Adelaide giggled. It was the first time Lottie had heard her giggle since she’d come to Wisp Territory.
“It’s beautiful,” Adelaide breathed. “The loveliest sound, too. There’s nothing so nice as the sound of leaves landing on the ground.”
“You’re lucky you can hear it so well,” said Lottie. “It must be nice.”
Adelaide hopped up the branch of their yew, and Lottie followed her into the dim, warm, hollowed-out trunk. The curling branch sealed them back inside, safe from any intruders—whitecaps included.
“I didn’t know things like that made you so happy,” said Lottie.
She liked this side of Adelaide—when she wasn’t busy complaining or arguing with Fife.
“Autumn’s the season I love best,” said Adelaide. “Back in New Albion, we have the loveliest festivals. When I was little, Father would take us to the pumpkin patches, and Oliver and I could get three pumpkins apiece. Father would call me his itty-bitty squash.”
Lottie’s smile grew. Adelaide’s disappeared. Her eyes went wide, like she’d just realized a huge mistake.
“You cannot tell Fife that,” she ordered. “Or Eliot.”
“Eliot wouldn’t make fun of you, though.”
“I just don’t want him to know. It’s private.”
“Then I won’t tell anyone,” said Lottie. “Promise.”
The girls changed into their nightclothes and, as was their routine, curled up in blankets on opposite sides of the trunk. It was a strange arrangement if Lottie really stopped to think about it: no bed, no chairs, no table, just one wide cushion inside a giant yew tree. Yet for all its strangeness, it was comfortable. It almost made up for all the nightmares.
Almost.
Lottie woke to Adelaide jabbing angrily at her stomach.
“Make him stop,” Adelaide groaned. “He’s been going on for minutes straight.”
Lottie’s hand shifted to the pocket of her nightgown. Trouble was still safely bundled inside, but he was squawking with shrill persistence. He wriggled against Lottie’s fingers as she pulled him out.
“Trouble, hush,” she said, stroking his feathers. “Hush.”
Trouble did not hush. His squawks only grew louder. And he had been doing so well these past few days!
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” said Lottie, continuing to stroke Trouble. She drew him nearer and placed a comforting kiss atop his head. “Trouble, it’s all right. Shhh.”
Adelaide rummaged on her side of the trunk. There was a flurry of violet feathers. Lila, Adelaide’s own genga, perched on Lottie’s shoulder and gave one sharp chirrup.
Trouble stopped squawking. He went deathly still and quirked his head toward Lila.
Lila chirped again. This time, Trouble bowed his head. He gave a contrite coo.
“What just happened?” Lottie asked Adelaide.
“I asked Lila to calm him down. She’s good at it.”
Adelaide whistled, and Lila returned to her outstretched finger. She patted the bird once, then tucked her out of sight. Lottie looked to Trouble. His chest puffed in and out slowly, as though he were sleeping. Gingerly, she tucked him back into her pocket.
“Thank you,” she told Adelaide.
“Mm-hm.” Adelaide was pulling a brush through her long, brunette hair in measured strokes. “But you really need to learn how to control him. No one respects a sprite who can’t command her own genga.”
Adelaide didn’t need to tell Lottie that. It only made her feel worse.
“Don’t say anything to Oliver about this,” said Lottie. “Please? He’ll think I haven’t learned a thing from our lessons.”
“Well, have you?”
Lottie took some time to think this over. Really, she’d taken a good deal of time in the past month to think about it. Owning a genga was nothing like owning a pet—or at least what Lottie had imagined owning a pet would’ve been like, had Mrs. Yates not been strongly opposed to the very existence of domesticated animals. And “own” wasn’t the right word at all. Lottie did not feel she owned Trouble any more than she owned Eliot or Adelaide. And while Lottie did feel Trouble belonged to her, she also felt she belonged to Trouble. He seemed to be in better spirits when she was happy, lower spirits when she was sad, and particularly rebellious when she was feeling . . . well, troubled.
