I nodded, and felt the despair of the previous day creep back in, surrounding me, dulling the pretty scenery outside. “It doesn’t matter which one of us is right. Any way you explain it, it’s monstrous.”
The doors swung open, and Mrs. Haylam entered, expertly balancing a tray with refreshments. The crone I had met on the side of the road didn’t look strong enough to lift a single teacup, and now here she was delivering a full silver service and biscuits. She swiftly laid out the tea and food, righting herself with a satisfied little hmph.
“Well done, Mrs. Haylam, what a spread,” he said, beaming up at her. “Louisa and I were just discussing last night’s excitement. Do you happen to know this symbol?”
Mr. Morningside offered her the paper and she patiently inspected both sides. “The symbol means nothing to me,” she finally said. “But this phrase . . . The first and last children. Why does that sound familiar?”
“It’s something of a conundrum,” he said.
“I will think on it,” Mrs. Haylam replied. Her eyes were already distant and thoughtful, trained somewhere above our heads as she spun and bustled out of the parlor. “How do I know that?” she was saying to herself as she went. “Where have I heard that . . .”
“So distracted she forgot to pour,” Mr. Morningside said with a laugh. I reached for the pot myself and measured out tea for each of us, then settled in to not drink any. My appetite was low, and breakfast was keeping me full.
“You really should try the jam biscuits,” he was saying, mouth stuffed with sweets. “Mrs. Haylam makes the apricot preserves herself.”
“I’m not really one for sweets,” I replied softly. “The tea will suffice.”
He finished chewing, taking his time, and sipped his tea, leaning back in his chair. Then a slow, devious smile spread across his face and he picked up one of the biscuits, handing it across to me.
“Take it.”
“No, thank you,” I said stubbornly.
“Don’t put it in your mouth yet, just hold it,” he commanded. He blew out a breath that ruffled his hair, and rolled his eyes. “Will it help if I say please?”
I plucked the biscuit out of his grasp and held it up between both of us. “There. I’m holding it.”
“What is it that you’re holding?” he asked, his smile broadening.
“Don’t be ridiculous. A jam biscuit. Apricot.”
“And what do you want it to be?”
I frowned, sensing where this was going. Before falling asleep, I had read the chapter on Changelings. On their alleged abilities. I wanted to drop the biscuit and storm out, but I also craved the proof of his wild assumptions. That I was one of those things. That was the only thing he could mean by mentioning it so often. Wouldn’t I feel special somehow? Wouldn’t I sense, deep in my bones, that I had some kind of innate and magical gift? I only ever felt plain and mistrusted, not exceptional.
“Play along,” he said tightly.
“Fine. I wish . . .” What did I wish for? We never ate decadently growing up. There were foods I didn’t mind eating and ones I had eaten time and time again because it was all there was on offer. So what did I want? “Bread and butter.”
“Bread and . . .” He shrugged and motioned me along with one finger. “You could aim a little higher, my dear, but so be it. Make the biscuit become bread and butter.”
“I can’t.”
“You read the book?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Well then. Half of achieving a thing is just knowing you can do it.”
No. No. I shook my head hard. The biscuit trembled in my grasp. “I’m not one of those things. A Changeling. That’s not me.”
Mr. Morningside’s smile turned down at one corner. His golden eyes, generally bright with arrogance, grew softer. “You’ve been different all your life,” he said solemnly.
“Yes, I have, but I don’t want to be different. I’ve only ever wanted to feel like everyone else.”
“Close your eyes,” he said softly, and not knowing why, I did. But that was wrong; I did know why. He wanted me to prove he was right. He wanted me to know, really know and feel, that I was one of them. “Bread and butter. Think it. It’s what you want.”
I had more or less memorized the relevant passages. Very well, the relevant chapter.
If the Changeling’s parentage is of sufficient dark power, they can transform objects and even their own bodies for varying periods of time. Some may turn a rope into a snake for a mere instant. Others can change their form entirely, fooling even the mimicked subject’s family, friends, or lovers.
Yet I did not want that to be true. If it was, it meant that I not only belonged here with these miscreants and monsters, but that I may not fit in anywhere else. It would mean I was not human at all, that the belonging I so longed for with my mother, my grandparents, at Pitney, had been the most hopeless and impossible dream all along. My eyes were shut tight. I shut them tighter still. I could feel a sob welling in my throat, because for all I wanted this untruth of his to disappear, I could not stop thinking of bread and butter, bread and butter . . .
I knew the instant it changed. The instant it worked. The instant I was changed.
And I heard the short, delighted intake of breath from the young man across from me. When I opened my eyes, there was a dainty piece of toast pinched between my fingers and it was shiny with melted butter.
“Louisa . . . you only ever wanted to feel like everyone else, yet everyone else can’t do that.”
I swallowed, hard, willing my sobs away. By God, if I could change a biscuit to toast with a mere thought, then I could keep down the cries that stoppered up my throat. I stared at the bread and marveled at the stillness in my hand—it was as if my body had known this was possible all along and it was only my stubborn mind lagging behind.
“When will it change back?” I whispered, stricken.
