Claire struggled to sit up, her waterlogged tunic clinging uncomfortably to her. As she pushed herself onto her forearms, she clearly saw the pink of her skin. The Invis-Ability had completely washed away, leaving her as exposed as a shell-less snail. In fact, with the rain clouds still thick over the setting sun, all color seemed to have vanished as well.
And maybe that was why she hadn’t immediately noticed the little gray house perched precariously on a rock jutting into the hidden bay. It was more of a squat tower, really, with beach stones haphazardly stacked on top of one another like Dad’s stack of overflowing books. A tiny staircase of driftwood wrapped around it, leading to a landing a few feet above the still agitated waves—and an opened door.
Claire scanned the pebbly beach she’d washed up on. She didn’t see anyone. All there seemed to be was this house, her Hollow Pack flung a few feet away from her, and the sharp rock wall that shielded her from the eyes and ships of Needle Pointe.
Which meant that whoever had opened the door must still be inside the house, watching her. Could it be a Spyden?
Claire tried not to be afraid. After all, finding a Spyden was why she’d come all this way. To save Sophie.
On that night on the Sorrowful Plains, which seemed so long ago now, Sophie had been pierced by a Royalist’s arrow, and the unicorn Claire had released from Unicorn Rock had healed Sophie. Or so they thought. It turned out, however, that the unicorn had changed Sophie instead, setting her on the path to becoming one of its own kind: a unicorn.
But why—that Claire still did not understand. Or how.
Would Claire wake up one morning to find that her human sister was completely gone, replaced by the creature of starfire she’d only glimpsed once before? Or would it be a slow and gradual change, with all of Sophie’s hair turning creamy white first, and then … what—a delicate crystal horn protruding from her forehead?
Claire shook her own head, wincing at the thought. She knew lots of girls who wouldn’t mind becoming a unicorn. She’d been to plenty of unicorn-themed birthday parties in the past, and even her own Language Arts folder had a picture of a unicorn galloping in the moonlight. But that was just it: unicorns belonged on invitations, on cupcakes, and in magical worlds—not in her family.
And Queen Estelle believed that the only place unicorns belonged was on a shelf—as a hunting trophy. Unicorns were creatures of pure magic, and unicorn artifacts crafted from their manes, their tails, their hides, could make guild magic stronger.
Sophie, as far as Claire knew, was the last unicorn in Arden. The unicorn Claire had freed from the rock seemed to have vanished into thin air. Which meant that all of Queen Estelle’s focus would now be on hunting Sophie so that she could drain the last of the unicorns’ magic for herself and regain the throne …
Unless Claire could find a way to keep Sophie human—and safe.
Which meant she had to be brave—had to seek out a Spyden and ask it the right questions.
“Helupf?” Claire coughed. Her mouth, which had only minutes before practically swallowed the entire sea, was now as dry as chalk. Dragging herself to her knees, her tunic squelching uncomfortably, she felt for the smallest outside pocket in her Hollow Pack and pulled out her pencil. It was slightly damp, but luckily it hadn’t snapped in two. Pencils were hard to find in Arden, which was why Claire had held onto it, even though it came with memories of Terra.
Scholar Terra had been the Martinson sisters’ first defender at Starscrape Citadel and their biggest advocate. She’d taught Claire how to coax the magic from stone on purpose, had believed Claire’s wild story of calling a unicorn from stone, and gifted her with Charlotte Sagebrush’s famous pencil. Around Terra and her mass of curly black hair, glittering rings, and magical spectacles that seemed to always cut through to truth, Claire had felt that maybe she’d found a place in Arden where she belonged. Terra was a friend—until Claire learned that her name wasn’t Terra at all but Estelle. Queen Estelle. And the only reason she’d helped Claire was because she needed a Gemmer princess of Arden to call the last unicorn to her.
In Arden, one always had to be ready, and so Claire kept the pencil in her hand as she called out again, “Hello?”
Her voice was barely a scratch, but there was a response this time: the sound of many footsteps behind her.
Claire twisted around and tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs felt about as sturdy as sea-foam. And so she stayed where she was, on her bum, her Hollow Pack now too far away to nab anything useful from it. And though there were rocks all around, she was so tired. So, so, so tired.
The footsteps stopped. And then …
“You look like a pretzel.”
No. Water must still be in her ears, because Claire was definitely, one hundred percent hearing things. Because that voice—Claire knew it as well as her own.
She snapped around to see the figure of a girl emerging from behind a few boulders lying on the beach. And though the girl wore a long black gown edged in lace and a funny tall cone hat with a gossamer veil that quivered as she jogged over, Claire recognized the wide, wild grin beneath it.
