“That’s enough, boys,” said one of the attendants at last. “Wherever she’s hiding, she’s trapped here as sure as a rat in a bucket. We’ll see if she’s still alive come morning, and then we’ll have our fun with her.”
Laughter met this unpleasant pronouncement. Elisabeth watched them trail away toward the hospital. When the last man vanished inside, she scrambled from the hedge, shaking from head to toe. But just as quickly, she ducked back out of sight.
She was not alone in the yard. A shape lumbered through the dark some distance away, bent low to the ground. She thought it was another attendant, until she saw that it was sniffing the grass. It was following the path that she had taken from the coach, creeping along a meandering route toward her hiding spot. And when it straightened, its huge, round, shining eyes caught the light like mirrors.
It was Mr. Hob. He had caught her scent, and he was coming for her.
A door banged from the direction of the hospital. Elisabeth sucked in a breath and threw herself around the hedge, flattening her back against a tree. Someone had come outside and begun picking their way toward the gardens. Peering through the leaves, Elisabeth determined that this person wasn’t part of the search party. She wore a uniform similar to the matron’s, but she was just a girl, not much older than Elisabeth, with chapped hands and a round, unhappy face, holding a shaded lantern to her chest.
“Hello?” the girl called softly. “Are you there?”
Glancing in the opposite direction, Elisabeth found that Mr. Hob was now clambering along the ground on all fours, no longer pretending to be human. Elisabeth stared between them, fiercely willing the girl to be silent. But she didn’t see the danger she was in, and spoke again into the dark.
“I know you’re hiding. I’ve come to help you.” She fished around in her pocket and brought up a lump of something wrapped in a handkerchief. “I’ve got some bread. It isn’t much, but it’s all I could get past the matron. She was lying when she said she’d give you stew and pudding—she says that to all the patients who come here.”
Mr. Hob broke into a loping run, his eyes fixed on the girl. Elisabeth launched herself from the hedge in an explosion of leaves and reached her first, seizing the girl’s wrist, yanking her along in the opposite direction. The bread tumbled to the ground.
“Do you have any salt,” Elisabeth asked, “or iron?” She didn’t recognize the sound of her own voice. It came out as a horrid croak.
“I—I don’t—please don’t hurt me!” the girl cried. Her weight dragged on Elisabeth’s arm. If they didn’t run faster, Mr. Hob would catch them.
Panic clutched at Elisabeth’s chest. She realized what she must look like: smeared with dirt, her hair long and tangled and full of leaves, her dry lips cracked and bleeding. No wonder the girl was afraid. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Mercy,” the girl stammered out, stumbling over the uneven ground.
“My name is Elisabeth. I’m trying to save your life. I’m going to ask you to do something, and then you’ll believe me, but you have to promise not to scream.”
Mercy nodded, her eyes wide and fearful—likely hoping that if she played along, Elisabeth wouldn’t harm her.
“Look behind you,” Elisabeth said. Then she clapped a grubby hand over Mercy’s mouth, muffling her cry.
“What is that?” she wailed, when Elisabeth let go of her. “Why is it chasing us?”
So Elisabeth’s hunch had been correct. The moment Mr. Hob started sniffing the ground and running on all fours, whatever illusion Ashcroft had cast on him was no longer convincing enough to disguise him. “He’s a demon. I think he’s a goblin. Is there a way out of this place?”
Small, panicked noises came from Mercy’s throat before she was able to answer. “A back gate. For the workers who keep the grounds. That way.” She pointed. “What—?”
“Run faster,” Elisabeth said grimly. “And give me your lantern.”
She didn’t dare pause to look over her shoulder as they hurtled toward the back gate. It was tucked away behind a sagging, moss-roofed outbuilding, set beneath an arbor overgrown with ivy. The closer they drew, the louder Mr. Hob’s wheezing breath rasped at their heels. Mercy fumbled through her pockets and produced a key. As she went for the gate, Elisabeth whirled around, swinging the lantern with all her strength.
Time froze in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Mr. Hob was upon her, his wattled face a hideous landscape of wobbling flesh. His eyes were so large, so pale, that she saw two miniature versions of herself reflected within them.