Mr. Morningside lowered his head, watching me through the thickness of his dark, dark lashes. “Only when you want it to or when your concentration breaks.”
I let the buttered bread slip from my hand. It was a biscuit again before it touched wood.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chasing Canis Infernalis
No demonologist worth his salt can go a year or two in this discipline without hearing whispers of the infernal hounds, often called canis infernalis, or otherwise referred to as hellhounds. Rumored to be dogs born of bone-crushing hyenas of Africa that mingled with unknown and terrible beasts from the darkest unmapped, unchallenged corners of the plains, I knew I could not rest until I saw one of these creatures for myself.
It was in Marrakech that I came across a man claiming to breed these beasts. The information was bad, but meeting him whetted my appetite. If the average market swindler knew of these dogs, then perhaps they were more than myth after all. I’m certain many a foolish wanderer was tricked into purchasing one of his inferior animals, but I lingered in the city, keeping to the least reputable establishments. I will admit with some shame that I patronized opium-addled dens of sin, crime, and iniquity, and broke bread with folk from all over the world who had come to the labyrinthine markets to escape—and for some, to simply bathe in depravity until it drowned them. Often I would sit late at night, most frequently in a place I will call The Spinning Djinn, smoking a water pipe and listening to the idle gossip, not discarding even the most witless and intoxicated babble.
At last a pair of young ladies appeared; too young, I thought, to be alone in the darker haunts of Marrakech. But come they did, ordering simple tea from the purveyor and sitting on purple cushions to speak in low voices. The shorter girl carried a sturdy leather bag that she guarded closely. They caught my attention because the taller one wore a large necklace of teeth, and her arm had recently been injured. The wound looked grievous; even through bindings, fresh blood seeped through the linens. Veiled and quiet, they took caller after caller, speaking to adventurous sorts that came and went.
Just bef
ore midnight I approached them, offering to buy tea for us all. They agreed, though wary, and asked what I wanted.
“Those teeth you wear,” I said, pointing to the taller one’s adornment. “I hunt a similar beast.”
“No, mister, you don’t,” the shorter girl replied. Her eyes twinkled sapphire behind her veil. There was no telling her nation of origin, but her accent, surprisingly, sounded similar to a Bostonian’s I once met. “Thank you for the tea, now move along.”
“I have money.”
“Not enough.”
With a shrug, I pulled what looked like a small stone from my pocket and placed it on the low table between us. The untrained eye would think nothing of it, but I suspected these travelers would know its worth.
They nudged each other, sharing a look I could well interpret. Then they leaned close and had a whispered exchange, and I enjoyed my tea, noticing that the leather satchel between them was moving. The taller girl took the egg on the table and stood, and then they both left quickly. Only the wriggling bag remained.
I took the satchel and left, not daring to open the latch until I was again in my lodgings. When I looked inside, a small brown face peered out at me, innocent and long-snouted. The fur on its neck bristled and then fell, and a wet black nose touched my fingers. It licked my palm and squirmed out of the bag.
In time it would grow big, but that would not be for perhaps two hundred years. The beasts grew slowly, but when at their full size became immensely powerful. If tales held true, a fully grown hound stood taller than two men and could snap a draft horse between its jaws like a twig. I would never find out where this pup had been found or from what terrible mother it had been stolen, I knew only that in his dark eyes a low fire simmered, one that would eventually swell into an inferno.
Rare Myths and Legends: The Collected Findings of H. I. Morningside, page 50
A soul braver than I would immediately run to test the limits of this power. If I were just a common thief prowling the streets of Malton, I would have been more than happy to know of this power, but now it marked me as one of them. I wanted to forget all about the biscuit, the bread, the feeling that shimmered through me when I felt the change take place in my hand.
Mr. Morningside dismissed me after taking a tracing of the paper I had found and the symbol on the wall. He encouraged me to experience my powers but not to exhaust myself, for in his words, “The cost of such beautiful, dark magicks is time.”
That meant little to me, but I remembered Mary lamenting being unable to shield me from afar after using such skill during the storm and the widow’s death. Perhaps it would be hours or even days before I could use that “skill” of mine again. I pushed it out of my mind. And aye, I know how foolish that sounds, how strange. Why, if a person woke one morning to find they had wings, would they not attempt to fly? But those wings, like my power—my Changeling power—marked me as other. God, it was no wonder nobody at Pitney liked the look of me. Why strangers recoiled. Why my grandparents would rather pay the high cost of room and board rather than care for me themselves.
I fiddled with the scrap of burnt paper and watched Mr. Morningside retire to his offices. The green door guarding his sanctum still called to me, but it was quieter now, manageable. Everything, in fact, seemed quieter and less urgent now that I had the truth of my blood and my birth dangling right there in front of my eyes.
My mind was filled with cupboards and arguments as I idled in the foyer. Mrs. Haylam’s voice cut through the thoughtful din.
“What do you mean another lamb’s wandered onto the property?! Fetch it, Poppy! You’ve arms and legs that work. Fetch it!”
I dodged out the front doors, circling around to the kitchen entrance on the east side of the house, meeting up with Poppy and her pup as they tumbled out into the daylight. Bartholomew loped up to me, going onto his hind legs and pawing at my waist until I scooped him into my arms and scratched his ears.