“Sophie?”
“Of course it’s me!” Sophie said. “Who else would you be expecting?”
The answer was practically anyone else, ranging anywhere from an angry Royalist, to a suspicious Spinner, to Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. When Claire left Woven Root a week ago, Sophie had been curled up and fast asleep in their tent. There was no way she could have traveled here this fast, ahead of Claire, without Claire even knowing.
… Could she?
“B-but—” Claire spluttered. “When did you— What did you— How?”
“I came by cloak,” Sophie said, shooting Claire an older-sisters-always-know look as she came to a stop next to her. “Obviously.”
Claire tried to close her gaping mouth. Sure, she knew Sophie was a Spinner. They had all only recently discovered it: that Sophie could pluck the chords of potential within fabric so that they could snag the wind’s currents and fly. She just didn’t realize how quickly Sophie had mastered her new ability. It had taken Claire weeks to even spark a ruby.
Sophie reached down to pull Claire to her feet, and even though Claire’s legs were wobbly, she remained standing. Her knees seemed to have locked in shock. She still couldn’t believe this. Sophie was supposed to be in Woven Root, where it was safe. And yet here she was, always one step ahead of Claire—and never listening to her.
“I told you to stay in Woven Root!” Claire said, her voice shaking. She couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion, or anger, or something else entirely. Her emotions seemed to bleed into one another, like splattered paint.
First there was fear: that her sister wasn’t behind the protective secret curtain of Woven Root.
Then annoyance. She should have known better than to think Sophie would ever let her do anything by herself. That Sophie would ever trust Claire enough to take care of something on her own.
Finally—and worst of all—relief. She wouldn’t have to do this all herself. And for some reason, the relief made her even angrier.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Claire stated, twisting the pencil into her hair.
Sophie held out her hands, her expression wounded. “Did I do something wrong? I was just trying to look out for you!”
“But you don’t need to!” Claire yelled, too tired to rein in her fury. All that sneaking, the nights spent pressed under carrots, the slippery climb up the crow’s nest, the lightning, the near-drowning—it had all been for nothing if Sophie was not safe.
“Shh,” Sophie said, her eyes growing wide. “The Spyden might hear you.”
Claire wanted to stamp her feet. “How do you know about that, too?”
“I just …” Sophie sighed. “I sense these things.”
It was as if Sophie’s sigh had blown out Claire’s anger. Because it was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving Claire feeling hollow and alone.
Sense these things—because her sister was an almost unicorn. Was that what she meant?
“But what about all this?” Claire asked, pointing to Sophie’s strange outfit. She looked like she belonged in an old oil painting and not at all like she should be on a beach.
“Hey, let’s get you inside,” Sophie said, gently brushing a wayward curl off Claire’s forehead. “You’re shivering. I can tell you everything once you’re dry.”
“Okay but … have you actually seen any Spydens?” Claire asked, eyeing the strange house and the open door warily.
“Don’t worry—it’s safe. I’ll explain everything. I promise. But now that the sun has set, we should, you know …” Sophie didn’t have to say anything more, because Claire knew what would happen when the sun set: the wraiths would begin to stir.
No one knew where Arden’s hordes of wraiths had come from, but they had started to appear around the same time the unicorns had begun to go extinct. They were creatures of coldness and shadow, their forms skeleton-like but horrifically elongated, with odd swinging gaits, and they could wield fear like sharp claws. According to Arden lore, Queen Estelle was supposed to be able to defeat them. The legend had been kind of right. Because while Queen Estelle might be able to defeat them, she had no reason to: the creatures of terror obeyed her every command.
Claire quietly watched Sophie bend down and sling Claire’s Hollow Pack over her shoulder. And when she felt her big sister wrap an arm around her shoulder, Claire let herself sink in. This was how they always were, and maybe this was how they would always be.
Together.
They skirted the scalloped edge of the sea and made their way up the driftwood stairs and to the open door.
A strange smell tickled Claire’s nose as she stepped inside, but she brushed it away like a crumb and took in her surroundings. It was dark, except for a few embers that glowed in the small black stove at the far side of the room and provided enough light to see. It wasn’t as cozy as Aquila Malchain’s gold-and-blue-painted cottage, nor was it as airy as Claire’s tent in Woven Root, but it was clean, and the spare wooden furniture had a certain elegance to it.
The only thing that hinted at luxury was a dusty tapestry that hung over a spinning wheel. Claire wondered if a spinning wheel could turn straw into gold here, but there was no straw in sight, just a basket of lumpy wool and a blue sleeve.
