Chapter Thirty-Seven
For a long time after they pulled Bremerton’s body out of the room, I sat next to Lee. There was nothing that could be done for him. The bullet had hit him square in the chest. He looked oddly untouched, the crimson stain on his shirt the only indication that something had gone terribly awry.
I wiped a piece of Bremerton’s skull from his boot. It offended me that it had touched him.
“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to look at his face, knowing it would undo me. “I’m so very sorry, my friend.”
The bloody spoon sat in the little shallow basket made by my skirts. I held Lee’s hand after making sure mine was cleaned. His skin was still warm. That made the tears come stronger, more painfully, until I couldn’t see anything but a watercolor of the splattered room and Lee’s fine boots.
Chijioke had finally taken his ax to the door itself, allowing the others to come in. They watched outside the mangled door frame, two Residents hovering in the very back like worried parents. Mr. Morningside was the only one brave or stupid enough to come in and stand next to me. Then, with a sigh, he sat beside me on the floor, his long legs pulled up so that he could rest his wrists on his knees.
“This is my fault,” he said hoarsely. If I could feel anything but loss, I would have marveled at his taking responsibility. “The first and last children . . . I should have put it together sooner. And I definitely should have realized we had an End of Dayser among us.”
I said nothing for a long time, uninterested in his explanations. When I could better manage my tears, I wiped at my face with my apron and fixed him with a stare. The black hair and golden eyes. The too-perfect proportions of his face. He stared back at me and then took a handkerchief from inside his coat. With utmost care, he reached across and dabbed at my bloodstained face.
“Is what he said true?” I asked. “Are you really the Devil?”
“Yes.” He smiled wryly, exhaustedly. “Well, what he would call the Devil. What you would, too, I imagine. Most of what’s put down is ridiculous, but I admit some of it is accurate. Throw darts at a dictionary long enough and you’re bound to strike ‘truth.’ I’ve had many forms, many names, untold centuries to come and go as a thought or as a being.”
Perhaps it was best to learn this way, while I was still numb from Lee’s death. “Then you must be very powerful.”
“If you like.”
“But not powerful enough to walk through a goddamned door.”
He had the good grace to flinch. Taking a measured breath, he refolded his cloth and ran it carefully down my temple. “Men like Bremerton were just a whisper for a long, long time. Their sort and others like them have always tried to eliminate me. He might have succeeded, too, if you hadn’t decided to sneak in here.”
“I see. I wish he had killed you.”
“No, Louisa, you really don’t.” Mr. Morningside—the Devil—gave a dry laugh. “It would mean the end of the Unworld and the human world as you know it.”
“Oh.” I let him push the handkerchief across my forehead, trying to grasp the magnitude of this person, this being, sitting with me and calmly cleaning my face. Squinting, I looked harder. “You were wrong. Lee was innocent. Bremerton killed his own brother and Lee had nothing to do with it. He only felt responsible because he was a good person. Please, you’re the Devil—I want to make a bargain. Isn’t that what you do? Trick people into giving up their souls for some favor?”
He shook his head, glancing at Lee’s still body. “I know what you would ask, and I cannot help you . . .”
“No,” I murmured, blinking back a fresh wave of tears.
“. . . but Mrs. Haylam can.”
I didn’t care how silly my expression was. Had I heard him correctly? Could the hag-turned-housekeeper really bring Lee back to life? I searched his face, but it was no jest. The others were still milling around in the hallway, and I could see Mrs. Haylam standing there, watching us intently.
“Mrs. Haylam, would you come in here, please?”
She approached us slowly, her hands clasped together over her simple black frock. Her skin glowed orange in the late afternoon light filling the room. I looked up at her expectantly. Pleadingly. She fixed her gaze on where my hand held Lee’s.
They began a quick conversation in a language I didn’t understand. It was beautiful and guttural, and both of them spoke it with a native’s ease. From her expression, I could tell she was not happy about what Mr. Morningside said.
Her silvery eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t know what you’re asking, child.”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
“She read the book?” Mrs. Haylam asked him.
