Текст книги "Hero"

Автор книги: Alethea Kontis

Соавторы: Alethea Kontis
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

10

Destined for Destruction

“WHAT WAS that?” asked Betwixt.

“A very good question covering a myriad of subjects,” Peregrine said in a scholarly tone. He’d waited until they were some distance away from the armory before wiping his face with the end of his sleeve. It would have been a rude thing to do in front of Saturday. He sniffed his shirt; her smell still lingered on him. It wasn’t pleasant. The kiss, however, was another matter. Peregrine wiped his mouth again and grinned into the cloth. “Where would you like to begin?”

“Let’s start with the kiss.”

The kiss. The thought made Peregrine’s knees tingle, and every fiber in his body that wasn’t furious smiled. “Okay. So . . . you were right.”

“While that’s usually true,” said Betwixt, “that’s not the answer I was looking for.”

“Does Saturday look familiar to you?”

“Of course,” said the chimera. “She looks like Jack.”

“That’s what I thought too. At first.” They came to a split in the tunnel. Peregrine decided there was more work to do in the kitchen, so he selected the one on the left. “And then I realized I’d seen a face like hers more recently than that. So have you.”

The chimera whiffled through his beak. “I have?”

“It was her eyes that did it. Her eyes and that mad grin as we prepared to fight.”

“When you dropped your sword.”

“She looked at me with those bright eyes filled with fury, and I knew.” He’d known her then for who she was, just as he’d known his heart and soul were lost forever. He should have recognized her when the gods delivered her to his doorstep.

“You knew that I was right?”

“I knew that Elodie of Cassot was not the woman in my visions.”

Betwixt yowled. “Oh, gods. Your infernal sketchings. That was Saturday?” The catbird yowled again in affirmation. “That was Saturday!”

Peregrine balanced the tear-stained gauntlet and the torch while he lifted his skirt to maneuver around the small pillars and rock shelves in the floor. “‘Infernal.’ So apt a description.” Here and there the runesword scraped against the calcite, leaving a trail of glittering snow in his wake.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to change my shirt and wash my face. I will not be kissing that girl again until she’s had a proper bath. Then I plan on burning a few of my possessions before the witch can get her claws on them. Want to help?”

Betwixt swatted at Peregrine’s skirt with a paw. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You mean what am I going to do about being in love with Stubborn-Britches Woodcutter when I’m betrothed to another woman?”

The gryphon’s chuckle was more of a fluttery purr. “It is a dilemma.”

Peregrine raised a finger. “You’re not seeing the bigger picture, my friend. As a traitorous birdie-witch just told us, we’re all about to die. That pipe dream I had of returning to the world? Never going to happen. For once, I hope that after all this time dear Elodie was smart enough to carry on without me.”

“I hope so too,” said Betwixt. “For her sake, and yours.”

Peregrine was too wound up for serious conversation. Having reached the kitchen, he walked straight up to the shelves that contained most of his pantry items. He carefully poured the last few gryphon’s tears into an empty vial, and then slipped the vial into his pocket. The next vial he picked up and threw into the fireplace. The glass broke and spiced mold spilled everywhere. The smokeless coals began to emit strange violet fumes.

“So, since our happy, comfortable lives will be cut short in the very near future, I feel that we should live every second as if it were our last.” A hammered helmet full of dried mushrooms exploded against the back wall. Several pieces of coal shot out of the chimney alcove and sizzled as they burned shallow holes in the icerock floor. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m not so sure,” muttered the chimera.

Every piece of armor held something in this pantry, and Peregrine was of a mind to destroy it all. A pauldron of brownie teeth followed the mushrooms.

“I am free to love Saturday Woodcutter all I want. I can hug her and kiss her and fight her and reveal my deep and abiding love for her as we’re freezing to death on the mountainside or sucked through a demon hole. Which would you prefer?” He dumped out a poleyn of dried seeds he’d been saving. There was nothing to save them for now.

“You’re still upset,” said the chimera.

“Right again!” cried Peregrine. “Why have I never realized just how astute you are? We should celebrate. A shame there’s no alcohol. We could have a toast.”

“You never liked it anyway,” said the chimera.

