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His heart stopped, just like that, as if it had frozen stiff.
She was standing about ten feet away, staring at him. But she was not in the street. Not with the cobbles under her feet and the houses and blackened chimneys of London at her back. Behind her were trees and snow. Moonlight.
“Wot the—” Pikey breathed. In all the time he’d had the clouded eye, he had only ever seen three things through it: a long wooden staircase with a guttering light at its top; a gray-and-peeling face, leaning close, leering with red-coal eyes; and snowy woods. There had never been a girl before. Never a child in only a nightgown, standing barefoot in the snow as if it were nothing.
The girl took a step toward him.
Pikey’s brain made an odd, twisting lurch as it tried to grasp what was happening. She seemed to be above him, and he on the ground, looking up. For a second he was not sure if he was standing or falling.
He leaned against the inn’s wall, head down, gasping lungsful of frigid air. When he looked up she was hurrying toward him, her nightgown flapping. She was so pale. She seemed to glow in the darkness. One of her nightgown sleeves was crumpled and pulled up her arm, and Pikey saw that the skin underneath was twined with red lines, like tattoos. He jerked back. She stooped down.
It made him sick all over again. His stomach lurched, and he shut his eyes as hard as he could. When he opened them, she was so close he could see every pore and vessel in her papery skin. She lifted one finger and brushed it over his clouded eye.
He tried to dodge her, scraping his back on the rough stones. He tried to swat her, to tell her to keep her bleeming fingers to herself, but his hand only swept the smoky air of the street.
She was just a child, he saw, even younger than he was. She had twigs for hair, and eyes so large and black they looked like drops of ink, and—
Oh no.
He knew what she was. Not a human child.
“Get out of here,” he said, his voice strangled. “Shove off, before—”
Please, please don’t let a leadface come now. …
The girl reached for him again. He could actually feel her thumb this time, flat against his eye. He lurched forward, fists swinging.
Her hand was still on his eye, but she was not there, not in London. She did not flinch at his onslaught, and though he moved forward several steps she was still in front of him. He gritted his teeth, shouldered toward her, tried to push her. She didn’t even blink.
Then, somewhere behind her in the dark wood, Pikey saw movement, a silent rushing. The girl’s face wrinkled with fear. Her other hand came up, little fingers reaching straight for his eye.
The moon vanished. So did the trees. He was alone again in a dark and empty street.
Pikey ran all the way back to the chemist’s alley, ignoring the pain in his legs. He crawled into his hole and wrapped himself in his old blankets. The air was cold enough to freeze the skin off his cheeks, but he barely felt it. He lay in the dark, shivering and worrying. When he could bear to, he opened his clouded eye and looked out.
The girl wasn’t there anymore. Neither were the woods. All he saw was blackness and the occasional slash of light. He put his hand over the eye again and tried to think of stoves and hams and happy, smiling faces.
Finally he slept.
A sound in the alley woke him. For an instant a deep pit opened in his stomach and he was hearing the feet again, tap-tap, tap-tap, limping toward him across the cobbles. He smelled the frost and the moss and the haunting burned-sugar scent of caramel apples. He saw the blood. …
He shook himself and sat up an inch, careful not to knock his head on the boards. It was still night. He couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour. Keeping his blanket around his ears, he peeked out of the hole. He slept in his clothes of course, in his cap and jacket and three pairs of socks. But he had been cold before he had even woken up. Now he was freezing. All the warm, foul-smelling air slipped from under his bedding in a flicker of steam.
He scanned the alley, shivering. The cobbles were slick with ice, the air clear and frozen. He waited, straining to see what might have woken him.
Suddenly the dark lantern swung over the chemist’s door.
Pikey started. Something was there. Not slow and limping, but quick, moving in bursts of speed, a ragged shadow on the wall, then closer, at the newel stone of the shop.
