With a coldness in her chest, Lin remembered the sad tug of Isvan’s smile. The last Winterfyrst in all of Sylver. “Well, Teodor said he vanished from his home. Do you have any idea where it is?”
“I think I might!” Rufus began riffling through his maps. “I can’t remember seeing the Winterfyrst name anywhere, but . . . Ha! This is the one we want.” He smoothed out a roll on his desk, pinning the corners down with a pocketknife and two coffee mugs. Unlike the rest of his collection, this map was made of creamy, weaved paper. But the details and names had been scribbled with light, uncertain pencil strokes, erased and done anew. The only part written in ink was the title: “The Comprehensive Chart of Sylveros and All Its Lands.” “I couldn’t find a detailed map of the entire town, so I’ve been piecing together some smaller ones.” Rufus scratched his head. “But the proportions seem off somehow.”
“Well, it’s hard if you can’t use your eyes for measure. Remember when Niklas and I made that Summerhill map? We climbed up to Buttertop to get it right.” Lin traced the line of the long, straight Main Road, which ended in the Great Square and a miniscule drawing for the House. “These symbols are beautiful!”
“I just tried to make them look like yours.” Rufus’s whiskers perked up. He pointed to the south end of Sylveros, which was severed from the rest of the town by the looping river. On the very edge of the street grid, all but surrounded by the woods, nestled one of his symbols. “I added this one from an old map of magical sites in Sylveros. Doesn’t it strike you as somewhere a Winterfyrst could live?”
It was a snow crystal marked as the Hall of Winter.
Lin smiled. “For the first time in history, I think I can say: one point to Rufus of Rosenquist!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The streets of Pawfields were quiet and broad and the houses less embellished. Most of them had no paint, but lay watchfully in the snow with tarred timber walls and a glower in their foggy glass.
“This way.” Rufus glanced at the map, which he had decided to bring so Lin could help him improve it. “Pawfields is one of the few areas where I’m pretty sure this thing is correct. Canines like their surroundings to be open and straightforward.”
As they walked past a barn with a huge gate, a nasal and haunting bellow sounded inside the building.
“Rimedeer,” Rufus explained. “They send their young down into the Sylver Valley when the winds blow especially cruel or the Nightmares grow restless. I hear the stables are full of calves this year.”
“Nightmares?” Lin said. “Like the Winnower?”
“The Winnower is one, but the mountains outside Sylver are haunted by many kinds of horror. I’ve never seen one of the creatures myself, though. Nightmares can’t cross our borders.”
“But the Winnower did.”
“Well, yes.” Rufus shrugged. “According to the legend. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if we didn’t spook ourselves in that clearing. Anyone could have been hiding inside that hood. One of the gatherers who forage in the woods, or a Wilder.”
A rimedeer cried again and, for a moment, Lin was put in mind of the howl they had heard up on the scargate hill. Except that voice had sounded darker. Less sorrowful, more cold.
“It could be the star that spooks them,” Rufus said, frowning back at the barn. “Wanderer’s Eve stirs up all souls, good and evil, or so I heard at the Burning Bird. That’s my favorite mead house over in Winderside by the Lake. All the storytellers come there to test their mettle.”
They followed the map south. Soon the ground began to rise, and the houses gave way to woods. Halfway up the hill, the street ended in a tall stone wall that stretched out to either side, far enough for shadows to swallow it at both ends. In the middle, there was a wrought-iron gate. The black bars were shaped like a thorny hedge with a silver snow crystal caught between the branches.
“I think we’re in the right place,” Rufus said. Behind the gate they could see a sleeping garden of frozen bushes and trees. It sloped upward with the hill, and at the top a grand house loomed against the rosy sky. At first, Lin thought the house was painted blue, but the color shifted with the flickering light from the shooting star, and she realized the whole mansion was built from hewn ice.
Rufus tried to open the gate. It didn’t budge.
“It’s locked! How odd. There aren’t very many locked gates in Sylver.”
“Teodor’s door was locked,” Lin said.
