I had not expected an ordinary tent, but this was altogether astonishing. It felt as if I had stepped into a fairy glade, dark and cool, tiny twinkling lights of every color dancing on the air above us. They were connected to nothing, freely lending their blue or rose or yellow glow before skipping off to light another corner of the pavilion. Even the boundaries of the place were hard to describe, as there seemed to be no walls or ceiling, just a shroud of black mist encasing us in air that smelled as sweet and honeyed as an apiary.
When I had rebounded from the shock, I gazed around in wonder at the volume of attendees. Where had they all come from? The pavilion was bustling with activity, men and women, young and old, some in long black cloaks and others in shimmering gowns of ivory. To my left was a long wooden table with plenty of goblets and decanters, though food looked scarce. A banner hung over that table with a large embroidered version of the pin I wore for safe passage. But the banner did not have the I AM WRATH script across it, just the serpents. Those who hovered around that table wore the black cloaks; those in white clung to a table at the far end of the tent, near a raised dais. That table had a banner on it with a simple coat of arms, four quadrants, two with wings and two with sheep. To my right stood a third table, but it was completely empty. Nobody lingered near it. A banner hung above that table, but it was simply black and tattered, as if long forgotten.
Our entrance did not put an end to the din of conversation, and I glanced around sheepishly for any familiar faces. At last I spied Chijioke in a sea of black cloaks. His garb was far more brilliant—a scarlet coat, wide in the shoulders, with billowing sleeves and a diamond pattern down the front. He wore a small round hat, too, and his eyes glowed like red coals, as brightly as they had when I watched him doing his ferrying ceremony in Derridon.
I hurried over to him, amazed at his appearance. When he caught sight of me, he looked equally stunned.
“Ah, lass, I was curious indeed to see what the Court would make of you,” he said with an inscrutable smile.
“Make of me?” I asked.
“You cannot hide what you are in here,” he said, gesturing to the room. “No magic, no incantation, no spell would be strong enough to mask your nature. That is why I appear as I do, and why you appear as you do.”
I felt a fool as I looked down at my own frock, gasping when I found my dowdy servant’s clothes and apron were gone, replaced by an evening gown of green silk with a pattern of tiny vines. A light-as-gauze fichu was tucked around the neck, replacing the plain, sturdy one that had been there before. Chijioke had a good laugh over my surprise.
“What? You’ve done this before?” I reached for one of the goblets behind him on the table, trying to find my own reflection.
“No, but your reaction is the best I’ve so far seen. Here,” he said, taking the goblet and holding it so I could get a look at myself.
My hair had changed, too, swept up and braided into twisty ropes that secured a tall headdress of leaves and antlers. And my eyes . . . they were completely black, vast and startling, and I turned away from my own reflection in revulsion. There were plenty of other things and people to gape at. Chijioke stayed by my side, then handed me another cup, this one filled with what tasted like ice-cold honey wine.
“Where did they all come from?” I asked. “I saw no one enter the grounds. . . .”
“That surprised me, too,” Chijioke replied. “But there is a door in the back, by the judge’s seat. It leads to . . . well, lass, all kinds of places. I think the shepherd wanted a whole mess of witnesses just in case Mr. Morningside tried to wiggle out of the trial.”
I had almost forgotten that I was there to testify. Through the milling crowd I spotted Mr. Morningside and watched him proceed through the pavilion toward the dais at the other end of the tent. His magnificent suit did not transform, but he did, his image flickering as if one were rapidly turning the pages of a book and catching glimpses of illustrations here and there. One instant he was an elderly man with a curlicue beard, the next he was as I knew him, then the next he was childlike and rosy-cheeked. Before my very eyes, the Devil was showing his hundreds of faces.
“Can I hide here with you?” I murmured. “I do not want to be questioned.”
“I don’t envy you, Louisa,” he said, finding his own cup. “But my time will come soon, too.”
“And will you tell them the truth?” I pressed. “About what happened with Lee and his uncle? About Mr. Morningside’s mistake?”
Chijioke’s easy smile died and he looked to his feet, red eyes suddenly dimmer. “I . . . hadn’t thought about it. The truth seems wisest.”
“It seems wisest until it doesn’t,” I said with a sigh. “What if they leave the Adjudicators to spy on us because Mr. Morningside isn’t doing his job properly? Don’t you think whatever the punishment is, it will be for us, too?”
