The Flame in the Mist (4 page)

“Jmaaagh!” he said, his tongue lolling to one side. “No … afffr—”

“Out of my way,” Jemma said, as firmly as she could.

“You, no aaaagh …” Drudge’s sour breath cascaded over Jemma as his lips curled back, revealing a row of yellow-gray teeth. Jemma found him sinister at the best of times, but now he looked thoroughly alarming.

“Mr. Drudge,” Marsh said. “No sense you keepin’ this little so-and-so here. Best let her be on her way.”

“You, no … Aagh …!”

“Let me past, if you
please
, Drudge.” Jemma clenched her fists, her heart thumping.

“You—no … Aaagh … growm!” Drudge staggered toward her. “You, so … they. So they!”

Marsh gasped, then dropped the washing pole and shoved
between Jemma and the old man. “There there, Drudge,” she said. “Don’t say no more, eh?” She looked over her shoulder at Jemma and mouthed,
Go!
But Marsh looked as though she had seen a ghost, and Jemma stood rooted to the flagstones.

“Much!” Drudge’s chest heaved with the effort of speaking. “Jmaaagh, so they! Go. Toniiigh!”

“Shush, Drudge!” Marsh smoothed the rumpled lapels of Drudge’s jacket. “It’s all under control. Let Jemma be on her way, now.”

Jemma was stunned. Usually, Marsh was almost as sharp-tongued with Drudge as the rest of the family was. But now, she was being so civil to him—almost friendly. It’s all under control? What did she mean? Whatever she knew, did Drudge know it too? Surely not! He’d been the Agromonds’ servant for generations. He was one of them—

“Jem,
go!
” Marsh looked desperate.

“All right … I …”

“Jmmmaaah … no … aagh,” Drudge wheezed. Suddenly, he looked at the door, his yellow eyes wide, and shook his grizzled head. Marsh let go of him and turned to Jemma.

“Go away this minute, Miss High-and-Mighty!” she said loudly, nudging her head toward the corridor. “Back upstairs where you belong!”

This time, Jemma caught on immediately. “You’re one to talk, lard-woman. The cheek of it! Farewell to you. And to you, you old— Oh!” She looked at where Drudge had been standing, but he was gone. She glimpsed his silhouette backing into the steam until he was engulfed by it and no longer visible. A second later, a tall form emerged through the door, Rook on shoulder, musty-sweet perfume cutting through the warmth of wet laundry.

“Ah, Jemma, here you are.” Nocturna cast a venomous glance in Marsh’s direction as she reached her crimson-sheathed arms toward Jemma. “Come.”

She clasped Jemma’s shoulders and steered her out of the room on the first toll of ten.

Nocturna’s fingernails dug into Jemma’s neck as she propelled her away from the Vat Room. Jemma felt as though an ax were hovering above her head—some threat, which would fall at any second. But no threat came, and silence accompanied them through the kitchen, along the Pickle Corridor, up the stairs into the hallway, past the Ceremony Chamber, its doors now closed, and into the Lush Chamber.

Rook flapped to the mantelpiece and perched there, wings hunched. Nox was languishing in one of two high-backed chairs on either side of the fireplace; the weasels were curled beneath the other. Shade and Feo sat side by side on the faded damask ottoman. All turned to look at Jemma as she and her mother entered.

Nocturna ushered Jemma to a tattered footstool and pushed her down onto it, then sat in her chair opposite Nox, a puff of dust rising up around her. Jemma tensed, waiting for sentence to be passed: being denied food for a week, or worse, locked in her room.

The fire blazed.

Nox coughed, and removed his cloak.

Shade tossed her hair.

Feo looked up at the minstrels’ gallery.

As Jemma glanced from one to the other, she couldn’t help
noticing how ragged all the tapestries and drapes were. Every day, it seemed, the castle was becoming more dilapidated. Threads stuck from the upholstery, as if some wild creature had been clawing at it. The picture frames were cracked. The portrait of Nocturna’s mother above the fireplace had patches of paint missing, making her look diseased.

Jemma gazed at the motto carved into the mantelpiece:
Mordus Aderit
. Mord is present. Her mind flashed through the letters, re-ordering them:
dream … dead … murder …

The weasels snuffled.

Rook ruffled.

Nocturna shuffled in her chair. “Jemma, my dear,” she said, “we owe you an apology. Scagavay … I … we … misjudged. It … Nox, for Mord’s sake, say something!” Jemma had never seen her mother awkward like this, her usual sleekness broken.

