Peter threw the rock down. “Then I guess we’ll be eating our supper raw,” he said. “Again.”
“There’s another method.” She took a fallen branch from the ground and began stripping off the twigs and leaves.
“That wood is too green,” Peter said. “It won’t light.”
“I’m not going to light it.” Sophie pulled up her skirts and knelt down beside him. She rummaged through Peter’s open bag until she found a long piece of leather cord, which she tied on either end of the stick to make a curved bow. She found a piece of dry stick, this one about the size of her finger, and looped it into the middle of the cord. Then she placed the small stick against a flat piece of bark covered with thistledown.
“Just watch,” she said, and she began working the bow back and forth. The stick in the middle of the cord spun against the bark, and soon the friction had created enough heat to ignite the thistledown. Sophie blew on the embers, which crackled and smoked and spread across the rest of the kindling. Soon they had a roaring fire. “See?”
Peter held his hand out over the flames. “Where did you learn to do that?” It was clear she had impressed him.
Sophie shrugged. “There’s a whole three-chapter section about fire-starting in the Merrie History of Robinson Crusader. I must have read the book a dozen times.”
Peter smiled. “Maybe it’s not so bad being a know-it-all.”
Sophie folded her arms. “Maybe if you read a few more books, you’d learn there are other ways to accomplish things than brute force.”
Peter sat back. “We all didn’t grow up in a perfect home like yours.” He threw a rock into the fire, which created a small burst of sparks. “Some of us were too busy trying to survive to waste our time with dumb books.”
Sophie had not expected to touch a nerve, but it seemed she had. Moreover, she didn’t know exactly what to do with the notion that she had enjoyed a “perfect home”—her life in Bustleburgh had often felt dreary to the point of suffocation. She wondered what things he must have endured in his own life to make him see her life as perfect.
“May I ask you something?” she said. Peter did not answer, and she decided to take his silence as permission. “When we were in the bog, and the nixies first appeared, they took the form of a man with great big hands and no face. The man knew you. He kept calling you something . . .”
“Worm,” Peter said, lowering his head. “He called me worm.” He pronounced the word like the vilest curse.
Sophie moved closer to him. “Who was he?”
Peter sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “The man was named Mister Seamus. He was my . . .” He shook his head, searching for a word. “He took me in when I was young. He used to keep me locked in his basement, fed me scraps and gruel. He was the one who taught me how to steal, how to survive.” Sophie remembered the scars she had seen on Peter’s body and wondered what else the man had taught him. “When I was ten, I ran away from Seamus—the Professor helped me.”
“I don’t understand,” Sophie said. “I’ve seen you brave real danger a dozen times, never once showing even an ounce of fear. What is it about this man that so frightens you?”
Peter shrugged, poking the fire with the end of his blade. “I guess some part of me is still afraid he might find me and drag me back to that basement.”
Sophie shifted and stared into the fire. Something about the way the flames moved was almost hypnotic. “If he was so terrible, why didn’t you just leave sooner?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” he said. “I used to tell myself I was afraid he would turn me over to the constable, but that wasn’t it . . .” He shrugged again. “I think, deep down, some part of me believed him when he told me I was worthless. Like I didn’t deserve better.”
Sophie stared at his face, still flickering orange in the firelight. She recalled what he had said to her that first night in the bookshop. “Wanting more out of life isn’t something to apologize for,” she said. “It’s that wanting that makes you who you are.” Before she knew what she was doing, Sophie leaned toward him and pecked him, ever so softly, on the cheek. “You deserve more than you realize, Peter Nimble.”
Peter turned toward her, his mouth open, his cheeks turning red. Even with his blindfold in place she could read the alarm on his face. She got up from the ground and ran into the trees before he could say a word.
