Blythewood

by Carol Goodman

  And then there were the Darklings. A line of them stood between the shadows and the woods. Their black wings glinted in the torchlight, their faces like carved marble. I saw Raven’s face alive with anger and love. They, most of all, possessed both shadow and light. They stood in between. They kept the balance. Without them the world would be overrun by shadows.

  That’s why van Drood wanted them destroyed—and he was using the Order to do it.

  Behind me I could hear the Dianas drawing back their bows. In front of me I could hear the rustling of the Darklings’ wings and beyond them the growl and chitter of goblin and trow. The shadows writhed between them, hungry for blood on both sides. They were growing stronger at the mere anticipation of bloodshed. Once they’d fed on blood they would be unstoppable. Van Drood would be unstoppable. I felt him, even though he wasn’t here in the flesh, feeding off the shadows, just as they fed off the anger and hate in the crowd. The shadows needed his hate as a channel just as I used the repeater as a channel for my bells.

  The repeater. Could I use it to channel my bells now to defeat van Drood? But how? All it did was repeat the bells in my head. Could I get it to repeat the danger bell in my head?

  As I drew out the watch and pressed the stem, the repeater played back the bass bell, but it sounded weak and tinny on the little watch. I heard van Drood laughing inside my head. That only worked on me in the village because I was unprepared. You can’t hurt me with your bells or that pathetic device.

  It was true. What did I have in my little repertoire of bells? The treble that I heard when I was with Raven . . .

  The repeater played back the treble bells, intermingling it with the bass bell.

  Van Drood laughed again in my head. Do you think you can fight me with love? he mocked. No, I hadn’t . . . but did van Drood’s laugh sound just a little bit frightened? Was it possible that he was still susceptible to love? And a little bit frightened of it?

  He laughed again—a laugh that echoed in the rattle of bows and the growl of goblins. If I could look again on van Drood, would I see a spark of light left in him?

  “Is that why you’re not here in the flesh?” I asked aloud. “Because you don’t want me to see that spark of light left in you?”

  “There is no spark left in me!” he roared, his voice suddenly filling Sarah’s mouth. “Your mother made sure of that!”

  The rage he felt for my mother made the bass bell ring louder, but also the treble bell. There was still a spark of love in all that rage. I knew now what I had to do. Although it was painful to use it like this, I played the tune my mother used to sing to me in my head. I heard her voice—and then I heard it echoed in the repeater, strong and clear now.

  “Do you think that silly ditty means anything to me?” he snarled from Sarah’s mouth.

  But I thought I heard something in his voice that told me it did mean something to him. And not just to him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dame Beckwith’s face crease with pain as if it brought up painful memories for her too. I played the tune over in my head, concentrating on my mother’s voice, picturing my mother’s face as she sang. When the repeater played the tune again, it was piercingly loud and unbearably sweet. I could have sworn I heard my mother’s voice in the chimes. It brought tears to my eyes . . . and silenced van Drood. Then I heard him utter a low moan that shook the trees and made the shadows shrink away.

  It was working! He was withdrawing his presence, and without his guiding force the shadows were losing substance and his influence was waning from his servants. The Dianas put down their bows, Miss Frost wavered on her feet—Sir Malmsbury leapt forward to catch her—and Sarah seemed to shrink two inches. She clutched her chest as if the wind had just been knocked out of her. She stared at me, her eyes wide and liquid in the torchlight.

  “It’s all right,” I said softly, as if gentling a hawk. “He’s gone.”

  “He’s gone!” she shrieked, her voice so horrid that even the shadows recoiled from her—and then gusted back, hungry for the waves of anger rising from her. “What am I now without him but a pathetic servant? You . . .” She pointed at me. “You took him from me!”

