The Water and the Wild (19 page)

“Fife,” snapped Adelaide, “she's losing blood.”

“Right,” said Fife, and he riffled in his shirt pocket to produce a kingfisher the color of daffodils.

Fife lowered his lips to the bird's tiny head.

“Medical supplies, Spool, please and thanks.”

The genga shivered at Fife's command. Lottie rubbed at her eyes with her bloodied hand, but she was not seeing things: something coming out of the bird's mouth—something too unnaturally large to have fit inside a kingfisher, let alone a kingfisher's beak. It was a silver canister covered in yellow film. Fife caught the canister in one hand.

“Good girl,” he said, and after a kiss to the bird's head, Fife tucked her back into his pocket.

“My medical canister,” Fife explained calmly to Lottie, swiping away at the canister's filmy covering and unscrewing its lid. “It's a vital tool for anyone aspiring to be a healer's apprentice.”

“What's Oliver doing?” Adelaide whispered.

Oliver was still on the very edge of the clearing. He was hunched over and scooping something off the ground.

Lottie glanced over. “He's found some—ow!”

“Sorry,” Fife said, turning over Lottie's bloody hand. “Just assessing the damage. It looks like he bit you pretty badly here. There's an awful lot of blood for such a small wound. It must be deep.”

“FIFE. JUST FIX HER.”

“Okay!
Okay,
Ada. Sheesh.”

Fife rummaged through the canister and produced a bottle and a small metal compact. With unnatural quickness, he untucked his white cloth shirt, ripped a sloppy square of fabric from its hem, and bunched it in his hand. Tipping the bottle, he dabbed its contents onto the cloth. Lottie braced herself for the sting of rubbing alcohol as Fife brought the cloth to her skin, but, surprisingly, she felt nothing more than cool dampness.

“That's good stuff,” she mumbled.

Fife smiled warily and continued dabbing. “It's Piskie Juice,” he told her. “Exceptionally effective and utterly painless.”

“Fife's not a trained healer,” whispered Adelaide, who was watching Fife's work intently. “He just thinks he knows what he's doing.”

“Encouraging words, Ada, as always,” Fife said, pulling a needle and thread from the metal compact. Lottie's eyes widened. She thought it best to look away.

“This is going to hurt,” apologized Fife, “but if it makes you feel any better, I learned how to sew from the best.”

Lottie nodded, her gaze still averted.

“Lucky he didn't snap off a finger, eh, Lottie?” Fife went on. “Personally, I prefer you with all of your digits.”

Lottie glanced up at Fife's nervous face and felt a surge of gratitude. She understood: he was trying to distract her from the pain. Though the stitching took longer than Lottie thought she had stomach for, and though each prick in her hand bit just as strongly as the one before it, the damage was finally sewn up. Next, Fife turned his attention to the wrist by which the creature had dragged Lottie.

“Not so bad, this one. I would've thought it'd be worse, the way he was hauling you. But it's only badly chafed right here.”

He rubbed his thumb across her reddened wrist. Lottie jerked it back.

“It still hurts,” she informed him.

“Right,” Fife said. “I'll just dab some more Piskie Juice and wrap it up, too, for good measure. To prevent infection.”

“For Titania's sake, Fife,” groaned Adelaide. “Stop talking like a professional.”

Fife ignored the remark and kept right on dabbing.

At last, Lottie's wrist had been securely wrapped up in yet more fabric from Fife's shirt so that, by the end of the process, Fife looked the part of a street urchin who had just come out of a fistfight, clothes torn and bloodstained.

Oliver returned from the edge of the clearing, his eyes a dark, troubled gray. He dropped something at Adelaide's feet. Adelaide picked the object up, cried out, and threw it to Fife as though it had burned her. All three shared a look of horror.

“Looks like we've got new company,” said Fife.

“What do you mean?” asked Lottie.

Fife placed the object in Lottie's bandaged palm. It was a rusted bronze tag, and on it was etched, in black, the shape of a diamond. Lottie recognized the symbol from Fife's arm.

“Seems the Northerlies know about you, too,” Oliver said.

“So, what are we going to do?” Lottie asked.

