Hawthorn (14 page)

“Do we look like a tea room?” the innkeeper demanded.

“Ha ha, no, of course not. I'm familiar with your fine establishment from my schooldays at Hawthorn Hall.”

“Have ye come from the school then?” the sheep farmer asked.

“Oh no, I graduated years ago. We're on our way there now. These two ladies are students at Hawthorn's sister establishment in America. Perhaps you've heard of it—”

“I wouldna be taking the lasses up Hawthorn way,” the sheep farmer growled. “There's been strange goings-on up there.”

“Always were,” one of the men by the fire said. “My mam always said to stay clear of the place, that it was full of ha'nts and boggles.”

“Aye,” the sheep farmer agreed. “And 'tis worse of late. Even the masters cleared out before term ended this year. Couldn't get clear of the place fast enough.”

“Is there no one at the school, then?” Daisy asked. “You see, our friend was there and we haven't heard from him in a while.”

“No one's heard aught from the school since Hogmanay,” the innkeeper said.

“But that's New Year's Eve! Surely there's been some communication from the school since then,” Mr. Bellows demanded.

The innkeeper shook his head. “The grocer's boy won't make the trip no more on account of the ha'nts. But there are still some lads up there, runnin' wild like since the masters left. Ian MacGregor says they raided his sheep pen last month. Called the sheriff but he couldna get no one brave enough to go up to the Hall.”

“I'm sure Nathan wouldn't steal anyone's sheep,” Daisy said indignantly.

“It would be against the Hawthorn Hall code,” Mr. Bellows said, drawing himself up.

“Can we hire a cart to take us to the school?” I asked, thinking that I wouldn't put sheep stealing past Nathan if he were hungry enough.

“If you're willing to drive it yerselves,” the innkeeper said. “And will pay for it outright. I canna expect to see ye again if you're bent on gang to Hawthorn Hall.”

“I can guarantee that you will see us again,” Mr. Bellows said. “I'd hardly take my students there if I couldn't. But if you insist that I lay out the full amount as a surety . . .”

The innkeeper named a figure that raised Mr. Bellows' eyebrows and which I guessed from the snickers by the fireside was far more than the going rate for a horse and cart. Mr. Bellows began to accept the price but Daisy broke in to argue that “in Kansas you could buy two horses and a team of oxen for that
price!” She bargained the innkeeper down and got him to throw in a hamper of steak and kidney pies, Scotch eggs, something called bannocks, and a dozen pints of ale.

“Those boys will be hungry,” she said as we followed the innkeeper around to the stables.

“Not if they've been stealing sheep,” I replied. “But I could murder a steak and kidney pie.”

“I wonder why the masters would all go off and leave the boys alone,” Mr. Bellows mused while Daisy helped the innkeeper hitch the old gray workhorse—whose name, Daisy learned, was Nessie—to the cart, stopping twice to insist that he replace a frayed bit of tack. “It's not according to the rules.”

“I have a feeling that nothing we're going to find from here on out is according to the rules,” I said.

Mr. Bellows wanted to drive the cart, but when it became clear that he'd never driven one Daisy took over.

“We need you to be the shotgun messenger,” Daisy said, smartly snapping the reins and urging Nessie forward.

“Shotgun messenger?”

“The guard on a stagecoach who keeps an eye out for bandits. My father was a shotgun messenger for Wells Fargo. He taught me to shoot his twelve-gauge,” she said proudly, then added under her breath, “I wish we had one now.”

I did, too.

Within a few minutes of leaving the village of Duntuath the narrow track was engulfed by forest. Oak and beech trees towered over us, their leaves dripping water onto our heads.
The ground was thick with underbrush—a thorny bush starred with white flowers—and patches of fog.

“It doesn't look like anyone's used this road in months,” I said.

“It only goes from town to the hall,” Mr. Bellows replied. “In fact, it's supposed to be the original track that the bell maker's daughters took from their father's foundry to the prince's castle to deliver the seven bells—”

“And were waylaid by shadow wolves instead,” Daisy said in a hushed whisper.

“Yes, but as I said before, there haven't been any wolves in this area since—”

His words were cut off by a high-pitched howl from the right side of the track. Nessie's ears twitched and Daisy crooned softly to calm her—or perhaps to calm Mr. Bellows and me. We had both drawn our daggers at the sound.

