. “That is very unusual, Louisa. Are you ill? Shall I call for Mrs. Haylam? She will know what to do!”
“No!” I said too loud. Too panicked. I grabbed the shawl draped on my bedside table and wiped furiously at my mouth. God, there was a lot of it. “It’s . . . a Changeling thing.”
Poppy’s brows shot up. Bartholomew did not look convinced. “Is it? That must be very inconvenient.”
“Oh . . . it is,” I said, forcing a smile. “It, um, happens sometimes when we have a bad dream. I have been meaning to ask Mr. Morningside about it; he does know a lot about Unworlder things.”
“That is a grand idea,” Poppy replied with a laugh. She bounced her way across the bed and the dog followed, though much more slowly. My lap was blazingly hot from where Bartholomew had spent the night guarding me. I looked to the door, shuddering, convinced I could still smell that awful stench, as if it lingered from the dream at the back of my mouth.
“Oh!” Poppy twirled at the door, leaning on the frame and sticking a knuckle between her teeth. Her eyes darted nervously about the room. “About why I came to wake you. Yes, well, you should really hurry and clean up your face. You have a visitor, Louisa.”
“A visitor?” I pul
led the blanket up, hiding the soiled shawl underneath. “Who would come to see me?”
“Your father, silly. He’s waiting downstairs!”
I had asked for this, and yet it was the last thing I needed.
Pink foam. Foam. Just like in the journal, the two girls . . . Oh God, and now my father, my real father. My real father who abandoned my mother and left us to suffer poverty and degradation, who left me for a drunken half-wit to berate and abuse. Oh God. Oh God.
It took longer than usual to get dressed, as I not only wanted to buy myself time but also make certain I looked presentable. There was little I could do to gussy up a servant’s simple bodice, skirts, and tucker, but at least I could make sure my apron was straight and my hair nicely plaited. While my nerves gathered like a storm at the edge of the horizon, I tried to take a modicum of satisfaction in making him wait. Croydon Frost. What did I expect? What did he expect?
Not a long-faced, lank-haired plain girl with black eyes, I wagered. Most fathers must imagine their daughters to be great beauties. Lord, did he have a surprise in store.
I walked calmly down the hall when I was ready, or ready enough, reminding myself not to seem too eager. I confess, there was a part of me consumed with a giddy curiosity. Even if he was a vile, abandoning cur, I couldn’t help but feel a tad excited. It was a solved mystery, a gift opened at last on Christmas morning, or maybe not; maybe it would be the shock of a snake waiting in the grass to bite.
Mary’s door was shut as I passed by, and I paused outside, then tapped on the door. I heard nothing inside, but tapped again and said softly, “I promise to visit later. There’s so much I need to tell you. Rest well, Mary.”
I was stalling and I knew it. But I also had an advantage while I lingered upstairs. The first floor looked out onto the foyer; they shared the same vaulted walls and ceiling, the same horrendous bird art. So I moved back a few steps and then slowly toward the banister, peering ever so gradually over the edge, trying to spot the man before he spotted me. I felt owed a look at him, a long look, one that lasted for whatever duration felt necessary. Maybe it would dispel the fear. Maybe it would give me courage.
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