Page 12 of Tomb of Ancients
“Sparrow made her move,” he explained. “I refused to believe she would strike so quickly. And with such violence. It didn’t end well for her, or her followers.”
The cellar opened up into a larger chamber, the walls covered in mismatched bookcases, each overflowing withpapers, trinket boxes, and curiosities. The room reminded me a little of the library Henry had allowed me to use while I translated Bennu’s journal for him, only the objects here did not appear nearly as valuable. Still, the memory filled me with a momentary nostalgia. That I remembered any bit of Coldthistle House fondly was astonishing, and the house and memory felt impossibly far away. I had not been safe then, but surely it was not as bad as all this.
Fathom disappeared into a side passage, then joined us again with a tray laden with cups and, thank heavens, a teapot. She set an ancient and rickety table for four while Mary collapsed gratefully onto one of the padded chairs.
“One more, please,” Dalton instructed her. “We have a gentleman joining us. A royal son of Egypt by day, if I’m not mistaken, and a moon dog by night.”
“An Abediew,” I corrected, feeling offended on Khent’s behalf.Moon dogdidn’t seem quite to capture what he was.
“My mistake. Yes, he’s that, and he will be along shortly with their possessions. I don’t think it’s wise for them to return now that Sparrow has struck openly. Others will get ideas, and Finch will come looking for his sister.”
I cringed. Finch. We may not have left things on good terms, but I knew Sparrow’s death would send him into despair. They had been siblings, after all, if strange ones, and it gave me no pleasure to imagine his suffering, or what his retaliation might look like. I did not want to fight him, or anybody—I hadonly wanted to get away—but even escape and a normal life had been too much to ask for, it seemed.
“So are you... you know, one of us? A pixie or a demon or something?” I asked slowly. It was no use dwelling on Finch. If anything, I would do my best to avoid him and further confrontation.
Fathom shook her head. “Oh no, much worse than that. I’m a poetess.”
“AnAmericanpoet. Good Lord.”
She and Dalton subsided into laughter, and I shared a glance with Mary, who shrugged and sipped her tea. They did not seem to be scheming against us or sharing furtive looks, and they had given us tea and a warm place to hide, but I still held on to my doubts. Their laughter clawed at something in me. An Upworlder, nasty as she was, had just died. Manypeoplehad just died. How could they laugh? Did they not understand the weight of the pressure on my shoulders now, with the red evidence of that death drying all over me?
It was Father’s power that answered, my head suddenly full of that crimson mist again, my own thoughts diminishing until I heard and felt nothing but the steady crescendo of a drumbeat. My hands tightened around the teacup until it cracked, a hot drip of tea on my hand surprising me enough to break the spell.
When I opened my eyes, all three of them were staring.
A fine dust of plaster drifted down to us from the ceiling. My anger must have shaken the entire cellar, too.
“Forgive me,” I whispered, hoarse. “There is something not quite right with me.”
Nobody spoke. Mary reached over and squeezed my hand.
“I suppose you haven’t heard about thethingsharing my soul.”
Dalton shook his head slowly, and I rubbed at nothing on the table with my thumb. For a moment, Fathom left, and when she returned, she handed me a warm, wet washcloth. I scrubbed at my hands and sucked in a shaky breath.
“I’ll begin at the beginning,” I said.
And so I told them; piece by piece, I told them, trusting strangers, laying bare the whole fantastical story, hoping there was a solution to the danger lurking in me, knowing that I was likely to be stuck with the curse of my father forever.
Chapter Six
Dalton and Fathom listened. With saintly patience, they listened.
“Sparrow must’ve heard about that soul ferrier, Chijioke. That must be what set her off,” Dalton said gravely when I had finished and described the process of having an ancient soul placed into my body.
“’Tis not his fault,” Mary shot back. “He only did what he could to save Louisa!”
“Nobody is casting blame,” he assured her, pouring us all more tea. My cup had sustained only a small crack, but they gave me a new one all the same. “But Finch would never keep that to himself. The shepherd must have been livid, and now he’s grasping for power with these zealots of his. He fears whatever Henry has become, whatever he’s been cooking up in that house.”
His eyes darted swiftly to mine, and I frowned.
“If you mean to ask what his plan is, I have no idea,” I said. “Mary?”
She bit down on her lip, her cheeks swishing from side to side as she thought. “We only ever did as he asked, eliminating the bad people that came to stay at Coldthistle, and Chijioke helped him keep their souls in a menagerie of sorts. Birds,hundreds of them. He kept them all, I know that, but he never shared his reasons.”
“How many birds?” It was Fathom who asked, leaning toward us across the narrow table.
“Hundreds,” Mary answered. “I think... I think hundreds.”
