33 
The footmen and mounts only had one day before things moved forward, but the flyers were granted a little more time, and Ottilie was thankful for it. She headed for the wingerslink sanctuary at dawn. The end of winter had not brought the end of frost. Ottilie’s breath puffed into mist as she carefully descended the icy steps to the lower grounds.
The first time she tried to climb into the saddle, Nox growled and pitched into a brutal roll. Ottilie had to scramble out of the way on her stomach to avoid being flattened like dough under a rolling pin.
When she finally managed to clamber onto her back and ask Nox simply to walk forwards, the wingerslink bent her legs, tucked in her wings, and gripped the ground with her claws. Frustrated, Ottilie dug her heels in, and Nox responded to the pressure by leaping into the air and launching into a dangerously tight circle. Ottilie was caught off-guard, and flung sideways onto the grass.
She could hear cackling in the distance, and looked over to see Wrangler Kinney laughing like a madman.
‘Kept her for training,’ Ottilie muttered under her breath. It was obvious that Nox hadn’t been ridden by anyone for a very long time.
The next day, refusing to give in, she looked for a fresh angle. She marched into the sanctuary to get Nox’s brush, but it was missing from the hook in her pen. She checked the sanctuary was empty before whispering, ‘Bill.’
‘In here,’ said Bill’s voice from nearby.
Ottilie found him around the corner, gently brushing a golden wingerslink called Glory. She was lying on her side, emitting rumbling purrs as Bill tended to her coat.
‘You’re spoiling them,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I need Nox’s brush.’
Bill stopped brushing Glory and held it out to her. The golden wingerslink growled, rolled abruptly into a more upright position, and beheld Ottilie with accusing eyes.
‘Eel is her favourite,’ said Bill, reaching back to offer Glory a consoling pat.
‘Eel?’
‘Nox. You should give her some dried eel. She loves it.’
‘Thanks, Bill.’ Ottilie grabbed three crusting eels from the nearest barrel. She was willing to try anything at this point.
By midday, Nox allowed Ottilie to climb onto her back again, but still refused to move. By mid-afternoon, she would walk and run but not fly. By dusk, she finally stretched her scraggy wings, and beat them unevenly in the air. Ottilie dug in with her heels. Nox was doing this on purpose. The old wingerslink was perfectly capable of flying.
On the third day, when Ottilie reached to greet her, Nox lashed out, her fangs snapping over the thin air where Ottilie’s hand had been only seconds before. Ottilie responded by baring her own far less impressive teeth and shoving the wingerslink with her elbow. For a little while, it seemed they were even, until Ottilie tried to saddle her and Nox swung sideways, pinning her to the wall of the pen.
That set the tone for the entire day’s work. It was as if they had never worked together before and Nox simply locked her bones and refused to move. She was running out of time. Tomorrow Ottilie would be hunting alone and if Nox didn’t behave she would doom them both.
‘You’ll be fine, Ottilie, don’t worry,’ said Gully.
He was splayed on the end of her bed, one leg hanging over the side, too tired to move.
‘It’s not like the footmen,’ said Ottilie. ‘I’ll be on my own. What if we get out there and she flies off over the ocean, or just dumps me into a gorge? She doesn’t listen to me at all! She just does what she wants.’
Gully laughed. ‘Maybe you should let her take you somewhere else. Anywhere would be safer than here, with Gracie and that witch running around, making packs and bloodbeasts and everything.’
Ottilie sat up. She always kept Gully filled in, but he had never talked about leaving before, not since before Christopher Crow. ‘That’s not funny.’ She would never leave him behind. She grabbed his arm. ‘Unless you came too? We could just take some glow sticks and go. Right now.’
Gully smiled sleepily and closed his eyes. It was strange remembering how much they had wanted to run away; now neither of them would think of it. Not seriously.
‘How was it out there without Ned?’ she asked.
