Mattock stayed quiet until he and Ivy left the shop. But the minute they were alone, he rounded on her. “I thought you were selling your mum’s wedding jewels. But treasure? That’s spriggan stuff, Ivy. What are you doing with it?”

“I told you I had some coins and jewelry to sell,” said Ivy, brushing the wet curls out of her eyes. The clouds were still grumbling overhead, and she wished she could will herself home, but that would only upset Matt even more. “And there’s treasure in the Delve, too.”

“Treasures we made from our own gems and ore, with our own skill, for our own people! Not human treasure stolen from graves and barrows and hoarded away all greedily, so no one else can enjoy it!”

“Well, I’m not hoarding it, I’m selling it. So now somebody can enjoy it.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Ivy set her jaw. “My business is my own, Matt. As yours is yours.”

She started up the street, and after a pause Mattock caught up to her. They walked for some time without speaking, and then he said, “He gave it to you. Didn’t he.”

“Who?” asked Ivy, not breaking stride.

“The spriggan you freed from the Delve. He gave you some of his treasure, to reward you for letting him go.”

Ivy spun to face him. “Firstly,” she said, “he told me he was a faery, not a spriggan. Secondly, we found the treasure together, so half of it is mine by right. And thirdly, he’s gone off and I’ll probably never see him again. So even if he was a spriggan, what difference would it make?”

“It matters,” said Matt quietly, “because you were traveling with him. It matters because he really was a spriggan, no matter what he said. And it matters because…” He ran a thumb along her cheek. “You’re crying for him.”

“It’s raining, Matt,” she snapped, jerking away. Yes, an unexpected surge of misery had risen up in her at the thought of never seeing Martin again, but she’d pushed it down before it could show… or at least she thought she had. “And I can travel with anybody I like.”

“You can’t even see it.” Mattock looked nauseated. “He’s bewitched you, deceived you, just like the spriggans did to piskey-girls in the old stories.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ivy set off again, stomping through a puddle. “He did no such thing.”

“What makes you so sure? How would you know if he did?”

Because she’d doubted, questioned, and quarreled with Martin too many times to be under his spell. She knew his faults, his sins, his most infuriating traits—all the things he would have hidden from her if he had the power, which made her all the more certain that he didn’t. But how could she explain that to Mattock, without telling him the whole story?

“I just know,” she said. “Trust me.”

Matt winced. “This is why the Joan doesn’t want us living on the surface,” he said. “Why even hunters aren’t supposed to go far from the Delve, or have anything to do with other magical folk. Because if we start getting mixed up with spriggans and who knows what else… soon we won’t be piskeys anymore.”

And only an hour ago he’d been telling her it didn’t matter to him that she was half faery. “You sound like Mica,” she accused. “No, worse—you sound like Betony. Do you really believe that’s what makes us piskeys? Refusing to change or learn or adapt in any way, and treating every outsider as a threat?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“We pride ourselves on our honesty and hard work,” Ivy went on fiercely, “and how generous we are with each other. We think we’re so much better than those selfish faeries and greedy spriggans. But you’ve seen all the armor and weapons in the Treasure Cavern, the same as I have. Our ancestors weren’t kind, peace-loving folk. They attacked faery wylds and spriggan tribes and destroyed them—”

“It was a different time,” Mattock interrupted. “A harder time, when everyone had to struggle to survive. We’re not like that now.”

“Only because there’s nobody left to fight,” Ivy shot back. “Because after we’d killed off most of our enemies and stolen their women and girl-children, we hid underground where no one could find us. That wasn’t a triumph, Matt. It was cowardice.”

Matt was silent.

“And now the daughters and grand-daughters of those stolen women are dying. It started with my mother and Nettle because they had no knocker blood to give them resistance, but it won’t end there. And if men like you don’t stand up for them—”

“This isn’t about the Delve!” Mattock tore off his cap and slapped it against his thigh. “You’re the one I’m worried about. I thought you might give me a chance, if I could only make you understand how I feel. But now I don’t know anymore.”

Ivy felt as though someone had punched her in the heart. “What do you mean?”

Matt sighed. “What do you think, Ivy? For nearly a year now I’ve been watching you, thinking about you, wanting to be with you. I’ve listened to your troubles, and helped whenever I could. I’ve even risked my life for you, when it came to that. But you’ve never treated me as anything but a friend.” He turned the cap over in his hands. “And now I know why.”

