A moment later Illyrica was bandaging my arm back up with strips of cloth torn from her own skirt. I had hardly known she was there. The Pixie stood against the bars of the cell and folded her arms, looking at the still-open door of the gaol as though daring the mob to come in and face her. And then there was the Poet, stomping his boots clean of mud in the doorway. He knelt by the cell door and filed away at the bars with an iron tool. He handed me another. I knelt beside him and went to work. It was not to let the Giant out. We knew he could not get past the mob outside. It was to let us in. This night we would be together. One family.
But Nora was not there. The Pixie told me in a whisper—too hushed, because she did not want anyone to hear—that Nora had not returned to the Castle, nor had there been any word of her. It was wrong that we should hold our vigil without her, but we had no choice.
Chapter 32
genevieve
Nora had gone quickly at Genevieve’s summons. She was sure the widow’s daughter meant to help, and surely, if we had ever needed help, it was now. It was dark when she arrived at Brawnlyn House, and she had slipped in a back way. A servant’s door had been left unlocked. Nora had used it before when visiting Genevieve, and the Widow knew nothing of it.
The house was dark, as it always was. The Widow lit no lights except where absolutely necessary. She was a creature of darkness and liked to dwell in it. In her own chambers there was seldom lit more than a single, twisted candle. But it was not to the Widow that Nora made her way, up a flight of stairs, feeling her way through the gloomiest parts of the house. At last she reached an old, old room where she was sure she would find Genevieve waiting. It had been a library once, but a fire had destroyed half of it, and it had never been repaired. It was high in the house. Part of the roof gaped open and let in the summer air. Nora stepped into the room. Starlight shone down through the open places. There was no other light. The blackened walls with their ruined books seemed a menacing presence.
She stood, a little winded by the speed of her trip, unsure what to do next. She had no wish to alert the Widow of her presence, but did not know how to find Genevieve without causing a stir. And then, suddenly enough to make her gasp, there came the sound of a match. A candle flared to life behind her. She whirled around. Genevieve was there.
For a moment they stood without speaking. Genevieve was not looking at Nora. Her face was turned up to the ruined roof, eyes on the stars. She looked down abruptly and said, “Thank you for coming.”
It was not a humble thanks. Genevieve could not speak without haughtiness. She held herself so much in contempt that she only knew how to scorn others.
“Why did you call me here?” Nora asked.
“There will be trouble.” Genevieve cut herself off, then began again. “My mother has been… I heard about what happened to you in the village. I’m sorry.”
Nora took a step closer to the widow’s daughter. Her hand went to the bruise on her neck—as it often did. It was not a gesture she thought about. But it drew Genevieve’s eyes to the mark. She flinched at the sight.
“It was not your fault,” Nora said.
“It was my mother’s,” Genevieve said. “She has been poisoning the people. She…”
“You needn’t speak of her,” Nora said. “It can only hurt you… she is your mother.”
“I hate her,” Genevieve said.
Nora drew a deep breath. “You called me here for a reason. Only to tell me that there will be trouble? We knew. We have been preparing.”
Genevieve waved her hand, dismissing Nora’s words. “Yes, yes,” she said. “You have not prepared enough. You should have left. All of you should have left.”
“Is it too late?” Nora said.
Genevieve met her eyes suddenly. “I hope not,” she said. There was more conviction in those words than in anything Genevieve had ever said before. “But if… if you cannot leave in time…” She seemed to be in distress, almost in pain. Whatever she had to say would not come easily. It was forced out, past her pride and her fears and her carefully frozen heart.
Nora went to her side and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “It’s all right,” she said.
They were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a servant. From Nora’s description of him, I know it was the same young man who I had met in the woods. He was less nervous here, but still touched with cowardice, and very unhappy.
“It is too late, my lady,” he said. “A mob has gone into the forest. They will kill the Giant, they say.”
Nora let out a cry. Genevieve grabbed her arm with a vice grip. “Did you follow them?” she demanded.
“Yes,” the servant said. “They were met by the Giant, who looks very terrible but will not fight them it seems, and the one called Hawk—I think they must kill him, for when I left he was fighting like a madman.”
Nora tore herself away and ran toward the door, but Genevieve was faster. She reached the door first, shoving her servant out ahead of her, and pulled it shut behind her. There was a sickening click as she locked it.
Part of the wall near the doorframe had rotted away, and Nora could see Genevieve without, pale and terrible. She held the key in her shaking hand.
“Genevieve, let me out!” Nora pleaded.
Genevieve shook her head and tightened her fingers around the key. “You can do nothing now,” she said. “One can only stop a mob who possesses greater force than they, and you do not.”
Her words were almost contemptuous. Nora leaned against the door and fought back desperate tears. She pushed against it, but it would not move. Her eyes went to the rotted place, but Genevieve anticipated her. “You cannot tear the wall apart. There’s brick beneath it. And I would call for mother. She would not let you leave.”
Nora moved away from the door and ran to the window across the library, looking out across the sleeping fields and woods as though she could find us with her eyes. She turned back again. “If I can do nothing,” she said, “I would rather die with them than stay here!”
