The Flame in the Mist (36 page)

“Dreams?” Berola sneered. “An’ what do your
parents
know? They din’t exactly help you when you was up there, did they, for all their so-called Powers!”

“Please, you must believe me! The more you’re behind me, the stronger I’ll be, and the better my chances. I need your support, your blessing. We
will
get them back, Digby and I—”

“Digby? You in’t takin’ him too!” Berola stood, her eyes piercing the gloom.

The door opened, and Digby came in, accompanied by a snap of cold air. His face instantly registered his parents’ mood.

“Ma, Pa,” he said, “what’s goin’ on?”

“They blame me for what’s happened,” said Jemma.

“Jem’s come to help us,” Digby said, walking to the table. “You know that!”

“An’ you think, do you,” said Gordo, his voice bristling, “that we’d trust her? She should’a stayed in the castle, where she belonged!”

“But how can you say that? We was agreed—Jemma’s our best hope!”

“What do you know, boy?” Gordo leapt to his feet, fists clenched.

“I know you’re bein’ bull-headed, you and Ma!”

“Us? What about you, bringin’ that huffy young miss here?”

Suddenly, Jemma saw in her mind’s eye what had happened: the Agromonds, taking a piece of clothing from the triplets and twisting it, to twist the minds of those nearest and dearest to their little victims—an added act of cruelty. It had infected Gordo and his wife—and Digby was in danger of being drawn into it. “Digby,” she said, “your folks are under some kind of spell. It’s confusing them, making everything worse. Careful … It’s getting to you too.”

“Me?” Digby scratched his head. “Rotten rhubarb! I think you’re right.…”

“A spell, makin’ everything worse?” Berola said, thumping the table. “How dare you! As if anythin’ could be worse than losin’ our little ’uns! You’re a fine one, you are—”

“Ma, stop it!” Digby yelled. “It’s not Jemma’s fault—this in’t like you!”

Jemma drew in her breath as Digby and his parents stood glaring at each other. How could she break the sorcery? How was it connecting to them? She narrowed her eyes. Something that looked like thin dark strands of smoke was snaking between the three Goodfellows, dividing and tightening into a finer web. Remembering her parents’ instruction, she focused hard, and imagined golden Light infusing the strands, dissolving them and banishing the soupy gray.

“Let no more come without permission!” she proclaimed. “So be it!”

The room seemed to exhale, as if even the furniture were
relaxing. Digby shook himself, and Gordo and Berola blinked as if they’d just awoken.

“Why, Jemma, lass—you’re here!” said Berola. “When did you arrive?”

Jemma heaved a sigh of relief. “A few moments ago.”

“Bless you, bless you!” Berola waddled over and gave her a hug. “Thank you for comin’, an’ so fast! We been at our wits’ end these past days, haven’t we, Gordo?”

“That we have.” The furrows on Gordo’s face seemed to have deepened since Jemma had last seen him, drawing his normally jovial expression downward. “Any ideas, about, you know … gettin’ ’em back?”

Jemma shook her head. “We couldn’t plan when we were coming through the Mist. It would have read our intentions.”

“Well, here’s a thought,” said Digby. “Tomorrow’s delivery day. We can take you in the cart with us, Jem—”

“You’re still going to make deliveries, even though they took the triplets?”

“Why, yes,” said Berola, sitting again. “First off, they prob’ly don’t even know they’s our little ’uns, since they took ’em from a diff’rent village. Second, if the Agromonds don’t get food, neither does Flora, Simon, an’ Tiny.”

“Oh. Of course.” Jemma felt her face flush. “Sorry, Mrs. Goodfellow. I wasn’t thinking.”

“S’all right,” Berola said. “An’ it’s Berola to you, lass.”

“So,” Digby continued, “we get you into the yard, then once Pa an’ me finish our deliverin’, I’ll stay behind with you an’ hide out—”

“No, no, no!” Berola interrupted. “Not you too! What if you was to get caught? To lose all four of you—”

“Ma, them’s our little ’uns, an’ if Jem is good enough to rescue ’em for us, then I’m stickin’ by her. It’s only right!”

“But Digby, I couldn’t bear it if …” Berola bit her lip.

“I can help, Ma! We have a better chance of gettin’ the squibs back with two of us than if it’s just Jemma. I know it.”

“They’re right, Berola, love,” Gordo said. “It’s all or nothin’. We must give ’em both our blessin’.”

