The Shadows (3 page)

“She’s not here,” he said, hoping no one heard his relief.

“Who blew the horn?” Finn asked. “Where is she who blooded it? She should be—”

There was the sound of rapid footsteps, a clatter, and the door sprang open. A boy burst inside. Threadbare coverings on his legs, short boots revealing bare ankles, a shirt with buttons, a small cap. The boy skidded to a stop, his breath coming fast. “You’d best get up! Get up! Get up! You got to get outta here! The Whyos are coming, and they’re gonna take your hide for bein’ in their panny!” The boy spun on his heel, racing out again.

They were silent, staring at one another.

Finn frowned. “By the gods, what was that?”

Diarmid ignored Finn’s question. He went to the single window and looked out. This was no world he knew. He stared in shock at tall buildings blocking the sky, with metal ladders twining around them and narrow streets below; chariots with four wheels; horses—the only thing familiar—and the stink of mud and piss and piles of garbage. People dressed in outlandish costumes. More people than he had seen in one place since the battle against Daire Donn and the son of Lochlann. But these people were not fighting.

And these were not the green hills and glens of Ireland.

“We’re not home,” he said, his voice gravelly from long sleep. He cleared his throat, said again, more loudly, “’Tisn’t Ireland.” He turned back to his friends. “Where are we?
When
are we?”

Then they heard the shouting.

ONE

Grace

W
ake up, Gracie. Come on, wake up now.”

My brother’s voice broke through my dream. His words were slurred; I knew before I was fully awake that he was drunk—again. I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut and buried my face in my pillow. “Go away, Aidan.”

He only shook my shoulder harder. “Get
up
, Grace. I nee’ yer ’elp.”

I opened my eyes, wincing at the sudden pain. Too bright. The world was too bright, and Aidan was a sickening flare within it. I put my hand to my forehead. “Ouch—my head.”

“Come on. There’s a man a’ the door.”

I knew if I took a headache powder right this moment the pain would go away. But we couldn’t afford even powders, and believe me, it made me miserable. I’d been having these headaches much more often lately, along with nightmares full
of thunder and weird, glowing lights. Mama said both would fade in time once the excitement was over.

Excitement. As if bill collectors and the constant threat of being put on the street were something
fun.
As if there was any hope of it ending soon.

Aidan wavered before me, his dark hair falling into his face, his beautiful blue eyes—which I’d been jealous of since I’d been old enough to know mine were brown—wide and anxious and afraid. He was only twenty, but already he had the sickly pallor of a constant drunk, which he was.

“Who’s at the door, Aidan? Someone else you owe money?”

“The do’tor,” Aidan said. “Saw ’im through the window. I’m in no condition—”

“No, you never are.”

“He won’t lissen to me anyway,” he said. Which was also true. The whole world knew not to trust Aidan anymore. “You know whata say to ’em, Gracie. You always do.”

I groaned. This one would not be easy. Dr. Eldridge had been sending us messages for months now. Bills that had gone onto the stack with all the others though we could no longer pay anything. It was all we could do to eat.

For a moment my resentment of my brother overwhelmed me. I would be seventeen in a month, and I should have been doing things like going to teas and shopping with my friends. But it wasn’t just Aidan’s fault. My father’s business—Knox’s Clothing Emporium, a ready-made clothing shop—had gone under. We would have done all right after his death if all our
savings hadn’t disappeared when Jay Cooke & Company’s huge banking firm failed, sending the whole world—not just us—into despair. It had been only late last year. There had been plenty of suicides then. Shanties sprung up at the edges of the city overnight; suddenly the streets were full of the hungry and homeless. We weren’t the only ones suffering in this terrible depression, but somehow knowing that didn’t help when you were struggling to keep everything from falling apart. Soup kitchens were everywhere, run by churches feeding the poor, which we were now. But we weren’t just
any
poor. We had been well-to-do once, and most of our friends still were, and what would they say to see the Knoxes standing in line at a soup kitchen? Mama wouldn’t allow it, and I had my pride, too, though sometimes when I walked past a line stretching into the street and smelled soup and bread, my stomach growled so horribly I knew everyone must hear.

