Sorcery of Thorns (22 page)

If he replied, she didn’t hear him. She floated through the world as if set adrift in a lifeboat on a gently rocking
sea. The next thing she knew, Silas was saying, “Stay awake, Miss Scrivener. Just a little while longer. We’re almost there.”

She realized, foggily, that Silas had loaded her into a carriage, perhaps some time ago. Her head lolled. She blinked and the street came into focus beyond the windows, the grand houses of Hemlock Park rolling past.

Her eyelids sagged, and her gaze fell upon Silas’s hands,
resting folded on his lap. The claws that tipped his long, white fingers were exquisitely clean and manicured—and sharp enough to slit a person’s throat. When he saw her looking, his lips thinned. He slipped his gloves back on, whereupon all evidence of the claws disappeared.

Soon Nathaniel’s manor loomed into view. It had been
constructed at the intersection of two angled streets, giving it
a curious wedge shape. With its profusion of gargoyles, carvings, and pointed stone finials, it resembled a castle squashed down into a brooding, five-story triangle. When the carriage came to a stop, Silas lifted her out. She watched him pay the driver in befuddled fascination. How curious it was to watch someone treat him like a gentleman, not a demon or even a servant, the driver tipping his hat
in respect.

The manor’s front door had six knockers, each in a different size, shape, and metal. As Silas opened the door, he struck the plate second from the top. Though it was made of solid verdigris-flecked copper, it made no sound; instead, a bell rang deep within the house. Elisabeth guessed that each knocker corresponded to a floor, with the sixth and lowest belonging to the cellar. Silas
caught her up in his arms again, and brought her inside.

Footfalls pounded upstairs. Nathaniel appeared on the landing, taking the steps two at a time. Elisabeth stared. He wore only a pair of comfortable trousers and a loose white shirt, which billowed out around him as he tore barefoot down the stairs. His black hair was such a mess that the silver streak almost wasn’t visible. She had never
imagined him like this, unguarded,
normal,
but of course he couldn’t spend his entire life wearing a magister’s cloak and a cynical smile. Underneath it all, he was still a boy of eighteen.

Silas helped Elisabeth into one of the leather armchairs in the foyer. She was as limp and weak as she had been under Lorelei’s influence, the last of her strength spent defending herself in the alley.

“Silas!”
Nathaniel exclaimed. “Do you have my—augh! What is
that
?”

“That is Elisabeth Scrivener, master.”

Nathaniel stiffened, taking in the sight of her. Emotions flashed across his face too quickly to follow. For a moment, shock prevailed. His gaze skipped over her bruised skin and filthy clothes. Then he withdrew inward, his expression hardening.

“This is a surprise,” he observed in a clipped tone,
descending the rest of the stairs at a measured pace. “Why is she here? I thought I told you that I—” He cut himself off with a quick glance back at Elisabeth, his lips pressed to a thin line.

“She requires a place to stay,” Silas said.

“And you thought it would be an excellent idea to bring her here, of all places?”

“Look at her. She is ill. She has nowhere else to go. When I found her, she
was being pursued by criminals.”

Nathaniel’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “I suppose next you’ll be rescuing orphans and helping elderly widows across the street. This is absurd.” His knuckles had turned white on the banister. “Since when do you care about the welfare of a human being?”

“I am not the one who cares,” Silas said softly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You care about
her, master, more than I have seen you care about anything in years. Don’t attempt to deny it,” he added when Nathaniel opened his mouth. “There is no other reason why you should wish so fervently for her to leave.”

Elisabeth didn’t understand what Silas was saying, but something terrible happened to Nathaniel’s expression. He seemed to realize it, and looked away. “This is a wretched idea,”
he bit out, “and you should know that better than anyone.”

“I do know better than anyone.” Silas crossed the foyer to stand before him. “Better than you, certainly. And thus I can say
with confidence that isolating yourself in this house isn’t going to spare you from your family’s legacy. It will only drive you to ruin.”