  She leapt so quickly I didn’t have time to think. Instinctively, I thrust out my arm to keep her from me—only I had the blazing feather in that hand. The shadows writhing around her caught fire like a cone of spun sugar. A pillar of flame surrounded Sarah. I heard a wild shriek of pain and smelled hair and flesh singeing. She was on fire, and just like the girls at the Triangle, she would burn to death, all because van Drood had come for me. I couldn’t let her die this way. I lunged at her, determined to smother the flames that were engulfing her with my own body, but as we hit the ground I heard the sound of wings. The Darklings, I thought. They’ve come to take my soul away. I felt something heavy fall, a wall of darkness, and I knew nothing else.

  37

  THE WORLD WAS born in fire and ice, Mr. Bellows had taught us in the mythology section of his class. According to the Norse myths the fires of Muspelheim mingled with the frosts of Niflheim to create the frost giant Ymir, out of whose body the earth and all its creatures sprung. In the weeks that followed the Night of the Shadows—as it came to be known in Blythewood lore—I had an inkling how Ymir must have felt. My body was a battleground between the warring forces of fire and ice: the fire I had raised out of the Darkling feather and the black ice let loose by the shadow creatures.

  Miss Corey, who sat beside my bed for the two weeks I lay unconscious, told me afterward that the flames from my feather torch had ignited the shadow creatures. “They turned into a roiling mass of fire, shrieking and sizzling. What was most horrible was that inside the mass we could see struggling bodies and faces screaming in pain and terror—the souls of the beings who had been taken over by the tenebrae—including Sarah Lehman.”

  “What happened to her?” I asked, horror-stricken that I had killed the girl who had been my first friend at Blythewood. Even though she had been van Drood’s spy I had seen a spark of humanity inside her.

  “We’re not sure. Once you set them on fire, smoke rose into the sky. We saw shapes rising with it, and then the smoke was blown away, although there was no wind.”

  “The Darklings,” I said, remembering a sound that had reached me in the depths of my darkness. “I heard their wings; they must have used them to fan the smoke away.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Corey said, busying herself then with the bandages on my hands. “When the smoke cleared we didn’t see them. Dame Beckwith ordered a retreat. We had to get you back to the infirmary to treat your burns.”

  I looked down at my hands, which were swathed in white gauze. The worst of the pain was there and along my shoulder blades. I’d been afraid when I first saw the big clumsy bandages that they covered two stumps. But when the nurse uncovered them I was surprised to see that although the flesh was pink and shiny, my hands were whole and strangely unscarred. It still hurt to move them, but Miss Corey promised they would heal completely in time.

  “If you hadn’t thrown a cloak over me to douse the fire I wouldn’t have survived,” I said.

  “I didn’t throw a cloak over you,” she said, looking away. “It was the Darkling. He flew straight through the flames and covered you with his wings. At first we thought he was attacking you. One of the Dianas shot him—”

  “Shot him?” I cried, my hands flying to my own heart. “Was he . . . ?”

  The corner of Miss Corey’s mouth lifted. “It was Charlotte, and she only grazed his wing.” The small smile faded from her lips. “He was able to fly away, but when he went back through the flames his wings caught on fire. I’m afraid . . .”

  “You think he died in the fire?” I asked, fear searing up from my heart like the flames that had enveloped Raven.

  Miss Corey took my hand. “I’m not really sure. I never would have admitted that one of those creatures could be . . . good. But
I saw him risk his own life for you. If it’s any consolation it’s changed how I think of the Darklings.”

  “But it hasn’t changed everyone’s minds, has it?”

  Miss Corey shook her head. “There was so much chaos. Everyone saw something different. Dame Beckwith believes the shadows were creating illusions. She said that when Sarah spoke she heard the voice of an old friend.”

  An old friend? Did she mean Judicus van Drood? I wondered. I remembered what I had seen in the candelabellum and how she had looked at van Drood. Would she believe me if I told her that Judicus van Drood was the Shadow Master?

  “I have to speak with Dame Beckwith,” I said.

  “Of course. She would have come already but she was hurt in the retreat—she stayed behind until everyone was safe. Since then she’s been busy trying to help Louisa regain her memories. I’m sure she’ll come see you soon.” She paused, as if uncertain about something, then went on. “You’re probably wondering why no one’s been to visit.”

  I wasn’t thinking of that at all, but I nodded.

