Smoke carpeted the pavilion as the lower edges of the canvas burned away, the flames leaping higher and higher, spreading to the ceiling. The roots went suddenly slack, and I glanced toward Father—he was still out cold. I climbed to my feet, helped up by the mysterious young man who had interceded on our behalf.
The shepherd limped toward us, holding up Sparrow. Finch and the shepherd’s dog were well enough to walk, and followed, then aided us in gaining our feet. Cursing, Mr. Morningside ran first toward the front of the pavilion and then changed his mind, joining us again in the middle.
“It’s . . . it’s too hot. We cannot go that way!”
“Out the back!” Chijioke yelled, gesturing for us to follow. “And if that fails, we take the portal.”
“Where does it lead?” I asked as we moved as one slow group past the tables, the stage, and around toward the very end of the pavilion.
“Leeds Castle,” Mr. Morningside shouted over the crackle of flames. “Which is only slightly better than burning to death.”
The tattooed man at my side grabbed my hand, pulling hard. He was shaking his head, trying to speak to us, but I did not understand the language. It was like nothing I had ever heard before, and I looked to Mr. Morningside helplessly.
“Can you understand him?” I cried.
We had reached the portal, which was little more than a curtained doorway. I heard its pulsing magic behind the fabric, and wondered what lay beyond. But the back of the tent had suffered fewer of the flames, and Finch sprang forward, using his weapon-like arm to slice through the fabric and give us a way out. The smoke was rising, choking us, my eyes and mouth burning from it, heat licking at us from every direction as the fire swept toward this last safe bastion.
“Something, something, something surrounded, I don’t know. My Egyptian is not what it used to be,” Mr. Morningside muttered, shoving us toward the cut in the tent. “Yes, my friend, the flames are surrounding us, good of you to notice. Come on, whatever it is can wait!”
But the stranger was intent on making us listen, drowned out by the fire and Mr. Morningside’s calls for us to leave while we still could. We stumbled out into the night, scattering, all of us gasping for clean air as we put distance between us and the blaze. Then I stopped, panicking, whirling back toward the tent.
“No!” I cried. “We have to get Father out!”
Chijioke grabbed me and held me fast as I attempted to rush past and into the fire. “It’s going to collapse, it’s madness to go back in there.”
“He has the book,” I said, extricating myself from his grasp. “And he knows where Mary is, he must! He used her hair or her blood to impersonate her. That’s how it works. We can’t let him burn!”
Perhaps that was what the stranger had been trying to communicate all along, for he took one long look at me and bit his lip before turning and charging back into the pavilion.
“Wait!” I screamed, trying to follow. Chijioke pulled me back again. “He helped us.” It was too smoky, too hot, but I knew we could not let Father perish. I had no idea what it would mean for all the creatures of his world, of his kingdom, and I so badly wanted to see Mary again.
“I’m only doing this to get Mary back, the bastard,” Chijioke muttered. He pushed me away roughly and was gone, joining the boy in the tent, disappearing into the swallowing flames.
“I won’t let them go alone; this matters to us, too,” Finch offered, sweeping past us. His body was human for only one more instant before he, too, pushed through the opening in the tent, a flash of gold blinding me before the smoke overcame him.
“Ah. So that’s what he meant by surrounded.”
Coughing, smoke still eating at my throat, I saw what Mr. Morningside had, that three men had emerged from the darkness, each of them holding a bayoneted rifle. Lee was right; they were more than squirrelly; they were avenging Amelia’s honor. I stared into their eyes one by one, and saw only the intent to kill. They were drawn to Coldthistle House, after all. I doubted we were the first to see the ends of those rifles.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Morningside said, spreading his hands wide. Somehow he still looked dapper and self-possessed, even while covered in soot, his hair wild and uncombed. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Where’s Amelia?” Mason took a few tiny steps forward, brandishing his weapon.
