Betty ducked into the belly of the boat. Her nostrils filled with the smell of stale fish and old nets. “You really think it’s the warders?” she whispered. “Could it be someone else? A fishing boat, perhaps?”
“We’d have to be lucky. Very lucky. The warders are probably checking every boat in case Jarrod or me are on it.” Colton’s words were rushed, tumbling over each other. “Perhaps we could capsize the boat and hide under it . . . but even then, the water would only finish us off. Unless . . .” His dark brows furrowed in concentration. “They’re only looking for me, not you. If you were caught, you wouldn’t be in any trouble—”
“Except the Widdershinses’ name is linked to yours in the visiting book, and has been for months,” Betty said at once. “And I’m thirteen years old! They’d take me straight home.” She rolled onto her knees, keeping her head low. “We’ve come too far now. I’m not giving up and going back to Crowstone. I’m finding my sisters, with or without you.” She reached into her pockets and took out the nesting dolls. Up till now there had been no need for Colton to know about them—but now she had no choice. They needed to hide. Using her fingernails, she pried the first one apart, then removed the next.
Colton’s eyes widened. “What are those?”
“Something that’s going to save our skin.”
“How?”
“We’re going to vanish.”
“Vanish? You mean, disappear?”
“Exactly.”
Colton’s eyes raked over the dolls. “They’re magical, just like the bag, aren’t they?”
Betty nodded. “And they’re our only chance now. If the warders can’t see us, then they can’t catch us, right?” She looked at him desperately, willing him to agree. “If they think it’s just a drifting boat, they might pass us by.”
Colton’s face was layered with doubt. “They could just as easily tow the boat back to shore.”
“Maybe,” Betty admitted. “But it would still buy us some time, to figure out another idea. We’ve a better chance this way, surely?”
“Better chance of what?” Colton hissed. “Ending up back where we started?” He glanced back, shaking his head violently, and Betty glimpsed the resolve in his face. Colton had as much to lose as she did, and he wasn’t quitting. It lent her strength. He peered over the side of the boat, eyes glinting with reflective light, before dropping back down, breathing hard. “They’re close now. Two of them rowing, I think.”
“Did they see you?” Betty asked. She fumbled with the smaller dolls, panic making her clumsy.
“Don’t think so.” He nodded at the dolls. “Just do it. Make us disappear.”
Betty finally managed to open the second and third dolls, her frozen fingers trembling. “I need something of yours, quickly. A strand of hair, piece of jewelry . . . something like that.”
“I don’t have anything like that!” Colton gave her a fierce look. Her eyes swept over him: his closely shorn hair, the rags he wore that barely classed as clothing. No jewelry, of course. She glanced at his hands, seeing only fingernails so chewed they were bleeding in places.
“For crow’s sake,” she muttered, then spied a corner of his tunic collar that was coming unstitched. With no time to think about it, she rolled closer and tore at it with her teeth. The taste of old sweat filled her mouth.
“Ugh.” She spat the scrap into the lower half of the third doll, then clamped the top half of the doll in place, carefully lining up the intricate painted patterns on the outside.
“You’re all crazy, you Widdershins girls,” Colton muttered in bemusement.
“Don’t let Fliss hear you say that. Anyway, we got all our bad habits from Granny.” She placed the doll inside the second one, biting off her thumbnail and flicking that in, too, once again taking care to line up the two halves exactly. Finally, she placed them into the largest one.
He waited. “Now what?”
Betty held the nesting dolls tightly to her chest, wishing she could hide the thundering of her heartbeat. “Now nothing,” she whispered. “We can’t be seen.”
“You sure?” Already Colton was leaning over the side of the boat. “Hey . . . my reflection is gone!” He turned to her in confusion. “But I can still see you . . . ?”
She nodded. “And we can still be heard . . . and felt—”
She stopped speaking at the sound of oars splashing through the water. Lifting a warning finger to her lips, she curled herself into the boat’s seat. Colton was too tall for that, so instead lay back silently along the opposite side of the boat, mirroring the curve of the wood. They waited.
