The Doorway and the Deep (8 page)

“Oh,
is
it?” he said, hands on his hips. “Fancy that.”

“You and your friends,” said the guard, who either had not picked up on Fife's unpleasantness or did not think it worthy of attention. “The Wilfers, the Heir of Fiske, and the human. You have all been summoned to appear before the Seamstress and the Tailor. Come.”

Fife looked ready to argue. He looked ready to refuse.

“Come on, Fife,” Oliver said. “Don't be difficult. Not at a time like this.”

“I wasn't going to,” muttered Fife, which everyone knew was a lie.

They followed the guard into the pergola. She led them down its long hallway, passing courtyard after courtyard. The River Lissome flowed alongside them, cutting a path through the center of the glass floor, and the soft splash of moving water echoed against the walls.

“Should we be freaking out?” Eliot whispered to Lottie.

“I don't know,” she whispered back.

She had no idea what the Seamstress and Tailor could possibly want from the five of them at a time like this, but she had a creeping suspicion it couldn't be anything good.

They reached the threshold of the Royal Bower. Its frosted glass doors were closed.

“Wait here,” the guard instructed before slipping inside and shutting them out.

“All that sneaking around for nothing,” said Eliot.

“Can you hear anything?” Fife asked Adelaide.

“I'm trying,” she said, closing her eyes. “Hold on.”

After a long silence, she said, “Father is there, too. It's the three of them. That must've been why Father didn't answer Keats, Oliver. They're talking about—” Her eyes fluttered open. She looked at Lottie. “They're talking about
you
.”

“What about me?” Lottie asked, startled.

“It's about your keen. The Tailor is asking Father about it. About if it can be used to cure the wisps. Here. Take a listen for yourself, if you'd like.”

“How—?” Lottie began, but she then remembered what Adelaide had said the day before about transference.

“I need your hands,” said Adelaide. “Both of them.”

Lottie held out her hands. Without hesitation, Adelaide took hold of them and pressed her thumbs deep into the centers of Lottie's palms.

“Be quiet,” she said. “Concentrate.”

Lottie did just that.

The voices sidled into her head, growing louder, and louder still. The first words she could clearly distinguish were Mr. Wilfer's.

“. . . an impossibility. Believe me, there is no sprite better qualified to assess her innate abilities.”

“Such a high opinion of yourself, Moritasgus.”

This voice Lottie did not recognize. It sounded dusty, as though it had just been brought out of storage after a long period of disuse. This, she reasoned, must be the Tailor.

“What I say is true.” Mr. Wilfer sounded angry. “I cannot help that you are displeased with it.”

“We have discussed it before, Lyre,” said a glassy, childlike voice—Silvia's. “The girl is of no use to us. Moritasgus is doing all he can to find a—”

“Is he?” interrupted the Tailor. “I don't know what spell these sprites have cast over you, Silvia, but I will not be taken in so easily. What does he have to show for himself after a month of eating
our
food, sleeping under
our
protection?”

“Medicine cannot be rushed,” said Mr. Wilfer. “I swore my best efforts to your sister, and I always honor my oaths.”

“Really? Will you honor your oath to us the same as you did to Starkling?”

“Enough!” cried Silvia.

There was silence.

Then Mr. Wilfer spoke again. It sounded like he was choosing each word carefully. “I will tell you what I told Silvia:
I've been training the girl this full month through. She's started the sharpening process extremely late. Even if she continues to train at an accelerated pace, I don't believe she will ever be able to heal the masses. Her keen is rare, yes, and covetable. But it is limited. From what I can tell, she can only heal on a case-by-case basis, and only then if she's developed an empathetic connection to the patient.”

“Then what good is she to us?” said the Tailor. “To any of us? Heir of Fiske, indeed. She might as well belong to one of the worthless houses—a Spivey, or an Outeridge. I'll tell you what the trouble is: she's been contaminated by human blood.”

“Without human blood,” said Mr. Wilfer, “she would never have developed such a unique gift.”

“
Unique?
It is little better than useless.”

“Would you call your own nephew useless?”

