The Residents returned to the house. I heard them scratching and scraping outside my door, moving up and down the corridors, back to their usual evening prowls. I picked anxiously at the bandage on my finger. The spider had drawn no more than a drop of blood. The stinging had stopped, but the damn bite itched like mad. It was time to keep my appointment with Croydon Frost, and I could only hope he would leave his nasty little pet somewhere else.
“Go,” I breathed, pressed to the crack in my door, waiting for the Resident outside to grow bored and float away. “Just please, go.”
I hadn’t left myself much time to get down to the pavilion. The Court had been postponed for that evening, giving the shepherd time to look over the translations Mr. Morningside provided. From everything I had heard of courts back home, this one seemed to function much the same—slowly and inefficiently, with constant stops and starts. That suited me just fine. I dreaded the moment I would be called upon to lie or tell the truth.
At last, the Resident moved back down the corridor, stopping briefly outside Mary’s room before continuing on to the landing, where it turned right and traveled up the stairs and out of view. I gently opened the door and slipped out, tiptoeing as quickly as I dared. It was hard to escape the sensation of being watched in Coldthistle House, but that feeling had only felt more drastic lately. The Residents were particularly watchful now that Mrs. Haylam had tasked them with finding the monster in the woods. I, too, paused outside Mary’s room, pressing my ear to the door frame but hearing nothing, not even a snore. Ah well, hopefully that meant she was sleeping deeply.
I rounded the landing and hurried down toward the foyer, taking pains to be as silent as possible as I passed in front of the green door. Clouds had rolled in at dusk, threatening rain, and without the moonlight I could see almost nothing as I made my way carefully through the mansion. A whispered conversation seeped out from under the kitchen door. I had almost chosen to go that way, as it was the easiest route to the barn and pavilion, but stopped short when I noticed the voices. How the devil was I supposed to get out now? The front doors were agonizingly loud to open, creaky and huge.
So I waited once more, shimmying up close to the kitchen door and listening, recognizing Mrs. Haylam’s and Mr. Morningside’s voices at once. I had caught them mid-argument, and Mr. Morningside did not sound at all pleased.
“. . . for you to question me on this is really amazing, Ilusha. I saw what I saw, and I know what it means for us. What it means for her.”
Ilusha? Was that Mrs. Haylam’s true name? It seemed so . . . so beautiful for her, but then, everyone was young once. She paused before answering, and her voice came out in such a fierce whisper that I almost could not make it out.
“This has the marks of your mischief all over it, maskim xul, and I do not like to be left in the dark where your schemes are concerned. What would you have me do? Spirit her away? We are far beyond such contingencies.”
Mr. Morningside scoffed, and I heard him begin to pace. I pressed closer to the door, wishing I could see inside and read their body language. Instead, I could rely only on my ears. Time was passing. I needed to get out of the house and to the pavilion, but my instincts told me to listen longer and be patient. There would be no leaving until I found out who this “her” was, though the sinking feeling in my gut told me that I already knew her identity.
“Did she find something in that journal? She has been asking unexpected questions.”
Mr. Morningside responded with a laugh. “The Abediew. She knows of it. The Runner encountered one and described it.”
“Henry.”
“I know! I know.” He was half shouting now. “And I still have no idea how it got here. They were extinct well before the Schism.”
“I told you I had my suspicions about her, but you refused to listen. I’m beginning to think maybe this Court is necessary after all. This is growing beyond your control, and I will not endanger this house and all those we chose to look after just so you can assuage a guilty conscience and entertain a fancy!” I had heard Mrs. Haylam cross many, many times, but this was something else. She sounded almost desperate. Afraid. “If she is what you say she is,” Mrs. Haylam went on. “If. Then what do we do?”
“Then we take the necessary precautions. Tabalu mudutu. We can’t risk it,” he said.
Oh God, he was leaving, and he was heading my way. I flattened myself against the wall next to the door, hoping against hope that when it opened I would be concealed.
“I will protect this house,” Mrs. Haylam was saying as Mr. Morningside approached the door. “We have survived this way for a long time. Why endanger that now?”
There was movement on the staircase across the foyer. Lee. He had appeared, wraithlike and silent, on the bottom step, nothing but the wet glitter of his eyes visible in the darkness. I saw him open his mouth to say something and quickly I hushed him with a finger to my lips. A shake of the head. No. No, don’t give me away!
My heart had almost stopped. The hinge creaked as the door swung open, smashing hard into my foot. I caught the knob before it could bounce back and hit Mr. Morningside, alerting him to my position. Still, he seemed puzzled by the door and turned to inspect it. . . .
“Sir!” It was Lee. Bless him. His shoes rushed across the carpets, and when next he spoke it was just beside the door. “I, um, I had a question for you, sir, about the Residents.”
“This should really be directed to Mrs. Haylam,” Mr. Morningside muttered. He sounded exhausted. “What is it?”
“Mr. Brimble? What’s going on out here at this hour?”
They were all three in the foyer now, and Lee cleared his throat, stumbling his way through an explanation. “Well, it’s only that . . . It’s that I saw something on the third floor, I thought you might want to see it.”
“Now?” Mrs. Haylam demanded after a delay.
“Yes. Yes, now, obviously. It’s . . . urgent and all that.”