“Teodor is an old, suspicious grump. Most Sylverings keep their doors open.”
The iron bars of the gate were much too closely spaced for them to slip through, and when Rufus poked his hand in among the branches, he withdrew it with a yelp. “These thorns are sharp! We can’t climb up this thing. The wall, then. Maybe we can get over there.”
They both tried, but the stones were frosty and slick. Even with the mittens off, it was impossible to get a decent grip. Rufus sucked his finger. “Wait here. I’ll run along the wall and find out if there’s another way in.”
“But what if someone comes?” Lin said. The street was deserted and the forest still, but in the tarred houses down on the field, the lights were on. Rufus guided her into the shadows by the gatepost. “It’s not likely up here, I think. But keep your hood up and stay hidden. If someone approaches you, stick to the plan. I’ll be back in no time at all.”
He set off along the wall, and his fur quickly blended into the dusk. Lin chewed her thumb and tried to be patient and calm. With Rufus by her side, it was easier to forget that she was far, far from home. But now, when all she could hear was her own breathing, she felt lost. She kept her attention to the ground, away from the bright smear of the wandering star, and pretended she was standing in an ordinary street, somewhere in the outskirts of the city, on a day with very few cars about.
Down in Pawfields, a rimedeer bellowed again, piercing the silence like a foghorn.
Lin shuddered. She didn’t just feel lost, she felt as if she should hide better. Along the wall there was no sign of Rufus.
Something creaked loudly up on the hill.
Could Isvan have returned? She leaned out from the shadows to spy through the iron thorns. The mansion had two tall floors under winged gargoyles of ice. All the windows were shut and blinded by lacy curtains. But the silver front door was ajar, and a creature oozed out through the crack, like a shadow spilled into the air. Lin watched, mesmerized, as the shadow became a gray striped cat clad in pointed boots and a three-cornered hat. Furtively, he glanced over his shoulder toward the town. Then he whirled about. He had seen her.
Two eyes gleamed at Lin like molten coins as the cat came gliding down the slope. Ten steps away from the gate, he faltered.
“You’re not him. But who are you, hmmm?”
While the cat dragged his “hmmm” out and up like a crooked grin, he slunk closer to the bars until he was only an arm’s length away. Lin shifted her weight and said nothing. The plan to stay silent if spoken to seemed pitiful now.
“Fresher. I see,” he purred. “But why are you hiding your face, hmmm?”
Lin hesitated. It would look suspicious if she suddenly turned and ran. But she did not trust this Feline. His tail was curled up in a placid loop and he smiled encouragingly, yet there was something about him that made her pulse race.
“Come, you needn’t be afraid. I am Figenskar, and I know everyone in this town. We’ll soon become fast friends, you’ll see.”
He took another step toward her. His black pupils eclipsed the irises. That was it, Lin realized. She had seen enough of the Summerhill cat to know that this was the gaze of a hunter about to pounce. She stepped backward, but her stupid knees had weakened again. The cat darted his paws through the gate and caught her as she stumbled.
“Careful there! We would not want you to get hurt. But I must insist you tell me now: Who are you?”
Finally, Lin tr
ied to flee, but Figenskar had slid his claws into her chaperon. They didn’t pierce the layers of wool, but she couldn’t get away. Blood pounded in her ears. “Let me go!” she cried. She braced her boots against the gate and tried to push free, but his grip was too strong. Instead, her hood slipped back.
When he saw her face, the cat let out a hiss of surprise. “A child! A Twistrose!” The thorns of the gate had nicked his arms in several places. Drops of blood fell on the snow below the wrought iron. But he didn’t let go, and his eyes were all dark, all hungry. “Well now. This changes the game! Tell me your name, Twistrose!”
Lin kicked and struggled, pressing her lips together, and Figenskar growled deep in his chest. “Name!”
Suddenly she heard fast footsteps approaching. Relief sparkled through her veins when she saw that it was Rufus who came bounding along the wall toward the gate.
“Figenskar!” he yelled. “What are you doing?”
Figenskar snarled so softly it was almost inaudible. Then he retracted his claws from Lin’s clothes and let her go.
