Lottie was shocked. She hadn’t ever heard the others speak ill of Mr. Wilfer. She wondered at Fife’s words. All this time, at every sharpening lesson, she’d just assumed she was a bad student. She’d never considered that Mr. Wilfer might not be a very good teacher.
They were just approaching the part of the path that banked off toward the red apple tree when Oliver and Eliot stopped ahead.
“Shh!”
Oliver waved for everyone to be quiet. There were voices in the wood—at a distance, but coming closer. These voices could not belong to wisps, who spoke only in smooth syllables. They were rough and full of grit. One shouted an order. Then someone screamed.
It’s the whitecaps, thought Lottie.
Oliver nodded away from the voices, into the wood. They hurried into the cover of the trees and crouched behind a thick yew. Fife blew out his lantern. Lottie blew out hers. They sat in the dark, waiting, and Lottie became aware of just how hard and fast she was breathing.
“Should we run?” whispered Eliot, who was crouched next to Lottie, his hand resting on her shoulder.
“No good,” Fife said, peeking around the yew’s trunk, then hiding himself again. “Whitecaps can smell fear, and they’re stupidly fast.”
“Well, we can’t just stop being afraid,” said Lottie, “and if they’re going to smell us out all the same, I’d rather have a head st—”
Her words were drowned out by another scream, broken and anguished.
When the sound let up, Lottie could make out words. A woman was speaking nearby, on the path. Lamplight appeared in the darkness, only a few good strides from where they were hidden, and lit the silhouettes of four figures. Three were standing on the path, surrounding the fourth, which was stooped before them, head hung low.
“A lone guard at the silver bough?” said one of the figures. “Your Seamstress should take better care of what precious gifts she has left. The last time wisps were this careless, they lost a certain Lantern.”
“I’m not afraid to die,” said the stooped figure. “Take my life like a true sprite, Iolanthe, and may Robin Goodfellow curse you to the Fifth Sea.”
“Pretty speech,” said the woman addressed as Iolanthe, “but it’s not cowardice that stays my hand. I’ve dirtied up my sword with enough white blood today. You’re going to be my messenger.”
“I’d rather die,” said the wisp, though his voice faltered.
“Don’t be difficult,” said Iolanthe. “I haven’t the time for it. You will tell your Seamstress and Tailor that this is only the beginning. Starkling will raze this wood to the ground, one yew at a time. There is nothing your people can do to stop us, so if you wish to die in peace, you won’t stand between our axes and your rotting homes.”
The two other figures dragged the wisp to his feet and heaved him into the dark.
“Go on,” called the woman. “Tell Silvia that Iolanthe sends her regards!”
Lottie expected the wisp to argue, to shout back, to fight. But this time, he merely floated away in an uneven sputter. He was headed down the path in the direction of the glass pergola.
The woman named Iolanthe turned to her companions but said nothing. Lottie wondered if she was merely thinking, or if she was looking at something, or if she was listening—
Listening.
What if this Iolanthe knew they were here? What if she, like Adelaide, had a hearing keen? Lottie wanted to warn the others, wanted to tell them to ready their feet to run, but she didn’t dare breathe loudly, let alone speak.
Then Iolanthe moved, sweeping back a long cape and removing something hidden beneath—a jar of some sort.
“Is the silver secure, Julian?” she asked.
“It is, your reverence.”
“Then keep close, both of you.”
Iolanthe dug a hand into the jar, and Lottie realized what it was just as Iolanthe threw the powder into the air. She was using Royal Piskie Dust.
“The Southerly Palace!” Iolanthe shouted, each consonant sharp-edged.
The dust swirled around the three silhouettes in a lazy circle. Then the silhouettes were no more; they’d vanished into the darkness. All that remained was the light powderfall of remaining Piskie Dust.
There was a crack of a match strike and the sudden appearance of light as Fife relit his lantern.
“Come on,” he said, rising up and floating toward the path at an alarming speed.
No one asked questions. They ran after Fife. Lottie knew what he feared, for she feared it, too. But it couldn’t be. That couldn’t possibly have happened.
