34 
Ottilie had spent the night in Gully’s room. She had that horrible fear again, the fear of separation. Seeing those boys injured reminded her just how dangerous it was out there, and today she would be facing it alone.
She didn’t care if people thought she was weak or afraid. She was afraid and she wasn’t the only one. Word had spread quickly about the attack, and that morning Ottilie saw a notice on the dining room door, informing the huntsmen that their schedules would be revised to include fewer general patrols and more witching shifts.
Preddy had informed the directorate about his sighting of the hooded witch, and Ottilie was awaiting the ramifications. She had found Maeve late the night before and warned her to be on guard. Thankfully, Maeve said she had gained some control over her transformations, and was doing better at keeping her magic in check.
But Ottilie was still worried. The Hunt had been willing to lock Maeve up solely on the evidence of bones and a shaky accusation about a flaming tapestry. With everyone so on edge, the directorate might condemn any girl who didn’t act in the way they expected. Ottilie herself could easily be accused and carted off to the Laklands.
She was considering paying Whistler a visit, to ask more questions. Things had changed since they’d been caught in her tower: she couldn’t help feeling that Whistler was on her side. She’d never reported their break-in or spoken up about the witch book. And it was Whistler who had warned her not to talk about witches in the first place.
Ottilie couldn’t spend another night in the dark. She resolved to visit Whistler after her hunt that afternoon – if she made it to the afternoon. Her insides knotted, she reached for the dining room door.
‘HEY!’
It was Scoot.
Heart in her throat, Ottilie opened the door just in time to see Skip punching Igor Thrike in the face.
‘Skip!’ She hurried over.
Scoot was pulling Skip away, pinning her arms to her sides, and Leo was helping someone off the floor. Igor’s nose was bleeding. For a moment he was preoccupied with wiping the blood away, but he quickly recovered. His face beetroot red, he advanced upon Skip, who was still struggling against Scoot.
Just in time, Ottilie stuck out her foot, tripping Igor. He looked up at her from the floor, rage warping his features, but before he could do anything Montie Kit bellowed, ‘ENOUGH!’
Everyone froze. Montie stormed out of the kitchen stairway to stand between Igor and Ottilie.
Igor scrambled to his feet. ‘SHE –’
‘I saw it, Igor.’
He raised his blood-covered hand and pointed at Skip. ‘Then you saw she –’
‘I saw it all! Come with me,’ snapped Montie. ‘Isla, report to the custodian chieftess. You tell her what happened and mind you be truthful. I’ll meet you in her chambers when I’m done here.’
Skip finally stopped struggling against Scoot. She glared at Igor one last time and then turned for the door.
‘Take her to the infirmary, would you, Ottilie,’ said Montie, gesturing to someone behind her. Ottilie turned and saw Maeve, held up between Leo and Scoot. Her eyes were half closed and her head was drooping.
Montie grabbed Igor and pulled him bodily out of the room. As she passed, Ottilie heard her say, ‘Wrangler Morse can decide what to do with you.’
She hurried over to Maeve. ‘What happened?’
Leo was pale, regarding Maeve with deep concern. On her other side, Scoot was fuming, his jaw jutting out.
‘Are you right to walk?’ said Leo.
Maeve managed a dazed nod, but Scoot and Leo helped her across the room. Ottilie hurried along with them as Scoot explained what she had missed.
‘Thrike was the first one in there,’ he seethed. ‘She was alone. I came in and he had her by the throat. He was holding her there, talking in her ear. She couldn’t move.’
‘Calling me a witch …’ mumbled Maeve.
‘They called all the elites in for a meeting late last night,’ Leo explained. ‘Told us there’s another witch.’
Ottilie ground her teeth. She had been worried about what the directorate would do. It hadn’t even occurred to her that they needed to fear the huntsmen too!
‘I yelled out,’ said Scoot. ‘And at the same time Skip and Mrs Kit and a bunch of sculkies came in with the food. He let her go, but shoved her, and her head hit the wall and she fell.’
‘Then Skip punched him in the face,’ added Leo, with a slight smile.
