‘This shouldn’t be happening,’ said Montie, shaking her head over the pot on the coals. ‘This place should be safer … safer than …’
Ottilie knew she was referring to wherever she and Alba were from.
Skip picked up on it too. ‘Why did you leave the Usklers, Mrs Kit?’ She winced as Ramona dabbed vinegar on her scrape. It was a question Ottilie had always been too nervous to ask.
Montie frowned. ‘Because we weren’t safe.’
‘Why not?’ said Ottilie, trying not to look at Montie’s burns.
‘There’s a group of Laklanders who live in the north-most part of Longwood Forest. That group, they’re vengeful people, filled with hate. They hate Usklerians, but more than that they hate people with Lakland blood living peacefully among Usklerians. They saw us as traitors.’
So there really were Laklander camps in Longwood. There had always been whispers but Ottilie had never believed it. Mostly because she had never believed it possible for anyone to live in that horrible forest.
Her gaze lingered on Skip and Ramona. If either of them was surprised to find out that Montie and Alba were Laklanders, they hid it well.
‘Mum was attacked,’ said Alba, with the casual tone that comes with time.
‘We were living in Scarpy Village, by the mouth of the River Hook,’ said Montie. ‘Nothing like this had ever happened there before. But they must have heard about us and where we were living. One night someone broke into our house and set a fire.’
Her fingers traced the side of her face. She reached up and unwound the pink-and-gold scarf – revealing her scarred, nearly bald head. What hair she had left she kept very short.
‘Alba was six years old, but she found me, and she helped put the fire out. We left as soon as I was well enough to travel. My sister still lives there, with my niece and nephew. She refused to let them drive her away. But I couldn’t stay there, not after what happened … what could have happened to Alba.’ She turned her back on them. ‘But here we are, in a guarded fortress, and look at what’s happening. This is the world we live in.’
Ottilie, Alba and Skip exchanged looks.
‘Mum …’ said Alba. ‘We’ve been training with Ottilie.’
‘You’ve what?’ Montie dropped her ladle in the pot.
‘Ottilie and some other huntsmen, and Ramona. We’ve been training with them at night. Just in case.’
Montie glared at Ramona. Ottilie wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see steam coming from her nostrils. ‘You’ve been training them in secret? With all this talk of witchcraft! You’ve been gathering them together after dark? How could you be so reckless!’
Ramona remained composed. ‘I’m sorry, Montie. With Alba involved, we should have informed you.’
‘Informed me? You should have asked my permission!’ Baring her teeth, Montie turned to her daughter. ‘How could you do this, Alba? How could you risk our position here? Risk losing our home?’ Montie’s dark eyes were heavy with betrayal and Ottilie felt a sick feeling in her gut.
‘Because this is too important!’ said Skip, louder than was probably wise.
‘Don’t you dare start with me, Isla! Do you know what they were going to do with Maeve Moth? You all put yourselves in terrible danger,’ she growled, glaring at Alba.
Alba seemed unable to muster a breath, let alone her voice.
‘And you,’ said Montie, rounding on Ramona again. ‘After everything that happened … that little girl, under your care … and you would risk this?’
Ramona’s cheeks flushed and her lips became a thin line. She and Montie faced each other like two lions braced to clash. No-one dared speak and the crackling flames seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.
Finally, cautiously, Skip asked, ‘What are you talking about?’
Montie didn’t answer her.
Ramona drew her fiery hair back from her face, sweeping her little finger across the crocodile-skin eyepatch. She faced Skip. ‘Ten years ago, the king’s three-year-old daughter had an accident with a horse under my supervision.’ Her eyes were fierce but her voice was calm.
She didn’t say what had happened to the girl. She didn’t need to. Everyone knew that Varrio Sol didn’t have any daughters. Both had died, one before Ottilie was born, and another when she was very young. That must have been how Ramona ended up in the Narroway. She’d been exiled.
‘Enough, Montie,’ said Ramona.
Montie opened her mouth to retort but Ramona got in first, her tone still remarkably calm. ‘We’re all in danger, but the difference is the boys are armed and trained to meet it. If Alba and Skip hadn’t been training with us, they might not have survived today. It’s too dangerous not to teach them.’
