ten

Sitting alone in the blue bedroom, Rhosmari felt strangely insubstantial, as though someone had hollowed her out from the inside. Her bruised palm still throbbed, and she could not close her eyes without seeing Martin’s head snapping back as she struck him. But that was nothing compared to the horror of what the Empress wanted her to do next–to help her invade the Green Isles by stealth and treachery, and conquer the Children of Rhys.

How could she have been so blind to what the Empress was planning? Rhosmari had been so intent on saving her people from harm, it had never occurred to her that she herself could become the means of their destruction. But now, if she did not do something quickly, her people would be taken unawares, and turned into slaves of the Empress. Not just a few of them as she had once feared, but all of them.

She leaped up from her seat and went to the window, staring out across the empty garden. Somewhere out there, the Oak was still alive and whole–and full of rebel faeries, Garan and his men included. If they knew what the Empress had in mind for Rhosmari, they would surely come and rescue her. But how could she get a message to them?

She could address it to the humans in the house, perhaps . . . but the Empress kept a close eye on Sarah’s correspondence, and she could hardly be expected to overlook something marked for Oakhaven.

Could she coax a bird to the window, and tie a message to its leg? No, because she would still need to use magic to tell the bird where to go.

What if she . . . No, that wouldn’t work either.

Rhosmari gripped the sill with both hands, fighting back panic. She had to find a way to contact the rebels. Any day now, or at any moment, the Empress might gather her forces and command Rhosmari to lead them to the Green Isles. Merciful Rhys, what was she going to do?

She was still gazing helplessly into the distance when Isadora came waddling up the gravel drive toward the kitchen. The little dog had begun to put on weight again, but she still needed regular meals to keep up her strength–and with everything that had happened today, Rhosmari had forgotten to feed her.

Well, at least she could do that much to thwart the Empress, if nothing else. But it was hard for Rhosmari to take much joy in saving a dog, knowing that the lives of hundreds of faeries were still in jeopardy . . . and that if the Empress conquered them, it would be her fault.

•••

When Rhosmari came into the kitchen, she found Sarah hunched over the worktop, chopping vegetables. “I’m so tired of making fancy meals,” the older woman said, wiping her hand across her brow. “And the grocer’s bill! It seems like every day I’m having to call for another delivery. If this keeps up I’ll have nothing left to live on.”

She sounded so plaintive that, for a moment, Rhosmari almost told her about the Empress’s plan. If it gave her no joy to know that the Empress would soon be leaving Waverley Hall, then at least it would be good news to Sarah. But she could not bring herself to share her burden with anyone, and she feared what might happen to Sarah if the Empress guessed that they had been talking together.

Quietly Rhosmari filled Isadora’s bowl and set it out on the kitchen step. But as she watched the dog gobble down the meal, a new misgiving troubled her. How long would it be before the Empress noticed that the little dog had not yet died, and decided to investigate? And what would happen to Isadora then?

Rhosmari put a hand to her forehead. Every time she tried to help, all she seemed to do was make matters worse. Now she not only had to warn the Elders and get a message to the rebels, she had to find a way to save Isadora too . . .

Despairing, she turned to leave, and a picture on the far wall caught her eye. It was a painting of Sarah at a slightly younger age, seated and smiling with her dog on her lap and a kindly-looking man standing behind her. Rhosmari had noticed the painting before, but never paid it close attention. Now something made her stop and consider it again.

By rights it ought to have disturbed her as much as Philip Waverley’s ruined portrait, for it was impossible not to look at that peaceful scene without being reminded of how much Sarah had suffered since. But the bold, vigorous way the artist had used his brush upon the canvas, the glowing warmth of the colors he had chosen, made Rhosmari feel reassured and even a little comforted. It seemed to tell her of a better world that had once been, and perhaps would be again.

“That’s a lovely thing, isn’t it?” said Sarah, coming up behind her. “The artist’s quite well known in these parts, so I was surprised when he said he’d like to paint Richard and myself for free. I told him we’d be glad to pay, but he insisted, and by the time he was done we’d become quite good friends with him and his wife. It’s a shame he has to use a wheelchair, but it doesn’t seem to hold him back much . . .”

As she spoke, Rhosmari’s eyes drifted to the bottom corner of the portrait, where the artist had scrawled his name. “Yes, it’s very good,” she said, and left.

But for the rest of that afternoon and evening, she was nagged by a sense that she had overlooked something important. It was not until nearly midnight, as she lay dry-eyed and sleepless in the light of the full moon, that she remembered the signature at the bottom of Sarah’s portrait. P. McCormick.

Paul McCormick. Timothy’s cousin, and the husband of Peri, who had once been a faery called Knife . . .

And their house was called Oakhaven, because the Oak was there.

Rhosmari sat up, gripping the mattress. Her brain had begun to work furiously, weaving connections from one idea to another. Paul McCormick. Isadora’s need for protection. Sarah lamenting her grocery bill . . .