It was the fog that found them first, thick and fish-belly gray, reaching over their heads like a shroud. The slap of oars on water grew louder, then stopped as the approaching boat cut through the water. It bumped into them without warning, causing Betty to bite her tongue. Something cold rattled under her elbow. Lifting her arm, she found a fish hook, pointed and sharp. If they were caught, perhaps it could act as a weapon. She tucked it into her sleeve, alarmed at her own ferocity. She had never hurt anyone before . . . but no one was going to prevent her from reaching her sisters. She would do whatever it took.
Light flooded from above as a lantern was held aloft, blurring everything beyond it into gray. A man’s voice cut through the mist.
“Empty, save for a load of old rags.”
Betty tensed. She knew that voice; she was sure of it! But from where? Before she could place it, a second man spoke. “The oars are still in it. I could’ve sworn I saw movement . . . a figure.”
This voice was younger, sharper, and not one Betty recognized. There was something confident about the way he spoke. This was someone who didn’t scare easily.
“The boat’s solid. No signs of a struggle or an accident. Looks like it’s been abandoned.”
Without warning, a hand reached past Betty’s face to rummage through the supplies Colton had thrown in. Carefully, she lifted her shawl to cover her mouth, afraid the warmth of her breath might be detected in the cold air.
The lantern shifted, and light played over two faces. The younger fellow had a hard, waxy face. He was dressed in a warder’s uniform, and beneath a sparse mustache was an equally thin mouth that was spiteful in appearance.
The other man, to Betty’s great astonishment, was Fingerty. What was he doing out here?
“Well?” The warder’s voice was impatient. “Could the felons have been using this boat?”
Fingerty frowned at the oars and scratched his chin with long, thick fingernails. “Yerp. I mean, it’s possible. But . . .” He hesitated, glancing through the mist as though trying to decipher something. “From the path we’ve jest taken, I’d say this boat’s come from Lament.”
The warder spat. Betty heard it hit the water. Phlat. Her lip curled in revulsion.
“How could they have got to Lament? Makes no sense! No boats were seen, none were taken from Repent!”
At this Betty grinned to herself, both with glee and relief. The only people being searched for appeared to be Colton and Jarrod. There was no mention of the girls, and the bag’s magic had created a baffling mystery that had thrown the warders off the scent. Her smile vanished at the thought of the bag, now in Jarrod’s possession. It was the most valuable item they’d had, and now it was out of reach, in the grasp of someone infinitely dangerous, along with something even more precious: her sisters.
“Well, they got off the island somehow,” Fingerty remarked drily. “Either that or they’re still there, which means the warders are crooked or useless.”
“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” the warder growled. “You were the most crooked one of them all.”
“Heh.” Fingerty snickered. “Lucky for you I was.”
“You’re the lucky one.” The warder’s voice dripped with contempt. “As lucky as a weasel like you can be, anyway. You could be slammed away again like that”—he snapped his fingers—“if we thought you were up to your old tricks, or if anyone on the mainland finds out you’re our eyes and ears there.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “And you’re never too old for a beating. We own you, Fingerty, and that’s the way it’ll stay . . . unless you get yourself a good catch. A very good catch.”
All traces of humor left Fingerty then. His face creased back into its usual scowl like a chicken settling to roost.
“Bring the boat back with us,” the warder ordered. “Can’t have it floating around by itself; never know who might come across it.”
Betty silently bit into her shawl. This was all going so very wrong. Being taken back to any of the islands was going to cost precious time—time they didn’t have, and wherever they ended up, Colton would be in danger of being discovered.
Fingerty leaned over the boat. “Can’t see no towing rope.”
“Then get in and row,” the warder snapped. “And the lantern stays with me, so you’d better keep up.”
Fingerty stepped into the boat. It rocked a little under his weight, but he stayed steady, surefooted as if he were on dry land. He remained standing, scanning the boat with a perplexed expression.
“Boat don’t feel right,” he muttered, more to himself than to the warder. Using his toe, he nudged aside the blankets, as though searching for something.
“What are you bleating about now?”
“This boat,” Fingerty repeated. “S’not sitting quite right. Feels heavier than it should.”
