Blythewood (41 page)

“I didn’t know it would hurt him like this!” I cried. “What
can we do to help him?”
“There’s nothing
we
can do,” Sir Malmsbury said, “but his
own kind can help him. Look: they’re waiting for us to leave to
take care of him.”
I looked up into the trees to where Sir Malmsbury was
pointing. At first I didn’t see anything, only pockets of shadows
in the pines, but then as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light
of this world, I made out the shapes of winged figures perched
in the trees. An old man, two old women, a young girl, many
young men . . . all their eyes trained on Raven. His flock
.
“Can you help him?” I cried. My voice sounded hoarse as a
crow’s caw.
Wings fluttered in answer. Miss Sharp tugged on my arm.
“They won’t come down until we leave. And we need to get
Louisa back to the house. She’s not . . .
herself
yet. If she sees an
opening to Faerie she may try to slip into it.”

I looked back down at Raven. His eyes fluttered open and
seemed to focus on me for a moment. I touched my hand to his
cheek. “Thank you,” I said.

His lips, cracked and seamed with ash, parted. “My . . .
pleasure,” he croaked, with a smile that turned into a wince.
Then Miss Sharp was pulling me away.

The Darklings descended as soon as we were out of the
clearing. The sound of wings was deafening, a black rain that
fell like a curtain between us, obscuring Raven from my view.
As if he were being devoured by the dark. How could I leave
him to that darkness?

“Let me go,” I cried, struggling against Miss Sharp’s grip.
“You can take Louisa back. Let me stay with him.”
“I can’t,” she said, taking me by the shoulders and turning
me away from the clearing. “Listen.”
My head was so full of the sound of wings I couldn’t hear
anything else, but then I heard it: the bells of Blythewood tolling a peal.
“It’s the Hunting Peal. Can’t you see how dark it’s gotten?
Night is falling. We’ve been in Faerie all day. They’ve called out
the Hunt to find us. If we don’t stop them they’ll ravage these
woods. In his weakened state Raven won’t be able to escape.
He’ll die and his flock will die trying to protect him.”
I knew she was right, because along with the toll of the Blythewood bells I heard my own bass bell tolling an alarm inside
my head. Still, I couldn’t bear to leave Raven. “You can stop
them while I warn the Darklings.”
“They won’t stop the Hunt if any one of us is still in the
woods. You have to come with me.”
I took one look back, but already the woods were too dark
to make out the Darklings. Joined with the bells now came the
sound of hunting horns. Their blare sent chills rushing down
my spine. I wanted to flee from them, but I made myself run
toward them with Miss Sharp and Sir Malmsbury. Louisa and
Nathan had gone on ahead. “What about Helen and Mr. Bellows?” I cried.
Miss Sharp turned her head, her eyes flashing in the dark
likwe an owl’s. “Perhaps they’re already out . . . look! They are,
they’re with the Hunt. Come on, there’s not much time.”
We’d reached the edge of the woods, where Nathan and
Louisa stood. Louisa was pulling on Nathan’s hand, crying
and begging to be let go. She was trying to run back into the
woods. When I looked out at the lawn I didn’t blame her.
A wave of fire was rolling across the lawn toward the
woods, dark at its base and crested with flame. An unbroken
line of black-cloaked figures holding torches strode forward,
their steps synchronized to the toll of the bells. With them
came a crunching sound, like the surf churning through shells.
I recalled a poem we’d read in Miss Sharp’s class that described
the surf’s

melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Only this surf was made up of bows and arrows and swords
rustling beneath cloaks. This wave would roll through the
woods devouring everything in its path—or it would be destroyed itself. With the hunting lust upon them, the Order of
Blythewood would fight to their deaths. I could see now why
Dame Beckwith had not ordered a Hunt before this. She knew
that she would lose her own teachers and students in the fight.

“Oh dear,” Sir Malmsbury said, “and I’m covered in lampsprite feathers! Your Dianas and their hawks will tear me limb
from limb. Perhaps I should have stayed in Faerie.”

“Too late for that,” Miss Sharp snapped, pushing Sir
Malmsbury forward. “You’ll have to explain what happened.
Dame Beckwith will listen to you.”

“Actually,” Sir Malmsbury replied, hanging back, “India
and I never quite saw eye to eye. I’m not sure I’m the best man
for the job.”

