Father’s chambers were the very definition of neatness. His bags were arranged in an orderly row under the window, his suits packed in the wardrobe, a leather case with rows and rows of little glass vials sitting on the desk. Most of the rooms in Coldthistle were arranged similarly, with a wardrobe to the left upon entering, a small bathing area connected to a sitting area on the right, and a writing desk beyond, the bed across from the desk and a window center to it all.
The air was thick with his now familiar woodsy cologne, though other whiffs of perfume danced across my nose. My heart raced as I tiptoed to the desk, inspecting the dark leather case. There were three rows of ten little bottles, each fixed with a handwritten label describing the scent within. This was the life’s work of Croydon Frost, a man who was probably rotting in a ditch somewhere, his face and fortune stolen by a mad god.
I peered into his bags but there was nothing of interest there, just jars of insects for his spider and a few changes of undergarments. Nothing. For a “man” of wealth and taste, his traveling style was practically ascetic. But I had seen him handling correspondence, so he must be storing his post somewhere. I returned to the desk, poking lamely at the black case. The bottom of it did seem rather thick, but no tray of bottles sprang out of it no matter what I did. Was it a false bottom?
Running my fingers over the entire thing produced no result. Out of desperation I began picking up each of the vials and checking underneath. And there it was—on the second row of bottles, third from the left, a round depression that looked out of place. I pushed down on the circle and heard the false bottom unlatch, a tray springing out from under the vials.
Stacks and stacks of letters were revealed, and I began paging through them at random. Most were leftover correspondence of Croydon Frost the actual man, for the penmanship did not at all resemble the letter I had received from Father. Underneath those notes was an expense ledger and under that a series of folded papers. I spread them flat on the desk, glancing at the door, reminding myself that I did not have all afternoon to spy through his things.
At first the pages just looked like nonsense, lists of names with lines drawn haphazardly between columns. Then I looked closer, realizing that they were not random at all but organized in chunks. Family trees. At the very top he had listed his own name and then jotted down women he had taken as lovers over the years. And, although the records went back only twenty years or so, there were many name. Dozens. I flipped the page. Hundreds. My stomach tightened, a sick feeling spreading through my body as I read the names over, searching for my mother. Most of the names were crossed off, which I could only assume meant they were dead.
The troubling part was just how many names were struck through, and the sheer number of his own children who had mysteriously died young.
My God, in the twenty years since he awoke, he has been breeding offspring and then eliminating them.
I searched desperately for my mother’s name, and in doing so came across a family tree that looked painfully familiar.
1793: Deirdre Donovan ________ Brandon Canny
Daughter: Amelia Jane Canny
Mary had killed Amelia. Mrs. Haylam had been right, only not in the way she thought she was. Was it sheer coincidence that Amelia had been here, too? That she was, God, my half sister? That was his latest kill; other girls remained between Amelia and me, and there were others after, but no other child on the list had their name circled. Just me.
He hadn’t been lying about that; he really was here for me. I had no idea if I would ever find this list again, and did my best to memorize what names I could that had not yet gotten the strike-through. Auraline Waters, Justine Black, Emma Robinson . . . I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams that I had this many half sisters. The busy, miserable cheat.
Perhaps I could warn them if my scheme tonight did not go as planned. But then, if that happened, I would not live to write those letters. I thought of all those crossed-off names and wondered if he would kill me, too, after getting what he wanted. He needed the book, and maybe he really was too weak to handle its burning touch, but once he had it I would no longer be necessary.
I left before I could be discovered, a renewed sense of purpose putting wings on my feet. It was late afternoon. Not much time now. I rushed down the stairs, breezing by one of the Residents, who didn’t seem puzzled by my emerging from Father’s room. After all, it was my job to change over the bed linens and empty the chamber pot upon request. My timing was perfect, for I met Lee just as he came scurrying out of the west salon.
“Oh thank God,” he panted. “I couldn’t keep him there much longer, Louisa. Mrs. Haylam needs me—apparently the Breens are getting squirrelly. They checked Malton and Derridon and found nothing, of course. They’re becoming convinced we know something about Amelia. She wants them taken care of soon.”
“No!” I pulled him toward the wall, lowering my voice to a whisper. “If Poppy tries to do anything, we all die, do you understand? Mary isn’t here to shield anyone.”
Lee swore under his breath, nodding and leaving me as he trotted off toward the kitchens. “I’ll see what I can do. Did your, um, chore go smoothly?”
“I found what I was looking for,” I told him resolutely. I very nearly said My feet are on the path. What had come over me? “Remember—tonight, nobody goes to the trial.”
“Right. You can count on me, Louisa. We can keep them safe.”
Then he was gone, pushing through the door and into the kitchens. I went on my way, too, rounding the corner and finding Father still tucked up in his chair, reading, his faithful spider companion wandering back and forth across his shoulders.
“I have good news,” I said with top brightness. Of course, as he turned and looked at me I made a big show of checking the room for any listeners. It was stupid, but I needed him to think I was pulling off a grand scheme for him, not on him.
His smile was wolfish as I approached, thin face dominated by that satisfied grin.