“Certainly not. I have no nephew.”

Silence followed, then was broken by Silvia's irritated voice.

“What is it, Wren? Have you fetched them?”

“Yes, m'lady,” said the voice of the wisp guard. “They're just outside.”

Lottie pulled her hands out of Adelaide's.

“That's enough,” she said. “I don't need to hear more.”

“What's wrong?” asked Eliot. “What did they say?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It's nothing.”

Adelaide had heard everything, Lottie realized, embarrassment hitting her like a hot splash of water. She expected Adelaide to look smug, but she didn't. She looked sad. She looked
sorry
, as though she had been the one to tell Lottie that her keen was little better than useless.

“Lottie—” she whispered.

The doors to the Royal Bower swung open. The guard named Wren reappeared and motioned them to walk through.

“The Seamstress and Tailor will see you now,” she said.

They entered the bower. Lottie had not set foot in this place since her first visit to Limn, when she, Oliver, Fife, and Adelaide had been on the run from the Southerly Guard. Some things were as she remembered them: the large weeping willow, its bark and leaves a pure white; the gauze awnings overhead; the vastness of the bower. But something had changed. Maybe it was that Silvia did not look anywhere near as regal as she had that first meeting. She floated before the willow tree some six feet in the air, reclining as though she were lounging upon a sofa, drumming her fingers along her jaw like an impatient child. Mr. Wilfer stood at the tree's base, arms folded and brow darkened.

Next to Silvia floated a tall, thin figure with the longest black hair Lottie had yet seen on a wisp. His chin was sharp, his cheekbones high, and his nose bent in two separate places. It was a severe countenance, made more
severe by its frigid eyes. Lottie had never before been so vividly reminded of how
inhuman
the wisps were. Unlike his sister, the Tailor of the Wisps sat in midair with perfect posture, the same as if there had been a solid throne, not mere air, at his back.

Despite the fright Lottie felt at the sight of Lyre Dulcet, she could still see it: he looked very much like Fife. Or rather, she thought, Fife looked very much like his uncle.

“
Curtsy
,” a voice hissed.

Lottie realized she'd been staring far too long at the Tailor of the Wisps. Adelaide was bent low in a delicate curtsy, her eyes burning up at Lottie, urging her to do the same. On her other side, Oliver was bowing, and even Eliot was making his own sloppy attempt at a show of reverence. Lottie grabbed the edges of her periwinkle coat and stooped into her own curtsy. When she rose, she noticed Fife standing cross-armed, defiant. His lack of deference hadn't gone unnoticed.

“What do you mean by this?” Lyre demanded of him. Lottie saw spittle fly from his mouth as he spoke.

“I'm a Dulcet, same as you,” said Fife. “And I'm a sprite, which means I don't owe you a bow.”

“Your friends, too, are no wisps, yet they have appropriately chosen to show veneration to their hosts.”

“Oh, but you're not my host,
Uncle
,” Fife said, smiling. “You're family.”

Silvia stopped drumming her fingers. She was looking hard at Fife, her eyes watering. “Cynbel has informed us that you were the one to find the body,” she said.

“We all did,” said Fife. “And believe me, I wish we hadn't. It was a nasty sight. You're going to have to find me a therapist, Mother.”

“The Guard think it was the work of whitecaps,” Silvia went on. “Cynbel, however, reports that the guard's body was pierced by a spear. Is that true?”

“Yeah,” said Fife. “I told you, it was nasty.”

“See?” Silvia said to her brother. “That is not in keeping with whitecap behavior.”

“That's what I was saying,” Oliver whispered excitedly to Eliot.

“What does that mean?” asked Lottie.

“It may mean nothing,” said Silvia. “Whitecaps are not known for their consistency or cleanliness. But if the guard yet lives, we may find out more about his attacker.”

“Shouldn't Mr. Wilfer be helping him?” asked Fife.

Lyre's face darkened. “Are you suggesting,
child
, that we wisps cannot tend to our own wounded?”

“I'm just saying, Mr. Wilfer is pretty qualified for the job.”

