Page 51 of Court of Shadows
Oh, but how I longed to listen to the whispery woman’s voice in my bones. How I craved the warm cocoon of bed. Lord, I would even trade one of those too-real dreams for this black morass of snakes and spiders that gathered before the tent as if called by some unheard song. And I had seen—or rather read of—this before. Had Bennu not seen something similar?
Of course the journal was not a coincidence, I had decided that long ago, but to see first that wolf creature, then the pink foam out of my own mouth, and finally this... I hugged myself, hesitating at the opening to the tent, skin crawling as I stood among the eight-legged and the scaled. It was as if I were taking Bennu’s journey in some part, reliving steps of his odyssey toward... Toward what? I had so little left to translate. Now I wished I had stayed longer in the cellar and finished it after all.
Toward my father.
There were warnings everywhere. I checked my apron pocket, making sure the spoon was still inside. Its weight was a small comfort, for it had saved me in the past. I had been living in darkness for too long, I thought, reaching for the opening of the tent. Whether it killed me or enlightened me, I needed to know how this—Mr. Morningside, the journal, the Court—all fit together. His whispered conversation with Mrs. Haylam only made me that much more determined. They were talking about me. I had heard the fright in her voice.Shewas scared ofme.
I took one giant step across the writhing carpet under myfeet and crossed into the pavilion. It was as I remembered it, and that was a relief, though it was completely empty but for one figure. The trestle tables remained, each with its pennant, and the raised platform was there with two thrones, the space on the right side conspicuously vacant. I heard a low thrum, too, that I had not noticed before. It emanated from a curtain behind the platform, and reminded me of the purr of a cat.
Croydon Frost stood down at the opposite end of the tent, staring up at the dais and the empty space there on the stage.
I walked toward him slowly, the fairy lights dancing above me making my hands speckled with color. My clothes, transformed into the long green ball gown, shushed softly across the thick carpets laid down. The tables set for banqueting struck me as haunted now, sad and forlorn without their revelers. And the pennants that hung down, too, struck me as melancholy, particularly the one all in black. It looked more like a funerary setting than a celebratory decoration.
The path leading to my father felt like an eternity. Without the guests, the pavilion felt bloated in size, cavernous. Bleak. I glanced behind me, but none of the snakes or spiders had followed me inside.
As I neared, I remembered that he, too, would appear different, for the Court revealed all creatures, and forced them to be their true selves. I assumed he would look much like me, being a Changeling, and indeed, I noticed an adornment on his head much like mine, antlers and vines reaching high above his hair.His was a far greater crown, big enough to befit even the largest stag. He wore a long, ragged black cloak, pricked here and there with leaves, and I felt a twinge of relief when I saw that his spider was not there crawling back and forth across his shoulders.
“No spider? That’s considerate,” I said as I came closer. “I thought you brought her everywhere.”
“She doesn’t belong in this place.” Even his voice had changed; it was darker, more resonant, not loud but oddly powerful enough to send a tremor through the earth. I stopped short, suddenly afraid. He turned, deliberately, allowing me to take his full measure. There was a green mask of vines on his face, one I had seen before in a painting. He pulled it off with a harsh tug, revealing skin of smoke and ash. His eyes were large and black, with tiny red cores that found me at once. The crown of antlers was not a crown at all, but part of his head, and the hands that held the mask were long, extended by claws fit for a lion.
“She does not belong in this place,” my father repeated, handing me the mask. “And neither, my child, do you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What are you?”
It was all I could think to say. His presence, his voice, made me tremulous and short of breath. This was not the person I had seen in the house. It did not seem possible that we two could be related, that we two could be the same thing.
“There are many answers to that question,” he began, dragging his cloak of shreds and leaves toward the dais. Croydon Frost placed one clawed hand on the wood, scratching deep welts into it as he gazed up with his black eyes into the vacant space above. “One answer will make you weep. One answer will make you laugh. And one answer will fire your blood for battle. I will give you all of those answers and more, but first you must do something for me.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I said, trying to remember who he had been in my mind before.Neglectful father. Deserter. Coward. “I... don’t even have to stay here and listen to your silly babbling.”
He chuckled at that, and outside, out on the grass, I heard a wretched echo, the spiders and snakes shivering back and forth, making their own horrible laughter.
I was so distracted by the commotion outside that I almost didn’t hear his softly spoken question.
“Are you lost, child?”
Stunned, I stared at the back of his crown, my mouth opening and closing on a gasp. “My feet are on the path.”
I said it as a habit, having read the call and response over and over again in the journal. In the journal. But how could he possibly know what was in there?
“I don’t understand,” I murmured, backing away. “H-how do you know about that?”
“There should be a third throne here,” Croydon Frost said coldly, ignoring me. “Here. In that empty place. That is where my throne should be, where it would be, if they had not taken my kingdom away from me.”
I took another small step backward. “I do so hate all this cryptic nonsense. You and Mr. Morningside are a real pair when it comes to that.”
His shoulders bunched at the name, and he gave what sounded like a feral growl. “Do not compare me to thatusurper.”
“Fine, I won’t compare you, but you told me I would get answers tonight and so far you’ve only offered more questions. Who are you? And I mean really—who are you? You’re not some wandering perfume maker, that’s obvious. I’m beginning to doubt Croydon Frost is your name, or that you’re my father. You’re not here for me at all.”
More laughter, more whispers amid the grass outside. I shivered, ending my retreat, when he turned and glared at me, those small red hearts in his eyes glowing like candle flames. His facelooked gaunter and stranger, as if it were stretched thin around a deer’s skull.
“On the contrary, I came here for you first, Roeh second, and He-Who-Lies-In-Wait third.”
Him. Roeh, the shepherd. The lier-in-wait could only be Mr. Morningside. I looked down at the green mask in his hand and swallowed hard, aware then that I needed to choose my words carefully. God, I had wanted this man here to shame and rob him, and now I was the one in trouble.