Gully had just finished his first proper hunt as a second-tier footman. He’d been rostered on with three others – fourth and fifth tiers who Ottilie didn’t know. He lifted his arms and let them flop beside him, his eyes still closed. ‘Not as fun,’ he huffed.
‘Could he ask to be rostered with you? They might let him.’
‘Maybe,’ said Gully with a loud yawn.
She wanted to keep asking questions, to keep Ned in the conversation, but she couldn’t think of anything else and Gully was being unhelpful.
When sleep came to claim him, Ottilie nudged him awake and sent him off to his own room. After he left, she stared at the arched ceiling, her thoughts divided. One part of her was fretting over Nox, worrying that tomorrow would be even worse than today. The other part was still thinking about Ned. Would she ever see him now that he was no longer Gully’s guardian, and Leo wasn’t hers? She hated the thought.
She rolled over and buried her head in the pillow. What a strange thing to be worrying over. She would stop: that was what she decided. She would stop thinking about it.
But that didn’t work, and Ottilie lay awake far longer than made any sense.
Her last day with Nox started better. Bill greeted her at the sanctuary by holding out a dried eel. With a tired laugh, Ottilie took his offering and marched into Nox’s pen. The wingerslink greeted her with a snort rather than a snarl. It was a definite improvement.
Once in the air, Nox would occasionally dive with no warning, or swing her head around and snap at Ottilie’s ankle, but Ottilie refused to give in. They worked well into the night, until finally the stubborn wingerslink seemed to accept her. She circled and dived, sped and slowed, leapt and rolled, almost always at Ottilie’s command.
She trekked back to the upper grounds feeling worn out but pleased with herself. She had finished just in time to catch the end of training in the haunted stables, and tell Leo of her triumph.
Ottilie was halfway there when she saw activity at the boundary wall ahead. Tensing, she rushed over, frightened of what she’d see. The gate was thrown open and three horses galloped in. Ottilie’s stomach twisted into knots. Preddy was on one of them.
There were two riders, each holding an injured huntsman slumped in front of him. Ottilie was swimming with guilty relief: Preddy was not one of the injured. She hurried over as they were helped down. The third horse, with no rider, moved timidly towards one of the injured boys, and began sniffing at his face.
One of the boys was able to walk with some assistance, but the other remained motionless, hanging over Preddy’s horse like a lumpy blanket.
‘He’s all right, I think,’ she heard one of them say. ‘Just unconscious. We lost his horse – the wylers … t-tore it all up.’ The speaker was very white.
‘That’s not all they did,’ said the other boy shakily. ‘That white one, the big one … it … it ate the heart. I saw it!’
Ottilie stood frozen, her heart beating hard. There it was – proof. The white wyler was doing what no dredretch was supposed to do. It was eating, consuming … the wyler was a bloodbeast, bound to Gracie, bound to the living world.
‘She was there,’ said the first boy. ‘That little sculkie witch! She had knives!’
So they were back. After her escape, Gracie had lain low. But the wylers were on the prowl again, seemingly intent on picking off the huntsmen one by one, and, united under Gracie’s command, they were more dangerous than ever.
Preddy moved over to Ottilie’s side. ‘There was someone else,’ he whispered. His voice was steady. She recalled his reaction to the first wyler attack. How changed he was. She didn’t know if that was good or bad. ‘I don’t think they saw,’ he added, tipping his head towards the other boys, who were already making their way to the infirmary. ‘But there was someone in a hood, watching from far off.’
Ottilie swallowed. ‘If they think there’s a second witch they’ll start suspecting us all again. They’ll start building iron coffins right now.’ She didn’t even want to think about what might happen to Maeve.
‘Do you want me not to tell them?’ said Preddy.
Ottilie shook her head. ‘They need to know.’
Last time, Whistler’s prediction had come true. But there was no avoiding it; the Hunt needed to know that there was someone worse than Gracie out there, a true witch. Everyone needed to be on guard.