The boys walked across the back field to the door of Hare Warren, where Cadwalder was standing, counting his charges.
“Good evening, Mrs. Snodgrass,” he said as she came through the door.
“Good evening, Vincent. Is all as it should be?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good.” Mrs. Snodgrass waited while Char opened his room door with his key, then held out her fist to the boys.
“Here,” she said. “Hold out your hands.”
Ven and Char opened their palms, and Mrs. Snodgrass gave them both a tiny handful of very fine seed, tiny and soft as silk.
“What’s this?” Ven asked.
“Flax seed,” said Mrs. Snodgrass, walking over to the beds and plumping their pillows. “You want to scatter it on the floor tonight before you go to sleep to keep the Spice Folk busy. They are very neat beings, and they can’t stand mess—so while they are busy tidying up, they won’t be bothering you.”
“Thank you,” Ven said doubtfully.
“All right, then, boys, good night,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. She handed them the lantern and closed the door behind her.
“Well, what do you think?” Ven asked, sitting down on his bed.
“I think I’d best visit the privy now, before night falls,” said Char.
“Good idea. I’ll wait till you get back and then go, too,” Ven said. When Char returned he hurried into the privy closet and pulled back the curtain at the window. He couldn’t see anything, so he carefully opened the latch and stuck his head out, spying all around for any sign of haunting, but he saw nothing but the warm lights of the inn, the distant lantern of the stable, heard nothing but the sound of crickets and the night wind. He shut the window quickly.
When he returned from the privy, he hesitated, then knocked on Cadwalder’s door to say good night.
“He’s at work,” Nicholas said on his way into his own room.
“Oh, that’s right,” Ven said, remembering. “Good night.”
“Don’t count on it,” Nicholas replied, closing the door behind him.
Ven went back into the room and found Char already in the bed on the right, snoring away. His handful of flax seed was scattered on the floor. Ven scattered his own on the rug between their beds, took off his trousers and put on his nightshirt, then put out the lantern.
The moon shone in the window, lighting the room in an eerie shade of blue. Ven crawled into bed, but could not sleep. Instead, he lay awake and listened to the wind as it began to pick up, gusting at first, then growing in intensity, until it was howling and rattling the shutters outside the windows.
It was loud, but it was nothing he hadn’t heard before.
At least at first.
For a long time Ven drowsed, his head on the pillow beneath the high window, in a state of half-sleep, listening to the bumping and moaning of the wind.
Then in the distance he heard something different.
It seemed far away at first, a sharp note in an otherwise melodious symphony of the rising and falling voice of the wind. His body went numb for a moment, but then the moment passed, and he relaxed, waiting for the tiny prickles of heat to fade from his limbs. And they did.
Until he heard it again.
There was a different voice in the wind, a harsher, higher howl than he had ever heard before. He heard it once, then again.
It seemed to be coming closer.
And worse, it seemed to have been joined by more such voices, more harsh moaning, growing in intensity.
It sounded angry.
“Uh—Char?” Ven said. His voice came out in a thin squeak.
The sound of snoring answered him.
Ven cleared his throat and called again.
“Char?”
“Hmmm?” Char answered sleepily. “What’s wrong?”
In answer, a new round of screaming howls rent the air.
Char shot out of his bed like an arrow on the string and leapt onto the end of Ven’s.
“What—what’s that?” he asked shakily.
“I don’t know,” Ven said, not moving. “But remember Megalodon? How you’re not supposed to move or make any sound?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Char slid slowly off of Ven’s bed and back into his own.
They lay there, frozen with fear and the hope not to make any noise, as the sound grew closer.
“It’s coming for us,” Char whispered.
“Ssshhhhh,” said Ven softly.
The wind died down, and along with it the harsh noise. The boys lay still, listening intently to the silence. The occasional gust blew through, the shutters rattled lightly, but otherwise all was still.
Until suddenly there was a violent bang on the door of Hare Warren.