“Indeed. Ostensibly she understands the risks.”
Her eyebrows twitched under her cap. “Ostensibly is not good enough, Annunaki. The Da’mbaeru could demand anything upon its return, and I will not be the one to pay the shadow price.”
Mr. Morningside looked back to me, his chin still tilted up toward the housekeeper. He cleared his throat and paused. “You read the chapter on shadowmancers, Louisa?”
I nodded.
“And you remember it?”
“Yes,” I said, but I was less certain now. I did remember it, and I remembered the awful things that were asked in exchange for a shadow to be brought back. At the time, it had seemed harmless, stupid, the kind of scary story used to frighten children into behaving and choosing a God-fearing path. Now I could feel my stomach tightening with dread. “I remember it.”
Would Lee thank me for this? I looked at last on his face and felt my chin quiver with sorrow. Selfishly, I did not want to lose him. Mary, Chijioke, and Poppy peered in through the ragged hole where the door had been. Bartholomew stared up at his masters, his ears flattened back against his head.
Mrs. Haylam began rolling up her sleeves, her rheumy eye clearing entirely and then flashing molten gold. When I had first met her on the road, I had seen the hint of markings on her wrist, but now I saw that her arms were covered in tiny tattoos, rows and rows of little pictures. Her voice was thicker, stronger, edged with an unsettling echo. “I will ask you only once, Louisa, foolish child, and you will think carefully before you answer: Will you raise this boy and pay the price? Think before you speak; be certain you will give what is asked, even if it means your life for his.”
I agreed.
If it was selfish or not, I could not say, for I felt certain that his death had been preventable, and I could have prevented it. I’d never told him the full truth. I’d never risked that much, and he might have saved himself in some way, been more motivated to leave, been more primed to protect himself. And as I sat on the floor, staring up at Mrs. Haylam with anticipation, the thought of losing my life for his seemed almost preferable. What was I, anyway? A monster, apparently, one that belonged among only misfits and creatures of darkness.
It was childish, to think of my own life with so little regard, but in that moment it felt like the truth. My life for his; a troubled life for an innocent one.
“I agree.” That was all it took, and Mrs. Haylam was kneeling next to Lee’s head, cupping her hands over his ears. Her eyes rolled back, solid, flashing gold again, and she whispered a string of words in the language she had spoken to Mr. Morningside just a moment before.
The room began to shake, subtly at first, and then it felt as if the whole roof might come crashing down on us. I gasped and inched back, watching as the sliver of Lee’s shadow visible on the floor soaked into his body, disappearing, before his mouth dropped open and that same shadow emerged, floating up from between his lips until it stood, the very silhouette of the boy I knew, hovering over us.
I gaped up at it, shivering, watching as it held out its ghostly black arms and inspected them, as if trying on a new coat.
“What is the price?” Mrs. Haylam murmured, her eyes flickering like fairy lights.
Lee’s shadow spun to face her, and she nodded toward me.
“She will pay the shadow p
rice?” It was Lee’s voice, but cold, emotionless, lacking the sweetness and warmth I had come to expect from him. Oh God, was this all a mistake?
“It has been agreed upon,” she said.
The shadow twisted back around, its toes still dangling inside Lee’s open mouth. Its hollow eyes regarded me for a long moment before it said blankly, “Three boons I will ask. The first, a lock of your hair.”
“Of—of course,” I stammered. Mr. Morningside handed me a small pocketknife. I had almost forgotten his presence, as he was perfectly silent. His eyes were hooded as he handed me the knife, and again I questioned this choice. Shouldn’t the Devil be gleeful to have tricked me into this course? I cut off the bottom fringe of my braid and handed it to Mrs. Haylam.
“The second, a drop of your blood,” the shadow demanded.
“Done.” I already had the knife in hand. Pricking my thumb, I held it up and watched blood bubble to the surface, then disappear, twirling into a mist that rose into the air and then vanished.
“The third,” the shadow murmured, its hollow eyes squinting as though it were smiling, “the life of your firstborn child.”
