The Doorway and the Deep (16 page)

Lottie clutched his hand. Though she didn't let on to Eliot what she was doing, she tried very hard to clear her mind, like Mr. Wilfer had taught her. She tried to focus,
focus
on making Eliot better, just like she had that night at the Barmy Badger, when she'd had her last bad spell, and healing heat had coursed through her arms and into Eliot, when—

“Lottie?” Eliot whispered.

Lottie opened her eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Lottie said.

No
, she thought.

She let go of Eliot's hand.

“I'm fine,” he said. “It's just been a long day for everyone. No wonder we're all at each other's throats, right?”

“That's not the only reason,” she said, eyeing Fife, who was now suspended in a careless hover at the back of the boat, removed from the others.

Lottie rose and, careful to keep a steady footing, crawled to where Fife floated.

“What's your problem?” she hissed up at him, arms folded tight. “I
know
what you're doing.”

“Do you?”

Fife simpered, then slowly stuck his tongue out at Lottie.

“It's childish,” she said. “It's not right, messing with people's words like that, stirring up their emotions.”

Fife shrugged. “It's only wrong because you noticed it.”

“No,” said Lottie, “it's wrong because you shouldn't use your keen like that. Some people are trying to sharpen their keens for
good
, and you're throwing a—a keen tantrum.”

Fife snickered. “Is that what you call it?”

“I bet it has worse names,” Lottie said. “Maybe you're not much better than a splinter.”

Fife went still. His hovering cut out entirely, and he landed in the boat with a soft thud.

“Don't call me that,” he said, stumbling to his feet. “You don't know what that word really means.”

“Sure I do,” said Lottie. “You told me yourself: splinters are sprites who use their keens wrongly. That's what you're doing.”

“Yeah, well, I can't always help it. I'm still sharpening. I've got less control over it than you think.”

“You can keep your tongue in your mouth,” Lottie said coldly. “I know you're mad at Eliot for some stupid reason, but that doesn't give you the right to mess with him.”

“And just because you've got a crush on him doesn't mean you should treat him better than everyone else.”

Lottie stared at Fife. He dropped his eyes. Then, for the very first time, Lottie saw his face turn red with embarrassment.

“I don't have a
crush
on Eliot,” Lottie said, casting a frantic glance back at the others, who were luckily engaged in a new conversation. “He's my best friend.”

“But you like him best,” said Fife. “You only care about him. You were going to go back to your world without giving a flying flip about the rest of us. ‘Let Fife and the others go to the Northerly Court. I'm going to trot back home with my
favorite
person, la dee dah!'”

“You said you weren't mad about that.”

Fife licked his lips.

“Don't! Don't
do
that. Not on me.”

“Everything all right?” called Oliver.

Lottie turned to find that, this time, the entire boat was looking at them. Even from behind her, Reeve was laughing lowly.

“Not the best place for a lovers' quarrel, little ones,” he said.

“It's not a—a—” Lottie sputtered. “It's—it's nothing like that at all!”

She wanted to run, to stomp away. But neither of those options was available. Lottie could only keep her back to Fife as she crossed to the front of the boat. She still felt heat switching up her neck and pouring into her cheeks.

“Let me guess,” said Adelaide. “Fife's being insufferable.”

“Yes,” Lottie said. “He most certainly is.”

“There's only one cure for all this unhappiness,” said Dorian. “It's time we ate.”

THEIR SUPPER
, or breakfast—no one could settle on what to call it—consisted of the same food they'd eaten earlier, on the road. Everyone was allotted equal portions of dried berries, hazelnuts, and cheese. Reeve and Nash contributed strips of salted rabbit, which Oliver and Adelaide refused—Oliver politely and Adelaide with more than a few choice words about the foulness of meat. After listening to her tirade, Eliot quietly put back his own portion of rabbit.

“You don't have to do that,” Oliver told Eliot. “We don't eat it, but it won't offend us if you do. These extremes shall neither's office do.”

“It offends
me
,” said Adelaide.

Fife proceeded to chew his meat with noisy smacks and an open mouth.

After they'd finished their food, Nash supplied the company with a beverage called tallis. The liquid was thick and amber, and it smelled of metal. Lottie looked at it questioningly.

“I don't think we're old enough to be drinking this,” said Oliver.

Fife downed the liquid in one go.

“Suit yourself,” said Nash, “but it's the best protection you've got against the night. Keeps you warm for hours. Your choice if you'd like to fall asleep shivering.”

Sleep
. The mere thought of closing her eyes buoyed Lottie's heart. She was tired in an all-consuming way that wrapped around her bones and tugged her muscles downward, begging for rest. The scent of her drink didn't strike her as quite so pungent anymore. She sipped it down, and Nash's claims proved to be true: warmth swathed around her arms like a thick blanket. But no—that was a
real
blanket. Eliot had pulled it out of his pack and wrapped it around the both of them.

“Thanks,” Lottie said, resting her head on his shoulder.

Then a sour, unwanted thought crept into her head: Fife was probably watching, and he probably thought this meant she
liked
Eliot.
Like
-liked him. But Lottie didn't care. She and Eliot had rested their heads on each other's shoulders
since they were eight years old, and she wasn't about to stop now.

