“That’s mine.”
“I am pleased to see my taste is impeccable. The dress was the final test for Ackerly.” He reaches out and fingers the gauzy material of my skirts, and my stomach turns.
I think perhaps this is real, and I wish, oh, how I wish it were a nightmare.
He continues. “I couldn’t know whether you were important enough to work, whether our coldhearted friend had fallen far enough to care. It seemed improbable. But shadows never lie, and the way you looked last night sealed his fate. For that I thank you.” He bends and takes my ungloved hand in his, bringing it to his lips. His mouth on my skin feels so cold it burns, or so hot it freezes. I cannot tell the difference.
“Please.” I hate the way the word tastes in my mouth directed at him. “I want no part in any issue between you and Finn—Lord Ackerly—whoever he is. He is nothing to me and I assure you I am less than nothing to him.”
“Oh, little rabbit.” He sits back in his chair across from me, and I find I can breathe easier again. “You have no idea what he’s pulled you into, do you?”
“No, and I should like very much to leave now.”
“Not just yet, I’m afraid. You missed your chance to avoid all this last night. I gave you the option, you know.” He picks up the sugar dish and carefully pours a small pile of the crystals into his palm. As they touch his skin, they turn from white to gleaming black. He traces a circle with them, and then cuts the circle evenly down the middle. The room brightens to an almost painful degree of brilliance. The light is coming from my right side, throwing our shadows into sharp relief along the wall.
“Please join us, Lord Ackerly.” The man throws the crystals at my shadow, and there is a hiss like water hitting fire. My shadow splits in two.
I put my hand to my mouth, but my second shadow does not follow the movement. It’s not my shadow. The shoulders are angled, the body smooth, the head free of long hair. I look to my right, but no one is there.
I close my eyes, try to force reality back into place. I must be drugged. “What have you given me?”
“You didn’t prepare her at all, did you, Lord Ackerly? This will be a hard initiation. As a kindness, I’ll use a method she’ll understand, something she will not be able to dismiss as a trick of her mind.” Cold glee undercuts his voice. “Please remember that you brought this on her. You thought you could have her. You can’t. And now that I know you’re observing us, it’s time to set the terms. You will give me access to the Hallin book, and you will give it to me immediately.”
My eyes open again, and I can no longer hide my terror. “Please, please. I have nothing. There’s nothing for me to give you.”
“Not you. Him.” He waves cheerily at my second shadow, then pulls out a hammer, the head heavy and battered, the handle worn and plain. It’s out of place in this elegant room, a blunt instrument with nothing but utility built into its design. He swings it experimentally through the air, nods, and then places it next to the floral china of the tea set.
“Dear little rabbit, if you’d place your hand on the table.”
I look at him in horror. “I will not.”
The other shadow looms even larger on the wall. The nightmare man smiles. “You will.”
My hand snakes forward of its own accord, and I grab it with my free hand, the one still gloved. I am pulled off the couch to the rug beneath, wrestling with my own possessed limb.
“That’s a good girl. Keep fighting me.” The nightmare man takes more sugar. He traces something on his palm that I cannot see, and then sprinkles the bloodred crystals onto my head.
I release my hand, and it pulls itself forward to the center of the table, lying flat with fingers evenly spread. I’m on my knees, unable to move, eye level with the hammer. He picks it up, and his smile does not fade a fraction as he says, “I am sorry about this.”
Nine
THE SOBS RACK MY BODY. MY HEAD HANGS NEARLY to the carpet, everything anchored by my hand stuck to the table.
“Three out of five. We’re nearly finished now, that’s a good little rabbit.” The pain crescendos in a blinding white burst of agony and I scream, scream, and scream until it breaks up into more sobs. He always gives me enough time between fingers to go back to crying.
“By all means you should blame yourself for this, Lord Ackerly. It could have been avoided. Making me chase your magic for so long, well, of course I need a way to release the frustration.”
I open my eyes. My second shadow is so large it takes up nearly the entire wall now, and it vibrates with menace.