CHAPTER THIRTY
OLD SOULS
Adventures can be funny things—one moment you might be fending off monsters and the next fending off mosquitoes. In Sir Tode’s case, he had traded just such an exciting battle for a long slog through damp, humid swamp in the confines of a rolling prison cell. It did not help that his cell mate happened to be Madame Eldritch—a less-than-stimulating conversationalist. Skirmishes and chases were one thing, but boredom was another thing altogether. Boredom is anathema to the adventurous spirit, and when mixed with hunger (as it very much was in this moment), the effect could be downright toxic. Presently, Sir Tode was curled up in a corner of a rattling wagon—the same wagon, in fact, that had brought him to the baron’s castle. After being rescued (if such a word could be used) by Inquisitor Prigg, Sir Tode found himself transferred into the bed of Knucklemeat’s junk cart, which had been refitted with bars from one of the baron’s animal cages so that he and Madame Eldritch could be jailed together.
The menagerie had been burned per Prigg’s instructions. The screams of the trapped animals had rung through the forest for what felt like hours. Sir Tode, who had been able to see the flames glowing long into the night, shuddered to imagine what pains those unfortunate creatures had suffered.
That had been two days ago, and now Sir Tode was cold, hungry, and (as we have established) crushingly bored. Knucklemeat’s wagon had not been thoroughly cleaned, and a few stray bits of junk lay scattered near the front of the wagon, along with the bookcase that connected to the Professor’s library, now sealed tightly shut. Sir Tode stared at the empty bookcase, trying not to think of the crackling fire and cozy chairs on the other side.
“You seem to have an unnatural interest in furniture,” said Madame Eldritch, who sat against the cell door in the back of the wagon. She was weaving a shallow basket out of sticks that she had pulled from passing branches.
Sir Tode glared at her. “You seem to have an unnatural interest in things that are none of your business.”
Madame Eldritch smiled in a way that made Sir Tode fear he had revealed more than he had intended. “My Taro informed me that you previously eluded capture by slipping through a bookcase—perhaps you plan to do so again? If so, I should hope you would let me accompany you.”
Sir Tode was not sure how Taro—whose lips were stitched tighter than a corset—could have “told” Eldritch anything. “Even if that were true, and I’m not saying it is, the bookcase wouldn’t open without some way to unlock the passage. I don’t suppose you have a magic bookend tucked away in that wig of yours?”
“I’ll have you know that this hair is quite real,” Madame Eldritch said, teasing a strand of auburn hair. “I cut it from the head of a wood nymph myself.”
Sir Tode rolled his eyes and flopped rather dramatically onto his belly. He stared out at the hazy jungle, wondering where Peter and Sophie were at that very moment. He tapped a hoof against the bars of the cell. “What’s come of your little turnip friend? I daresay he could make short work of these bars.”
“And your friend could make short work of this lock,” she said, resuming her weaving. “But it seems, for the moment, that we are left to our own devices.” She held up the completed basket, inspecting its shape. “Taro is occupied on other business.”
Sir Tode raised an eyebrow. “Might that business have anything to do with the Four Questions?”
The woman smiled. “It might.”
Sir Tode rose and walked toward her, stumbling slightly in the rocking wagon. “What do you want them for, anyway? You told Sophie that you only wanted to sell The Book of Who.”<
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“This is true.” Eldritch reached through the bars and took a branch from a quagberry bush as they rattled past it. “That was before I realized what the books truly were—and what they could do for me.” She inspected the berries and then put them into her basket.
Sir Tode wrinkled his nose. “You’re not telling me you hope to become a Storyguard?”
Eldritch gave a laugh of genuine amusement. “I am not interested in guarding anything. What interests me is the power sealed within those books.” She caught a golden butterfly that had been foolish enough to land on the edge of the wagon. “There are methods—very old methods—of extracting the magic from enchanted things. Of course, the process can be a bit traumatic.” As she spoke, she tore the butterfly’s wings into small bits and sprinkled them over the contents of her basket.
Sir Tode thought he understood her meaning. “You want to destroy the books,” he said. “For what?”