Nathaniel’s face twisted. “I could order you to take her away.”

For a
moment, Silas didn’t reply. When he did, he spoke in a whisper. “Yes. According to the terms of our bargain I must obey any command that you give me, no matter how much I dislike it, or how greatly I disagree.”

Nathaniel stepped forward. With his far greater height he towered over Silas, who looked very slight, almost insubstantial in only his shirtsleeves. Silas lowered his eyes deferentially.
Though Elisabeth discerned no other shift in his expression or posture, Silas at once looked so ancient, so dangerous, and so chillingly polite that a shiver crawled down her spine. But Nathaniel didn’t seem the least bit afraid.

“Silas,” he began.

Silas looked up through his lashes. “Something is happening,” he interrupted. “Something of consequence. I sense it in the fabric between worlds,
rippling outward, casting its influence far in every direction, and Miss Scrivener has stood in its way like a stone. Her life is unlike any other that I have seen. Even marked by shadow, it burns so fiercely that it is blinding. But she isn’t invincible, master. No human is. If you don’t help her, this threat will eventually claim her.”

“What are you talking about? What threat?”

“I know not.”
Silas’s gaze flicked over to Elisabeth. “But she might.”

Nathaniel stood still, his chest rising and falling silently, but with impassioned force, as if he had just run a marathon and was trying not to show that he was out of breath. The color was
high in his cheeks. “Fine. She can stay.” He pivoted on his heel, waving a hand. “Since this was your idea, you take care of her. I’ll be in my study.”

Elisabeth watched as he stalked away into the dark labyrinth of the manor, back straight and features set—as his stride hitched, and he almost looked back at her. But he did not. That was the last thing she remembered before the dark claimed her, and she drifted away once more.

SEVENTEEN

E
LISABETH STIRRED AGAINST the bed’s soft sheets. She lay for a moment with her mind as empty as a summer sky, pleasantly adrift, and then jolted awake all at once, her nerves sparking with energy. She sat up and threw off
the covers. The motion disturbed something nearby, which jingled.

A silver breakfast service had been laid out on the bed beside her, glinting in the morning sunlight. Tempting aromas of melted butter and hot sausage wafted from beneath the covered dishes. Saliva flooded her mouth, and her stomach growled. Perhaps stopping Ashcroft could wait a few more minutes.

She reached for the silverware
arranged atop a folded napkin, then hesitated. She had vague memories of being washed and tended to before being lulled to sleep by the soothing motions of a comb gliding through her hair. Blood rushed to her cheeks, but she resolved to thank Silas in spite of her embarrassment. He had been far gentler with her than Hannah, and by now she was certain that when he’d expressed his lack of
interest
in human bodies, he had been telling her the truth.

As she tore into breakfast, she tried to make sense of her current state. The time of day suggested that she had slept for almost twenty-four hours. Her fever had broken. She was in the lilac room again, like last time. A black silk dressing gown enveloped her, almost exactly the right length for her tall frame, which she suspected meant it
belonged to Nathaniel. It smelled of expensive soap and a curious scent she could only identify, rather disconcertedly, as
boy
—which didn’t seem as though it should be a good smell, but was.

A realization sank in: all of her possessions were gone. She didn’t even have clean clothes. The only item in the room that belonged to her was the letter from Summershall, still folded, resting discreetly
on the nightstand. Silas must have retrieved it from her pocket. How was she supposed to fight the Chancellor when he had so much, and she so little?

A knock came on the door. “I’m awake,” Elisabeth said around a mouthful of pastry. She expected Silas, but instead Nathaniel strode in, fully dressed this time, armored in a tempest of emerald silk. Before she could get in another word, he paced
to the window and braced his hands on the sill. He didn’t seem to want to look at her. In fact, he seemed to want to say whatever it was he’d come here to say and then vacate the room as quickly as possible.