“Why, Rufus,” the Feline said, and at once his voice was bright and silken. “How good to see you! I was merely asking this young miss a question. How extraordinary to encounter a human child here. Is she your responsibility?”
Rufus drew himself up, curling his hands into fists.
“Step away from her! You’re scaring her half to death! And what’s this blood on the ground? Lin, are you hurt?”
Lin shook her head. “No. It’s not mine.”
Figenskar pulled his paws gingerly back through the gate. “Please forgive me. I meant no harm. It’s just that no Twistrose has set foot here in my time. Sylver must be in great danger.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Rufus said. “We’re doing some work for Teodor, that’s all.”
“Teodor.” A glint of distaste muddled Figenskar’s expression, but it was quickly dispelled. He nodded pleasantly. “Then I won’t keep you. I only stopped by to speak with our young Winterfyrst. You don’t happen to know his whereabouts, hmmm?”
“No,” Rufus said.
“A pity.” The cat’s tail flicked. He tried to hide it by shifting his feet, but Lin noticed.
“It shall have to keep. Thank you, Rufus. And thank you, young Lin. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your last name . . .”
“Summerhill,” Rufus said quickly. “Her last name is Summerhill.”
“Summerhill,” Figenskar repeated with all his needle-teeth showing, and Lin knew he wasn’t fooled. For a moment he stood there, waiting. But when Lin and Rufus didn’t leave, the cat fished a black key out of his heavy, pointed boot, and opened the gate. He tipped his hat to Rufus and headed down the street. Before he reached the bottom of the hill, he glanced over his shoulder twice.
“Why does he have the key to Isvan’s house?” Rufus narrowed his eyes.
“Thank goodness he left,” Lin breathed, pulling her hood back up. Her pulse had calmed a little, but the notion that she should hide immediately remained. Uneasily she watched the dark blotch of Figenskar disappear among the houses. “I guess we’re not the only ones who are out to find Isvan tonight.”
“No, and I don’t like it,” Rufus muttered. “Figenskar is a regular at the Burning Bird, too, so I know him. He’s the worst sort of slick. On the day I arrived he told me the Winnower legend, just to watch me go all quiver-tailed.” Rufus rubbed his neck. “I wish I hadn’t slipped your name. I’m still not used to how fast my pesky tongue is. At least he doesn’t have the whole of it, he . . .”
“Rufus!”
Lin was staring up at the ice mansion. “Do you see it? On the second floor, to the right?”
Rufus whistled softly through his front teeth.
Behind one of the tall windows, the lacy curtains were swaying as if in a gentle breeze. Only the window was shut, and there was no wind. Three heartbeats ago, someone had been standing in that window, watching them.
CHAPTER NINE
Up the hill they went, following the pathway where nobody had cleared the snow, but several had walked since the last snowfall. The Hall of Winter loomed over them, block upon block of opaque, blue ice, shrouded in silence. The gargoyles watched them from the roof. Lin couldn’t stop eyeing their brooding shapes and scythes for arms, but Rufus was more preoccupied with the footprints.
“Figenskar has been here more than once,” he said. “His boot prints are easy to recognize, even for an amateur like me. It’s hard to read the rest, though, they’re too jumbled. One set of small, dainty feet, I think. And over here are some really big paws. . . . You’re certain you didn’t see a face?”
“I only saw a shape moving behind the curtain,” said Lin.
The entrance door was adorned with a stained-glass window; three light blue icicles set in a purple panel. Rufus peered through the glass before he opened the door. The hinges groaned, and freezing air gusted out. It smelled fresh enough, but there was something unpleasant about it even so, like discordant fiddle strings.
“Isvan!” he called across the threshold. “Are you there?”
There was no reply. Rufus tiptoed into the hall, claws scratching against the ice floor. Lin joined him, closing the creaking door behind her. The floor was tinted indigo where light fell through the stained glass, and the walls were diamond blue, carved with white swirly patterns. Under the ceiling soared a cloud of icicle pendants. Rufus sniffed quickly along the walls.
