Seventh Bride (13 page)

Down the road. There are monsters there, I know. The hedgehog’s scared of them. So am I.

I better go quickly.
 

She did not run. Running from the house felt like running from a dangerous animal—as if it would suddenly realize that she was prey and come after her. But she walked quickly, with her head down and her arms folded over her breast.

Dust rose up with every step, as it had before.
 

She did not look over her shoulder at the house. She wanted to believe that it was getting farther away, but she had a horrible fear that she might look back and see it right behind her.

The dust was chest-high now. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She raised her head and saw the woods in front of her, a dark line crossing the white line of the road.
 

The road…moved.
 

At first, Rhea thought that the glare was playing tricks with her eyes. The white pavement heaved upward in a circle and subsided. Another section bubbled up and fell away again.
 

Heat haze,
she thought.
It must be. It must be.

It was like no heat haze she had ever seen. The road did not shimmer, it
roiled
. It moved like a canvas with a road painted on it, billowing and subsiding as she watched.
 

Her footsteps slowed, then stopped entirely as the road boiled in front of her. “What’s going on?” she said aloud.
 

The hedgehog made a small sound of distress. Rhea leapt sideways as the pavers heaved under her feet. The dust rose up like steam.
 

She landed badly, almost turning her ankle, and stumbled. The hedgehog shrieked. She ran for the grass on the side of the road, but it seemed to be miles away, as if the road had grown, and there were bubbles heaving up between her and it.
 

Roads don’t boil. This isn’t happening. It’s a trick to keep you from leaving, that’s all—

If it was a trick, it was a very effective one.
 

She staggered backward. Back was the only way that was even remotely clear.
 

No! Not back, not to the house! The trees—if I could just reach the trees—!

The dust roiled up, higher than a man, forming a wall between Rhea and the trees. There were faces in it now, faces with yawning mouths and teeth like pine needles, faces that had never been human, faces that were not quite human enough.
 

They looked down at her, and Rhea knew that the things on the white road could see her.
 

Her arms hung slack at her sides. She could feel the road moving beneath her feet, and yet she could not run.
 

They’re only dust, they can’t actually hurt me,
surely
they can’t actually hurt me—

The dust faces moved closer. They were solidifying as they approached, the air become thick as gauze. Creatures of childhood nightmares wriggled and squirmed in the air, and became the nightmares of a hardened adult.

 
And still Rhea could not move.
 

The hedgehog shrieked in her pocket, a shriek like a rat in a trap, and it broke the spell.
 

Rhea turned and ran.
 

The road rippled underneath her. If she stumbled, she would die. The things on the road would tear her apart, out of hunger, out of hatred, out of some alien emotion that she did not understand.
 

She was running back to the house of her enemy, and she did not care.
 

Her feet pounded on the road. Her steps raised no dust now, she saw—perhaps it had all gone to make up the bodies of the things behind her.
 

There was no sound at all except for the slap of her shoes on the road and her hoarse breathing and the hedgehog whimpering.
 

She could see faces in her peripheral vision and long grasping hands (if they were hands). She did not dare look at them. She had to look at the next step and the next one and trust her feet because her feet were the only things that could save her.
 

She dove beneath the arch and into the courtyard, remembering to fall sideways to shield the hedgehog. The shoulder of her dress shredded and the flesh underneath raked across the cobbles.
 

She lay there, her breath hurling itself in and out of her chest, waiting for a dusty claw to reach out, under the arch, and drag her back to the road.
 

It did not come.

After awhile, she sat up. The hedgehog shuddered in her pocket.
 

She looked through the arch.

The road lay straight and quiet. The dust danced as if it had been caught in a stray breath of wind.
 

Her entire escape attempt had lasted less than ten minutes.
 

And then, because she could think of nothing else to do, Rhea went into the house and back into her room. She pulled the covers over her head and curled into a very small ball, as if she were a hedgehog herself.
 

Rhea woke as the sun was setting. The covers were still over her head.
 

It always works with monsters. They can’t get you under the blankets.

But those were childhood monsters, and she was in a house surrounded by monsters, and locked inside with a grown-up one that walked about in a human skin. Leaving the house was clearly not an option.
 

What were those things?
 

She grimaced.
Never mind.
They’re…out there. I’m in here.
 

Crevan’s in here, too.
 

If she refused to get out of bed, he would undoubtedly take that as a task failed, and then…

…then, Miss Rhea, I’ll marry you.
 

She grimaced and swung her feet out on the floor.

Not that it matters. He’s probably going to keep setting me tasks until I fail at one.

Why doesn’t he just marry me outright? Does he like to play with his prey before he eats it, like a cat?
 

She went down to the kitchen.
 

“Not up for cooking tonight, child,” said Maria hoarsely. The cook was sitting at the far end of the table, looking weary. “There’s bread and cheese and raisins on the table for you, and you can wrap up a bit to take with you tonight.”

Rhea looked up, startled.

“There’s a note,” Maria said, nodding to it. “Can you read?”

“A little,” said Rhea. “I’m better with figures.” She picked up the note.
 

Tonight you must go to the grave of the Lady Elegans,
(it read)
and place flowers on the grave.
 

Leave at moonrise and return before the sun.

 
This is a small task, Miss Rhea, but should you prove unwilling or unable to complete it, I will marry you.
 

Crevan

Rhea folded it and set it back down on the table. She did not want to put it in her pocket. Lord Crevan had touched it. She rubbed her hands on the side of her skirt before she picked up the bread knife.
 

At least I don’t have to talk to him. Would he know I was on the white road?
 