And since then, Aidan’s drinking had increased. There was something wrong with him, I knew. But I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t know how to cure him or how to make him care again about anything but drinking and gambling. Grandma was too ill to help—she’d been the reason for the doctor in the first place. Mama was no good with any of it. It had been two years since Papa had died, and she still couldn’t cope at all.
Someone
had to take care of things, and that someone was me.

I sighed. “Let him knock. He’ll go away soon enough.”

“’e’s not goin’ anywhere. Mama’s abed. Don’ let ’er be upset. Please, Gracie.”

I took a deep breath and waved him away. “All right. Go. I can’t greet the doctor in a dressing gown, now can I?”

Aidan smiled with relief. He pulled himself into an unsteady stand.

“I’ll stall Mama if she wakes,” he said.

He left, and I rose carefully, my head pounding. The morning was warm, but the floorboards were cold beneath my feet, the thick Aubusson carpets long since sold, along with every painting, vase, wall hanging, and almost all the furniture. Now my bedroom held only my bed, a rickety table and chair I’d scavenged from the attic, and a trunk with a washbasin and a chipped ewer on it and a tiny cracked mirror above it.

I stepped to the mirror and undid my braid, then caught my dark curls with a frayed ribbon and tied them back. The pounding from downstairs set a rhythm with my growing headache. I threw off my nightgown and put on my chemise and corset and gown, stockings and boots—I’d had to learn to dress myself since we’d let the maid go—and went downstairs.

I opened the front door so quickly Dr. Eldridge nearly fell into me. His gaunt face was red with frustration. He regained his balance, tugging at his coat. “Miss Knox, might I have a word with your brother?”

“My brother’s not at home.” I had become very good at lying. Not something to be proud of exactly, but sometimes I felt as if it should be. “I’d be happy to pass along a message.”

I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Then perhaps I could speak to your mother about a sensitive matter.”

“I’m afraid she’s still abed.”

“I see.” He hesitated. I knew he was trying to decide whether to speak to me, but everyone knew of my brother’s weakness and my mother’s frailty. Who else was there to speak to? Dr. Eldridge cleared his throat. “I’ve been privileged to serve your family—”

“Yes, indeed. Grandmother’s feeling much better.” Another lie, but what was one more when a whole trunkful of them was already at my feet?

“I’m glad to hear it.” His expression went grim. “It is, however, customary, when one is feeling better, to pay one’s bill.”

“She’s not
that
much better.”

“Miss Knox—”

“I will speak to my brother about it.” I put my hand on the door.

He blocked it with his foot. “Your brother is avoiding me, Miss Knox. I’ve sent several letters. I’m afraid I have no choice but to proceed with legal measures.”

I let my eyes fill with tears. This wasn’t hard. “Please, Doctor. Things are so very difficult just now, what with my father’s passing.”

He glanced away uncomfortably. “I do understand, miss. But your father’s been gone some time, and the talk is . . . well, I know this is indelicate, but one hears. From other merchants.”

Clearly, my tears weren’t having the desired effect.

“As I said, I have no choice, Miss Knox. You will be hearing from my lawyer.”

We would lose the house and all that was left. “Please, Doctor—”

“I
am
sorry, miss.”

He was halfway down the steps. Beyond him, a horse and carriage went by with the
clackity clack
of hooves on cobblestones and a curious stare from the driver. I retreated into the darkness of the doorway. In spite of the fact that everyone knew of our situation, I did not think our neighbors were aware of quite how bad things were, and Mama would be horrified if they discovered it. Desperately, I said, “Doctor, have you any interest in antiquities?”

He turned around. “Antiquities?”

“I have . . . one thing.” Already I regretted this, but what else could I do? “It’s very old. I don’t know what it’s worth, if anything. My grandmother said it was ancient.”

“What is it?”

