The Doorway and the Deep (38 page)

“No need to look scared stiff,” Dorian said, laughing. “Sailors say they're friendly to sprites. A good omen. I've heard more than one tale of a shipwreck where flatrooks came to the rescue of the drowning passengers.”

“So that makes them like albatrosses,” said Eliot. “You know, those birds that are supposed to be good luck charms?”

“We have those, too,” said Dorian. “But I'd say flatrooks are the better bird. An albatross can't carry you on its back to safety.”

“Good point,” said Eliot.

The flatrooks circled the boat twice, their high, pretty melodies piercing the air. Then they flapped westward, farther out to sea. Lottie was a little saddened to see them go.

They sailed on. Sigeberht did not once take a break from his work. Silence settled on the boat, but it was not uncomfortable. Lottie stole a glance at Eliot, who was looking out to sea. She was thinking of what he had said earlier, on the shore:
For once, it's something I could do
. All this time, she had been worried about Eliot's health, not his feelings. Now, for the first time, she wondered if he felt useless the same way she'd felt when she had first arrived in Albion Isle and everyone else seemed to know things she didn't and do things she couldn't. She thought of those letters fluttering down to the water, lost for all time. Sadness welled within her and puddled in her chest.

She was still looking furtively over at Eliot when he closed his eyes against the setting sun and shifted his grip on the boat's edge. His eyes fluttered back open, and he let out a soft hiss. He held up his hand to reveal a splinter of wood lodged at the fleshy base of his thumb. A drop of shining, crimson blood bubbled to the surface.

Lottie acted without thinking. She let out a shout and threw herself across the boat. Grabbing Eliot by the shoulders, she hauled him back with her to the boat's base.

“Ow! Lottie,
what
?”

Above her, Dorian was shouting a string of words Lottie did not recognize but took to be hearty swearing. She grabbed Eliot's hand and did not let go, even as he righted himself into a sit.

“You're bleeding,” she gasped. “You were going to—it was going to drop into the water.”

The boat was rocking violently, which Lottie realized was entirely her doing. It shifted even more as Dorian knelt beside them.

“By Puck,” he said, coming closer. “Let's take care of that.”

Lottie let go of Eliot's hand and moved over for Dorian to take her place. She watched as he swiftly removed one of the piercings from his nose and pocketed the backing in his vest. He pulled a match from the pocket and bent to strike its head against the edge of his boot. He held the needle of the piercing in the fire and then, just as the flame reached his pinched fingers, blew it out.

“Right,” he said, grabbing Eliot's hand. “Here goes.”

Eliot was utterly silent as Dorian squeezed his thumb in one hand and maneuvered the needle of the nose ring with the other. He managed to pull the splinter free in one clean movement. Another drop of blood trickled out, but after Eliot wiped his hand against his shirt, no more rose to the surface.

“You keep away from the boat's edge,” Dorian instructed, “just in case.”

He returned to his side of the boat, and Lottie crept beside Eliot, apology in her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just saw the blood, and I thought of the riddle, and I—”

“Saved me, like always.” There was something in Eliot's voice that sounded strained. But the next moment he said, “Thanks. I'd rather not turn into a nix. No offense, Sigeberht.”

Sigeberht did not reply. He was still blowing wind into the sail, seemingly unaffected by this entire episode. Though Lottie did think she saw a change in his pale eyes—a slight shift, nothing more than a glint really, but it gave her a chill.

The sea turned amber with sunset and then, as the last rays of sun slipped away, deep blue. It grew colder. Lottie kept her hands in her coat pockets, one wrapped around Trouble, the other around her mother's ring.

“How much farther is it?” she asked Dorian.

“Can't you see the coast?” said Dorian, pointing.

Lottie screwed up her eyes. In the distance, she made out a silhouette stretched over the sea, jagged and pointed, not unlike the Barghest's teeth.

“That's it?” she said. “The Wilders?”

“When we get to the cove,” said Dorian, “you and Eliot both stay close, understand? I've only got one lantern and
one sword, and I can't be expected to protect you if you go wandering off.”