Berola hung her head for a second, then attempted a smile. “Right, then. You’d best get on with plannin’, hadn’t you? I’ll get the stove goin’ an’ make us some soup.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Digby squeezed her shoulder, then turned to Jemma. “So, like I was sayin’ …”

They planned as Berola cooked. Though hiding out in the stables was safe enough for Digby, it would be too dangerous for her, Jemma said; what if Rue was at the Dwellings, and saw her, or even just
sensed
her, as she’d said she could? It would be best if she waited in the castle. (“That means smugglin’ you in,” Digby said, “ ’cause that Shade creature’s been there the last few times, bossin’ us around.”) They agreed that, after an hour or so, Digby would join Jemma in the Vat Room, where they’d stay until after dark. Then Jemma could sneak upstairs and take the keys from Nocturna’s room.

“It won’t be the first time I’ve stolen from her while she was asleep,” Jemma said, flinching as she remembered. “I’ve done it once, I can do it again.”

“That’s the girl! Then Pa comes back with the cart … we free the little ’uns … and away we go! Sounds simple enough, don’t it?”

“It does, lad, it does.” Gordo nodded in agreement. “We’ll soon have our babies back, Berola, love, you’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right.” Berola sighed, stirring the pot. “I hope you’re right.”

Jemma snuggled into Flora’s bed, her stomach pleasantly warmed by Berola’s soup. She was grateful to be facing this rescue with Digby, but the thought of being back at the castle without Noodle and Pie weighed heavy in her heart. Majem’s missing book niggled in the back of her mind too. Even without the cloak, crystals, and book, which the Stoat River had claimed, she would have felt more confident with
The Forgotten Song
in her pocket.

She clutched her Stone for reassurance, but trepidation wove through her. The Prophecy felt like a heavy wagon poised at the top of a steep hill with her on it, and any moment now it would start rolling downward, gathering speed as it went, with no way to stop it.

The night hours dragged by, marked by the distant toll from Agromond Castle. Jemma drifted in and out of a restless doze. Images tumbled through her head: the rats, floating in nothingness; voices fragmenting, echoing; Agromond faces, looming and receding; three luminous orbs, being swallowed into Mist and darkness. Three orbs. Flora, Simon, Tiny. Finally, five distant clangs roused her, and she dragged herself out of bed.

She pulled on Digby’s old brown breeches and off-white shirt, then stumbled down to the kitchen and gobbled half a bowl of porridge before following Berola and Gordo out into the gray dawn and across the yard to the stables. Digby was adjusting Pepper’s harness, having already loaded the cart with supplies. Dark circles ringed his eyes.

“Dig, you look exhausted,” said Jemma. “Did you sleep at all?”

“I’ll be fine. How ’bout you, though? You look a bit rough.”

“I’m all right. Just …”

“It’s the Prophecy, in’t it?”

Jemma nodded. “It scares the daylights out of me, Dig. But even after we’ve rescued the triplets”—
If we do
, she thought—“the Agromonds won’t stop at this. There’ll be others … and I’m the one who’s supposed to put an end to their tyranny, but I don’t have a clue how.”

“One step at a time, eh?” he said. “We’ll cross other bridges when we come to ’em. Let’s jus’ keep seein’ the outcome in our minds. Reckon that’s what Marsh’d say, don’t you?”

“I reckon,” said Jemma, feeling comforted by his saying “we.” She pulled a carrot from her pocket and fed it to Pepper, who snorted and tossed her head.

Berola waddled over and hugged Jemma. “You jus’ come back to us safe an’ sound, you hear?” she said. “All of you.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Jemma.

“Aye,” said Berola, wiping a tear from her cheek. “You’ll do your best, I know.”

Gordo held out a sack. “Get in, lass,” he said. “You ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Jemma curled into the sack and crouched down. Gordo and Berola packed tufts of wormwort around her and stuffed potatoes around the outside of it. Gordo shoved the drawstring into the opening for Jemma to tie, so that she could free herself once inside the castle. Then Digby hoisted her onto the cart and slammed the tailgate shut.

“See you later,” he said.

Jemma heard him clamber up into the driver’s seat beside Gordo. The cart trundled into the street, wheels rattling over cobblestones. She imagined the small Hazebury cottages and wondered about the people inside. Did they know that Flora, Simon, and Tiny were missing? They must do, surely. And like centuries of villagers before them, they must also know where the children had gone. Perhaps they were peering out through inched-back curtains, feeling sorry for the Goodfellows’ plight, relieved that it wasn’t their own. What did they think of Gordo and Digby, taking supplies to the castle nonetheless? Perhaps their senses were too dulled by eons of Mist to question it, or they were simply too afraid.