He jerked himself back into his hole. He opened his mouth, ready to shout for the chemist, his wife, the lock picker up the lane, everyone in Spitalfields. But then he saw it.
It was the faery. The faery from Wyndhammer House. It came swooping up to the entrance of Pikey’s hole, inky feathers flowing behind it. It paused, its head snapping to and fro, sniffing. Then it focused on Pikey, and its mouth opened in a smile that was all needle teeth and sickly black tongue.
Pikey sat bolt upright, and this time he did knock his head against the ceiling.
“Boy,” it said. Not a question anymore. A confirmation. It had found him.
“What is it you want?” Pikey hissed, shooting a look at the chemist’s door. The orange light was gone from around it. That meant the fire was out. That meant it was well past four in the morning. The chemist would be waking soon.
“Go away!” Pikey flapped his hands at the creature. “Shoo! If someone sees you here, I’m dead. We’re both dead, and it’ll be your fault.”
He thought of the leadfaces. The chemist with his blunderbuss, and the faery hunters with their mouths full of spikes. A horrid panic began to tighten around his lungs.
The faery didn’t move. It stood in the entrance to the hole, still smiling that ghastly, uneven smile.
“Look,” Pikey whispered, backing up into his blankets. “I helped you at that big house and that’s all fine now, all right? No debts. You don’t have to be visiting.” He lowered his voice even further. “A faery hunter’ll come. If someone sees you, he’ll come, and he’ll put you through a meat grinder. Faeries are banned in London. Banned!”
The faery cocked its head, still smiling. Then it opened one thin-fingered hand and held something out to Pikey.
It was pitch-black in Pikey’s hole. The lantern above the shop door had long gone out, but he didn’t need it. Because the faery held in its hand a gem, large as a goose’s egg, and it seemed to fill the freezing space with its own cold, gray light. Tendrils of silver filigree wrapped around it. Its insides were deep purple, veined and splintered. Its outside was smooth as glass.
Pikey stared at the gem. Oh, that’s worth a dozen pounds, that gleamer is. Or a hundred. He could buy a caramel apple with it. He could buy a bushel of caramel apples. He could march right up to one of those pretty painted carts with the steam curling off it and the apples behind the glass, and he could buy the whole thing, aprons and all.
Pikey reached out and ran a finger over the stone.
“Boy,” the faery said again, and this time it took Pikey’s hand and wrapped it around the gem. Pikey looked from stone to faery and back again. His heart was making odd little bumps against his ribs.
“It’s for me?” he breathed. He could already see it all: running away, finding someplace good, someplace where there were thick warm socks and a stove and people who didn’t only kick at him and shoo him away when he walked too close, and—
Coach wheels rattled in Bell Lane. Iron horseshoes hammered the cobbles. The faery’s smile vanished. It looked at Pikey an instant longer, its mirror-eyes wide and limpid. Then it whirled, black wings sweeping, and disappeared down the alley.
Pikey watched it go, the gemstone heavy in his hand. The gem was very cold. But it was solid, too, reassuring like nothing he had ever held before. He wanted to laugh, holding it. He wanted to whoop and yell and dance up the alley, and tell all the few people he knew that he was richer than them and the landlord put together. He stared at the gem a second longer, cupping it in his hands and watching his breath cloud around it. Then, with a start, he realized what he was holding and clutched it to his chest. He looked sharply up the alley. He wriggled into his hole and wrapped himself in his blankets, the gem hard against his heart, like a piece of good luck.
He did not dream of apples that night, as much as he would have liked to. He dreamed of the branch-haired girl. The huge dark trees surrounded her, leaning down. Her flimsy nightgown flapped in the wind. She was walking, bent and weary, straight toward him, but she never seemed to get any closer. And she looked so sad. So sad and alone under those soaring black trees.
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N a shadowy castle at the edge of a sounding sea, a figure sat in a chair where four halls met. Water and starlight splashed through unglazed windows, but none of it touched him. The chair was high, and its back was turned so that you could not see the figure sitting in it unless you stood on tiptoe and peeked around its edge.