They ran hard down the path, following the white dirt offshoot that led to the red apple tree. One of the Wisp Guard was always posted in this clearing, but there was no guard tonight. Lottie had known there wouldn’t be. That guard had been the fourth silhouette.
“Sweet Oberon,” whispered Fife.
At his feet, cast in ghostly lantern light, were the splintered remains of the silver-boughed tree.
CHAPTER SIX
Northward
THEY RAN for the glass pergola, even though Lottie knew running did no real good. The wisp guard Iolanthe had sent would no doubt reach the Royal Bower before them and tell the Seamstress and Tailor the terrible news.
Oliver headed in the opposite direction, toward Mr. Wilfer’s cottage.
“Adelaide,” he said, breathless. “I have to tell Father, and we’ve got to get Adelaide.”
Lottie, Fife, and Eliot kept heading toward the distant, bluish light of the Great Lantern. Once they’d reached the pergola’s entrance, they ran down the long hall toward the Royal Bower, Eliot slipping every so often on the cold glass floor and Lottie righting him each time. They found the doors to the bower flung open. The place was abustle with movement and shouts, and so many wisps were floating in so many directions, Lottie ducked a few times out of instinct. Silvia and Lyre were floating low at the willow tree’s base. Standing opposite them were both Dorian Ingle and a sweaty, bug-eyed wisp who was talking frantically and, every so often, hiccuping between syllables.
“. . . hewn down the silver-boughed tree,” he was saying. “Came from nowhere. Used dust, I think. Took my sword. Cut me off. Didn’t have the chance to fight. Couldn’t raise the alarm. I didn’t think they’d cut it down.”
The words slapped Lottie hard, like a physical blow. She was forced to acknowledge what she’d been trying so hard not to: the silver-boughed tree had been hacked to pieces and was now an unusable heap of bark and fallen red apples. Eliot could no longer reach Mr. Walsch. Eliot and Lottie couldn’t go home. Not that way.
“Children!”
Silvia had finally noticed them. She waved for the jabbering wisp to be quiet.
“We saw some of what happened,” said Fife, panting. “Or, well, heard it, more like. What I’d like to know is who in Puck’s name is this Iolanthe?”
Dorian’s easy countenance was gone. He was scowling up at the willow tree as he said, “She’s Starkling’s new right-hand sprite.”
“What was she doing here?” Lottie asked. “She’s not allowed in Wisp Territory, is she? And it’s not like you and the Southerlies are at war.”
“We are now,” the Tailor said darkly.
Silvia burst into an ear-piercing laugh. “Really, Lyre! We don’t have enough healthy wisps for a skirmish, let alone war. Iolanthe knows we’re powerless to fight back, as does Starkling. He ordered this destruction knowing full well that we cannot retaliate.”
“But why?” demanded Lottie. “You haven’t done anything to the Southerlies. You’re plagued as it is. Why would he do something like this?”
The guard hiccuped. “I heard them whispering as they dragged me from the apple tree. They said Starkling’s trying to build a gorge.”
Lyre and Silvia both started at this.
“What?” said Lottie. “What’s a gorge?”
“Nothing that concerns you little ones,” said Silvia.
“You know what this means, Seamstress,” said D
orian. His voice was urgent. “They’re no longer safe here.”
Silvia nodded. She turned to Lyre and said, “They must leave.”
“Wait,” said Eliot. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“Us,” said Fife. “They can’t protect us anymore, so we’ve got to evacuate.”
“But,” said Lottie, panic sweeping inside her, “but—but Eliot.”
“The silver-boughed tree is gone, Fiske,” said Dorian. “You can’t go home that way.”
“But we promised Mr. Walsch,” Lottie said. “He’ll be worried. He’ll be so frantic. We can’t just—”
“It’s gone,” Fife said softly. “You don’t have a choice anymore.”
“There is a silver-boughed tree in the Northerly Court,” said Dorian. “I feel that bears mentioning.”
Lottie turned to Eliot. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Hey,” said Eliot, forcing a smile. “We’ll get home. If that means going north first, then we’ll go north.”