“Not the point! But since there’s no alcohol, I say we continue burning things.” Having reached the back of the shelf, he extracted Leila’s handmade book of recipes and spells. The pages were a mixture of parchment and animal skins and other substances that Peregrine was happy not to know. Several loose sheets fluttered to the ground as he carried it to the fireplace. He snatched them back up again—every shred of this book must be destroyed. Leila herself had instructed as much in the frontispiece, and now Peregrine knew why: the lorelei needed more avenues for her power like the world below needed a waking dragon. He’d risk forgetting these tidbits of wicked wisdom in the short time they had left in this prison.

“Peregrine, I’ve never seen you like this,” said Betwixt. “Should I be worried?”

Peregrine did not answer, watching the fireplace as the flames licked the pages. The edges blackened and curled in on each other. The smoke that rose from the book was chartreuse and white, and the overpowering smell of cinnamon filled the room.

“Snip-snap-snurre-basselure. Is this a housecleaning or a tantrum?” The witch entered the kitchen through the entrance farthest from the fireplace.

Cwyn remained safely back against the wall. Smart move. Peregrine wanted to throw the pyrrhi in the fire as well. Betwixt shook his feline head in disapproval at the murderous look in his friend’s eyes, and Peregrine backed down. As a fire witch, Cwyn more than likely would have basked in the burning.

The bird’s blind mistress wandered closer, sniffing her way to the fireplace. “Dinner, perhaps? A new recipe? Or could it be . . . a spell?” This last choice made her the happiest. “I do detect the distinct presence of your handiwork! It’s been so long, I thought perhaps I imagined it. My darling daughter, walking in her mother’s footsteps! I am so proud of you.”

It wasn’t impossible for humans to perform some small magic spells, but Peregrine could evoke nothing like the elemental manipulation the lorelei played at, nor did he know how to fake that distinctive burned cinnamon smell. She had forced him to attempt working magic a few times, but the amount of energy required had drained him to the point of exhaustion within moments. He’d begged the witch to forgive the loss of aptitude she’d once seen in her daughter and allow Leila to excel at her own pace.

Now he would have to pretend he’d learned something.

“You honor me, Mother,” said Peregrine, dreading the imminent maternal contact.

The witch awkwardly hugged Peregrine, pressing her frail body against his lean, muscular one. “Tsk, tsk. So skinny,” she scolded. “We’ll have to work harder at fattening you up, my sweetie.” Peregrine attempted to block her from the fire, but she pushed him aside as she followed her nose. “What’s this?”

At the flick of a bony wrist, Cwyn crossed the room and landed on the witch’s shoulder. Peregrine wrinkled his nose at the bird in disgust. The raven squawked back at him.

“Play nice, dearies,” said the lorelei. She waved her hand; the top layer of icerock melted into the fireplace and extinguished the coal in a puff of rancid steam.

“What have we here? Lovely things. Mushrooms . . . brown-ie teeth . . . ooh, and the pungence of a nicely fermented mold.” No stew Peregrine had ever made had garnered a grin as wide as the one that now split the lorelei’s ghastly face. “And seeds. Hmm. Oh yes.”

He’d hoped that the charred seeds would be indistinguishable from the coal dust. Of more dire importance, though, was Leila’s spell book. Some things even the raven couldn’t unsee. The witch pinched the book between two blue fingers and held it up. The crisp black pages dripped purple blood.

“Cauldrons are used for more than just laundry, child. Remember that. It’s easier to alter ingredients in a pot than in the”—she sniffed the pages—“fire. Not Earthfire or coal but proper, elemental fire. Plus seeds from life yet to be, and pages from life that once was. I’ve been doing it all wrong.”

“Mother?” Peregrine hoped the witch didn’t mean what he thought she did.

The witch jumped to her feet and did a little dance. Sweeping Peregrine up into her bony blue arms she yelled in his face, “I’ve been doing it all wrong!” She kissed both his cheeks. Her breath stank of rotten brownie meat, brimstone, and chalk. Given the combination of odors already in the kitchen, Peregrine preferred kissing Saturday.

“My beautiful daughter has discovered the key! She’s a gen-ius, you know,” the witch said to Betwixt. “Shells don’t wash up too far from the tide. Thank you, my girl!”

“The key for what, Mother?” Peregrine pitched his voice slightly higher, filling his question with youthful innocence. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

“For the spell,” the witch supplied. “The only spell that matters—to open the doorway home! And you, dearest daughter, will be with me as I cross the threshold to the demon realm. We will return to the birthplace of the basselure and claim our rightful thrones as queens of our element.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” said Peregrine. “It’s your spell, Mother. This is complex magic. I’m afraid my presence will cause a disturbance.” Peregrine’s absence also meant that whatever Saturday planned, she would have to carry it out by herself.

