The Doorway and the Deep (3 page)

“I
am
clearing my mind,” Lottie grumbled, gripping the stone harder.

“If your mind were clear,” Mr. Wilfer said, “then you would not concern yourself with conversation, and your grasp would be relaxed.
Clear . . . your . . . mind
.”

Lottie inhaled deeply, from her stomach, like Mr. Wilfer had taught her during her first lesson. Slowly, she crept into the deep, white space of her mind, where thoughts and memories could not touch her. She continued to inhale deeply, exhale loudly. In, out, in, out. The whiteness expanded, and a calm cold descended on her limbs.

Then memory grabbed her, tearing into her calm with sharp talons.

Grissom stood before her, Northerly vines winding up his body, constricting around his chest, turning his enraged face an unnatural shade of purple. Two words rang like an echo in the air:
Vesper Bells
.

Lottie shrieked. She threw the training token with wild force.

“I can't,” she said, opening her eyes. “I
can't
!”

Beyond Mr. Wilfer, Eliot sat wide-eyed, one hand in midair, clutching the stone Lottie had hurled.

She blinked. “Did—did I throw that at you?”

Eliot dropped his hand. “Um, yeah? But I'm okay.”

Mr. Wilfer was rubbing his temples, his back to Lottie.

She was afraid to say anything, afraid that Mr. Wilfer was upset and—far worse than
upset—disappointed. Lottie made a careful study of her shoes, then of Mr. Wilfer's front door.

Mr. Wilfer did not work inside the glass pergola, but just beyond it, inside a cottage made of tightly woven willow reeds. According to Silvia, the house was created as a resting place for Northerly visitors—traders, diplomats, and friends of court—who were too spooked by the prospect of sleeping in the yews. Mr. Wilfer had converted the cottage into his laboratory, where he spent most of his time poring over old books and mixing strange ingredients in vials, in an attempt to find a cure for the wisps. Lottie's sharpening lessons took place outside the cottage, in a small clearing of chopped grass and two fallen yew trunks.

Lottie now sat on one of the trunks and buried her chin in her hands. Beside her, Eliot whistled a pop song Lottie had heard on the radio back in the human world.

“Eliot,” said Mr. Wilfer. “Please. If you're going to be a spectator, you must be a silent one.”

Eliot promptly hushed up. Mr. Wilfer crossed to where Lottie sat.

“Don't take it out on Eliot,” she said. “It's me you should be mad at. I can't do it, Mr. Wilfer. I've been trying the same stupid thing for a month now, and I just
can't
.”

“You can,” said Mr. Wilfer. “You simply don't have the patience.”

“I'm patient!” Lottie snapped.

Mr. Wilfer raised a brow.

“Fine,” Lottie muttered, defeated.

“I understand. Of course you'd like your keen to sharpen faster. What happened with Eliot was rather . . . unprecedented.”

Mr. Wilfer and Lottie had already spoken at length about what had happened that night at the Barmy Badger, when Lottie had given way to what she'd thought was one of her “bad spells” and healed Eliot in a way that shocked the doctors back home—in what even here in Albion Isle was considered a very rare display of power.

Lottie had not had a single bad spell since that night. Now, for the first time, she found herself longing for one. She'd stubbed her toe on purpose. She'd upset herself thinking about Pen Bloomfield, her worst enemy back at Kemble School. She'd purposefully tried to get lost in plagued parts of the wood, surrounded by the odor of disease. These all proved to be terrible experiences, but not one of them had brought on a bad spell.

“That is the way with all keens,” Mr. Wilfer had explained at their first lesson. “They have a flair for the dramatic. When they first appear, they're bright and showy. When Adelaide turned six, she asked me where the loud music she heard was coming from. It was from ten blocks down, in the concert hall, where the Southerly Boys Chorale was putting on a concert. Even now, Adelaide can't hear a
full ten blocks away. It only happened that once, you see, at the very onset, when her keen made itself known. After that, Adelaide began sharpening with her tutor. It took her years to develop her keen. She couldn't even hear into the next room until she turned eight.

“When you were little, you were
fighting
the pain of your keen. You saw it as something bad, something to be afraid of, not to embrace. You'd been healing yourself for years, but your keen longed for a bigger outlet. When you made Eliot better, your keen did the work for you. But now things are different. Now
you
must be the one to work.”

In the days after she'd healed Eliot, Lottie had dared to think that everything would be magically better. She'd thought that all she would have to do in the future was wait for a bad spell, then hold Eliot's hand until, one day, he was completely healed of his illness. She hadn't thought she would have to practice.

She certainly hadn't thought the practice would be so hard.

“This is a frustration every sprite endures,” Mr. Wilfer now said, patting Lottie's shoulder. “To know what you are capable of without having yet attained it. But you mustn't get discouraged. I can sense your impatience, Lottie. As long as you are discontented with your progress, you won't be able to move forward with your sharpening. The first step is—”

“I know, I know. A clear mind.”

“A clear mind is a
content
mind—one devoid of impatience. Without it, training is useless.”

“Then training is going to be very useless today, Mr. Wilfer.” Lottie sighed. “My mind isn't anywhere close to clear.”

Mr. Wilfer frowned and asked, “Is there something bothering you?”

Lottie wanted to tell Mr. Wilfer that Trouble had run away and that she was worried about him. But if Lottie told Mr. Wilfer that, he would think she was even more of a failure.
Real
sprites didn't lose their gengas.

“No,” she said. “No, it's just a bad mood. And I don't want to waste your time. I know you're very busy helping the wisps, and I already feel guilty.”

“Guilty? Whatever for?”

“Adelaide's right: I'm stealing time from her and the boys. They need to sharpen their keens, too, and you're the only tutor they've got here.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilfer. “Yes, that's true.”