“CHARLOTTE GRACE FISKE!”
Lottie turned at the sound of her full name, yelled with enough force to knock a hat off a head.
Mr. Wilfer and Oliver had entered the Royal Bower, accompanied by a fuming Adelaide.
“What do you mean by sneaking off like that?” Adelaide yelled. “I was worried senseless about you when I woke, and then for Father to come barreling in with news of a tragedy, and I thought—I thought—”
Adelaide threw her arms around Lottie and burst into a sob. She choked out, “We’re friends. Friends stick together. They go places together.”
Lottie, startled as she was, put her arms around Adelaide.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you wouldn’t want—”
“You didn’t ask me. You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come along!”
She cried into Lottie’s shoulder, and though Lottie felt very bad about Adelaide’s current emotional state, she was also a tiny bit pleased. Adelaide had the funniest ways of telling Lottie she cared about her.
While Adelaide sopped Lottie’s shoulder with tears, Silvia brought Mr. Wilfer and Oliver up to date on the current state of affairs, the most pressing of which was Dorian’s suggestion that they leave for the Northerly Court that very moment.
“Oh, but surely not,” Adelaide said, letting Lottie loose. “We haven’t had any time to prepare!”
“You mean,” said Fife, “you haven’t had time to brush your hair and pack your nicest dresses.”
Adelaide shot Fife a murderous glare. “Some of us actually care about our appearances, you slovenly snippet.”
“Thank Titania you do, sweet Ada. It’s hard enough to look at you as is.”
“Seamstress and Tailor,” said Dorian. “Moritasgus. I’m formally requesting permission to lead the expedition north immediately, before any more Southerly soldiers infest this wood. Rebel Gem will provide far more protection than your yews can now afford.”
“But it’s nearly dawn!” Adelaide wailed. “We haven’t even had a full day’s sleep.”
“No, my dear,” said Mr. Wilfer, “Dorian is right. You must set out as soon as you can.”
“What about Lottie and Eliot?” asked Oliver, anxiously yellow-eyed.
“They will find safety in the Northerly Court,” said Dorian, “and access to our own silver-boughed tree, if that’s what they desire.”
Adelaide, now aware this was an argument she wouldn’t win, gave a moan of exasperation. She sat on the ground, legs crossed in a surprisingly unrefined way, and though Lottie thought Adelaide looked a little ridiculous, she felt a lot like doing the very same thing.
“That settles it,” said Silvia. “Off you go, to the North.”
It was dawn by the time they set out. Wisp Territory had never been very bright, even in the daylight, so dense were the branches and leaves overhead. But now that the yews had lost their needlelike leaves, Lottie’s face was kissed with far more sunlight than she’d seen in a long month. She was tired, and her legs were already weary from walking through the plagued part of the wood, past sickly wisps and putrid stenches and cries for help that tore at her heart. She was tired, but she gained strength from the light. She had almost forgotten what it was like to rise with the sun.
Lottie and the others had been allowed to return to the Clearing and pack their belongings, all under the watchful eyes of Cynbel and three of his guards. These guards, along with Silvia, Lyre, and Mr. Wilfer, now followed them to the edge of Wisp Territory and the start of Wandlebury Wood proper. Lottie had traveled through the wood once before, but that had been far off the main path in an attempt to avoid the Barghest and the Southerly Guard.
“We’ll travel by foot for a day’s time,” said Dorian. “Then we’ll take the River Lissome north. Provided we aren’t tracked and provided the weather holds up, it won’t be too daunting a journey.”
“Don’t worry,” said Fife. “Ada will make it plenty daunting.”
Adelaide didn’t hear Fife; she was too busy crying in her father’s arms. Oliver, too, stood by Mr. Wilfer, his eyes dull gray. Lottie turned away, leaving the Wilfers to their private goodbyes. She checked the contents of her satchel: a flashlight from home, clothes, a bag of sweet-so-sours, and, of course, her favorite green scarf. She couldn’t shake the suspicion that she was forgetting something important. In a sudden panic, she checked her pocket. Her fingers grazed feathers. Trouble gave a sleepy chirp and turned over, out of reach.