“It's probably just someone's setter—”

An answering yip came from the left side of the track and then another yip and howl from the right. I stared into the woods but the fog was too thick to see through. Daisy snapped the reins to urge Nessie forward, which wasn't really necessary as she was now bolting down the track at a speed I wouldn't have thought the old nag capable of.

“How far to the end of the woods?” Daisy cried to Mr. Bellows.

“Not far now—just past this sharp turn.”

The turn was indeed a sharp one. Daisy tried to slow Nessie but the horse was too panicked by the howls of the wolves to heed her driver. I didn't blame her. They were all around us. I
could hear them running through the underbrush, slipping in between the trees like wraiths. As we came around the curve I glimpsed a shape springing from the fog toward Daisy. I unfurled my wings and, dagger in hand, sprung from the cart to meet it midair.

But all I met was air—then hard ground. The shadow wolf had vanished midair, leaving me to crash on the ground.

I tucked my wings in and rolled but I got tangled in thorns. I heard Nessie's sharp, high whinny, Daisy's scream, Mr. Bellows's swearing, and then the splintering of wood. I tore my wing from the thorn bush and rolled to my feet. The fog was so thick I could barely make out the toppled cart—but then there was Daisy, standing by Nessie's head, dagger in hand. Mr. Bellows grabbed me and drew me in close.

“Form a triangle,” he barked. “Close together, facing out, daggers up.”

We stood, our shoulders touching, braced for the attack, straining to make out each footfall. They were circling us, closing in for the kill. I counted six, seven, eight . . . too many for us to take on ourselves.

Then a howl split the dense fog. It felt like a dagger splitting my brain in two, like an abyss opening up inside my chest. Others joined it, deafening and maddening.

“They're trying to frighten us,” Mr. Bellows whispered.

“No,” Daisy said. “
They're
frightened.”

“What do they have to be bloody frightened—?” Mr. Bellows began, but then a ball of fur exploded out of the fog. Mr. Bellows lunged for it and thrust a dagger through its heart. It
landed with a thud at my feet. I looked down—and noticed that its throat had been cut.

“Something's killing them,” I said.

Another wolf backed out of the fog, snarling at something in front of it. It lunged into the fog—then fell back, a spear plunged into its throat. A shape loomed out of the fog, tall and shaggy and . . .
blue
.

“Trows!” Daisy squeaked.

“Quick!” Mr. Bellows cried. “While they're killing the wolves make a run for it. I'll stay here and fight them off.”

But it was too late to run. Blue creatures were dropping out of the trees. They had wolf heads and furry legs and necklaces of bones dangling on their bare chests. They were yipping like wolves and shaking their spears at us. They'd scared the shadow wolves away, which only made them more frightening. But I was tired of being frightened. I picked the one who looked like the leader—the one with the biggest spear making the most noise—and hurled myself at it. We landed in a thud, my dagger at its throat. Its wolf's head fell back and two pale eyes stared up at me out of a blue-streaked face.

“Ava?” it said.

“Nathan?”

THE POINT OF
a spear pressing against my ribcage brought my attention away from Nathan. I looked up from him into a wide blue face framed by a wolf's-head hood.

“Stand down, Bottom,” Nathan bit out between gritted teeth. “She's a friend . . . at least she
was
a friend.”

“Are you sure, Becky? It's got wings.”

Bottom? Becky?

“Yes, I can see her wings, but remember how I explained that the Darklings weren't all bad?”

“Oi, what about these two?” Another one of the blue demons prodded Daisy with a spear. “Are they Darklings, too?”

“Leave her be, Collie. That's Miss Daisy Moffat and if I'm not mistaken she could take you in a fair fight.”

Collie, who beneath the fearsome blue paint and wolf's hood looked all of ninety pounds and not older than fifteen, gave Daisy a wary look, at which Daisy bared her teeth and growled at him. Collie jumped back two feet into a third blue warrior—a tall lanky lad with red curly hair escaping from under his wolf's hood.

“Geroff, ye dunderheaded berk. If yer gang to do a bunk do it away from me.”

“I'm not running away, Jinks,” Collie cried. “Becky says they're all right.”

“Then why's it still on top o' him?” Jinks asked.