“A hunting horn. From Ireland.”

He sighed. “Let me have a look at it.”

I closed the door and grabbed my skirt to hurry up the stairs, my heart heavy and my head aching. I had no real hope that the doctor would accept the horn. It
was
old, tarnished and cracked; its value lay more in the stories my grandmother had told me of it, the old Irish tales of gods and fighting men and miraculous feats. It was my most treasured possession. I’d spent hours lying on my bed and turning it over in my hands, closing my eyes, imagining the battles it had seen, heroes sweeping me into their arms and carrying me far away
from empty rooms and Mama’s tears and Grandma’s growing dementia. I didn’t want to give it up. But it was all I had, and we could not lose the house. We had no place else to go.

I pulled the papier-mâché box from under my bed.
You have to,
I told myself. If Dr. Eldridge took the horn, it would ease things for a while. And that was all I needed. Just a little more time to find a way out of this mess that was my life. I opened the lid.

The horn was gone.

It couldn’t be. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen it. Only a few weeks ago, I’d cut myself on a ragged edge of the silver and bled all over it. I tried to remember what I’d done then. Wiped it clean and then . . . I’d put it away, hadn’t I? Or perhaps I’d—

“I’m so sorry, Gracie.”

My brother’s voice.

Oh no. No, no, no.

I looked over my shoulder at Aidan, who leaned against the door frame. His apologetic smile was crooked and sweet. “Was a game a few weeks ago. I didn’ think I’d lose it. I planned to win it back before you noticed it was gone. I
will
win it back, I promise—”

I launched myself at him, slamming into him so hard he lost his balance and we both went sprawling onto the floor, me on top. He put up his hands to fend me off.

“You drunken . . .
bastard
,” I hissed, hitting him with all my strength. “That horn was
mine
, Aidan. It wasn’t yours to take. Damn you! Damn you,
damn
you!”

“Grainne Alys Knox! Your language!”

My mother’s voice was tight with horror. I looked up to see her standing in the hallway, her hand at her throat, her face pale.

I gave my brother a final shove and pushed off him. “He stole my horn. He stole it and lost it at dice.”

“Act’ally, it was faro,” he said.

I kicked him hard.

“Step away from your brother, Grace,” Mama said. “You’ll wake your grandmother with all this noise, and you are hardly behaving like a lady.”

Because I was furious, I said, “Doctor Eldridge is downstairs, waiting for me to return with the horn I’ve bartered to keep him from lodging a suit against us.”

My mother’s glance went quickly to Aidan, who was rising onto his elbows. “You’ve paid him nothing?” she asked.

“What was I to pay ’im with?” Aidan replied bitterly.

“How do you pay for your drink?” I asked him.

My brother’s face shuttered. “You don’ wanna know.”

“That will be enough,” Mama said. She was trembling.

My headache flared. I put my hand to the wall to steady myself.

Mama noticed. “Another headache?”

I nodded.

“I’ll try to win back the horn,” Aidan said, sounding more sober now than he had all morning. “I never meant to lose it. I didn’ think I would.”

“That won’t help us today, will it?” I tried to blink away
the ache in my head. “Well, I’ll have to tell him. He’ll lodge a suit, and
you’ll
be the one who must manage that, Aidan.”

“I think we can put this off no longer,” Mama said. “There are things we must talk about, Grace.”

I knew the “talk” she meant. When I turned seventeen, I would be old enough for an early debut. Old enough to find a rich husband—though no one said
rich
, of course. To talk about money was crass and beneath us. No, what everyone said was
well
, as in
You must marry well, Grace.

Mama and I had talked of it before, and I knew she was right. But I was afraid. Not of marriage, really; in finishing school, every conversation was about who would marry first, what dresses we would wear to our debut, engagements and weddings and the boys who were possibilities. But then, I’d never imagined that my own marriage would be for anything less than true love. Breathless sighs and stolen kisses. The whole world opening up like an oyster, just waiting for me to grab the bright, shiny pearl of it—