“You’ll say, must you have smashed all her precious fingers? Perhaps one would have been clear enough, but I want to leave no question in your mind that you are doing the right thing. The only thing. And if you do not lay yourself at my mercy within the hour, I will begin doing things that no amount of time will mend.”
The world explodes in agony again, and I haven’t even the energy to scream this time. There is blood in my mouth, and my vision blurs with spots. I’m going to faint. I want to faint. Please, please, blessed spirits, let me faint.
Suddenly, my hand is released. I slump to the floor, curled in a ball around my ruined fingers. I cannot bear to look at them. If I do not lose consciousness soon I will be sick. The pain radiates out from my hand, claws in my stomach, bursts in my head.
The nightmare man is still talking, carrying on his one-sided conversation. I tune in and out, trying to find blackness, but pulled back from the brink of unconsciousness time and again by his voice.
“. . . all settled then, I assume. I expect you shortly. This next bit will hurt, but we cannot have you here without a handicap, now can we?”
I brace for whatever is coming, but, to my surprise, nothing happens. Then I hear a shrill scream, like air escaping a boiling kettle, as the nightmare man cheerfully flings venomously green sugar crystals at the extra shadow. Each eats a hole where it strikes, and though the shadow darts around, the nightmare man continues to hit it.
I move onto my knees, biting my lip at the rolling pain—there is the source of the blood—and use my good hand to push against the table and get to my feet. The sugar bowl sits unguarded on the table. I snatch it and throw the contents into the fire, which pops and sparks in brilliant miniature fireworks.
The nightmare man turns around, twisted smile falling into puzzled frown, and I swing the sugar bowl up, knocking it into the hand cupping his shadow-burning crystals. They fly free, landing on the unprotected skin of his face with sizzling hisses.
He screams and shoves me to the ground. The impact jars my destroyed hand and it is too much. I lean over and vomit onto the rug.
A stream of words I do not understand but instinctively recognize as foul and evil stream from his mouth, but then, to my surprise and disappointment, he laughs.
I wipe the corners of my lips and sit up against the edge of the couch, barely able to see him through the red haze of pain.
His face has angry holes eaten into it, opening onto dark patches. He takes out a pristine handkerchief and wipes one side and then the other. But rather than wiping the burns off, it’s as though he has wiped his old face back on. No evidence of my momentary victory remains.
He sniffs genteelly, tucking the handkerchief back into his suit pocket. “I like you. You have all the spirit and passion they’ve been careful to breed out of Alben women. To thank you for finally giving Lord Ackerly a weakness I could exploit, I will keep you for my own.”
My head lolls back on the couch, and I close my eyes, letting out a sharp breath in place of a laugh. “I would sooner die.”
“Never worry about that. You’ll want me. You’ll be perfectly at home. And only I can keep you safe from the coming war.” A finger touches my cheek, and I shudder. I concentrate on the pain in my hand since it is preferable to the sensation of his skin on mine. “You shouldn’t have gone to the gala, Jessa. Men like Lord Ackerly will bring you nothing but suffering. I’m so disappointed in you. Still, you’ve learned your lesson, and we will move on as soon as this is settled. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a guest to prepare for.”
The door closes, and I open my eyes to find the room once again without an exit. I angle my neck so I can see the wall. Though the light has dimmed, I can still see my two shadows. They’re slumped in defeat, but tiny dots of light have eaten through the extra shadow’s silhouette.
Could it really be Finn’s shadow, as the nightmare man seemed to believe?
This is not the same world I woke up in yesterday. I know none of the rules, and I have none of the power. All the things I’ve learned, all the ways I’ve tried to make a place for myself where I am not at the mercy of others, none of it matters in this new, bizarre reality.
A harsh caw draws up my head. Three of the horrid black birds are staring at me from the armchair. One of them hops forward, darting close and pecking my leg with its bone-hard beak, then flapping back with a chorus of croaking laughter.
Another moves to do the same, and I cringe, shielding my ruined hand and ducking my face into my shoulder.
There is a clatter of wings and a chorus of angry caws, but nothing touches me. I raise my head to see one of the birds—missing a single claw—bobbing in front of me, flapping its wings and viciously attacking the other two when they get too close. It draws blood and rips a pinion out of the wing of one of my would-be assailants. They flap away, cawing reproachfully, and disappear into the bookshelf.
