The Emerald Atlas (9 page)

Kate glanced at Emma. Her sister’s dark eyes had grown very wide. They were thinking the same thing. Was the book the Countess wanted their book? But they had found it in the house. It couldn’t be the same one.

“What happened in the end?” Emma asked.

Abraham shook his head. “No, I’ve said all I’ll say. Turn me into a newt. Some things are better left alone.”

“Please,” Kate said, “we have to know what happened to the children.” And she said the thing that had been trembling inside her. “She has our brother.”

“What?”

“He’s not sick. We left him there. In the past … I left him.”

“Oh Lord …” Abraham drew a mottled hand over his face. “Yes, I remember now. I’ve blocked out so much a’ those days, but I do remember your brother.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me to. I’m sorry. You must go to Dr. Pym. He’s the only one who can help. I’m sorry—”

He started to get up, but Kate grabbed his sleeve.

“At least show us the last picture you ever took? Please?”

The old man blinked several times, clearly surprised at the request. Then he hobbled to a desk, unlocked a drawer, and removed a single old photograph. With shaking hands, he passed it over.

The photo was dark and blurry. It seemed to show a group of women running along the edge of the gorge. Many of the figures held torches. But as poor an image as it was, both Kate and Emma could sense the women’s alarm and fear.

A door slammed. They looked up and saw that Abraham had climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom and shut the door.

“Come on,” Kate said. She slid the photo in her pocket, and they left the tower.

They went down to the kitchen, as it was nearly evening and they hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Miss Sallow had the goose roasting in the oven and was too busy with dinner to upbraid them for missing lunch. They grabbed bread, cheese, and salami and escaped upstairs.

Abraham had been right about one thing: the Countess was vain. They had to wade through dozens of shots of the Countess in evening gowns. The Countess wearing jewels. The Countess boating. The Countess playing badminton with her strange-looking secretary. Usually, she was glancing coyly at the camera, as if caught by surprise. Yet somehow, it always favored her left profile.

“Look at this one.” Emma was on the floor, surrounded by photos and holding up a picture of the Countess looking coquettish under a lace parasol. “I told you she was stuck-up.” She tossed it onto a growing pile in the corner.

Kate was sorting through pictures on the bed, and whenever she came upon a photo of a Screecher, she quickly slid it to the bottom of the stack. Over the past two days, she’d been keeping at bay the thought of what Michael might be going through. It had been necessary if she was to function. But now that she’d heard Abraham’s story and seen pictures of these creatures with their frayed black clothes and long, jagged swords, fear for her brother was flooding her heart. She came to a picture of a particularly gruesome-looking Screecher and found herself pushing the entire stack away, overcome with worry.

Emma made a noise and threw another photo in the corner.

The book was resting beside Kate’s knee, and, for a moment, she let her fingers drift over the emerald cover. She thought about her vision of the night before. Had she just imagined it? She opened the book and pressed her fingers to a blank page. The effect was immediate. As clearly as if she was there, she saw the village on the banks of the river. But it had grown. There were stone streets, a wall. A market. She saw men and women, all milling about. She could hear the press of voices.

She turned another page and touched her fingers to the parchment. She saw a vast army marching along a road, the dust rising from their sandals. She heard their spears and shields clanking together, the rhythmic pounding of a drum. Behind them, in the distance, Kate glimpsed the village on the river, burning. She gasped and flipped a few more pages. The army vanished. She saw a fleet of ships at sea. They rocked on the waves, their sails snapping in the wind. She could hear the shouts of sailors, the whip crack of ropes, could feel their wooden holds bursting with the treasures of distant lands. She turned more pages. She saw people fleeing as a black dragon and a red dragon battled in the air above a town, belching flame. They tangled together and fell, crushing buildings, spreading fire. Another page. A knight in armor advanced into a cave as a monster with long, scaly arms slithered out of the gloom, hissing. She turned a handful of pages and saw a hot-air balloon rising in the sky as women in long dresses and men in white straw hats applauded. Another page. She saw a city filled with old-fashioned motorcars. She turned to a place deep into the book. She waited. Nothing happened. She stared at the blank parchment. At its very center, a small black dot appeared. As Kate watched, it began to spread, like an ink stain. Suddenly, the entire page was black. And then, she saw with horror, the blackness begin to spread up her fingers.

“Kate!”

Emma was looking down at her. Kate realized she was lying on her back.

“What happened?”

“You screamed.”

“What’re you talking about? I didn’t scream.”

“Uh, yeah, you did,” Emma said. “And you kind of fainted too.”