I blinked up at the thing, my heart pounding, my mouth suddenly dry. Then I looked to Mr. Morningside and Mrs. Haylam for instruction. “I’m . . . I have no child, shadow; you’ve made some mistake.”
“There is no mistake,” it hissed in reply. Then it spun slowly until it faced the door, extending one arm and pointing at Mary, who watched us wide-eyed from the doorway. “That girl is of your make, born of your wishing and your mind. I will take her now as my price.”
“No!” I shook my head, going onto my knees. “You can’t take Mary; she’s done nothing!”
“Louisa, you agreed,” the Devil was saying, touching my shoulder gently. “There is no going back now.”
“I won’t allow it!” I shouted back, shoving his hand away.
Mary drifted into the room, her hands folded in front of her apron. She gave me the strangest smile, one of fondness and sadness. Of acceptance. No. No. This wasn’t what I wanted! None of this was what I wanted. . . .
“You don’t have to do this,” I told her, shaking my head, tears gushing anew down my cheeks. “It should be my life, not yours! Go, Mary, turn around!”
But she simply walked on toward us, calmly, as if going righteously to an execution.
“It will be all right,” she told me softly. Out in the hall, she took Chijioke into her small arms and squeezed him tight, then turned to Poppy and did the same, even sparing a moment to drop a kiss on Bartholomew’s head.
“Are you sure about this, Mary?” Chijioke was asking, brushing his hand at a spill of tears.
“Absolutely” was her reply.
No . . . She was not allowed to say good-bye. She was not allowed to do this on my behalf. Mr. Morningside stood and moved to the corner and Mary took his place, kneeling and touching her forehead to mine. “I’ll go, Louisa. You don’t have to worry.”
“No!” I looked for help, for dissension, but nobody spoke up; they simply stared back at me. “I can’t let you do this, Mary. I didn’t know I made you. I didn’t mean to . . . to . . .” I threw my arms around her. She was Maggie. She was Mary. I had made her and needed her and she had been my friend in the worst hours of my life. And now she would be gone. Just like Lee.
I had tried to save everyone, and instead I had led to everyone’s ruin.
Mary carefully unhooked my arms from her shoulders, smiling her gentle smile, her green eyes so familiar and filled, heartbreakingly, with nothing but love.
“Don’t cry, Louisa,” she said, standing and taking the shadow’s hand. “I’m only going home.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In a blink she was gone, as if she had never existed in the first place. As if my need of a friend had never manifested her into being.
And the shadow was gone, too, sucked back into Lee’s mouth. The blood of his that had leaked out onto the carpets gradually absorbed back into his body until a healthy bloom of color sat on his cheeks. Then, through Mrs. Haylam’s cursed magic, I saw his chest rise and fall. He lived.
“He will wake when the moon rises,” she told me. Her eye was clouded once more, and she rolled her sleeves down, challenging me with a stare as she did so. I said nothing, and she and Mr. Morningside hoisted Lee up, though he did not react. They pulled him out of the room and I followed, numb and cold all over as they brought him back to his own rooms and laid him in the bed.
It took me a long moment to realize what looked wrong about him: he had no shadow as they picked him up or as they dragged him, and he had no shadow as they put him to bed. That thing that had demanded hair and blood and life of me was inside him somewhere, and the thought made me sick with regret.
What had I done to him? What had I done to Mary?
I stood over his bed as dusk slipped away to night, as a cloud of bats darkened the sky and circled the house, as the Residents came out and prowled the halls. Mrs. Haylam stayed for a while, her shoulder almost touching mine.
“I warned you,” she said, and it was pity in her voice, not scorn.
“I know, and I should have listened. Will he be the same?” I asked.
Mrs. Haylam drew in a rattling breath. “Yes and no. He will be the boy you knew, but he is death-touched now, and living by the grace of shadow. There will be a greater darkness in him, and a greater capacity for malice.”