He nodded, slowly, raising the cup to his lips and leaving it there as if the liquid inside could give him the answers he needed. “I’ll chew it over, that’s for certain. Don’t look now, but I think you’re being summoned.”
The chatter in the tent had died down. In that silence, I turned and found a path had been cleared toward me. A tall, liquid gold figure stood in front of us. It was sexless and ageless, just the shape of a man or woman with skin like burning aurous fire.
“Louisa.”
It was Finch, recognizable only because of his voice. When I looked past him, I saw two other figures like him, featureless but gold, waiting at the raised platform. Seated there above them in an ornate wooden throne was the shepherd. He hadn’t changed a jot.
“Yes, all right,” I muttered, putting the cup back on the table and turning quickly to Chijioke. “Wish me luck?”
“You won’t need it,” he said with a chuckle. “You have your wits.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. I felt completely disoriented, assaulted from every direction with strange images. It was like stumbling onto a foreign shore and being expected to know the language and customs within minutes. Could I not stand a moment and just breathe it all in? Get my bearings? No, I was being marched through the tent, all eyes trained directly on me.
There were no words of encouragement from Finch; he simply walked ahead of me and then motioned to the empty spot next to Mr. Morningside. Gradually the conversations behind us started up again, but now I knew they were all about me.
“Well, well, well.” I glanced up at Mr. Morningside, whose ever-changing eyes swept from the antlers on my head to the hem of my green silk gown. “Are you ready?” he asked. Even his voice was strange, reflecting the different faces that pulsed in and out, each word pronounced by a man younger or older.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” He winked—or one of his faces did—and then cleared his throat, tucking his hands behind his back and beaming up at the shepherd. Three golden figures joined him by the throne, flanking him like a small army.
“Is that the third Adjudicator?” I whispered.
“Hm? Oh, no, that’s the dog,” Mr. Morningside said, rolling his eyes. He was not whispering back but bellowing all of this loudly enough for the room to hear. “Always found it ironic, making the voice of God masquerade as a mutt. Bark, bark, heed my word! Bark, bark, fire and brimstone!”
Could that thing really be Big Earl? The shimmering tall man to the shepherd’s right squared his shoulders. “Dogs are the noblest creatures in the kingdom. It is my privilege to take their form.”
“A privilege to piss on fence posts and sniff your own arse? Noted.”
“That’s enough.” The shepherd put his hand up, and both of them were silent. The only difference I could divine, looking up at the bearded old man, was that his voice sounded richer and louder, like the thunder of horses charging.
He drew in a long breath and gave his speech not with force but with a kind of disappointed melancholy. “We are here to ascertain whether Henry Ingram Morningside is guilty of dereliction of his duties. Long ago, in an effort to create peace between our two sides, it was agreed that he would ferry on the souls of the wicked and damned, that doing so would suit his dark nature and prevent crueler urges from being indulged. For our part, we agreed to look to the souls of the good, and to intervene with the wicked only in extreme cases. These are simple terms and simple duties, but they carry unsimple weight. This balance we have achieved can be broken, Henry, and the consequences of such imbalance hurt us all.”
He turned his pale eyes on me from where he sat in his throne, his legs too short even to reach the floor. “Are you here willingly, my dear?”
Oh. It was my turn to speak. I felt small and frail under the pressure of so many expectant eyes, but I lifted my chin and tried to reply as loudly as I could. “I am, yes.”
“Finch tells me you have quite the story to tell,” the shepherd said. He smiled, smug. “Do you agree to tell your truth here, when instructed, and to speak with honesty and integrity? You may refuse, Louisa, if that is your preference.”
“N-no,” I said, cursing the stammer. “I agree.”
The shepherd leaned toward me, and at once that nasty, icy feeling in my bones returned, so acute and intense that I went rigid, then felt my knees threaten to fail. I struggled to keep my eyes open as he told me in clear, short bursts, “If we suspect you of lying, you will be submitted to Judgment to discern the truth. Is that clear? We will enforce our ancient agreements by any means necessary.”
“I . . . I . . .” The cold was so terrible I was half convinced I would see my breath puff out in white clouds as I hesitated. Judgment. I knew what that meant. I knew what a lie could do, the pain and death it could bring.