Elisabeth finished chewing, and swallowed. The pastry lodged dry in her throat.

“I should have known you’d go charging headlong into trouble at the earliest opportunity, you complete terror,”
Nathaniel said to the window. His words came out in a rush, as though he’d been rehearsing them in the mirror. “It appears that even the Chancellor wasn’t up to the task of keeping you out
of danger. Why aren’t you in Summershall? Never mind. We’ll contact the Collegium, and they’ll arrange a coach for you.” He tensed, angling his face. “What is that?”

Elisabeth had approached him with the letter
from Summershall. Reluctantly, he took the paper. Their fingertips brushed, and she noted in surprise that he had calluses on his hand. She retreated, folding her arms tightly across her stomach, suddenly conscious that she was wearing Nathaniel’s clothes with little else on underneath.

His brow furrowed as he read the letter once, twice, his gray eyes eventually lifting to hers, uncomfortably
piercing in their intensity. “I don’t understand.”

“The new Director doesn’t want me back. He’s struck me from the records.” She sank down on the end of the bed. “And I have more to tell you.”

“Is it about the threat Silas mentioned?”

“I think so. You might want to sit down.”

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows, but he compromised by leaning against the wall beside the window. Elisabeth opened her
mouth, then hesitated and squeezed her eyes shut. The words formed knots inside her chest. It was harder to begin than she’d expected. She had been betrayed too many times, by so many different people. What if she was wrong about Nathaniel, and she couldn’t trust him, either?

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Her eyes flew open. Nathaniel was contemplating her with an unreadable
expression. “It’s all right,” he said. “I know . . .” He considered his next words. “I know what it feels like to have things you can’t say. To anyone.”

A torrent of relief flowed through Elisabeth.
He isn’t the Chancellor. He isn’t like the physician, or Warden Finch.
Helplessly,
hoarsely, she began to laugh. Hysterical sounds wrenched from her body, bordering on sobs, and tears gathered at
the corners of her eyes. She tried to stop, but that only made it worse; her laughter turned into panicked gasps.

She expected Nathaniel to stare like everyone else had, as though she’d gone mad, for even she felt that she had gone mad, but instead the way he looked at her was—was—it was like turning a corner and unexpectedly meeting her own gaze in a mirror, in the split second that her startled
eyes belonged to a stranger. A shock ran through her. Somehow, he did understand. She looked away, at last able to breathe until she calmed. He said nothing, only waited.

“I
must
tell you,” she said finally, curling her hands into fists. “This is too important. Someone has to know aside from me.” She took another deep breath. “It started that first night, with the Book of Eyes, when I came downstairs
and smelled aetherial combustion. . . .”

The longer she spoke, the more a weight lifted from her shoulders. Until now, she hadn’t realized how punishing it had been to keep all of those secrets—to be the only person who knew about Ashcroft, constantly aware that if something happened to her, the truth would vanish forever.

Nathaniel listened intently, never interrupting, his expression darkening
the further she progressed. When she reached the part about the spell Ashcroft had used on her, a shadow fell across the room. At first she thought the sun had passed behind a cloud. Then she saw the emerald sparks dancing around Nathaniel’s fingers as the room plunged further and further into a midnight gloom.

She broke off. “What—?”

Nathaniel had been so focused on her that he hadn’t noticed
his own reaction. He glanced around, and went pale. The darkness retreated.

“Sorry,” he forced out. “I didn’t . . .” He struggled to compose himself. Then he said evenly, “What the Chancellor did to you—that spell—you shouldn’t have been able to recover from it. And you shouldn’t have been able to see through his illusions, either, or resist his servant’s glamour. It sounds like you have some
kind of resistance to demonic influence—which would explain quite a lot, actually, about everything that’s happened to you since the Book of Eyes.” He raked a hand through his hair, distracted. “But it’s strange. I’ve never heard of anyone . . . never mind. Go on. Why on earth are you smiling?”