Impatient with their argument, I stepped out of the woods
and in front of the hunt, my arms spread wide. For a moment I
thought they would roll right over me. The faces I saw beneath
their hoods were stony, eyes glazed. But then one of the figures
cried out.

“Look, it’s Ava!” The voice was Helen’s. Mr. Bellows was
right beside her.
The line came to a halt and the figure at the center stepped
forward holding a torch high in the air. She lowered her hood
and I saw that it was Dame Beckwith.
“You can call off the Hunt!” I cried. “We’re all safe—Miss
Sharp and Nathan, and look . . .” I stood aside so Dame Beckwith could see Louisa. “We found Louisa. She was never taken
by the Darklings. She had strayed into Faerie, but Nathan found
her.” I urged Nathan forward but he was too busy struggling
with Louisa to keep her from running back into the woods.
Dame Beckwith was staring at Louisa as if unable to believe
that it was her daughter. “And we found him,” I continued, “and
a Darkling held the door open for us so we wouldn’t get stuck
there—”
I realized my mistake right away. As soon as I mentioned a
Darkling another figure stepped forward. I was shocked to see
Miss Frost out of bed and seemingly recovered, her only sign
of weakness that she was leaning heavily on Sarah Lehman’s
arm. “A Darkling
helped
you?” she shrieked. “That’s impossible! You must have been seduced by the creature.”
“Euphorbia? Is that Euphorbia Frost’s voice I hear?” Sir
Malmsbury stepped out of the shelter of the woods. “My dear,
how you’ve  .  .  . er  .  .  . grown up. Do you remember your old
teacher?”
Miss Frost gasped and staggered. Sarah struggled to keep
her upright. “Sir Malmsbury? Is it really you?”
“Yes, dear Euphorbia, it is. I’ve come back from my expedition. And wait until you hear all I’ve learned in the field! I’m
afraid my original notions were quite wrong.”
“You are covered in feathers!” Miss Frost cried, her eyes
wide. “It’s just as I suspected—you were taken by Darklings!”
“No!” Miss Sharp said, stepping in between Miss Frost and
Sir Malmsbury. “Can’t you all see, we were wrong about the
Darklings. I saw one hold the door open. If he hadn’t, none of
us would be here and we would never have gotten Nathan and
Louisa back.”
Dame Beckwith’s eyes flashed over our little group—Nathan still struggling with Louisa, who showed no signs of
recognizing her mother; Sir Malmsbury in his feathery attire;
Miss Sharp defending the Darklings. When her eyes came back
to me she nodded, her decision made.
“Seize them!” she shouted. “They’re not in their right minds.”
Robed figures on either side of her stepped forward, two
for each of us. Euphorbia Frost dug sharp nails into my arm,
her breath reeking of ashes. I flinched away but other hands
were waiting for me.
“Take them back to the castle,” Dame Beckwith ordered our
guards when we had been corralled. “We will sweep the woods.
No matter what the cost, it’s time we destroyed the Darklings
once and for all.”
Miss Frost pushed me forward, her fingernails digging
deep into my arm. Sarah’s arm was gentler on my other side,
a light weight. I could easily wrench my arm away . . . but then
do
what
? If I could get away, I could run into the forest to warn
the Darklings that the Hunt was coming, but how far would I
get? The Dianas were arrayed in front of me, bows drawn, arrows nocked, their faces stony, their eyes yellow in the flickering torchlight. I recalled Miss Swift saying that when the Hunt
was called the Dianas entered a sort of trance. Their eyes, I saw
now, weren’t just yellow from the torchlight; they had become
the yellow of their falcons’ eyes—and just as inhuman. If I made
a break for the woods I didn’t doubt that they would shoot me.
Right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if they flew at me and tore
me limb from limb as I’d seen the falcons do to their prey.
I felt anger bubbling up inside me—for what Dame Beckwith was planning to do to the Darklings, but also for what
she’d done to these girls, turning them into hunters and robbing them of their youth and innocence. The anger tingled on
my skin, from the nape of my neck, down my shoulder blades,
to the tips of my fingers, which were still lightly coated with
sprite dust. What had my mother just said to me?
Sometimes
the hardest thing to do is to remain yourself
. My mother had been
a Diana. Is that why she had fled Blythewood—because she
didn’t want to become a mindless hunter like these girls?
The
hunter must become the thing she hunts
. From the time she fled
Blythewood until her death, my mother had been hunted until
she was finally caught and killed. Leaving one thing behind.
My hand stole into my pocket, unhampered by Sarah’s light
touch on my elbow. As soon as I touched the black feather I felt
a spark, as if it had come alive.
I dug my heels in so abruptly that Miss Frost stumbled. At
the same time I whipped the feather out of my pocket and brandished it in front of Dame Beckwith and the Dianas. Sparks
flew into the air, erupting into firecrackers from sprite dust
clinging to the feather, the edges of which began to glow as Raven’s feathers had glowed when he held the door of Faerie open.
Thinking about Raven—what he had sacrificed to help me
and how he was threatened now—fueled my anger . . . and apparently my magic. The feather glowed like a firebrand. In its
light I saw Dame Beckwith’s eyes flare.
“Ava, you don’t know what you’re doing!” she said.
“I know I can’t let you destroy the Darklings,” I said.
“They’re not our enemies—the
tenebrae
are.” As I said the
word I felt a prickling at the nape of my neck. The Dianas, entranced as they were, took a step backward. Dame Beckwith
looked suddenly terrified.
“It’s the Darkling feather,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “It’s summoned
them
.”
Them?
I turned slowly, still holding the blazing feather
in front of me. Its glare blinded me at first. The line of trees
loomed black against the purple sky, their shadows distorted
by the light of the blazing feather and the torches behind me.
But then I realized that the shadows were not distorted. They
were alive.
They were taller than the tallest tree in the forest and
bristled like pines, but unlike the trees they could move. They
lumbered out of the forest now, each step shaking the ground
beneath my feet.
How could shadows shake the ground?
Because these are shadows made of flesh
, a voice inside my
head answered. It was a familiar voice. I had heard it before,
after the crow attack when I had fallen into the dark well, on the
streets of Rhinebeck when its owner had held me captive, and
in the dungeon when the tenebrae had swarmed around me.
The voice belonged to Judicus van Drood, the Shadow Master.
Only the creature in front of me wasn’t a man.I It was an amalgam of oozing shadow that was capped by a belled shape—like
a short cape topping a long coat. It was the man in the Inverness
cape made huge. I lifted the blazing feather higher in a shaking
hand to unmask his face . . . only there was no face, only shadows roiling in the dark. This creature was a projection of the
Shadow Master’s mind.
I wouldn’t underestimate that, Ava dearling
, the voice said inside my head. How had it gotten there?
You let me in.