A jolt of electricity shot through her spine.
Stepping away from Sophie, Claire hurried over to the basket. A royal-blue cloak—just like what Royalists wore—lay there like a deflated balloon.
“Who lives here?” Claire asked. She looked wildly about the room, half expecting Mira Fray to appear from the shadows. Fray was one of the Royalists who had captured Claire and Sophie in the Drowning Fortress two weeks ago. The Royalists were members of a secret society, one that was often laughed at for their belief that the stone monoliths on the Sorrowful Plains had truly been the living forms of the last queen and the last unicorn. They had worked for years to try to free the queen from the stone she’d been transformed into, believing she’d bring about a better day for Arden. Now they’d succeeded and were her most loyal followers, aside from the wraiths.
Sophie shook her head. “Nobody, as far as I can tell. A Spinner probably lived here once, but look.” She pointed to a corner of the ceiling, where Claire could just make out a colony of cobwebs. “I think it’s been a while.”
Claire shuddered slightly. She was still worried about the Spydens. Though she had intentionally set out to find one, she knew they had to be wary—Spydens were known to be tricky. They could easily weave you into a dangerous web of half-truths if you weren’t careful.
But Sophie didn’t seem concerned about any Spydens bursting through the door and claiming this musty old house. And she didn’t even seem, come to think of it, all that surprised that Claire had found her. Or that she had found Claire.
Claire looked around at the modest home. “Did Nett mention this place to you?” she asked. “Did he come with you?”
Sophie shrugged and walked over to the stove to stir a pot that bubbled on top. From behind, with her face turned away, she looked kind of like a fairy-tale witch. “Nett?” Sophie spoke his name like a question.
Claire felt a sigh well up inside her but pushed it down. Even here, miles and worlds away from home, Sophie liked to tease her. Well, two could play at that game.
“You remember Nettle Green—my height, black hair, know-it-all? The foster brother of Sena Steele, the tall redhead who likes to stab things.”
“He didn’t want to come with me,” Sophie said. “Neither did Sena,” she added.
“Really? They stayed in Woven Root?” Claire guessed it made sense, but still, she was disappointed. She thought they would have wanted to come, after all they’d been through together. But she supposed the knowledge that Sena’s parents weren’t dead had changed the Forger girl’s goals. The second-to-last time Claire had seen her (the last, last time, she’d been asleep in a hammock hung next to Sophie’s), Sena had been poring over her parents’ notes and journals, trying to figure out their experiments at the seams of the world, with an eager Nett practically standing on his chair with excitement.
“You need to change out of those wet clothes,” Sophie said, always in her role as bossy big sister. “Maybe put on that cloak.”
Claire let out a strangled yelp. No way was she going to put on something that strongly resembled a Royalist cloak!
Sophie, oddly, didn’t seem bothered by it. Even though it was the Royalists who had almost succeeded in killing her.
“Or,” Sophie continued, “there are some dresses in there.” She pointed to a freestanding wardrobe in an adjoining bedroom.
“What is up with you?” Claire asked as she shuffled over to the wardrobe, then opened it to reveal five or six black gowns, all identical to Sophie’s, along with matching pointy hats. At least now it was clear where Sophie had gotten her strange outfit. Typical Sophie. She would play dress-up, even in this unusual situation.
“Nothing,” Sophie said from the main room. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just—you’re acting like you own this place, like you’ve been here for ages, like you’ve been expecting me, even though you couldn’t have been exactly sure of where I’d gone.”
“I guess I just know you better than you think, Claire,” she said. But not Clairina, like she usually called her. Something was off with Sophie, and it was making Claire feel itchy and frustrated, but it was hard to put her finger on what was wrong, especially as she was still dripping wet and exhausted from her journey.
After peeling off her wet tunic, Claire pulled on a dress. It was way too big for her and pooled around her feet like melted wax around a candle. But it was dry, at least. And warm.
Next, she took the pencil out and squeezed the salt water from her damp braid, making a face at the strange texture of her hair. Next to Mom and Dad, Claire missed her shampoo and detangling spray above all else. She debated undoing the french braid she had coaxed Sena into doing before she snuck away, but she was too tired to deal with the snarls that would come as a result. Maybe she would just— Wait, what was that?
Claire stopped squeezing the end of her braid and gripped her pencil as though it were a staff from Gemmer practice. She thought she’d heard someone say something, a word, maybe, or a sniffle, low and mournful. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Sophie was still in the kitchen.
Then it came again, quiet, almost like a hush. “Help.”
A chill moved through her.
Someone else was in the house.