Nettles and Grout would not have dared peek around its edge for anything in England or the Old Country. They waited nervously, shuffling their feet, and all they saw of the figure were his long, pale fingers, toying with something glinting like glass.
“Mi Sathir?” said Nettles at last. “Mi Sathir, we did as you told us. The illusion in Wyndhammer House? All done, just the way you wanted it.”
The pale hands fell still.
“Yessir,” said Grout, trying to sound brave. He nudged Nettles in the ribs. “Very satisfactrilly, too, if I daresay. There weren’t a fellow in the room what weren’t afraid of his own shadow. And all them generals and lieutenants in Her Majesty’s Army …” He spoke the words with exaggerated contempt. “All standing there gawping. Oh, they’ll make a sight on the battlefield. They’ll be too frightened to lift a gun against you, Sathir. Won’t be much of a fight.”
The figure in the chair laughed, a high, clear sound, like a bell. Then he spoke, his voice soft and lively. “No. It won’t be, will it. They will not fight because half of them are dead, yes? You killed them when you let my little Milkblood open her door under Wyndhammer House. She’s dead, too, by the way. The leadfaces found her body under the rubble.” The figure laughed again, quietly, to himself.
The goblins exchanged looks, and if their bark-brown skin could go pallid, it did. Nettles tried to say something, choked.
“Sathir,” he stammered. “Sathir, we didn’t, we—”
“You were supposed to frighten the English,” the figure in the chair said. “That is what I told you to do. A parlor trick to give them a taste of what was to come. I did not tell you to fuel the patriotic fires of the entire country by blowing up half their aristocracy. You’ve rather ruined everything.”
He sounded as if he were smiling, as if he found it all unbearably droll.
Grout’s eyes darted to Nettles. Then he began to jabber. “No, Sathir, oh no, we didn’t fuel no fires! Leastaways, I didn’t. It was Nettles here as did. He was being horrid to the old Peculiar, called her all sorts of awful names. Oh, Sathir, it weren’t me, I swear it weren’t!”
“Go away.” The figure in the chair laughed, and the sound echoed down the four halls, chilly and gray. “Go away, I’ve heard enough.”
His long fingers snapped together. At the end of one of the halls, two women materialized, richly dressed and wearing beaked masks. One had six pale arms. The other had a key protruding from her back. They glided forward without a sound.
“What shall we do with them, Sathir?” they said, and the voices that came from behind the masks crackled like sparks.
Another laugh. One slender white hand lifted the glass object again, spinning it idly. “I don’t know. What does one do these days with people one doesn’t like? Something ghastly, I hope. Something truly ghastly.”
Hettie and the faery butler stayed in the cottage for what felt like a very long time. Hettie couldn’t decide exactly how long. There were no clocks in the Old Country, or train schedules, and even if there had been, Hettie suspected they wouldn’t have made any sense. Time in these woods seemed to run a different path. Every night Hettie would go to sleep, and every night she would wake up and wander through the house, and watch the sky go from black to very black, but it didn’t really feel like days were going by. Outside in the forest, the seasons never changed. The snow was always on the ground, and no new snow ever fell. Hettie could still see their tracks whenever she looked out a lead-paned window. The labyrinth of tracks going round and round to nowhere.
Ever since the fight with the gray-faced creature, the faery butler had become very silent. The first day they had set foot in the cottage he had propped himself up against the wall just inside the door. He had barely stirred since. To begin with, Hettie had stayed with him, close to his knife and his pale sinewy arms. But as the days went by and all he did was creep out to drink snow and eat the gray mushrooms from the cracks in the trees, Hettie decided she ought to do something else. Bartholomew would come for her eventually, but until he did she thought it would be better to be busy. And she might as well be busy exploring the cottage. The thing that had lived here was dead, after all. It was a heap of ash a hundred steps away and perhaps already completely carried off by the wind. There was nothing to be afraid of.
