by Janet Fox
“She’s stolen their souls. All of them. Deirdre tried to tell me, even when I dinna understand, when I couldna do a thing about it.” Lord Craig lifted himself off the bed, staring, as if waking from a long sleep. “I’d no idea what danger you bairns were in, what was happening here, what was happening to me. I’d no idea because Deirdre, bless her heart, dinna have all the pieces and her memory’s affected. But now I understand. Eleanor has stolen them, their souls. Locked them in the thirteenth charm.”
The thirteenth charm. Kat bent over, her muscles all tense once more, and whispered, “How do you know?”
It was another moment before he spoke again, as he sank back against his pillows, closing his eyes, the strain wearing him down. “I know because I’ve just put together a string of puzzle pieces that made no sense till now. I know because I once overheard my beloved wife muttering in her sleep about that cursed chatelaine and the thirteenth charm and the souls of children. I know because, as I already told ye, I’m no’ dead yet.”
Kat feared he would be at any moment, but he rallied yet again and said, “She had that chatelaine from before, but persuaded me that it was a wedding gift. Well, it was, but not for our wedding, no. I thought she was good, a good person. I loved her so, you see. I was wrong.” He paused and Kat thought he might pass out again, so she pressed his hand, and he came back. “Her charms, that’s what did it.”
“Her chatelaine,” Kat said. She pulled her great-aunt’s chatelaine from her pocket and held it before him.
“Aye, that’s it, that’s the ticket.” Lord Craig lifted his hand and pointed. “Magic,” he said, and then his eyes shut tight and he sank, if it was possible, even deeper into his pillows. “She muttered in her sleep about that chatelaine, that thirteenth charm. Attracts magic to it, it does. I thought it was a nightmare she was having. Well, it was. A nightmare of dark magic.”
She and Peter both stared at the chatelaine in Kat’s hand. “If my aunt was right, this chatelaine is magic, too,” Kat said. “Maybe it does more than emit light.” Pen, scissors, thimble.
“At the very least they’re tools,” said Peter, “if we can figure out how to use them.”
“That’s the question,” murmured Kat.
Lord Craig fell deep in slumber again. Peter and Kat spent the next hour searching the room, every nook and cranny and corner. They found the hidden passage next to the fireplace. They dragged a sofa over to block it off. Then they lit a fire to warm the room.
“That’s how she’s gotten around,” Kat said. “All these crazy hidden passages.”
“This place was built by a lunatic,” Peter muttered.
“Or the whole place is spelled, brick and stone,” Kat said.
“I hope we don’t have to hold out here for too long, or we’ll starve to death.”
Kat’s stomach rumbled at the thought of food. “I wish we’d been able to find Cook.”
“So these things,” Peter said, and pointed at her chatelaine, “they’re each magical?”
“My aunt told me what they were for, but I didn’t believe her. She said the pen is mightier than the sword and can write of its own accord. The scissors can cut through anything. And the thimble . . .” Here Kat paused. “Is for catching souls.” Catching souls. Like the Lady Eleanor had done.
“All right,” said Peter. “Let’s think for a minute. You say you didn’t see what she put around Robbie’s neck?”
Kat shook her head, misery invading her at the memory of Rob’s face.
“Have you seen any of the things on her chatelaine?”
“Yes,” Kat said slowly. “That first day, and then again just now. It was a bit like the chatelaine that Storm showed us. On hers I saw a couple of charms. The one that stood out was a heart. And Isabelle spoke of one that she saw.” Kat didn’t want to describe that one.
He nodded. “So maybe she has a different one of these charms for each person’s soul.”
“Yes,” Kat said, feeling better. “Lord Craig said she’s locked them, all the souls, in the thirteenth charm, which I’m betting is hers. Which means she must have had twelve charms to use.”
“So let’s think. We have”—Peter began counting on his fingers—“that girl you saw on the first day with the fish, the crippled boy we spooked who was in your bathroom . . .”
