Court of Shadows, Page 4

  Chapter Six

  Chijioke did not welcome the strangers with a smile.

  He brooded over the fence railing, humming a melancholy tune to himself as we drew near. I could only surmise that he had met Finch and Sparrow before, and judging by my brief interactions with her, she had also left a not-so-kindly impression on Chijioke. He didn’t so much as glance at Finch, but he did glower noticeably at Sparrow.

  “You can stay right where you are on the other side of that fence,” he said by way of greeting. Then he gave me a quick smile and a gesture. “Not you, of course, Louisa; you’re always welcome with us.”

  “The ages certainly have eroded courtesy here at Coldthistle,” Sparrow said with a theatrical laugh. I didn’t much relish the thought of climbing clumsily over the fence and making a fool of myself, so instead I simply went and stood as close to Chijioke as I could.

  Finch stopped a polite distance from us and rolled his big dark eyes at his sister. “What my twin obviously means to say is that we came ahead for the convening of the Court. We have no expectation of hospitality, but it only seemed proper that your employer knew of our arrival.”

  Chijioke nodded and slapped his floppy blue cap back onto his head. “Mighty polite of ye.”

  “Now, now, be generous,” Sparrow said, syrupy. She batted her eyelashes, but Chijioke simply stared at her. “We came a long way and we’re weary. Could we not at least enjoy a bit of tea? A nip of brandy?”

  “Ha,” he said, turning away from the fence. “No.”

  “We don’t need to ask permission, you know. We have the right of passage.”

  “Och, lady, you could have every right in your world and mine, and it could be carved on your forehead and I couldn’t be bothered. I’d sooner invite a scorpion into my boot.” He gestured to me again, and absent a stile, I was forced to scamper back over the rickety fence. At least Chijioke offered me a hand of assistance, though he never took his eyes off the well-dressed twins behind us.

  “Don’t trust them,” he whispered as he helped me down. “Not the nasty one nor the one with all the friendly smiles. They’re not our kind, and they’re not here to help, whatever they may say. Keep to yourself and keep close to the house; Mrs. Haylam says everything will be topsy-turvy with this Court going on. There’s danger afoot, lass, and we best stick together.”

  I nodded, keeping my head down. Enough problems swirled in my head; I did not need to add more to that morass.

  Before we could start back toward the house, I noticed a shadow moving toward us at great speed. It flickered in and out of sight, leaping forward invisibly and then appearing again closer to us, and then closer. It made a soft popping sound, as if it broke through an unseen barrier each time it emerged. Chijioke did not seem bothered by it, but I heard the girl Sparrow groan.

  When the shape was close enough to touch, it took solid form at last, and Mr. Morningside came through, stepping out of a black and shifting portal. He adjusted his fine cravat, walking toward the fence and the twins, never breaking his stride as he went. When he passed us, he gave a subtle wink.

  “The Beast himself,” Sparrow said, shaking her head. “We were just talking about you; were your ears itching?”

  “Not exactly,” Mr. Morningside replied. Their appearance did not seem to upset him, and he leaned jauntily against the fence, regarding the twins with a twinkle in his golden eyes. He was taller than the two newcomers, but only just. He buffed his nails on his striped coat and basked as languidly as a cat. It was strange, I thought, to see him out of doors and in the sun. It was like seeing a fish happy to be on land.

  “I thought I felt a nasty indigestion coming on,” he continued. “Then I realized it was only our esteemed guests arriving. Jostles the innards, the presence of Upworlders, doesn’t it?” Perking up a little, he turned to me and cocked his head to the side. “Did you feel it as well, Louisa? Something must have alerted you to their presence.”

  “I did feel cold and strange,” I admitted with a shrug. “Not sick so much as frozen. But I saw them, too, a great glowing shape that fell out of the sky and into the east fields.”

  “Frozen,” he repeated, lifting one brow.

  I pointed, and Mr. Morningside followed my fingers, leaning to the left to see around the twins. Then he chuckled and smoothed his hair back with one palm. “What a landing! I’m sure I remembered to warn the shepherd about the new protections around the place.”