And the screech of splintering wood.
“Cripes!” Char gasped, too frightened to remember to remain silent.
Something was dragging what sounded like claws down the front door.
Ven sat up quickly and put his feet on the floor.
“There’s a fireplace poker in the hall,” he whispered. “I’m going to get it.”
“Don’t go out there,” Char said in a strangled voice.
“You think we’re safer in here?” Ven retorted, heading for the door.
“Yes! There’s an extra door between it and us,” said Char urgently.
“I’d say it’s them and us, Char,” said Ven. “And I’m not going to take this lying down. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die on my feet, and not cowering in bed.” He fumbled on the bedside table and grabbed his jack-rule, extending the tiny blade with trembling hands.
Just then a low growl came from outside their window.
At first it sounded like the rumble of a wolf, but then, a moment later, as it moved, it began to whistle weirdly, then scream in a demonic wail. The unearthly sound of sniffing could be heard, hot breath clouding the glass pane high above the floor.
A shadow fell across the floor, blotting out the light of the moon.
Ven froze where he was.
The beast waited, too.
In the distance they could hear others coming, rooting around Hare Warren, their shadows crossing in the blackness of the room.
He heard a voice above it all, carried on the wind, soft and toneless.
Ven.
Every hair on Ven’s head stood up. How—how does it know my name? he wondered, his sense of nervous excitement giving way to fear. He tried to remember what McLean had said about names on the wind, but his heartbeat was thrumming too loudly in his ears, drowning out all sensible thoughts.
Suddenly a scream of shrill, harsh voices built to a caterwauling wail, then faded into the distance, along with the panting breath.
Silence returned.
Ven remained frozen, motionless except for the tremors that were running through his body from head to toe. He waited for what seemed like an eternity in the silence, then let his breath out and whispered Char’s name.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“Nope,” came the sarcastic reply. “I’m sleepin’ like a baby. Why do you ask?”
Ven turned slowly to see his roommate hunched up in the bed, the covers pulled up to his nose.
“I think it’s gone,” Ven said.
“Good thing I went to the privy before bed,” muttered Char.
Ven steeled his nerve and went to the window. The night was clear, with thin white clouds racing in front of the full moon.
In the distance, near the crossroads, he saw mist swirling, rising from the ground in the hot steam of the summer night. He opened the lens of his jack-rule and peered through it.
At first he thought he could make out the filmy shapes of white wolves running through that mist, but as soon as he had fixed his eye on them, they had turned into something else. He stared into the mist until he could no longer see anything in it.
Hanging low in the sky was the bright blue-white star he had seen on the deck of the Serelinda, the star Oliver had called Seren.
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When it comes into view it means that it is only a short matter of time before we are home, the captain had said.
* * *
I had always thought of home not as a house, or even a place, but a feeling of safety and acceptance, a warm light when the rest of the world was a dark, forbidding place.
Whenever my family was around, wherever we were, I felt like I was home.
When my mother scolded me for being late, I knew she was worried because she loved me. And we both were relieved that I was home. Even when two of my brothers held me down while a third tickled me until snot came out my nose, I knew I was home.
You know you’re home when your name is called out, sometimes in welcome, sometimes because you are in trouble, and it rings like a bell. Not spoken on the wind outside your window, hollow, with an unmistakable threat.
Home was where I was safe.
At that moment, I never felt farther away from home in my life.
* * *
13
The Next Day
THE FOLLOWING MORNING VEN SLEPT LATE. HIS DREAMS THE NIGHT before had been full of nightmares, and his body was exhausted from his long journey.
Char must have been having nightmares of his own, he thought sleepily, because instead of his normal snoring, he was moaning wordlessly on the other side of the room. He kept making strange sounds in his sleep, finally causing Ven to turn his back to him and pull the pillow over his head.
The pillow remained there until a violent, strangled sneeze erupted, loud enough to be heard even through the goose feathers against his ear.
Ven rolled over quickly and sat up.