‘I saw that bit,’ said Ottilie. ‘Are you all right, Maeve?’
‘Just dizzy,’ she said. But Ottilie could see red marks on her neck from Igor’s large hands.
‘Will Skip get in trouble?’ asked Scoot.
‘A bit,’ said Leo. ‘Would have been worse if Voilies saw it, but I think Mrs Kit will help.’
As soon as the patchies declared Maeve well, Ottilie and Leo had to leave her in the infirmary. The Hunt didn’t consider sitting with a shaken sculkie a good enough reason to be late for a shift. Maeve looked so distressed that Ottilie was reluctant to go, but Scoot promised he would stay as long as he could.
When they reached the sanctuary, Ottilie and Leo went to their separate pens. Then, meeting in the field, their wingerslinks stood a short distance from each other. Both dominant felines, they weren’t the best of friends. Nox took every opportunity to swipe at Maestro with her claws, and Maestro had a nasty habit of butting into her side.
Leo and Ottilie looked across at each other. He was off to patrol the alpine regions, and she would be heading north-west to hunt along Flaming River. She had never been beyond the wall without Leo before. Even when she first arrived in the Narroway, Leo had been there, leading the pickings from the guard tower at the Uskler border. The bells tolled. Leo flashed her a grin, and they took off, soaring over the wall in opposite directions.
It was different, flying Nox beyond the boundary walls. Practising in the grounds was one thing but hunting in the Narroway was quite another. Nox was far better behaved. Although she did seem to consider Ottilie’s commands more suggestions, the wingerslink wasn’t stupid – she knew this was no place for games.
When they reached Flaming River, Ottilie had to ask three times before Nox finally slowed. Ottilie closed her eyes and listened, ears probing for anything disturbing the natural sounds of the forest below. She heard it immediately, the jarring call of cleavers not far off.
Before she had time to ask, Nox descended, skimming the trees, which thinned into a clearing. Cleavers always moved in pairs and, sure enough, she spotted two below. They looked like drawings she had seen of rock sloths of the north, only the cleavers’ elongated arms spread into thin, flesh-like wings, with long claws of yellow bone at the ends, and curved spikes protruding from the joints. Like rock sloths, they had a mask of black fur across their eyes – but they had no eyes, only red gashes, as if their skin had been sliced and their eyeballs had fallen out.
The cleavers spotted Nox and hooted their piercing call. Leaping from the ground, they flapped their wings and flew at the wingerslink, like a pair of lanky bats, gnashing their teeth as they rose.
Nox was smaller than Maestro, and Ottilie could feel her movements were less powerful. She was undeniably slower, but something was soon apparent – Nox was exceptionally clever. The shrewd wingerslink knew exactly how to handle these cleavers. Not wholly by choice, Ottilie pulled back and let her take the lead.
Nox kicked out at the first cleaver. It dodged her and she seemed to know just where it would duck. She tilted to the side, dipping her wing, which smacked into the cleaver, sending it plummeting towards the ground. Nox righted herself in the air in time for Ottilie to shoot the second cleaver down with an arrow. As it fell to pieces, the first recovered itself and shot up like a stone from a slingshot. Nox rolled almost lazily, and before the cleaver had even begun to change its trajectory, Ottilie shot it down.
Giddy with victory, Ottilie threw herself forwards and hugged Nox. The wingerslink dived into a great looping spiral. She laughed out loud and held on tight. Nox was celebrating. Ottilie could feel her elation as she pulled out of the spiral, throwing her wings wide and drifting with the breeze.
After the cleavers, Ottilie tracked a scorver to where the river weakened at the base of the Red Canyon. The trail turned east and she was just about to change direction when she spotted something that stilled her breath.
Wylers hadn’t been seen around the canyon since Gracie’s escape. It was the first place they had looked for her, considering the pack had been sighted there in the past. After nearly two months of no signs, the Hunt had been focusing elsewhere. But Ottilie had seen it, an unmistakable flash of white. Stubbornly urging Nox forwards, they dipped between the cliffs, searching.