She helped her to sit up. Kate stole a glance at the book. The page was blank again.

“What happened?” Emma said.

“Nothing.” Kate reached over and shut the book.

“Uh-huh, well, look what I found.” Emma handed her a photograph.

A cry caught in Kate’s throat. There, in faded black and white, staring up at her from the past, was Michael. He was alone, a corner of the house visible in the background. And he was holding a handwritten sign that read HELP ME.

Someone tried the door.

“What’s this? Who’s locked this door?!”

It was Miss Sallow.

“Hurry,” Kate hissed. They quickly cleared an area on the bed, and Kate pulled the book toward her. “Make sure you’re touching me.”

“Worried someone’s gonna sneak in and make off with the crown jewels of France, is that it? Unlock this door!”

Kate picked up the photo of Michael and opened the book. Once again, the pages were blank. Her heart began to beat faster. She knew she had to do it now, quickly, before she lost courage. She reached down with the photo.

“Wait!” Emma had grabbed her arm.

“What’re you doing? We have to—”

“We need a picture to get back.”

Kate’s heart stopped. She had almost sent them into the past with no way of returning home. Emma grabbed Michael’s camera, aimed it at Kate, and snapped a picture. The machine spat it out a moment later.

“Are the royal ears deaf, is that it? The goose is cooked, and Dr. Pym’s sent me to fetch Your Highnesses. Including the Dauphin, whether he’s feeling better or not. So
ouvre la porte
or I’ll be letting myself in!”

“Just a second!” Kate called, trying to sound relaxed. “We’ll be out in a second!”

Emma blew on the photo and put it in her pocket. “Okay,” she said, taking hold of Kate’s arm.

They could hear Miss Sallow muttering on the other side of the door, sorting through the keys on her belt.

Kate paused, holding the photo over the blank page. She felt it again, the darkness creeping up out of the book, threatening to engulf her.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

Taking a breath, Kate focused her mind on Michael and placed the photo on the page.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Guests of the Countess

“I’m so sorry,” Kate said, for the sixth or seventh time. “I’m so sorry.…”

The moment they had appeared, Kate and Emma had run at Michael, nearly knocking him down with their hug. They asked if he was okay, how long had he been held prisoner, if the Countess had hurt him. Emma said she would go murder that witch right now; Michael only had to say the word.

It was early evening. They were about twenty yards from the house, at the edge of a thick grove of pine trees whose intertwined branches rose into the darkening sky.

“I’m fine,” Michael was saying. “I’ve only been here a few days. Guys, I can’t breathe.”

He managed to extricate himself from their embrace, but Kate continued to hold his arms with a fervor that suggested she would never let him go ever again. Her eyes shone with tears. “We didn’t mean to leave you. I thought you were touching me. I would never—”

“Look,” Michael said as he straightened his glasses, “we don’t have time for that right now. I mean, of course I forgive you and everything. But we have to get out of here. They may already be looking for me. Let me have the book.”

Kate hesitated just for a second—why, she couldn’t have said—then she handed it over.

“Excuse me?”

Kate turned. Abraham was behind them, fiddling nervously with his camera. She hadn’t even noticed him till now. “So, I’m fine with the appearing out of thin air and whatnot, seems to be what you lot do, but if it’s all the same, I’m just going to slip off, then, right? Right, I’ll just—” And before anyone could speak, he hobbled away through the trees.

Kate turned back and saw that Michael hadn’t even looked up. He was busy paging through the book. A question rose in her mind.

“How’d you get away from the Screechers? Weren’t they keeping you with the other kids?”

“And how’d you find Abraham again?” Emma asked. “Was he just hanging around?”

Michael snapped the book shut.

“You have to trust me. Whatever happens, everything’s going to be okay.”

“What’re you talking about?” Kate said. “We need to get out of here.” And she was about to tell Emma to get out the photo she’d taken in the bedroom when someone giggled.

The sound was like cold water trickling down her spine.

The Countess’s secretary stepped out from behind a tree. He was wearing the same pin-striped jacket he’d worn that day at the dam; only now, up close, Kate could see the tears and grease stains. He was smiling, his teeth gray and narrow. A tiny yellow bird was perched on his shoulder.

“Oh yes, good, good, good.” His voice had a high, almost hysterical quality. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “The Countess will be so happy, so happy.”

“I told you they’d come back for me,” Michael said.

Kate thought she must be hallucinating. This wasn’t possible. Michael would never betray them. And she was still telling herself that as two black-clad Screechers emerged from the shadows.