Behind us, I heard the men calling to one another in the tent. There was a terrible, heart-stopping crack as one of the interior beams gave, snapping in half. The moon shone brightly above us, not full but impressively mirrorlike, its light gleaming off the metal barrels of the guns and knives.
“Can you not read, Mr. Breen? She left this place. You may search my pockets; I assure you she is not hiding in there,” Mr. Morningside chuckled. “But in all seriousness, this can be resolved without the use of arson or murder.”
“Them girls in the house didn’t say much neither.” It was Samuel Potts, spitting, hammering back his rifle and lifting it to his shoulder. “You’re a creepy bunch, eh? Who’s to say you didn’t bring harm to that girl? We’ve searched this whole forest, the whole bloody county, she’s not ’ere. What’d you lot do with her?”
A shower of fiery canvas and wood exploded into the sky, falling down on us like scarlet rain. They were running out of time in the tent and we were running out of time out here. The shepherd huddled over Sparrow, the dog curled up between them, showings its teeth and growling at the men. That seemed to make the elder Breen nervous, and he kept his gun trained on the dog, waiting for it to lunge.
I was tired and aching, my cheek bloodied, my ankles skinned and raw. My patience felt paper thin, and then it tore, a strangled cry breaking from my throat as Mason took another daring step and poked his bayonet toward me. It nearly stabbed my hand. And I stared down the gun, knowing what came next, remembering the shot as it ripped through Lee, remembering it as if I were living it again. His terrible cry. The sound of his body hitting the floor. The press of his uncle’s body against mine as he tried and tried to snuff out my life.
It would be different this time, I told myself, closing my eyes. It had to be.
“Louisa . . .” Mr. Morningside had tried to nudge me but I did not move. I was concentrating, dipping deep into what little vigor remained in my body, finding a last reserve of strength and a welcome burst of inspiration.
To become smaller was pain, most certainly; to become bigger was agony. My skin erupted, bones lengthening, flesh sprouting fur as I became not woman but beast, massive and terrifying to behold, wielding hands with claws and a snout with fangs, and purple eyes that could pierce the night. I had drawn his blood, after all, a lucky shot, a graze of the cheek.
My scream startled the men as much as the transformation, and they fumbled backward, clumsily bumping into one another as the whites of their eyes flashed. I could smell everything. Fear, the ash, the smoke, the musk of perspiration and the pine tang of the trees, the sweet grass and the blood welling from Sparrow’s wounds. The blood ignited something in this thing I had become, and I gave another jackal’s cry, lumbering toward the men, claws ripping at air and then, I hoped, at flesh.
The moonlight felt like silk on my furred body as I sprang into violence. It was exhilarating even as it was exhausting. They lost their footing as I charged, and I tore into Samuel Potts first, clawing a gash in his chest that exposed bone to starlight. More blood, and more. This form could not get enough of the rich, coppery smell. Pain seared across my left side, and I yelped, spinning, batting Mason back as his bayonet sank into my hide. There was another stab and I flailed blindly, catching the elder Breen on the chin. He flew backward, but not before discharging his weapon. The bullet was fire in my chest, the blood that poured out of the hole hotter still.
My strength was failing, my grasp on the transformation slipping. Another stab. Another. I heard Mr. Morningside bellowing at my back and I saw him, briefly, charging at the men when all their bullets had been discharged. My vision blurred, trees becoming sky becoming moon. It was so itchy all over, so warm, but then, horribly, very cold.
I reeled, stumbling, falling from hind legs to fore, and then slowly I felt small again and the pain was worse, much worse, not endured by the body of a massive beast but that of a young and frail girl.
There were voices all around me, a man’s cry of pain, and then another. I rolled onto my back and stared up longingly at the sky. The moon was so, so bright and beautiful. I tried to reach up and touch it, but there was no way to move my arm.
Mr. Morningside was suddenly at my side, trying to herd me into his lap. He shook me once, hand on my cheek.
“Stay with me, Louisa. Stay here.”
No, I thought, closing my eyes into restless bliss. It’s time.