Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
THORNVALESHIRE, NIGHTLAND
JULY 1838
The trees stretched on forever, blocking out the sky. Huge ferns fanned across the rocky ground. Here and there, leaves shone as though sprinkled with dew.
It was a sight which I had grown used to, since entering Nightland, but the feeling had become no easier. I was surrounded by giant living bars, trapping me even as I fled. Once again, I was en route to an unknown destination. A sanctuary laced with danger, always somewhere deeper and darker than the last.
I glanced at my companions. On the other side of the cart, leaning against a tower of hessian sacks, Gretchen and Anselm nestled close like kittens. Tilda sat at the front, next to the driver: a surly half-goblin with a face as dark as hers. And their essences trailed behind us: two swans, a little owl, and a jay. Four colourful birds, like light given form, as real as anything.
But nobody else paid them any mind. Nobody else could see them. Only me.
I swallowed. That wasn’t true. Not anymore.
I slipped a hand into my pocket. Alongside my notebook, pencil and penknife, I felt the hard outline of an ornate key. It had unlocked the door to the north wing of Thornvale Castle: the place which had been our gilded cage for weeks.
That was where I had left him. My jailer. My master. My equal in so many ways.
I knew the Prince would come looking for me. Anselm, Gretchen and I had witnessed the darkest secret imaginable. His wife, Princess Alba, beloved by all except him, was trapped in a poisoned sleep. We wouldn’t be allowed to walk away with such knowledge, no matter how small and insignificant we were.
And so, in a desperate bid for safety, we leapt from the frying pan into the fire. Now, at the imminent end of our journey, we were approaching his enemy: the formidable Princess Rosahild.
The mere memory of her made my hair stand on end. She had attacked the castle; would have taken me away if given the chance. That was what the Prince had said: that she was dangerous, manipulative, waiting to use my powers for her own ends.
But… had he not done the same? Had he not drawn me close, and whispered all the words I wanted to hear?
Tilda twisted in her seat so she could look at us.
“It’s not much further,” she assured.
“You said that ages ago,” Gretchen groaned. “Where, exactly, are we going?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“We should blindfold them,” the driver muttered.
“I trust them,” Tilda argued.
“That doesn’t matter. You were blindfolded when you were first taken to the Princess.”
Tilda sighed. I stared at the back of her head as she turned around.
We had thought her dead for so long. To see her alive, and match a moving face to an empty name, still struck my mind like a hammer. She had found us; insisted we accompany her to the place where she had been hiding. I just hoped it would conceal us, too.
I was counting on Rosahild being too busy to notice me. Like the Prince, if she saw me, she would never let me go. Not with my ability: to see essences, to grasp them as easily as a child holding a kite string.
The road twisted around the trees like a discarded ribbon. The lights and noise of Thornvale had long faded, and now there was only tangled wilderness, stretching on forever. I spotted clusters of silverthorn bramble among the giant roots. Glassy blossoms sprouted from vines, so clear, it seemed their petals had formed from ice. The only glow came from the sparse moonbeams which managed to break through the canopy. Candle moths flashed as we passed a pond, and I quickly covered my ankle. I had already been bitten there once. But, to my relief, none of the insects came close, and we left them behind.
The cart groaned like a creature in pain. Every few minutes, it jolted so terribly, I thought my spine would snap in two. It was an old thing, riddled with holes, and it was pale: soft pine. Something which would never be used for the sacred death carvings.
I felt their eyes on me, gouged into the trees, in the likenesses of those long dead. Nightland had only become a Christian country forty years ago, during the Acts of Union. For centuries prior, this was the sole way loved ones had been remembered: honoured in wood. No names, only faces. Death among life, and life among death.
I felt a strange respect for the practice, no matter its heathen origins. It was so like the way I saw. Words were empty and constricting. They captured only a moment. But an image… that could capture all the colours of eternity.
We stopped only once, near a whispering brook. I drank until my stomach could hold no more, then took off my gloves and washed my face and hands. It was a simple action, but a familiar one. In the midst of so much uncertainty, I would keep whatever control I could.
I paused when I noticed my left hand. It was stained black, all over my fingers, as though I had smeared the skin with ink. And my cuff sat around my wrist: the solid mark of my indenture. Even in the darkness, I could see the engraving, and read it from memory, if not from skill.
Liverpool, 1838.
I pulled the gloves back on. If I hid my fingers and cuff, and turned my eyes away, I could pretend neither were there. For a while, at least.
I heard Gretchen coming. I knew it was her without even needing to turn around.
“Are you alright, Beatrice?” she whispered.
I nodded. I think so.
She placed a hand on my shoulder.
That simple gesture sent lightning through my skin. I hated people getting too close, let alone touching me. But she was different. I would just need to allow myself time to get used to this part: contact without leaping away.