Char was tied to his bed, several lengths of rope around his upper arms and middle, leaving only his head loose. His mouth had been stuffed with cloth, and his nose with glitter, judging by the sparkling spray of color that was floating down in the air all around his bed.
A soft chorus of tiny oooooooooos and ahhhhhhhhhhs could be heard, followed by a smattering of polite applause.
“Yikes!” Ven exclaimed. He leapt from the bed and dashed over to Char just as his roommate exploded again, sending puffs of glimmering red, blue, green, and gold skyward.
Char struggled in his bonds as Ven scrambled to untie him, making ugly sounds through the gag. Once his mouth was cleared, he spat angrily and blew his nose, causing a round of high-pitched disappointed sounds of awwwwwwwwwwww from the floor of the room.
“That’s it, the fairy fireworks are over,” he snarled, his nose still glowing pink and purple.
Amid soft injured sniffing and irritated fluttering, the sparkles disappeared from the floor and blankets, and it was quiet in the room again.
“Can you believe those little blighters?” Char demanded. “They tied me down, gagged me, and stuffed my nose with glitter so they could have fireworks! The little pests. I thought the mess on the floor was supposed to keep ’em busy.”
“I guess we’ll need to ask for more flax seed tonight,” Ven said, handing Char a handkerchief and trying not to laugh.
“Maybe we can borrow Murphy,” said Char grumpily. “I’ll bet those Spice Folk aren’t so cheeky when he’s around.”
“Come on, let’s go to breakfast,” Ven said. “I want to find out if anyone else heard what happened last night.”
“I think they hear it every night,” muttered Char, struggling to get into his socks. “That’s why Nick told you not to count on it when you wished ’im good night.”
“Maybe,” said Ven, pulling his shirt quickly over his head. “But I bet they’ve never heard my name outside their windows—and if they have, that’s even more of a mystery.”
The two of them dressed quickly, locked their room door, and hurried out into the bright morning sunshine.
There were scratches on the front door of Hare Warren, deep gouges that rent the dark wood and exposed a lighter layer beneath, like a wound. Both boys gulped.
They had gotten halfway down the path to the inn when Ven stopped in his tracks.
“Rats! I forgot my jack-rule,” he said, smacking himself on the forehead. “It’s under my pillow from last night. You go on, Char, and I’ll meet up with you there.” Char nodded, and Ven jogged back to Hare Warren.
He stepped into the common hall and waved to Nicholas, who had just emerged from his room, dressed and yawning, then slid his key into the lock and opened his door.
He reared back in surprise.
Ida was stretched out on his bed, filing her toenails with the knife in his jack-rule.
“What the heck are you doing in here?” he demanded angrily. “You know the rules. No girls in Hare Warren. In fact, you’ve just broken about every rule that’s posted.”
“Hey, Polywog, can I borrow your knife?” Ida said, ignoring what he said and continuing to prune her toes.
“NO! Get off my bed,” Ven shouted, snatching the jack-rule out of her hands. He glared at her as she rose lazily and stretched, then ambled toward the door. “How did you get in here, anyway? The door was locked.”
Ida just snickered and walked out of the room.
Ven waited until she had left Hare Warren, then crossed the common hall and rapped sharply on Cadwalder’s door.
“Just a minute,” came the muffled reply. A moment later the door opened, and Cadwalder appeared, his hair ruffled, in his nightshirt. The older boy blinked. “Polypheme. What’s the matter?”
“Ida No was in my room,” Ven said. “And I do know the door was locked when we left.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Cadwalder said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“You’re the steward,” Ven said impatiently. “I thought you should know.”
“I’ll report it,” Cadwalder said in a bored voice, and closed his door. A moment later Ven heard the sound of a hay mattress crunching as Cadwalder went back to bed.
Ven gave up and headed to the inn. The morning wind was fresh, and the grass sparkled with dew. The air was sweet with the smell of summer, and not too warm yet. He looked around at the green fields and distant trees and sighed, excitement, nervousness, and fear jumbling inside him.