“Has one of the shepherd’s lambs wandered over?” I asked, matching Poppy’s quick pace.
“How do they manage to get free?” she asked with a jutting lip. “They’re ever so small, and that fluffy mutt of his ought to keep them in line.”
“It’s a lot of sheep for one dog to manage,” I pointed out. Bartholomew seemed content to lounge in my arms, licking at my chin occasionally, his ears popping up in one configuration and then another as he eyed the fields.
“There it is!” Poppy squealed, running full tilt toward the barn.
A tiny blob of white and black paced in front of the doors. The horses inside whinnied and stamped. I bent over and let the dog jump from my arms, and all three of us reached the little lamb as it backed itself against the wood side of the barn and bleated, terrified.
“I have you now,” I said softly, coaxing it into my arms. It didn’t fight, snuggling under my chin. It was warm and smelled of clover, its new woolly body pleasantly scratchy against my skin. “Shall we find your mother?”
“Or we could eat it,” Poppy ventured, following me as I turned toward the neighboring pasture. “Mrs. Haylam makes a lamb roast that’s ever so tender.”
“It isn’t ours to keep, Poppy.”
“You’re too nice. Like Mary. I’d rather eat it.”
I thought on that for a bit as we followed the fence outlining the properties until we met the road, then turned onto that, taking it east toward the shepherd’s cottage. The little golden pin with the serpent was on my frock, of course, for now I was too nervous to part with it.
“We don’t seem to want for food,” I told her. “I used to steal quite a lot, but only ever to survive. If I had food enough for myself I wouldn’t steal. Don’t you think that’s how it should be?”
Poppy scrunched up her chin, her arms swinging like a soldier’s as she marched beside me. Her pup, of course, trotted just behind. “There is sense to that. Mrs. Haylam says the people who come to Coldthistle get here because they’re greedy and cross. Maybe they take too much. Maybe they steal even when they have plenty.”
I nodded, and we walked for a little while in silence, the lamb bleating occasionally, the insects in the tall grass coming to life, singing their high, reedy song.
Poppy glanced up at me now and then, chewing her cheek.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I don’t mean to bother,” she replied, coy.
“But?”
“But are you going to stay with us? Forever?” Both she and the puppy stared up at me. If Poppy could grow a tail right then and wag it, I’m certain she would have.
“I don’t know that yet,” I said. It seemed more and more like a possibility, even if Lee had to be delivered from the house before he came to harm. “Was it easy for you to decide to stay?”
“I’ve been here for as long as I can remember,” Poppy chirped. “The family that adopted me wanted to send me away. I wasn’t normal and it frightened them. They were mean and I didn’t know why. I know why now, but it was confusing before Mrs. Haylam came and helped me. The nasty brothers beat me and locked me in the attic and poisoned my food. I was sick for a long time and I think I almost died.”
“God, Poppy, that’s awful. I’m so sorry. What did Mrs. Haylam do?” Part of me dreaded the answer, knowing the girl would give it with her unusual directness.
“It’s hard to remember now,” she said, chewing her cheek again. “But I remember she came with a book and she looked funny and hunchy, not nice and clean like she does now. Mr. Morningside was with her, too, but he didn’t talk much. And she said that if I wanted my family to do what I said, she could make that happen, and that it would make the book happy. It made me happy, too. Now they’re all shadows, but they can’t hurt me anymore and they almost always do what Mrs. Haylam wants.”
I blinked down at her. “The Residents are your old family?”
Poppy nodded hard, grinning, her braids swinging. “I like them better now. Were your family like mine, Louisa? Is that why you left them?”
“In a
way,” I said slowly, still trying to digest the fact that Poppy’s cruel parents were nothing but creepy shadow beings haunting the attic. “The teachers at my school were nasty, but at least they never poisoned me. Starved me a little sometimes, and there were beatings, but we survived.”
She blinked hard, frowning. “Nobody will beat you or starve you here. Why would you want to leave?”
“Because it’s scary,” I told her. “It’s scary to think I don’t belong anywhere else. That because I’m different, my life is set on a path that cannot be changed.”
“I think I understand,” she replied slowly. “But I also think it is better to belong somewhere with people who like you than to spend your whole life wandering about. That would be quite lonely.”
I let that lie. Solitude had never bothered me, but then I had to consider that it was because I never had trusted friends who weren’t imaginary.
We reached the shepherd’s cottage without incident, though I kept checking the skies for clouds of birds. None came, although the shepherd’s dog did come out to greet us. The lamb kicked in my arms as the two dogs circled each other and sniffed and then growled, Bartholomew’s one yip sending the bigger dog running.
The blind shepherd’s laugh arrived before his body. The door to his little house opened swiftly and he chuckled, ambling out of the cottage with a cane until his dog, Big Earl, returned to guide him toward us.
“We found one of your lambs,” I told him. “Poppy and I came to return it.”
“Thank you, my dears, you’ve done a good deed this day. Joanna!” he called, and presently the kind young girl joined us. She gave me a toothy smile and slid the lamb from my arms and cradled it, cooing.