He raised his arm up to touch the sky. His hand shone luminous, and when he waved it, a trail of shimmering powder sprinkled in its wake. Leo felt the enchantment, outside and within. He didn’t hurt anymore. He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t unloved. He knew where he was going. He was going to find her and the light was leading him.
Charlock followed Raven’s screams and found her standing in the storeroom, her eyes wild, her head shaking from side to side without pause as she muttered to herself over and over, “It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone.”
Charlock approached slowly as one would an injured animal. “Raven?” She reached out gently to take her arm, but her sister brushed it away.
“It’s gone!” she gasped, looking up at Charlock, her face riven with distress.
“Raven, I need you to come with me.”
“Someone’s taken it.”
So lost was Raven in her own panic that Charlock realized she hadn’t heard her. “Raven, look at me.”
“They’ve taken it,” Raven said, grabbing Charlock’s arms tightly. “They’ve taken it, they’ve taken it.”
Charlock pulled free. “Enough, sister. You must listen to me.”
“It’s them. I know it. They took it.”
The slap was quick and sharp and it hurt Charlock’s hand as much as Raven’s cheek. Raven stopped instantly and looked at Charlock in shock.
“It’s Sorrel,” Charlock said, and then Raven was falling and Charlock was catching her arms and trying to hold her up.
The other sisters watched as Charlock took Raven’s weight, almost dragging her across the camp to the caravan where Sorrel lay. Their mouths fell open as they watched the giant among them so diminished. Raven stumbled on the caravan steps, and some of the other sisters moved forward to help, but Charlock gave a shake of her head. Bending down, she lifted her sister up and almost carried her inside. As soon as Raven glimpsed her child, her strength returned in an almighty surge and she flew to the bedside, pushing Ember roughly away.
Sorrel’s eyeballs were rolling in their sockets. Beads of sweat trickled along her hairline and down her face and she was twisting and writhing from the pain. If it was a creature lying there in such agony, you would put it out its misery, thought Charlock.
“What can we do?” she said instead.
Sorrel tried to speak and Raven put her ear to her daughter’s mouth. “Sorrel, my child, my life. Tell me.”
“I’m not . . . the one,” she breathed.
Raven turned her head away so no one could see her face.
Sorrel stared up at Charlock, her eyes glassy. “I’m not the one,” she repeated, forcing the words out with such effort that afterward she seemed drained of any strength.
“Who told you that?” Charlock urged, but Sorrel’s eyes were flickering wildly across the ceiling, no longer able to focus. Char-lock touched her niece’s face. “Sorrel, my sweet, who told you that?”
Suddenly Raven turned, her face savage with desperate rage. “The Eastern clan. Who else would hurt her so?!” Sorrel’s eyes began to shut. Raven grabbed her face. “Don’t sleep, Sorrel. Stay awake now.” But Sorrel’s eyelids had already fallen. Raven shook Sorrel’s head and Charlock winced at her roughness. “Hear me, child. You must not sleep,” Raven cried.
Sorrel’s mouth was moving slowly but no words were sounding from it. Then the faintest noise.
“What did she say?” Raven turned to the others. “What did she say?”
It was Ember who had heard it. “The cats,” she repeated. With Raven’s black eyes fixed upon her, Ember trembled visibly and her next words shook in her throat. “She said . . . the cats.”
Raven hugged the sleeping Sorrel to her. The girl’s head drooped back and Raven had to cradle it and rest it on her shoulder. Back and forth she rocked her daughter.
“What can we do?” Charlock asked again. Raven didn’t answer. Charlock caught Ember’s panicked eye and made another attempt. “Raven, we must do something. Quickly.”
Raven continued rocking her child, kissing her hair softly like Sorrel was her baby girl again, nestling in her arms. “There is nothing to be done,” Raven said quietly.
Charlock took a moment before trying once more. “Sister,” she said gently. “Use your magic. It is there inside of you. Summon it. There must be a spell. A charm?”