“As is the healer of our Guard,” said Lyre. “And Mr. Wilfer's presence is required here. He does not have the freedom to choose his patients. We decide whom he attends to.”

Fife looked ready to start shouting, but he said nothing, only hovered a little higher off the ground.

“The point of this audience,” Silvia said, “has nothing to do with this morning's unfortunate event. It concerns news that my brother has brought back from the Northerly Court. News concerning the Southerly King.”

Something plummeted deep within Lottie, turning her bones gelatinous. The mention of Starkling brought with it the remembrance of her vivid nightmare: the king's fair skin bubbling like tar, eyes wide with rage, teeth red with blood.

“What kind of news?” Fife asked.

“The Northerlies,” said Lyre, “have discovered a way to destroy Starkling.”

“Whoa,” said Eliot. “
Destroy
him?”

Lyre's gaze jolted to Eliot. His upper lip pulled up in distaste.

“What is
this
?” he asked Silvia.

“A human,” she said.

Lyre said nothing more on the matter, but for the next several minutes, he continued to look as though he were suffering from indigestion.

“I have spent these past months in the company of Rebel Gem, leader of the Northerly Court,” said Lyre. “Two of the court's spies have attempted to assassinate the king before, using common poisons that had no effect on him. However, Northerly healers hypothesize that
Starkling can be brought down by a plant that grows only in the Wilders. It is called addersfork. It is rare and blooms only at the end of autumn. It is the deadliest poison on our Isle, and it is, I believe, our best chance of destroying the Southerly King once and for all.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Fife. “You went off to the North to find a cure, and you came back with
poison
? How's killing off Starkling going to help the wisps who are dying?”

“Still your tongue, Fife,” said Silvia. “Do not be impudent.”

“There is no cure to be found in the northern territories. There hasn't been for years.”

Lottie was taken off guard by the sound of Mr. Wilfer's soft voice. She lowered her gaze to where he stood.

“Northerly healers manufactured a cure,” he continued, “but used up the vital ingredients years ago. The Plague was eradicated in the North, but now there are no remaining ingredients in the Isle for the cure they invented. There has been little research into another cure that can make use of ingredients still in existence. That task has fallen to me.”

“And a shoddy job you've done of it,” said Lyre. He turned to Fife. “If you want an explanation for why wisps are still dying, boy, ask your precious healer here.”

Fife looked close to bursting, but still said nothing.

“I may not have found a cure in my travels,” said Lyre, “but I lighted upon the next best thing. Too long have the
wisps lived under Starkling's embargoes and threats of invasion. It was due to his extortion that my people could not afford inoculations—when there were still inoculations to be had. Long has he wanted us weak, and dead. He's been wearing us down, readying to strike and take Wisp Territory for himself. My people deserve justice. Starkling will suffer for what he has done.”

“That's all good and well,” said Fife. “Everyone wants the king dead. But why are you telling
us
?”

Lottie wondered this, too. They had never before been invited to the Royal Bower or been privy to Silvia or Mr. Wilfer's conversations. Why were the adults now freely sharing their secrets?

“They want something from us,” said Oliver. He was studying Lyre with cold blue eyes. “That's what it is.”

“Not from
you
,” said Lyre, “but from the Fiske girl, yes.”

“What?” said Lottie. “Why me?”

“I believe the addersfork will destroy Starkling,” said Lyre, “but the place it grows is dangerous terrain. None but Northerlies know how to cross over the Wilders, and fewer still know where to find this addersfork. Rebel Gem has offered to retrieve the plant for me in return for something else.”

Lottie's throat felt dry. “You mean
someone
else.”

Lyre produced a thin smile. “Rebel Gem is under the impression that
you
are a far greater asset than addersfork,
Miss Fiske. I'm not sure if you're aware, but the name of Fiske has caused quite a stir up North. Rebel Gem thinks your presence alone would be a great boon to the court.”

Silence circled around the bower, and Lottie finally understood.

“You think—you think you can just
force
me to go north?”

“My brother and I do consider it rather fortuitous,” said Silvia, “that the Heir of Fiske resides in our territory.”