Approaching the front of the house, the Secretary yelled at the Screecher standing guard to open the door. But the dark figure ignored him, and the man had to open it himself, grumbling as he did about lack of respect and how the Countess would most certainly hear of it.

He led them down a twisting series of corridors. Several times Michael looked about to speak to his sisters, but each time Emma glared at him until he turned back around. Michael’s glasses were bent, and he had a red welt on his cheek. The second after the Screechers appeared, Emma had flown at him, knocking him to the ground. She whaled away with both fists, calling him a traitor and a rat and yelling that he wasn’t her brother anymore. Her attack caused him to drop the book, and Kate and the Secretary dove for it at the same time. A tug-of-war ensued. It ended when one of the Screechers dealt Kate a vicious backhand blow. Lying on the ground, her ears ringing, she watched the other Screecher pull Emma kicking and screaming off Michael.

Kate’s head still throbbed. But even so, she couldn’t help noticing the difference in the mansion. Windows and mirrors were clean. Candles gleamed off polished wood floors. None of the furniture was torn or broken or serving as the home for a family of animals. The Countess might be evil, but she could teach Miss Sallow a thing or two about housekeeping.

Kate took her sister’s hand. Emma’s face was a frozen, tear-stained mask.

“It’s not Michael,” she whispered. “It’s that witch. She put him under some spell. It’s not Michael. Remember that; it’s not him.”

Emma nodded, but the tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

The Secretary stopped at a set of double doors in a dim hallway. Kate knew they were outside the ballroom. She could picture the cobwebbed chandeliers slumped on the floor, the half-collapsed balcony, the broken windows.

“You stay here,” he ordered the Screechers, their yellow eyes glowing in the shadows.

Cavendish leaned in close. He wasn’t much taller than Kate, and his breath stank of onions. He was the single most repulsive person she’d ever met.

“You take my advice, little birdies, and not make the Countess angry. You don’t want to go to the boat, do you? Little birdies don’t like the boat.” He smiled his gray-toothed smile.

“You need to brush your teeth,” Emma said. “For like a year.”

Cavendish closed his lips and scowled. Jerking his head for them to follow, he pushed through the double doors.

It was like stepping into a dream. Kate and Emma blinked a few times, dazzled by the light, and then blinked again, hardly believing what they were seeing. A hundred couples moved about the floor, turning and spinning as a thirty-piece orchestra played a waltz. Kate could see the conductor, his arms waving, glancing back at the dancers like a proud parent. Some men wore tuxedos, with long tails that flew out when they twirled their partners. Others were in uniforms with red and blue sashes, their chests shining with golden medals. The women were dressed in gowns embroidered with rubies, pearls, and emeralds. And everywhere Kate saw diamonds on bare necks, refracting the light from the thousands of candles that burned in the chandeliers. A servant in green livery and high white stockings passed by carrying a tray of champagne to the older men and women who stood along the walls.

“Little birdies wait here,” Cavendish hissed. “The Countess will come when she likes.”

And then Kate saw her, the golden hair shining at the dead center of the dancers. Her skin was pure white, her gown the color of blood, and the diamonds covering her throat and chest shone as if they alone gave light to the room. Her partner was an athletic, uniformed young man who had the most impressive brown whiskers Kate had ever seen. The Countess said something, and the young man stepped back and bowed. She gave a tiny curtsy in return and, holding up the hem of her dress, skipped through the couples to where the children stood beside the eagerly squirming Cavendish.

The Countess’s face was flushed from the warmth and exercise, and her eyes sparkled with life. They were a deep, almost violet blue, and the moment they landed on her, Kate felt as if she were the luckiest person in the world.

“You’re here! My beautiful Katrina!” The Countess took Kate’s hands and, before she could react, kissed her cheeks. Behind her, couples whirled about in unison, creating a dizzying backdrop. “And how lucky you arrived in time for the ball. The
crème
of St. Petersburg is here. Even the Tsar is supposed to turn up later, though of course he won’t, the dullard. Now tell me, my dear”—she moved closer to Kate, whispering—“what do you think of the gentleman I was dancing with?”

The young man in question had moved off the dance floor to join two other men in uniform. He stood ramrod straight, one hand tucked in his belt and the other stroking his whiskers.

“That’s Captain Alexei Markov of the Third Hussars,” the Countess said in a conspiratorially low voice. “He is a bit too proud of his whiskers, but he’s a handsome beast for all that. We’ll have an affair shortly, though it won’t end well.” She frowned theatrically. “Alexei will insist on bragging about it at his club, and I’ll have no choice but to slaughter him and his entire family.”

Kate smiled, and as she did, she saw Emma staring at her in horror. It was like being slapped awake. She yanked her hand away from the Countess, her heart pounding.