Had I become the actual wall? I had stopped moving, stopped breathing. Lee’s performance wasn’t exactly worthy of a standing ovation, but Mrs. Haylam sighed and told him to get on with it. Their voices grew softer as he led her away toward the stairs, and a moment later I heard the green door shut. Alone.
Thank you, Lee.
I dodged around the door and dashed through the kitchens, hoping I wouldn’t trip over Bartholomew and send him yelping. Mrs. Haylam had not yet locked up the house, thankfully, and I was spared the time it would take to turn my mangled spoon into a key. Moving with both speed and grace proved challenging, as I was sure it was well beyond midnight now. But I wanted to make good use of Lee’s diversion, and I managed to squeak out the back door without anyone being alerted. The grass was cool and wet as I skulked across the lawn, keeping a sharp eye out for any Residents sent to wander the grounds.
The pavilion was visible only because of its bright white exterior. Without a shred of moonlight, it was impossible to tease apart house from ground from woods. A single light remained on in Coldthistle House—it was on the third floor, perhaps the result of Lee’s haphazard lie. I owed him—more than one—and I bit down hard on my lip as I flitted across the lawn toward the tent; I knew now, and knew it for certain, that if it came time to lie and save Mr. Morningside’s reputation, if only to send the Adjudicators packing, then I would. I had no idea if Lee and I remained friends, but he deserved some kind of repayment for his help. Help I almost certainly did not deserve.
It wasn’t until I was a few paces from the tent that I noticed the soft, whispering sounds rising from the ground. I slowed my steps, picking up my skirts and squinting down at the grass. Oh God. I slapped both hands over my mouth, preventing the scream that welled up from deep inside. Snakes. Garden snakes. Hundreds of garden snakes had emerged from their hiding places, slithering quietly across the wet grass, all of them streaming toward the pavilion. I took one more step, trying to avoid the snakes, and flinched. My boot had crunched something. Several somethings. Slowly, slowly, terrified of what I would find, I knelt, looking more closely at the ground and what had snapped under my shoe.
They were worse than the snakes. Spiders. My stomach flipped over.
Run, child. Be gone from this place.
Oh, but how I longed to listen to the whispery woman’s voice in my bones. How I craved the warm cocoon of bed. Lord, I would even trade one of those too-real dreams for this black morass of snakes and spiders that gathered before the tent as if called by some unheard song. And I had seen—or rather read of—this before. Had Bennu not seen something similar?
Of course the journal was not a coincidence, I had decided that long ago, but to see first that wolf creature, then the pink foam out of my own mouth, and finally this . . . I hugged myself, hesitating at the opening to the tent, skin crawling as I stood among the eight-legged and the scaled. It was as if I were taking Bennu’s journey in some part, reliving steps of his odyssey toward . . . Toward what? I had so little left to translate. Now I wished I had stayed longer in the cellar and finished it after all.
Toward my father.
There were warnings everywhere. I checked my apron pocket, making sure the spoon was still inside. Its weight was a small comfort, for it had saved me in the past. I had been living in darkness for too long, I thought, reaching for the opening of the tent. Whether it killed me or enlightened me, I needed to know how this—Mr. Morningside, the journal, the Court—all fit together. His whispered conversation with Mrs. Haylam only made me that much more determined. They were talking about me. I had heard the fright in her voice. She was scared of me.
I took one giant step across the writhing carpet under my feet and crossed into the pavilion. It was as I remembered it, and that was a relief, though it was completely empty but for one figure. The trestle tables remained, each with its pennant, and the raised platform was there with two thrones, the space on the right side conspicuously vacant. I heard a low thrum, too, that I had not noticed before. It emanated from a curtain behind the platform, and reminded me of the purr of a cat.
Croydon Frost stood down at the opposite end of the tent, staring up at the dais and the empty space there on the stage.
I walked toward him slowly, the fairy lights dancing above me making my hands speckled with color. My clothes, transformed into the long green ball gown, shushed softly across the thick carpets laid down. The tables set for banqueting struck me as haunted now, sad and forlorn without their revelers. And the pennants that hung down, too, struck me as melancholy, particularly the one all in black. It looked more like a funerary setting than a celebratory decoration.
The path leading to my father felt like an eternity. Without the guests, the pavilion felt bloated in size, cavernous. Bleak. I glanced behind me, but none of the snakes or spiders had followed me inside.
As I neared, I remembered that he, too, would appear different, for the Court revealed all creatures, and forced them to be their true selves. I assumed he would look much like me, being a Changeling, and indeed, I noticed an adornment on his head much like mine, antlers and vines reaching high above his hair. His was a far greater crown, big enough to befit even the largest stag. He wore a long, ragged black cloak, pricked here and there with leaves, and I felt a twinge of relief when I saw that his spider was not there crawling back and forth across his shoulders.
“No spider? That’s considerate,” I said as I came closer. “I thought you brought her everywhere.”
“She doesn’t belong in this place.” Even his voice had changed; it was darker, more resonant, not loud but oddly powerful enough to send a tremor through the earth. I stopped short, suddenly afraid. He turned, deliberately, allowing me to take his full measure. There was a green mask of vines on his face, one I had seen before in a painting. He pulled it off with a harsh tug, revealing skin of smoke and ash. His eyes were large and black, with tiny red cores that found me at once. The crown of antlers was not a crown at all, but part of his head, and the hands that held the mask were long, extended by claws fit for a lion.
“She does not belong in this place,” my father repeated, handing me the mask. “And neither, my child, do you.”