I wipe my eyes and look at the remaining bird. “Well,” I say, “spirits’ mercies. I am sorry I didn’t leave better food for you outside my window.”
The bird turns so one yellow eye is fixed on mine.
I sniffle, swallowing back another wave of nausea. “I should have known you weren’t evil. You’re far handsomer than those other wretched birds.”
It ducks its head and tucks some stray feathers back into place along its wing. “Are you a boy?” I ask, and it bobs its head. “Sir Bird it is, officially. Now, Sir Bird, is there a door to this room?”
He hesitates, and then weaves his head back and forth in what I assume is an approximation of shaking it no.
I squeeze my eyes shut against a welling of tears. “I’m afraid that if I do not escape right now, I shall never leave this place.” I don’t know what the nightmare man has in store for me, but any kindness he thinks of is one I want no part of. My hand pains me to distraction, though, and I haven’t any hope of fighting my way free.
There’s a frantic scratching, and I open my eyes to see Sir Bird hopping the length of the table, twisting and twitching as though fighting some internal war. Finally, he shakes himself from beak to tail, caws, and flies to the iron grate over the fire.
I close my eyes again. Perhaps if I can sleep I can wake up somewhere safe, my hand intact, this nightmare over.
Sir Bird caws again, louder than ever, and I look at him, irritated. “What is it?”
He pecks at the iron grate, hops down behind it, and then flaps directly into the fire.
“No!” I gasp, standing and rushing forward. But Sir Bird hops back out of the fire, tapping impatiently on the grate with his beak. I gasp my surprise, and he hops through the fire and back once more.
“I—through there? But the fire!”
As if to prove a point, Sir Bird hops directly into the center of it and stares at me, his eyes reflecting the flames that do not touch him.
Well. It makes as much sense as anything else that has happened since last night. Grasping the heavy iron grate with my good hand, I drag it away. It makes a horrid screech against the floor, and Sir Bird caws a warning a moment too late. Books explode off the shelves, turning into birds in midair, the room a whirling mass of cries.
I duck my head, screaming, but Sir Bird flies out past me and into the melee, scratching and pecking and, in a process my eyes cannot comprehend, swallowing other birds. They converge on him, attacking, and though he fights more fiercely than any, he will be overwhelmed. There is an iron poker next to the fireplace and I grab it, flinging it wildly and batting the demon birds into the walls. They turn back into books on impact, falling to the floor with dusty thuds.
Sir Bird goes down in a tangled mass of feathers. I can only tell which one he is because so many other birds are trying to kill him. I grab his foot and yank him free of the pile, cradling him to my chest and diving into the fire.
I pull the grate shut behind us, not a moment too soon. Black bodies slam against it, beaks straining through the gaps in the pattern. I tug it tight, leaving no space at the top like the one Sir Bird used to get in.
I do not know how badly Sir Bird is hurt, but my fingers are slick with his blood. I tuck him into the crook of my elbow where I hold my ruined hand against my chest. The pain is so all-consuming that it’s a relief to focus on something else: figuring out what I am supposed to do now that I am crouched in a roaring fire.
Sir Bird croaks and jabs his head toward the back of the fireplace. It’s solid bricks, stained with years of soot.
I look up—the chimney narrows into two pipes. There’s no way I will fit in either of them. Not even Sir Bird could, were he able to fly. I suppose he meant for me to hide here, but it won’t take the nightmare man long to find me. If his bird knew I could sit in the fire unharmed, surely he will know as well. I take a deep, smoke-free breath, and collapse to rest against the bricks until I am discovered.
Thus it is I am greatly shocked to fall straight through the wall into a small, dark passage.
Ten
SIR BIRD CROAKS REPROACHFULLY, AND I VOW to never again question his directions. Half laughing, half sobbing, I crawl using my knees and my one good arm. Every bump and jolt sends a scream of pain through my hand. The ground is cold stone slick with layers of grime and—judging by the overwhelming smell—bird droppings.