Raven looked at her, and Charlock saw her eyes were flooding with tears. She had never seen her sister cry before and that is how she knew all hope was gone. “It is too late,” Raven confirmed. “It is no good.” She laid her daughter down on the mattress and smoothed away the tendrils of hair from her face. “That potion came from my own hand. It misses one tiny element but is potent enough still. She will not wake, not for a hundred years.”
“Like Sleeping Beauty,” Ember whispered.
Raven swung around to face Ember, the most vicious of glares crossing her face. “You stupidest, most worthless girl,” she spat. “No kiss ever woke anyone.”
Ember’s hands went to her face and she stepped back as though Raven’s words had smacked her in the jaw. Charlock tried to send signs of comfort with her eyes, but Ember suddenly ran from the caravan.
Charlock sighed. Ember would have to tend her wounds alone for now. She looked at her niece, Sorrel’s face so young and innocent in slumber. Not knowing what words to say, she put an arm across her sister’s back, and to her surprise, Raven let it lie there.
“I am to blame. I did this,” Raven wept, the tears now brimming over and cascading down her face, like a lifetime’s worth of crying was happening all at once.
“It was the Eastern clan,” soothed Charlock.
“I was trying to protect her. Oh, Charlock, look at her. My poor baby girl.”
Charlock never thought she’d hear her sister sound so small and pitiful. She tightened her arm on Raven’s shoulders and tried to keep her firm.
Poppy said her farewells to Donna and Logan that evening. The little boy begged for her to sleep over another night, but Donna picked him up in her arms, balanced him on her hip, and made him wave as Poppy headed down the path. Poppy saw Logan wriggle in his mother’s arms and try to run after her. She felt sorry that she wouldn’t get to know him as he grew up. Most likely he’d be too young to remember her and her image would sink to the sandy depths of his mind, one of those early childhood memories that would only resurface when he was a forgetful old man. Poppy looked back and waved. It proved the easiest of her good-byes.
When she reached the house on Wavendon Close, she saw the broken window had been fixed and her father was examining it, his face crumpled with concentration. His shirt was unbuttoned and his tie loose. His hair was thinning, Poppy noticed for the first time, and the skin around his eyes was grooved with lines. But he was still handsome. And his arms looked just as strong. Poppy remembered those arms lifting her up and putting her on his shoulders when she was small, before she stopped letting him or he stopped wanting to—Poppy couldn’t recall which. How tall she’d felt. She’d had to duck beneath the branches of the trees.
Poppy had hoped she would find the house empty and avoid the necessary conversation with her father. But now that she saw him standing there, so serious in his middle age, she felt a deep relief to have the chance to talk to him one last time. He turned and lifted his head in greeting.
“They’ve put locks on them,” he said. Such a mundane utterance, but to Poppy it was perfect. This was the ordinary banality she wanted for him, without a freakish child or troubled teen, without a lunatic wife to deal with.
“Why do you bother with this place, Dad?” she asked lightly. “Donna’s place is nice enough and you could be together.”
Her father looked startled, almost wary, like it must be a trick that she was playing on him. “I . . . well, I didn’t think you’d want that,” he said.
“I’m almost grown up now. But Logan, he’s a sweet kid, and I bet he’d like his dad to be around.”
“We’ll see,” he evaded. “You al
l right? Donna said you haven’t been well.”
Poppy shrugged. “Donna’s been very kind to me. Tell her thank you, will you?”
“You look tired. You want supper?” her father asked.
“I grabbed something on my way. Why don’t you go over there? See how they’re doing.” Her father observed her, looking closely for her reaction. “Whatever she was cooking smelled good,” Poppy said persuasively.
“You sure? I wasn’t planning to,” he replied.
Poppy summoned up a casual smile. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
He went into the hall and she heard the jangle of his keys. When he popped his head back into the living room, he was wearing his coat. “Don’t wait up.” He smiled.
“I won’t.”
“Bye then, love.”
The rare endearment seemed to strike them both.
“Bye, Dad,” Poppy said, and they waited, facing one another for a long moment until he looked embarrassed and quickly turned and left. Poppy didn’t move as she heard the door shut, the engine start, and the car pull away. “Bye,” she said again.