Lottie focused on her hands, clasped in her lap. She was trying to beat down a familiar feeling.

Useless
, said an unwelcome voice inside.
You're
useless.

“I've been trying to keep the five of you safe,” said Mr. Wilfer. “That will always be my priority. It is a difficult thing, Lottie, to see my children ripped from their home. I desire for them to have the best training, to want for nothing. That
is impossible here, and the fact constantly troubles my heart. But it should trouble
my
heart, not yours. This is not your doing. King Starkling alone is to blame for his actions. Our current circumstance is his fault, and it is partially mine, too. It is an adult matter, Lottie. There is nothing for you to feel bad about.”

But it's my matter, too
, Lottie wanted to say.
It is my world and my keen, and I am allowed to feel bad when things are a mess. I am allowed to want to make them better
.

“You must be patient with your keen,” said Mr. Wilfer. “Guilt will only impede you.”

“So what do you suggest I do?” Lottie asked, irritated.

“I suggest that you rest. Perhaps I have been pushing you too hard. Perhaps it's too much strain, too soon. Your time will be better spent if you
breathe
, then begin anew.”

“Rest,” said Lottie.

She didn't like the sound of it. She hadn't really rested for a long time—not since the day she had first traveled through the roots of the apple tree in Thirsby Square.

“Rest,” repeated Mr. Wilfer. “No work. Not even genga training with Oliver.”

That, at least, thought Lottie, would be an easy instruction to follow, considering she currently had no genga to train.

“How long?” she asked.

Mr. Wilfer scratched his bearded chin. He said,
“Let's give it till your return from Kemble Isle, after your holidays.”

“
What
?” Lottie jumped up. “But that's weeks from now! Weeks I could be sharpening.”

“Weeks of training that will serve no purpose if you are in the state you're in now.”

“But—”

“Lottie. This is better.”

Lottie's teeth clamped down, the only barrier that kept her angry protests from tumbling out. She got to her feet with arms crossed, glaring at Mr. Wilfer.

“You're right, you know,” said Mr. Wilfer. “I haven't been able to spend as much time with my children as I would like. Rest for you means extra training for Adelaide and Oliver. That
is
what you'd like, isn't it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Lottie. Though she wanted to say,
Not like this
.

“Spend the time with your friends instead. No more training here, and no exercises while you're back in Kemble Isle. You will be better for it, I promise.”

“Fine,” said Lottie. “
Fine
.”

And so sharpening lessons came to a close.

Eliot joined Lottie as she readied to leave and pressed something into her hand. It was a candy. Not just any candy—a sweet-so-sour. He winked, and the ache that had been growing in Lottie's heart softened.

Mr. Wilfer was straightening his robe and black satin collar. He looked nervous, and that could only mean one thing: he had an appointment at the glass pergola.

“Mr. Wilfer?” said Lottie. “Is it true what the wisps say about Autumntide? Should we be afraid?”

“There's no need to be frightened,” said Mr. Wilfer, “so long as you don't go wandering too deep into the wood. They're said to only come aboveground in the daytime, so I suggest you turn in before sunrise and stay put in your yew until dusk.”

Lottie's eyes grew wide with interest. “So they do exist?”

“Whitecaps? Of course they do, nasty brutes. Who's been telling you differently?”

Eliot grinned and said, “Your daughter.”

“You shouldn't let it get you down,” Eliot told Lottie on their walk back to the Clearing. “I'm sure the others had trouble when they first started sharpening.”

“Yeah, when they were
little kids
,” said Lottie. “I'm almost thirteen. I should already know how to control my keen, not be sitting around holding rocks and trying not to think.”

Eliot went quiet, his green sneakers plodding on the powdery white path in a soft
tup-tup-tup
.

In a voice so low she didn't think Eliot could hear, she said, “I need to make you better.”

“You heard Dr. Gupta,” said Eliot. “I
am
better.”

“Not
all
better. He said the symptoms had improved, but the illness was still there. You're still sick. I see you hiding your coughs sometimes.”

“But it's not anywhere as bad as it used to be. I'm walking around with you in a magical world, aren't I? I disappeared inside an apple tree. I hang out with sprites and wisps every day. I'd call that an improvement on lying around in my deathbed.”

It was the first time Eliot had ever said the “d” word out loud in Lottie's presence. It was easier to admit it now the danger had passed. But the fact remained: Eliot had been
dying
just weeks ago.

“You saved my life, Lottie,” said Eliot. “That's more than enough. I don't have to be entirely better. I mean, maybe it's impossible to be one hundred percent normal. Maybe the sickness is just as much a part of me as the color of my hair or my bad eyesight. I'm okay with that.”

“You're just saying that to make me feel better,” said Lottie.

“Maybe,” said Eliot. “Or maybe I'm really okay. Anyway, we should be focusing on the positives here. A rest from sharpening means more time for adventures! We still have a few days before we go back to Kemble Isle. Now we can hang out all the time. It'll be like one long snow day.”

Lottie smiled. During the month he'd been in Wisp Territory, Eliot's enthusiasm for Limn hadn't diminished one bit; if anything, it had grown, fueled by poetry-laden conversations with Oliver and portrait sessions with Adelaide. Every day, Eliot was bursting with new information. (“Did you know that wisps first float when they turn ten?” and “Ollie says some sprites can taste the weather.
Taste weather
. Imagine!”)

Even when Lottie was most frustrated by Trouble's mischief or her inability to
clear her mind
, Eliot always managed to chase away the cloudy thoughts with a bright word or two.

They reached the Clearing, where they found Oliver sitting on an uncurled yew branch, reading a book. A white finch circled above his head, warbling mournfully. Lottie frowned at the sight.