Betty glanced at Colton in alarm. Fingerty was an experienced boat man; he’d know exactly how an empty boat should feel when he stepped into it. Only, this boat now carried the weight of three people. She wanted to scream. Why, why, why, did it have to be Fingerty? If he discovered her, took her back, there would be questions, delays, and absolutely no chance of finding Charlie and Fliss before sunset. The hook trembled in her fingers. She couldn’t hurt someone she knew, who had helped her, could she?
“Probably just the timber.” The warder yawned, setting the lantern down. Betty heard the scrape of wood as he picked up the oars.
“Nah.” Fingerty stood rigid, like a dog whose hackles were up. “Nowt to do with the timber. I’m telling yer, somethin’ ain’t right.” He shifted his weight from side to side, and Betty clutched the nesting dolls even tighter to her, afraid they would roll away or rattle.
The warder gave a low, mocking chuckle. “I suppose the next thing you’re going to say is that it could be the weight of dead souls aboard it. That we’ve come across a ghost vessel, drifting out and looking for fresh souls to claim.”
“Shouldn’t make jokes like that,” Fingerty snapped. “Strange things have happened out on this water. Terrible things.”
“Just row.” The warder sounded bored now. “It’ll take more than your stories to scare me. And keep your eyes peeled. Those two cretins are out here somewhere, and I want to be the one to return them.”
The sound of rippling water reached Betty’s ears: the warder had begun to row.
Fingerty sat down finally, breathing heavily. He grabbed the oars, then peered into the mist up ahead. As quickly as she dared, Betty slid out from under the seat behind Fingerty, taking care not to sway the boat. She raised herself up onto her knees. Already, the warder’s boat had vanished from sight, swallowed by the soupy fog.
“Slow down!” Fingerty called. Then, “Is there a spare lantern?”
“No,” came the abrupt reply. “So keep up!”
Fingerty began to row, cursing under his breath. Betty’s hand skimmed his grizzled hair as the action propelled him back, and he gave a slight shudder. With each drag of the oars, desperation surged within her. She glanced at Colton, willing him to act, to push Fingerty overboard, to do anything that would change their course away from Crowstone, but he had folded himself up so impossibly near to Fingerty’s foot that he couldn’t move without being discovered. All Betty could think of was her sisters getting farther and farther away from her. The only way she could change things and give them a chance was to take a risk.
Shoving fear aside, she leaned close to Fingerty’s ear and spoke in a low, cold voice: “Listen up, Fingerty, and don’t make a sound—”
Fingerty let out a loud yelp and turned, dropping an oar. The boat lurched as he lashed out with his hand. Betty tried to move backwards but wasn’t fast enough, and his fist caught her in the chest. She lost her balance and toppled, landing on the fishing nets with a heavy bump.
“Who’s there?” Fingerty yelled. His head whipped from side to side, terror in his eyes as he searched for this unseen enemy.
“Fingerty?” the warder called. His voice was irritable, but faint, indicating that he had put some distance between himself and them. “What’s rattled you? Keep up, you old goat!”
Betty rolled onto her side, a groan escaping her. Fingerty flinched at the sound, his breath quickening in quick puffs on the misty air, and she realized how eerie her groan must have sounded to someone spooked, who couldn’t see her. And then, she saw, as Fingerty raised the oar he still held, how fear could make someone dangerous. He swung the oar blindly, and Betty trembled as it cut through the air above her head.
“Fingerty!” the warder bellowed. “What’re you doing back there?”
“Here!” he yelled. “Get me off this boat . . . There’s something on it!”
Betty cowered below the oar. She had hoped that Fingerty might freeze with fear when she had spoken to him, but he had reacted far more quickly—and differently—than she had expected.
With a gasp, Fingerty was pulled backwards as strong arms wrapped around him and pulled . . . hard. His legs went from under him as he tripped over the bench. He landed in the bottom of the boat. By the time Betty had hauled herself up, Fingerty was on his back like a beetle and Colton had the old man’s arms pinned beneath his knees, with one hand holding the oar and the other clamped over Fingerty’s mouth. Fingerty, of course, saw nothing except the oar hovering above his nose. Over the sound of his panicked breathing the only thing that could be heard was the warder’s oars cutting through the water, drawing ever nearer.
Betty darted across and kneeled by Fingerty, scarcely believing her own actions. She pressed the fish hook to his neck.
