When Ivy came back into the house Martin was lounging in the front room, surveying the boxes piled about the floor. “Your mother and sister appear to have accumulated a surprising number of things,” he said. “More trouble than they’re worth, I’d say. Where are you going to put them all?”
There wasn’t that much clutter: in fact Mr. Menadue had been surprised at how few belongings Marigold possessed. But Ivy could tell Martin wasn’t really interested in the question.
“Where have you been?” she asked, trying not to sound accusing. He still had that strange, flighty air about him, and if she pressed him too hard he might disappear again.
“Here and there.” He waved a hand in the same vague, theatrical gesture as before. “Where the bee sucks, there suck I. Why, did you miss me?”
Ivy decided to ignore that. “I have something to tell you,” she said, pulling a box close to the sofa and sitting down on it. Marigold and Cicely were banging about in the kitchen looking for the teakettle, so they wouldn’t be likely to overhear. “I had two more dreams about the spriggan boy. Martin, I think he must be your ancestor.”
The lazy humor vanished from his face. He sat up, intent. “Tell me,” he said, so Ivy did.
“But since I saw the fogou destroyed the second time,” she said, “I haven’t had any more dreams. So maybe that’s the end.”
“I wonder,” murmured Martin. “Maybe that was all I needed to know, but…” He shook himself back to attention. “Well, if you do start dreaming again, tell me.”
“That might be difficult if you plan to go on being here and there, as you put it.” This time Ivy didn’t hide her impatience; if he’d had time to see a play and get his hair trimmed, he could have at least let her know he’d got back safe from London. “But if it happens, and when I see you, I’ll try.”
“Do they upset you? The dreams?”
He spoke gently, and Ivy was disarmed. “Not… exactly,” she said. “I’ve seen a few things that made me uncomfortable, but…”
She hesitated. Had she ever put it this way before, even to herself? “I’m not afraid of spriggans anymore. I just wish I knew why my people hate them so much.”
“So do I,” said Martin. “In the past three days I’ve spent more time in pubs than I care to think about, listening to every droll-teller and yarn-spinner I could find. But all they could tell me about spriggans was that they’re ugly little dwarfs who bring bad luck and bad weather.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “That, and a few mildly diverting tales about someone’s great-great-granduncle who went treasure-hunting by moonlight, or took an ill-advised shortcut after a few pints, and ended up with a spriggan horde chasing him all the way home.”
Guilt pricked at Ivy. Even if he had gone to the theater, she should have known Martin hadn’t been idle. He couldn’t forget his people any more than she could forget hers. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But at least you were able to sell the treasure—or were you?”
“What? Oh. Yes.” He seemed preoccupied now, flicking loose threads off the upholstery. “Yes, the trip was… fairly profitable. You should have enough to keep you for another two months at least.”
He always said you when talking about the house, never us. Ivy had to wonder if he meant to spend any time here at all. “I talked to Matt and Jenny again,” she began, “but—”
“Did somebody say Jenny?” Cicely poked her head around the corner, brown eyes wide. “You saw her? When?”
Ivy cast a desperate look at Martin. She couldn’t lie to her little sister, but she didn’t want her getting involved in the conspiracy either. And if Cicely guessed that Ivy was meeting Jenny and Mattock outside the Delve, it would be impossible to keep her away.
“Your sister was telling me about a friend of hers back in the Delve,” said Martin mildly. “Tell me, sweetling, is eavesdropping a family tradition, or just an unfortunate personal habit?”
Cicely turned pink, and immediately withdrew. Ivy let out her breath. “Come on,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you the rest outside.”
“If you ask me,” said Martin, “you and your friends are far less likely to start a revolution than you are to get yourselves killed.”
He was leaning against the wall of the barn, well away from Dodger—the bay gelding had no love for Martin, and the feeling was mutual. Ivy stopped combing the horse’s mane and started braiding it. “Why? Don’t you think my people are capable of thinking for themselves?”