  Finch crossed his arms over his chest, glowering. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “Intentionally,” Sparrow added. “Not the best way to begin the proceedings, Beast, given you’re the one on trial. Punishing the wicked to sate your ridiculous bloodlust should be enough, but here you are, causing even more trouble.”

  Mr. Morningside clucked his tongue, spreading his hands wide. “That’s awfully hostile, Sparrow. The Court can be more than a trial—why, I thought we could make it civil. You know, more of a meeting of the minds. We are all just trying to coexist peacefully, are we not? I’m going to throw a grand ball for you all. It will be a diverting change from your usual life of toil and sobriety.”

  “Distractions only make you look more desperate,” Sparrow replied coolly. “And more pathetic.”

  “Doubling down on the hostility, are we? That’s all right, that’s all right.” He waved off her glare and then just as breezily beckoned them across the fence. I took a step back, remembering Chijioke’s words of warning. “You’re free to come and go, though I will ask you not to interfere with my staff or their duties. We’re expecting guests of a more . . . mundane nature, and they must not be neglected. As you said, my bloodlust must be sated.”

  I saw Finch shiver at that. Did they know what went on at Coldthistle House? Was it simply accepted, even among these so-called Upworlders? I wondered if they would try to stop Poppy or Chijioke, though I couldn’t imagine them being more dangerous than the employees of the mansion. They might have wings that I could not see, but otherwise they appeared quite normal. Normal. Was any of this normal? Surely they had as many secrets as we did.

  “There is tea waiting in the downstairs salon,” Mr. Morningside continued, turning back toward the house with a flourish. “You will show them in, won’t you, Louisa?”

  For a moment I said nothing, staring at him and then Chijioke. The groundskeeper gave me a single nod and I swallowed my trepidation, waiting behind to see the “guests” inside. After a similar hesitation they breached the fence, though they did so much more gracefully than I, buffeted up and over as if on a strong, perfect wind that carried them safely to the ground. As they did, the gentle glow around their shoulders brightened and I felt another twist of cold in my guts.

  I heard their shoes whisper softly over the grass as we left the fields behind. There were fewer fresh holes in the lawn now that Bartholomew was a few months older; he seemed more interested in eating and napping than trying to dig his way back to Hell. Poppy called it “murder sleep,” some kind of ritual he had to undertake after helping her with Colonel Mayweather’s demise. Coldthistle House reared up before us like a skeletal stallion, dark and unwelcoming even awash in sunshine. The spring light never seemed to really touch the place, as if always a shroud of winter hung around it. And the house, unsettling as it was, was not to have a moment’s peace—the drive was cluttered with three teams of horses, each pulling an ornate carriage. Chijioke rushed on ahead of us, and Mrs. Haylam swept out of the front doors, walking swiftly to the descending folk, the next batch of evil souls to be reaped for Mr. Morningside.

  “Maybe the side door,” I said, changing course.

  For I did not want to see their faces. It was hard enough knowing they were all irrevocably doomed.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke the next morning in a deep fog. Somehow I made it down to the kitchens for a meal at dawn, but I had no memory of dressing myself or fixing my hair, and I could not remember tying the laces on my boots or pinning a cap to my head.

 
But there I was, sitting in the chilly gloom before sunrise, warmed only by the meager heat left by the baking ovens. The room smelled oddly . . . empty. Normally my first meal of the day saw me enveloped in the tantalizing scents of fresh scones and meat roasting for supper. Sometimes Chijioke packed the little smokehouse off the kitchen and brought in a tray of pig’s belly musky and woodsy with the perfume of oak. None of those smells met me today, not even the usual hot blast of bergamot from Mrs. Haylam’s morning tea blend, steaming away in a cup just for me.

  Today the room was odorless. Colorless, too. The fog in my head and my heart thickened, and the walls, table, and floor all looked dead and gray. I waited alone, wondering if Chijioke and Poppy had gotten an early start—there were human guests to tend to now, and that would require more work from all of us.

  I waited for a long time for Mrs. Haylam to bring me my food. Most days she appeared at once, but this was strange. . . . Where was everyone? What was taking so long?