“What an odd smell,” he said. “Like candy and table polish. Well, there are no candles anywhere, but the twilight through the ice walls will be enough to see by. Which way is the room with the shape?”
Somewhere above them there was a faint thud. Lin laid one finger over her lips and pointed up the slender flight of stairs that curved up toward the upper floor. “To the right,” she mouthed.
They snuck up the stairs and passed through one ghostly quiet room after another. It was like sneaking through a glowing museum after hours. The furniture was covered by white sheets. Frost obscured the paintings on the walls. Delicate ice sculptures perched blindly on pedestals, their features worn away. Lin still had a feeling that someone was watching them. Twice, she flinched at a pale, wide-eyed face in the ice, only to find that it was her own reflection.
When they reached the final room on the second floor, they found the door open, and through the crack, they glimpsed a nursery. They paused to listen. Silence.
“Isvan!” Rufus called again. He stepped through the doorway and walked to the middle of the floor, whiskers spread wide. “Come out, Isvan, or whoever you are!”
But nobody sprang from the corners.
“Rats,” he said, bending down to check under the bed. “I was so sure I could flush him out. But there’s no one here.”
That, Lin thought as they quickly searched the room, was not quite true. Isvan may be gone, but he still lingered here. The clothes in the wardrobe were too small for a boy her age, and the toys on the shelf were those of a young child, but Lin felt certain that he still used this room. The flattened, faded pillow in the windowsill told of many hours whiled away.
Beneath the windowsill lay a telescope. She picked it up. The lens was cracked, and the floor was chipped where it had fallen. “The thud we heard.”
Rufus wrinkled his snout at it, as if it reeked. “Yes. But if someone dropped it, I don’t understand how he got away.”
Lin set the telescope gently down. Her hand shook only a little. “Maybe he didn’t,” she whispered. “I haven’t heard the front door open.”
Without another word they raced through the mansion, peeking under sheets and behind doors. At last Lin discovered a back stairway that led from the gallery above the hall to the downstairs winter garden.
“This explains the mysterious escape.” Rufus jumped through an open window to sniff a clearly defined set of very small footprints on t
he porch. “Same smell, but stronger. These are fresh, and they aren’t Figenskar’s.” The tracks led to the front of the building. There they were lost among the other prints on the pathway.
“Oh, mold.” Rufus kicked a spray of snow toward the patchwork of houses and yards below. “He could be anywhere in Pawfields by now.”
“Do you think it was Isvan?” said Lin.
“I doubt it. Somehow, I imagine a Winterfyrst to smell . . . cold. Like frost roses or something. Not table polish.”
They had no choice but to go back inside to do what they had come for, and they quickly narrowed their search down to Isvan’s room. Rufus breathed on a framed photograph on the nightstand, rubbing the glass with the tip of his tail. Out of the rime appeared two smiling persons, a lady and a young boy of about four. They both had inky hair, pale blue skin, and eyes that shone like sapphires, and they each cradled a shimmering orb in their arms.
“I think this must be Isvan’s mother,” Lin said.
“I’ve never heard anyone mention a woman Winterfyrst about town,” Rufus said. “And this lady definitely wouldn’t slip your mind.”
Lin agreed. She was too beautiful. And all that covered furniture . . . “I don’t think she’s here anymore. The house feels too empty. And Teodor said Isvan was the last of his people.”
“Where did you go, Isvan?” Rufus leafed through a stack of drawings, all done in charcoal. “Who were you with? We’re trying to help you. You can tell us your secrets.”
Lin thought of her troll-hunting casket concealed in her wardrobe. Everyone, even those with an entire mansion to themselves, had secret hiding places. And the best hiding places were the ones you could keep an eye on. Or even better: keep under guard.
She frowned at the lumpy pillow in the window seat. The pattern was of silver snow crystals, so faded it all but bled into gray. Two letters were embroidered in the center: C W. Not Isvan’s initials, but perhaps his mother’s? Lin took off her mitten and traced her fingers along the stitches.
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