“No rest for the wicked,” she sighed, and got ready for bed.
“Need us?” asked Grey, and yawned herself. Neville gave all his feathers a huge shake, and clacked his beak.
“I don’t think so—” Sarah began, but Nan shook her head.
“Let’s not be overconfident,” she cautioned. “We know now that there definitely is a magician somewhere out there on the moors. I’d rather have all our defenses and not need them, than need them and not have them.”
Slipping into the spirit world out here in the country was a lot different than doing so in London. For one thing, it was easier; there were almost no distractions. For another, the spirit world itself was somehow quieter. Definitely more peaceful. Because they were going to be on a close watch for ghosts, they didn’t plan on going straight to the cottage. Granted, they had done a cursory inspection before, but now they could make a better job of it. Passing through the walls of the hotel, they and the birds took to the air, orienting themselves on the shadow-street beneath them, gaining height until they were able to make out the track they had taken to Sheepstor, then cutting across country directly rather than following the meandering track.
The spirit world, a shadowy replica of the real world, stretched out beneath them, illuminated not by the weak shadow-moon, but by its own luminescence. The track to Sheepstor was a sort of black snake winding among the glowing moorlands, and the distant walls of Sheepstor rose dark gray among the faintly shining trees and bushes. Beatrice had explained that what they were seeing was literally the “light” that life gave off here in this half-world. This was nowhere near as apparent in London as it was here in the country.
They’d only recently learned to “fly” when in the spirit realm, and it saved an immense amount of time. Grey and Neville kept pace with them easily, and if the situation hadn’t been so serious—and she hadn’t been so tired—Nan would have very much enjoyed this journey. It was almost exactly like the dreams of flying she’d had as a child, and now she wondered if those had actually been dreams, after all, or if she had slipped into the spirit world when she slept back then. It was certainly possible; such things were easier for children. Look how easily Suki had taken to it!
They came down out of the sky and walked carefully the last few feet to the Byerlys’ house. There was always the possibility that Roger had unconsciously imbued the cottage walls with defenses, and they didn’t want to trigger them.
But she needn’t have worried. There was nothing about the place that suggested he had done anything of the sort, and having been invited inside in the flesh earlier today, they were able to pass through the door in spirit as if it weren’t there at all.
There were, however, faint and fading signs of benevolent magic everywhere. There was very little doubt that someone—probably Roger’s grandmother—had been an Earth Magician, and a good one, though not a Master. The hearth in particular glowed as brightly with power as if there were a roaring fire there.
“Well, that answers that question,” Sarah said. “With this heritage behind them, one or both of the children is almost certainly a magician. Potentially, with the power of a Master.”
But Nan shook her head. “Not a Master, or the child would be seeing Elementals already, and even if Maryanne had no idea magic existed, her husband would certainly take notice if one of his children started babbling to things invisible to him. And that’s a good thing; think of what our criminal could do with the power of a Master if it came into their hands.”
“Well, we’ve seen all that we can see here, and until Neville scouts for us tomorrow, there’s not a great deal more we can do,” Sarah replied after a pause. “We need actual targets to investigate.”
“I don’t disagree,” Nan replied. “Just one more thing. Let’s go back outside and see if we can sense anything trying to lure us away.”
Sarah nodded, and they passed through the door and out into the glowing yard. Nan did notice something, once they were out, something she had not paid much attention to when they first arrived.
“Look at the garden,” she said.
Because the plants out in the garden were definitely glowing more brightly than the plants outside the wall. It was a healthy glow, and when Nan moved among them, she felt a little bit stronger and more energized.
“Roger only has one hand,” she reminded Sarah. “There is no way that he affected the plants this way.”
“Do you think it could be left over from the mother or the grandmother?” Sarah replied, then shook her head before Nan could answer. “No, I don’t think so. This feels too recent. Could Maryanne have some trace of magic herself?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, though not enough to see my sylphs. I very much doubt this was either of the children. This has the feel of someone who loves this garden.” Nan pulled a face. “From the way Maryanne spoke, neither of the children thought of the garden as anything but a place they longed to raid for food, and didn’t want to spend any time working in.”
“It also has an undertone of desperation,” Sarah said, after a long moment of simply standing there and allowing the feeling of the place to seep into her. “I think it has to be Maryanne. This place feels not only like something she loved, but something she saw as the last bastion standing between her family and starvation.”
Well, that’s a depressing note to end the evening on, Nan thought.
“Well, I don’t sense anything trying to lure us away from here. So whatever got the children, did so out on the open moor. Tomorrow we’ll begin the real work,” she said aloud. “In the meantime—let’s get back and get some sleep. This is going to take painstaking and exacting precision. And I am determined to find those children before anything happens to them that is worse than what already has.”
“Let’s hope, whatever has happened to them already, it’s not irrevocable,” Sarah said somberly. “Returning them to their parents as empty, walking shells, like those poor girls in Battersea, would be worse than not returning them at all.”
15
SIMON was not sure whether to be happier or not. Whatever was taking the Dark One away from the cottage in the evening was leaving the creature in an extremely good mood, and he wasn’t sure if this should make him more or less nervous.
