by Paul Crilley
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s nothing. Just some paper. I’m going to write a letter, that’s all. Give it back.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Miss Snow.”
“Hoy,” said a voice. “What are you doing? Let her go.”
Emily almost fainted with relief. Jack stood in the doorway to the tenement, glaring at Blackmore. So fierce was his stare that the fat man actually released her arms and took a guilty step back.
Ravenhill, however, was not the least bit intimidated. He flicked a bored gaze over Jack, taking in his tattered wool coat and his dirty hat.
“Be gone, boy. Miss Snow and I were just having a little chat. I’m from Scotland Yard.”
“You’re a policeman? A bobby?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Then I’m Queen Vic’s butler,” said Jack, pulling out a knife. The blade was dull and rusted, but it had a point, and that was all that mattered. “You just let her go, you hear? Otherwise this could get unpleasant.”
Ravenhill’s eyes widened slightly. Then he started to laugh, a low, unpleasant chuckle. After a moment’s hesitation, Blackmore joined in, although he kept a nervous watch on the blade in Jack’s hand.
Jack’s face tightened with anger. Before he could do anything that would land him in trouble, Emily made her move. She barged past Ravenhill, grabbing the satchel and parchment from his hands. She dodged a clumsy attempt by Mr. Blackmore to catch her and pushed Jack out the door of the tenement.
“Run!” she shouted into his surprised face.
Then she took her own advice and sprinted out into the streets of London.
CHAPTER FOUR
The wrath of the Dagda. Black Annis and Jenny Greenteeth awake from their watery slumber.
INTERLUDE.
His name was Scaithe, and he was an Unseelie piskie, a member of the Black Sidhe. He was wounded, a gash that ran from the front of his shoulder all the way around his back and down his spine. He held the hawk’s feathers with one hand, the other dangling uselessly by his side.
Scaithe crouched low against the bird, dodging the wind that threatened to unseat him. The clouds whipped past like streamers of mist, leaving droplets of moisture on his black clothing. The hawk flew as fast as she could. She understood the urgency of his message.
The Dagda, his King, wasn’t going to be happy. When the Dagda had first discovered the parchment was missing, he had flown into a fury so terrifying that his anger had drawn a storm to their mountain. Once it had passed, trailing a path of destruction across the lowlands of Wales, he had the Black Sidhe after the thieves. They were expected to bring back what was stolen or not return at all.
Scaithe felt a twinge of fear. Surely the Dagda would understand? He didn’t have the parchment, but that was hardly his fault. He was bearing important intelligence, after all. The Cornish filth had help. Help from a human. How could they have anticipated that?
The hawk screeched a warning and banked sharply. They dropped through the air, leaving the concealment of the clouds. The border mountains appeared below them, their snow-covered peaks blinding Scaithe as the sun flashed between the clouds. Scaithe squinted and leaned forward, whispering directions to the hawk. The bird dropped until they were skimming over the white-and-gray clifftops.
Yellow-green scrub grass poked out from between the ragged stones, pushing up through clumps of snow and ice. His people were like that grass, Scaithe thought. Holding on for dear life, barely surviving in a hostile environment. How long before the faeries were all wiped out, shoved into the corners of the world to await their deaths?
He sighed. The battle had made him melancholy. That always happened, even when they won.
As they flew deeper into the mountains, into the treacherous, mist-shrouded areas impassable to humans, Scaithe felt a small surge of relief. He was safe now. Scaithe hated the city. It was dirty and suffocating. He needed the clear air of the mountains to survive.
The mist thickened into a fog, but the hawk knew where she was now. She flew confidently, as if something was calling to her, guiding her through the wall of gray.
Scaithe eventually fell into an exhausted doze. He was awoken some time later by the bird’s shrill call. He yawned and leaned over to see where they were.
The mist had disappeared. They were approaching a deep basin, a huge space that looked as if it had been scooped out of the mountains by a giant hand. The basin was leagues across, encircled by towering cliff faces, and covering the bottom were sweeping grass fields and deep, ancient forests, all coated in a thick layer of fresh white snow.
In the center of the basin was a lake, and in the middle of the lake, an island.
The Dagda’s Court.
The hawk folded her wings back and dropped through the air. The ground rushed toward them at a terrifying speed, the wind whipping furiously. Scaithe was soon close enough to see flashes of color beneath the snow; a hint of winter green, a flash of dark brown.
The hawk soared over the still waters, the lake so calm it mirrored the sky perfectly. Scaithe leaned over and could see the bird’s reflected underbelly, skimming calmly across the icy waters.
And then the hawk opened her wings wide and they slowed down with a lurch. She flapped a couple of times, then slowly dropped into the branches of a tall, leafless sycamore tree on the shore of the island. Scaithe leaned forward and stroked her feathers.
“Thank you, old friend.”
The hawk turned her head to look at him. She held out a wing and started preening, cleaning and tucking her feathers back into place.
Scaithe got the message. He slid off her back, landing atop the thick snow. His breath clouded the air.
He heard snuffling off to his right. A large black dog padded silently into view, stark against the white snow. The dog was one of the Dagda’s favorites. Scaithe’s presence was required.