“Clear out of here as fast as possible,” said Fife, and Adelaide actually nodded in agreement. “I dunno why the Northerlies are after you, but believe me, you don't want to run into them out here in the wood.”

“This one must've been a scout,” said Oliver, “which means there are bound to be more where it came from. If that's true, we're going to need protection for the rest of our trip. We've still got a good day and night's walk left to the Southerly Court, and I don't think we'll be making it unwatched.”

There was a pregnant silence that made Lottie look up. Oliver and Adelaide were staring at Fife. He shrank back, scratching his messy mane of black hair.

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no, no. You couldn't drag me back there by wild harpies!”

“Fife—”

“NO!”

“You know it's the safest way.”

“It's under quarantine.”

“What a stupid excuse,” said Adelaide. “Ollie and I are inoculated, and halflings are immune to the Plague. You know that.”

“Think of Lottie, Fife,” said Oliver, but he was smiling. He looked like he already knew he would win this argument.

Fife lolled his head toward Lottie. “It's a bad business, this trying to be a good sprite.”

“Fife—” began Adelaide.

“Yes, I know!” he interrupted. “Fine. Fine! But I'm telling you, I don't know how much they'll be willing to help. And you”—he pointed fiercely at Oliver—“owe me one. Two, more like. Don't think I've forgotten that I practically saved your life at the Flying Squirrel.”

“It's my fault,” said Lottie. “I sent that thing back into the wood. It would've been better to kill it.”

“It's never better to kill,” said Oliver.

“Anyway,” said Fife, “a Barghest doesn't die.”

Barghest
. So that was what the creature had been. It seemed even fiercer now that it had a name.

Packing up went far quicker than unpacking. Adelaide shoved blankets and twine back into her satchel in a slipshod jumble that made the bag bulge at the latches. When Adelaide heaved the satchel onto her shoulder with a grunt, Lottie realized how heavy a load it must be. Fife had noticed the same thing.

“Here,” Fife said, tugging on the bag. “Let me help.”

“I'd like to see you try,” challenged Adelaide, jerking the bag free from his hands. “I'm every bit as strong as you, Fife Dulcet.”

“I didn't say you weren't! I just—”

“I'm fine,” said Adelaide, though she was bent with the satchel's weight. “Shouldn't you be worrying about navigating us out of here? You're the one who knows where we're going now, genius.”

Fife snorted. “Fine, Prissy Miss Priss, the Superior,” he muttered, brushing past Adelaide and Lottie and pointing into the trees. “Light, please, Ollie.”

Oliver clicked on Mr. Ingle's lamp. He glanced back at the girls with a grim smile, his eyes a soft peach color. Then he joined up with Fife. Lottie gulped. She wasn't quite ready to go wood-conquering again. Adelaide was stooped beside her, marching determined steps with the satchel she had so stubbornly kept. Lottie rolled her eyes. She had a good mind to let Adelaide keep at it, but that resolve only made it so far as the edge of the clearing.

“Oh, honestly,” she sighed, tugging at Adelaide's satchel. “Let me have a turn.”

“You're injured,” said Adelaide, yanking the satchel back. “I don't want your help. Didn't you hear what I just told Fife?”

“Yes,” said Lottie, “but that's because it was Fife.”

Adelaide looked shocked.

“I guess it is just because it was Fife,” she slowly admitted.

Then, to Lottie's surprise, Adelaide began to giggle. Lottie laughed a little in return.

“What's so funny?” Fife called back.

“We're running from a Barghest, the Southerly Guard, and who knows what else through a cold, dreary wood in the middle of the night!” Adelaide called back. “What's funny about that?”

“Exactly!” Fife sounded satisfied.

“Let me carry it?” Lottie offered again, this time more kindly. “Please?”

Adelaide hesitated a moment more, then nodded. She handed the satchel over to Lottie's keeping.

“That's—surprisingly refined of you.”

Lottie smiled. “Yeah, well, maybe you're rubbing off on me.”

“Possible. Now hurry up, or that buffoon of a boy will leave us behind.”

To Lottie's horror, they moved through the wood at an even faster pace with Fife in the lead. At the outset, she tripped every other step and jumped at the sound of
rustling leaves, remembering all too well the Barghest's pinprick eyes and fierce jaws. They pressed on and on and on, and at last Lottie began to master the art of maneuvering underbrush with fewer stumbles and scrapes.