“That won’t be required.” Mr. Morningside spoke up. He held up the papers I had translated, flashing them high for everyone to see. “I am submitting my own evidence. Thanks to Louisa’s marvelous skills of translation, I will soon have the location of the long-lost third book.”
He handed the stack of parchment to the shepherd, who leaned back in the throne, shying away as if the papers might pinch. “That’s impossible.”
“This is ridiculous!” Sparrow exploded. She rushed forward to intercept the papers, but Mr. Morningside flicked them away. “Theatrics, pure theatrics! This is nothing more than a vulgar distraction!”
“On the contrary,” Mr. Morningside said smoothly. “It’s entirely relevant to the proceedings. We’re here to determine my fitness, yes? My competence? The missing book and the Lost Order are linked, and I will prove it to you.” He pivoted and addressed the shepherd directly. “You cannot call into question the competency of a man who has done what you have tried and failed to do for centuries!”
The shepherd stood up and the excited noise of the onlookers died at once. He leaned far out of his throne, and as he glared at Mr. Morningside, I saw not an old man but a warrior, aged, perhaps, weathered, but glowing with as much white-hot fury as the blazing figures around him. I shrank back, afraid, regretting that I had chosen this side, and that I had ever been asked to choose one at all.
Silence. Then the shepherd broke it like a clap of lightning and something in the room snapped. “Give those to me.”
The tension evaporated. Mr. Morningside handed over my work and then said nothing, offering no more insults or mockery.
“If what you say is true—” the shepherd began.
“No!” Sparrow was quick to interrupt. “You cannot possibly—”
“If what you say is true and these findings are authentic,” he continued, dismissing her with a look, “it will indeed alter the nature of this Court. I will study what you have here, Henry, and determine the best course of action. That is all.”
The Court erupted in outrage and excitement. The reactions were quite obviously split between two halves of the room, the loudest protests coming from Sparrow, who stormed back and forth across the dais, haranguing her brother for not warning her that this was coming. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Finch, who had no way of knowing what Mr. Morningside was up to. Perhaps she had expected him to pump me for information, but I had only offered him the mistake with Lee, a dry crumb compared to the far tastier morsel I had concealed.
“Off we go,” Mr. Morningside said cheerily, taking me by the elbow and dragging me through the near riotous crowd. “Don’t need anyone trying to take your head off before you can finish that journal.”
“Should I be worried about that?” I asked, dodging the curious, penetrating looks of strangers, all of them swarming close to us as we tried to leave the pavilion. I flinched away from them, wishing I could disappear quietly, not on the arm of the person who had just caused such a flurry of anger and wonder.
“About Sparrow? No. Maybe. She’s always been an embarrassing lunatic, ever the loose cannon, but it’s only gotten worse with Spicer gone,” he told me. We at last reached the exit and he half tossed me outside and into the darkness. He followed, and instantly his appearance subsided into the familiar one with wild black hair and golden eyes. “Which reminds me, I should find out what that imbecile is up to.”
“Is he the third one?” I asked. “Spicer? I know that name somehow. . . .”
“Yes, he’s the third one,” Mr. Morningside said impatiently. He took off toward the house and I tried to keep up, worried that if I were left alone Sparrow might come looking. “His absence is conspicuous and I don’t like not knowing what it means. They probably sent him to dig up dirt on me somewhere, or maybe he’s gone in search of the Lost Order. Whatever it is, it’s suspicious.”
I was too tired to make sense of what he was saying. Once inside the kitchens, we startled Bartholomew awake. He had been sleeping by the range for warmth. I stopped at the sight of him and knelt down, rubbing his ears until he stuck his nose in the air and touched it to my chin. The noblest creatures in the kingdom.
“What are you doing? Did I dismiss you?” Mr. Morningside whirled around, looming over us with his hands on his hips.
“I want him to sleep in my room tonight, or at least outside my door,” I said sternly. “There’s a monster in the woods, someone killed Amelia, and those insane golden people want to suck out my soul if I lie! Forgive me if the thought of sleeping alone is impossible.”
His eyes softened and he glanced away, nodding as he turned toward the foyer. “Peace. Peace, Louisa. Of course. Take the dog. I suppose I have been . . . a touch neglectful of the house. Mrs. Haylam is looking into it, but I’ll do my part, too, Louisa. Take Bartholomew; I shall walk the grounds. If there is a wolf and a murderer in our midst, then they will be found.”