The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “It’s just some kids,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Well, bring ’em out.”

  Bray’s pulse tapped a steady beat at the base of her neck. The hand Yarrow clutched grew clammy. She could not have said if it was her own sweat or his.

  The man gestured with the pistol and she flinched. “Come on out now.”

  She began to slide towards the door, but Peer stopped her with a hand on her knee and descended first.

  The carriage was stopped on an empty stretch of road, no signs of habitation near at hand. The wind blew and Bray crossed her arms for warmth. She could discern the shapes of five men, two on horseback. She scanned the gathering, seeking Mr. Paggle. Surely he carried a pistol. Her heart plummeted when she spied the shadow of his crumpled form on the ground.

  “Get the trunks down.”

  The stubble-faced man tucked his pistol into a holster. He climbed up the side of the carriage, removed the straps, and began carelessly throwing luggage to the ground.

  “We’ll be lightening your load here, in the name of the Pauper’s King and the poor of Trinitas,” one of the men on horseback announced.

  Two more men materialized in the lantern light. They knelt, sifting through their trunks. One was slight with a long ponytail, the other bald and massive.

  “They’re taking our things,” Arlow whispered to Bray, his eyes wide with horror. Of the six trunks, four of them were his. Bray watched as Peer and Yarrow’s trunks were rooted through and rejected. They held nothing other than threadbare clothes and worthless knick-knacks. When they reached Arlow’s trunks, however, it was as if their collective birthdays had come early.

  A long, appreciative whistle sounded. “Would ya look at this, Cline?” the stubble-faced man said, holding up a box containing a wide collection of cufflinks. “These’ll sell for a fortune.”

  The bald man snorted and held up a dinner jacket. “We got ourselves a right dandy, here.” He tossed it into the dirt, where a pile of plunder was forming.

  “That’s velvet, you cretin—” Arlow cut off as Yarrow elbowed him in the ribs.

  The bald man, Cline, left the remaining trunks to his companions and approached Arlow. Bray held her breath, wondering what a highwayman would do to a person who called him a ‘cretin.’

  “Hand over jewelry, watches, anything you got of value. Turn out your pockets,” he said. Even from a distance, Bray could smell the rankness of his breath. Arlow leaned back, his expression appalled.

  “Or do I have to hold ya by the feet and shake ya empty?”

  Arlow blanched and turned out his pockets. He handed over a watch, a ring, all the money in his wallet, and the last pair of cufflinks to complete the set. Cline tucked these in his pocket then slid down the line to Peer. Peer pulled his pockets inside out to show that he had nothing but a handkerchief. The highwayman proceeded to pat Peer down, rather invasively, to ascertain he was hiding nothing. Bray swallowed, her heart galloping into motion in her chest. He would not do the same to her, would he? She could not abide the idea of his hands on her.

  Yarrow, beside her, turned out his pockets as well. They held nothing other than a simple pocketknife and two handkerchiefs—one plain and dirty, the other feminine and lace-lined. Cline did not bother taking either, nor to pat Yarrow down—his clothes were in such a sad state he was probably deemed too poor to rob. Finally the big man slid over to Bray. He looked down at her and she stared up into his ugly face unflinchingly. His nose appeared to have been broken at some point in the past, and his eyes protruded bulbously from his face like a frog.

  She held up empty hands. “I don’t have anything.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “There weren’t any dresses in them trunks, were there?”

  “Nah.”

  Cline looked down at her and she raised her chin. “Where are your belongins, little girl?”

  “I told you,” she said. “I don’t have anything.” Her mouth had grown uncomfortably dry.

  “Is that so?” he asked and, with unexpected speed and deftness, he plucked the leather strap from beneath her bodice, revealing the two rings she kept by her heart. One was large and thick, the other small and delicate. Both were made of silver and carved with interlocking leaves.

  “Give it here,” he said.

  She clasped the rings in her fist and pressed them to her chest. “No.”

  His eyebrows drew down and his hand came to rest on his pistol. “Now, girl, I ain’t askin. You give it, or I take it. Your choice.”