“We won't,” Lottie promised, now fixed on the sight of land as it grew more defined with every puff of Sigeberht's lungs.

The jagged shapes soon loomed straight above them. Moonlight touched their edges, revealing a rocky cliff face, curved toward them in a half circle. All was darkness and shadows, and as the boat drew closer to the sandy cove, Lottie wondered if there were other things on this beach she could not see—creatures in the dark.

Dorian lit his lantern.

“Just do what I said,” Dorian ordered, “and stick with me. If things go according to plan, we should be off this foul land by sunrise.”

“And if they
don't
go according to plan?” asked Eliot.

“Aren't you a right little optimist” was Dorian's reply.

At long last, Sigeberht stopped his puffing and hurled the anchor overboard. The boat drifted close to shore, then lurched away again in the lapping water.

“Can't come any closer,” said Sigeberht. “Too close to land.”

Lottie wasn't sure if Sigeberht was talking about the boat or himself.

“Shoes off,” Dorian instructed. “We'll wade to shore. Expect us back by dawn, nix.”

Sigeberht smiled. “I wouldn't make a habit of
expecting
in these parts. Can't count on a thing when you're in the Wilders.”

“Just be here when we return,” said Dorian.

He jumped into the shallow water. Lottie and Eliot followed, though at a far slower pace. They put their socks and boots back on while Dorian stood over them, lantern aloft, turning his head one way, then the other, toward the shadows. Try as she might, Lottie couldn't completely rid her wet feet of sand, so even after her boots were laced, she felt the tickle of loose grains in her socks. Her eyes were droopy with sleep, but she strained to keep them wide open in front of Dorian. Eliot did not. He yawned loudly.

“We can sleep once we've found the addersfork,” said Dorian. “This way.”

He led them the only direction Lottie supposed they could go—into the dark unknown of an opening cut into the cliff. There had been no need for Dorian to worry about them wandering off; Lottie and Eliot could do nothing but stay close to him and his light. All else in the cave was skin-clenching cold and solid darkness. They were heading up an incline, from what Lottie could tell.

“What's that?” Eliot said, grabbing Lottie's hand so hard she felt sure he'd pushed all the blood out of it. “Did you hear something over there?”

“No,” Lottie lied.

She could hear all types of somethings—scuttling and skittering and a constant
drip-drip-drip
. She'd been trying to convince herself that these sounds came from her imagination, not the reality of the cave. But if Eliot could hear them, too . . .

Just when Lottie felt sure she couldn't take another step without screaming or laughing or otherwise releasing the fear within her, she saw light ahead. Not bright light, but rather the smoky blue of moonlight. All the same, it was
light
, and it meant that they were close to the outdoor world again.

The incline had grown so steep that, once Dorian was free of the cave, he offered a hand to Lottie, then Eliot, and hoisted them up to the level land. They had climbed the cliff underground, Lottie realized. The sea was now far below them, and they stood on a rocky plain, bordered by the same jagged rocks she'd seen from Sigeberht's ferry.

“Well!” said Eliot. “If we've climbed a cliff, I guess we can do anything.”

Dorian led them on. The wind was sharper here than it had been below, and though Lottie was as well bundled as she could be, she still felt cold in the deepest parts of her bones. There were no trees here, no shrubs, no chatter of birds. All was rock, in every which direction. Lottie wondered if this was all the Wilders were: stony bareness and no life save the unseen things in the caves.

She could not say how long they traveled on that way, over rock, in howling wind. Her mind frosted over, stilling all extraneous thought. She thought in terms of action only—of moving her feet and keeping Dorian's lantern in her sights.

Then something changed. Lottie heard the trickle of water. A few steps more brought her to its source. A stream of black water flowed ahead of them, cutting through the rock face like an open wound. It was narrow enough to leap over, but Dorian made no effort to do so. Instead, he changed directions and began to walk along the bank, studying the ground as though looking for something he had lost. Then he seemed to find it. He stopped, knelt by the stream, and motioned for Lottie and Eliot to do the same.

“Don't touch the water,” he said. “I'll be the one to do it.”