So one morning, while the faery butler was outside, Hettie went to the end of the passage. It was beam-and-plaster of the sort one would find in a regular cottage. At the end were two doors and a steep wooden staircase leading up. One door was painted blue. The other was painted red.
She tried the blue door first. It opened into a little room that probably ought to have been a kitchen but was utterly bare. There was a stone fireplace, which explained the chimney, and nothing else. The floor was perfectly swept. The walls, though cracked and pitted, were whitewashed. Not even the flat Hettie had lived in back in England had been so bare. At least there had been things in it, bottles and bowls and Mother’s wash wringer and Mother. Even just a spiderweb in a corner. But not here. Hettie hadn’t seen a spider since the day she had arrived. Not even a beetle. Not even a bird in the iron gray sky.
Why would such an ugly faery have such a very neat house? Hettie wondered what it had done for a living.
She walked around the room several times, looked out the window, peered up the chimney, and satisfied that it really was a bare, empty room, went back into the passage. She tried the red door next. It opened into a low, filthy room, as black as the inside of a chimney. Rubbish lay heaped in the corners. The light that forced its way through the grimy window barely penetrated the dark at all, and the air was close and foul. It smelled of moss and brackish water.
She took a few steps in. She could dimly make out a wooden chair in the middle of the room, in front of a wooden table. She took a few more steps, and looked back over her shoulder to make sure the door was still open. It seemed suddenly very far away. She approached the table. Tools covered it, and it dripped with what looked like seaweed. Hettie’s eyes narrowed. There were hammers and pliers and odd hooked instruments, and many pieces of thick, wrinkled old paper. A gust came through the door suddenly, rustling the papers, and Hettie saw that they were scrawled with writing and pictures. Pictures of eyes, eyes from all angles, whirls of ink, the veins and nerves like gnarled branches. They seemed to watch her, frowning and glaring and weeping. Hettie shivered and pushed all the papers into a heap and fled, closing the red door tightly behind her.
She didn’t go into that room after that. She would have gone into the blue room often. She asked the faery butler to come in and build a fire. He didn’t. She sat down next to him in the passage and told him he might build some chairs and a table, too, but he never answered.
Hettie didn’t mind. As long as the red door stayed closed, she was all right on her own. The necklace she had picked from the gray face’s remains was always inside her nightgown, flat against her skin, and it reminded her that the thing that had lived here was gone and would not appear suddenly in a corner or hurry down the shadowy staircase. Sometimes, when the cottage felt particularly lonely and the faery butler wouldn’t say a word, or even look at her, she took to clutching the pendant to keep from being frightened.
The metal was always cold to the touch, but the stone … It was always warm.
Hettie found the light when she went to the top of the stairs. At least, she felt fairly certain it was the light she had seen. She had first spotted it in London, in the warehouse. The light had been twinkling in the cottage’s front window then, only a few feet above the ground. Now it was at the top of a long, winding stair, in a window that looked down onto the forest from what seemed like a hundred feet up. The light had come from a candle and something had blown it out.
The candle was yellow and greasy looking. Reddish veins ran just under its surface. Hettie wondered what would happen if she lit it again. She thought of having the candle downstairs to keep the night away.
She reached out to touch it.
And then she heard a sound. Bells. Bells, ringing in the woods.
Her eyes went wide as teacups. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered. And in a wink she was running for the stairs, down, down into the cottage.
“Someone’s coming!” she shouted, leaping the last five steps. The faery butler was still propped against the wall. He didn’t move at the sound of her voice. She barreled past him.
Barthy. It has to be Barthy. He’s had weeks and weeks to find me. …
The bells were nearer now, almost in the clearing. She heard the sound of hooves, crunching through snow, and voices, and high and windy laughter. She slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack.
Not Bartholomew’s voice.
She peeked out.
Not Bartholomew.