  The wind whipped Bray’s hair about her face and she felt a chill that had little to do with the weather. She clenched her hand tighter and felt the rings dig into her palm. “No.”

  “Just give it to him, Bray,” Arlow hissed.

  She shook her head, her knees trembling in fear.

  The man moved as if to grab her. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for his touch, but it did not come. She opened her eyes again to find herself staring at Yarrow’s back. He had stepped before her protectively.

  Cline laughed and tried to push Yarrow out of the way, his eyes never moving from the bounty clutched in Bray’s hand. He didn’t notice Yarrow’s fist until it struck him squarely in the crooked nose.

  He stumbled back, eyes watering in pain. “Why you little…”

  The big man pulled back his fist, preparing to punch Yarrow in the gut. Before the blow could land, Peer leapt onto his back, his arms circling around the man’s neck.

  The highwayman bucked like a great beast trying to rid itself of a fly, but Peer held on, pulling all of his weight against the man’s windpipe. An errant elbow cracked Yarrow in the face and he hit the grass with a pained grunt.

  Before Cline’s companions had time to react, Bray darted forward and snagged his pistol from its holster. With two shaking hands, she pointed the weapon at the man’s head. Peer let go and scurried safely out of range.

  “Hey now girl,” he said, eyeing the weapon, “none of that. We got a lot more ’en one pistol.”

  Bray flexed her finger over the trigger. “Yes. And how many heads have you got?”

  Cline’s companions came forward. In a moment, four pistols were trained directly on her.

  “Let’s take a breath here, gentlemen,” Mr. Paggle’s groggy voice broke in. Bray’s head snapped to the sound in surprise. The driver had risen as far as his knees, his hand pressed to a bleeding head. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t all ride safely away from this unfortunate encounter.”

  “We will allow you to leave if you give us no more trouble,” one of the men on horseback said—the one who had named them Pauper’s King men. He was tall, with a bright red beard and smiling eyes.

  “Not without them rings, we ain’t,” Cline said, his voice thick and muffled.

  “How do we know you won’t shoot?” Mr. Paggle asked.

  “I give you my word.”

  Mr. Paggle snorted. “The word of a highwayman?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as an acquirer of charitable donations. Regardless, I am a man of honor. I say I will not harm you if you allow my companion,” he said the word with distaste, “to keep his head. And I mean what I say. It is your choice to trust me or not.”

  He smiled at Bray in an almost fatherly way, as if he found her pistol-wielding quip endearing. She wanted to trust him. She lowered the pistol, marginally.

  Cline pointed at Bray with a fat finger. “I said, not without them rings we—”

  “Cline,” the leader interjected, “if you are incapable of besting a little girl, you do not deserve them.”

  The large highwayman looked mutinously up at his companion, but had the good sense to remain silent.

  “Any chance he doesn’t deserve my watch either?” Arlow asked.

  The leader’s eyes swiveled onto him, and Arlow shrank into himself at their obvious dislike. “You should learn to hold your tongue, nobleson.” The man turned back to his companions. “Gather what’s worth taking and let’s be of
f.” He heeled his horse and disappeared into the darkness.

  Mr. Paggle put a hand on Bray’s shoulder. He’d retrieved his own firearm, but his expression was still befuddled. “You keep that pistol up until the rest are in the carriage.”

  Bray nodded. The highwaymen had ceased paying her any notice. They loaded Arlow’s valuables into several great sacks, save for Cline, who glowered at her as he used a filthy handkerchief to wipe the blood from his nose. The veins stood out in his thick neck, rippling the fist and crown tattoo upon it. She listened to her three friends climb into the carriage before she backed slowly towards the door herself.

  “Give it here,” Peer said. He leaned halfway out the carriage window. Bray placed the pistol into his hand, darted up the stair, and shut the door behind her. Mr. Paggle spurred the horses into a tremendous gallop, leaving the highwaymen—as well as all of their trunks and clothes—behind.

  The Platstone Inn buzzed with conversation, every table full and many patrons of the bar standing. The yellow light of the lanterns soaked the entire scene in honey.

  The four marked children and their driver entered the room like the fortunate survivors of some harrowing tragedy.

