The Fork-Tongue Charmers (5 page)

Seeing strange things in the dark didn't frighten her anymore. Not seeing them—that was still the scary part.

Rye removed the leftover bread from her shirt, crouched down, and carefully placed it at the base of the Bellwether's formidable door. Only a small glass peephole adorned its stark face. She peeked over her shoulder to make sure Harmless wasn't coming, then pushed up on her toes, craned her neck, and was just barely able to press her eye against the circlet of glass. The distorted lens revealed nothing but cloudy shapes, as it had when she'd tried this before. Rye struggled to stay on her tiptoes, wishing she was an inch taller.

An earsplitting noise rattled the entire tower and Rye leaped back.

Thunder.

She could tell the clouds had opened up, and a fierce, freezing sleet pounded the roof. Rye climbed back down the stairs to her room. The sky danced with light outside her window. Lightning bounced from cloud to cloud. Snow lightning was considered bad luck. The worst kind.

Rye sifted through a pile of unusual trinkets until she found her bronze-and-leather spyglass. Grabstone was full of oddities and minor treasures, the likes of which she had never seen before. Harmless had little
use for them and Rye had already collected the most interesting ones here in her room. Rye squinted at the thin band of rocks and sand that stretched from below her window to the beaches and cliffs. Grabstone was connected to the shore by a treacherous shoal jagged enough to sink ships and thwart the curious who might attempt to venture there by foot. Normally, pipers, gulls, and the occasional seal inhabited the shoal, but that day only waves and sleet battered its rocks.

Then Rye jolted in surprise. There
was
something out there. A light?

She lifted her spyglass for a closer look. It was indeed a light—a lantern. It bounced and bobbed, pausing as waves hit, moving forward quickly but clumsily through an afternoon that was now as dark as night. Rye held her breath.
Who would be out in this storm
? Another wave and the little light seemed to topple to the ground. Whoever was carrying it slowly regained their footing. Then, one final wave crested over the entire shoal, making it disappear beneath the sea for just a moment, and the little light went out entirely.

Rye rushed down the stairs. She found Harmless in a small sitting room, its windows thrown open. He snoozed in a hammock strung to the beams of the house, the howling winds from the sea strong enough to rock him gently back and forth.

She shook him awake, the hammock now bouncing like a ship in a squall. He blinked away the sleep.

“Someone's trying to reach us,” Rye said. “There is—well, there was—a light. Out on the shoal.”

“Hmm,” Harmless said, “I'm certainly not expecting anyone. Don't worry, the rocks make quick work of uninvited guests.”

He folded his hands back on his stomach.

“Harmless, someone's in trouble,” Rye said.

“Indeed. The sea is a more ferocious watchdog than the most ill-tempered hound.”

Rye shook his arm.

“Harmless, isn't there only one person in the whole world who could know where we are?” she asked urgently.

Harmless furrowed a brow. He was beginning to understand.

That person was Rye's mother. She wouldn't venture out to Grabstone unless it was of dire importance. And she wouldn't stand a chance out on the shoal in that storm.

H
armless tried to make Rye promise not to follow him out onto the shoal. Even if a wave dashed him against the rocks he wanted her to stay put—at least until the storm blew over. Rye had just frowned. Surely Harmless had gotten to know her well enough to realize she couldn't promise
that
.

He'd been gone nearly thirty minutes when she finally threw caution to the wind and gathered the supplies she imagined she might need for an ocean rescue—a lantern, a coil of rope, a flask of hot stew.
Fair Warning, her mother's knife that had once bitten the hand of Morningwig Longchance himself, was sheathed inside her boot, although the fiercest thing Rye had ever done with the blade was shuck an oyster. Icy rain slashed her face as she stepped onto the slick stone steps, but she stopped abruptly as a drenched figure emerged from the fog.

It was Harmless, a shivering body in a sleet-crusted cloak dangling from his arms. Rye was shocked to see that it wasn't her mother. It was the body of a girl.

Rye and Harmless huddled by the fire in the entry hall, where Harmless had carefully laid the child. “Were you going on a picnic?” Harmless asked with a smirk, nodding at her flask.

Rye's eyes flared.

“Sorry, a poor time for humor,” he said softly. “Your friend is most resourceful. She found a little cove to hole up in and wait out the storm. It was dry . . .” He glanced down at his sopping clothes. “Relatively speaking.”

