15 
Ottilie gasped, shock locking her bones.
‘Ottilie, what?’ Skip spun around and jumped a foot in the air.
Alba didn’t make a noise. She simply shuffled closer to Ottilie’s side.
The bright-eyed shadow rose from her perch on the stairs and stepped into the light. She was not a graceful figure. She was bony, her shoulders seemed a little lopsided, and she made rather a lot of noise as she walked.
Ottilie had never seen her before. She seemed to be in her middle years, but it was difficult to place. Her hair was silver and her eyes were a stormy grey to match. Her face was sharp and angled, and there was something birdlike about her eyes.
‘Ottilie Colter.’ Her voice was sharp, but amused, and her face unreadable. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’
Who was this? Ottilie glanced questioningly at Skip, who inclined her head in response. Ottilie understood – Whistler. It didn’t surprise her that Whistler knew who she was. Everyone knew who she was. But Whistler was supposed to be at Richter. Where had she come from? How long had she been in the room?
‘Here to steal my books, I see,’ she said, waving her purple sleeves in Alba’s direction.
Alba immediately dropped the stack of books she was holding. One of them bounced and hit Ottilie in the foot. Ottilie smothered a cry and hopped sideways, keeping her eyes on Whistler.
They were done for. Surely Whistler would report them to the directorate. What was going to happen now? Would all three of them be spending the night in the burrows?
Whistler just stood there, gazing at them. Stationary, she seemed elegant for a moment – only a moment.
‘Drinks?’ she said abruptly, swinging one arm in an exaggerated gesture of offer.
Ottilie didn’t know what to say. Alba seemed incapable of speech. But somewhere to her left Ottilie heard Skip say, ‘Yes, please.’
Whistler sprang into action. With much clattering and clunking, she gathered four dusty cups and a pitcher from the shelves by the hearth. ‘Sit, sit,’ she demanded, waving her arms about.
Ottilie and Alba squished into a single armchair. Beside them, Skip carefully removed the assortment of oddments from the ottoman and settled on it.
‘Lillywater,’ Whistler muttered, placing the tray down. ‘Acceptable?’
‘Yes,’ squeaked Alba, surprising Ottilie.
She looked warily at the pitcher.
‘Not the poison kind,’ said Whistler, with a half-smile. As she began to pour, Ottilie noticed that she did not pull back the long purple sleeves that covered her hands. She seemed well-practised at handling objects through the fabric, and it did not appear to hinder her movement.
Whistler passed Ottilie a cup.
‘Thank you,’ she said, without lifting it to her lips. It didn’t seem wise to accept a drink from a stranger, and a strange stranger at that. But Whistler was an important member of the Hunt. She was the head bone singer. Even so, Ottilie didn’t drink.
‘So, who else have I caught in my web?’ Whistler wrung her hands. ‘Isla Skipper, sculkie, and Alba Kit, kitchenhand and daughter of third cook, Montie Kit, wearer of fine scarves.’
Alba and Skip both seemed surprised that Whistler knew who they were. Ottilie wondered if there was anyone in the Narroway that Whistler didn’t know.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Whistler said, ducking her head in an odd sort of bow. ‘They call me Whistler.’ She sat down in the remaining armchair, not bothering to clear the objects it held. ‘So you’re here for my books. Why? What do you want to know?’
None of them answered.
‘Let’s be lions not mice,’ she said, loudly.
Ottilie didn’t know what to do. Could they tell her the truth? She couldn’t think of a single lie.
‘Parrots at least. Come on, girls, speak.’
Ottilie glanced at Skip. Her jaw was shut tight.
‘We want to know more about this place,’ said Alba, her words almost inaudible. ‘Why there are dredretches here.’
Ottilie settled with a silent sigh. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Whistler smiled. ‘Knowledge seekers. No need to break in and rob me, girls. Although I appreciate the effort. But in the future, just ask.’ She shrugged. ‘The dredretches are here because of the Laklands.’
‘We know that bit,’ said Ottilie impatiently. Captain Lyre had told them that much on their first day at Fiory. ‘Why are they even in the Laklands? Where did they come from? Is it something to do with the war?’ By all accounts, the dredretch presence in the far west seemed to originate sometime after the war between the Usklers and the Laklands a hundred years ago.
Whistler seemed amused by Ottilie’s curtness. She straightened up in her chair. ‘The dredretches are in the Laklands because of the broken promise.’
‘Oh,’ said Alba, her eyes wide.
‘What?’ said Skip, looking between Alba and Whistler.
‘Go on, then,’ said Whistler. ‘You know the story?’
‘It’s complicated …’ Alba began. Her words seemed to shiver with nerves. She glanced at Whistler, who gestured for her to continue.
Ottilie thought she knew what Alba was going to say. She gave her an encouraging smile, and Alba quickly recounted the story she had told Ottilie a while ago, about how the Usklerians had broken their promise never to attack the Laklands.
‘But what’s that got to do with dredretches?’ said Skip.
Alba didn’t seem to know. She looked to Whistler for help.
‘They feed on death and human wickedness,’ said Ottilie. Where had she heard that before? Old Moss, back in the Swamp Hollows, perhaps.
‘Have you ever heard the tale of the Vanquisher’s bane?’ said Whistler.
‘No,’ said Alba.