“You and I are not so different as you assume.” She spat into her basket and mixed the contents into a paste. “We are both old souls, born into worlds that have since fallen away. We are relics, remnants from a forgotten age.” She glanced at him and seemed to read the question forming in his mind. “Your eyes carry the restless weight of one who no longer has a true home.”
Sir Tode inched backward. “How old are you, exactly?”
“Older than I appear, to be sure.” She pulled a strand of nymph-hair from her head and added it to the basket. “Do not let my youthful bloom deceive you.”
Sir Tode rolled his eyes again. “I’m in no danger of that.” He stepped closer and sniffed the contents of her basket, which now resembled a lump of black dough. “I hate to tell you, but you’re a terrible cook.”
“This is not food,” she replied as she pulled back her skirts. Lashed to one thigh was something long and sharp.
“Is that what I think it is?” Sir Tode asked, stepping back.
Eldritch smiled, holding out what was unmistakably a unicorn horn. “I liberated it from the baron’s collection before entering the cage.” The horn looked as if it had been broken, rather than cut, from the skull. “Perhaps the last one in existence.”
“I haven’t seen a unicorn in . . . centuries . . .” Sir Tode said. All at once his mind flashed to an ancient memory of lush hillsides and thatch-roofed huts and maypoles and the sounds of dancing and music of the people in his village—a harvest celebration. He saw himself, a child of nine, seated on a rock at the top of the hill, watching his father’s flock, unable to join the other children. He heard rustling in the trees behind him. Hoofbeats on the soil. He approached the woods, his staff clasped in both hands. And there, under the orange moon, he saw her: a unicorn, watching him. The creature was magnificent, with a shining silver mane and proud black eyes. Steam rose from her nostrils in the cool air. The beast stared at Tode for one perfect moment and then retreated into the forest. Even in those days, unicorns were rare, and a sure sign of a good harvest. Young Tode had been so excited that he ran down the hill to tell the whole village what he had seen. But no one in the village believed him.
Sir Tode broke from his reverie. He watched as Madame Eldritch dipped the tip of the horn into the black dough, which sizzled on contact. “Is it true that unicorn horns can extend life?” he asked.
“It is. And that had been my hope for it at one time,” she said, examining the point of the horn, which shone black in the diffuse light. “But that was before I found myself locked in a cage and in need of a sharp point. I will sacrifice this treasure in order to gain a greater prize.”
Sir Tode flopped back down. “So you think those books will somehow grant you longer life?”
“I do not think it,” she said, dipping the horn again into the paste. “I know.”
“Have you considered for a moment that those books are important? That keeping those books safe is the only thing standing between Bustleburgh and complete ruin?”
“Bustleburgh is a den of fools,” she said without looking up. “What do I care if it lives or dies?”
“I’ve met my share of monsters. I’ve survived wild apes and sea dragons and even sleep-deprived hags. But I have never seen a creature as heartless and depraved as you.”
“Heartless?” she said. “I am only practical. Also, you seem to forget that, were it not for my intervention, you would be in that little cage still, starving.”
“If it weren’t for your intervention, we wouldn’t have this mess at all! Don’t think I’ve forgotten who it was who tried to kidnap the girl or who ambushed us in that hall. And, for the record, staying in the baron’s castle would have suited me just fine. It takes a lot more than a little starvation to put Sir Tode down, thank you very much.” Sir Tode immediately regretted this last disclosure. It was not something he usually spoke of—and certainly not to someone like Eldritch, who had a way of using even small bits of information to her advantage.
Eldritch’s eyes lit up. “But the picture becomes more clear.” She set aside her basket and moved closer. She held the unicorn horn in front of him. “If I were to grind up this horn and prepare a potion of life for you, what would happen?”
“You’d have wasted a perfectly good potion.” Sir Tode sighed, deciding that it could not hurt to tell the woman what she had already guessed. “It would seem that I can be rather, er, immortalish.”