“Yeah,” Nathan groaned. “Why's it still on top o' me?”

“Oh!” I shifted my knees off Nathan's chest, drawing my wings in, and got up slowly, keeping an eye on Bottom's spear. I offered a hand up to Nathan but he ignored it and got up on his own, brushing dirt off his torn ragged trousers and wolf cloak as if he were adjusting a fine bespoke suit.

“Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce Miss Avaline Hall, Miss Daisy Moffat, and Mr. Rupert Bellows of the Blythewood School.” He performed the introductions with a bow and a flourish. “Ava, Daisy, Mr. Bellows, meet Henry Higginbottom the third, Clyde Collingwood, and James Jenkins of Hawthorn Hall.”

We nodded warily to each other, then Daisy broke the awkward silence. “Why are you painted blue?”

“Keeps the shadow things out,” Collie said, thumping his skinny chest.

“Aye,” Jinks said, “Mr. Farnsworth thinks that why the Picts did it.”

“Mr. Farnsworth is here?” Mr. Bellows asked.

“Back at the castle,” Nathan replied, “where we ought to be heading. It's getting dark—and no amount of blue paint in the world can keep out the shadows after dark.”

“We've got to bring Nessie,” Daisy said, stroking the horse's head.

Nathan stepped toward the cart to examine the damage that had been done in our fall. “We'll unhitch her and come back for
the cart tomorrow.” He turned to look at us. “Is this all of you, then? I've been expecting an expedition from Blythewood but I'd have thought you'd bring reinforcements. I suppose Helen had more important things to do.”

Daisy, Mr. Bellows, and I looked at each other, none of us wanting to be the one to tell Nathan what had happened to Helen, but at last Daisy did.

“Van Drood's got her. It's all my fault. Spring-heeled Jack used me as a distraction. . . .” She spilled out all the details of the ambush on the train, ending with the assurance that Raven, Marlin, Agnes, and Sam had all gone after her. “They're bound to find her!”

I couldn't judge the color of Nathan's skin under the blue paint, but I could see his jaw clench and his hand squeeze Nessie's rein so tightly that the gentle horse whinnied. “They'd better,” he said between gritted teeth. “Come on, then,” He led Nessie through the trees. “Before you lose anyone else of your rescue party.”

As we walked through the woods Nathan recounted the events of the last few months at Hawthorn Hall.

“Mr. Farnsworth and I noticed that something was off as soon as we arrived. The masters had instituted some rather odd rules—dodgy even for Hawthorn.”

“They had us cutting down trees in the forest,” Bottom complained.

“And scrubbing the bloomin' cellars on our hands and knees,” Collie added.

“And they whipped us,” Jinks noted.

“And sent us to bed without our supper,” Bottom concluded in an aggrieved tone. At Daisy's insistence, he was carrying the hamper full of food, sniffing appreciatively at the smell of steak and kidney pies.

“It became clear to Mr. Farnsworth and me that all of the masters had been taken over by the
tenebrae
.”

“All of them?” Mr. Bellows asked.

“Yes—and they were using the boys to look for something.”

“The vessel,” I said. “Did they—?”

“No. The headmaster grilled Mr. Farnsworth when he arrived. He wanted to know what he'd done with
A Darkness of Angels
. But Mr. Farnsworth wouldn't talk so they locked him up and tortured him.”

Daisy gasped.

“That's when I organized the boys in a revolt.”

“That was very brave of you,” I said, my eyes filling at the thought that I'd ever thought Nathan might have been taken over by the shadows.

“Yes,” Mr. Bellows said. “Er, what did you do with the masters?”

“Chased them off,” Collie exclaimed in a high, excited voice. “You should've seen them run.”

“Some wanted to string 'em up,” Jinks said. “But Becky forbid it. Said they'd been men once—”

“And might be men again,” Collie finished.

“Yes, well,” Nathan murmured. “It might not have been the wisest choice. As soon as they were gone we were besieged by shadow creatures—crows on the battlements, rats in the
cellars, and wolves in the woods. We've been trapped here, unable to get out or send a message. I figured that Blythewood would send someone eventually.”

“Helen and I only got back a few weeks ago,” I said guiltily. I went on to explain what had happened to us. Nathan listened in silence as I described the ruined Blythewood and the war that had ravaged Europe and then the United States.

