Page 14 of Tomb of Ancients
All roads, it appeared, led back to Coldthistle. Over andover again. I hated it. And I hated even more that it would prove Henry Morningside right. The self-righteous git would be overjoyed to know that I could not keep away, that I needed his help yet again. The moon, stunningly white, emerged from behind a long wisp of cloud, filling the churchyard with its light. I wandered a few steps from the cellar door and followed no clear path among the tall grass and gravestones. A high brick wall hemmed in the yard, pale placards placed there as markers for those who had passed.
I untied the piece of yarn around Dalton’s diary and lifted the cover, then stopped myself. As of late, reading mysterious books had only gotten me into trouble. More than that, I worried that what I might find inside would change my feelings toward Mr. Morningside. I had no desire to know him better. I only needed his help, and a deeper understanding of his life was not required.
A light rain began to fall as a bank of clouds stretched across the full moon, though the moonlight hardly waned. I huddled close to one of the brick walls and under a tree, hoping to protect the diary but hesitant to go back inside. My shoulder touched the wall, and through the velvet fabric of my dress, I felt the cool resonance of stone. It was still bright enough to read the placard I had leaned against: NEAR THIS SPOT LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
I found myself laughing, not at his demise but at the ironyof having once taken that man’s pin from Mr. Morningside and used it to free myself from the binding magic of Coldthistle House. Now I had returned that pin, and yet still I would have to return to the place again. No pin nor overwhelming wish for freedom could keep me away, it seemed.
There was a faint rustling in the grass behind me, and I turned to find Khent skulking across the graveyard in my direction. His arms were laden with our possessions, and he wore a heavy pack on his back filled to overflowing with clothing and books. In his right hand, he carried a small cage. Mab, our pink-and-purple-colored spider, peeked out from behind the bars.
“You remembered her,” I whispered, and he joined me under the cover of the tree. His hair was slick with rain, and he shook it out, much like a wet dog would do. “How did Agnes and Silvia take it?”
“Well enough,” he said. “I told them you had been trampled to death by a horse and their services were no longer needed.”
“Khent.”I sighed, but then laughed again. “You might have been gentler.”
He shrugged, apparently unbothered by the household’s worth of goods strapped to his body. “They took some coin from me and left, is that not what you wanted? Why are you standing in the rain?”
“I just find the safe house a bit stifling. And I do not... I doubt I will sleep at all.”
“No, no, you must rest. It was an exhausting day.” He turned in a circle, glancing up and down. “Where am I taking these things?”
“That cellar door,” I told him. “Here, let me show you.”
Khent followed me through the steady drizzle to the door, and I tapped it three times, then gave the correct answer before the safe house door swung open. I gestured for him to go first and took the spider cage from him, holding it at arm’s length as we descended. Something about the fat, fuzzy colorful tarantula had always bothered me; looking at it caused an itch in the back of my mind that often grew into a throb. It was simultaneously repellent and familiar.
Fathom greeted us warmly, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders, and she offered us more tea and food, but Khent refused her. He blinked heavily, anxious for bed.
“The bunks are this way,” I explained, leading him through the labyrinth of halls.
“It is warm and dry here,eyachou. Why can you not sleep?”
I answered with a shrug, reluctant. When we reached the room where Mary slept, he carefully unburdened himself of the bags and trunks, but our companion did not so much as stir at the noise. I sat down heavily on the bunk across from where Mary rested, putting Mab’s cage on a crate that had been repurposed into a table. A single candle lit the room, and I watched the pink and purple creature pace back and forth in its cage, agitated. Khent sat beside me, then fell backward, hislegs hanging off the edge of the bunk while he used his open palms as a pillow.
“If you fear the shepherd’s folk will find us, I will watch over this place,” he said. “Or do you not trust our strange new friends? I smelled no magic upon the girl, only ink and kindness.”
I wouldn’t have called them friends. Yet. “They would have harmed us before you arrived if that was their intent. No, I do not fear them, but I do fear my nightmares.”
Khent sat up, ducking to pull off the tattered remains of his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I asked, a hot flush filling my cheeks.
“I have nightmares, too,” he explained, unaware of my embarrassment. He pointed to his right arm, and the crisscross of scars and markings there. They looked painful. Some had not healed well. “This was from the creature that bit me. And these?” He ran his finger along a line across his shoulder. “My father thought he could beat the curse out of me. He gave it everything he had. I was a nobleman’s son, not a monster, and he would not accept that I had been bitten. No number of lashes took that back.”
“And those markings?” I asked.
“These I asked for. These? They were my choice. At midnight on a full moon, I asked a priest of Anubis and a scribe to carve the ink into my flesh. I was not ashamed of my nature, and so I decided to tell it plainly to the world. My family was furious, but I knew I had lost them the moment that creature chose me.They did not need to embrace me, they needed only accept me, but even that was asking too much. Thankfully, I had a new family, the one you and I share.”
The rows of images on his arm were mottled with scars, but similar to the shorthand writing Bennu had used in his journals. They were somewhat difficult to read, but I could decipher a few characters.
Elder son, the one belonging to the Moon
“I’m so sorry,” I said softly. “I can’t imagine.”
“Of course you can,” he chuckled, his purple eyes half-lidded and sleepy. “To live is to be cursed, many times with things we cannot change. Scars and nightmares are what we share,eyachou. Do you think Mary dwells in ideal dreams? Her love is far away, maybe in danger. She was imprisoned by your father for months. No, Louisa, the nightmares come for us all.”
I felt sheepish then, for having thought that I was the only one suffering when my eyes closed. There was no sympathy from my parents, or my grandparents, and certainly none at the horrid Pitney School.
“So few of my memories are comforting. Even as a child I knew nothing but neglect and scolding. My parents didn’t want me, and my grandparents gave me away. Now I know my true father is even worse than the drunk I grew up trying to love,” I told him with a sigh. “So what do I do?”