I looked up at her. Like me, she and Anselm were greys: half-Daylander and half-Nightlander, born on the wrong side of the border, and thus condemned to a decade of servitude. But where my Nightland blood was from the elves, theirs was from the goblins, and the hallmarks of it showed upon Gretchen’s face. Her skin was pale and pitted, her nose as thin as a twig. But her chestnut eyes shone like embers, and they were beautiful. It wasn’t a cold, perfect beauty like the Prince’s, but that didn’t matter. Beauty, like so many things, had no name.
Tilda approached, and held out three scraps of material.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but John does have a point. You must wear these for the last leg of the journey.”
Gretchen raised her brows. “And how long will that be?”
“Don’t start,” Anselm muttered, tying one of the blindfolds over his eyes.
Gretchen wrapped another around my head, and led me back to the cart.
I tapped my fingers against each other. I didn’t like this. Seeing all the tiny details of the world could be overwhelming, but being deprived of that sense, my others swept in like a hurricane to fill the void. I heard five different sets of breathing and every rattle of the cartwheels. The rustling leaves seemed to leer closer, as though my not looking at them had given them permission to move. There were so many fragrances: damp earth, old wood, musty clothing… and something sweet. Beyond sweet; like honey and sugar and vanilla, all mixed into one deadly cocktail.
Bloodrose. I could see it in my mind’s eye: black flowers with a red heart, crowned by thorns like spindles. It was the most dangerous plant in Nightland. Because of it, Princess Alba lay unconscious in the north wing tower: a beautiful living corpse, helpless and unknown.
The ground dipped, as though we were entering some long-dried riverbed. The cobbled path disappeared completely, and the air grew colder. I barely contained a dart of panic. Where were we going? It felt like I was being drawn into a massive open grave.
Desperate for focus, I began counting the jostles of the cart. But there was no rhythm to it, no order, so I gave up. Instead, I turned my attention to my breathing. In on the count of four, and out to the same. It was hardly perfect, but anything was better than nothing.
When I thought I could bear it no longer, I heard something else. Voices, all overlapping, like waves on the shore. And then, at last, Tilda told us we could look.
A crumbling gate greeted us, with bloodrose woven around the iron bars. I couldn’t tell whether it had taken root naturally or been encouraged, but all the same, we all pinched our noses to avoid the scent. Just being this close made my head swim. If I inhaled too much of it, I would be unconscious within minutes.
A mansion appeared among the trees. It was as old and dark as if it had grown from shadows: a twisted mass of bricks and slate, choked with ivy. Skewed chimneys rose into the air like saplings which had given up hope of ever finding the sky. Light glowed from behind the windows, all crossed with lead into tiny diamond panes. But that only made me think of a thousand orange eyes fixing upon us. I felt like a fly, approaching the lair of a giant spider.
Anselm shuffled anxiously. “That’s it?”
“We’re miles from anywhere here,” said Tilda. “It used to be a country house for some aristocratic family, about a hundred years ago, but then it was forgotten. Nobody knows about it anymore. It’s the safest place in this part of Nightland. That’s why she chose it.”
Behind Tilda’s back, Gretchen and I shared a glance.
“Is she here now?” Gretchen asked.
“Yes,” said John, the driver. “But don’t expect to see her. I heard she was busy preparing for another attack.”
I swallowed. Another attack, like the one she launched on Thornvale Castle? Would it be to retrieve her sister? Or simply to kill the Prince and his brother, General Fitcher?
Neither would surprise me. I had seen Rosahild twice before, from a distance, and never had I beheld such vengeance and hatred. I didn’t know how it could all be contained in one body without ripping her apart.
Guards lined the perimeter of the mansion; all armed, all wearing nightcloaks over a uniform of coal black. They looked like they had stepped straight out of the paintings of the Napoleonic Wars. There were men and women of every creed and colour: elf, goblin, Oriental, black like Tilda and John. Their essences waved within the cloaks, manipulated into something physical, adorned with feathers. I saw so many: rooks, eagles, tits, gulls. There were fewer people than I’d expected, but I supposed Tilda was right. There was no need for a whole battalion to guard the place, when the location itself was so difficult to find.
Then a new thought dropped a stone through my belly. These weren’t just guards. They were Rosahild’s guards, of the Order of the Wolf. Some were old enough to have fought alongside her at Waterloo. Others were younger, but no less intimidating. After all, Nightland was a country founded by warriors.
The cart ground to a halt. Tilda and John leapt down and each grabbed a sack. We all hurried to help.
The guards threw icy, unreadable glances at us as we passed. One, a goblin man, took hold of Tilda’s arm.
“Who are your guests?” he snapped.
“They need protection,” Tilda replied. “They’re friends of mine, from Noctorum. Lady Hazel will recognise them.”
“She’s engaged.”
“Well, then, take my word, for now. I wouldn’t have brought them unless I trusted them. Unless there was no other choice.”
The soldier rolled his eyes, then motioned for us to approach. One by one, he patted all over our bodies, searching for concealed weapons. Finding none, he gave a nod, and pushed us back towards Tilda.
“Thank you,” she said sardonically. “Come on, you three.”