Then glass shattered as the lantern slammed against his shoulder. Oil splashed, and with an eager crackle, fire bloomed across the front of his ill-fitting suit. The heat scorched Elisabeth’s skin; crying out, she dropped the lantern. Mr. Hob staggered backward and stared uncomprehendingly at the licks of blue flame rippling across his chest. Finally, it occurred to him to shrug off his jacket. He smacked the remaining fire out with a clumsy hand.
“Mercy,” Elisabeth implored.
“I’m trying! I’m almost . . .” Mercy’s key scraped against the lock. Her hands shook violently, missing again and again. Meanwhile Mr. Hob advanced on them, his jacket smoking on the ground behind him. He took a step forward. Another. And then the lock clicked, and the gate clanged open, shedding flakes of rust.
Elisabeth shoved Mercy through first, then darted after. When she shoved the gate closed behind them, it wouldn’t close all the way—it had jammed on something yielding. Mr. Hob’s hand. He stared at them unblinkingly through the iron bars as his purple skin began to bubble and steam. Elisabeth threw her weight against the gate, muscles straining against Mr. Hob’s resistance. The soles of her boots scraped across the pavement. He was too strong.
From beside her, there came an unexpected shout. A stone flew through the air and crushed Mr. Hob’s knuckles with a wet, nauseating crunch. He snatched his hand back, and the gate rang out as it slammed shut. The latch fell into place automatically.
Elisabeth stumbled away and traded a wide-eyed look with Mercy, who clearly couldn’t believe what she had just done. Mr. Hob stood there, watching them, as if unsure what to do next.
“We’re safe now,” Elisabeth whispered. “He can’t get past the iron. And I don’t think he’s smart enough to figure out another way around.”
Mercy didn’t answer, too busy shuddering and taking gulps of air, her hands braced on her thighs. Elisabeth looked around. The gate had let them out in an alleyway behind a row of narrow, dreary brick buildings. Their curtains were closed, and there weren’t any lights on inside. “Come on,” she said, taking Mercy’s arm. She led her out of sight of Mr. Hob and sat her down on an overturned crate.
“What did he want?” Mercy asked through her fingers.
Elisabeth hesitated. She could explain everything. She could ask Mercy to help her—to testify against Ashcroft. But who would believe her? She now understood that the world wasn’t kind to young women, especially when they behaved in ways men didn’t like, and spoke truths that men weren’t ready to hear. No one would listen to Mercy, just as no one had listened to her.
She crouched in front of the other girl, coming to a decision. “Listen. It was me the demon wanted, not you. Wait until the coach leaves, and then you can return to the hospital. Mr. Hob—the demon—he won’t come back for you.” She closed her eyes and took a breath. “When people ask what happened, tell them I attacked you, and you had no choice but to help me escape. Say that a man chased us, a human man, dressed as a butler. Don’t mention anything strange about him. And tell them that I was . . . that I was like a wild animal. That I didn’t even know my own name.”
She suspected that it wouldn’t matter to Ashcroft whether she was rotting in Leadgate Hospital or starving on the streets. As long as he believed her mind had been destroyed, and he appeared to have done his best to help the poor, hysterical girl in his care, he would let the matter drop in favor of focusing on his plans.
“But you saved my life,” Mercy protested.
“I’m the reason your life was in danger in the first place. Trust me. It’s better this way.” Elisabeth wrapped her arms around herself, wondering how much she could reveal. “You don’t want to cross the man that demon serves,” she settled on at last. “If he thinks you know something you shouldn’t, he won’t hesitate to hurt you.”
Mercy nodded. To Elisabeth’s dismay, she didn’t look surprised. For her, men who wanted to hurt girls was simply the natural order of things.
“I’m glad you’ve gotten away from Leadgate.” Mercy lifted her gaze and met Elisabeth’s eyes with her own, sad brown ones. “You can’t imagine what kind of place it is. Wealthy people pay money to come gawp at the patients here—to sympathize with the plight of the unfortunates, or some such rubbish. Sometimes . . . sometimes they pay for other things, too. The matron makes good money off it. Speaking of which—here.” She reached into her pocket and pressed something hard and cold into Elisabeth’s palm. A coin.