“Nonsense, my brilliant babe! As the seed and the page, so are we the beginning and end of one life. I wouldn’t do this without you. I will have you see your mother’s triumph!”

Peregrine tried another tactic. “But I don’t have any more of these ingredients,” he pointed out. “In my . . . passion, I used them all up in this fire.”

The witch waved a bony hand over the drenched fire. “Snip-snap. I’ll just have Jack fetch them before I drain his blood for the cauldron. I think I’ll keep his eyes to replace my own. As long as there’s blood and bone, I don’t imagine the spell will miss them.”

“Poor Jack,” said Peregrine.

“You won’t mind, will you, dearest? You probably think he’s a handsome specimen, but I assure you there are plenty more men on the sea.”

“It sounds like you already have your mind made up, Mother. Who am I to dissuade you?” They were doomed. He’d come straight here and accidentally given the lorelei exactly what she needed. Peregrine had run out of ideas for thwarting her.

Betwixt, hiding on high again, was no help at all.

After a few random swats in the air, the witch found Peregrine’s cheek and patted it. “There, there. You can thank me properly later by helping me with the spell! Oh, isn’t this exciting! I must prepare. Come, Cwyn!” The witch continued her wild, swirling dance of joy, trailing her fingers along the wall to guide her way out of the kitchen area.

Cwyn did not follow right away. She stayed perched on a pillarstone by the fire, staring Peregrine down.

He stared back, thinking over his next words and actions carefully. Cwyn could not pass on his exact sentiments to the witch, but she could convey his actions through her eyes at any given moment.

Rage boiled beneath the calm he forced into his body. “This is your doing. I would never have destroyed this pantry and burned that book if you hadn’t come to Saturday spouting your messages of doom.”

Betwixt landed behind the bird, claws unsheathed. “You knew the missing pieces to the spell all along.”

The raven cackled almost as well as the lorelei.

“You’re forcing Saturday to kill the witch for you. And you’ve used me to do it.” Peregrine wanted to wring the bird’s neck and roast her for dinner.

Cwyn’s voice reverberated in his skull. Saturday could leave the lorelei to work her spell. She could let the doorway open and watch as the world burns. The choice is still hers to make.

Mind-to-mind dialogue was always painful for Peregrine, either because he had no aptitude for it, or because his brain was not used to such intrusions. He raised a hand to his pounding temples—his fingers were purple and black with soot. “She will never choose herself over the world. You know that,” he said. “You’ve known that all along.”

The bird spread her wings and took to the air. Her maniacal laughing caw echoed down the tunnels as if a murder of ravens had joined in her celebration.

Peregrine collapsed to the hard floor in the mess that had once been a fire. The only light left in the room was the one small torch he’d brought from the armory. “It seems Miss Woodcutter is not the only one destined for destruction,” he said to his companion.

Despite the cold and damp floor, Betwixt curled up beside him and placed his beaked head in Peregrine’s lap. “We can help her stop the witch. We can help her escape from the mountain before the dragon wakes. It might work.”

“And a flea might stop a giant.” Peregrine stroked the soft, downy fur behind Betwixt’s ears in an effort to calm the emotions warring in his breast. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this strongly about anything. Now that Saturday had entered his life, he seemed to be feeling everything all at once.

“When the witch dies, every spell she’s used to form these caves will falter. If we do somehow manage to dodge the falling rocks and rivers of Earthfire all the way to the cave entrance, how do we descend from the tallest mountain in the world without being frozen to death by the wind and snow?”

“When the witch’s spells break, I will have control over my form again,” argued Betwixt. “I can take you both down quickly enough.”

“It might take time before you have control again. It might take energy you won’t have because the witch has siphoned every bit of it away. Do you trust your nature enough to bet our lives on it? And then, after all of that, we’ll be chased by a very angry dragon. You know full well that surviving the dragon is impossible.”

“I’m being optimistic,” said Betwixt.

“I’m being realistic,” said Peregrine.

“Well, don’t let Saturday catch wind of your realism, or she’ll never go through with killing the witch.”

“We forfeit our lives in every scenario.”

“This is no life,” said Betwixt.

“Funny,” said Peregrine. “Then what exactly is it we’ve been doing up to now?”

“We do not live here. We merely exist. And we would have gone on doing so while the dragon slept, but it is not a life. Lives have suns and seasons. Lives have happiness and sadness and birth and death.” He lifted his wings to make great shadows on the walls. “Time rises up here to die. Down there is where it is lived, felt, and remembered.”