Genevieve took a step back and shook her beautiful head. “But you can’t,” she said. “You mustn’t.”
Tears were running down Nora’s face now. She lifted her hands, pleading. “You will let me lose everything I love without even trying to help them?” she said.
“I will not let you die,” Genevieve answered. “The people say you’re a child-stealer, a murderess. Mother feeds the lies. They’ll kill you too if you go. But I won’t let you go. I won’t let them kill you.”
She left the hall. Nora sank down against the door and lifted her eyes to the stars, praying in the blackness of despair. Her torture was worse than mine, for I knew the reality of all that was happening, and she was left to the mercy of imagination. I had the hope of dying with the Giant; she faced the spectre of surviving alone. She was torn with worry for the children; stabbed by near-panic for the Angel—and for me.
And then, with morning not far off, Genevieve appeared again, unlocked the door, and pulled Nora to her feet. She handed her a small bundle of papers. “They are not dead,” she said. “They are in the gaol, in the town. There will be a trial in the morning. Take these. They may be enough to save you all.”
Nora took the papers slowly. She looked at Genevieve with all her questions in her eyes.
“Do as you must,” Genevieve said. “Only do not ruin me lightly.”
With these enigmatic words she stood aside, leaving Nora the open door. Within minutes Nora had flown down the stairs to the stables, where she picked a horse, mounted it without bothering with a saddle, and tore across the fields toward the town.
Chapter 33
before the mob
Nora arrived just as the earliest light was seeping into the morning air. The mob encamped without the gaol had hardly begun to stir. The pounding hooves of Nora’s horse woke many of them to the fact that day was breaking. I was on my feet the instant I heard the horse approaching. My heart leaped when I saw who rode it. She charged through the center o
f the mob and dismounted at the door, her hair loose and windblown. There was a confused clamour of voices as some of the men recognized her. She had been villainized along with the Giant, and I saw one man start forward as though he would lay hands on her. He thought better of it—perhaps he realized that it was to their purposes that Nora was going into the gaol—and slumped back down.
Her hands were shaking as she came through the door. Awash with adrenaline and the aftermath of that awful night, afraid of what she might find when she stepped into the gaol, she was more beautiful than ever. She looked on the gathering in the little cell: children slowly waking, blinking up at her, the Giant welcoming her from the bottom of the loving heap with his dark, gentle eyes. She bowed her head as strong emotion swept over her.
My voice had caught in my throat and seemed to be going through convulsions. I could only stand there like a fool.
The Pixie spoke first: “Nora,” she said. A sob almost escaped her.
Nora rushed to her, into the cell, and the whole family embraced her at once. I stood without, still at the window where I had gone to see her approach. To my amazement, she pulled herself away from the children and sought me out. She rushed over to where I stood. Her eyes brushed past the window and the crowd that waited without, lit now by the coming dawn and a few still-smoking torches. I saw the troubled expression on her face, and it smote me. I found my voice.
“We will beat them yet,” I said.
“We will,” she said, looking back at me. Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Genevieve has helped us.”
With those words she pulled a small packet of papers, tied with twine, from a pocket in her skirt. She handed it to me without a word and watched while I slowly untied it.
I didn’t have time to finish. The door burst open. Men spilled in, gruff and dirty, looking like they had spent the night in as much comfort as we had. They had come to drag their prisoners out to trial. But they seemed different somehow, more subdued. As they stepped over the little ones, ordered Illyrica and the Pixie to stand aside, and commanded the Poet not to try anything, they seemed almost embarrassed. But I knew they were not ashamed enough. One man stood at the door, calling orders.
“Clear them out!” he commanded. “Take the Giant!”
He turned his eyes to the corner by the window. He pointed in Nora’s direction with his chin. “Her too.”
I tensed to stop them, even as the Pixie and the Poet both decided to disobey orders and try something in the cell. A voice boomed through the gaol and put an end to all of our bravado.
“Peace, all of you!” It was the Giant.
I fell back and let the men take Nora. She smiled at me encouragingly as they pushed her out the door just before the Giant. He also looked back at me, and I understood the look. The papers in my hand. It was up to me to make use of them. It was the hardest job Nora and the Giant could have left me with—at that moment I would rather have done anything than read!
The Pixie led the charge out the door after the men, Katie in her arms, children in tow. She was flushed and determined. I was left alone in the gaol to try and concentrate enough to make the ink jots on the paper form themselves into words. When they did, I willed the words to mean something. Anything! How could any man read when every nerve was straining to act?
Outside, the “trial” had begun. They had elected men to judge. The wainwright, bereaved father, stood at the head of them. I caught sight of his face through the window and felt plunged in despair again. There was a veritable blackness in his countenance that was horrible to behold; anger and hatred I could not imagine. He seemed hardly to see the children. All he could see was the Giant, the man he believed had taken his son from him. I remembered the way he had come to meet us when we bore the body home to him. I wondered if he was seeing the scene again, too. I could not blame him for his bitterness.