Dorian rolled back his sleeve and, without further warning, plunged his hand into the stream. His arm shook violently, but he kept it submerged. Then, with a sudden heave, he removed it. In his grip were three thick, green stalks. They drooped limp like seaweed. At the end of each stalk was a blue bulb, no larger than a marble.

So this was addersfork. Lottie was a little unimpressed. She didn't know what she'd anticipated—for it to be growing in a golden urn, placed upon a pedestal?—but this was
not it. She hadn't thought that addersfork was a plant that grew in a place so inconspicuous as this, or a plant that grew
underwater
.

“That's it?” she asked.

Dorian nodded. His face was pinched, as though he was in pain. He removed a thick towel from his satchel and placed the addersfork inside, blotting at the excess water, then carefully wrapping the bundle until it looked like nothing more than a lumpy, used washrag. Then he laid it inside the satchel with tender care. He was just getting to his feet when he let out a strangled cry.

“What?” said Lottie, jumping up. “What's wrong?”

She tried to make sense of what she saw in the lantern light: Dorian's right hand was covered in a dozen thin lines, the color of blood.

“It isn't fatal,” he said. “I'll be fine.”

“Did the addersfork do that?”

Dorian shook his head. “Just a wildereel.”

“What's a—um, what's
that
?” asked Eliot.

Dorian breathed sharply, shook his head again. “They guard the addersfork.”

Lottie now understood why Dorian had told them not to touch the water. Her chest warmed with appreciation.

“You knew that all along, didn't you?” she said. “You knew you were going to get hurt.”

“It was the quickest way to do it,” Dorian said. “And the stinging will fade in a few hours' time. It's nothing to worry about.”

“I could help,” Lottie said softly. “If you let me—”

“
No
. We don't have time for you to waste fiddling with your keen. We've got to get back to Sigeberht.”

Lottie shrank back. Dorian's words doused the warmth that had been growing within her.

“I'm not
fiddling
,” she said angrily.

“This isn't the time,” Dorian said, “and I don't have endless lantern oil.”

He set out the way they'd come. Lottie and Eliot had no choice but to follow.

“Don't take it personally,” Eliot told Lottie minutes later. He kept his voice in a whisper, but Lottie knew that would do no good; Dorian would be able to hear everything they said. “It's just because he got hurt back there. Dad always says, ‘Hurt people
hurt
people.' I'm sure it doesn't have to do with your keen.”

“Doesn't it?” said Lottie. “
You
don't even want me to use my keen on you.”

Eliot cleared his throat. After a moment, he said, “Maybe I'm not as sick as you think. I've hardly coughed at all the past day. Haven't you noticed?”

Lottie thought back. Now that Eliot brought it up, she couldn't remember him coughing nearly so much, even on their grueling walk through the Wilders.

“Maybe the air here is good for me,” he said. “Maybe I've just got allergies, and Wisp Territory had terrible pollen.”

“You know it's not that,” Lottie said. “You're still sick.”

“But I'm not
helpless
. You don't have to fix me every time I get something in my lungs. When I cough, you don't have to look at me like I'm a wounded animal. Like I'm weak. I can take care of myself.”

Eliot was angry, Lottie realized in shock. He was
angry
with her, when all Lottie had done was offer to help him.

“Fine,” she said. “Then take care of yourself. Go ahead.”

They did not speak after that. In silence, they followed Dorian across the windy, barren plain. Lottie tried not to think. She willed for her mind to fall once more into a muddied stupor, but it was no use. Eliot's words clattered around in her head, repeating themselves again and again:
I can take care of myself
.

Didn't Eliot understand he
needed
help? How, after all the time she'd spent searching and sharpening, could Eliot say a thing like that? Out of habit, Lottie stuck her hand into her pocket and felt for Trouble. She found him shivering.

“I'm sorry,” she said, bringing him out. “If I could warm you up better, I would.”

Trouble brushed his head against Lottie's fingers. He sang a melody, sweet and good, and Lottie's thoughts finally drifted from Eliot and the cold into a far happier
place, where she could remember what it felt like to sleep in a proper bed and eat hot, well-cooked food.