  At last I heard her quick, clipped stride as she approached from the larder. Face cold, hair as severe and neat as ever in its bun, she did not even glance at me with her one good eye but instead slammed down a giant tray in front of me. It was laden with meat, an entire haunch of it, the shape of it still intact. I knew little of butchery, but even to my eyes it did not appear to be from swine or goat. Not mutton, then, but what . . .

  “Porridge will do,” I told her, but she was already gone, bustling out toward the foyer with a tea set.

  The meat in front of me was the only thing I could smell, pungent and unappetizing. The odor reminded me of worms, gray and watery. A knife large enough to be a cleaver was stuck into the haunch, down all the way to the bone. I picked up a small fork from the table, one that did not look at all equal to the task of tackling this monstrous leg.

  My stomach growled. Something compelled me to eat, though the thought of chewing even a single bite made my guts roil. I carved a piece from the leg, the meat flabby and limp. The carving sent a twinge through me, and while I put the meat in my mouth I felt a tear slip down my cheek. What was the matter with me? I chewed and it tasted horrid, just on the near side of rancid. I sliced at the leg again and a burst of pain exploded from my own leg.

  The chewed meat stuck in my throat. There was no tea to help me gulp down the awful stuff. I couldn’t stop the tears anymore, and my face grew wet as I tried to force another bite down. No, I could not go on. . . . It hurt too much and tasted too sickly. I cried and looked around the kitchens for help, freezing as I noticed the walls had disappeared. Where was I? What was this? The walls had become trees, gnarled and black, though they shifted, unreliable, as if dozens of figures moved among the branches. Eyes glowed from every direction, watching me.

  The pain in my leg was too much then. I pushed away from the table and tried to stand up, deciding it was better to flee. At once, I tumbled to the floor, crying out as I looked down and saw that my right leg was missing from the knee down. Gone . . . It was . . .

  The meat I had forced down came back up and I retched, weeping, floundering on the floor. The leg was not normal. It was too familiar, too sleek. . . . My own. I had eaten my own flesh. And now I was choking, dying, helpless and scrambling across the floor.

  Suddenly, from the mass of twisted trees all around me, a single figure came forward, eyes blazing like coals. It wore a crown of antlers and it spoke with a voice like thunder.

  “Wake up,” it said, reaching to help me up. “Slumber no more.”

  The world, the real world, slammed back into place with a scream. My own. I almost flew out from under the blankets, frantically pushing them down around my legs until I could verify that my leg was still there. A dream. No, a nightmare. I wiped at my face, finding it slick with perspiration and tears. An instant later the door burst open and I shrieked again, then sighed and flopped down to the tick.

  It was Poppy, eyes wide with shock, and she vaulted onto the bed beside me, placing a small, cool hand on my forehead.

  “Are you well? Is that a fever? Oh, Louisa, you do not look good, not even a little bit!”

  “That’s very kind, Poppy,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

  “I would send Bartholomew to nurse you but he is very sleepy right now. He refuses to wake unless there is meat to be had!”

  “Please,” I whispered. “Please . . . no talk of meat just now.”

  “Should I fetch Mrs. Haylam?” she asked, frowning and sticking her little elfin face right up to my nose. “You really are amazingly sweaty, Louisa.”

  “Just an unpleasant dream,” I told her with a thin smile. “I’m sure I will recover my wits shortly.”

  “Oooh,” Poppy gasped, leaning back on her knees and then twirling one pigtail around her finger thoughtfully. “Do you know, I have had many strange dreams, too! They are not all bad. Sometimes I am a fat little bird screaming into the wind on a boat. I like those ones. But some of my dreams have been distressing. Mrs. Haylam says there are dark things lurking at Coldthistle these days and that we must, must, must protect each other.”

  Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I rested back against the pillows and nodded. “Chijioke said something similar. The Upworlders don’t seem that bad.”

  Her eyes went wide again and she shoved a finger into my face, wagging it back and forth. “Shush! Shooosh, Louisa! Nobody must hear you say that. I will not repeat it but you must promise not to say that again. Mr. Morningside would be ever so cross if he heard you speak that way.”