“As I was saying,” she whispered fiercely, “don’t make a sound. Do everything we say, and you won’t get hurt. Understand?”
Wide-eyed with fright, Fingerty nodded vigorously. Warily, Colton took his hand away from the man’s mouth.
“We?” Fingerty managed. “Are you sp-spirits of the marshes? What magic is this?”
“Not spirits. And all you need to know is this is powerful magic.” Betty leaned close to Fingerty’s face, so close she could smell the greasiness of his hair. “Magic that could make you disappear for good.”
She felt mildly ashamed as Fingerty gulped, but she squashed it down. She had to get him onside in any way she could. By hook or by crook, she thought grimly, removing the sharp crescent from his neck. In a single motion, she sliced a brass button from Fingerty’s overcoat. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen, so listen carefully.” She thrust the hook at Colton, then pulled out the nesting dolls and wrested them apart. “In a moment, you’re going to vanish from sight, just like us. When the warder gets here, you say and do nothing to draw his attention, do you hear?”
Again, Fingerty nodded. He licked his lips, and croaked, “Who . . . who are you? I’m sure . . . your voice seems familiar . . .”
“You’re about to find out,” Betty said grimly. “What’s that warder’s name?”
“Pike,” Fingerty replied. “Tobias Pike.”
“Good. Now, quiet, not one word.” She searched through the mist. The sound of Pike’s boat was louder, but thanks to the thickening mist, there was no sight of it yet. They still had time, just.
Betty opened the nesting dolls, and Fingerty jumped with surprise as she and Colton reappeared.
“You!” he whispered, his face contorting with shock and rage. “But yer jest a child—! And you . . . yer one of the ones we’re looking for! Jest what is going on here?”
“Shut up,” Colton hissed. He brandished the fish hook above Fingerty’s nose. “You’ll give us away!”
Fingerty clamped his lips together, watching as Betty added the severed button from his coat to the hollow space inside the dolls.
“That’s it?” Fingerty whispered.
Betty nodded. “None of us can be seen. Now, quiet.”
Colton lowered the oar next to the one Fingerty had dropped, before crouching next to the old man, keeping the hook by his throat as a dangerous reminder. Betty positioned herself at the rear of the boat. Her heartbeat quickened as a dark shape loomed through the fog, and a pale orb of light floated nearer as the lantern was lifted.
“Fingerty!” Pike growled. “Where are you, you sniveling coward? I thought you knew these marshes! That you didn’t scare easily!” He leaned over the boat. His face creased into confusion as his eyes swept over the oars, then blindly over Fingerty and Colton, and vaguely in Betty’s direction.
“Fingerty?” he yelled, wide-eyed. “Fingerty!”
Betty’s insides churned. The temptation to call out was etched on Fingerty’s face, but with Colton glowering over him, his fear was stronger.
Pike’s own eyes narrowed. “Where is the old fool?” he muttered. “Can’t have vanished into thin air . . .” He swung the lantern about him, then back to the seemingly empty boat, making no effort to leave.
Betty hesitated, then drew in a breath. When she released it, it was to speak in a hissing, high-pitched whisper. “Tobiasssss Pike!”
The warder jerked back at the sound of his name. “Wh-who’s there?” he asked in a voice that was suddenly shaky. He clutched the oar like it was a sword, but it shook like a reed in the wind.
“Leave thissss place, Tobiassss Pike!” Betty whispered. “Leave and never return . . . or elsssse you will ssssuffer a terrible fate!”
Pike’s face drained, becoming haggard. “Fingerty . . . ?” he croaked, all pretense at bravery forgotten. “Is this a trick?”
“Gone . . . gone . . . gone . . .” Betty chanted. She was almost beginning to enjoy herself now. Pike was a bully who deserved a taste of what he dished up to others. “Claimed by the sssspirit of the marshes . . .” She paused dramatically. “Yet sssstill, I hunger for another ssssoul . . .”
Pike let out a strangled half sob. He fell back and began dragging the oars through the water as though he were pulling himself out of his own grave. Within seconds he was surrounded by the fog once more, and all that could be heard was the frantic splashing of the oars as he made his getaway. And Betty couldn’t help it; she began to laugh in relief, which only made Pike row faster. She cackled until her sides ached, an eerie, echoing noise that sounded strange even to her. She only stopped when Pike’s thrashing oars could no longer be heard.