No. She wasn’t leaving anything important behind.
Except, of course, the silver-boughed tree.
Eliot hadn’t cried or raised his voice or even mentioned the fact that his trip home had been brutally canceled by a group of ax-wielding Southerlies. Still, Lottie felt the loss deeply, and she knew Eliot did, too. Mr. Walsch would have no way of knowing where they were and why they hadn’t arrived for Thanksgiving supper. Lottie had searched on hand and knee for her copper box in the ruins of the apple tree, but it, too, was gone. Maybe Iolanthe and her guards had taken it, thinking it was important. Maybe they’d thrown it into the wood and trampled it underfoot. Whatever the case, their remaining connection to Mr. Walsch was gone, and Lottie only knew that the sooner they got to the Northerly Court, the better.
“Ready?” she asked Eliot.
Eliot was checking the inside pocket of his jacket. There was a thick stack of papers threatening to burst the seams of the pocket’s lining—all letters from Mr. Walsch that Eliot had received during his time in Limn. He patted the letters once, then closed and buttoned his jacket.
“Ready,” he said.
Adelaide slipped out of her father’s arms, looking miserable. “I still don’t see why we have to leave.”
“Because the Tailor hates you,” Fife said, giving his uncle a pleasant wink.
Lyre didn’t acknowledge the gesture. “Travel swiftly,” he told Dorian. “No unnecessary stops.”
“Fife, dearest,” said Silvia, drawing her lips into a dramatic pinch. She knelt beside her son, arms outstretched. Fife backed out of reach.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “You’ll miss me ever so much. You’ll weep salty tears into your pillow each night.”
Silvia drew back. Her eyes welled with hurt, but she said nothing more.
“Stay together,” said Mr. Wilfer, who was speaking to Oliver, but loud enough for all to hear. “Remember, under no circumstance should you split company.”
Lottie cast a weak look at Mr. Wilfer. He seemed to understand.
“You will get home, Lottie,” he said. “Your friendships can see you through anything. Don’t forget that.”
“Beg pardon,” said Dorian, “but daylight’s burning. Let’s be on our way.”
They entered Wandlebury Wood. Only Adelaide looked back, just once, to wave goodbye to Mr. Wilfer.
“Good riddance,” said Fife. “I’m already walking lighter.”
But Lottie was certain she had seen a tear clinging to the cheek Fife turned to the shadows of the wood.
/> They walked for hours. Since her first visit to Limn, Lottie had grown far quicker on her feet. That skill came in handy now. Dorian set a good pace, too—not nearly so fast as she was used to walking with Fife floating ahead. Today, Fife floated behind, the very last of the company. Lottie walked in step with Adelaide. Oliver and Eliot trailed Dorian, singing a song that Eliot had taught Oliver:
“What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and all that;
Give fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for all that:
For all that, and all that,
Their tinsel show, and all that;
The honest man, though e’er so poor,
Is king o’ men for all that!”
The singing carried on until someone yelled, “Saints and goblins! Would you two finish already?”
The boys stopped their singing and turned, wide-eyed, toward Fife.
“I’ve never heard anything so blasted obnoxious in my thirteen years, five months,” Fife went on. “And anyway, we’re supposed to be on the run from Southerlies. Shouldn’t we be trying to stay inconspicuous? You’ll back me up on this, won’t you, Ingle?”
“It would probably be wise,” said Dorian, “if you boys didn’t sing.”
“Well, what else are we supposed to do?” asked Eliot. “We’ve been walking for ages. We’ve got to do something to keep entertained.”
“Then talk about the weather,” said Fife. “Or sing something that makes sense.”
“It’s Scottish,” Eliot said. “My father taught it to me. He lived in Glasgow for a while.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” said Fife, “whatever the blazes Scottish is.”
“It’s Robert Burns,” said Oliver in a coaxing voice. “I’ve read you plenty of his stuff, Fife. You really liked it.”
“Maybe I was only pretending to like it because you wouldn’t shut up about it.”
Oliver’s eyes turned an injured gray.
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