Excitement blazed through her, filling her with energy. She leaped out of bed and raced to the writing desk, switching on the little light above it. Then she pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write.

From Rhosmari, daughter of Celyn, to Paul and Peri McCormick and the people of the Oak that is behind their house, greetings in the name of Rhys and the Great Gardener. I have been taken captive by the Empress and am being held prisoner by her at Waverley Hall, along with the house’s human owner, Sarah . . .

Though her blood fizzed with eagerness, she knew she must not be hasty. She had to explain to the rebels, step by step, what they needed to do. First they would encounter the Empress’s wards, which would alert her the moment any faery or human crossed the estate’s perimeter. And though the Empress spent most of her time at Waverley Hall alone, she always kept at least one or two of her lieutenants–and any number of lesser servants besides–within summoning distance. So it was crucial for the rebels to find a way to dismantle the wards before they approached, or they would find themselves in the midst of a battle.

And yet–Rhosmari’s pen hovered over the page–even if they did reach the house without being seen, no faery could enter Waverley Hall without permission. And as long as the Empress was still the mistress of the house, the only guests she would allow Sarah to invite were her own . . .

But if Rhosmari kept thinking of all the ways in which her plan could fail, she would never have the courage to finish this letter at all. She kept writing, one line after another, until she had filled two pages in her precise, scholarly hand. Then she sketched a rough diagram of the interior of Waverley Hall, indicating where her bedroom and Sarah’s, as well as the Empress’s study and personal bedchamber, were located. Now for the conclusion:

The Empress plans for me to help her invade and conquer the Green Isles. If she succeeds in adding the Children of Rhys to her army, you will have no chance of resisting her. So I urge you to come quickly, for all our sakes.

When the letter was finished Rhosmari read it over again, afraid that she might have forgotten something–but no, it was good. With a shiver of anticipation she signed the page, folded it and tucked it into the box with the unused envelopes, where no one else would be likely to find it.

Now all she had to do was wait for morning.

•••

When the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, Rhosmari woke at once, ready to carry out her plan. But her pulse beat erratically as she opened her bedroom door, and when she stepped out into the hallway she felt as though she were going to her own funeral. She carried the incriminating letter tucked into the waistband of her skirt, hidden from any casual glance, but that would not save her if the Empress became suspicious. It took all her courage to walk lightly past the study doors, and descend the stairs as though she were in no particular hurry at all.

Fortunately, the Empress must have been preoccupied, because Rhosmari made it safely to the bottom of the stairs, and after that it was an easy matter to find Sarah in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

“Sarah,” she said breathlessly. “I know how to get Isadora to a place where she’ll be safe.”

The woman looked taken aback, and even once Rhosmari explained her plan, she hesitated so long that Rhosmari feared she might not go through with it. But at last she said, “Yes. Yes, of course. It’s the only way,” and hurried off to fetch Isadora’s dog carrier.

Later that morning, Rhosmari watched from her bedroom window as the grocer’s van came crunching up the drive and wheezed to a stop by the kitchen. As the driver unloaded Sarah’s groceries and carried them into the house, Rhosmari clasped her hands together and mouthed a silent prayer. Please let him be willing. Please don’t let Sarah change her mind . . .

The man stayed inside for what seemed a very long time, and Rhosmari began to feel nauseated with worry. But Sarah must have persisted, for in the end he went back outside with a bundle of banknotes in his pocket and Isadora’s carrier under his arm. As he climbed into the van and drove away, Rhosmari held her breath. If the Empress had seen . . . if the wards alerted her that something was wrong . . .

But when the van reached the end of the drive and turned onto the road, she knew with a leap of her heart that she had guessed right: the Empress took little account of dogs–or humans. And when it was safe to go downstairs again, Sarah’s tearful gratitude was all that Rhosmari could have wished for.

“You did it!” she whispered, clutching Rhosmari’s hand in her soft, blue-veined ones. “She’s safe! Oh, thank you, thank you . . .”

Rhosmari was glad to see the old woman so relieved. Yet to hear those sacred words, even from a human who did not know any better, made her squirm inside. She did not deserve to have Sarah so indebted to her. Especially since she had used Isadora’s rescue as an opportunity to send her letter to the rebels, and not even told Sarah what she was doing . . . but then, that was for Sarah’s own protection.

Or at least that was what Rhosmari told herself. But deeper down she knew the real reason: she did not dare to rely upon anyone now, even someone as well-meaning as Sarah. If the rebels came to rescue them, Sarah would share in her joy; but if not, Rhosmari would bear the disappointment, and the consequences, alone.

•••

One day passed, and then another, and another. By the fourth day, Rhosmari had begun to lose hope. At the end of the fifth, she pressed her face into her pillow and wept. And on the sixth, when the Empress summoned Rhosmari and announced that they would leave for the Green Isles tomorrow, she could only bow her head in resignation. She had done her best, but she had failed. And now she could think of only one more way to thwart the Empress’s plan.