  “Oh, Mistress Ellson,” Mr. Paggle called to the owner as soon as he had entered the room. “You will simply never believe the ordeal we’ve just been through.”

  Mistress Ellson, a handsome middle-aged woman with a warm smile, listened to the tale with all of the animation and horror one could wish for. Though, in Mr. Paggle’s version of the story, he played a far greater role in the besting of the highwaymen than Bray thought fair.

  “You poor dears!” Mistress Ellson said. “You must have been so afraid. Come, come. I’ve got a private dining room reserved for you and a hot dinner all ready. And you’ll have to let me take a look at that head wound, Mr. Paggle.”

  Bray followed Mistress Ellson’s swaying hips through the crowded common room and into their private dining area. Her hands still shook from their encounter, but a strange giddiness began to wash over her. She wanted to laugh, but suspected this might be an inappropriate reaction. She turned to Yarrow beside her, and experienced a pang of guilt at the sight of his split lip.

  “You,” she said to him, throwing her arms around his neck, “are wonderful.”

  He circled his arms around her waist and pulled her in, laughing. “I promised you, didn’t I?”

  Bray pulled back to give him a look of confusion.

  “I promised, if anyone was rude to you, I’d punch them in the nose.” He smiled so widely that blood began to leak afresh from his wound. She beamed and patted his shoulder.

  “And you,” Bray said to Peer, pulling him into a hug as well, “are also wonderful.”

  Peer stiffened in surprise at the embrace—they had only just met, after all—but relaxed after a moment and patted her back. “It was my pleasure.”

  “Where’s my hug?” Arlow asked, fists on hips.

  Bray laughed. “What did you do?”

  “I…” he gestured into the air, as if summoning some once-known piece of information, and coming up empty.

  “Made a very generous donation to the poor?” Yarrow supplied, clasping him on the shoulder.

  Arlow made a disgruntled noise and threw himself into his chair. “Some highwayman’s spawn is going to be very well-dressed.”

  Mr. Paggle entered with a pitcher of foaming ale and a stack of glasses. “I thought we could use a draught,” he said, sitting beside Arlow.

  Bray remembered too well how ill she had felt that morning, but she took the proffered glass for the sake of politeness.

  Mr. Paggle lifted his own ale in the air. “What shall we toast to?”

  “Yarrow’s right hook?” Peer said.

  “Bray’s unladylike nerve?” Arlow suggested.

  “To new friends,” Yarrow said.

  “New friends,” they agreed. Their glasses clinked merrily.

  Bray ate until her stomach protested, full to bursting. The four of them talked for hours, recounting their adventure and laughing at their daring, while Mr. Paggle unabashedly flirted with the Platstone’s owner. Bray marveled at how comfortable these near strangers made her feel. She’d not been this at home since her father passed away.

  Almost as if reading her thoughts, Yarrow leaned in and took the two rings that were still resting on the outside of her bodice. He ran a finger along the engraving of the thicker ring. “Are these all you have of theirs?”

  Bray bit her lip and bobbed her head.

  He took her hand and placed it around the rings, then clasped her fingers in a fist beneath his own.

  Bray swallowed. “Thank you so much, Yarrow.” A tear of gratitude ran down her cheek and she batted it away with embarrassment.

  Mr. Paggle cleared his throat, silencing them in an instant. “I’ll get you to the Temple by midday on the morrow, and you’ll not want to be tired on your first day. So off to bed with you.”

  Half an hour later, Bray found herself alone in a private room, laying wide awake on the single bed. Sleep eluded her, and she could plainly hear the boys talking through the wall. She wondered if they knew how clearly their voices carried.

  “Got his own room?” Arlow’s drawling tone resounded. “More likely he’s bunking with the landlady.”

  Bray clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Did you want to see the book, Peer?” Yarrow asked.

  “Uh…no, not right now.”

  Several moments passed quietly.

  “Hey! Someone’s left a deck of cards,” Peer said.

  Bray frowned at the ceiling. If they were going to play cards she would just go over there and play with them. So what if she was a girl?

  “I don’t gamble anymore,” Arlow said. “I never win.”

  Bray heard the sound of cards being shuffled. She debated whether to get up or not.

