Page 32 of Tomb of Ancients
“But—”
“Please, Fathom.” I could hear the exhaustion in Dalton’s voice as he turned to her. His clothes were still damp from the rain, and her coat and hat were sodden, mud darkening herboots to the knees. She didn’t budge, hands balled into fists at her side.
At last she relented, and nudged the owlish little Niles toward the faster, light carriage.
“Fine,” she muttered as she went. “But I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“Take your time,” Dalton called after her. “And for pity’s sake, be safe.”
I watched her climb back into the driver’s box, wondering if that would be the last I saw of her. The wave I gave her was small, unsteady, for I was loathe to part with such a stalwart companion. She smirked and tipped her tricorn hat in return, and then she was snapping the whip, calling up the horses, and maneuvering back out into the road.
“I wish I didn’t have to send her away.” Dalton sounded winded, as if he had run the whole way from London to Coldthistle. “But God only knows what we’re walking into.”
“Now we know why Wings never returned,” I replied, surveying the battered house and the unkempt lawn. Something lean and golden swooped toward the stables, wings flashing in the fading dusk light.
“One of yours?” I asked, following Dalton as he crept onto the grounds, circling away from the eastern half of the property and keeping to the shadows of the tall, forgotten shrubberies and gargoyle statues. Khent and Mary joined us, and Mother glided along behind them.
“He’s called back all of his command,” Dalton whispered, crouching behind a statuary. We mimicked him except Mother, who seemed simply to melt into the greenery, innately part of it.
“We must see if the others are well,” Mary insisted, her big green eyes darting toward the front doors.
“Wait. We must wait and be patient. Right now we have the advantage; they have no idea we made it this far and survived the Tarasque. We mustn’t spoil this chance.” Dalton peered around the bush, squinting into the coming darkness. “That was an Adjudicator, but impossible to say who from here.”
“Finch?” It seemed the likeliest option, given the last I had seen of him was at the house.
“Hiding is for cowards. If we have the advantage, we should use it.” Khent sniffed and then prodded me in the ribs. “Make another javelin for me with that knife of yours, I’ll knock that stupid bird out of the sky.”
“Shhh.” Mary slapped at his hands. “Look!”
The Adjudicator had ended its graceful ascent on the top of the eastern attic. It stood very still for a moment, blazing with liquid golden light, its features blending into that ever-moving surface, its spear leaning against one shoulder. Then its massive wings stretched open, and it dove toward the lawn. All of us followed it with our eyes, and as it neared the ground, a blur of brown and orange intercepted, leaping from out of nowhere. From a hole in the lawn. The Adjudicator gave a strangled cryand then wrestled free, frantic, taking flight again but this time soaring away from the grounds, disappearing somewhere over the eastern fields.
“Bartholomew!” Mary squealed, covering her mouth.
No sooner had she spoken the dog’s name than it came pelting toward us, muzzle split in what looked like not just panting, but a smile. He found us easily behind the bushes and tackled Mary to the ground, plate-size paws on her shoulders as he licked her face from neck to brow.
“All right, all right, yes, I missed you, too!” She laughed and pushed at him. The dog had gotten even bigger since I left, nearly the height and strength of a lion.
“Goodness gracious,” Dalton breathed with bugged eyes. “He’shuge.”
“Rather changed from the last time you saw him?” I chuckled and reached for the dog, scratching him behind the ears. Bartholomew rewarded me with a nudge of his giant head.
“He was just a pup last we met,” Dalton agreed, marveling at the creature. “Could fit in two of your hands, neat as you please.”
From around the yard near the stables came a soft cry, then another. It was a searching sound, singsong. Poppy.
“Doggie? Doggie! You come back here this instant! Oh, I hope that horrid meanie didn’t carry him off...”
Her fears were swiftly abated as Bartholomew poked his shaggy head out from around a shrub, to the delighted shrieksof Poppy, his steadfast coconspirator. I heard her little footsteps on the gravel before I saw her, and then she appeared from behind a gargoyle, braided tails swinging. Dressed in a stained white frock, she seemed thinner than I remembered, though still with large, doll-like eyes and a permanent reddish-brown stain covering a large part of her face. She stopped short, understandably, finding not only her faithful hound but three familiar faces and two strangers hiding among the verge.
“I know you!” she exclaimed, pointing. “And you, and you also! Have you come to drive off the shepherd man?”
“Poppy!” Mary pushed herself up from the ground and threw her arms around the little girl, who, if pressed, could scream loud enough to pop each of our heads like an overripe melon.
“It is ever so nice to see you again, Mary,” the girl said, squeezing her fast and then stepping away. “Itisreally you, Mary?”
“It’s me,” she replied. “I promise.”
“And this is Dalton Spicer, an old friend of Mr. Morningside’s,” I explained, making hasty introductions. “This is... Well, this is Mother.”