Gretchen, Anselm and I followed, around the side of the mansion, to a cellar door. John opened it to reveal a storeroom, brimming with sacks. I took stock as swiftly as I could: beer barrels, tin cans, cuts of meat hanging from hooks. The place seemed full, but I knew it would all soon be devoured by the amount of people here. It was no wonder Tilda had been on a supply trip when she found us.
After laying down our loads, she led us into the mansion. A valiant effort had been made to convert the decaying Gothic grandeur into something habitable. Dust had been swept away and fires laid in the grates, just large enough to give warmth without too much smoke.
However, a foreboding film lay across everything. Plaster cracked on the walls, holes had rotted through the roof, and rafters hung precariously from the ceiling like broken legs. Coldness radiated from the stones, as though the weight of a hundred years had been pressed into them.
Tilda pushed open a door to a kitchen. It was small compared to the ones I was used to, but the range was lit, and that brought some welcomed warmth.
A pan of gruel simmered atop it. The smell twisted inside my nose. On one hand, it was a food I’d always known, yet on the other, it reminded me of the dank Liverpool orphanage where I had grown up.
Tilda spooned some gruel into chipped bowls, and handed them to us. I sipped it slowly, with my eyes fixed on the floor, trying to not focus on the taste or texture.
“I know it isn’t much,” Tilda said, “but it will do for now. I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”
Anselm managed a small smile which didn’t reach his eyes.
“Tilda, I just can’t believe you’re here,” he said. “That you’re alive. We thought… God, so much has happened! I can’t—”
With every word, his voice broke more and more.
Gretchen immediately put her arms around him. Anselm crumpled against her, drained of energy; coughing so hard, I worried he would hurt himself. It was a dry, hacking cough: the sound of cotton lung. Everyone who had worked in the Noctorum nightwort mill suffered from it. I was lucky to have escaped before I could breathe too many of the fibres.
Overhead, the two swan essences twisted close to each other, mimicking Gretchen and Anselm’s embrace. The sight tore a hole of shame through my heart.
Tilda and John retreated to the end of the kitchen. I watched the owl and jay in my periphery: each trading place for which was highest in the air.
I didn’t mean to listen, but I couldn’t help it. My ears were too keen. If they had wanted true privacy, it would have been better to go across the hall.
“You’re too soft,” said John.
“What else could I do?” Tilda hissed. “Leave them? They would have been dead by morning. Forgive me for having a heart.”
“You’ll end up stabbed through that heart, if you don’t stop wearing it on your sleeve.”
“Oh, fie. Nobody will get close enough.”
“Too soft, and too rash. Listen, what can they do? What strength do they have? We’re different. We have the blood of soldiers. Our fathers both fought at Quatre Bras. Mine saved the Prince of Orange.”
Tilda let out an irritated sigh. “Yes, yes, I know how proud you are of that.”
“I’m serious,” John argued.
“So am I,” Tilda said firmly. “My father being a Wolf might have gotten me here, but everything else, I did. I learned how to fight. I learned how to be stealthy. And I was an indentured grey, just like them. Who cares about my father? I certainly don’t. If I can do all this, anyone can.”
John let out a sharp exhale.
“This isn’t a place for frivolity. We have a purpose, and we don’t keep things which serve no purpose. So what if Edward Fitcher and his bloody brother attacked your friends? They’ve done the same to everyone in this place at some point. I hope Lady Hazel will be able to argue this better than you, Tilda. Because she’s the one Rosahild will listen to.”
John strode from the kitchen. Tilda snatched a spoon and threw it after him, but it hit the doorframe and bounced back.
“Ignore him,” she said through gritted teeth. “Lady Hazel will listen. If you’ve made enemies of the Fitchers, you’re immediately our allies. And you’ll need all the help you can get.”
“But we never should have made enemies of them,” Anselm said, bordering on a growl.
Gretchen sighed. “You’d prefer to run back to Thornvale and give up everything?”
“Give up everything?” Anselm shook his cuffed wrist. “What do you think we’ve already done? Things are no better! And what if they find us? Do you think Prince Reaper will just give us thirty lashes and be done with it?”
Anselm suddenly wheeled on me.
“This is your fault. I asked one thing of you — one thing! Don’t put us in danger!”
I staggered backwards as though he had punched me.
“Leave her out of this!” Gretchen snapped.
“Nein!” Anselm shouted. “She’s the reason we’re here!”
“We’re friends!”
“Friends don’t break promises. Friends don’t put you at risk, simply because they can’t leave well enough alone!”
“How can you say that?” Gretchen cried. “You, of all people! You protected her, too!”
Anselm’s essence reared behind him, wings spread, neck arched. But he just shook his head, deflated, his eyes turning hollow and numb.
“Gretchen,” he breathed, “are you really going to stand by her, someone you barely know, over me?”
Tilda stepped in. “That’s enough. Wait until I’ve spoken with Lady Hazel.”
“About what?”
We spun around, and my heart leapt into my throat. Lady Hazel was walking down the corridor towards us.