Kat interrupted. “And the boy I startled in the kitchen with the cats, and those singing voices . . .”
“I’ll bet there are two of them from the sound of it, two girls, that’s what it sounded like to me.”
“Jorry and Colin and Isabelle . . .”
“And Amelie and Robbie,” Peter finished.
“Ten,” Kat said.
They stared at each other in silence for a minute. Then Peter said, “We’re eleven and twelve.”
“And then she’ll have the thirteenth charm,” Kat said. “With all of our souls locked inside. So that she can live forever with a terrible power. While we’re trapped in some awful limbo . . .”
The sun slanted through the window in a fat red ray, penetrating the low clouds and moving toward sunset. The thin line at the horizon flared pink.
“Amelie’s soul is trapped,” Kat said. Her throat swelled with grief.
“And Rob’s,” said Peter.
“And all those other children . . .”
Peter walked to the window, where the sunset bathed him in red light. That gave Kat chills, seeing him in the red glow, as did his next thought. “And us next.”
The fire snapped, and the sun lowered to the horizon.
“Unless,” Kat said as the last of the sun’s rays lit the room, “unless we figure out how we can use my chatelaine against her.” Kat flexed the fingers of her right hand.
Lord Craig hadn’t stirred for a long time.
“I don’t know if I have the courage to face her again,” Kat said. She pressed her hand against her chest, against the tightness that bound her heart.
“But what else can we do?” said Peter. “Wait it out until we starve? I’d rather just face her now and be done.” His voice rang with frustration. He paced back and forth.
The fire warmed the room, and Kat stood before it, rubbing her hands. Her right hand felt especially cold and she fanned it open, catching the heat of the fire. The tall windows that stared out over the lawn were reflective black now. The night was already freezing and the full moon rising. Wispy strings of clouds, the last of the storm, skated across the dark starlit sky. The dark eve of All Hallows’, the time when evil walks the earth.
A full moon. Kat would not go near the window, not wanting to see what the Lady meant. Not wanting to see her own hand. Like a creeping sickness, the dark force of worry and fear twisted inside Kat. “We don’t know how to stop her,” she said.
“Let’s think again. You have a pen, mightier than the sword. That can write of its own accord.”
“Great. If I have to write the witch a letter, I’ll use that.” Misery filled her with the taste of metal filings.
Peter pursed his lips. “What are the other charms on your chatelaine again?”
“A pair of scissors that can cut anything . . . Hold on. What if I cut her chatelaine from her belt? Got it away from her and . . . did something with it?” Her voice trailed off, as she had no clue what she’d do with it once she had it.
“By the time you got that close to her, she’d have you charmed.”
He was right. Kat slumped into the chair.
“What’s the third charm?” he asked.
“A thimble. Supposedly for catching souls.”
“Well, maybe you could use the thimble to catch back the souls she already has.”
“And how would that work? And do what with them if I even could? Stitch a nice embroidery with them and the thimble?” She couldn’t help it; she couldn’t keep her voice steady or low any longer.
/> “Um,” said Peter.
Hunger and tension and Peter’s hesitation and not knowing what to do got to her. “This is impossible!” She stood up and paced away, her fists clenched. “Ame and Rob and all the other children have been kidnapped, stolen, had their souls ripped out—ripped right out of their bodies—and the same thing’s going to happen to us!” Kat’s voice was so loud, she could hear it echo. “What are we supposed to do? Guess? My silly old aunt didn’t give me any instructions. Just foolishness.” Tears filled Kat’s eyes and she rubbed them hard. “What exactly are we supposed to do?”
Peter looked helpless, and then said, uncertainly, “Keep calm?”
“Oh, terrific!” That’s all Kat needed to hear. She stomped across the room, holding the chatelaine before her. “We’re about to die, and you tell me to keep calm! I want to throw this into the fire!”
Peter cleared his throat. “I think that would be a bad idea.”