“Stop right there.” Ivy clenched her fists, struggling with the urge to cuff him. “If you felt about me that way, why didn’t you say so? Where were you at my last Lighting, when all the other girls had dance partners, and I was sitting in the corner with Cicely? Yes, you’ve been kind and helpful and—and all those other things. But how is that different from what Jenny or any other good friend might do? I’m no mind-reader, Matt. You should have told me.”

“I tried,” he said. “More than once. But you always cut me off or changed the subject.”

Ivy opened her mouth to deny it, then realized with a pang of guilt that he was right. He’d been trying to talk to her back in the adit, less than two hours ago. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He knocked his cap into shape and put it on again, looking resigned. “Even if you had known, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Would it?”

Ivy had no idea what to answer. She’d never imagined any of the young men in the Delve would want her, least of all someone as big and strong and good-looking as Matt. And for the past few weeks she’d been too busy trying to save her people to think about anything else.

But if they could defeat Betony and bring all the piskeys to the surface, or better yet find a way to purge the Delve from poison and make it safe again… wouldn’t she want to make a life for herself among her own people, if she could?

The rain was tapering off, the storm clouds rolling away toward the west. A woman emerged from the bus shelter, shaking out her umbrella. Ivy watched three cars and a lorry rumble past, and finally said, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Hope dawned on Matt’s face. “Then it’s not too late,” he said, moving closer. “Come back to me, Ivy. Get rid of that spriggan rubbish you’re carrying, and let me bring you some good honest ore from the Delve instead.”

“Get rid of it?” Ivy clutched the straps of her pack. “What are you talking about?”

“Throw it away, put it back where it came from, I don’t care. Just don’t let him own you any longer.” He touched her wet hair, let his hand fall to her cheek. “Show me you’re still the Ivy I grew up with.”

He thought that Martin owned her? That he’d bought her loyalty, maybe even her love, with a crock full of old jewelry? The idea made Ivy’s stomach curdle. She knocked Matt’s hand away.

“I’m the same person I’ve always been,” she snapped. “I took this treasure to help my family, not myself, and I don’t have time to waste making you feel comfortable about it.”

“Ivy, please—”

“No. That’s my final answer, Matt.”

She’d meant about the treasure, nothing else. But Mattock’s bleak expression said otherwise. “You’ve made your choice, then,” he said. “I see how it is. Goodbye, Ivy.”

He moved to go, but Ivy caught his arm. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “What about the Delve? What about Jenny? You can’t just give up on them because of me!”

The look he gave her then was as cold as she’d ever seen on Mica’s face, or even Betony’s. Ivy faltered, and her hand dropped to her side as Mattock turned his back on her and walked away.

Ivy stood by the roadside long after Matt had gone, staring at the pavement. Then she took a deep breath, shouldered her pack, and set off to find the train station. She’d seen signs for it when she and Matt were walking to Ralph Pendennis’s shop; it couldn’t be far.

But though she tried to focus on the task at hand, her thoughts kept wandering back to her quarrel with Mattock. Now that Jenny could no longer come to the surface, Matt was the only remaining link between Ivy and the Delve. If he washed his hands of her, she’d have no way to find out what was happening to her fellow piskeys.

But then, Ivy realized with sudden bitterness, it wasn’t as though she’d been doing much for them anyway. She’d already warned Jenny and Matt about the poison, and encouraged them to warn others. What more could she do without going into the Delve herself, risking her life and—if she were caught—putting everyone she loved in danger as well?

It took Ivy some time to locate the train station, and even longer before she figured out how to get the information she needed. Her ears burned with humiliation when she had to confess to the man at the ticket window that she didn’t understand any of the railway maps and timetables, and the impatient mutters of the people in line behind her made her feel even worse. But once she’d learned that the trains to London ran several times a day, the journey would take five or six hours, and she could easily buy a ticket with the money Ralph Pendennis had given her, Ivy was glad she’d made the effort.

Still, she couldn’t leave straight away: she’d have to stop at home first, or her family would worry about her. How she’d explain to Marigold that she needed to be gone for a day or more, Ivy wasn’t sure yet—but at least she could change into dry clothes while she was thinking about it. She slipped up the street to the doorway of an abandoned shop, and willed herself back to the house.

The instant she materialized in the barn, she knew something was wrong. Dodger was prancing restlessly in his box, nostrils flared and dark eyes rimmed with white. He snorted at the sight of her, and let out a fearful whinny.

