The Doorway and the Deep (2 page)

And so Lottie and Eliot had come to live in Wisp Territory, where Lottie fell into a steady routine. At dusk, she sharpened her keen with Mr. Wilfer. In the hours just before dawn, she trained her genga with Oliver. The space of time between, she spent with Eliot and the others, exchanging stories, playing games, and going on what adventures they could within the confines of Wisp Territory.

This particular morning, according to her routine, Lottie should have already been eating her breakfast in the Clearing. But this morning, Trouble was missing.

“Lottie,” said Oliver, “I wouldn't worry too much. Trouble is your genga. He's got to return to you sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” said Fife. “If he doesn't, he'll die of loneliness.”

“Not helpful, Fife,” said Oliver.

Lottie felt ill.

“You look pale,” observed Fife. “Breakfast is definitely in order.”

Adelaide and Eliot were already out of their yews. Eliot sat cross-legged in the long grass, bent over his sketchbook, his left hand smudged black with charcoal. Lottie was used to finding her best friend in this posture. Today, working under lantern light, Eliot was sketching Adelaide. She sat
across from him, hands folded in her lap, lips pulled up in an aggressively pleasant smile. Since Eliot's arrival in Wisp Territory, Adelaide had made it clear that she considered Eliot to be
refreshingly refined
. Lottie thought what this really meant was that Adelaide had a bit of a crush on him.

Since Lottie had first arrived in Wisp Territory, she had lived here in the Clearing. Like the glass pergola, where Silvia and her royal entourage resided, this place was set apart from the plagued wisps living under quarantine in the surrounding territory. Silvia had designated the Clearing as a safe haven for Lottie and her companions, though Lottie didn't think this was so much an act of kindness as it was an attempt to keep them under her watch. Silvia saw Lottie and the others as helpless children—“babes in the wood,” she'd once called them—who couldn't look after themselves. This would've bothered Lottie more, perhaps, if the food Silvia provided at the Clearing's dining table were not so good.

As usual, the low, long birch table was decked with an assortment of foods: wild cherries, blue-speckled eggs, nuts, berries, pink honey, and paper-thin bread that the wisps called wafercomb. Lottie's stomach grumbled at the sight of the spread. Maybe Fife had been right, she thought, and all she really needed was a stomachful of food to put things in perspective.

It had been difficult at first to grow accustomed to breakfast at sunset and supper just before sunrise. But after a little
while, Lottie had actually come to like the wisps' nocturnal lifestyle. She missed sunshine, but Wisp Territory looked its best in the dark, lit by the warm gold of lanterns and haunted by shadows.

Lottie took her usual seat at the table, next to Eliot. He put away his sketchbook and cast her a grin.

“Thank goodness,” he said, reaching for a fistful of hazelnuts. “I'm starving.”

Lottie wanted to point out that Eliot could've gone ahead and eaten without her, but she was well aware Adelaide considered such behavior “unrefined.”

“There's only one thing more unrefined than eating before everyone is present at the table,” Adelaide had said once, “and that's showing up
late
to breakfast.”

This morning, however, Adelaide didn't seem to mind her companions' tardiness. Her eyes were glimmering with excitement, and the moment the others were settled, she said, “Autumntide comes soon!”

Fife made a gagging noise.

“I passed the pergola yesterday,” said Eliot, “and I overheard the guards talking. They said there's going to be cider and music and dancing. Sounds fun, right?”

“It sounds like it might actually be a civilized gathering,” said Adelaide. “The Seamstress is said to wear the grandest ball gown for the occasion. I hear she takes the whole year to sew it.”

“Hm,” said Oliver. His eyes were a nondescript brown.

Fife looked like he'd swallowed his tongue and that it had gone down quite the wrong pipe.

“What's wrong with Autumntide, Fife?” Lottie asked.

“Yeah, what's wrong?” said Eliot. “It kind of sounds like Halloween. Halloween is my favorite.”

“First off,” said Fife, “I have no idea what Halloween is, but it sounds idiotic. Second, Autumntide isn't some grand party like the Southerlies think.”

Adelaide's nose crinkled. “Well, certainly it couldn't be like a
proper
Southerly party. Wisps don't have the resources to—”

“Ada, have you ever actually been in Wisp Territory for Autumntide?”

“What a stupid question,” said Adelaide. “You know I haven't. And for your information, I'd rather not be here at all. I'd rather be safe at Iris Gate, in a clean room, next to a well-tended fireplace, drinking proper tea and doing homework for Tutor. But since that isn't possible, I'm trying to make the best of my circumstances.”

Adelaide looked very proud of herself. Fife said something under his breath that sounded a lot like “ridiculous.”

“Well then,
you
tell me, Ollie,” said Lottie. “What's so bad about Autumntide?”

“There are poems about it,” he said.

“Good poems, or bad?”

“Uh.” Oliver's eyes flickered to an unsettled pink. “Poems about death.”

Lottie felt Eliot's shoulder tense against hers.

“They're just stories, though,” said Oliver. “Right, Fife?”

Fife nibbled on a berry. He said nothing.

“Stories about what?” Lottie pressed.

“Well,” said Oliver, “the legend goes that at Autumntide, the whitecaps come out and, um, ‘paint the ground with snowy blood.'”

“‘Snowy blood,'” said Lottie. “You mean,
wisp
blood?”

Adelaide let out a high-pitched laugh.