Elisabeth struggled to find words around the lump in her throat. She couldn’t think of what to say, so instead she pulled Mercy into a tight embrace.
Mercy laughed, surprised. “Now I’ll look dirty enough to say you attacked me.”
“Thank you,” Elisabeth whispered. She gave Mercy one last squeeze, and then let go and ran before the tears prickling the backs of her eyes had a chance to spill over.
She dodged past piles of rubbish and plunged down a steep cobblestone avenue. This time of night, the streets were all but empty. She doubted it was necessary to run, but every time she slowed she saw Warden Finch sneering at her, or a man’s hands full of leather straps, or the Chancellor’s charming smile. She paused at a corner to be sick, and then kept going. She didn’t stop until she was forced to: she reached a promenade looking out over the river, and caught herself against the rail.
The sleeping city looked like an illusion spun from fairy lights. Pointed spires reared glittering into shadow, the statues atop them cutting shapes from the stars. Columns of gold shimmered on the black water beneath. Nearby the Bridge of Saints flickered with gaslight, its somber statues like a procession of mourners crossing the river, memorializing the passing of some long-dead king. The wind tangled her hair, smelling of soot and algae and the wild, endless expanse of night sky.
She stared across the shining city, ancient, impossibly vast, and wondered how all that light and beauty could exist side by side with so much darkness. She had never felt smaller or more insignificant. But finally, for the first time in weeks, she was free.
SIXTEEN
“THERE MUST BE some mistake,” Elisabeth said to the freckled boy behind the counter. “Master Hargrove has known me my entire life. He wouldn’t send this reply.”
The paper shook between her fingers. The terse message read only, We have no record of an apprentice named Elisabeth Scrivener at the Great Library of Summershall. Underneath, in lieu of a signature, someone had stamped the Collegium’s crossed key and quill. That meant the letter had been written by a warden, even though she had addressed it to Hargrove.
The clerk looked sympathetic, but his eyes kept darting nervously to the glass front of the post office. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know what to tell you.”
The paper blurred as she attempted to focus. This was wrong. Surely she was—she was—
“It’s Finch, the new Director,” she heard herself say. “He must have intercepted my letter. He’s stripped me from the records. . . .”
Someone cleared his throat nearby. Elisabeth glanced over her shoulder in time to see the well-dressed gentleman in line behind her whisper something to his wife, both of them eyeing Elisabeth with a combination of disapproval and unease.
She looked back at the clerk and saw herself through his pitying gaze. She had been sleeping on the streets for the past few days. Her hair was tangled, her clothes dirty. Worst of all, her urgent attempts to contact the Great Library of Summershall were beginning to resemble the actions of a madwoman. An unfamiliar feeling of shame burned inside her stomach.
“Please,” she said, the words rasping through her sore throat. “Can you give me directions to Hemlock Park? I know someone who lives there.”
The clerk wetted his lips, glancing between her and the waiting couple. She could tell he didn’t believe her. “Could I post a letter for you instead, miss?”
Elisabeth had used all of Mercy’s money sending the first letter. She couldn’t pay for a second. Suddenly, the shame overwhelmed her. She mumbled an apology and ducked past the staring couple, pressing a hand to her mouth as she fled from the post office. As soon as she reached the street, she doubled over in a coughing fit. Pedestrians gave her a wide berth, shooting her troubled looks. With a trembling hand, she folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.
Her fever was getting worse. Yesterday morning, after sleeping huddled up and shivering in a doorway, she had woken with a cough. Today she felt so disoriented that she’d barely found her way back to the post office.
Her heel slipped on something slimy as she started down the sidewalk. A wet newspaper, pasted to the gutter. She peeled it free and held its translucent headline to the light, even though she had already read the article a dozen times since her escape from Leadgate. THIRD ATTACK ON A GREAT LIBRARY—FETTERING IN FLAMES, the front page proclaimed. Beneath that there was an illustration of a spiny, deformed monstrosity—the paper’s interpretation of a Malefict—howling in front of an inferno. The article went on to say that there had been at least two dozen casualties in the village, some lives claimed by the Class Nine Malefict, others by the blaze. The number made her head spin. Traders from Fettering occasionally stopped by Summershall’s market. She might have met some of the people who had died.