A wooden platform stood near the gaol. I thought it might be the remains of an old gallows. The Giant was taken up on it, though he already stood head, shoulders, and chest above the others in the crowd. The judges climbed up after him, and the accusations began. Nora stood beneath the platform, a guard on either side. I saw her turn and look at me with urgency in her eyes. The papers. I wasn’t reading the papers. I tore my attention from the trial and tried again to understand what I was looking at.
The accusation cut the air. “Thief… stealer of children!”
The Pixie’s voice rang out in response. She had pushed her way to the front of the crowd and was looking up at the wainwright now, daring him to respond to the passion in her eyes. “He did,” she said. “From a ditch… from death, he stole me. And the others! He took us in when plague and poverty killed our parents. Where is the crime in that?”
She could not be ignored. The wainwright looked down at her angrily, but the sea of small faces that peered back up at him caught him off guard. The Pixie was formidable enough on her own. As general of a small army, armed with innocence, she was more than his match.
His voice had softened a little when he spoke. “Get these children out of here,” he said. “They should not have to witness this.”
“To witness the condemnation of a good and innocent man?” It was the Poet who answered now, stepping forward with a grave expression on his face. “Then they should not have to live—not in this world. Think, man: what are you doing?”
“My son is dead,” the wainwright choked. “Where is justice for me?”
“The Giant did not kill your son,” the Poet said. “Not one of us did. He fell and… it was an accident.”
The wainwright spoke through clenched teeth, as though he would ward off the truth and the revelation of his own wrong-doing. “We heard reports,” he said.”There was a battle. You drew the sword on my son; you struck him with arrows!”
Sarah stepped forward and said in a very small voice, “That was me.”
The wainwright stopped short. He had expected to convict a Giant, not to uncover the guilt of a small girl. He looked down at her and blinked. “What?” he said.
“I shot the arrow,” she said. “Your son attacked us. He was leading a band of thieves. We were only trying to take care of each other. We didn’t mean for him to die!”
Illyrica put her arm around Sarah’s shoulders as she began to shake. In a moment she was crying, and the old, deadened Sarah vanished in a flood of tears. Illyrica pulled her close and stroked her hair. She looked up at the wainwright with her eloquent eyes. He seemed to be coming apart. Anger, hatred, and lies had nearly driven him to murder, but they weren’t protection enough against this. Could anything be?
He wheeled on the Giant. “You,” he spat. “You did not speak. You did not tell us…” In an instant, the wainwright’s struggle was over. He heard the absurdity of his own accusation. The Giant had been given no chance to speak—and if he had, should he have turned such as Sarah and Illyrica over to the mob? They had as much responsibility for the boy’s death as he.
He bowed his head, a grieving, broken father. The vengeful spirit that had driven him was gone.
I hardly noticed. For while the trial’s strange progression was unfolding, Genevieve’s papers had begun to speak to me—and the story they told was so strange, so fascinating, so condemning, that I knew it had the power to change our world forever.
I had not learned it too soon. The wainwright’s surrender was hardly accomplished when there came a clatter of horses and coach wheels. The true magisterial power of the province arrived like a dark cloud of wrath. No tears or truth could sway the judgment now. The mob would have blood yet. The Widow Brawnlyn had come.
Chapter 34
power in papers
Like an empress the Widow descended from her coach, casting her disdainful eye over the crowd. She saw in an instant what had happened. The wainwright had been swayed; her cause almost lost. But the power that had caught the attention of the mob—innocence and loyalty—had no more effect on the Widow’s eye than the power of truth had on
her heart. I saw with troubled understanding that the crowd would listen to her. Their ears were accustomed to her poison. They fed on it. Already they seemed ready to bend.
The Widow gathered her black skirts and climbed the steps to the old ruined gallows. She passed a look of scorn on the Pixie and her little ones, and another on Nora, and then turned her narrowed eyes on the Giant. She said something to him, but I could not hear. I was already out the door, pushing my way through the crowd, shouting for them to part.
Just as I reached the wooden steps, I saw the Giant open his palm and show something to the Widow. She blanched. Somehow, the Giant had struck a blow—but I had no time to reflect on what had happened, for I had a blow of my own to give.
“Lady Brawnlyn,” I said, my voice low. She whirled around, nearly brushing against me in the small space of the platform. She was livid. She had not yet had time to speak to the crowd, to raise arms against us—she had not expected us to confront her so boldly.
The open hatred in her eyes as she took in the sight of me did not disturb me in the slightest. I smiled at her. “My lady,” I said. “I suggest that you step down and speak with me.”
“You have nothing to say to me,” the Widow spat. “And I will not waste words on you.”
I raised my voice a little so that some of the crowd could hear me. “Shall we speak here, then?” I asked. “I have a contract to discuss with you: a contract made with one Thomas Breward, leader of…”
“Hush, boy,” she said. Her voice was harsh as she grated out the words. Her tone lunged at me. If she could have stopped me physically, she would have. “I will speak with you.”
“Good,” I said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. I gestured to the path I had made through the crowd, all the way back to the door of the gaol. “Shall we?”
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