Eliot cleared his throat. After a moment, he said, “Maybe I’m not as sick as you think. I’ve hardly coughed at all the past day. Haven’t you noticed?”
Lottie thought back. Now that Eliot brought it up, she couldn’t remember him coughing nearly so much, even on their grueling walk through the Wilders.
“Maybe the air here is good for me,” he said. “Maybe I’ve just got allergies, and Wisp Territory had terrible pollen.”
“You know it’s not that,” Lottie said. “You’re still sick.”
“But I’m not helpless. You don’t have to fix me every time I get something in my lungs. When I cough, you don’t have to look at me like I’m a wounded animal. Like I’m weak. I can take care of myself.”
Eliot was angry, Lottie realized in shock. He was angry with her, when all Lottie had done was offer to help him.
“Fine,” she said. “Then take care of yourself. Go ahead.”
They did not speak after that. In silence, they followed Dorian across the windy, barren plain. Lottie tried not to think. She willed for her mind to fall once more into a muddied stupor, but it was no use. Eliot’s words clattered around in her head, repeating themselves again and again: I can take care of myself.
Didn’t Eliot understand he needed help? How, after all the time she’d spent searching and sharpening, could Eliot say a thing like that? Out of habit, Lottie stuck her hand into her pocket and felt for Trouble. She found him shivering.
“I’m sorry,” she said, bringing him out. “If I could warm you up better, I would.”
Trouble brushed his head against Lottie’s fingers. He sang a melody, sweet and good, and Lottie’s thoughts finally drifted from Eliot and the cold into a far happier place, where she could remember what it felt like to sleep in a proper bed and eat hot, well-cooked food.
Only when they reached the cliff face cave did Lottie reluctantly pocket Trouble and concentrate her efforts on scrambling down the steep, underground path. She struggled to keep her balance, worried at every moment that she might go toppling headfirst the whole rest of the way down. Eliot stumbled once, slid five feet down, and righted himself. Lottie said nothing, did nothing. After all, Eliot could take care of himself, couldn’t he?
When they emerged onto the beach, new light shone upon the water, coming from over the cliffs: dawn. Lottie’s weary eyes felt wearier still under the light of the breaking sun. She wanted nothing more than to plop down in the sand, curl her knees in, and sleep for uninterrupted hours. But sleep would have to wait. They’d retrieved the addersfork, but they had yet to place it in the right hands. There was now another journey ahead of them, back to Wisp Territory.
And after that . . .
Lottie thought of Rebel Gem’s promise. She thought of Iolanthe’s attack on Northerly Territory. Would the Northerlies declare war on the Southerly Court? And if so, would Rebel Gem still uphold her promise to Lottie? Would she finally allow her and Eliot passage back to Kemble Isle? And if that moment came, would Lottie even want to go back? Lottie shook her head, scolding herself for the thought. Of course she wanted to go back. How could she think otherwise? She blamed it on her tiredness.
Sigeberht’s boat was still moored in the cove, though farther from the shore than Lottie remembered—so far out that they couldn’t possibly wade the distance.
“Maybe he hasn’t seen us yet,” she said, waving her hands over her head to signal the nix.
“No,” said Dorian. “He’s seen us.”
There was a grim edge to his words that made Lottie lower her arms.
“Sigeberht!” Dorian yelled to the boat. “You promised us passage. Your summoner sacrificed to the waters, in keeping with the terms of the riddle!”
Lottie couldn’t clearly make out Sigeberht’s face from this distance, but she could hear his laugh.
“I promised passage,” the nix yelled back, “not a return journey!”
Lottie remembered something Dorian had said earlier: The nix are known for their wiles.
“What’s he doing?” asked Eliot, panicked. “Is he not going to take us back?”
“A curse on you, Sigeberht!” Dorian shouted.
“Oh, but a curse is already on me. Haven’t much to lose, have I?”
“The boy already gave you his letters!” Dorian yelled back. “What more do you want?”
There was a long silence. Then Sigeberht said, “A little of his blood would be nice.”
Lottie balked. “What?”