Near the end, there was a quote from Chancellor Ashcroft: “At this time we believe the saboteur is a foreign agent working to undermine the strength of Austermeerish magic. The Magisterium will stop at nothing to apprehend the culprit and restore order to our great kingdom.”
The paper crumpled in her hand. The attack had happened while she was trapped in his manor. He had lied to reporters while she lay in bed.
She was running out of time to stop him.
Yet the letter’s response had left her unmoored. Weeks ago she wouldn’t have bothered with the letter; she would have charged straight to the Collegium and pounded on the front doors until someone answered. Now she knew that if she did that, she would be turned away, or worse. She had counted on arming herself with Master Hargrove’s good word to prove that she was someone worth listening to. The anticipation of holding his response—of being vindicated at last—was what had kept her going through the long, cold nights and the gnawing ache of hunger. Now she had nothing.
No . . . not nothing. She still had Nathaniel. But days of searching hadn’t led her any closer to Hemlock Park. The city was huge; she felt as though she could remain lost within it forever, growing ever more invisible to the people passing by, until she faded away to a shadow. No one had proven willing to help her. Few were even willing to look at her.
She didn’t know if Nathaniel would be any different. But of everyone in Brassbridge, he was the only person she could trust.
A glimpse of a short, slim boy passing through the crowd yanked Elisabeth to a halt. She stood frozen on the sidewalk as people flowed around her. It didn’t seem possible. Either her fever was causing her to hallucinate, or Silas had appeared as though she had summoned him out of thin air by thinking his master’s name. Could she be mistaken?
She whirled around, searching for another sign of him across the street. Her gaze latched onto a slight figure stepping neatly through the afternoon bustle. The young man wasn’t wearing Silas’s green livery, but instead a finely tailored suit, a cravat tied impeccably around his pale neck. But his hair—pure white, held back with a ribbon—could belong to no one else. He was not a hallucination. He was real.
She hesitated, wavering
, and then rushed across the street, the dismayed shout of a carriage driver chasing in her wake. She scanned the crowd once she reached the sidewalk, but Silas was no longer in sight. She hurried along in the direction he had been heading, peering into the windows of shops as she passed. Her own dirty reflection stared back at her, pinched and desperate, her blue eyes bright with fever. She broke into a jog, trying to ignore the fire that roared in her lungs as she urged her body to move faster.
There. A flash of white hair ahead, turning onto a side street. She hastened after him, barely noticing that the buildings around her had grown dilapidated, the traffic thinner, its carriages replaced by carts filled with junk and wilted produce. Crooked eaves hung over the narrow avenue, strung with unused laundry lines. The damp, dark corners stank of urine. Silas stuck out like a sore thumb in his expensive suit, but no one spared him a second glance. The same wasn’t true for Elisabeth.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, little miss?”
Her heart tripped. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, as though she hadn’t noticed the man’s leering face in the periphery of her vision. But he didn’t give up, as she’d hoped. A boot crunched broken glass behind her, and multiple shapes detached from the shade of a nearby building.
“I said, where are you going? Maybe we can help.”
“Give us a smile for our trouble, eh?” another man suggested.
Silas was too far ahead, a shape glimpsed behind a passing cart. Elisabeth tried to call out. Though she only made a hoarse, pathetic sound, he paused and began to turn, a yellow eye flashing in the light.
She couldn’t tell whether he had truly heard her, or whether the reaction was a coincidence. She didn’t have time to find out. “Silas,” she whispered. And then she ran.
Pavement scuffed beneath her heels. When the men moved to cut her off, she dodged from the main street and into an alley, stumbling over crates and sodden drifts of newspapers. Rats fled squealing toward a branching alleyway, and she followed them, hoping they knew the best place to hide. As the deep shadows enveloped her, her boots skidded on something slippery. A putrid stench hung in the air, and puddles of fluid shone on the cobblestones, covered in floating scum. She had wandered into the rear of a butcher’s shop. Her breath came in labored, agonizing rasps.
Sorcery of Thorns Page 15