Jemma’s father cleared his throat. “Jemma, what your mother is trying to say, is that we underestimated Scagavay’s effect on you. Terrible … we had no idea. But you have nothing to fear. We all realize it was too much, do we not?”

Nocturna, Feo, and Shade spoke together: “Why, yes … Of course.”

Jemma relaxed slightly, relieved that they weren’t angry with her. But doubt prickled her skin. Her mother had hardly said a kind word to her in months, so why the concern now?

“So, my dear, please forget it ever happened.” Her father raised one hand in the air and snapped his fingers. A pink rose appeared. He leaned forward with a smile and handed it to her. He had materialized roses before, red ones, and Jemma had always found their smell soothing. She buried her
nose in its soft petals, allowing the intoxicating scent to waft over her.

“I think,” Nox continued, “that this would be an apt moment for some good news. Dr. Graves will be here tomorrow, and from what he has told us of his recent tests on you, Jemma, your allergy to the Mist is much improved—in fact, you are practically cured! The lifelong threat to your health is over, and you will soon be strong enough to go outside, which means you may also accompany your mother, the twins, and me on our monthly ministrations. What do you think of that, my dear?”

“Really? You mean … go to the villages, and visit the people?” Outside! Oh, to actually ride in the carriage, instead of sitting in it in the stables, imagining! After all these years of begging to go out, pleading, protesting that she didn’t
feel
unwell—far from it!—now, at last, she would see Hazebury, where Digby lived, and the other villages nearby.…

“Yes, really!” Nox beamed. “As early as next week, perhaps. We know how you have longed for this.” He glanced at Nocturna. “Quite the birthday gift for our youngest, we hope.”

“Quite.” Nocturna turned to Jemma, an overly wide smile spreading across her face. “You will see how charming, how
delightful
our people are, my dear.”

Jemma frowned. Charming? Delightful? Her mother had only ever referred to them as “dross.” Something was wrong … Marsh’s words gnawed into her head.
Secrets. Lies …

“You’ll like it, Jemma,” said Feo. “I’ve been looking forward to you coming with us.”

“Yes, Jemma,” Shade trilled. “You will. Like it.”

Shade, being nice to her? And saying her name normally, instead of making fun of it? That hadn’t happened in years. Something was definitely wrong. Marsh’s words weaseled deeper into her mind:
Secrets, lies … Things too dangerous for you to know …
She must play along. Pretend, like Marsh had said. She inhaled the rose’s scent to calm herself.

“That’s … wonderful. I, um, I can’t wait.” Jemma smiled, twirling the rose in her fingers. Its petals looked strange, seeming to fold in on each other. The room blurred: her post-Ceremony exhaustion was taking hold, more heavily than usual. Her limbs were as limp as wet rags. Everything was distorting—

“Jemma, Flamehead … are you all right?” Her father suddenly appeared huge, then shrank again.

“I … mmm …” Jemma’s tongue felt thick. She gripped the rose, and a sharp pain shot up her arm as a thorn pricked her palm. The rose fell to the floor, its petals scattering. Weariness galloped through her.

“Worn out … poor dear … up to her room … not as strong as we thought, after all …” Her father’s voice, distant. His face, looming large as he lifted her into his arms.

Jemma’s mind sputtered like a candle, and went dark.

Sweet thirteen!
hissed the Mist
. My sweet thirte-e-e-n! You are mine! You bear my Mark
 … White chill turned black, then Scagavay was swirling and howling, squeezing the air from her. She heard Marsh yelling: “Wake up, Jemma, wake up! Before it’s too late!” She tried shouting back, but her voice was silent. Marsh was nowhere, and Scagavay was everywhere, its stench
making Jemma retch as she plummeted downward. Then Noodle and Pie were there too, pawing her, squealing. The castle bell boomed, one … two … three … four, and on and on … seven, eight … She was about to hit the ground—

Jemma woke in a cold sweat on the last stroke of nine, with the rats tangled in her bedclothes. The dream images pulsed through her, pressing her to the mattress. “I am
not
yours,” she whispered to the Mist as she gulped down air, “and I don’t bear your Mark! I am a Fire Warrioress, the fiercest in the land …” But she didn’t feel fierce at all. She felt as though the wind could blow her away like a scrap of dust.

Two snouts nudged her cheek. Two squeaks. Rain, hissing outside.