Up in her room she lay down on her bed, relishing the familiarity of it. It smelled like home. The pillows were so silky, the duvet so soft. She had no idea where she’d sleep next, but she knew it would be far from here and all this comfort. The thought made her weary, and she wondered vaguely how she would get herself up and out the door. She didn’t have the strength for her journey, yet she had to leave.
The witch had meant every word she said. Her threats to Donna and Logan and Leo—they were all real, and Poppy didn’t have the will to fight her. She felt no panic or despair, nothing so urgent as that. She just perceived the facts for what they were. Too many people were in danger because of her, and she felt too weak to protect them. Her departure was the only way to keep everyone safe. In that certainty, Poppy shut her eyes. Just for a second, she thought. Only for a minute.
An owl hooted late into the night and Poppy woke. She rose instantly and started to pack, stuffing as many of her clothes and belongings as possible into an old duffle bag of her father’s. The sleep had done her good, and she moved quickly and decisively, leaving behind treasured items, refusing to be sentimental about her possessions. She pulled out the sleeping bag from under her bed and slung it over her arm. At least it’ll get some use now, she thought. Then she went to her father’s desk and took any money she could find in the drawers. She didn’t feel bad. She was doing it for the best. He would be happier in the end, once she was gone and he was with them. Finally she raided the few bits and pieces from the fridge and the kitchen cabinets and stuffed the food in her pockets for later. She fed the cats before she left and they came to her, purring loudly, caressing her legs with their fur, licking her hands with their sandpaper tongues.
“I’ll be seeing you,” she told them, and she meant it. She knew they wouldn’t be far behind.
There was only Ember left, and Poppy couldn’t leave her forever wondering. Ember deserved to know all of it—where she came from, who she was. But Ember was in the camp and Poppy dare not get too close in case Raven sensed her there. She longed to see her friend’s face, to hug her close and try to tell her everything she meant to her. She wanted to share all she knew and explain how they were twins of a sort, how their fates had collided at birth and it was their destiny to meet that autumn day in the dell.
And then Poppy thought to leave word for Ember there, in their meeting place. It wasn’t nearly close to being enough, but it was something. So Poppy sat on the curb, and under the white light of the street lamp, she began to write.
It was the second letter she’d had to compose that day, and this one, though longer, came far more easily. The first had been torture, her mind stretched on the rack to its breaking point, never to be mended. She had stopped at the churchyard on her way back home that evening and left that letter by Minx’s grave. She couldn’t let herself think about Leo reading it, but somewhere, deep inside of her, she sensed he had. She couldn’t think about Leo at all. Soon she would be far, far away. It wouldn’t stop her thoughts from trying to travel to him, but it would stop her from ever having to see him again.
That she couldn’t endure.
But there he was. Lying on the sofa in the dell, sprawled across it like he was sleeping. It hurt so much to look at him, just as Poppy knew it would. Her heart was beating its objection against her ribs and her stomach ached in protest. Time seemed to slow to a heavy pace. Poppy wanted to yank her eyes away but they were locked upon him. She noted impassively that Leo’s legs were hanging over the side of the sofa. The angles of them—they didn’t look right. Then sluggishly she realized. He was hurt.
Poppy’s reaction to this came slowly too, bit by bit, in degrees. First, she looked around for Ember but the dell was empty. Next, it occurred to Poppy to leave, to pretend she’d never seen him. But she remained motionless, just standing there helplessly. Then Poppy remembered the last time they were there. The memory was hazy, sepia, like it happened a lifetime ago. Leo was tall and strong and smiling. Leo, thought Poppy.
Her legs began to move and everything sped up and, before she knew it, she was by his side and the tears were falling as she looked at his face, so cruelly damaged. He moaned when she touched his brow. He was barely conscious, barely breathing, but still he hurt. Poppy wanted to hold him and kiss him, the old urges rising up within her, but she stemmed them quickly with a snap and put herself to work. She had only a few of her remedies on her, but she used them all, tending only to the worst of the welts and cuts. He needed proper care. His ribs and collarbone were broken. His flesh was so badly bruised that she worried for his liver and kidneys. He needed a hospital; he needed a doctor.