“Whitecaps,” she said, “don't exist.”

“Sorry,” said Eliot. “What's a whitecap, exactly?”

“Something that doesn't exist,” Adelaide said helpfully.

“Does too,” said Fife.

“Oh, and I suppose you've seen one?”

“No. But I have seen the ground painted with snowy blood. Every year, at least one wisp gets killed. Everyone knows to be extra careful around Autumntide, but there's always some stupid type who goes out and gets themselves, well,
whitecapped
.”

“Yes, but what
are
whitecaps?” asked Lottie.

“They're short,” said Fife. “They've got four legs, four arms, four fingers on each of their four hands. And their eyes—”

“Let me guess,” said Adelaide, rolling her own eyes. “There are four of those, too.”

“No, ten,” said Fife, matter-of-factly. “And solid black, like pots of ink, so you don't ever know where they're looking. They hibernate underground, but every year, around this time, they come to the surface and feed with their four rows of teeth. For whatever reason, there's something about wisp blood that drives them crazy. They're wild about it. It's said that, before they feed, they dip their cloth hats in the blood of their victims as part of their killing ritual; that's where the name whitecap comes from. I don't believe someone has to die
on
Autumntide, but wisps have to be extra careful this time of year.”

Eliot was shaking. Lottie looked over in alarm, concerned that he was frightened or, worse, feeling ill.

He was laughing.

“Sorry,” he said, lowering his hand from his mouth, “but
whitecap
? It's such a funny name. Sounds like a procedure you get done at the dentist's.”

Adelaide said, “Everyone in New Albion says whitecaps are just something wisps made up to frighten sprites.”

“Well, that doesn't make sense, does it?” said Fife. “Considering it's wisps they're after.”

Adelaide shrugged. “Well, if they
do
exist and they
do
only drink wisp blood, the rest of us don't have anything to worry about, do we?”

“Maybe not,” said Fife. “Or maybe they only drink wisp blood because only wisps have ever been around. It's not like
we're used to sprites hanging out during Autumntide. I'd assume you're all fair game.”

“Would you stop already?” said Adelaide. “You're just trying to scare us.”

“Whatever!” Fife threw his hands in the air. “All I'm saying is that chances are someone's going to get drained clean this season, and it's not going to be me.”

“Can we talk about something else?” said Oliver, pushing away his plate of wafercomb. “I'm losing my appetite.”

“I should go,” said Lottie, shoving her remaining wafercomb into her mouth and shouldering her satchel. The dark was coming on fast now that the sun had set. “I'm going to be late for training.”

Adelaide sighed loudly. She crossed her arms. She was clearly waiting for someone to ask her what was wrong.

Fife, Oliver, and Lottie ignored her.

Eliot asked, “What's wrong?”

Adelaide shrugged. “Oh, nothing. It's just, I think we're all very aware of the preferential treatment a certain someone is receiving.”

Lottie chewed uneasily on her wafercomb.

“Adelaide,” said Oliver, “don't be like that. Lottie needs more tutoring time than us. She's really behind.”

Oliver was smiling reassuringly, but his words stung. Lottie knew she was behind. Most sprites started sharpening when they were six years old. She was nearing
thirteen, and she had only just begun. In three years, she wouldn't be able to sharpen anymore. And though she would never admit it to the others, Lottie had begun to fear that she was so far behind she would never catch up by her sixteenth birthday.

“I wouldn't phrase it like
that
,” Fife said. “You can't be behind in something if no one's really ahead of you. And there's no one else like Lottie to compare her to.”

Lottie could see Fife's tongue peeking out from his lips. He was using his keen on her, trying to flavor his words to make her feel better.

“Yes, but just because she's so unsharpened doesn't mean the rest of us should suffer,” said Adelaide. “Father didn't have a spare second all last week to work with me. And anyway, he's not even properly trained to help sharpen a hearing keen. If Tutor were here—”

“But Tutor isn't here,” Oliver said, “and sharpening isn't really the priority right now.”

“Then what is?” Adelaide demanded.

“
Ad-uh-laide
,” said Fife, throwing his hands up. “I dunno if you've forgotten, but we're trying to keep clear of a
crazy and murderous king
.”

Lottie cast a glance at Eliot. He looked uncomfortable, as he always did when anyone brought up the king who had tried to kill Lottie and was still hunting her down.

“I think I'll head out with Lottie,” he said, getting to his feet.

Adelaide stopped glaring at Fife and turned to Eliot. “What? But that will be boring for you.”

“Nuh-uh.” Eliot threw an arm around Lottie's shoulder. “I'm just a plain old human, remember? All this magicky stuff still fascinates me.”

Adelaide made a face but said nothing.

“I'll see you all later today,” said Lottie.

As she and Eliot were walking away, Oliver called out, “Lottie?”

She turned, and he smiled, his eyes a deep navy.

“Don't worry too much about Trouble,” he said. “Wait and see. He'll be back in your pocket by dawn.”

“Clear your mind.”

It was the third time Mr. Wilfer had given Lottie the same command. She winced in frustration, closed her eyes, and tried again. Her hands were clasped around a smooth stone the size of her fist. Mr. Wilfer called the stone a training token, and in the past few weeks of training, he had instructed Lottie to hold it, focusing all her thoughts on its presence, and do nothing more than clear her mind. It had become an extremely tiresome exercise.