Oliver had once told Lottie, “We call it genga lessons, because you can teach your genga to do some things: carry objects, deliver messages, fetch help. But in plenty of ways they’re unteachable—not because they’re stupid, but because they’re too smart. They’re part of us, and we’re part of them, but we’re completely separate, too. We’ve got our own plans, and they’ve got theirs. And sure, they’ll help us out more times than not, but there are times they’re going to insist on their own way.”
Lottie tried to remind herself of this on a daily basis, especially when Trouble did something like steal a tube of Eliot’s paint to squirt on someone’s head. But as much as Lottie told herself this behavior was normal, that she was learning, that Trouble would sometimes insist on his own way—she couldn’t help but notice that no one else seemed to be dealing with this sort of genga-related difficulty.
“Yes,” Lottie finally replied. “I’ve learned lots of things. I just haven’t had a genga since I was born, like the rest of you.”
Adelaide shrugged. “Well, come on, then. It’s past sunset, and I want to see Fife’s face when he realizes he’s been believing a bunch of piskie tales.”
When the girls emerged from their yew, the first thing Lottie noticed was that all the branches were completely bare. The ground was a blanket of pale gold needles and cream grass, bathed in sunset light. Adelaide inhaled deeply.
“Do you smell it?” she said. “Heavenly.”
It did smell heavenly—a perfect mixture of aging bark and sun-crisped leaves.
The boys were already out. Fife and Oliver sat atop the Clearing’s dining table, talking. A lantern sat between them, throwing shadows on their faces.
Eliot was sitting in a thick pile of yew needles, grabbing handfuls, then opening his fingers to sift them out again. When he caught sight of Lottie, he gave a whoop.
“Happy Autumntide!” he called. “Whatever that means.”
“So!” said Adelaide, poking Fife’s shoulder. “No reports of a gruesome death by whitecap, are there?”
Fife made an ugly face. There were blue circles beneath his eyes. It looked like he hadn’t slept a wink.
“I hear they’re serving spiced cider at the pergola,” said Oliver. “Anyone interested?”
Eliot jumped to his feet. “Cider. Yes.”
It was decided. They set out for the glass pergola, Oliver leading the way with lantern light. Unfortunately, this new excursion did not stop Fife and Adelaide’s bickering.
“I slept exceptionally well last night,” Adelaide said. “I didn’t keep myself up fretting about an imaginary monster.”
“Neither did I,” said Fife.
“You’re just not willing to admit you were wrong.”
“Good thing you never have that problem,” Fife growled.
Oliver tried to distract them by loudly reciting a poem entitled “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
Eliot and Lottie shared a look. Eliot was straining his mouth very hard in an attempt to not look too amused by the fighting.
“Thank you,” he said, “for not contradicting every other word I say. Seems exhausting.”
“Very,” Lottie agreed. “I wonder why they haven’t just agreed to never talk again.”
“What? What fun would that be? Look at the two of them. You can see how much they’re enjoying it.”
Fife and Adelaide did seem very bright-faced about the whole thing.
They rounded a thick stretch of yew trees and arrived in the clearing of the glass pergola. A great table stretched in front of the pergola steps. It was surrounded by members of the Wisp Guard and of the nobility,
all mingling and murmuring amongst one another. None of the plagued population of wisps were allowed anywhere between here and the Clearing. These were all the remaining healthy members of the wisp race—those privileged or important enough to have afforded an inoculation from the Southerly Court, back when the Southerly Court had still traded with the wisps.
Some wore silver circlets, others bronze, others glass, according to ranks that Lottie still didn’t quite understand. Lottie was used to seeing these wisps clothed in pale robes, sashed with ivy. But today, the noble wisps were not dressed in their usual soft spectrum of colors. They were all wearing black.
Eliot scratched his nose uncomfortably. “Did we not get the memo?”
“It looks like a funeral,” said Lottie.
All eyes turned to Fife, who had gone very still. His hair, which always stuck up in an impressive defiance of gravity, now particularly seemed to be standing on end.
“Oh, sweet Oberon,” he said.
Oliver’s calm blue eyes shifted to green. “Fife, what is it?”