“And regretted.” Peregrine could not help but think of Elodie and the sweet dream of a simple life he was never meant to lead. He ran a thumb across the blue scar on his wrist and allowed himself the brief fantasy of a quest-filled future beside the giant, sword-wielding brat who’d stolen his heart the moment he’d met her.

“As you choose. That is freedom: the ability to choose. One day, I will once again be able to choose my own form. That is how I will know I am free.”

“Death is also freedom,” said Peregrine. “It seems to be the only choice left for Saturday. And for us.”

“And here I thought cats were supposed to be the annoyingly wise ones,” said Betwixt. Peregrine ruffled his fur, and Betwixt snapped playfully at his fingers. “I plan to help Saturday kill the witch, but I also plan to help her escape these blasted caves. Are you with me? If we’re going to die here on this mountain, I say we do it in a blaze of glory.”

Peregrine cracked a smile. “From the gullet of a dragon.”

11

A Nonsense Never Hoped For

SATURDAY WOKE up shivering in the darkness. She reached for her blanket, but Trix had stolen it again. Scamp.

As sleep left and reality crept in to set up shop, Saturday remembered where she was and how she’d gotten there. What she’d done to Trix. How she’d abandoned her mother. She sent up a prayer to the gods for her brother’s well-being and Mama’s safekeeping, then turned her face to the icerock floor of the armory and refused to give in to the urge to cry. She needed to get up and start saving the world. It’s what Jack would have done. It’s what Trix would have wanted her to do.

Too bad their last exchange had been a fight. Lately it seemed like most of Saturday’s conversations were arguments.

The moment she raised her head, she wished she’d had that bath. Her dirty skin crawled over her aching muscles and her head itched. It wasn’t a state she was a stranger to, but she never slept this way. Mama always made her, Papa, and Peter wash before dinner. Time-consuming as the custom had been, Saturday had grown to enjoy ending the day clean and fresh. She looked forward to ridding herself of this filth when she was done mucking out the bird’s cave. She tried not to consider the quality, quantity, or temperature of the water to come, or what dubious means Peregrine had of providing it, but he had promised her a bath, and she’d hold him to it.

He had also kissed her.

Saturday pressed her lips together. There was no more sting left from the poison, only the memory of the pressure of Peregrine’s mouth upon hers and the ghost of his warm arms around her. She had dreamt of being kissed, once when she was a little girl and once when she’d been kidnapped from Thursday’s pirate ship. She wondered now if that second time had been a dream at all.

To Saturday, falling in love was a nonsense never hoped for. Love and marriage and family would mean the end of her adventuring. She had only just begun to live her life outside the towerhouse. So far, that life had been full of swords and witches and life-or-death decisions. Kissing had no place there.

And yet, Saturday couldn’t bring to mind a tale about Jack in which he’d banished evil or bested a beast without winning the heart of some girl in the end. Saturday sighed. Did romance have to be part of the adventure? It just seemed so unnecessary and distracting.

Worst of all, she had liked the kiss. She wanted to do it again, and that annoyed the hell out of her.

Fighting with someone was so much easier than caring about him, and caring would make Saturday’s final decision that much harder. It wasn’t just herself she’d be sacrificing by killing the witch and waking the dragon; the deaths of Peregrine and Betwixt would be on her hands as well.

She stood up and collected the rake. If she could not conquer her emotions, she could at least conquer this day. A hard day’s work might not solve everything, but it would help her sort out her thoughts.

Saturday got lost on the way to the privy cave. This mountain was a piskies’ parlor, mazes upon mazes of dark tunnels and chambers in which even a kobold could get lost. She arrived just in time to do her business and avoid being burned by the cleansing fire. Clever, whoever had discovered this particular alcove. Cruel, that Peregrine had not mentioned the marsh-gas odor that heralded the cleansing fire. But then, she hadn’t gone out of her way to be kind, either. She decided to make an effort to be nicer.

And then she wondered why.

Stupid kiss.

Too bad she couldn’t leave her clothes behind to be incinerated as well. The privy cave smelled better than she did. She stayed close to the fire, missing the feel of warm sun on stiff muscles. She found a lantern and used the embers left in the wake of the privy fire to light it, coaxing them to her with the handle of the rake. She tossed the rest of the useless pebbles into Puddle Lake. She’d started keeping a handful of pebbles in her pockets to toss whenever she suspected such a mirage.

