Page 39 of Court of Shadows
“Off we go,” Mr. Morningside said cheerily, taking me by the elbow and dragging me through the near riotous crowd.“Don’t need anyone trying to take your head off before you can finish that journal.”
“Should I be worried about that?” I asked, dodging the curious, penetrating looks of strangers, all of them swarming close to us as we tried to leave the pavilion. I flinched away from them, wishing I could disappear quietly, not on the arm of the person who had just caused such a flurry of anger and wonder.
“About Sparrow? No. Maybe. She’s always been an embarrassing lunatic, ever the loose cannon, but it’s only gotten worse with Spicer gone,” he told me. We at last reached the exit and he half tossed me outside and into the darkness. He followed, and instantly his appearance subsided into the familiar one with wild black hair and golden eyes. “Which reminds me, I should find out what that imbecile is up to.”
“Is he the third one?” I asked. “Spicer? I know that name somehow....”
“Yes, he’sthe third one,” Mr. Morningside said impatiently. He took off toward the house and I tried to keep up, worried that if I were left alone Sparrow might come looking. “His absence is conspicuous and I don’t like not knowing what it means. They probably sent him to dig up dirt on me somewhere, or maybe he’s gone in search of the Lost Order. Whatever it is, it’s suspicious.”
I was too tired to make sense of what he was saying. Once inside the kitchens, we startled Bartholomew awake. He had been sleeping by the range for warmth. I stopped at the sightof him and knelt down, rubbing his ears until he stuck his nose in the air and touched it to my chin.The noblest creatures in the kingdom.
“What are you doing? Did I dismiss you?” Mr. Morningside whirled around, looming over us with his hands on his hips.
“I want him to sleep in my room tonight, or at least outside my door,” I said sternly. “There’s a monster in the woods, someone killed Amelia, and those insane golden people want to suck out my soul if I lie! Forgive me if the thought of sleeping alone is impossible.”
His eyes softened and he glanced away, nodding as he turned toward the foyer. “Peace. Peace, Louisa. Of course. Take the dog. I suppose I have been... a touch neglectful of the house. Mrs. Haylam is looking into it, but I’ll do my part, too, Louisa. Take Bartholomew; I shall walk the grounds. If there is a wolf and a murderer in our midst, then they will be found.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was late when I opened my eyes and found the door to my room ajar. Bartholomew must have left, and I was all alone. I shivered in the darkness. One of the candles I had left burning was still clinging to life, just a smear of wax with a dying flame flickering out beside the bed. I still felt so tired, though I must have slept, and distant from myself, as if my thoughts were an arm’s length away at all times.
Laughter. Distant laughter. It was too late for anyone to be up at this hour.... I longed to go back to bed but felt drawn to the sounds of celebrating. Clinking glassware. Amiable conversation. Had the guests in the pavilion stayed and moved their merrymaking into the house? I doubted Mrs. Haylam would allow such a thing. Taking up the little candle stub in its holder and pulling on a shawl, I tiptoed out of bed and down the hall.
The black ragged tails of Residents disappeared just ahead of me. There were three of them, all heading down the stairs toward the foyer. I passed the bird paintings cluttering up the wall, though the images seemed hazy, my eyes bleary with exhaustion. A dread cold hung over the house, as if the warmer months were long gone, the depths of winter returned. I saw my breath on the air and felt my skin prickle as it did in the moments before the sky broke and snow fell.
I followed the Residents, always just a step behind, watchingthem float ahead of me and toward the kitchens. Perhaps they, too, sensed something was amiss. The laughter was far off again, too far off, moving whenever I drew near. With chilly bare feet I crossed the foyer and peered into the kitchens, seeing the ghostly fringe of a Resident drift out the door and onto the lawn. Where the devil were they going? I had never seen any of them leave for the grounds except Lee. Faster I chased after them, faster, shielding the candle flame with one hand as it threatened to die.
The air outside stung, but the laughter was getting clearer. Oh, but it sounded like a jolly gathering indeed. The Residents sped across the grass, swift, black shapes that went with no hesitation to the pavilion and then forced their way inside. My heart ached. It felt like a joke I was not privy to, like a conversation whispered in the next room, a conversation you know is pure gossip and all about you. I ignored the candle flame, running hard, slipping across the lawn before better judgment could intervene and send me back to bed.
When I plunged into the tent it was brightly lit, though dyed silvery blue. All the wonder and beauty of it was gone, replaced by a deadness on the air and a horrible smell that made me gag and press my wrist over my mouth. The trestle tables had been removed. The pavilion seemed to go on forever, a long, horrible gauntlet of enduring that stench. It was worse than the docks at low tide. Worse than the stables on a hot day. It was old, badflesh, a butcher’s cart in high summer. It hung around me thick as a fog, but at last I had found the source of the laughter.
There, at the far, far end of the tent was the gathering. I recognized everyone from behind—Mr. Morningside, of course, and Chijioke, Mrs. Haylam, and Poppy, but also Finch, Sparrow, the shepherd, and his dog. What could possibly make them all so happy? And why would they go there to have a revelry in the middle of the night?
It was all wrong. It was a dream, a nightmare, and I knew it then but to my horror found that I could not wake myself. I was locked into this endless walk and would not break out of the dream until I saw it through.
And so I ran on and on, feeling breathless and hopeless, convinced that I would never reach my destination. They were laughing harder now, uproariously, and the smell was so aggressive I could only breathe through the fabric of my shawl, and even then tendrils of the stench clawed at the back of my throat. At last it was over and time slowed, and it was like watching them underwater, their voices distorted and low, the laughter insane, forced, only for my benefit.
I stopped dead. It was a joke I wish I had never been in on. Their faces were messy with gore; they had been eating sloppily. My body was on the table in front of them, all of it torn open, unrecognizable but for the face. And there my eyes were missing. I saw then that Poppy was holding my eyes in her palm;she squealed with too much delight and popped them into her mouth.
“Her eyeballs exploded!” she giggled, gray juice running down her chin.
There was almost nothing of me left, just the head with its empty sockets, Big Earl rooting around in the viscera left on the table, his jowls slick with blood. Even the shepherd had feasted, his lips limned in red, eyes wild and ecstatic as he chewed and chewed.
I tried to back away, feeling my stomach give out and my limbs go soft, but Mr. Morningside took me by the shoulder and pulled me in. I could smell the reek on him, see stains all down his once immaculate suit.
His brow knitted with concern as bloodied fingers tilted my chin up and he studied me intently. Mr. Morningside pouted and let his head fall to the side. “Are you lost, child?Are you lost?”
“Are you awake, Louisa? Louisa! Wake up!”
I was. I was? Strangely, my eyes were already open, but only then did normal sight return. And I was still choking, gagging. I coughed, hard, nearly crashing my head into two pairs of concerned eyes. Poppy and Bartholomew both sat on the bed, leaning in close enough for me to feel their breath on my face. My chin felt wet. I couldn’t stop coughing. What was the matter with me? Could a dream really be so powerful? I wiped at my chin, expecting to find an embarrassing amount of droolfrom the night; instead the back of my hand came away stained with pink foam.
Shit.
“Why are you spitting up pink stuff?” Poppy asked, poking at my hand. “That is very unusual, Louisa. Are you ill? Shall I call for Mrs. Haylam? She will know what to do!”
“No!” I said too loud. Too panicked. I grabbed the shawl draped on my bedside table and wiped furiously at my mouth. God, there was a lot of it. “It’s... a Changeling thing.”
Poppy’s brows shot up. Bartholomew did not look convinced. “Is it? That must be very inconvenient.”