The last time it had gone, it had taken a second pony with it, and come back with both animals laden with luxuries. Sausages, bacon, and ham, a small keg of beer, bags of sweets, a huge bag of ’taties, another of barley, a jug of gin, cheeses, even butter!
Now it was clear to Simon that if the Dark One was a normal human being, it would have been poor. Not as poor as his family, because it certainly had enough to eat with its garden and the snares and all, but still, poor. So where had the creature gotten the money for such things? And where was it getting the jewelry it took out and played with? Simon could not even make any kind of a guess. He just hoped the thing hadn’t murdered some poor soul for the money and jewels.
It was worrying. Very worrying. He feared for the people of Sheepstor—though only the squire had anything worth taking, and Simon didn’t give a fig for the squire, who would come riding over about once a month to glare at them and their little cottage, as if the cottage was robbing him of actual sovereigns. But the Dark One was so gleeful when it returned that Simon just hoped it had forgotten that Ellie had escaped its clutches.
Although so much time had passed since Ellie’s escape. Days! And with every day no rescue came, the more Simon feared that something awful had happened to her out on the moors. Weren’t there supposed to be wolves? He thought he’d heard about wolves. He already knew about the mires you could step into and get sucked down to your death, and the mines you could fall into and break your neck. And there were Travelers out there! Everyone knew Travelers were dangerous. If they didn’t murder you outright with their long knives, they’d rob you of everything you owned and beat you and leave you for dead. And t
here were criminals too, horrible men who’d escaped from the prison somewhere vaguely “out there on the moor” and lived wild like beasts. And there might be more witches like the Dark One! Where there was one witch, there was bound to be more! What if Ellie escaped the Dark One only to be recaptured by someone even worse?
It all made his stomach knot up and his throat close, and made him cry into his pillow several times a day, much to the disgust of some of the others. He just couldn’t seem to do anything right when it came to Robbie. Robbie was always looking at him and muttering to himself. He knew why, too. Robbie thought he was useless, and wished they had Ellie instead of him.
And there was more to worry about. Unfortunately, whatever the Dark One had been doing that brought it such treasures seemed to require even more of whatever it was the creature took from its prisoners. It had only rested for a single day and a night after putting all the new treasures away and Simon had only just recovered from the last Dark Sleep when the thing stalked into their prison in that way that told them all the terrible spell was going to be placed on them all again.
Simon went cold all over. Not again, he thought. Please, not again. But no matter that Father Shaw said that sincere prayers were always heard, God evidently had no interest in his. Maybe the Dark One has us locked away where God can’t see, he thought as his throat closed up again.
It stood in the middle of the room as they all huddled as far away from it as they could, and some of them—Simon included—whimpered in fear and despair.
“Cease tha’ crewntin’,” it chuckled. “It all be good, fer tha’ an’ fer me. Whenst tha’ wakes, tha’ll get a sweetie. And tonight—tha’ gets bacon with tha’ bread! A swant supper! There be nothin’ to blubber like a chrisemore for.”
That only made Simon more terrified. He didn’t want anything that creature could give him! What if it was going to tie them even tighter to itself with the food? Or maybe there was a worse reason for the promise. The thing wouldn’t promise them treats unless it intended to make the Dark Sleep longer and more fearful than it ever had been before—
But he was not given any time to dwell on that, because the Dark One raised its arms and he fell into the black and the terror, and as ever, it felt as if it would go on forever. He feared he would die. Or worse, he feared that the Dark One had learned how to keep them in this place for years and years without end, and just keep draining and draining them without ever letting them back to the world and the light again. . . .
But then it did end, and the terror let go of him and he sensed that for now, at least, the Dark One couldn’t keep them there forever. When he fell out of the spell again, he felt so weak he could barely move his head.
And the Dark One was standing over him, gazing down on him from that empty hood.
He wanted to scrabble away. A scream started in his head, but all that came out of him was a pathetic whimper. All he could do was wait for the Dark One to seize him again and—
His imagination failed him as to what the Dark One would do to him. All that he was sure of was that it would be terrible.
But the Dark One just . . . stood there. Gloating, he thought. As if he was some sort of special dish that the Dark One was about to enjoy.
“Ah, Simon, Simon,” the thing crooned, which somehow was more horrid than if it had hissed at him as it had before. “Sech a treasure tha’ be. Worth twice tha’ sister, an’ I dain’t even mind she run. She were doan compared t’ ’ee. Tha’rt a right guit. Es could et tha’ right oop.”
Oh God! Was the thing going to actually kill and eat him now? He fell to shaking, and his eyes starting right out of his head with terror. He wished he could faint, if only to get away from that terrible stare.
The thing laughed, and stood erect again, then stalked off, slamming the prison door behind it.
Simon shook so hard his teeth rattled, trying to parse out what the thing had meant. Was it going to eat him later? Was something worse in store for him? What did it mean? What did it want?
“S’aright, Simon,” Sam said wearily from his own bed. “Don’ be afeerd more’n tha’ already be. It meant tha’ gives it more witchery-power than usn’s. Shoulda said it were gonna guddle ’ee, but it don’ think that way.”