Her stomach growled angrily. Dubious of the multicolored mushrooms guarded by the bearlike rock formation, she tried to locate a place in the walls where she could chip away at the icerock. What clear ice she finally did manage to carve out melted disappointingly on her tongue. Her stomach was not fooled and loudly voiced its opinion about her trickery.

The caves wound down and around, up and through, with sometimes sloping, sometimes jagged floors and ceilings low and high. Somewhere in between Saturday realized she was even more lost than when she’d started. Tired of knocking her sore noggin on cleverly concealed protuberances and fingerstones, she sat back against the wall with the rake beside her. Someone would find her eventually. She secretly hoped that someone would be Peregrine, even though she still hadn’t decided what to say to him.

His kindness reminded her a little of Peter, always offering to help, always letting her get under his skin. Peter was compassionate without being soft, so what was it about Peregrine that bothered her so much? She should try harder to consider him as she did her brother.

Except for the kissing part.

There was a shuffling noise in the shadows, the same scurry of little feet she’d heard in the armory the night before. Curious as to the source, Saturday did not move the lantern. She remained very still. Creatures in the Wood were often brave enough to sniff her out so long as she did not pose a threat to them. Not that any creature of the Wood could have stood her current scent, but cave dwellers might be a bit more forgiving.

Tentatively, a small, ginger-furred tailless rat-thing entered the golden ring cast by the lantern. It led itself more by its whiskered nose than its cloudy eyes. Its ears were wide and pointed, like a cat’s, and the left one was missing a chunk. The light reflected off several sharp teeth. The rat-thing opened its mouth and snapped at the air.

Trix would have been able to tell her if the animal meant her harm, but Trix was not here to guide her. Not sure that she wanted it nearer, she shifted slightly. The animal backed away with a hiss and quickly retreated to the shadows.

Saturday heard a fluttering of wings from the opposite end of the cavern, but it was not Betwixt. The witch’s familiar rounded a corner and landed on a fingerstone beside her. The lantern light revealed green in the bird’s changing feathers today; the tips were the color of rich rye grass.

“Hello, Cwyn.” The greeting was raspy in Saturday’s dry throat, and she realized that these were the first words she’d spoken since waking. Yet another odd feeling. Members of the busy Woodcutter house were often expected to converse before fully leaving Lady Dream’s realm. “I don’t suppose you’re here to lead me to a fine breakfast?”

“Caw!” said the bird.

“That’s what I thought.”

Saturday moved her weary bones off the floor and dutifully followed the raven down the tunnel to the bird’s nest. The lorelei waited for her there, a ghostly vision of tattered rags dancing in the shadows up and down the corridor. Saturday tucked one of her daggers inside the waistband at the small of her back, in case the witch decided to remove the other one, in her belt.

“Shall I sing you a tune?” Saturday asked the witch, fully intending to do no such thing. Saturday had the melodious voice of a lizard. She only ever burst into song when Peter got on her nerves.

“The rocks sing their own tune,” said the witch. “When I had my eyes I did not know how to listen.”

“Perhaps losing your eyes was a blessing,” said Saturday.

“Perhaps I will cut you into pieces and eat you for dinner.” The witch licked her lips. The raven settled on her mistress’s shoulder. Her talons made deep furrows, but if this was painful the witch showed no sign of it. She looked pale beside her richly colorful pet, the yawning sockets of her eyes like puddles of shadow unable to catch the light.

“I have more tasks for you,” said the witch. “I need you to bring me seeds and mushrooms and spiced moss. And if you do not clean this mess today, my bird and I will dine on your bones.”

Saturday was suddenly glad she’d gone to Peregrine for help despite . . . everything else. “I suspect I will make a lovely supper,” she said boldly, “if a bit tough and chewy.”

“I will cook your meat until it is tender,” said the witch. “You will melt on my tongue.”

“But if you cook me, how can I find your eyes?” asked Saturday.

The lorelei grasped Saturday’s arm in an iron grip. Her seemingly frail and withered appendages were as much muscle and bone as raven’s claws. “If you do not find my eyes,” said the witch, “I will simply take yours.”

Not if I kill you first, thought Saturday. She considered the dagger in her waistband. She could do it now, dispatch the witch and be done with all of this. But she wanted to find her sword first and, if possible, a way off the mountain. She knew there would be very little chance of survival against the dragon, but she had to try.