I could feel the voice, like a snake slithering through my
brain, nosing at my thoughts, memories, feelings . . .
“No!” I screamed aloud.
Yessss
, it hissed, the shadows writhing with the pulse of his
voice.
You watched the shadows tell my story. I felt you watching. It
felt so good to have someone see how she led me on and then turned
her back on me.
“That’s not what I saw,” I cried, but I could feel him inside
my brain, prying at the memory of what I had seen inside the
candelabellum room, releasing the images from the recesses of
my brain as a beater flushes game from the brush. The shadow
pictures flew upward and then began to spin inside my brain
as though my head was the candelabellum chamber. I saw my
mother as a young woman at Blythewood, running up the steps,
laughing with her friends, ringing the bells, her face rosy with
the exercise—yes, I could see the peaches-and-cream color of
her skin, the bright red of her hair, the flash of her green eyes.
The shadow pictures had taken on hue and flesh in my head as
I watched them. I was hungry for them, for memories of my
mother before she had grown thin and wasted, haunted . . .
Haunted by what she had done to me.
I saw her with a young man, a familiar-looking young man,
sitting together in the library, their heads bent low over a book.
She was reading aloud, something in Latin, and he was nodding along to the rhythm of the poem, holding up a finger now
and then to correct her.
“You were her teacher.”
Yes, but hardly older than her. I’d just finished my training at
Hawthorn.

Images of a young man fencing and running through a rugged landscape flashed through my brain and I recalled Nathan’s
disparaging comments about Hawthorn’s rigorous regimen.

Yes, it’s quite brutal. By the time I arrived at Blythewood imagine how grateful I was for feminine companionship—and how
susceptible! Evangeline was everything I could want in a wife and
helpmate, but I was circumspect. I followed the protocol as established by the Order, inquiring with the proper authorities into the
suitability of a match.