Montie didn’t seem to have a response. She turned back to the pot, scooped out the drowned ladle and filled five bowls in silence. Ramona tied off a bandage around Skip’s ribs and Skip settled quickly into a chair, as if frightened to do anything that might set off Montie again.
Montie slid each of them a bowl and spoon. As she passed Ottilie the soup, she met her eye. Ottilie wondered if she was going to scold her, but instead she offered an infinitesimal nod, which Ottilie hoped was a gesture of forgiveness.
27
A Visitor
The wylers had been a diversion. That was Ottilie’s guess. Something to keep the huntsmen occupied. Ottilie was sure that in that trance Gracie could see through their eyes. She must have guided them through, snuck them in somewhere – Ottilie still wasn’t exactly sure how or where.
The rest of the pack must have been waiting beyond the boundary wall, ready to aid in her escape. But why had she wanted to escape? And why had she given herself up? It had to be about Maeve. She really had wanted to rescue her friend.
She’d known it would be too difficult inside Fiory, so she waited until the wagons were on the move, until they were far enough from the fort that they could not quickly call for aid.
Ottilie wanted to speak to Maeve. There were things that needed explaining. She was still convinced that Maeve was a witch, although, considering the fact that she had refused to go with Gracie, she was also inclined to believe that Maeve was innocent. But Ottilie wanted answers. Clear answers.
After a thorough questioning from Captain Lyre, the only one bold enough to enter the wagon, Maeve was waiting under heavy guard while the directorate held council. When it was done, Voilies strolled across the grounds, clearly in no hurry to free her.
‘What are you doing here, Colter?’ he asked, looking down his nose.
Ottilie was standing just far enough from the wagon to keep the nine guards happy. ‘Waiting for you to let her go.’
Voilies huffed and clucked as he unlatched the back. ‘You’re free to leave, Miss Moth,’ he said, as if forced to speak the words against his will.
The huntsmen dispersed and Wrangler Voilies leaned in, as if reaching into a snake pit. Roughly, he unlocked the iron manacles. ‘We’re watching you,’ he said, dangerously. Turning back to Ottilie, he added, ‘All of you.’
Maeve looked unsteady on her feet. Ottilie offered her hand, but she ignored it.
‘Are you here for a thank you?’ said Maeve.
‘No,’ said Ottilie, unsurprised by her coldness. ‘I want you to explain everything to me. I rode out there to help you. I deserve that.’
‘You rode out there because you’re a good person. It had nothing to do with me.’ Maeve’s eyes were wild. She looked like a dog that had just been beaten. Ottilie remembered the feeling. But she’d had people to comfort her. Maeve had no-one. ‘I owe you nothing.’
‘Maeve!’ Scoot came limping towards them, fury twisting his face.
Ottilie stepped carefully between them. ‘It wasn’t her, Scoot, it was Gracie.’
‘Preddy told me. I don’t care what you all say!’ he snarled. ‘I want to know … I want to understand!’ His cheeks were still wet with tears.
‘I was just going to talk to her,’ said Ottilie, gently. ‘Come w
ith us.’
Maeve’s eyes darted around. She looked truly terrified.
‘I know a safe place,’ said Ottilie. She led them down to the lower grounds.
‘We shouldn’t be seen sneaking off together,’ said Maeve, as they approached the stone stairway.
‘They won’t see us – most of the wranglers are scared of the wingerslinks,’ said Ottilie.
They wandered down the aisles of the wingerslink sanctuary to the sounds of inquisitive sniffing and the occasional cautionary growl, which seemed to be directed at Scoot. They stopped by some barrels of salted eel and chests full of dried marsh crab. Scoot dropped down on a chest, as far from the pens as possible. He was fidgeting violently and his jaw was twitching.
Maeve hovered uneasily. She was still wearing her dress from the day before and was painted with layers of dried mud. Ottilie could see little trails through the dirt on her cheeks, shallow creek beds forged by tears.
‘You should have a drink,’ said Ottilie, pumping the lever above the nearby water trough.