Now Poppy was panicking. Her thoughts came rushing into her mind like a hysterical mob, clamoring for her attention. She tried to impose order, to prioritize. She needed help.
Ember. She could bring supplies. She must get Ember.
Ember was sitting alone on the caravan steps when the fox approached her. They eyed each other warily. The fox seemed loathe to get too close. It sniffed the air, then seemed to cringe at her scent. Reluctantly it took one step further. Ember leaned back, worried it would bite. Then the fox held up a paw and she saw it. Tied to its leg was a bit of paper. Ember reached out a trembling hand and untied the string from the fox’s fur. As soon as the paper was free of it, the fox turned and sprinted away, vanishing into the darkness.
She unrolled the paper. It was just a strip, ripped from a larger page. On it, only a few brief words in a familiar hand. Three simple instructions, but acting on them could change a lifetime.
Come to the dell. Come now. Bring supplies.
Ember didn’t hesitate, not for one second. She rushed to the storeroom and tried to recall her lessons and remember which ingredients were which. Her mind was a swirling, frenzied fog. The names on the bottles were all familiar, but not their purpose. Picking up an old sack from the corner of the room, Ember swept the contents of the shelves into it. The containers clinked and chimed as she swung the sack over her shoulder, but Ember knew the camp was too preoccupied with Sorrel to notice.
She tried not to think of Sorrel lying there. It had been terrifying to watch her cousin in such pain and to see her mighty Aunt Raven powerless to save her. But the four of them facing the crisis together, gathering around in support at such a time of need, there was also something good in that. It had felt to Ember like family should, like a moment to be cherished. None of the other sisters had dared disturb them, not even Kyra or any of Sorrel’s clique. Instead, they all waited quietly outside for any news.
Ember had been right by Sorrel’s side, though, part of the inner sanctum, until her aunt had so harshly discharged her. When she had run from the room and sat on the steps, the sisters huddled there had shaken their heads and whispered to one another.
“Go,” Ember had cried sharply before the tears fell. “My aunt wants you gone.”
The gathering ha
d glanced at each other, but then, miraculously, they had followed Ember’s orders. Even Kyra, her face blotched with crying, hadn’t argued. Like a herd, they had moved as one back to their caravans. The doors had shut like a clatter of hooves and Ember was alone. The finality of it all felt paralyzing. As Sorrel’s eyes had closed, so had Ember’s future here. She had never before realized her place within the camp was so tightly wound with that of her cousin. The connecting thread had snapped. Everything had changed and nothing would be the same.
Ember’s mind struggled to comprehend it all. She had looked into the darkness and it had felt like oblivion. She had hoped for a sign, something meant just for her, that she would understand. And then, as if on cue, the fox had appeared, its shock of orange fur so vivid in the gloom. Fearful, Ember had wished she could summon it away. But it had trod closer. It had to be an omen, Ember had thought, but what did it mean? The fox had lifted up its paw in answer . . .
“Ember?” It was her mother’s voice, so Ember stopped and turned. If it had been anyone else, she would have made a run for it. She rested the sack on the ground for a moment. Charlock’s wide-set, amber eyes caught it. She surveyed her daughter, waiting for an explanation. But Ember had experienced her mother’s silences too many times before and she bit her lip to stop herself from talking. The seconds ticked by, and Ember, so desperate to be on her way, found it harder and harder to resist the temptation to speak. Finally, though, it was Charlock who yielded first.
“You’re leaving,” she said without accusation.
“I have to,” Ember replied, keeping her voice hushed and low.
“It is not safe. Look at your cousin,” Charlock remonstrated.
Never before had Ember defied her mother, but now it was different. She had to do what she thought was right, not what she was told. So she pressed her shoulders back and tilted her chin upward, standing up for herself in body and voice.
The Hawkweed Prophecy Page 24