A company of riders was coming through the trees toward the cottage. They looked all black-and-white at first—black riders on white steeds, or white riders on black steeds—and with the dark branches interlacing behind them and the snow beneath their hooves, it was as if they were a living extension of the forest itself, like stitchery in a pillowcase.
Hettie hadn’t seen much during her short life in Old Crow Alley, but she knew how horses were supposed to look, and it was not like that. These steeds had four legs and long necks, almost like horses, but their bones were more delicate and their faces sharper, and their manes and tails seemed to be made of water or seaweed or molten glass.
Pale, pointy-faced people sat on their backs. Some were tall and lean like the faery butler. Some were small like Mr. Lickerish, the wicked Sidhe gentleman who had turned her into a door back in London.
The men wore black waistcoats and black overcoats just like English gentlemen did. The ladies wore gowns of dewdrops, or dresses made of open, flutter-paged books. One, a wizened old woman, was wrapped in so many swaths of black that she looked nearly swallowed up. Her head was bent and her hands were knotted tightly through the mane of her steed.
At the head of the company sat a small faery lady with a strange smile on her face. It was not a happy smile, but it was very wide. The lady wore a dress of fish bones, sewn together with what looked like spiderwebs, and as the riders came into the clearing and halted to dismount, Hettie was a little bit afraid all the threads in the lady’s dress would snap and the whole costume would unravel at her feet.
Nothing like that happened.
The faery lady did not dismount. Instead, her steed shrank beneath her, bones grinding and re-jointing, until in its place stood a tall, mischievous-looking youth with sharply slanted eyes. He held the lady in his arms and then placed her daintily on the snow. The other steeds did the same.
The lady in the fish-bone dress looked about briefly, chin tilted to a haughty angle. Then she strode toward the cottage.
Hettie spun away from the door. “They’re coming here,” she whispered, hurrying back to the faery butler. “Get your knife! Get your knife, do something, they’re coming!”
Still the butler did not move. For a moment Hettie thought he was pondering something, but then she saw his face. His skin was stretched and ashen. Little muscles twitched in his cheek, and his green eye was wide and dull. He wasn’t going to move, Hettie realized, and her heart dropped. He was frightened out of his wits.
She glanced back at the door. Through the crack, she could see the hem of the faery lady’s dress sweeping forward across the frozen earth. She gave the butler one last angry shake. Then she slipped down the corridor and up the stairs.
She heard the faery lady knock on the open door, three sharp raps. “Belusite Number 14!” the faery called. “We come to collect.” The hinges protested.
Hettie ran, up, up toward the window and the candle. Below, feet tramped. She could hear voices everywhere suddenly, under the wooden treads, floating up the stairs after her. Doors slammed. After a few seconds the voices turned to angry shouts.
They wanted the person who lived here. And the person was not here.
At last Hettie came to the high window and scrambled up onto the sill. She looked down through the black branches at the scene below.
The faery lady had come out of the cottage and was swirling here and there, as if she were at a garden party and not in the middle of a vast, dead forest. Three gentleman-faeries were standing behind her, all in a line, not moving, and as far as Hettie could tell, not speaking. The old, old woman in her shawls and wraps was hunched against the roots of a tree.
And the faery butler …? Two horse-people had him by the jacket and were dragging him out of the cottage, his long legs trailing in the snow.
Hettie gasped. Why didn’t you run? she thought desperately. You could have hidden! You could have hidden somewhere!
The horse-people threw him to the ground. One held him in the snow with a bony, sharp-toed foot, and the other kicked him, right in the stomach. Hettie heard the scream, saw blood spatter the whiteness.
She didn’t wait to see more. Whirling, she ran from the window and down the stairs. The treads flew by beneath her feet. She didn’t like the faery butler. Usually she hated him. But he was the only thing she had left of England and home, and she wasn’t going to let him die. She reached the beam-and-plaster passageway. She crashed through the front door.