He climbed onto the dog’s back and it sprang into action, loping up the incline toward the middle of the island. Scaithe caught glimpses of some of the others—faeries, brownies, and piskies, a few of the hollow men. They all watched silently as he passed, their dark eyes troubled at his lone return.
There was a small hill at the exact center of the island. On its crown sprawled a giant oak tree, its branches reaching down to form a concealing shelter around the trunk. Scaithe slid off the dog’s back and waited. After a moment the green leaves, untouched by winter’s hand, rustled, as if a soft wind had disturbed them. The intertwined branches creaked and pulled apart, revealing a perfectly round opening.
Scaithe took a deep breath and walked forward. The branches and leaves closed instantly behind him. After a few moments, he left the shadowy tunnel and found himself standing on green grass.
He looked around. He was surrounded by his people: brownies, kobolds, gnomes, goblins, the stocky alfar with their beards trailing in the earth, and piskies. Faeries flitted through the air, quick streaks of white light.
“He’s angry,” one whispered.
“He’s going to skin you,” said another.
“Feed you to the dogs.”
Scaithe batted the irritating creatures away. They flew up into the boughs of the tree so that it seemed as if every branch was decorated with tiny glowing stars.
The lights revealed what he had come here to see.
The Dagda, King of the Unseelie, was sitting upon his throne, deep inside the trunk of the massive oak.
His face was in shadow. He sat unmoving as Scaithe walked forward and bowed his head respectfully. The fey all around him fell silent, watching with glittering eyes and bated breath.
“What news?” asked the Dagda. As if in response, the leaves rustled an echo of his words, like voices heard through a wind. What news?
Scaithe swallowed. “We followed the thieves, sire. All the way to Londinium itself.”
“And? Did you retrieve my property?”
“Sire, we did not.”
A wave of unease undulated through the watcher
s. Scaithe looked around nervously.
“They had help. A human girlchild. There was nothing we could do. She was too fast.”
The Dagda leaned forward, revealing a smooth, cruel face.
“A girl?”
“Aye. She helped the one who stole the parchment. Corrigan.”
“What did she look like?” asked the Dagda.
Scaithe searched his memory. “Black hair. Young.” He shrugged. “I am sorry, sire. It is hard to tell with humans.”
“Did she look like this?”
An image appeared in the air before Scaithe, an image of a young, frightened girl standing before a burning building. Even through a coating of soot, Scaithe recognized the slightly rounded features, the large brown eyes, the dark hair.
“That is her.”
The Dagda let out a long, slow breath. “The time has finally come,” he said, a look of hunger writ plain across his features. “I think it is time to wake Black Annis and Jenny Greenteeth,” he said softly. “They have been too long from this world, and it is time they finished the task they were given all those moons ago.”
Jonathan Bridgewater, or “Grubber” to those who knew him, wasn’t important in the grand scheme of things. He was just a boy. He wasn’t going to accomplish great things or change the world. He wasn’t even going to grow up to raise children of his own.
That’s because he was about to die.
A low, broken stone wall bordered the section of the Thames River where Grubber waited for the tide to go out. When the water was gone, and all he could see was the thick, evil-smelling mud that made up the bottom of the river, it would be time to get to work. He saw his fellow mud-larks staring over the misty water, waiting just as he did, hoping that today they would make that big find. Maybe a chest fallen overboard from a transport ship all the way from India. Or some silk from China, wrapped in waterproof paper. Something you could sell and make enough money from to live happy for a year.
He was so busy daydreaming he almost missed the rustle of movement among his fellows. He snapped back to attention and saw that the water had disappeared behind the thickening mist. It was time.
He made his way down the stairs and stepped gingerly into the cold mud. His bare feet sank up to his ankles. He saw the others around him, indistinct in the mist, vague shadows and shapes that faded from view as each mud-lark took to his own jealously guarded area.
Grubber pulled a foot from the sucking mud, then placed it carefully in front of him and gingerly prodded the ground. One time he’d stood on an old nail and it had gone right through the skin between his toes. It had become infected and he hadn’t been able to work for two whole weeks.
He surveyed the dark, glistening mud as he made his way slowly forward. He could hear the water lapping some distance ahead, a quiet, mournful sound, muffled in the mist. Everything else was silent. Even the usual sounds of the mud-larks calling to one another were absent. He looked around uneasily. There was something not right about the day. It was like waking up from a bad dream in the middle of the night. He had that same queasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.
“Hello?” he called. There was no reply, but he shook his head, assuring himself there was nothing to worry about. The others were somewhere close. If he shouted loud enough, they’d come.
Grubber resumed his search, eyes constantly roving across the mud. He found two brass nails and picked them up, slipping them into his pocket.
The mud soon became softer, so that he sank halfway to his knees. Before long he was exhausted and panting for breath. It was as if the mud were actually trying to grab hold of his legs and pull him under.
The dirty water at the tide line was the same color as the mud itself. It gurgled and wrapped around his legs, pulling him off balance. He staggered, then righted himself, digging himself even deeper into the mud. He looked along the shoreline but could see nothing of interest. He squinted, but the mist—now more of a thick fog—swirled forward like a cloak and blanketed his vision.