When it was clear they were alone on the water, Fingerty spoke. “Yer going to t-tell me what yer want from me now?”
“Yes,” Betty replied. “It’s simple. You know these marshes better than us—you’re more useful than any map. So we want you to get us through this fog and take us to Windy Bottom.”
Fingerty looked aghast. “Yer know what happens to people who help prisoners escape? Prison! Banishment! And if they’ve done it before, like me, their necks get stretched!”
“Only if they’re caught,” said Betty. She almost laughed bitterly, for what did prison or banishment matter to her? She wouldn’t be alive long enough to suffer.
“No one ever plans on getting caught,” Fingerty muttered. “That’s usually when they become unstuck.”
“All you have to do is get us there,” said Betty. “After that you can forget you ever saw us, unless . . .” She paused, thinking. Perhaps there were other ways Fingerty could be useful, if he could be persuaded. “Unless you want to go back a hero.” What was it Pike had said? “With a good catch.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Fingerty asked, “How?”
“By bringing Jarrod back with you.”
Fingerty laughed a long, wheezing laugh. “Yer think that’s possible? The man’s an ogre, from what I’ve heard!”
“Just as possible as being invisible.”
Fingerty watched her, his expression a mix of curiosity and wariness. His eyes shifted to the dolls. “Yer granny’ll have summat to say about all this.”
“Yes,” Betty agreed. “I expect she will.”
She glanced at Colton, who had remained silent since the warder’s departure. She wondered if he was angry, or worried, or both. “Let’s get moving.”
Colton handed Fingerty an oar. “Don’t try anything, old man,” he warned.
Fingerty took the oar, scowling. “So not only are yer kidnapping me, yer expect me to do the donkey work?”
“Think of it as a favor,” said Betty. “Like the ones you used to do for people on Torment.”
“Favors? Weren’t favors! Got paid for those, and handsomely, too! Gah!” He struck the oar into the water bad-temperedly.
The boat moved off and Betty settled on the rags. At least they were heading toward her sisters now, tackling part of her problem. The other part reared in her mind again. Widdershins . . . etched into the tower wall. Had someone wronged Sorsha? Could the curse have stemmed from jealousy, or even lies?
“What happened next?” she asked, shivering. The tips of her ears and nose stung from the freezing fog. “To Sorsha Spellthorn?”
Fingerty’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And now she wants a history lesson!” he said shrilly. “You’ve got a cheek, girl. Yer know that? Shouldn’t even say that name out here on the marshes!”
“I need to know.” Betty’s voice was firm.
“That what all this is about?” Fingerty said hoarsely. “Seems like you know plenty about Sorsha Spellthorn already, without my help!”
“What do you mean? I wouldn’t be asking if I did!”
“Hah!” Fingerty lowered his oar, jabbing at Betty with a crooked finger. “Yer don’t fool me, girly. Seen it with me own eyes, so I have.”
“What is he babbling about?” Colton asked.
“The dolls!” Fingerty spluttered. “What else? Yer must know they were hers!”
Betty stared back at him, then down at the nesting dolls cradled in her hand. Finally, she understood what the old man meant, and the significance of the tale he had told her in the Poacher’s Pocket.
A tale in which smugglers and a spy had sacrificed their lives for a newborn child. And in which Sorsha had used mysterious powers to observe people in an impossible way . . . and hide herself and her sister from danger. Spying . . . hiding. Whipping from one place to another in seconds.
“They belonged to her,” Betty whispered, stunned. The Widdershins heirlooms—as well as their terrible legacy . . . they had all come from her. “All these years, passed down through my family . . . Sorsha’s powers survived.”
She grabbed Fingerty’s bony knee and shook it urgently. “Please, Fingerty. You have to tell me, now, everything you know about Sorsha Spellthorn. My life and my sisters’ lives depend on it. How did Sorsha end up in Crowstone Tower?”
Fingerty yanked on his oar, propelling the boat through the water.
“She trusted the wrong person.”