“Oh, Oberon, no. Nooo.”
Adelaide backed away from Fife, as though afraid he might spontaneously combust.
“Is he broken?” Eliot asked Lottie.
“What’s wrong, Fife?” asked Lottie. “I’m sure there’s still cider left, if that’s what you’re worried about. Look! Cynbel is ladling some out right now.”
At that moment, Cynbel looked straight at Lottie from across the clearing. She’d forgotten that, though wisps did not have keens like sprites, they still had exceptional hearing—especially Cynbel, the captain of the Wisp Guard.
A terrible memory bloomed in Lottie’s mind. It was the day she had broken Mrs. Yates’ sewing machine after running a dishcloth under it, just to see if it would work. Mrs. Yates had been enraged. She’d called Lottie a stupid, worthless child and then threatened, for the first and only time, to send Lottie to an orphanage on the mainland. Lottie tried to push the memory out of her head, but she couldn’t with Cynbel’s eyes still fixed on her, dragging the images out. This was the very worst thing about wisps—their ability to stop her cold with their eyes alone.
Cynbel’s hard gaze finally shifted from Lottie over to Fife. Then Cynbel smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Cynbel, that imbecile,” Fife observed. Then, “It isn’t a funeral. Wisps wear black as a sign of reverence.”
“Um,” said Eliot, making a valiant attempt to follow, “so does that mean they’re being reverential or whatever to Autumntide?”
“No,” said Fife. “It means my uncle’s back.”
CHAPTER THREE
Ground Painted with Snowy Blood
“I THOUGHT the Tailor was searching for a cure in the northern territories,” said Oliver.
Fife looked like he’d swallowed a live fish. “Yeah, I thought so, too. So did everyone. But the guy loves surprises. Come on, I’m investigating.”
Fife motioned for them to follow. He skirted around the congregation of black-cloaked wisps and closer to the wood. The five of them edged along the River Lissome in single file, ducking behind a line of trees as they made their way closer to the glass pergola. Fife floated inches above the ground. He waved at the others to be quiet as they approached a narrow doorway carved into one of the pergola’s courtyards.
“Isn’t Fife royalty?” Eliot asked. “Why do we have to sneak into the place?”
“Fife was born to royalty,” said Adelaide. “That isn’t quite the same thing.”
“Also,” said Oliver, “you might recall how we’re not exactly in a good way with Cynbel.”
“That’s all my fault,” Lottie admitted, thinking of what was now called the green paint incident. “Well, mine and Trouble’s.”
“He didn’t like us before that,” Oliver said.
“Mother and Uncle will be having a private conversation,” said Fife, “so we can’t very well go tromping into the pergola right in front of Cynbel and a whole court of wisps. Good news is that spiced cider has a rather calming effect on wisps when drunk in large quantities.” A wicked smirk stretched to Fife’s dimples. “And they always drink it in large quantities. As long as we’re careful, we shouldn’t have any trouble sneaking in while the lot of them are otherwise engaged.”
“Why are we sneaking in the first place?” asked Eliot.
“Because,” said Lottie, “the adults aren’t going to tell us what the Tailor’s arrival is really about. That means we have to find out for ourselves. Isn’t that right, Fife?”
“Just so,” said Fife.
“Maybe,” said Eliot, “the Tailor came back because he was tired? Living away from home can be exhausting.”
Lottie looked up sharply. Though Lottie missed nothing about her former life in New Kemble, she knew that the letters exchanged between Eliot and Mr. Walsch weren’t a substitute for the father and son seeing each other in person. At least she and Eliot were heading back to Kemble Isle the next day.
“That’s not why he’s returned,” said Fife. “Uncle doesn’t give up easily. Whatever news he’s brought back with him has got to be big. That’s why we’re going to find it out.”
With that, Fife floated through the courtyard archway.
By now, Lottie had seen inside all the courtyards of the glass pergola. Some contained statues, others fountains, still others weapons. The most important courtyard contained the Great Lantern of the wisps and was accessible only by members of the Dulcet family.