“Noodle, Pie.” Jemma turned her head and looked into their faces. “I’m scared. Really scared.” Their snouts moved closer. Behind them, the room was pitch-dark; the whole day had passed. How had that happened? All she remembered was being with her family in the Lush Chamber. The rose. The room, spinning. Feeling faint. Nauseous. As if … had she been
drugged
? No, it wasn’t possible! Agromonds couldn’t be drugged or poisoned; her father was always saying so. Their magic detected it, making it smell noxious to them. She would have known. Besides, however unkind her mother could be sometimes, surely she wouldn’t
harm
Jemma? And her father never would.

“Just the same old Mord-day tiredness, I suppose, Rattusses. But why is it so much worse than usual tonight?”

Outside, the rain picked up. Wind whistled through the pines.
Sweet thirteen …

Suddenly, everything came back. The Ceremony. Scagavay. Running to Marsh—

“Marsh! I must go to her—but I can hardly move! What am I going to do?” What would Marsh say?
The Light Game, Jem!
Jemma recalled one of the ways Marsh had taught her to use it.
See yourself really small
, she’d said,
like a speck of sand, sailin’ through your own blood to find whatever’s ailin’ you.…

Jemma focused her intention, Noodle and Pie adding their energy to hers. And there it was, the dark cloud of weariness swimming through her. She imagined infusing it with light, watching it change, her blood turning red again. In the distance she heard the single
clang
of nine-thirty, and still she focused, and focused, until her mind cleared and she felt strong enough to sit. The rats lay next to her, panting with exhaustion.

“Noodle … Pie … Thank you! That’s the second time today. What would I do without you?” She kissed their muzzles. “Now, I’m going to Marsh’s room. Stay here and rest.”

Jemma swung her legs off the bed, then tiptoed across the floor in her stockinged feet and opened her door just as the first strike of ten boomed out from the Bell Tower.

Jemma peered along the corridor outside her room: all clear. But faint light flickered by the top of the stairs, emanating from below. Voices flared through the darkness. She crept to the banisters and looked down at the hall. The huge front door was heavily bolted, as was the Ceremony Chamber door to its right, but a sliver of light sliced across the flagstones from the Lush Chamber. Its door was ajar, an urgent-sounding murmur coming from within: her parents.

“I tell you, Nox, that woman knows something!”

“Shush, Nocturna, for Mord’s sake!” Footsteps, then creaking as the door was closed. Jemma crept back along the corridor until she came to a hatch on her left. Very carefully, she eased it open, and inched into the minstrels’ gallery. Her father’s voice rose from below.

“Nocturna, my dear, please calm yourself—”

“Calm myself? Spare me your condescension, Nox!” Jemma heard a swishing sound and pictured her mother pacing up and down, the hem of her crimson dress sweeping the floor. “Marsh is a danger to us, I tell you. Jemma ran to her like a frightened pup to its mother.”

“Come, Nocturna! Jemma always hides in the cellars. Why should she not, today? And if Marsh
did
happen to be there too, what could she possibly know? She’s just a bumbling fool—”

“You’re the fool, Nox! The woman didn’t just
happen
to be there; she always does the laundry on Ceremony days. Jemma knew that, and went directly to her. And I saw the way Marsh looked at the child, as if—yes, I declare: she loves her, I’d swear to it!”

“So? I have a soft spot for Jemma myself, as you well know.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” Nocturna sneered. “How could I not, when you so obviously favor her over our own two?”

Jemma’s heart punched into her throat. Their
own
two? What were they talking about?

“Nocturna—”

“Don’t try to deny it, Nox. You and your sentimentality!”

“You know the reason for my affection, Nocturna.” Nox’s voice cracked. “Yet you torment me!”

The swishing stopped; the air bristled. Seconds marched by: one, two, three … Jemma heard what she guessed was Nocturna’s heavy ruby ring, clinking several times on the stem of her wine goblet. Four, five …

“Well. Let us keep to the point, shall we, Nox? Marsh … Oh, I should have known, when she arrived so soon after Jemma, something was not right.”

Arrived? So soon after …?

“So soon? A whole year? Jemma was already two, Nocturna, if you remember. And as you yourself said at the time, Marsh was so gruff, so perfect for the children—”

“Well, what if she was pretending?” The swishing started again. Jemma crept toward the edge of the gallery. Her father was out of view; her mother paced furiously, Rook clinging to her shoulder, wings wafting like black sails. “Yes … the more I think, the more I’m sure of it: Marsh is not what we’ve
thought for all these years. What if, Mord forbid, she was sent by Jemma’s parents, to watch over her?”