Rye looked at the girl in anticipation.

“Give her a drink of stew,” Harmless said. “I'll fetch some dry clothes.”

Rye watched for any movement in her friend's face, her white-blond hair frosted to the color of snow, glassy eyes flecked as blue as ice chips.

“Folly,” Rye whispered.

Folly's eyes focused at the sound of Rye's voice. Her red cheeks creased into a grin.

“Here, drink,” Rye said, and pressed the flask to Folly's purple lips.

She accepted a big mouthful and swallowed it down, her grin turning into a frown.

“Ugh, what is this?”

“Snails, whales, and sea bug tails.”

“Really?” Folly said, her eyes now brightening with interest. “Can I take some for an experiment?”

“Of course,” Rye said, and smiled at her best friend, the ever-aspiring alchemist. She handed the flask to Folly, who cupped it in her cold hands.

“How did you find us?” Rye asked.

“Your mother was talking to my mum at the inn,” Folly said. “She received your message from the rook but was worried that you hadn't replied to hers.”

Rye wasn't surprised that Folly had overheard her mother. She suspected her friend must have the biggest ears in Drowning—there was scarcely a story or secret whispered around the Dead Fish Inn that she didn't catch wind of sooner or later. But the fact that Rye and Harmless had missed a message from her mother was more troubling.

“What message?” Rye asked eagerly.

But Folly's cheeks had lost their color after their
brief exchange and she fell silent, her teeth chattering so fiercely she could barely part them long enough to swallow sips of the steaming stew. Only after Folly was good and dry, bundled in blankets and dressed in Rye's extra shirt and leggings, did Harmless and Rye bring her upstairs to the big table by the fire. Harmless busied himself in the pantry. Folly's blue eyes were wide, marveling at the most unusual surroundings.

She took notice of Harmless, who appeared to be wringing the neck of a very recently deceased fish over a tumbler.

“What's he doing?” she whispered to Rye.

“Mackerel oil,” Harmless replied from the pantry. Rye had long since discovered that there was little Harmless didn't hear or see.

“Helps keep the mind sharp,” he explained, tapping his temple as he examined the cloudy liquid that now filled the glass. “Care for some? I know better than to ask you, Riley.”

“Uh, all right,” Folly said.

Rye cringed at Folly's mistake. Harmless looked most pleased to bring an extra mug as he joined them at the table.

“So, Folly,” Harmless said, “as delighted as we are to have you pay us a visit, I must ask what brings you out here in such foul weather. Riley mentioned a message.”

“It looked to be a pleasant day when I left the village this morning. It finally felt like spring,” Folly said. She took a sip from the mug Harmless had offered. She gave him a tight-lipped smile, strained to swallow, and politely slid it away. “The weather turned rather suddenly,” she rasped.

“Indeed,” Harmless said. “A fickle storm this late in the season is not a good omen. But, more important, the message?”

Folly seemed to hesitate. “Mrs. O'Chanter sent a message by rook. Two days ago now. You never received it?”

“No,” Harmless said. “The fellow on the ledge turned up yesterday but bore no message. He seems to have had a rough go of it.”

Folly swallowed hard. “You heard what happened to the Mud Sleigh? On Silvermas?”

Harmless and Rye exchanged looks, and Harmless nodded to Folly.

“They say it was . . .” Folly began, and peeked over her shoulder out of habit. “. . . the Luck Uglies.” She whispered the name, even though she knew very well who and what Harmless was. “After the attack on Good Harper, the Earl's new Constable made some immediate changes. ‘Valant' he's called, and from what I've heard, he's not like the other lawmen.”

Rye saw Harmless lean forward, listening intently.

“My father says Valant has a long reputation—whatever that means. He doesn't stay in one town for more than a few months. I heard he came from Throcking most recently. He makes the prior constables seem like lambs.”

Folly paused, shifting in her seat before continuing.

“Among other things, Valant has . . .” Folly hesitated.

“It's all right, Folly,” Harmless said. “You can speak freely.”

“He . . .” She looked at Rye with eyes that made Rye's stomach sink. Folly swallowed hard before forcing out her words. “Burned the Willow's Wares.”

“What?” Rye shouted in alarm. The Willow's Wares was her mother's shop.

“Your mother and Lottie are fine,” Folly added quickly. “There was no one inside.”