Despite Sam’s words, meant to comfort—or maybe because of them, because being drunk up like a pint was no more comforting than being eaten—it took him until the girls brought round a bag of sweeties—bull’s-eyes—and gave each of them one to suck now and a second one for later—that he finally managed to stop shaking.
The sweetie helped. It was something good to concentrate on, in the middle of all the horror. He’d only ever had a bull’s-eye at Christmas, before Pa had lost his hand and they’d moved to Grammar’s cottage. He and Ellie had got three each in the toes of their Christmas stockings, and a gingerbread man, and new stockings, and warm jumpers, all thanks to the parish. Mother had made sure that they told the priest thenkee and not to prate no nonsense about Father Christmas. He wasn’t sure if that was because Father Christmas didn’t exist, or because Father Christmas only came for rich children, or because Father Christmas left the distribution of gifts to poor children to the parish. He rather thought it was the last, but he didn’t dare say anything with Mother being so firm about thanking the priest. He’d done what she told, and the priest had seemed very confused, but said he was welcome and patted him on the head.
The sweet, so good, and so full of peppermint that it made his nose feel cool and soothed a throat sore with crying, made him feel a little better. He did his best to think about nothing else. He nursed the treat as long as he could, sucking on it slowly, until at last it was nothing more than a tiny speck on his tongue. He thought about keeping the other for later, he truly did, but the knowledge that he had it was like a fire, and the fear that the Dark One would come in here and take it back like ice, so he popped it in his mouth and lay back, trying to think only of the bliss of sweetness and the cool of mint and imagine himself somewhere, anywhere else. Back in the little room where they’d lived when Pa still had a hand.
“Robbie,” Sam whispered across the room. “Do tha’ think Dark One’s a man or ’ooman?”
Well . . . that got his attention.
Robbie snorted. “Don’t think. Know. ’Ooman, a’course.”
“But—it be sa mean,” Sam objected.
Simon agreed. He didn’t think anything could be as horrible except a man. Even Mother, when she was at her angriest, never was anything like so cruel.
“Thinkee ’ooman cain’t be mean? Tha’ shoulda met me Ma,” said Ben, with a snort of derision. “Faster w’ stick on me bones than Pa, an beat me like a drum, she did, any time she felt it. An’ put a pint’a gin in ’er?” He whistled. “Felled a prize-fighter oncet, she did.”
“’Sides,” Robbie continued. “Wears a dress.”
“Robes,” Sam objected again. “Like priest.”
Well, Simon had to admit the thing did wear something that looked like the fancy robes a priest wore for Sunday. A lot like them, in fact. Only with a hood. Well, that just cemented his certainty that it was a man.
“Dress,” Robbie sneered, sounding very sure of himself. “Tis a ’ooman. Mean, hard ’ooman, cold an’ narsty as winter.”
“Don’t matter,” Mark said harshly. “Man, ’ooman, don’ matter. Jest th’ mean part. An’ that it got us, an’ it ain’t gonna let us go, an’ we’ll be ’ere forever an’ ever unless usn’s fall inter Dark Sleep an’ don’ come out again.”
Simon was inclined to agree with Mark. Unless, of course, the Dark One was neither man nor woman. . . .
Inside he wanted to scream, because that, of course, was the answer. And everything Mother had told him about being a bad boy was true. A devil had got him, only it hadn’t waited for him to die to take him.
“’S a devil,” he blurted around the last of his sweetie, the s
ugar tasting now like ash.
“Cawbaby got it aright,” Robbie agreed, though the fact that Robbie called him a cawbaby took a lot of the pleasure out of being called right. “’S a devil, outa Hell. An’ it got us t’do what it wants.”
“Wut’s that make usn’s then?” asked Mark.
“Whatever it wants.” Simon opened his eyes to see Robbie turning over on his bed, putting his back to them all, and ending the conversation.
But he couldn’t help thinking about that . . . because surely not everyone here was as bad as he was, that a devil would come up out of Hell to torment them all?
And besides that, what would a devil want with draining them of witchery power? Wouldn’t a devil have power of its own? Weren’t devils supposed to be able to offer you anything you desired to tempt you?
And the Dark One certainly ate, and ate well. And why would a devil need to eat at all?
Worrying over all of those things, like a dog with a rag, exhausted him further, until he fell asleep with the taste of sugar and peppermint still in his mouth . . . to find Jess shaking him awake again, with his three loaves of bread, one drizzled with sugar-water, one full of vegetable stew, and the third, as the Dark One had promised, smeared with bacon fat, with two slices of crisp bacon in the middle.
Thinking was too hard. He was already worn out. There would be no Dark Sleep for at least another day, and right now the best meal he had ever seen was right in front of him. And that was all he cared to think about.
* * *
Today, lovely as the day was, Nan was going to spend it in the privacy of their room. It was time to send Neville to deliver her letter to Maryanne Byerly and out to cross-quarter the moor, one carefully marked out a bit at a time, so that they could add all the outlying cottages and deserted mines to her map. At the end of the day, she and Sarah would enter the spirit realm again, and carefully check through all places he had found.
The Case of the Spellbound Child Page 25