Saturday turned her face away, but the witch’s hand found it anyway, lovingly tracing the contours with her wrinkled blue claws. “Your skin is smooth,” the witch said dubiously. Her cheeks flushed a deeper blue. She smelled of frostbite, cold and sharp.

Saturday tried to hold her jaw as arrogantly as she could. Jack, she repeated the lie to herself. I am Jack. She let her voice fill her whole chest and deepen in tone. “I should get to work.”

“Work!” The witch threw back her head and cackled at length, all soberness melting into hysteria. “Live to fail another day, Jack Woodcutter! Come, Cwyn. Your mistress tires and there is much to do.” But the raven had already taken wing, quietly riding the chilly drafts down the cavernous hall, her glowing wings illuminating the path with soft green light. “Foul fowl,” the witch grumbled.

Taking one last lungful of icy air from the hallway, Saturday entered the disgusting bird’s nest. Immediately her nose wrinkled and her eyes watered. Before her towered pile after pile of once dried, now soiled, moss, easily four times the amount there had been when she’d started. Saturday brushed her uneven forelocks behind her ears, sickened by the griminess of herself, and set to work. She lifted the rake like a club and thought about Peregrine’s armory, procured from an era’s worth of fallen warriors.

“What idiot came to best a dragon with a rake?” Amused at the images the thought evoked, she took a shallow breath. “Here goes nothing.”

She grasped the rake just below the business end and poked the handle into the moss pile. As if skewered by an invisible pitchfork, a heaping helping of soiled moss rose into the air. Ridiculous and implausible it may have been, but Saturday could not deny what she saw. It was nothing that lifted the straw, nothing that held it, and nothing that tossed it away from a pile that this time shrank instead of grew.

“I’ll be damned,” she whispered.

The soldiers in the practice yard used this expression all the time, but it wasn’t one Mama encouraged. The Woodcutters’ lives were strange enough without tempting Fate with a request for punishment. Considering her circumstances, Saturday wasn’t terribly worried. It would be considerable work for the gods to make her life more complicated than this.

Before going any farther, Saturday dropped the invisible forkful of moss and exited the cave again. She poked around in the crystalline darkness for Peregrine’s promised sacks and found them behind a large pillarstone, about thirty yards from the cave opening, far enough away that a meandering witch wouldn’t have tripped over them. Three were full of fresh, clean moss. The rest were empty. Saturday filled her arms with the sacks—it took her several trips—and then dutifully began filling them one by one.

While she worked, Saturday thought about every member of her family. She made up rhymes about them all, and what they might be doing. But she couldn’t stop her mind from constantly drifting back to the swordfight with Peregrine . . . and that kiss. On and on she worked and thought and blushed and worked some more. She considered what Peregrine had said before about the length of a “day” in these caves. Saturday could go on for hours in the Wood without getting tired. She didn’t even stop to eat unless Papa or Peter reminded her. If left to her own devices, exactly how long might a full day’s work be?

The chill air kept Saturday from sweating profusely, but she was forced to stop and carve untainted ice chunks from the wall as she grew more and more weary. Saturday filled fewer and fewer sacks between breaks until, finally, her body gave up.

She woke to water splashing in her face and a chunk of ice wrapped in linen at the base of her neck.

“Wake up, Woodcutter. You’re too big for me to carry, and you’re no good to me dead.”

Wasn’t she? Without her, the witch would have her blasted stew, may it give her heartburn and spoil her stomach and ruin her spells. Peregrine and Betwixt could continue on with their freedom to live, if not their true freedom. Freedom. Sword. Water. Trix.

“Trix,” she croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. If I’d known you were going to wake up and work yourself to the bone straight off, I would have left you some food. Why didn’t you come find us first?” Droplets of water on her face again. “No, no, come back to me. Here, drink this.”

Saturday could not manage to open her eyes, but she knew a cup of cool water in her hands when she felt it. She drained it.

“More,” she croaked, but her stomach was louder.

“This first.” The cup was ripped from her reluctant hands and replaced with bread. Gods of heaven and earth, a small roll of bread. Saturday could imagine it was still warm from her mother’s oven. In her kitchen. At home. On a winter’s day. Or maybe Friday had baked this one, because it was chalky and flat and had a funny spice to it. Her chair at the table was freezing.

“Peter, shut the door.”

There was a crack and a sting in her cheek as Peregrine slapped her.

Saturday’s eyes flew open. In the next heartbeat, she had her dagger pointed at his throat.