The courtyard they now stood in was, in Lottie’s opinion, the ugliest of them all. It was overrun with ill-tended vines and thorny plants, and there was no bench to sit upon, nor fountains to listen to, nor statues to contemplate. It looked like a gardening project gone wrong, then forgotten. As a result, no one ever visited this courtyard. Lottie supposed that was why Fife had brought them there.
“Right,” Fife said, crouching at the entrance of the glass pergola proper. “This close enough for you, Ada?”
Adelaide shut her eyes, her upturned nose wrinkled in concentration.
“It’s faint,” she said. “They’re in your mother’s private quarters. Stay quiet, the rest of you.”
Lottie heard a snicker. Eliot’s eyes were watering from laughter.
“Sorry,” he squeaked out. “I’m still getting used to it. It’s funny. She’s like a comic book character.”
Adelaide kept her eyes closed, but color burst in her cheeks.
“What’s funny,” she said, “is that you’re the only one without a keen, Eliot. Now hush up and let me concentrate.”
Eliot nodded obediently, though he covered his mouth and continued to laugh silently.
Adelaide remained quiet. She frowned, faintly at first, then harder. At last, she shook her head, annoyed.
“This is stupid,” she said. “He’s talking about some new collection of robes he bought in Thistlebram. Nothing more.”
“No,” said Fife. “He didn’t come home early just to chat about thread counts. He came back with important news.”
“Maybe we missed it,” said Eliot, who had since recovered from the shakes.
“No,” Fife said. “No, this kind of news is the news you don’t just mention and forget. It’s the kind of news that requires immediate action. Like an invasion of Wisp Territory or a cure that’s faster than Mr. Wilfer’s. Something big. It has to be.”
“Fife,” said Oliver. “Maybe the Tailor just wanted to come home early, and that’s all. Home-keeping hearts are happiest, for those that wander they know not where are full of trouble and full of care.”
“That’s certainly what it sounds like,” said Adelaide, “which means we’ve been doing all this juvenile snooping for nothing. You’re his nephew, Fife. If you’re so convinced something’s wrong, ask him yourself.”
“What an excellent idea!” Fife cried, clapping Adelaide on the shoulders. “Why didn’t I think of it? Oh! Yes! Because, unlike some people, I don’t have sponge cake for brains.”
Adelaide sh
oved Fife away. “You’re so uncivil.”
“Ooh, ouch. Fifth me.”
“I can’t believe y—wait! Where are you all going?”
The others, led by Lottie, were leaving the courtyard and heading back into the wood, the bickering Fife and Adelaide hurrying to catch up.
“I’m telling you all,” said Fife, “something is off. Something’s not right, and I’m not going to shut up about it until we—sweet Oberon, what is that?”
Fife’s yelling was unnecessary. The others had already reeled to a halt and were staring ahead at something in their path. Oliver’s lantern light poured over a mound, dark and motionless. It was covered in something pale and slick.
White liquid—blood—was pooling around what Lottie was now sure was a dead body.
“I told you they existed! I told you! The whitecaps strike again!”
Fife was airborne. He flapped his arms frantically, face blotchy with panic.
Adelaide pressed her hand to her head and said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“W-what do we do?” Eliot asked. He looked ready to puke at Lottie’s feet.
Lottie shook her mind free of the sight.
“We tell someone,” she said. “We have to get someone. Oliver?”
Oliver was still and silent, but Lottie knew this did not mean he was unreachable. It meant that, though he was paying attention, he was also thinking hard. Now, he looked to Lottie with resolve in his black eyes.
“Cynbel,” he said. “I’ll fetch him.”
He ran back to the glass pergola.
Though he had stopped shouting, Fife was still hovering in a frenzy above Lottie’s head.
“No one believed me! ‘Stuff and nonsense, Fife,’ you said! ‘Just a myth,’ you said! Now some wisp—so stupid to wander out at dawn—and now he’s—he’s dead, and—wait. Is it a he? Maybe a she, and, Puck’s wings, it smells grotesque.”
The Doorway and the Deep Page 4