  “I’m afraid your lack of visitors is my fault. Helen and Daisy have been begging to come—and half a dozen other girls as well. I just wasn’t sure you were ready for visitors. You were delirious as first, calling out names, and then . . . well . . . I thought you might want to wait until . . . um . . .” Miss Corey’s eyes, which had been skittering around the room, came to rest on my face.

  “Oh,” I said, a wave of heat rising to my scalp. With my hands bandaged I hadn’t been able to inspect the damage done to my hair and no one had offered me a mirror. “Am I hideous?”

  Miss Corey looked horrified at the question. It must be because I am and she doesn’t want to tell me. Without a word she got up, crossed the room, and took down a small wooden-framed mirror from the wall. She brought it to the bed, but held it to her chest for a moment.

  “Your hair caught on fire but the Darkling’s wings put it out. We had to shave off what was left to apply the salve to your scalp. We were afraid at first that your hair might not grow back. . . .”

  The look on my face made her pause. I was picturing myself bald as a boiled egg. “But it has!” she said. “And quite remarkably fast . . . well, look!” She thrust the mirror in front of me. Her hand was shaking so much at first I couldn’t find my reflection—only a glimpse of wide startled eyes—but when her hand stilled I saw myself.

  The light chestnut hair I’d been born with was gone. In its place was a fluff of deep garnet red the color of fire and the consistency of silk. It framed my face with feathery tendrils that made my eyes look bigger and greener and my cheekbones stand out more sharply.

  I hardly recognized myself. I looked like a blade that had been tempered in fire, burned down to its essential self. I looked, I realized with a strange pang, like my mother. I wasn’t a monster; in fact, in the moment when I looked at the reflection as though it were someone else, I had to admit that I was . . . beautiful. A scary kind of beautiful, but beautiful nonetheless.

  “You see, I thought you’d want to get used to your new self before you met your friends again.”

  I tore my eyes away from the strange creature in the mirror and looked up at Miss Corey. For the first time I realized that she was no longer wearing her veil. I remembered suddenly the morning—was it only a few weeks ago?—I’d come upon Miss Sharp reading that poem to her. Glory be to God for dappled things. The words had seemed to summon up a strange unearthly beauty in Lillian Corey’s face. I had thought she kept it hidden under her veil because she was ashamed of the markings on her face, but now I saw that she was shy of the strange beauty she possessed. I understood then why she had kept my friends away.

  “They’re going to stare at me, aren’t they?”

  Miss Corey grinned. It made her look even more beautiful. “You’re going to have to get used to quite a bit of staring, I think.”

  I smiled at her, and caught a glimpse of my reflection—of a girl who had come through fire and ice and seemed to possess a little of each. I remembered what Sam Greenfeder had called Tillie and me in the park. Farbrente maydlakh. Fiery girls. Now I’d really become one—a girl who’d come through fire twice. And if I could come through fire . . . maybe Raven had as well.

  “Well then,” I said, “I’d better start getting used to it.”

  Helen and Daisy came first. Helen screeched when she saw my hair. “It’s the exact shade of the Countess Oborensky’s hair when she was presented at court. However did you get it? Is it . . .” she lowed her voice, “dyed?”

  “It just grew back this way after the fire,” I replied.

  “It will be lovely when it grows in,” Daisy said diplomatically, eyes riveted to my scalp.

  “I think I may keep it short,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll start a fad.”

  Daisy looked scandalized, but Helen only laughed. “I’m glad you came through the fire with your humor intact. You’ll need it to bear the events Beckwith has planned for you—speakers, fêtes, high teas, parades. You’re to get a heroine’s reception once you’re out of this cell. Why are you still here anyway? You look fit as a fiddle . . . rather better than you did before, as a matter of fact.”

  I smiled at Helen’s backhanded compliment. “I still have some pain in my hands and along my back, but I’ll be out soon. Catch me up on all the news, will you? I don’t want to feel a complete ninny when I make my reappearance.”