“It wouldn’t be painful,” the nix continued. “The life of a nix isn’t nearly so bad as you cowardly sprites think.”
Lottie turned to Eliot. All anger she’d been feeling toward him now vanished, replaced by horror.
“No one’s going to touch you,” she said fiercely. Then to Dorian, “We’re not going to touch him.”
“Of course we’re not,” said Dorian. “What do you take me for, Lottie, a savage? We’re not about to play a nix’s game.”
“Then what are we going to do?” asked Eliot.
“Trouble,” said Lottie.
Of course. Eliot had no genga, and Dorian had lost his, but Lottie still had a way to find the others and get help.
She dug into her coat and removed Trouble. He emerged in a tumble of black feathers.
“You know what to do,” she said, cupping Trouble in her hands. “Go back to the flatlands, to the inn in the town called Darrow. Find the others. Tell them we’re stranded here at the cove. They’ll find a way to help us.”
Trouble didn’t argue. He didn’t squawk or refuse to budge. Without a moment’s hesitation, he swooped from Lottie’s hands and out to sea.
“But that could take hours, couldn’t it?” Lottie asked Dorian.
“Days, possibly,” he replied.
Eliot made a whimpering sound. He wasn’t crying, but he didn’t look particularly well. He sat in the sand, his breathing shallow.
“Eliot?” Lottie knelt beside him. “You okay?”
“Just tired,” he wheezed. “I’m tired is all.”
“Go on, then!” Dorian shouted toward the sea. “Blow yourself away, you soulless beast!”
Lottie looked to the horizon. Sigeberht was sailing from the cove so quickly that, in just a few seconds’ time, there was no sign he had been there at all—not even the slightest disturbance in the water.
“There has to be something else we can do,” said Lottie.
Dorian crossed his arms and gave Lottie a look. It was a look that reminded her she’d been the one to insist they take the ferry, that Dorian had warned against the dangers, and that Lottie didn’t have any right now to complain. Dorian had been right: they shouldn’t have trusted Sigeberht. But Dorian being right didn’t make Lottie any less restless.
There had to be something else they could do.
The music was distant. Lottie thought at first it was only a ringing in her tired ears. But the longer she remained still, the clearer and louder the notes became. She looked to the sky, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare.
They circled overhead in a lazy circle, flapping their wings far less often than Lottie thought necessary to stay aloft. They were more beautiful now in the dawn than Lottie remembered from earlier. They continued to sing their glassy melody.
Flatrooks.
“Dorian,” Lottie said excitedly. “The flatrooks! You said they helped sailors, didn’t you?”
But Dorian looked far less enthused. He stared warily at the circling birds.
“That’s what the stories say. But—”
“Then maybe they’ll help us!” said Lottie, throwing her arms above her head. “Hey, flatrooks! We need you! We’re in trouble! Help! Help! Hel—emrph!”
Dorian had slapped his hand over her mouth. Lottie struggled against his hold, but without success.
“What are you doing?” he hissed. “I only said there were stories. There’s no way of knowing what they’ll really do.”
Lottie ignored him and instead squinted at the s
ky, trying to make out what was happening, if anything, in the circle of spinning flatrooks.
They had stopped singing their melody. Their spinning had grown slower. Then, abruptly, the flatrooks stopped flapping their wings.
And they dove.
They headed straight for the beach at an alarming speed.
Dorian removed his hand from Lottie’s mouth just in time for her to shriek.
“Run for the cave!” Dorian shouted.
“Eliot, come on!” Lottie grabbed Eliot by the hand, dragging him up, and they piled into the cave after Dorian. Breathing heavily, they stared at the scene outside the cave’s shelter.
Five flatrooks had landed on the beach. They stood on long legs, their claws sunken into the sand. Their feather-ended tails, which measured the full length of the rest of their bodies, dragged behind them. Lottie could see their heads now that the birds were not flying overhead. They were just small, round protrusions at the front of their flat bodies, fitted with three black, bulbous eyes, and one squat, hooked beak. If Lottie wasn’t so terrified that she could soon be torn apart by those beaks, she might have found them comical.