‘They like to keep it quiet,’ said Whistler. ‘But still, the story is known by some. They say that when the Usklerian king – Viago the Vanquisher, history named him ...’ At this, her voice grew very cold. ‘They say when he broke that promise and invaded the Laklands, he was punished. The land that he had conquered became uninhabitable and, like the land, his wife was condemned to birthing only monsters.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ottilie leaned in, eager to hear more.
‘Why do you think the land was uninhabitable? Because dredretches started sprouting from the soil,’ said Whistler coolly. ‘There weren’t many at first, but no-one knew how to fight them. People were dropping to the ground left, right and centre, some without ever laying eyes on the monsters. Before long the entire kingdom was abandoned.’
‘But what do you mean, the queen gave birth to monsters?’ said Ottilie, still thinking of dredretches.
‘For a while the queen was considered barren,’ said Whistler. ‘Then finally, ten years after the end of the Lakland war, she fell pregnant. But it was a girl – who, of course, could not be an heir to the throne.’
‘But that’s not a monster!’ said Skip.
‘Agreed,’ said Whistler, with a wry smile. ‘But they say she was unnatural somehow. Nothing on dredretches, but it wasn’t the ideal result of a long-awaited royal pregnancy. Most considered it further proof of punishment. Of course, then a perfectly healthy son followed some years later – and the bane was linked evermore with daughters of the royal line.’
‘When you say unnatural, do you mean she was a witch?’ said Ottilie.
Whistler smiled. ‘They had many names for her; the clawed witch was one.’
‘Clawed?’ said Alba, frowning. ‘Why?’
‘A number of reasons …’ said Whistler. ‘Some say she was a fiorn.’
Ottilie remembered the cave paintings in the Swamp Hollows of the monstrous creatures with gaping mouths and feathery crowns – halfway between a bird and a human.
‘Others said it was because she was a twisted, cruel thing that Viago the Vanquisher would set upon his prisoners.’
‘But what was true?’ asked Alba.
Whistler’s eyes flashed. ‘Truth is subjective. In the years since the witch purge, many females have been named as such, particularly the undesirable or feared. Few, if any, were true witches.’
Ottilie had so many more questions. She wanted to ask about the rule of innocence, but she was wary. Asking this was admitting to distrusting the Hunt. That didn’t seem like a good idea, considering Whistler’s position within it.
‘Why are there more dredretches now?’ said Skip. ‘Why is the Withering Wood spreading?’
‘They’ve been growing in numbers since the beginning,’ said Whistler.
‘They’re saying it’s quicker now,’ said Ottilie, carefully. ‘There are new ones the Hunt’s never seen, and the others are acting strange.’ She pictured the dead driftdog and tensed in her seat. ‘The wylers have made a pack and …’ She was unsure if she should mention that she thought someone had let the wyler inside.
‘This is all true,’ said Whistler, offering no explanation.
Ottilie couldn’t resist. ‘Could a witch be controlling the dredretches? Gathering them together and making them attack?’
Whistler fixed her eyes upon Ottilie. ‘Let me give you some advice. These are good questions, but dangerous. If the Hunt begins to suspect witchcraft is involved, every female in the Narroway will be in grave danger. Historically, witch hunts do not result in the punishment of the guilty. I advise you to keep those questions to yourself for the good of every girl at Fiory.’
Ottilie swallowed. She had always been hesitant about asking questions and sharing information with the Hunt. But she had not realised how dangerous the word ‘witch’ could be.
‘Enough,’ said Whistler. ‘It’s late, and I have things to do.’
Ottilie wanted to press her for more, but it didn’t seem wise. They had been caught breaking into her tower, after all, and it appeared they were not going to be punished for it – she didn’t want to push her luck.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with all of those.’ Whistler gestured to the big pile of books Alba had dropped on the floor.
Ottilie’s eyes flicked to the green witch book, disappointment burning up her insides.
‘However, I will allow you to take one.’ Whistler riffled through the volumes on her shelf. ‘This one should quench your knowledge thirst.’ She dropped the book into Alba’s lap and ushered them up, wading through the mess over to the pale blue door. There was no bolt or handle on the inside either. She knocked jerkily with her elbow. There was a clicking sound and the door swung open with a creak.
She herded them through and pulled it mostly closed. ‘Watch out for the big cat.’ A purple sleeve swung out through the gap in the door, pointing in the direction of the haunted stables. ‘She’s finished her fish.’
The door clicked shut and Ottilie thought she saw a faint mist puff out from under it – that or a cloud of dust.
Alba held the book under the torchlight. Ottilie squinted at the faded lettering.
‘What does it say?’ said Skip.
‘Sol,’ said Ottilie.
‘The royal family?’ Skip asked.
Sol was the royal family’s name – their current king was Varrio Sol. ‘Maybe it’s got information about the hex?’ said Ottilie, her hope rekindling.
Alba frowned, flipping through it. ‘We didn’t ask her about the hex, and I doubt it will be in here. It’s just a family tree and facts.’
Ottilie’s shoulders slumped. ‘She must have just given you the most harmless book she had.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Skip whispered, patting her jacket.
‘What did you do?’ A smile crept onto Ottilie’s face.
Skip opened her jacket, revealing the top of an old greenish book. ‘I stole the one about witches.’