There was no sign of the white wyler, but she spotted an orange one, slipping into a gap shaped like a bolt of lightning, halfway up the cliff. Gracie must have waited until they stopped looking there, and then doubled back to set up camp in the canyon caves. It was clever. Ottilie didn’t know how they were going to get to her; the huntsmen couldn’t follow her in. There were hundreds of tunnels and caves in there, and no doubt countless wylers, just waiting for someone stupid enough to go in.
‘Better go, Nox,’ said Ottilie.
Nox made a disappointed rumbling noise as they headed for home. She would have to report it immediately. She didn’t know if the wyler had seen her, but if it had, if Gracie knew that her position was discovered, she might be gone before the Hunt had a chance to act.
Ottilie went straight to Captain Lyre. He thanked her and dismissed her immediately, so Ottilie headed to the infirmary to see how Maeve was faring.
She was on a bed in the corner of the room. They had erected partitions around her so she could get some rest. Ottilie found Bill perched like a watchful gargoyle on the end of her bed. Maeve was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling.
‘She’s sad,’ whispered Bill, the moment Ottilie stepped behind the partition. His mouth was drooping at the sides.
‘How are you feeling?’ Ottilie asked her.
‘Fine,’ said Maeve blankly.
Ottilie didn’t quite know what to say next, but before she had a chance to consider it, the door to the infirmary creaked open and she heard Whistler’s voice, saying something about a director. She didn’t quite catch it but, whatever it was, the patchie left the infirmary in a hurry.
Bill slipped beneath the bed as Whistler’s footsteps approached. Whistler had been kind to Maeve when she had been suspected of being the witch. Perhaps she wanted to check in. Ottilie was glad – now she wouldn’t have to seek her out.
The moment Whistler stepped behind the partition, Bill’s clammy hand wrapped around Ottilie’s ankle. She nearly jumped. What had got into him? He was going to get caught! She shook him off, pretending to scratch her other ankle with her foot.
‘I heard about what happened,’ said Whistler. Her eyes darkened and she looked quite angry. ‘Are you injured?’ Her gaze flicked up and down.
Had Ottilie imagined it or did Whistler know someone was under the bed?
Bill reached out again, grabbing Ottilie’s ankle with his hand. This time Ottilie didn’t move. She didn’t want to draw any attention to the bed, but something was wrong.
‘Just a bump and some bruises,’ said Maeve, still staring at the ceiling.
‘You can come out,’ said Whistler abruptly.
Ottilie froze. Bill’s hand shook as he released her ankle and slipped out from under the bed. He stood on the other side of it, looking more terrified than Ottilie had ever seen him.
A strange smile crept onto Whistler’s face. ‘A goedl. Always a pleasure.’ She ducked into a lopsided bow, her stormy eyes fixed on Bill.
Ottilie didn’t know what to do. What was going to happen to Bill? Would Whistler report this?
Bill’s gaze was set on Ottilie. He seemed to be trying to communicate with her. What was happening? Was he terrified because he had been caught?
‘Go ahead and speak, will you,’ said Whistler, still staring at Bill. ‘We all want to hear it.’
‘That’s her,’ mumbled Bill.
‘What?’ said Ottilie, her veins frosting over.
‘That’s the girl,’ he said in a strangled whisper, titling his head in Whistler’s direction.
‘The girl?’ It took her a moment, but she got there. The girl! He was trying to say that Whistler was the girl he had come to warn her about. Ottilie could hear her own heartbeat. Her shoulders rose up towards her ears. All of her instincts told her to run, to get away from Whistler.
‘Go on,’ said Whistler, dangerously.
‘Dreams …’ said Bill. ‘I’ve been seeing, or remembering, a girl, sometimes younger, sometimes older –’
‘It was Gracie, Bill,’ said Ottilie. ‘You said, after the bird showed us, you said that was the girl.’
Bill shook his head. ‘The girl in the room. I meant the one standing above. I meant the one doing the binding … that was the girl and this … this is her.’
Whistler’s eyes flashed with an impossible midnight light, and across the room Ottilie heard the scrape of the bolt sliding across the door.