“I have no idea what they’re capable of,” Martin replied. “Apart from murdering my ancestors in droves, apparently, but you tell me piskeys don’t do that sort of thing anymore.” He plucked a bit of straw from his sleeve. “But you underestimate how little imagination most magical folk have, and how reluctant they are to change. Why do you think the Empress was able to seize power so quickly, and hold onto it so long? The first generation of faeries she conquered couldn’t adapt quickly enough to stop her, and the generation that grew up under her rule didn’t know how to live any other way.”
“But someone did rise up against her in the end,” said Ivy. “Rob and his rebels. You told him he’d never succeed either, but he did.”
Martin pushed himself off the wall with an impatient thrust of his shoulders. “Only because he and all his followers agreed that the Empress was a cruel, selfish tyrant, and were prepared to fight her to the death. You don’t have that advantage, and from what you’ve told me, you never will.”
“So what are you saying?” demanded Ivy. “That I should just sit back and let my people die?”
“What I’m saying is, don’t set your heart on saving them. They may not want to be saved.”
Ivy clenched her jaw. “I think you give up on people too easily.”
“And I think you don’t give up on them even when you should.” He walked closer, careful to stay out of Dodger’s reach as the horse snorted and bared his teeth. “The problem is, your plan’s too weak. Even if your friends manage to convince a few piskeys—or a few dozen—to sneak outside behind Betony’s back, it’s only going to be a matter of time before she finds out and puts a stop to it.”
“Not if there are enough of us,” said Ivy.
“It’ll never be enough, unless you’re ready for a battle. As long as your Joan is alive, she will always be the most powerful piskey in the Delve, and there will always be at least a few people who are loyal or fearful enough to do whatever she tells them. You can’t change your people’s whole way of life just by talking.”
“I am not going to kill my aunt,” said Ivy angrily. “Or ask anyone else to kill her, either. She’s arrogant and stubborn and judgmental, and she’s hurt people I care about, and I hate—I hate the choices she’s made. But she hasn’t done anything to deserve that.”
“Maybe not,” said Martin. “Yet. But as soon as she suspects someone’s plotting against her, she’ll do whatever it takes to weed out that treachery and make sure it doesn’t happen again. In which case exile will be the best your friends can hope for. But I doubt she’ll settle for less than execution, especially if she finds out you’re involved.”
Ivy clutched at Dodger’s mane. “What? That doesn’t make sense. Why would she kill Matt or Jenny because of me?”
“Because you’ll have proven to her that an banished enemy can still be a threat. You really ought to read Richard II, you know, or better yet see it performed. Shakespeare can be quite illuminating.”
Shakespeare again. Ivy had never heard of the man except from Martin, but she was already sick of him.
“Even if you’re right,” she said, swinging her leg over Dodger’s back and dropping to the straw, “there’s nothing I can do. I can’t go into the Delve myself, so I have to let Matt and Jenny do as they think best, in their own time and in their own way.”
“You’re not doing them any favors,” said Martin. “They need a strong leader.”
“I am not anyone’s leader!” Ivy snapped. She walked out the half-door and shut it behind her, then folded her arms. “Yes, the other piskeys followed me once—just once—when I led them all out of the Delve. But only because Betony was trapped in the Claybane, and they could see the smoke coming, and they were desperate enough to follow the first person who offered to help them. It had nothing to do with me!”
“And yet,” said Martin, “even in exile, you’ve managed to talk at least two piskeys into conspiring against their Joan and risking their lives to start a rebellion on your behalf. Do you think they’d do that for just anyone?”
Ivy slumped against the door of the stall, weary of the whole conversation. “They’re my friends,” she said. “And they care about the Delve as much as I do. Of course they would.”
Martin leaned closer, bracing his palm on the post above her head. His breath warmed her lips as he murmured, “I think you’re wrong.”
Then he pulled back and walked away.
“Another sandwich, Martin?” asked Marigold.