Perhaps it would be helpful in this moment to explain some of the particulars of Sir Tode’s affliction. We have already established that he had been cursed to live out his days in the combined bodies of a cat, man, and horse, but the exact terms of this curse were a bit more complicated. To put it plainly: Sir Tode did not age. While everyone Sir Tode knew and loved died, he remained as he ever was, doomed to wander the earth until he either undid the curse or was killed. In some darker hours, he had considered finding a way to end his own life. It was in this very state of despair, in fact, that Sir Tode first met Peter Nimble—an encounter that had all but erased his desire to leave this world.
Madame Eldritch gave a laugh—one more genuine than she usually allowed. “This is irony. While I toil and murder to keep myself alive, you live forever against your own will.”
Sir Tode lurched to one side as the wagon came to a stop. The journey, it seemed, had come to a hitch. Eldritch quickly concealed the horn behind her back. A moment later, Prigg appeared at the wagon with Knucklemeat at his side. The two men had been riding horses at the front of the caravan beside a locked wagon whose car looked to be made of solid metal. What the wagon housed was unknown to Sir Tode, but he knew it couldn’t be good.
“Our party has reached a fork in the river,” Prigg said to Eldritch. “Which way do we go?”
Eldritch closed her eyes and made a show of feeling the air. Of course, her actual method for learning the direction was far simpler. Sir Tode had observed that, every time she was asked to give directions, she consulted a small scrap of root that was wrapped around her wrist. Sir Tode suspected that this bit of root was able to work like a compass—pointing her in the direction of its source.
Eldritch opened her eyes, pointing firmly to some marshland that looked to Sir Tode as if it were boiling. “This way, sir. Quickly—the trail grows fainter every moment that we linger here.”
“Don’t believe her, sir,” Knucklemeat said. “There’s not a word this one says that isn’t calculating.”
Madame Eldritch glared at the man as though she were presently calculating how she might best remove his head from his body.
Knucklemeat snorted and spat. “Sir, Kettle Bog is a well-known death trap to the hinterfolk—we march in there, and not one of us gets out. I’d advise we continue down the river and cross where the water’s calmer. It might take an extra few hours, but at least we’ll be in one piece.”
Prigg nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Knucklemeat. “See if you can’t encourage our guest to be a bit more honest in the future, hmm?” He marched off to the front of the caravan.
Knuckleme
at chuckled. “It’ll be my pleasure.” He turned toward Eldritch. “Seems like someone needs a lesson in manners.”
The woman stared at Knucklemeat, her expression softer. “Why are you even taking orders from that idiot bureaucrat?” She clutched the cell door with one hand, pressing herself against the bars. “When it’s clearly you who should be leading the caravan.” She shifted her legs, letting one of them reveal itself through the tear in her skirts.
Sir Tode, who was sitting behind her, could see that she was still holding the unicorn horn behind her back, clutched like a knife. He watched the exchange, uncertain whether he should intervene.
“I can help you,” Madame Eldritch continued. “Together we can find the books—and keep them for ourselves.”
Knucklemeat looked pleased at the prospect, and he stepped closer. “Is that so?” His face suddenly flashed to rage as he snatched a fistful of her auburn hair. “Is that so?” he repeated more loudly, and he wrenched his hand down, pulling at her mane through the bars of the cell.
Madame Eldritch screamed, collapsing to her knees. “Let go of me!” she cried, swinging the unicorn horn at Knucklemeat.
He caught her wrist in midswing. “Careful now.” He twisted her hand backward, and she screamed again.
Sir Tode watched this with a sense of building horror. “I say!” he said, galloping to the edge of the cell. “She may be a witch, but she’s still a lady!”
Knucklemeat ignored him, twisting her arm farther. “Drop the weapon, or I’ll make sure to break your hand so it don’t heal right.”
Madame Eldritch’s hand opened, and the unicorn horn clattered to the bed of the wagon.
Knucklemeat picked it up—its sharp point dripping with poison. “Genuine unicorn horn.” He sniffed it. “A bit stale.” He peered at the tip with his patched eye. “Some kinda rictus charm. And I’m guessing your plan involved plunging it through my heart.”
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 20