That night, when the house was still, Rhosmari walked softly out of her bedroom and down the steps to the kitchen. She felt no fear, only a black and roaring emptiness, as she took Sarah’s carving knife from the block and poised it against her heart. She would grip it with both hands, like so, and . . .

But the knife would not move, and neither would her body, no matter how much Rhosmari willed them to come together. She wrestled against herself until sweat broke out on her forehead, then dropped the knife with a clatter and reeled back, gasping and spent. When the Empress had told Rhosmari not to leave the house by any means, she had meant it. Even the door of death was closed to her now. Rhosmari stumbled back up to her bedroom, and fell into exhausted sleep.

When she woke it was mid-morning, and the sunlight slanting through the curtains seared her eyes like a brand. But her limbs felt too heavy to move, and what was the use of getting out of bed anyway? She rolled over and curled in upon herself, wishing she could go back to sleep and never wake up again.

Dimly she registered the sound of tires crackling over gravel as a vehicle came up the drive. The grocer again, no doubt . . . but if it was his van, it did not make any of the usual noises. Nor did the muffled voice–no, voices–drifting up from the yard sound familiar. Rhosmari clambered out of bed and pressed her ear to the window, straining to make out their conversation. It sounded as though some human family had come by to see the estate, and Sarah was turning them away.

“No, we don’t give tours anymore,” she said. “Waverley Hall is no longer open to the public. I’ll have to ask you to— Oh!”

Ice shot through Rhosmari’s veins. Someone was hurting Sarah! She whirled and dashed out into the corridor–only to collide with Martin, who seized her by both wrists and held her there.

“Cleverly done, my lioness,” he said, raising his voice as shouts and splintering noises resounded from the floor below. “So you learned a few tricks from me after all.”

“What are you doing here?” Rhosmari demanded, struggling to see past him. “What’s going on?”

“What do you think?” he said. “The Empress summoned me to keep an eye on you, because your rebel friends are attacking the house. Somehow they got past the wards–and now they’ve broken inside. How did they manage that, I wonder?”

Thumps and hoarse cries echoed from downstairs, followed by a crash of furniture being overturned. Rhosmari tried to twist free of Martin’s grip, but he only said, “The study, I think,” and began to drag her along with him.

“Timothy, don’t you dare!” shouted a furious female voice from below, and Martin stopped. “Aha,” he said. “So that’s how they did it. The Empress really must learn to stop underestimating humans.”

But even as he spoke footsteps pounded up the stairs, and a slim, dark-haired boy leaped up onto the landing, brandishing a fireplace poker like a sword. Cold iron ringed his fingers, braced his wrists, swung in cross-shape from a leather thong around his neck–an armor no faery spell could penetrate.

“Let her go, Martin,” he panted, leveling the poker.

A talented young human, the Empress had called Timothy, but regrettably prone to violence. Rhosmari knew it was true–and yet her pulse quickened at the sight of him, just the same.

Martin shoved Rhosmari behind him, so hard that she tripped and fell. Then with a gesture he spelled a vase off its pedestal, and hurled it at Timothy. Rhosmari cried out–but Timothy ducked and it shattered against the wall above him, showering him with china fragments. He shook the dust from his hair and advanced again.

A painting leaped off the wall behind Timothy, threatening to bludgeon him with its heavy frame. But he twisted sideways and it skimmed past him with a hand’s width to spare. Martin was forced to dodge it, and Timothy sprang forward, closing the gap between them. “I mean it,” he said. “Let her go—” and he swung the poker at Martin, who leaned back just in time to avoid being hit.

Rhosmari scrambled backward, glancing around for something she could use to help. She did not want to get in the middle of this fight; she did not want to fight at all. But she had seen the feral gleam in Martin’s eyes and the answering glare in Timothy’s, and she knew that if she did not intervene, someone was going to end up badly hurt . . .

Rhosmari! Leap to me at once!

The command exploded into her mind, obliterating every other thought. In a blink she left the corridor, and materialized in the Empress’s study.

“So you too have betrayed me,” snapped the Empress. In her fury she had lost control of her glamour, and for the first time Rhosmari glimpsed her real face: grey-black hair threaded white at the temples, and features that had once been striking grown haggard with age. “You will pay for this–but there is no time now. Take these.” She snatched up an armful of papers from the desk and thrust them at Rhosmari. “Meet me in—”

The double doors crashed open and Timothy burst into the room, followed by a lean, ice-blonde woman who moved like a hunter. The woman’s arm whipped out, hurling an iron horseshoe through the air–but before it could strike the Empress, she vanished.

Leap to the village and await me there! The Empress’s last order rang out in Rhosmari’s mind, and automatically she cast the spell to obey. But before she could fade Timothy lunged at her, and his iron-ringed fingers closed around her wrist.

Agony seared through her. The spell broke, all her magic extinguished in an instant. As Rhosmari’s knees buckled, Timothy caught her in his arms–but then her cheek brushed the cross upon his chest, and everything went black.