  Helen readily obliged, as I knew she would. I was happy to have the attention focused away from my strange new looks and lingering injuries—and my mind taken off whether Raven had survived the fire or not—by Helen’s gossip. I learned that not everyone was thrilled with my new status as heroine.

  Georgiana Montmorency had loudly proclaimed at dinner one night that I had led the Darklings out of the woods with my torch and had been stopped by the Dianas. Cam had promptly risen to her feet and socked Georgiana in the jaw. A fight had broken out between Georgiana’s friends and mine. Interestingly, not all of her friends had not come to Georgiana’s aid. In fact, Alfreda Driscoll had been seen dumping a blancmange over Georgiana’s head, effectively quelling the outburst—although Dolores Jager had gotten in one more jab at one of Georgiana’s cohorts.

  “Dolores? Really?” I asked, finding it hard to imagine the melancholy quiet girl taking part in a brawl.

  “I wouldn’t underestimate Dolores,” Daisy said. “The next day Georgiana’s hair turned green after using a soap I saw Dolores leaving in the showers.”

  “Well at least I’m not the only one with a new hair color,” I said, smiling at the image of Georgiana with green hair. “But does anyone else think I was leading the Darklings to attack Blythewood?”

  “Oh, no!” Daisy and Helen both said together. “The next day Dame Beckwith, after giving us all fifty demerits for fighting, announced that it had been Sarah Lehman who had summoned the Darklings and you were a hero for defeating them.”

  “But it wasn’t the Darklings who were attacking; it was the shadow creatures—the tenebrae.”

  Daisy and Helen exchanged an uneasy glance. “Are you really sure?” Daisy asked, taking my hand. “When the shadows burned away we all saw the Darklings. It looked as if they had summoned the shadows.”

  “But they were trying to protect the woods from the shadow creatures. Nathan knows the truth . . . and Miss Sharp. What do they say?”

  Daisy and Helen exchanged a guilty look. “Um . . . they’ve been busy,” Daisy said. “And they’ve been staying at Violet House.”

  “Because of Louisa,” Helen said softly.

  I flushed, embarrassed that I hadn’t asked about Louisa right away. “How is she? Has she recovered from her stay in Faerie?”

  They looked at each other again and then Daisy said, “Not exactly. She only wants to play cards all the time and she has this vacant look in her eyes.”

  “That descri
ption could fit my mother,” Helen said tartly.

  I was about to tell her she shouldn’t jest, but then she added, “But you should see Nathan. He sits with her all day playing cards. He’s the only one who can keep her calm. That’s why they’re at Violet House—that and to keep Louisa from running back into the woods.”

  “Poor Nathan,” I said, wondering if his shadows had been banished now that Sarah was gone. I recalled what my mother had said about him—that I was the only one who would be able to keep the shadows from claiming him. But how could I do that? “He worked so hard to get Louisa back.”

  “Yes, well things don’t always work out as we plan,” Helen said. “And speaking of plans . . . this letter arrived for you a few days ago. I saw it in the post and nabbed it before anyone else could see it and wonder why you’re receiving mail from a strange man in Scotland.”

  I snatched the envelope out of Helen’s hand and ripped it open.

  “Why are you receiving mail from a strange man in Scotland, by the way?”

  “It’s from Mr. Farnsworth, the librarian at the Hawthorn School. He has a copy of the book I’ve been looking for—A Darkness of Angels. He says he’s setting sail for New York in a few days—on April tenth. What day is it now?” I asked anxiously, realizing I’d completely lost track of the days.

  “April fifteenth,” Helen replied. “He should be in New York in a few days, then. About the time my parents are returning from their trip. I had a letter from Daddy a week ago saying they had run into your grandmother in London and that they were traveling back to New York together. Does he say what ship he’s on?”

  I flung the bedclothes away, ignoring Helen’s questions. She probably wanted to gossip about who else she knew crossing the Atlantic. “I have to get up and start moving around so I’m ready to go into New York to meet him,” I said.

  Helen picked up the letter from the bed and read it. “Ah,” she said, “he is coming in on the same ship as my parents and your grandmother.”