  “Rich boy who’s lousy at cards?” Peer said. “My favorite kind.”

  “I didn’t say I was lousy at cards. I’m excellent at cards. I’d win every time, if I ever had a good hand.”

  Peer snorted.

  “We none of us have anything to gamble anyway,” Yarrow said.

  “True enough,” Arlow said. “And I’m not about to sit around playing some kids’ game like Go Fish. So chuck the cards, Peer.”

  “You think Bray’s sleeping?” Yarrow asked.

  Her heart thudded louder at hearing him say her name.

  “What are you, her boyfriend?” Arlow said. Bedsprings creaked and a scuffle sounded. Bray sat up, staring at the whitewashed wall, as if hoping a window would appear, her cheeks hot.

  “Alright, alright, I take it back!” Arlow’s muffled voice called.

  More bedsprings squealed and footsteps thumped against the hardwood floor.

  “I just meant,” Yarrow said, out of breath, “that if she was sleeping, you should shut it or you’ll wake her.”

  Peer sniggered, but the boys descended into quiet.

  Bray collapsed back onto the bed, pushing her burning face into the cool material of her pillow. She lay for some time, vacillating between embarrassment and elation, and could not have said when exactly she slipped into sleep.

  Chapter Five

  True to Mr. Paggle’s word, they arrived an hour before midday. Yarrow watched through the window as their destination drew closer. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. The Temple was comprised of many domed, circular buildings—one massive rounded structure surrounded by a cluster of smaller, but identically shaped, satellites—built from gleaming rose-colored stones that reflected the sunlight and created a distinctly ethereal impression upon Yarrow’s imagination. The lower levels were surrounded by pillars, the upper by intricately carved window openings. Each rounded roof was topped with a second, smaller dome and a pointed spire. Just beyond, he could discern the massive, glittering field of water reaching out to the horizon. The sea.

  “I’ve not ever seen an ocean
before…” Peer murmured, looking as stunned as Yarrow felt.

  “Nor I,” he said.

  Arlow leaned forward to claim a better view. “What strange architecture.”

  It was, Yarrow had to agree. He was so accustomed to the tall, pointed structures of his hometown—and every town they had passed in the preceding two and half days—that the squat, wide-flung, rounded look of the Temple engendered a distinct flavor of foreignness.

  The carriage pulled up to the entrance, an ancient arch covered in strange symbols. Almost instantly, stable hands came forward to take the horses and servants appeared to unload their trunks, had there still been any. Yarrow stepped down from the carriage and took a deep breath, tasting, for the first time, the tang of sea salt. Gulls cawed in the distance, their haunting, echoing chant the only intrusion upon an otherwise perfectly awed silence. The driveway was made up of thousands of timeworn, multicolored stones forming an elaborate swirling pattern, compromised only by the occasional rough shoots of dune grass asserting themselves through cracked mortar.

  “Come along, now,” Mr. Paggle said, as he set a brisk pace through the arch and into the wide doorway of the great central dome. As they walked, Bray’s hand found Yarrow’s, and her touch was warm and familiar, like a piece of home. It calmed him.

  The interior of the building, because of the high curved ceiling, felt cavernous and open. The regularly spaced windows along the curve of the dome cast bright rectangles of sunlight on the marble floor. Just within the door, they were greeted by a dark-haired, middle-aged woman sitting at the marble front desk.

  “Names?” she asked.

  “Arlow Bowlerham, Peer Gelson…” Mr. Paggle listed, but Yarrow was looking beyond the woman at the wide amphitheater that descended into the marble floor. On the bottom level, he saw five figures—their genders were indistinguishable at a distance—performing a sort of slow, fluid dance. They wore long robes, which fastened from neck to waist and hung loose from waist to floor, revealing a pair of unfashionably wide trousers and light black slippers. He watched as they, in unison, lifted their left knees and made a slow, controlled turn, balanced on only their right feet. They then each planted their left foot down again with delicate firmness, as their right hand stretched away from their chests, palm flat, in a sort of beckoning. Yarrow gaped, mesmerized. He could have happily stood there and watched them all day.