What was that? Grubber leaned forward and peered into the distance. It looked like a pile of clothing washing in and out at the tide’s edge. He lurched forward, fighting with every step to keep his balance. Maybe it was clothes washed overboard from an Indian steamer. He could sell them to Mrs. Mills and get a fair few shillings.
But his excitement was short-lived. As he drew closer he saw that the clothes were old—in fact, they looked more like a clump of slimy black-green seaweed than the dyed cotton he had hoped for.
He splashed to a stop in front of what he now saw was an old dress. It undulated gently on the waves, spread out as if there was someone still filling its shape. There was no point in taking it. As soon as it was out of the water, the material would fall to pieces.
He was right about one thing, though: there was a lot of seaweed clinging to the dress, especially around the neckline. In fact, the seaweed floating limply in the water looked almost like a head of greasy hair.
He smiled and shook his head. His ma always said he had too much of an imagination.
And then, as he watched, the seaweed lifted slowly out of the water.
Grubber stared in horror as the dress he had thought empty filled out, white-green arms appearing from beneath the water to push the sodden mass upright. The seaweed wasn’t seaweed at all but really was hair, hung lank and dripping, framing the pale, skeletal face of a young woman.
Grubber’s mind raced. Had she fallen overboard? Had she tripped and been washed out with the tide? But then his common sense took hold. This wasn’t an ordinary woman. Her eyes were as black as pitch, her face so thin the skin barely stretched over her cheekbones. Every inch of her body that he could see was pale green except for her nails. They were long and black.
And then she smiled, a huge, unnatural grin that cut her face like a rotting wound. Her teeth were black and pointed.
“Well, well,” said a voice behind Grubber. “If it ain’t Jenny Greenteeth herself.”
Grubber whirled around to find himself facing a figure in a sodden dark cloak, dripping with water. The apparition reached up and lowered the hood, revealing the cruel, pinched face of an old woman. She stank of stagnant water, and when she opened her mouth—as she did now to smile cruelly at Grubber—murky brown liquid dribbled over her chin.
“And what have we here, young Jenny?” she asked, staring down at Grubber.
“Don’t know, Black Annis,” said the woman with the seaweed hair, who was now right behind Grubber.
Grubber’s eyes widened in fear at the mention of the old lady’s name. He started to shiver violently.
“Our names are still known around these parts, Jenny.”
“Our names will always be known, Miss Annis.”
“Of course they will,” purred Black Annis. She held her arms wide open in a luxurious stretch. “Looks like our services are required again, young Jenny. The Dagda has brought us back from our tombs—” Black Annis paused as if she was listening. Then she clapped her hands together softly. “It’s her, young Jenny.”
“Who, Miss Annis?”
“Her. The girl. We’ve been brought back to make amends, Jenny.”
“Can I feed first?” whined Jenny Greenteeth. “I’m so hungry.”
Black Annis waved her hand benevolently. “Go ahead. But keep him quiet.”
“They’re always quiet, Miss Annis,” whispered Jenny Greenteeth. She placed her two skeletal hands on Grubber’s shoulders. “Always.”
And then Grubber was pulled backward into the water. His last sight was that of Black Annis, a creature from nightmares and stories, dancing a slow dance, her hands held out as if encircling the shoulder and waist of an invisible partner.
CHAPTER FIVE
In which Emily returns to Merrian’s shop and discovers what a True Seer is. The attack.
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
ON THE FIRST DAY OF EMILY’S ADVENTURES.
Snow, wait!”
Jack caught up with E
mily and grabbed her by the arm. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and pulled her into an alley.
Emily pulled herself free. “What?”
“What? Is that all you can say? Emily, who were those men? Are you in trouble?”
“No—yes …” Emily stopped herself before she let anything slip. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, Jack. I can’t answer your questions.”
“But what did they want? What was that thing you grabbed from the tall one?”
Emily’s hand flew to her pocket. The satchel was still there.
“Was he really a bobby?”
“Course he wasn’t.”
“Had the smell of authority, though. I’ll give him that.” He frowned at Emily. “You tellin’ me you really don’t know why they were after you?”
Emily hesitated, unsure what to do. Jack sensed her reluctance.
“Come on, Snow. I can help. Whatever it is. I’ve always watched over you and Will, haven’t I?”
The urge to tell Jack everything that had happened that morning was strong, almost overwhelming. But he wouldn’t believe her. She hardly believed it herself.
“I can’t tell you, Jack. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Emily shook her head. No. She wouldn’t involve Jack in this. It was too dangerous, not his problem. “Thank you, Jack, for helping out back there. But this is something I have to do myself. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later? At the coffee shop?”
Jack said nothing, his mouth set in a thin line. Emily could see he was unhappy about it, but he knew better than to argue with her when her mind was made up.
Emily hurried back out of the alley, trying to ignore the look of hurt on his face.
She returned to Merrian’s shop. It was the only thing she could think of to do. She had to give Corrigan back his satchel, and if she returned home there was a good chance Ravenhill would be waiting. She was glad William had gone to Mrs. Derry’s shop. At least that would keep him out of harm’s way for the rest of the day while she figured out what to do.