If the Countess had noticed Kate pulling her hand free, she said nothing. She was pointing with her fan to a very old man with white muttonchops who was asleep in a chair. The old man sported such an enormous collection of medals that he was listing to one side. Kate half expected the weight to drag him crashing to the floor.

“Behold my beloved husband,” the Countess said, speaking over the orchestra. “Isn’t he too revolting for words? And do you know that when I married him at sixteen, I was hailed as the greatest beauty in Russia? Shall we take a turn about the room?” She started away, and Cavendish, still clutching the book to his chest, gave Kate and Emma a shove to follow.

“I admit,” the Countess said, moving through the crowd, nodding to people on either side, “there were those who insisted on praising Natasha Petrovski and her curdled-milk complexion and watery cow eyes. That was before, of course, she had that awful accident with the pitcher of acid. Poor dear, I heard she died in a Hungarian asylum. Mad as a hatter and raving on and on about a witch.” The Countess giggled, covering her mouth with her fan and giving Kate an aren’t-I-bad look. “But what was I saying? Oh yes, my husband. When I married the Count, everyone said he had no more than six months to live. I don’t need to tell you I didn’t plan on allowing him even that long. But wasn’t it just like the old mule to creak on for nearly a year? Honestly, he must have survived a half dozen of my attempts to poison him. Never marry a finicky eater, my dears. Nothing but trouble.”

None of the guests appeared to notice the children. As the girls or Michael, or the Secretary for that matter, approached, the immaculately dressed people simply moved out of the way without ever looking at them directly.

The Countess gave a bright little laugh. “Finally, I went to a hag and bought a potion of bees’ root, amber paste, and willow’s breath. No need for him to swallow a thing. He just breathed it in as he slept and come morning was as dead as a peasant in winter, leaving me sole mistress of the largest estate in the Tsar’s realm.” She turned to them, her face glowing at the memory, and curtsied low. “The Countess Tatiana Serena Alexandra Ruskin, at your service.”

Kate and Emma stared at the bowed, blond head. Michael leaned forward and whispered, “It’s polite to—” but Emma elbowed him in the ribs. Kate was thinking of the day they’d first seen the Countess at the dam, how she’d seemed almost too radiant, too beautiful, too full of life. Now Kate understood: it wasn’t real. The Countess wasn’t sixteen or seventeen. In fact, if she was who she said she was, if she’d been alive when there were still tsars in Russia, she could be a hundred. Or more. Magic was keeping her young. No wonder she sometimes seemed like she was playing the part of a teenager.

The Countess rose with a soft rustle of silk and gazed out over the dancers.

“Yes,” she said with philosophical weariness, “this was my world. I had wealth, position, beauty. Simpleton that I was, I thought I had actually achieved something. But I was still to learn the true meaning of power.” She clapped her lace-gloved hands, and it all disappeared, the men in uniforms and tuxedos, the women in gowns, the orchestra, the green-liveried servants, the light from the chandeliers, all gone. The children were suddenly alone with the Countess and her rat-toothed secretary in the large, silent room. Only a few candles flickered along the walls.

“Now,” she said with a smile, “shall we go out onto the verandah? I’d like to take the air. And I believe you have something for me.”

The Countess made Kate and Emma wait with the Secretary while Michael helped her on with a black silk wrap. Kate watched the Secretary for any sign his attention was wandering, anything that would give her a chance to seize the book. She’d already whispered to Emma to be ready with the photograph.

But mostly, she wished her hands would stop trembling. She’d balled them into fists and, when that didn’t work, shoved them in her pockets so Emma wouldn’t see. She didn’t want her sister to know how terrified and truly hopeless she was.

The Secretary muttered something to the tiny bird on his shoulder and hugged the book even closer.

Suddenly, Kate felt Emma’s hand in her pocket, prying her fingers apart, sliding her small hand into hers. She looked over and saw her sister’s face turned upward, her dark eyes full of trust and love.

In a voice only Kate could hear, Emma said, “It’s gonna be okay.”

Kate thought her heart might burst. She’d always known her sister was strong, but she was still three years younger, and at this moment, when everything seemed so bleak, for Emma to be the one offering her strength …

“Come along,” the Countess said, sweeping past them toward the door.

She led them to a stone patio off the back of the house. The night was warm, the air heavy and sweet with the smell of blooming flowers. Glass dragons of every color were strung overhead, candle flames dancing in their open mouths. A porcelain jug stood on a table at the center of the patio and, beside the jug, a crystal carafe filled with dark liquid.