  “Why?” I shooed her hand out of my face gently and fixed the blankets over my lap. Outside, I heard the familiar and comforting sound of the birds calling to one another as dawn broke. “What’s this Court business about? It was such a big secret and now it’s all anybody can talk about.”

  Poppy shrugged and let go of her pigtail; then she hopped off the bed and began rummaging in my chest of drawers, pulling out my usual housemaid attire and stacking it on the bed. “It is all new to me, too, Louisa, but Mrs. Haylam says the nasty Upworlders will be coming with the shepherd and his dumb daughter. They will all sit in the tent outside and decide if Mr. Morningside is too stupid to go on.”

  “Too stupid to . . .” I had to laugh, pressing a knuckle to my lips. “Well, that will certainly be a lively debate. But come now, it must be more serious than that. Is he really in trouble?”

  She nodded emphatically, braids swinging, and fetched my boots from across the room. “That mean George Bremerton got too close to hurting Mr. Morningside. There could be more like him coming, and I think that’s what everyone wants to argue about, what to do with those folk what want to hurt Mr. Morningside.”

  That made just a smidge more sense. “I see. That does sound troublesome. . . . What will happen if they decide he’s, um, too stupid to go on?”

  “I don’t rightly know, Louisa, nobody does,” she said sensibly, finishing her work and standing next to the bed with her hands crossed in front of her waist. “I only know that I don’t like when the shepherd and his angels come. They eat everything in sight and make my tummy hurt. You must promise not to like them with me.”

  “Very well,” I said, crawling out of bed. She had done such a neat job of gathering my clothes, I did not want to disappoint her with hesitation. “I promise not to like them, but only if they give me a reason. I did not like all of you at first, remember?”

  Poppy chewed her lip, swaying back and forth as she considered my question. “I think that is fair.” She dug in her own apron pocket, her small fist emerging with a folded piece of paper. “Louisa, what is this?”

  The letter. She must have found it in my apron as she gathered up my garments.

  “Just . . . nothing important. It’s a letter I meant to read yesterday.” The day had gone by in a blur, first with meeting Mr. Morningside, then being ambushed by Lee and the arrival of the Upworlders. My chest felt funny and hot as I looked at the folded parchment. Could it really be from my father? My real father? And how the devil was I suppo
sed to read it?

  “Oh, well, you must not forget again,” she said, tucking it back into my apron, where she had most likely found it. “But you cannot read it now, Louisa, there is no time at all to waste. I will help with your laces and give you a nice braid, but then we mustn’t tarry. Mrs. Haylam wants to see all of us, and she is in a cross mood. I think the angels make her tummy hurt, too.”

  Though I had been at Coldthistle House for only about seven months, it was the first time Mrs. Haylam had called us all together.

  Well, most of us. Mr. Morningside was not to be found in the early morning chill of the kitchens. I moved subtly closer to the ovens, rubbing my hands for warmth. The sun had only just appeared, and the springtime rays had yet to suffuse the house with their heat. Outside, through the open kitchen door, sheep bleated to one another in the fields beyond the fence, and just above that came the uneven, growly hum of Bartholomew as he snored. I could see nothing but his tail curled on the stones, the end of it dipped black as if he had stuck it in an inkwell.

  Chijioke stood to my left, arms crossed, his clean workman’s shirt smelling of Mrs. Haylam’s lavender soap. I was surprised to see that Lee was in attendance, standing in the corner just in front of the larder. His clothes were rumpled, though he wore a coat now, one far simpler than the gentleman’s attire he had brought to Coldthistle in the autumn. He avoided my furtive glances, eyes fixed on Mrs. Haylam, who stood before us in front of the large kitchen basin. Poppy munched on her breakfast, sitting at the table and swinging her legs.

  It all felt terribly normal, and I wondered what it would be like to have this breakfast somewhere else. In a normal place. Chijioke, Lee, and Poppy could be normal friends, if only we had mundane jobs and no violence on the horizon. Was it foolish to hope for such a thing—foolish to even consider it?