“Shh,” said Ivy, shoving her pack under an old feed bucket and hurrying to soothe him. “It’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you.” She blew in his nostrils and patted his shivering neck until he quieted, then unlatched the box door and glanced inside. But Cicely had done a thorough job of mucking it out that morning, and there were no rats or snakes hiding in the straw that Ivy could see.

Still, it wasn’t like Dodger to be so skittish. Ivy shut the box stall, looking around the barn for other signs of trouble. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so she gave the horse a farewell pat and headed outside.

All seemed quiet as she crossed the yard, the house as peaceful as ever. But when she passed the kitchen window a sweet, sickly smell wafted toward her, thicker and more cloying with every step. Had Cicely left something on to burn? Ivy broke into a run, sprinting up the path to the front door. It was locked.

“Cicely!” she shouted, fumbling for her key. “Mum! Are you there?” She unlocked the door, shoved it open—and the stench of charred something billowed out. It curled like a black, slimy worm around Ivy’s tonsils and oozed down the back of her throat, burning as it went. Ivy clutched the doorframe and her stomach at the same time, afraid she was going to be sick.

“Mum!” she coughed. The blood was pounding in her ears, but beneath its pulse she could hear a chuckle of running water—or was that someone sobbing? She groped across the front room, dimly noting the scorch-marks around the kitchen entrance, the bubbled paint and blackened tiles beyond, the smoky tang of burnt wood mingling with that hideous nightmare odor.

Then Cicely emerged like a ghost from the hallway, all white face and staring eyes. One braid was soaked, her right arm dripping to the elbow, and her clothes were streaked with ashes and blood. She opened her mouth and closed it again, then whirled and dashed back the way she’d come. Speechless with dread, Ivy chased her down the corridor to the bathroom.

Water streamed into the bath, gurgling in the half-plugged drain. Marigold lay in the tub with her back to them, her whole body trembling. She did not move as they entered, but Ivy could hear the harsh rattle of her breathing.

“Mum,” whispered Ivy, clutching the sink for support. From this angle she couldn’t see how bad Marigold’s injuries might be, but the clumps of burnt hair floating around her and the pinkish-grey color of the water confirmed Ivy’s worst fears. There’d been an accident, and her mother had been horribly burned.

“I did everything she told me,” Cicely blurted, though she was shaking almost as much as Marigold. “She said water and she said bath and she said don’t tell the humans, don’t let them take me away. And I had to smash the thing on the ceiling because it kept screaming and I couldn’t make it stop—”

Ivy snatched her little sister into an embrace, clutching her wet head against her shoulder. “You did right,” she told her. “If you’d called the neighbors they’d have taken her to the hospital, and that’s not a safe place for magical folk.” She released Cicely and wrapped a towel around her for warmth. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Cicely sniffed. “I took Dodger for a ride after you left and I was gone for maybe an hour, when I got back I took off his saddle and rubbed him dry and put everything away like you showed me, but all of a sudden he started whinnying and prancing like he was scared, and it took ages to calm him down. And when I came back to the house the door was open and everything smelled of smoke, and Mum was… just lying…” She buried her face in her hands.

Ivy knelt beside the bath, stroking the remnants of her mother’s hair. Even on her good side it felt dry and brittle, and bits of it came away in her hands. She’d learned a little about treating burns from Yarrow, enough to know that Marigold would need to drink plenty of water to make up for all the moisture she’d lost, and that her wounds would have to be cleaned and packed with honey before any dressings went on. But if the burns went deep or covered a large area of her skin, not even Ivy and Cicely’s best care could save her—without magical intervention, their mother would die.

“I’m so sorry, Mum,” Ivy said brokenly. “If I’d known this could happen…”

The water sloshed as Marigold rolled over. The right side of her face was livid with burns, her shoulder red and blistered beneath the singed remnants of her sleeve. She fumbled for Ivy’s hand and groped up her arm, tugging her closer.

“What is it?” asked Ivy, leaning down to listen—and with that, Marigold’s fingers brushed her temple.

—not here? Where is she? Tell me at once, or—

—faery witch, I’ll make you regret the day you crossed me—

Shocked, Ivy jerked away, and Marigold’s hand fell. But though their contact had lasted only an instant, the memories her mother had shown her were seared deep into her mind. She stumbled back from the tub, shaking with rage and horror, sick at the knowledge that the house she’d believed safe and the family she’d thought protected were no longer safe or protected at all.

Because Betony had found the house and tricked her way inside, looking for Molly. And when Ivy’s mother refused to cooperate… the Joan had burned her.