“How did you do it?” he asked, giddily interested.
I leaned over his chair, keeping a wary eye on his spider friend. “I nicked Mrs. Haylam with a knife while we prepared lunch. It was easy enough to get what I needed from Mr. Morningside after that.”
Then I winked and he practically collapsed with laughter. I shivered, remembering the ugly echo of the spiders and snakes that seemed to laugh with him outside the pavilion last night. His eyes twinkled, and I could almost see the red pinpricks there, concealed by his guise.
“I’ve hidden it in a safe location, and as soon as it leaves the house the Residents will realize it, so we must be careful. I will bring it with me to the Court and leave it under the table. Our table,” I said, making things up as I went. It was a plausible story and apparently one he believed. “Tonight, after the trial, I will bring it to you. I suggest you attend. What I have in store for Mr. Morningside will please you greatly. It will be a night to remember.”
Another wink.
“You are the sort of daughter every father hopes for and rarely gets,” he said fondly, chuckling again. With his spindly fingers he reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a long, wide slip of paper. A banknote. “There will be more,” he said, handing me the money. It was for a bank in London, and the sum was more than I could digest. Ten thousand pounds. A girl could live off that for the rest of her life.
“Enjoy it,” Father said.
While you can, I added silently. I saw the coolness in his eyes as he handed over the note. He knew it would not be mine for long, that as soon as he had the book I would be useless and therefore a burden. I tucked the banknote away in my apron pocket, folding it and sliding it against the spoon.
“I will wait outside the tent or risk being revealed,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want them to know of my return too soon.”
“Oh, trust me,” I said with a beaming smile. “Nobody will be looking at you, not when I make utter fools of our enemies. But it would be wise for you to conceal yourself. Listen nearby and you will hear me give the signal.”
Father sighed and reached up for my face, touching his thumb to my chin. I went rigid to avoid recoiling and giving myself away.
“My beautiful daughter, what did I do to deserve you?”
Nothing, I thought, my smile cracking. And everything.
If this was what a bride felt like on her wedding day, then I never wanted to be faced with marriage. But this was that permanent, that unavoidable—I had come to it, and my nerves were on fire.
“Are you afraid, my dear? You’re trembling.”
Mr. Morningside stood beside me, flickering in and out of his many faces, every color of skin, every possible combination of features. I tried to look at him, but I was racked with uncertainty, finding that courage was fleeting now that we were in the pavilion and the Court had reconvened. Instead, I looked straight ahead at the dais, at the empty spot where a third throne should be.
Had I become a radical? A rogue element? I didn’t belong at the center of so much turmoil.
“Yes,” I told him truthfully. “I’m terrified. Do you think anyone will believe us?”
One of his faces smiled, and it bled onto all those that came into view next. “Take heart, Louisa, I will be the one Judged this night. We have done all that we can. Nobody will know where the third book has gone. You burned the journal, did you not?”
“I did.” And I had. After our last meeting in the cellar library I had done as Mr. Morningside asked and tossed Bennu’s work into the fireplace. For a long time I watched it burn, feeling as if I had deeply hurt a friend I had never even met.
“Good.” He stared placidly out over the milling crowd. “Then only you have the secret. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
I flinched. This was not only the night I betrayed my father, but the night I perhaps lost Mr. Morningside’s regard. Forever.
“Just don’t forget our deal,” I said. “I did as you asked.”
One of his less regal faces lifted a brow at me. “Getting nervous I’m going to slip your net, Louisa? We put it in writing.”
“And you’ve never used a loophole to your advantage?” I asked with a snort. “You’ll really let them go?”
One eye on a new face—a sly, handsome one—winked. “You will just have to trust me, won’t you?” He paused, and I thought perhaps the conversation was over, but then he said softly, “You didn’t actually hold up your end, you know.”
I spun on him quickly. “What?”
“The journal,” he drawled. “You skipped some entries.”
“Because you told me to!” I cried.
“Don’t panic, Louisa,” Mr. Morningside said with a chuckle. “I’m just pointing it out.”
The shepherd sat low in his throne, his gold, liquid angels surrounding him, all of them in the midst of a heated discussion. The translated pages that Mr. Morningside had given him days ago were piled on the shepherd’s lap, his fist tucked up under his chin as he took counsel. I could hardly see any of it. My mind was spinning. According to Mr. Morningside, I had broken the contract, which meant he might not let us go at all.
Suddenly, my pledge to help him against the shepherd felt far less important.
Mr. Morningside said nothing about the bag hanging from my shoulder. He either didn’t notice it or didn’t care to comment. This was not a carpet in front of me but a precipice, I thought, wishing I could roll back time and do everything differently. I should have shut the door in my father’s face the moment he appeared. I should have trusted myself, and trusted that a man who’d run out on his infant daughter was not to be heard or seen or respected. I might have told Mr. Morningside Father’s secret, but selfishly I had assumed I could handle this all myself. Whether that was true or not was about to become painfully apparent.