I nodded, touching the blanket he lay upon. “Mr. Morningside was wrong, you know. Lee didn’t belong here. He was innocent.”
“Yes, and your certainty is the only reason I agreed to this,” she said, gesturing to his legs. “He can never leave this house, Louisa. A shadow is not form; he is bound to the same magicks that tie the Residents here, and when his flesh has faded he will be as one of them. You will not live to see it, and he will exist here forever.”
“Worse and worse,” I whispered, feeling hopeless. Feeling lost. If I had bound Lee against his will to this house, then I would stay, too. It was only fair, after the mess I had caused. “I have cursed him and lost Mary in one.”
“Maybe not,” Mrs. Haylam said softly, placing a motherly hand on my back. “Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She nodded subtly to the door, and I turned to find Mr. Morningside watching us, leaning against the door frame. He was the Devil, but I did not shrink from him as he approached and held out his arm. I took it, looking up at him, not reassured by his easy smile.
The Devil’s golden eyes flickered, and he patted my hand. “How do you feel about a little trip?” he asked. “To Ireland, perhaps. Waterford, more specifically. I know a well there with extraordinary power. Hold out your hand.”
I did, a stirring of recognition in my head. The dream. The book. Was all not lost? Could I really see Mary again? When I opened my fist, I found he had dropped a small, warm thimble into my palm, and a familiar gold pin.
“Don’t stay away too long,” the Devil said, drifting toward the door. He paused and looked over his shoulder at me. “You belong here at Coldthistle House.”
Epilogue
A month later I stood in the blistering cold, a woolen muffler pulled up high over my lips. Burrowing down into it, I waited outside the tavern, stamping my feet and watching my breath curl into little wisping white dragons that floated to the iron sky.
I felt like a stranger here, though Waterford had long been my home. Those childhood years felt a hundred centuries away. I was not the same miserable, shy girl rolling in the mud while my parents fought and fought. A man shouldered his way into the tavern, leering at me. I looked away, disgusted, and hugged myself to ward off the cold.
Barges drifted on the river. Workmen called to one another as they took their afternoon breaks. A few gulls floated stark and white high above me, feathers ruffled by the wind. I could no longer glance at a bird without thinking of Mr. Morningside and the multitude of souls stashed in his office. What did he need
them all for? I wondered if he would ever tell me.
Sighing, I looked up and down the lane, searching every face that came and went. Would he come? Was this all just a game? No. Patience. I opened up my mitten and there it was, the promise of friendship restored. A way to make things right again.
A thimble.
Another quarter hour passed, and I decided to leave and try again the next day. That was when he appeared. He was short, with a wide and round face. His shockingly red hair stood up in every direction.
“Alec?” I asked, watching him slide up to me with a toothy grin. “I’m looking for a very special spring. Can you help me?”
His eyes twinkled and he started down the lane, beckoning for me to follow. “If a spring’s your thing, I ken one fit even for a king.”
I squeezed the thimble tight in my fist and followed.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Kate McKean for not telling me I was a complete lunatic for proposing this novel in the first place. What started as a stray thought on the way back from Chipotle turned into a story that took me to places I never expected. Thanks to Andrew Harwell and HarperCollins for believing in this project, giving me an amazing amount of freedom to experiment, and to the hardworking artists who made the book beautifully sinister to behold.
My mother got me hooked on Jane Austen early in life, and I don’t think this book would have come about without that nudge. I’m not sure you thought this would be the result, Mom, but I hope you’re proud. I think Jane would dig it (maybe not the swear words, though). Thanks also to Pops, Nick, Tristan, Julie, Gwen, and Dom for being the most amazing family support system a writer could ask for.
To Brent and Smidge, thank you for being patient while this book took over my life and occasionally made me very difficult to live with. Thank you for your ideas and for reminding me that ye olde pistols are not like our modern ones.
A huge thanks to Tadhg Ó Maoldhomhnaigh for the assistance with Gaelic translations. While working on the book I was fully immersed in some of Andrea Portes’s brilliant novels, and her genius propelled me to try harder and think bigger.