Kat held up the chatelaine, her hand shaking. The silver reflected the firelight, dancing sharp points of light across her skin. Her words came out with a little sob. “I’m frightened. What if we can’t get them back? How can we fight her black magic? What if we can’t make it all better?” Keep calm. “I don’t know what to do.”
Peter walked to her side and put one arm over her shoulder. “I don’t, either.” He pulled away and sighed. He shifted, silent for a moment. “Did I ever tell you about my dog, Dodger?”
“That you left behind in America?”
He nodded. “I knew I had to leave him. So I stopped playing with him, stopped walking him. I could tell he was hurt, and sad, but I couldn’t keep pretending. I just . . . I gave up. I let him go, gave him to another family, long before we left for England.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“There was no use trying to keep him. That’s the way I feel right now. Kind of . . . helpless. Like I want to give up.” Peter rubbed his eyes, his back to her. “I wish . . . Well, no use, is it? I don’t even know why I told you that.”
The room filled with the sound of the crackling fire.
“We can’t give up,” Kat said, her voice quiet. “That’s why you told me about Dodger. We do have a choice, and we can’t give up, and you’re not a bad person for being stuck in a no-win place.” Kat was talking as much to herself as she was to Peter. “My great-aunt told me something about faith and hope, and now I think I understand what she was trying to say.”
Peter looked at her, his eyes shining.
“There’s nothing wrong with wishing, even when you think it’s hopeless,” Kat said. “There’s something to having faith that it will all turn out.” She took a deep breath and clutched the chatelaine tight inside her fist. Carry on.
The fire snapped and popped, then Kat said, “I wonder which is worse, having your soul stripped from your body or starving to death?” She looked at Peter, gave him a half smile. “I’m so peckish, I could eat a horse.”
“Me too,” said Peter. He smiled back, then sighed. “I say we go downstairs. Maybe we can find one of the other grown-ups.”
“I’m not sure the grown-ups can do anything against her,” Kat said. “Look at them.” And she pointed at Lord Craig. “I’m betting he’s been spelled. Think about what she’s done to Marie, and how odd Storm has become. And the others are gone or confused or both.” Kat paused while she took another deep breath. “I think this is entirely up to us.”
“All right, then.” Peter picked up the sword and examined the blade. “Let’s hope this sword is stouter than Rob’s. And we might as well go out the door.”
“Yes,” Kat said. She squared her shoulders. “I’m getting tired of sneaking down hidden passages.” She touched the chatelaine in her pocket, her right hand vibrating against it. At the very least it could shed light in the darkness. Kat shivered as her chest grew tight and her stomach hollow. “Right,” she lied, “I’m ready.”
55
The Witch’s Mark
THEY HADN’T EVEN reached the front hall at the foot of the stairs when they heard it: scraping, whining, gears grinding metal on metal. Kat knew those sounds, and they sent sharp, cold chills running up her spine.
She and Peter stood, feet planted, in the middle of the hall, facing the shadows as the sounds ceased.
“Why, Peter,” came the Lady’s voice. “Whatever are you doing with that sword?”
The fire was cold and no lights had been lit in the hall. The clock was silent, stopped at half past seven. Kat gripped the chatelaine in her pocket. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper, and her hands were clammy. The moon slid behind a wisp of cloud and the darkness was deep, the only light a yellow glow spilling down from upstairs.
Then, whirr, slip, whirr, the Lady Eleanor moved out of the shadows. She wore a black gown, now, that lifted and rose around her like a fluttering of wings, and the belt at her waist glimmered with jewels even in the dim light. The chatelaine dangling from the belt glowed a faint blue; she seemed to bend toward it as if she carried a crippling weight. Her mouth stretched in a grimace, and her white hair cascaded loose about her shoulders. Then, as she reached the center of the hall, a broad band of moonlight struck her, and both Peter and Kat gasped.