“Aren’t they supposed to help?” Lottie whispered to Dorian. “You said they were the best birds around.”
“I’ve never actually met one for myself!” he snapped.
“Well, who’s to say they aren’t nice?” asked Eliot. “We won’t know if we keep hiding in the dark like little kids.”
He walked out so quickly that Lottie did not have the chance to stop him. Eliot stepped into the morning light, in plain view of the flatrooks. He held his hands out, palms up, as he walked toward them, one slow step at a time. The flatrooks gathered closer at his appearance, fixing fifteen solid black eyes upon him.
“Eliot, no!” Lottie screamed, running to his side.
But the flatrooks had not attacked. They did not look half so sinister as they had when they were diving toward the earth. They looked curious. Lottie wondered if she could talk to them the same as the Barghest. She decided there was only one way to find out.
“Will you all help us?” she asked them. “We need to get back to the flatlands. Back to the riddle rock. It’s a very important matter. I don’t know if you have allegiances or anything, but if you care a thing about Albion Isle, you’ll want to help, I promise.”
The closest of the flatrooks stepped forward. It opened its beak and released an airy, voiceless sound, like a yawn.
“Do you think that means ‘yes’?” said Eliot.
Three more flatrooks bent their legs and stretched their fleshy wings to full length. Lottie thought she knew what this meant: the flatrooks wanted them to climb atop.
“Dorian?”
Lottie turned to find Dorian standing by her side.
“Forgive me,” he said. “That was cowardice, just then. Pure cowardice. I’m ashamed.”
Lottie smiled at how serious Dorian sounded.
“I think it turned out all right,” she said. “Though do you know how we’re supposed to, um, travel on them?”
“Not the slightest idea,” said Dorian. Lottie looked at the flatrook nearest her, trying to sort out how she could possibly hold on to its wings and not slide off, mid-flight.
“Well,” she said. “I guess the most important thing is just getting on.”
She climbed onto the flatrook the same as she might climb onto a bed—hands first, then knees. She scooted as close to the center of the flatrook’s wings as she could without drawing too near its head. It was an awkward position, but she had at least made progress. Eliot and Dorian did the same. It was a clumsy process, and they didn’t look particularly secure, either. How were they supposed to fly like this?
But they did not fly. The flatrooks stretched their legs back to their full height, then walked to the water’s edge.
“Can they swim, too?” Lottie asked Dorian.
Dorian did not have to answer the question, for just then, Lottie’s flatrook splashed into the water and gracefully coasted out to sea.
“They can swim!” she cried.
Lottie had never seen anything like it. The flatrooks glided on the water as though skating upon a solid surface. Two of them—the ones without the weight of a passenger—swam ahead. Lottie watched as their feathered tails splashed in the water, propelling them forward. It was a mesmerizing sight, but not so mesmerizing that Lottie forgot to keep a sturdy grip on the front edges of the flatrook’s wings. Or fins. She really wasn’t sure what to call them now.
Beside her, Eliot let out a whoop.
“This is awesome!” he called to her. Then he whooped again, but this time the cry ended in a round of hoarse coughs, and the joy Lottie had felt only moments before disappeared.
They moved even faster than Sigeberht’s ferry. Lottie couldn’t look too long at the water flashing by without getting woozy. The wind smacked against her face, so relentless that it felt like a solid block of ice.
So things carried on, minute after minute, until Lottie was once again lost in threadbare thought. Her nose grew numb, and her hands, too, and she began to look down every minute or so just to be sure her fingers were still clutching at the flatrook, keeping her in place.
At this rate, she thought, I could let go entirely and not feel the difference until I had fallen into the sea.
That’s when she saw land in the distance. It began, like the Wilders had, as a thin break between sea and sky. Then it grew wider and more solid, a sure thing.
Lottie looked over at Dorian with a hopeful smile. Dorian, however, was scowling.
“What?” she shouted over the sea spray.
“I hear something,” Dorian called. “From the shore. The Barghest is there. Something’s wrong.”