When he was almost to the kitchen door he met up with Clemency and Saeli on their way into breakfast.
“Morning, Ven.” The girls’ steward saluted him cheerily. The small Gwadd girl beside her smiled shyly and nodded but didn’t say anything.
Ven touched his cap politely, making the albatross feather dance merrily in the wind. “Good morning, Clemency. Saeli, how are you on this fine morning?”
Saeli blushed, looked away, and hurried into the kitchen, her long caramel-colored braid bobbing nervously behind her. Ven sighed, hoping he hadn’t frightened her, then started into the inn himself when he noticed that he was standing in a patch of bright yellow buttercups that hadn’t been there a moment before.
“She says ‘very well, thank you,’” said Clemency, holding the door open for him.
“Clem, do you think you could keep your congregation out of our bedroom?” Ven asked as he sat down at the kitchen table.
“Or, failing that, you might want to prepare for dozens of tiny funerals,” muttered Char. “Murphy’s sleepin’ on my bed tonight. It’s open season on fairies in our room.”
“The cat gets along fine with the Spice Folk,” Clemency said, sitting down between Bridgette and Emma. “It’s the mice that have to be worried around him.”
Ven saw Ida at the far end of the table, picking her teeth, and looked away in disgust.
The children of Mouse Lodge and Hare Warren continued to gather, greeting each other with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Ven questioned each of them about the events of the night before, but the children had grown so accustomed to the strange sounds at the crossroads that they all slept through the night without hearing anything, even Nicholas and Albert, who lived next door in Hare Warren. When his questioning seemed to be making them uncomfortable, Ven fell silent. Finally Mrs. Snodgrass appeared, carrying pitchers of milk and syrup, fol
lowed by Felitza, the scullery cook, a thin, plain girl with buck teeth and almost colorless hair who was carrying a plate of steaming pancakes.
Ven watched, amused, as Char stared at the kitchen girl, his eyes following her back to the stove once she had served the table and set the plate down. He nudged his roommate.
“Gah,” Char murmured, entranced. “What a girl. Beautiful.”
“Er—what specifically are you referring to?” Ven asked.
“Her timing on the stove,” Char said, still smitten. “Look at the brown crust on those griddle cakes—not too dark, not too pale. What an artist.”
Ven grinned and glanced around the inn. No guests had arisen yet, if there were any, but the fire on the hearth was going, chasing away the cold of morning. And McLean was there, in his usual spot, singing wordlessly. Felitza handed him a steaming mug in between songs, which he took with a smile. Murphy lounged in front of the fire, asleep.
This could feel like home if it had to, Ven thought. The strange happenings of the night before still bothered him, but he felt a certain comfort that they had survived without anything other than a scare, and all seemed normal now.
That normalcy was shattered a moment later. The front door opened abruptly and a man with a haughty face and piercing eyes strode in.
It was Mr. Whiting.
“Oh, great.” Ven groaned, his appetite disappearing.
Mr. Whiting was followed by another man wearing eyeglasses, whose gray hair matched his clothing and the bag he carried. In his hand was a sheaf of papers.
“Constable Knapp,” Mrs. Snodgrass said, glaring at Mr. Whiting. “What are you doing here on this fine morning, with this—fine gentleman?”
“I’m looking for one of your guests, Mrs. Snodgrass,” the constable replied.
“Why? We’ve had no trouble,” Mrs. Snodgrass protested.
Mr. Whiting tapped the constable on the shoulder, then pointed over to the table where Ven was sitting.
“The one on the end,” he said.
Ven’s heart lurched into his throat as the constable walked toward him. He turned around and looked nervously at Char as the man approached the table, and saw that his roommate was staring, glassy-eyed, as were the rest of his new friends. Murphy was now awake, his tail twitching, crouched on the hearth next to McLean, who had stopped his song in mid-note.
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