The tent was as dazzling as ever, the fairy lights bouncing and shining, everyone glittering in their dark, beautiful robes or their ivory gowns. Even the angels burning on the stage were lovely, suffusing the back half of the pavilion with their light. The crowd of onlookers drank and laughed, though they stayed largely relegated to their own kind; no brave mingling would happen on that night.
“Let us begin.”
The shepherd’s voice boomed out over the crowd and everyone fell silent. I took the moment of distraction to break away from Mr. Morningside. He had already begun to walk toward the dais anyway. Dodging toward the long, empty trestle table with the black pennant, I stuffed the book in the flour sack under the table and then just as swiftly fell into step behind Mr. Morningside. We reached the empty space before the stage and I heard the tent flaps rustle. I glanced over my shoulder and gasped.
It was not Father, as I’d expected, but Chijioke. He ducked into the pavilion and searched the crowd with his glowing red eyes. I tried to turn away, but he had spotted me and began weaving his way toward us, pushing people out of the way when they did not move fast enough for his taste.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered, slapping his arm lightly. “Get out of here. Now.”
“Ha. Lass, the moment Lee told me we were to stay shut up in the house I knew you were going to do something stupid. The only thing I want to know is, just how stupid are we talking here?”
I shook my head subtly, for the shepherd was talking directly about the translations and eyes were beginning to seek me out in the crowd.
“Leave, Chijioke, I’m begging you. Nothing good will come of this trial. I’m trying to protect you.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” he whispered.
“I am in every kind of trouble.” I took him hard by the shoulder and inched away from Mr. Morningside. “They’re calling me forward. Look at me. No! Look at me. Chijioke, when the commotion starts you need to get out of here.”
“Louisa Ditton, come forward.”
The shepherd’s dog had summoned me, and I gave Chijioke’s shoulder one last squeeze before ripping myself away. He tried to grab my hand but I was gone, pushing through the thin barrier of people between me and the empty floor, going and taking my place, for good or bad, next to Mr. Morningside.
I felt a chill ripple across the air and knew without looking that Father had come. His eyes were on me. I clasped my hands together to keep them from visibly shaking.
“I have reviewed these journals,” the shepherd began. He looked as weary as I did, but his eyes were alert, bouncing back and forth between me and Mr. Morningside. “They are most interesting. They are also incomplete.”
“Where is the book, you snake?” It was Sparrow, obvious from the venom in her voice. She prowled to the edge of the stage, pointing at us. “Your precious Changeling pet weaseled her way out of telling me the truth of it, but that will not happen again.”
“Save your accusations for me, Sparrow; this girl has done nothing but comply with my requests—requests that serve us all,” Mr. Morningside said calmly, almost cheerfully, in fact. He plucked another sheaf of papers from inside his coat and strode to the dais, handing them up to Sparrow. She snatched them out of his hand with a grunt, taking a glance before passing them to the shepherd.
“That’s the good bit,” he said with a chuckle, rocking back onto his heels. The crowd murmured with interest, and I could feel them surging closer to our backs. “We now have the location of the third book, and once it is recovered, another Court can be convened to decide what must be done with it.”
“A pyre is its rightful fate,” Sparrow muttered. There were sounds of both agreement and dissent in the crowd. “Perhaps the Black Elbion should go on it, too, Beast.”
That drew cries of agitation from the audience. The shepherd was reading the documents and quickly, flipping through page after page after page, his eyes jumping up and down. His expression grew gradually more somber, until he reached the end, and melancholy turned to anger.
“What is this?” He drew his eyes up slowly from the page, settling them not on Mr. Morningside but on me. “Girl, you swear that this is what you read in the journals? Do not lie to me.”
I swallowed hard and drew back my shoulders, staring directly into the face of a god and lying. I had gotten good at it, apparently, after all that practice with Father. It didn’t feel good to lie, not when I was growing more and more worried that Mr. Morningside would break our bargain. “I swear it’s the truth.”
“It is,” Mr. Morningside said at once.
The shepherd gradually shifted his unseeing gaze to Mr. Morningside, squinting. “The resting place of the third book, the secret location we have agonized over for centuries, is Stoke-on-Trent? Is that really true?”
“Absurd!” Sparrow shouted. The flames of her body leapt, erupting higher as she stalked over to the throne, trying to read over the shepherd’s shoulder. “This is a diversion! A trick! Morningside knows the real location but wants it only for himself.” She dropped down to her knees suddenly and clasped her hands around the shepherd’s knee. “Let me invoke the Right of Judgment. Please, let me do it. You know it is right.”
He drew in a long, slow breath. Beside me, Mr. Morningside fidgeted, but I suspected it was just a show. Still, when I happened to look at him, I did notice a sheen of perspiration on his many changing faces. Was he truly nervous? Did he doubt that our plan would work?
While the shepherd deliberated and the crowd grew more and more agitated, I risked a glance over my shoulder. Father was outside waiting somewhere. Just knowing he was close made me tingle with fear.
“Very well.” The shepherd stood, and as he spoke, I could see tears of regret sparkling at the corners of his eyes. “Step forward, sir; the Right of Judgment has been invoked. You will give us the truth, and no lie will go unpunished.”