“Blimey!” Bottom swore. “You're saying we Brits didn't stand up against the Bosch? But we're pledged to aid France.”

“We'd never stand idle while France fell!” Collie cried, his voice cracking. “I'd go to war myself!”

“It was the work of the shadows—and van Drood,” Nathan said. “Before the masters fled I had a look at some of their papers—letters to uppity-ups in the governments of England, France, Austro-Hungary, Germany, and Russia. A network of influence spun by van Drood to enable the
tenebrae
to take over the world. We must stop it!”

“We will,” Mr. Bellows said, patting Nathan on the shoulder. “But first we must find where the second vessel is.”

“That won't be a problem,” Nathan said. “I know where it is.”

“You do?” I asked, feeling the first stirring of hope.

Nathan turned his head and looked at me. Against the bright blue paint on his face his eyes looked pale as water, washed clean of emotion and impossible to read.

“Yes,” he said, looking away from me and jerking his head toward something in front of us. I followed his gaze. We'd come to the edge of the woods. Across a grassy field rose a steep cliff covered with thorny brambles. Steps carved out of the rock led up to a stone castle. The last light of the sun turned the old
stone walls the soft gold of buried treasure. “It's there,” Nathan said, “buried in the hill under Hawthorn Hall. The castle was built up around it to protect the vessel.”

Nathan led the way up the steep steps so fast that, trying to keep up with him, I had difficulty catching my breath enough to talk. It would have been easier to fly up to the castle, but when I flexed my wings Nathan shook his head.

“Don't do it. We've got archers in the battlements and meurtriers—those are the arrow slits in the walls—”

“I know what a meurtrier is,” I snapped, folding back my wings. “I heard the same medieval siege lecture in Mr. Bellows's class as you. But I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about Helen.”

“What's there to talk about? I'll get her back from van Drood if it's the last thing I do.”

I grabbed Nathan's arm and made him look at me. “You love her, don't you?”

Nathan glared at me as though I'd accused him of a crime. “What of it?” he finally snapped. “She was none too happy with my declaration. I remember her exact words: ‘Nathan Fillmore Beckwith, you idiot, why have you gone and ruined everything?'”

“
That's
why she came back from Europe upset?” I said.

Nathan shrugged my arm off and kept climbing. “I didn't know that my feelings would be such a burden to her. I always thought . . . that well . . .”

“She had feelings for you?”

“Yes. I hate to admit it but I took her for granted. She was always tagging along behind me, like a little sister, only . . .”

“Not like a sister entirely.”

“No. So when you came along . . .”

In the places where the blue paint had rubbed away his skin turned red.

“You thought you fancied me?”

He groaned. “Do we really have to go over all my mistakes?”

“It wasn't a mistake,” I said gently. “I-I thought . . . well, I fancied you, too, only then . . . well, now . . .”

“You love Raven. I understand. And Helen loves Marlin . . .”

“But that's just it. I'm not sure . . . I mean, she
likes
him, and when she found out you'd gone . . .” I left off, realizing that I didn't want to tell Nathan about Marlin coming to Helen's room on the ship.

“She went back to him,” Nathan said. “Well, maybe that's for the best. Only I wish he'd taken better care of her. But if you think I won't do everything in my power to get Helen back even if it's to deliver her into Marlin's arms, you're dead wrong.” He glared at me, daring me to object.

“That's not what I think at all!”

“Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make a ridiculous sound.”

“What?”

He sighed. “It's a signal. These lads, well . . .” He looked back at Collie, Bottom, and Jinks with an expression of fondness I'd rarely seen on Nathan's face. “They've been raised on all these outlandish tales—Peter Pan and Rudyard Kipling. They love
signals and codes and nicknames—as if it's all a game. Don't get me wrong—they're good lads and brave, only I wonder sometimes if their innocence won't be their undoing.”

For a moment the setting sun turned the blue paint on Nathan's face to red streaks and I saw him on a field of war leading men into battle, his eyes filled with a terrible pride and sorrow. Then the red light was extinguished and his face was in shadow.

“At any rate, if I don't caw like a crow right now the sentries will assume you've taken us prisoner and pour boiling oil from the machicolations.”

He pointed up to a projection in the battlement wall and then he cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Ca-caw, ca-caw, ca-caw.”