Outside the kitchen window the sun was setting, slanting between the curtains and laying a golden stripe across the table. Martin slid his chair sideways, out of the light. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but no. I’ve had enough.”
He’d avoided Ivy all afternoon—not that she’d made any real effort to seek him out after their conversation in the barn, but he’d still kept his distance from wherever she happened to be. Yet he’d smiled at her when they sat down to dinner, so she didn’t think he was holding a grudge. He seemed more preoccupied than anything, and she wondered what was on his mind.
“I’m going to make up a bed for you in the study,” Cicely announced with pride. “Ivy and I are sharing Molly’s room, and Mum gets the big room across the tunnel—I mean the corridor. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Quite fair,” agreed Martin. “But there’s no need. I won’t be staying tonight.”
“Why not?” asked Cicely.
“Cicely,” chided Marigold, but Ivy’s little sister was undaunted. She kept looking at Martin, expectant.
“As it happens,” Martin said, “I’ve been investigating a mystery of sorts. I’ve just been offered a potentially valuable clue, and I’ve decided it’s worth pursuing. But I might be gone for some time.”
Had he made some new discovery about the spriggans while he was away? Or had her dreams told him more than she’d thought? “For how long?” Ivy asked.
“I’m not sure yet.” Martin rose and inclined his head to all of them in turn. “Good night, sweet ladies. Enjoy the house.” He took a step back, measuring the open window with his gaze—and only then did Ivy guess what he intended.
“Wait!” she cried, but it was too late. His form blurred, and Cicely let out a squeak of astonishment as the ghostly white shape of a barn owl flapped across the kitchen and vanished into the yard.
“Did you see—” she spluttered. “How did he do that?”
“All male faeries can take bird-shape,” said Marigold, picking up Martin’s plate and carrying it to the sink. “They aren’t born with wings like… like most females, so that’s how they fly.”
And knowing Martin, he’d taken owl-shape in front of Cicely just to provoke this conversation. He knew Ivy hadn’t told her family about her shape-changing; apparently he’d decided it was time she did. But what would be the point of talking about it when Ivy could no longer bear to take swift-shape, and she was too weak to change into anything else?
“I wish I could become a bird,” said Cicely wistfully.
“Why?” asked Ivy, rising to help clear the table. “You have perfectly good wings of your own.”
“Only when I’m piskey-size, though, and it’s not like I’ve had much chance to use them. Down in the Delve, they mostly just got in the way.” She rested her chin on her hand. “It doesn’t seem fair that boys get different magic from girls.”
“Piskey magic and faery magic is different too,” Ivy reminded her. “We can do some of the same things, but every group of magical folk has their own specialties. Isn’t that right, Mum?”
Marigold turned on the water and began filling the sink. “So it seems,” she said. “Even different faery wylds sometimes have different approaches to magic—and some faeries are better at certain spells than others. But I wonder if that’s more a matter of familiarity than anything else. It’s hard to cast a spell successfully unless you’ve watched another faery or piskey cast it first. And if you don’t believe you can do something, you probably won’t.”
Perhaps that was why Ivy couldn’t turn herself into a peregrine. Because deep down, in spite of her longing, she didn’t really believe. How could a small, skinny piskey-girl become something so fierce and powerful?
“Could Mica learn to turn himself into a bird, then?” asked Cicely. “If he saw Martin do it?”
“He wouldn’t even if he could,” said Ivy. “He told me once that piskeys don’t do that kind of thing.”
“Why not?” When Ivy didn’t answer, she turned to Marigold. “Mum, do you know?”
“I’m not certain,” Marigold replied, reaching for a dishcloth. “But I think it might have something to do with the spriggans.”
Ivy nearly dropped the cutlery she was holding. “Spriggans? What about them?”