Would he laugh at me for running from the monsters? Would he be glad that I was scared?
 

“Lady Elegans isn’t so bad,” said Maria, breaking into her thoughts. “She was a proud woman, but not a cruel one.”

“Is she really dead?” asked Rhea skeptically.

“Oh, yes. Dead and in the ground and not coming back. When your life goes elsewhere, that’s the end of the matter. It’s not like misplacing your
death.”

“…okay,” said Rhea.
 

She set the hedgehog on the table. It began shoveling raisins into its mouth with every evidence of enjoyment.

I wish I was as resilient as a hedgehog.
 

“The white road—” she began.

“Is dangerous,” said Maria flatly.
 

This is not a safe topic of conversation, then. Damnation.
 

She would have liked to ask about the beasts on the road. She would have liked to ask—well, in truth, there were a few thousand questions that Rhea wanted to ask, and she didn’t know that she was going to get a chance to ask any of them. What would set Crevan off? Maria looked worn out—would another bolt of…whatever that was…kill her? Would Crevan kill off his cook?

He can probably just marry a new one.
 

She applied herself to the bread and cheese.

After a few minutes, she said “How do I get to the graveyard?”

“Out the garden gate,” said Maria, “and turn to your right. There’s a little road, or there will be when you go. It’s a country graveyard, and not a bad place.”

“It’ll be harder coming back,” said Rhea, staring at the cheese. “The hedgehogs helped me last time.”

Maria nodded. “I felt magic,” she said. “A little wildwood magic.” She offered the hedgehog another raisin, which was graciously accepted. “It was kind, and there’s little enough kindness around here. I shouldn’t expect it a second time, if I were you.”

Rhea’s heart sank. On some level, she had been counting on the hedgehog to come through again.
 

The little animal gave her an apologetic look, and patted her wrist with its paw.
 

“Not your fault,” said Rhea. “You helped me once. I suppose this time I’m on my own.”

“I shouldn’t say that,” said Maria. “Our thoughts go with you. For some of us, that’s worth more than others.” She slid a knife across the table. “It’s nearly moonrise. Go cut some flowers for the grave.”

It was not a terribly good bouquet—a few purple asters and some sweet-smelling herbs. Still, the note hadn’t specified that she bring white lilies or anything, and it wasn’t as if she had much choice.

She put the knife in the pocket that didn’t contain a hedgehog and set off down the graveyard path.

This one did not turn to brambles and thickets, nor to white dust, but wound around the edge of the great manor house and into the weedy ruins of a former lawn. Foxtail grass and weeds rose waist high in places, but the path was shorn to an inch. It was springy underfoot. A small covey of quail picked their way across the path in front of Rhea, and she paused to let them pass.

I don’t have a great deal of time, but I think being polite to animals is probably a very good idea…

The hedgehog was warm in her pocket. She had barely had time to think about the little creature’s magic the night before, but now, walking briskly down the path, she wondered.
 

A little wildwood magic…the hedgehog said it wasn’t enchanted when I asked. I wonder if they can all do that, if you get enough of them together…

She’d never heard of such a thing, but the world was a strange place. If there were humans with odd little magic talents, perhaps there were hedgehogs with them, too. Maybe she just happened to have a slug-speaker in her pocket.
 

“If I survive this,” she said to the hedgehog, out loud, “we’re going to have a very long talk.”

It poked its snout out of her pocket and gave her an ironic look.

“I’ll talk,” she clarified. “You can…um…mime. We’ll play charades?”

It occurred to her, yet again, that the possibility she was going mad would explain a great many things. Perhaps only a madwoman would talk to small animals and be terrified of a dusty road.
 

Still, not much that I can do about it if I am. I suppose if you’re mad, you just carry on doing whatever seems best. Maybe the wheelwright’s son had a very good reason when he started putting trousers on the pig. Maybe if you’ve spent a week in a fairy mound, it is incredibly obvious that pigs need trousers.

Maybe I’m overthinking this.

The fields around her changed. The grass grew taller, until she suspected it was no longer an overgrown lawn but an old hayfield. It was taller than her head in places, so that she walked through a rustling tunnel that glowed silver in the moonlight.
 

When the wind blew, the grass bent and the tunnel seemed to lean sideways, murmuring in a hundred restless voices.
 

It was not an unpleasant place. Rhea would have rather liked it, if she had been back in the village. She had always been fond of grain fields—it was part of being a miller’s daughter, knowing that all the wheat rippling around you would eventually wind up coming through the mill. There was a proprietary quality to her enjoyment.

This was not quite a grain field. There were too many weeds of the prickly, thorny, bristly variety, and it would have been rather an unpleasant lot to bring down to the threshing floor. But the grasses bent properly in the wind and made the proper sounds, and Rhea’s heart seized with homesickness, even as she was comforted by it.

If I have to marry him, he can’t keep me in the house all the time. I could walk here. This is not a bad place.
 

She found the graveyard, not at the end of the path but more or less in the middle of it. The path split in two and went in a broad circle. In the center was a low, wrought-iron fence with broken finials, enclosing a small country graveyard.

It was not the sort of place Rhea expected to find a great lady buried in. (Maria had called her Lady Elegans, so surely she was noble?) It was a little clutter of gravestones, softened by moss, like the family graveyards found on old farms.
 

The gate stood open, and even if it had not, she could have stepped over it. A hare moved away as she approached, not running, just a few unconcerned hops.
 

It was very peaceful. Rhea had a hard time believing that it stood so close to Lord Crevan’s home. It seemed like she should be able to feel his malice, even here.