The Doorway and the Deep (11 page)

“You mean,” said Lottie, “it's not something you'd have to slip into Starkling's food or tea? You could just poison him from afar? Like—like voodoo?”

Mr. Wilfer raised a brow. “I'm not familiar with this
voodoo
, but yes, that's the general idea. If the components of the plant are extracted properly, all one needs is a
part
of the person to be poisoned—a hair, a tooth, a fingernail clipping—and
the work can be done. This appeals to Lyre since he has no wisp spies in the Southerly Court. And, truth be told, very few Northerly spies remain. After Dorian Ingle exposed his own allegiance by rescuing us from court, the king has been especially vigilant.”

“So the addersfork really could work,” said Lottie. “Which means I really could do my part to make things better for the wisps.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilfer. “Though you should not be coerced into it the way Lyre intends. And just because the Dulcets
can
use the addersfork does not mean they
should
. For my part, it's simply not an option. As a healer, I swore to help, not harm. I refuse to participate in the extraction process, should it come to that, and I'm not particularly proud of the Northerly healers who suggested the use of addersfork in the first place. I consider them a disgrace to our practice.”

“I
do
care about what happens on Albion Isle, you know. It's just Eliot—”

“I understand,” said Mr. Wilfer. “If I were given the choice between the well-being of the Isle and the health of my dear departed wife . . .”

Lottie went still. Mr. Wilfer had never once mentioned his late wife. Lottie had only learned about her through Fife, and even then she had been warned never to bring up the topic around the Wilfers.

Mr. Wilfer shook his head, as though bringing himself out of a daydream.

“I may not be able to convince the Tailor,” he told Lottie, “but I will do my very best.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilfer,” said Lottie, getting to her feet.

“Try to rest easy tonight,” said Mr. Wilfer, walking her to the door. “You worry far more than any twelve-year-old ought.”

Lottie fetched her lantern from its peg at the threshold. Outside, the world had grown blacker. It was the dead of night, and dawn was as far off now as the dusk before.

“I will accompany you,” said Mr. Wilfer, taking down his own lantern.

“I'll be fine,” said Lottie, even though the fright she'd felt before was creeping back in. “I got here in one piece, didn't I? After all—”

Lottie was interrupted by the sound of a terrific
thump
, just feet from where she stood. She jumped back with a yelp.

“Who's there?” she called, though her mind was already whirring fast with images of blood and bone.
Whitecaps
.

The shadows were moving—something gray against the black. Then came voices.

“It's us! It's only us!”

Mr. Wilfer shone his lantern into the shadows.

“Oliver?”

Oliver lay sprawled on the ground, covered in white dirt, bits of yew needles caught in his curly hair. It looked as though he'd fallen. Lottie shone her lantern upward to reveal Eliot sitting in the curve of a yew branch, Fife beside him. Oliver, too, must have been sitting there until the
thump
.

Lottie offered Oliver a hand, but she realized a moment too late, after she'd already knelt, that this was of course impossible; his touch would burn painfully into her skin. She retracted her hand immediately, but Oliver had seen the gesture. As he stumbled to his feet, unassisted, his eyes turned black.

“What on earth are you doing?” Lottie called up to Fife and Eliot. “Were you spying on me?”

“Eliot said you'd sneak out,” said Fife. “And of course you
would
when there's a bloodthirsty murderer at large. We weren't going to interfere or anything. We just wanted to be sure you were safe.”

“All three of you?”

“None of us wanted to be left out,” said Eliot.

“I think,” said Oliver, hobbling a step forward. “I—I think I've hurt my foot.”

Mr. Wilfer placed the back of his hand to Oliver's forehead.

“You've sprained your ankle,” he said. “Come inside. I've something for it.”

Oliver followed Mr. Wilfer into the cottage. Fife, meantime, floated down from the yew tree.

“You could've helped him,” said Lottie, pointing to Eliot, who was struggling with his own descent, feet scuffling to stay afoot on the branch below.

Fife shrugged. “He's fine.”

“Yeah,” called Eliot. “I'm fine! Fife isn't any better than me just because he can float.”

“That's right,” Fife said, tossing his hair. “I'm not better because I can
float
; I'm just
inherently
better.”

Lottie laughed, but a part of her was worried. She'd heard the little jabs that Eliot and Fife had exchanged in the past weeks, and she'd begun to worry that it wasn't all in jest. She had a horrible suspicion that they didn't get along.

Eliot eventually made it down, and Lottie hurried over to catch his hands and say in a whisper Fife couldn't hear, “You'll see your dad tomorrow.”

The way Eliot smiled at that made the twisting in Lottie finally stop.

When Mr. Wilfer and Oliver emerged from the cottage, Oliver was no longer hobbling. The blue stain of medicine rimmed his lips.

“Better?” asked Fife.

“In perfect health begin,” quoted Oliver, “hoping to cease not till death.”

“Now, straight back to the Clearing,” said Mr. Wilfer. “All four of you. No diversions, do you hear? It's not safe out
of doors until the Wisp Guard has made a more thorough investigation of the attack.”

“Has he said anything?” asked Eliot. “The guard who was attacked? Can't he tell them what really happened?”

“I expect he could,” said Mr. Wilfer, “if he were still alive.”

“He died?” whispered Lottie.

“I visited the barracks after our meeting,” said Mr. Wilfer. “There was nothing anyone could've done to prevent it, myself included. He'd lost far too much blood already.”

“But he wasn't drained,” said Oliver. “That's the thing. Whitecaps are supposed to drain their victims
entirely
. And then there's the matter of the spear . . .”