The road rose as they crossed the bridge. The river’s babble gradually dwindled. Soon, Jemma felt the jiggle of unpaved track heading up Mordwin’s Crag. Five-thirty tolled. The day stretched endlessly ahead like a thick, dark corridor teeming with unseen dangers, with tonight’s rescue the dimmest light at the end of it. One wrong move, and that light could go out forever. But she knew she must counter all her fears this instant, and blank out, or the Mist would quickly detect her presence. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the thick wormwort scent and imagined it veiling her thoughts as it filled her lungs, relaxing her. Her limbs sank into the wooden floor, becoming one with it. A bright light spread in her mind’s eye, expanding until it became her entire inner vision, white and impenetrable, indistinguishable from the Mist.

Now, it would not be able to find her.

“I’ll get this one, Pa,” said Digby. “Can you manage them jars?”

“Righto, lad.”

Jemma heard Gordo walk across the yard and into the castle.

“Here we go, Jem,” Digby whispered, pulling her to the tailgate. “Shade’s there, like we thought she’d be. Sorry if treatin’ you like a sack of spuds gets a bit rough.” He lifted her onto the ground and bumped her across the cobbles. As he dragged her over the threshold, darkness pressed into her bones, as if the castle were goading her, threatening.

“Well,
Mister
Drudge,” Shade’s voice sliced down the corridor, “what have I told you about mauve tea? It is to be reserved for us, not wasted on the likes of Mr. Goodbellows here.”

“Goodfellow, if you please, Miss.” Gordo’s voice sounded tight.

“And make haste with those pancakes, stupid old man!”

Jemma heard Drudge’s wheeze as the oven door opened, his “Gnnn …” as he slapped pancakes onto plates. The scratchy tone that had once filled her with disgust was now music to her ears.

“Phew!” Digby hoisted Jemma’s sack against a wall. “Them spuds is heavy.”

“
Potatoes
, you ignoramus.” Shade snorted. “You do
know
that, don’t you? Or are you simply too idiotic?”

“I … I …” Digby was bristling, Jemma could tell, and she willed him to keep calm. “I’m sure I don’t have your sharp wit and intelligence, Miss.”

“Ha! Nobody in this Mordforsaken place does.” Shade was clearly in her element. Jemma could just imagine her, head thrown back, dark hair shining in the kitchen lamplight, black eyes flashing like her mother’s. “I don’t know why you’re bringing that despicable vegetable here anyway. Potatoes indeed! Common fodder, fit only for pigs or the likes of you. Good day to you both, Mr. Goodfallow.”

“Goodfellow, Miss.”

“Good-for-nothing! Be on your way.”

“Let’s go, Pa. Good day to you, Miss. Oops, my shoelace.” Digby’s breath came close to Jemma’s face. “See you soon,” he whispered, then his footsteps and Gordo’s faded away.

“Hazebury dross! Now, old man”—Shade picked up a tray—“when I return from delivering Mama’s breakfast, I expect mine and Feo’s to be ready.” Her shoes clicked across the floor, then down the Pickle Corridor toward the stairs.

“Gnnnasssty!” Drudge clunked the oven door shut and shuffled over to Jemma. “Ssso they, good!” He patted the sack. “Jmmaaah, good!” His acrid breath bit into her nostrils.

Jemma puckered her face. “Drudge!” she said. “It’s so good to hear you!”

“Me … Help?” He tugged the top of the sack.

“I’ll wait till Shade’s fetched the last tray, then let myself out.”

“Ssso they … Good!” Drudge’s voice was almost animated
as he went about preparing the next two trays, muttering all the while, “Ssso they, good!”

Seven o’clock struck. Before long, Shade’s crisp footsteps approached again. She picked up another tray and minced out of the kitchen without a word. Drudge’s slow shuffle followed, his old bones cracking under the weight of Nox’s tray.

“Latrrr, Jmmmaaah,” he wheezed. Then he was gone.

Jemma waited a safe amount of time before freeing herself from the sack, which she bundled up and stuffed behind the others Digby had left. Brushing wormwort from her hair and clothes, she looked around the kitchen. It was deathly quiet. Its stone walls and ceiling still glistened with grease and damp, the air still breathed contempt, yet everything seemed to have become smaller and more decayed, even in the few weeks since she had escaped.

She glanced at the Corridor of Dungeons. Which cell were the triplets in? Her stomach knotted. Five days already since they’d been taken! It was tempting to go to them now and tell them about the rescue, but she and Digby had agreed it would be too risky: Under pressure from the Agromonds, any of them—especially Tiny—might talk. She must resist, and wait for Digby in the Vat Room, as they’d planned.