Maeve hurried over and cupped her hands, drinking and splashing her face, before settling down on a crate and staring at her toes.
A dark wingerslink lifted her head and regarded them with sleepy green eyes.
‘What is Gracie? What happened to her?’ said Ottilie. She wanted to get straight to it.
‘I don’t know,’ said Maeve, still staring at her toes. ‘When the wyler got into the sculkie chambers’ – Maeve took a deep breath – ‘and Gracie got bitten … I saw it happen. I saw what she did.’
‘What do you mean, you saw what she did?’ said Scoot, his eyes unforgiving.
‘She held out her arm to it,’ said Maeve. ‘She just held it out. She let it bite her.’
Ottilie frowned. So it had been intentional? Had Gracie allowed the wyler to bite her to make herself look the innocent victim? Perhaps, being a witch, she knew she could survive it and allowed herself to get sick enough to avoid suspicion. The thought made Ottilie’s stomach churn.
‘I didn’t know why. I still don’t,’ continued Maeve. ‘I asked her about it but she just laughed it off. And she was really sick at first, from the venom, but then she got better, and she was acting different. She would disappear, I worried that … that she was the one letting them in. I had no idea that she could control them like that.
‘She never said anything about being a witch – I don’t know if she really is … I think I would have been able to tell – I think she just said that so they would let me go.’
Ottilie was sure that Gracie was a witch. It was the only thing that made sense. Gracie was behind everything. Ottilie just didn’t know all the details yet.
‘So she was telling the truth?’ she asked. ‘You did go out past the walls to try to stop her? You thought she was out there setting the wylers on huntsmen?’ She remembered Opal Tarn, glinting in the sun, and Bayo, drowning in a storm of orange fur, and her vision reeled. She twisted her fingers together, wishing Gully was somewhere near.
‘No … that’s not why I was there,’ said Maeve, her voice shaking.
‘Then what were you doing out there?’ demanded Scoot.
Maeve got to her feet, terror in her eyes.
Ottilie jumped up and drew her cutlass and Scoot followed straight after. Something was moving above, in the dark wingerslinks’ pen. Someone was in the rafters, listening to them.
‘Who’s there?’ Ottilie demanded.
Someone crawled forwards across a beam and slowly, deftly, lowered themselves to the ground.
Ottilie’s mouth fell open. It wasn’t a person.
He looked confused and a little worried. His eyes flicked between Maeve and Scoot and then he removed the old leather sack from over his shoulder and held it out to her.
‘I have your hair,’ said Bill.
28
Maeve’s Secret
Ottilie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Bill looked just the same. Two blunt horns peeked up out of his thin muddy hair. His eyes were a little too close together, the eyelashes spidery, and his nose was long and narrow. His slightly stretched-looking limbs were coated in fine pinkish-grey fur that even this far from the swamp seemed sleek with damp.
Ottilie was so glad to see him she thought she might burst. She launched herself at him in a suffocating hug. He let out a strangled gasp and stood with his arms pinned to his sides, breathing in short, wet breaths.
‘Bill! How are you here?’
‘Who are you?’ said Maeve.
‘What are you?’ said Scoot.
Bill turned to Scoot. ‘Not a person like you.’ His eyes flicked to Maeve. ‘Not a bird like her.’
‘Bill, this is Maeve Moth. She’s not a bird, she’s a person,’ said Ottilie. ‘And this is Scoot.’
‘I know a bird when I smell one,’ said Bill.
Ottilie ignored him. ‘Scoot, this is Bill, I’ve told you about him. He helped me get here.’
Scoot’s eyes widened.
Bill turned to Ottilie. ‘What is your name?’
‘It’s Ottilie,’ she said, with a watery smile. ‘Did you forget?’
‘Yes,’ he said, blinking.
‘What are you doing here, Bill? You didn’t come here to give me my hair?’
‘Why does he have your hair?’ said Maeve, looking disturbed.
‘He cut it off for me.’ Ottilie ran a hand over her head, remembering the short, uneven tufts.
‘But why did he keep it?’ said Scoot, with a hint of amusement.
‘I’ve been having … I’ve been seeing … you were supposed to come back,’ said Bill.