“When I was growing up in the Delve, I heard a droll-teller say that spriggans could change their form at will,” Marigold said. “It was one of the things that made them so terrifying, because there was no way to tell what they really looked like. But piskeys were different, he said, because they were true to their own nature. They might grow larger or smaller, but their bodies would always look the same.”
True to their own nature. Mica had said something like that the first time Ivy had asked him about shape-changing, too. Was that why he’d turned his back on Ivy when he realized she could take swift-form? Because in his eyes, that made her no better than a spriggan?
“Ugh.” Cicely made a face. “I never thought of that. Do you mean spriggans could even disguise themselves as piskeys, if they wanted?”
“I don’t know,” said Marigold. “Perhaps.” She took the dishes Ivy had stacked and slid them into the dish-water. “But I’ve never seen a spriggan, and I doubt they still exist. Now both of you, clear out and leave the washing-up to me. You’ve done enough work for today.”
Hidden behind the carn, the boy wrapped his thin arms around himself and wept until he felt hollow. But the tears had dried on his wind-burned cheeks before the knockers sheathed their knives, shouldered their thunder-axes, and disappeared.
Once the quietness of the valley had felt comforting, like a well-kept secret. Now it was deathly, and the boy had no desire to stay any longer. But where could he go? His old foster-clan might take him back, but first he’d have to find their winter lodgings, and that would be far from easy. Traveling on foot with little magic to protect himself, he’d fare no better than his mother had, and likely worse.
Perhaps he could hide among the humans for a while. He’d heard of spriggans who’d slipped their hungry babes into human cradles, and others who disguised themselves as wandering crowders to beg meals and shelter. He had no fiddle and not even a blind woman could have mistaken him for a baby, but perhaps some kind-hearted humans might take pity on him nonetheless.
Of course the carn held wealth aplenty, but the boy knew better than to use it. The coins in the Grey Man’s hoard were ancient, and the humans would be sure to ask where they’d come from. No matter how the boy hedged, it wouldn’t take them long to guess he’d found treasure—and then they’d never let him go until he led them to it. That would not only be a betrayal of his father’s last wish, it would be the worst disgrace that any spriggan could suffer, and no clan would ever welcome him again.
So his pockets would have to stay empty, even if his belly did too. But he should at least look through the ruins of the fogou before he left. Not that he had any hope his people were still alive, but he might find a weapon or some provisions to take with him. The boy pushed himself upright and started down the slope into the valley.
If the destruction had looked horrifying from above, it was worse at close quarters. The once-solid roof of the tunnel had shattered into cracked slabs and jagged shards plunging deep into the earth, and the twisted bodies of spriggan warriors lay tumbled in the wreckage. Telling himself not to look at their faces, the boy clambered down into the pit and began his search.
It didn’t take him long to find a knife, though it wasn’t easy to pry it out of the dead warrior’s hand and even longer to undo the sheath that went with it. The boy was so thin that he had to wrap the belt around himself twice, but the leather was only slightly torn, so it should hold. He tugged his ragged shirt down over it and kept searching.
He was picking his way among the rocks, his eyes on a dusty scrap of fabric that looked like a cloak, when something shifted beneath his feet. He tried to leap clear as the stone tipped over, but his feet skidded out from under him, and with a cry he tumbled into the dark.
He landed hard on the floor of the tunnel, dirt and pebbles showering around him. Instinctively he flung his arms over his head, expecting to be crushed. But the rock had stuck fast on an outcropping, and moved no further. The boy uncurled, licking blood from his bitten lip, and got to his feet.
He’d landed on the floor of the passage, but there was no easy escape from this level: both ends of the fogou had collapsed. His best chance was to climb the jagged pile of rocks in front of him, if it would hold. The boy spat into his palms, rubbed them together, and started to climb.
The first stone he stepped onto on held firm, as did the next. But he’d scarcely put his weight on the third stone when it dislodged in a heart-juddering shower of rubble, leaving him dangling by his fingertips. Gritting his teeth, he toed for a new foothold…
And a hand closed around his ankle.