Lottie sat up straighter, straining her eyes toward the shore as though this might help her better see whatever it was that was disturbing Dorian. For a long while, she could see nothing but a line of brown sand. Then, a solitary figure became visible. It stood at the water’s edge, ears perked high. It was the Barghest. A minute later, the flatrooks had brought them within shouting distance.
“Barghest!” Lottie called. “What’s the matter?”
But the Barghest only perked its ears higher and began trotting along the water’s edge in a nervous jaunt. Why wouldn’t the Barghest say something? Or—and here a truly terrible fear gripped Lottie—what if whatever the Barghest had to say was too awful to shout?
Lottie’s grip tightened as her flatrook skated to the shore and, at last, came to a stop in the shallows.
“Thank you,” she said, though it came out hoarse and hurried.
She jumped into the water, no longer concerned with saving her boots or staying warm. She could only think that something had happened, something was wrong—and the Barghest knew what it was. She tripped and sloshed to the shore until she was stooped before the Barghest, trembling from cold.
“What is it?” she said. “Barghest, tell us what’s wrong!”
But the Barghest did not obey Lottie’s command. It paid her no mind whatsoever. Dorian and Eliot, like Lottie, had thrown themselves into the water and now stood dripping by her side. It was Dorian that the Barghest fixed its pinprick eyes upon with vicious precision.
Then, in a single bound, the Barghest threw itself on Dorian—claws extended, fangs bared.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The World Gorge
“BARGHEST, NO!”
The Barghest did not heed Lottie’s shout. It pinned Dorian beneath its heavy paws and ripped its teeth into his shoulder. The sound, wet and grisly, turned Lottie’s stomach. Dorian screamed. Blood stained the sand beneath him, blooming out from his arm and soaking into the Barghest’s paws.
“Where is it?” the Barghest barked. “Where is the addersfork?”
“No!” Lottie shrieked. “I command you, Barghest. Don’t you dare hurt him!”
At last, the Barghest turned to Lottie. It tilted its head down, as though in reverence. It flattened its ears
, as though in remorse. Lottie felt her senses return to her. She shivered, but with relief as well as chill. Whatever horrible thing had just happened, at least Lottie still had command over the Barghest. Now she just had to think this through, come up with a plan. She had to save Dorian, had to—
Fingers gripped Lottie’s shoulder. A heavy weight pressed against her back. The Barghest lifted its head, lips pulled back from its bloodied teeth. It was smiling at her.
“Take her,” it said. “The boy, too.”
The grip on Lottie’s shoulder grew tighter. She wrenched away.
“Eliot, run!” she screamed.
It was too late. Eliot had already been thrown to the ground, face-first. His glasses lay broken in the sand, next to his bloodied chin. A red-cloaked sprite leaned with her knee pressed into Eliot’s spine and was binding his hands with rope. Then hands were back on Lottie, harder than before. They jerked her arms so roughly, Lottie felt sure they’d been ripped clean off her body. She cried out in pain. Something wound about her wrists, cold as metal. Lottie fought against the hold, but it only grew stronger. Then she saw it on her captor’s wrist: a white circle. She recognized it as well as she had the red cloak of Eliot’s captor. These were Southerly soldiers.
The soldier at Lottie’s back turned her to face the Barghest once more.
Only what Lottie saw before her now was no longer the Barghest she knew. Its fur was changing color from black to lightest gray. The fur itself was different, too—smoother and far less textured. The Barghest leaned back on its hind legs, and for a moment it looked like a strange circus animal, performing for a crowd. It was an unnatural sight, so unfitting for a creature as majestic as the Barghest. Still, it remained on its legs, fur transforming until it was most certainly not fur but fabric—the fabric of a long, gray cloak. The Barghest’s front paws were no longer clawed, but fingered. Its arms turned smooth with skin. Where there had once been a muzzle was now a set of pale lips. Where there had once been ears hung a mane of a different sort, long and blond. The pinprick eyes were gone entirely, replaced by over-wide ones—a woman’s eyes.
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