Hours passed. The leaves began to grow less dense and the dark less thick, and the slats of the growing morning light finally ate up enough shadow for Oliver to turn off his lamp. Without the need to keep near the light, Lottie slowed her pace behind the boys, close enough to see them but far enough to regain some strength.

Lottie heard a faint chirping sound. She frowned and looked down at her coat pocket.
Trouble
.

She tucked her hand inside and removed the bundle of black feathers. Trouble peered up at Lottie and then gave a violent shake of his feathers that Lottie couldn't help feel was
indignant
. Then he gave another chirp, louder than the rest, his eyes fixed on Lottie.

“I'm sorry,” Lottie said. “I haven't forgotten about you.”

Trouble made a low, rumbling sound. He seemed to be assessing her apology.

“He's rather ill-behaved, isn't he?”

Lottie looked up to find Adelaide walking in stride with her.

“No, he isn't,” she said defensively, cupping her fingers around the bird's head as though to shield him from Adelaide's words. “He was just lonely and—and concerned. He'd been in my pocket too long.”

Adelaide snorted. “Gengas are
meant
to travel in pockets. Lila hasn't been complaining. But then, Lila was properly trained.”

Trouble turned his head toward Adelaide and squawked. Lottie smirked.

“Maybe,” she said, “Trouble is just more adventurous.”

“Hm. I suppose. If you want to call it that.”

Lottie gave Trouble an approving smile and stroked back his soft feathers. Trouble pressed his head against the crook of Lottie's finger with a happy tweet. Then he fluttered out of Lottie's hand and swooped upward, flapping his wings in a blithe, lazy way as the girls walked on.

“Adelaide?” Lottie said. “Have you heard anything?”

“You have two ears,” said Adelaide. “Aren't you using them?”

“I meant,” puffed Lottie, crossing over a narrow trough of rotting leaves, “your
keen
.”

She was secretly very pleased with herself for the use of her new vocabulary.

Adelaide trotted in silence for a moment longer. Then she shook her head. “No sound of the Southerly Guard. And animals, yes, but not so much as a breath from that Barghest.”

Lottie nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

Then she couldn't help it. She had to ask.

“Have you always been able to hear like that?”

Adelaide slowed her pace a fraction so that Lottie could better keep up with her.

“Since I started sharpening, yes,” she said.

“What's sharpening?”

“You know,” said Adelaide, “sharpening your keen? Learning how to control it, sharpening what it can do. I started a little early, but Father said I was ready at five.”

“You mean a keen is like a—sword?” said Lottie.

Adelaide frowned. “I don't know. A keen just
is
. Everyone talks about it that way. You start sharpening your keen at six and you keep at it until you're sixteen. Dedalus, our tutor, says that by my sixteenth I'll be able to hear the goings-on of all of New Albion, if I want.” She paused. “Of course, Oliver wasn't like that. He started using his
keen right away, but that's not common. And he's not a freak, if that's what you're thinking. Just because he can't touch other people—”

“I didn't say he was a freak!” said Lottie. “I think it's great.”

“Great, huh?” Adelaide sniffed. “Is it great for the shiest sprite in all Albion Isle to have his every emotion showing in his eyes?”

“He isn't
that
shy.”

“Yes, he is,” retorted Adelaide. “When we were growing up, he barely said a word. He read, though. Father gave him books of poetry. Human poetry. He said that it would help Ollie to express himself. And now you see what that's gone and done. Ollie hardly spoke a word that wasn't a quotation until he met—”

Adelaide's face twisted up like a wrenched washcloth.

“Fife,” Lottie guessed. “He was worse before he met Fife, wasn't he?”

Adelaide nodded stiffly. “But that still doesn't mean that Fife is good for him. Southerlies aren't supposed to be friends with people like that.”

“It must be exciting,” Lottie said, skirting around the subject of Fife, “to be able to hear all the things you do.”

“You might think that,” Adelaide said, “but you'd be surprised at how little you'd like to hear when people are behind closed doors, or when your back's turned.”

Lottie had not thought of it that way. She would not at all have liked to hear what Pen and the other girls at Kemble School said behind her back.