“The Seamstress and Tailor are looking into it,” said Mr. Wilfer. “It's not a matter that concerns—”

“C
hildren
,” Lottie said loudly, a scowl on her face.

“Back to the Clearing” was Mr. Wilfer's reply.

The four of them set out, leaving Mr. Wilfer behind at the cottage door. There was far less excitement in the air than there had been moments earlier. Lottie didn't doubt that the boys had followed to look out for her, but she suspected they also must've wanted more information about the day's events. Now they had been sent away with nothing to show for their efforts.

At least
, thought Lottie,
I've made my decision. I'm leaving with Eliot, whatever the cost
.

They walked two across down the path—Eliot in step with Oliver, and Lottie with Fife.

“Are you really that angry about heading north?” Lottie asked him.

“Not nearly so angry as I'm acting,” he said.

“I would go, too, only—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Fife. “Eliot's top priority. Anyway, you can't just let the Tailor sell you off to Rebel Gem.”

“When I heard he banished you, I didn't believe it,” Lottie admitted. “I didn't think anyone could be that cruel. But now that I've seen the Tailor, I—well, he really doesn't like you, does he?”

“Oh, you caught that? Good eye, Lottie.”

Fife's tongue was peeking out the corner of his mouth. Lottie knew he was using his keen to affect their conversation, but she could still tell, however cheery his tone, that Fife was sad about something.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Fife tucked his tongue back in his mouth. He frowned into the darkness.

“The worst of it,” he said, “is that I
want
to go up north. I want to see the Northerly Court. I never have, you know. But it's all got a bad taste now, because I
have
to go.”

“So you're not upset about leaving?” As she asked it, Lottie felt a pang in her chest that felt a lot like jealousy.

“Are you kidding?” said Fife. “I've been itching to leave. Following Mr. Wilfer around has been informative, I guess, but it's not exactly how I imagined it. He's distracted all the time, and he never explains things clearly. Honestly, he's a terrible teacher.”

Lottie was shocked. She hadn't ever heard the others speak ill of Mr. Wilfer. She wondered at Fife's words. All this time, at every sharpening lesson, she'd just assumed she was a bad student. She'd never considered that Mr. Wilfer might not be a very good teacher.

They were just approaching the part of the path that banked off toward the red apple tree when Oliver and Eliot stopped ahead.

“Shh!”

Oliver waved for everyone to be quiet. There were voices in the wood—at a distance, but coming closer. These voices could not belong to wisps, who spoke only in smooth syllables. They were rough and full of grit. One shouted an order. Then someone screamed.

It's the whitecaps
, thought Lottie.

Oliver nodded away from the voices, into the wood. They hurried into the cover of the trees and crouched behind a thick yew. Fife blew out his lantern. Lottie blew out hers. They sat in the dark, waiting, and Lottie became aware of just how hard and fast she was breathing.

“Should we run?” whispered Eliot, who was crouched next to Lottie, his hand resting on her shoulder.

“No good,” Fife said, peeking around the yew's trunk, then hiding himself again. “Whitecaps can smell fear, and they're stupidly fast.”

“Well, we can't just stop being afraid,” said Lottie, “and if they're going to smell us out all the same, I'd rather have a head st—”

Her words were drowned out by another scream, broken and anguished.

When the sound let up, Lottie could make out words. A woman was speaking nearby, on the path. Lamplight appeared in the darkness, only a few good strides from where they were hidden, and lit the silhouettes of four figures. Three were standing on the path, surrounding the fourth, which was stooped before them, head hung low.

“A lone guard at the silver bough?” said one of the figures. “Your Seamstress should take better care of what precious gifts she has left. The last time wisps were this careless, they lost a certain Lantern.”

“I'm not afraid to die,” said the stooped figure. “Take my life like a true sprite, Iolanthe, and may Robin Goodfellow curse you to the Fifth Sea.”

“Pretty speech,” said the woman addressed as Iolanthe, “but it's not cowardice that stays my hand. I've dirtied up my
sword with enough white blood today. You're going to be my messenger.”

“I'd rather die,” said the wisp, though his voice faltered.

“Don't be difficult,” said Iolanthe. “I haven't the time for it. You will tell your Seamstress and Tailor that this is only the beginning. Starkling will raze this wood to the ground, one yew at a time. There is nothing your people can do to stop us, so if you wish to die in peace, you won't stand between our axes and your rotting homes.”

The two other figures dragged the wisp to his feet and heaved him into the dark.

“Go on,” called the woman. “Tell Silvia that Iolanthe sends her regards!”

Lottie expected the wisp to argue, to shout back, to fight. But this time, he merely floated away in an uneven sputter. He was headed down the path in the direction of the glass pergola.

The woman named Iolanthe turned to her companions but said nothing. Lottie wondered if she was merely thinking, or if she was looking at something, or if she was listening—

Listening
.

What if this Iolanthe
knew
they were here? What if she, like Adelaide, had a hearing keen? Lottie wanted to warn the others, wanted to tell them to ready their feet to run, but she didn't dare breathe loudly, let alone speak.

Then Iolanthe moved, sweeping back a long cape and removing something hidden beneath—a jar of some sort.

“Is the silver secure, Julian?” she asked.

“It is, your reverence.”

“Then keep close, both of you.”

Iolanthe dug a hand into the jar, and Lottie realized what it was just as Iolanthe threw the powder into the air. She was using Royal Piskie Dust.

“The Southerly Palace!” Iolanthe shouted, each consonant sharp-edged.

The dust swirled around the three silhouettes in a lazy circle. Then the silhouettes were no more; they'd vanished into the darkness. All that remained was the light powderfall of remaining Piskie Dust.