“Tallis makes you sleepy,” she murmured into Eliot's shoulder.

Eliot yawned in reply.

“I'm turning off the lantern to save oil,” said Dorian. “Let's try to get some shut-eye, if we can.”

Moments later, the cozy glow of the lantern went out. Lottie's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light of the moon. Across from her, Adelaide was already curled fast asleep, head dropped to her knees. Dorian, too, sat with his head tilted back, eyes closed.

Lottie shut her eyes and concentrated on sounds—the creak of the boat, the wail of wind through the trees on the bank. The hum of conversation had faded into silence, and all was calm. The tallis still hung heavy in Lottie's mouth. The scent of late autumn—dead leaves and crisp water and burnt firewood—filled her senses. Minutes passed like this. Possibly hours. Lottie lost herself in the monotonous calm.

Then there was a scream.

Two bodies scuffling in the dark.

Angry shouts.

The boat heaved to one side, then the other. Lottie sat up, suddenly wide awake.

“Get him, Dorian! I can't—”

Shadows grappled before Lottie. She strained her eyes against the dark to make out the fighters: Dorian. Nash. Oliver.

Oliver's arms were wrapped about Nash's neck; he'd jumped on his back and was holding on tight. Dorian was facing Nash down, his sword drawn.

“Drop it,” Dorian shouted. “Drop it, Nash, or so help me, I'll run you through.”

That's when the moonlight burst from a cover of clouds and revealed a thin, metal blade. Nash was holding a knife.

There was more movement, more struggle, the sound of a hand slapping across skin. Nash released an anguished scream.

“Drop it!”
ordered Dorian.

Nash fell to his knees. Something clattered to the base of the boat.

“Keep hold of him, Wilfer,” said Dorian, kneeling to retrieve the dropped knife.

“I've got him,” said another voice. Fife was floating behind Nash, holding a bundle of gauze. “C'mon, let's get him tied up.”

There were more shadowy movements that Lottie could not make out. Dorian had somehow replaced Oliver and gripped Nash around the neck, placing the point of his knife to Nash's chin.

“Bind him, Dulcet.”

Fife wrenched Nash's hands to his back and started tying knots with the gauze. Moments later, he wrapped the last of the material in a triple-knot and nodded, satisfied.

“That'll hold him,” he said.

Dorian moved the knifepoint to the hollow of Nash's throat. “You're lucky I don't gut you here and now and feed you to the fishes, piece by piece.”

Nash didn't reply. He was sobbing loudly, uncontrollably.

“You're sick, mate,” said another voice—Reeve's. He hadn't moved—he couldn't, Lottie realized, or the boat would go careening—but Lottie could see the angered contortions of his face. “You're a disgrace!”

The boat filled with light. Adelaide had relit the lantern.

“What's happening?” she asked. “Would someone kindly explain what's going on?”

“Nash was going to kill her,” said Oliver. “I saw him. He gave us the tallis to turn everyone drowsy. He was going to stab Lottie right here, in the dark, while we slept.”

Oliver looked horrible. He sat with his head resting on one hand, his eyes a lifeless brown.

Stab her right here, in the dark
.

Lottie felt nauseated. She gripped her stomach and tried to breathe in cold air, tried to tell herself that she was
not
dizzy.

Nash was still sobbing hard. He choked out words through the tears. “I didn't
want
to do it. I didn't want to murder some innocent girl, I swear! If you only knew what she'll do to me!”

“Iolanthe,” said Dorian.

It wasn't a question, but Nash nodded jerkily all the same.

“Traitor,” Reeve growled. “What're you waiting for, Dorian? He'd be long dead by now, under my watch. Slit his throat and throw him overboard. That's the sailors' code.”

“I'm no traitor!” Nash said wildly. “If you
heard
the promises she made. If you just heard 'em, Reeve, you'd understand. She's got new ideas. Not Southerly ideas,
new
ideas for the whole lot of sprites.”

“She's Southerly scum, you fool!” Reeve barked back. “That's no white circle branded to your skin, is it? And yet you serve the Southerly King's right-hand sprite? Liar! Hypocrite! Traitor!”

“Quiet, Reeve,” said Dorian. “It does no good to tell him what he is. I'm only concerned with what information he has.”

“I haven't got information, I
swear
.”

“Forgive me if I don't believe you after you nearly murdered—” Here, Dorian broke off and turned to Lottie. “I say, Fiske, you all right?”

Lottie felt weak and sick, and she was sure she didn't look much better.

“I—I'm fine,” she said. “He didn't hurt me.”

“Well, he very well would've if it hadn't been for Oliver,” said Fife, who sat hovering cross-legged across from Nash. “I'm with Reeve. I say we dump him into the Lissome.”

“Well, Nash?” said Dorian. “Is that the kind of death you want? For there's no chance Iolanthe will have you back after this.”

“I'll tell you whatever you want,” blubbered Nash. “But I mean it: I know little. Hardly any of us know a thing. I only joined up because she was offering good pay, and my brother—”

“Spare us your excuses,” said Dorian, pressing the knife's blade harder against his neck, drawing out a trickle of blood. “Tell us what you know.”

Nash's whole body began to shudder.

“I can't
think
,” he said. “It b-burns so b-b-bad.”