‘I know,’ she said, her smile faltering. ‘I was. But things … changed. It’s complicated.’
‘They’re going to start the pickings again soon,’ said Bill, twisting his hands. ‘Winter came, and I remembered. They’ll take them soon, when the season changes. I remembered where you’d gone and the birds …’ he glanced at Maeve. ‘They told me where you were. And I wanted to come here, to warn you … warn you …’
‘Warn me about what?’ said Ottilie, stepping closer to him.
Bill wrapped his webbed fingers around one of his horns, tipping his head to the side. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said.
‘Convenient,’ said Maeve.
‘Maeve, shush, he has a … memory problem,’ snapped Ottilie. ‘But, Bill, how did you get here?’
‘I hid in one of the food supply carts. I only got here yesterday. I hadn’t found you yet and then there was clanging and fuss … so I hid.’ He shivered.
‘Here?’ said Maeve, glancing at the rafters.
‘These things seemed nice.’ Bill gestured to the dark wingerslink. ‘I felt safe.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly call them nice,’ said Scoot.
There came a nettled snarl from the pen behind him. Scoot twitched and crossed to stand by Ottilie.
‘Bill, you have to remember what you came to warn me about,’ said Ottilie. ‘You have to try.’ What could it be? Something worse than Gully’s kidnapping, worse than Gracie controlling the wylers? Or was it about the bloodbeasts – whatever they were?
Bill nodded, crossed his eyes and said nothing.
She sighed and turned back to Maeve. ‘We weren’t finished. Maeve, I don’t believe that you had anything to do with all the bad things that have been happening, but I do think … I think you’re a witch.’ Ottilie struggled to soften the last word, to utter it as if it were neither insult nor accusation.
Maeve clenched her jaw tight.
‘She’s not a witch,’ whispered Bill. ‘She’s a bird.’
‘What were you doing out there?’ she asked, accusation creeping in. ‘How did you get past the walls with no-one stopping you?’
Bill’s arm slunk into Ottilie’s field of vision. One long, webbed finger stretched out and touched Maeve on the side of her head. ‘She’s a bird,’ said Bill. ‘She flew out.’
‘Get off me!’ said Maeve, swatting his hand away.
<
br /> ‘He’s bonkers,’ said Scoot. A smile tugged at his lips but didn’t quite form.
‘Bill, stop it! This is serious,’ said Ottilie.
He looked confused and hurt. ‘She just showed me,’ he said, holding the pad of his finger in front of Ottilie’s left eye.
‘What’s on his finger?’ said Scoot eagerly.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Bill, what are you talking about?’
Maeve closed her eyes. ‘He’s right,’ she whispered. ‘You both are.’
Scoot raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s right, is he? You’re a bird. Of course! How did we not see it before! Look at you. You’re a giant bird!’
Ottilie nearly laughed, but then a memory broke. The cave paintings in the Swamp Hollows. The stick figures with wide mouths and feathery crowns. Old Moss said they were fiorns. Fiory’s chosen children.
‘You’re a … you can turn into a … what do you mean we’re both right?’ said Ottilie. Could Maeve Moth really be a fiorn? Ottilie had always imagined them as part bird, part human, or like their fearsome depictions on the cave walls. Maeve had been looking a little ragged of late, but she was by no means a monster.
‘It started slowly,’ whispered Maeve. ‘I could make the air move … bring sparks from nowhere … boil water by looking at it. Then I started having dreams and losing time. I’d wake up in strange places … I’d find dead things around me – mice, lizards … sometimes just bones that looked like they’d been spat back up.’
Scoot screwed up his face.
‘That’s why they found bones with your things?’ said Ottilie.
‘I started keeping them. I was trying to understand where they came from. I realised … I thought I might be a witch and so I tried to draw memories from them, because I realised I could do that with people when I touched them.’
‘Is that what Bill just did to you?’ Ottilie stared at Bill’s finger.
‘You’re a witch too?’ said Scoot, regarding Bill with wide eyes. ‘How many witches are there in this place?’
Ottilie Colter and the Master of Monsters Page 15