Rye was dumbstruck. “He . . . how could . . . what about . . .” Her eyes jumped from Folly to Harmless and back again.
“Why?”
She gasped and, for the first time she could remember, found herself speechless.

Harmless sat back without emotion, but Rye could see the gray-flecked stubble of his beard twitch as he tightened his jaw.

“Your mother and Lottie have moved out of your cottage. They've been staying with us at the inn,” Folly said. “Just to be safe.”

That was a relief, although Rye's ears now burned
red in anger. The Earl had displaced her family once again. It seemed the safest place for the O'Chanters had become the most notorious tavern in the most dangerous part of town.

Rye tried to settle herself. “Did my mother send you here?”

“No. Nobody knows I came.” Folly shrugged at Rye's look of disbelief. “I thought you should know.”

Rye shook her head, but not without affection. She couldn't hope for a more loyal—and at times more foolhardy—friend.

Rye glanced at Harmless. He rubbed his jaw and pinched the stubbly beard on his chin. Finally, he said simply, “We'll leave with tomorrow's first light, whether it brings sun, snow, or hail. Longchance didn't heed my warning, and now the weight of that decision shall come heavy and swift.”

The gravity of Folly's news bore down on her, but Rye put a hand on Folly's arm as she considered her friend's own reckless journey. “Your parents will be worried sick about you.”

“It may take them a few days before they even realize I'm gone,” Folly said flatly. “They've been a bit distracted lately. Mum's got another one on the way.”

Rye raised an eyebrow. “Another what?”

“Another Flood,” Folly said.

Rye couldn't believe her ears. Folly was already the youngest of nine children, the rest of them boys. After twelve years, Rye assumed Folly's parents were finally done stocking the inn.

“Folly, I didn't even know she was . . .” Rye's voice trailed off.

“Me neither,” Folly said. “She didn't mention anything, so I just assumed she'd put on a few winter pounds to warm her bones. Mum says that after nine children, delivering babies is like cleaning out the wine cellar—an important job you do once a year or so, but not worth fretting about until you finally run out of room.”

“Well, that's great news,” Rye said, pasting a broad smile across her face. “You're going to be a big sister.” Rye knew, as someone who served that same role for a little red-headed firestorm back home, it was no easy task.

“Isn't that great news, Harmless?” Rye coaxed.

Rye's question seemed to pull Harmless from his thoughts. He looked up, his eyes returning from somewhere far away.

“Yes, yes, indeed. Fabulous news, Folly. You'll be an expert in screaming infants and soiled linens in no time I'm sure,” he said with a smile.

Rye frowned. That wasn't exactly the type of
encouragement she'd had in mind.

“I need to tend to a few things before morning,” Harmless said, pushing himself up from the table. “Folly, make yourself at home. Riley, be sure to pack whatever you wish to take from this place. We won't be returning anytime soon.”

Rye's night proved to be a restless one. She was still staring at the timbers above her bed when Folly nudged her. The creaks and groans of Grabstone took some getting used to and must have woken Folly, too.

“Rye,” Folly whispered, and nudged her again, harder. “Are you awake?”

“Ouch, Miss Bony Elbow. Yes, I am.”

“Do you hear that? Someone's outside.”

Rye heard the familiar shuffling in the hallway. A shadow broke the dim crack of light under the bedchamber's door.

“It's just the ghost from the Bellwether,” Rye said.

“What?” Folly asked sitting up. “I thought you didn't believe in ghosts anymore.”

“Oh, right,” Rye said. “In that case it's just a big rat. Try to get some sleep.”

“With ghosts and giant rats outside the door?”

“I'll take care of it.” Rye said, slipping from under the covers and lighting a candle.

“Where are you going?”

“Shhh,” Rye said. “Just watch.”

She tiptoed toward the door silently. She reached for the latch without making a sound. But as her fingertips touched it, the shadow disappeared from under the door and there was a creak on the stairs, followed by silence.

Rye opened the door quickly. The stairway was empty.

She looked at Folly over her shoulder. “See?”

Rye carefully climbed the stairs to the Bellwether. Her small candle barely penetrated the shadows, but it was enough to illuminate the landing at the top. The door was shut tight, but the bread she'd left earlier had disappeared, just like the other offerings she'd set out each of the past several nights.

Whatever lurked in the Bellwether, real or imagined, it seemed to be restless too.