The Lady Eleanor was a monster made of metal, of wheels, of snaking ribbons of rubber, of tubes pumping some dreadful blue liquid. Her torso, arms, and legs were all mechanical, with jointed gears and claw hands and birdlike feet and a heart that shone through metal ribs with a coppery glow, ticking with a mechanical tick. Wheels turned on spokes; wound springs pumped; gears clicked together like skeleton teeth. And on top of this metal framework her head perched—and it was her head, human though partly deformed—like the head of a broken doll, hairless, with one gleaming eye and only one ear, and the rest of what remained of her skull was a metal plate.
The Lady Eleanor was hideous.
And then, from some other part of her brain, Kat thought, No, she’s beautiful. Not beautiful as in the portrait that stared down at Kat now, a mockery of the Lady. No, this monster was really a perfect mechanical device. Gears that meshed with precision, cogs that whirred so fast they were hard to see, belts and pulleys, all working. All shining, all glittering in the moonlight. The Lady was ingenious, a marvel. Like a clock, all the movements perfectly synchronized to create this whole. Kat unconsciously moved toward the Lady, trying to get a better look, especially at that heart, its copper works beating with unvarying rhythm, a clockwork like no other . . .
“Kat!” Peter’s voice broke through her reverie as the Lady ground across the stone floor, scraping and clattering toward them. Peter grabbed Kat’s arm and pulled so they fell back away from the Lady.
The moonlight drifted behind a cloud and she was again the Lady Eleanor.
But they knew better now, Peter and Kat. They knew she was a witch, and now they knew that she was also a monster. The Lady stopped and a smile spread across her face.
“You can’t win.”
“Can’t win?” Kat asked.
“All of you,” the Lady said, “once I have your souls, I will use your innocence and youth to live forever.”
“And just how do you manage to hang on to us?” asked Peter. “You can’t keep us here forever in some trance.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” She laughed again, and another passing beam of moonlight exposed her mechanical arm. “You’ll live on, but in an altered state. Your souls will feed me.” Her claw hand flicked at the air.
“Our parents will come searching for us,” Peter said. “They’ll know.”
The Lady’s voice was the grating of metal on metal. “They will forget you. That’s an easy enchantment.”
Kat’s heart pounded in her chest. “Lord Craig—” she began.
“My husband,” the Lady interrupted, “will soon be replaced by Mr. Storm.” She waved her hand. “I need a husband, but Lord Craig is . . . difficu
lt. Mr. Storm has a far less ethical nature and will be a more malleable consort than my dear Gregor.”
“Then, Cook,” said Peter, and Kat could hear his voice falter. “Hugo. Marie. MacLarren and Gumble.”
“I will deal with all of them. You can’t escape. You can’t win. I’ve already won.”
“But,” Kat said as the blood rushed into her ears and her voice became faint, “but why?”
“Why? Why? Because I was once a helpless child, not nearly so privileged as you. Because I was once a powerless woman in a man’s world. Because all I asked for was love and shelter. And instead I got bruises and misery and heartbreak.” Her words grated like metal files, broke like shattering glass. “Now I am powerful. I control my fate. I have the life I want to live and I will have it forever.”
“You can’t do this!” Peter said. His words echoed through the halls.
“Has she told you, boy?” the Lady asked, her voice steady again. “This friend of yours, this Katherine. Has she told you?”
“About what?” Peter said uneasily.
“About her father.” The Lady laughed. “Thank you for bringing the boy to me, girl.”
Peter moved at Kat’s side. “What?”
“No! Don’t listen,” Kat said, as much to herself as to him. “She’s doing it again—trying to set us against each other!”
“No, boy, don’t listen,” said the Lady. “Because she has betrayed you for her father. Yes. She has.”
Peter turned toward Kat now. “What is she talking about?”
“I told her I could save her father, but she had to give you up,” came the Lady’s wheedling voice. “And she has.”
“She’s trying to split us apart, because that’s all she can do,” Kat said. “Don’t listen.”
Peter lowered his sword, his attention full on Kat. “I’d do anything to save my father.” His voice broke. “I bet you would, too.”
Kat’s heart pounded. “No! My father knows what’s right, and he fights for it, and so must I. Don’t—”