Rook crouched outside the Way that led into Fer’s land, waiting for sunrise, when it would open, and picturing plump, juicy rabbits roasting over an open fire. His stomach growled, and he growled back at it. He was tired from the long run across the prairie, and he knew Fer’s stupid wolf-guards were not going to listen to him. The whole situation made him cranky.
At last the sun came up. The Way opened, and he stepped through into the clearing in the Summerlands.
Rain pounded down from a gloomy sky. Rook was soaked in an instant. He pushed soggy hair out of his eyes to see, and something hit him hard from the side. Down he went, onto the sodden grass with the wolf-guard girl sitting on his chest; a fierce fox-girl grabbed each of his arms. “Get off,” he yelled, and tried to squirm out of their grip.
The wolf bared her teeth. “Where is Ladyfer?” she snarled. “She left here with you, Puck, and she hasn’t come back.”
Oof, the wolf-girl was heavy. “She’s in trouble,” he gasped. Rain slashed into his eyes; the wolf-guard loomed over him, a dripping shadow.
“If she’s in trouble, Puck, it must be your fault,” the wolf-guard growled. “Come on. You’re not wanted here.” She climbed off him and jerked him to his feet, holding him by the front of his coat. The fox-girls were still gripping his arms. A male wolf-guard stepped up and grabbed him by the collar from behind.
“Is it biting time?” the wolf behind him asked; his breath was hot and stinky on the back of Rook’s neck.
“You’ve been eating rabbits, haven’t you,” Rook gasped.
The girl wolf-guard scowled. “Yes, bite him if he gives us any trouble.” She looked over her shoulder. “The Way is still open.” She and the fox-girls dragged him toward it; the wolf-guard pushed. “Out you go again, Puck.”
He struggled, but there were too many of them. “No,” he protested.
From the direction of the forest he heard a whinny; he squinted through the rain, and saw Phouka, his mane and tail bedraggled, prance into the clearing. “Brother!” he shouted.
Phouka trotted across the clearing, pushed a badger-man out of his path, and stood blocking the Way; then he gave a snort that sounded like the horse equivalent of a laugh.
Rook summoned up a grin. It was a little funny, after all: Fer’s people trying to shove him out the Way like this, when he’d come here because their Lady needed help.
“Puck,” the wolf-girl warned.
He wiped the smile from his face. “Look, you stupid wolf—” he started, growling.
No, wait. That wasn’t the way to convince her. He dredged around in his memory and came up with her name. “Fray,” he said. That got her attention; she leaned closer.
At that moment, Fer’s bee, which had been hiding from the rain under the embroidered collar of Rook’s coat, crawled out and then onto Fray’s hand, where she was gripping him.
With a cry, the wolf-guard let him go; she cupped her hands and the bee sheltered inside, safe from the rain. “The Lady’s bee!”
“See?” Rook asked. He glared down at the fox-girls; they glared back, but released his arms. The other wolf-guard let him go too. He shrugged his sopping-wet coat straight again. “The bee came to warn me. Your Lady is in trouble.” With his wet sleeve, he swiped the rain off his face. “I can help her, but I need your help to do it.”
A grumble of thunder echoed across the sky. The rain came down harder, a chilly, gray curtain. He shivered. Come on, Wolf.
“All right,” the wolf-guard said, and nodded toward the forest. “We’ll get out of the rain, and you’ll tell us what’s going on.” Then she leaned closer to Rook and dropped her voice into a rumbling growl even lower than the thunder. “But if you are trying to trick us, Puck, you will regret it for the rest of your short and miserable life.”
In the morning, Fer woke up and realized that she wasn’t alone.
At the edge of the tower perched a big, gray-and-white bird.
She sat up. At her movement, the bird—a seagull, Fer realized—fluttered its wings, but then it settled down again. It looked bedraggled; its feathers were ruffled, as if it had been flying for a long time. Maybe the steady wind had blown it here.
“Hello,” Fer said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
The seagull cocked its head and looked at her out of one beady, golden eye.
Fer’s stomach growled. “I’m hungry,” she told the seagull.
She straightened her patched jacket, combed her short hair with her fingers, and climbed down the narrow steps to the ground. To her surprise, the seagull swooped down to perch on a rock next to her.
“You’re somebody to talk to, anyway,” Fer said. Her mouth felt even drier than it had the day before. Her stomach growled again, like a deep, empty pit. The kelp was not going to be much of a breakfast.
She eyed the seagull. It eyed her back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to eat you.”
If Rook were here, she found herself thinking, he’d want to eat the seagull.
“No,” she told herself. “I’m not going to think about Rook.” Or the dead Lady, or any of that. The only thing she had to focus on was surviving this prison.
In the tower, she’d found the shard of rock, and that had saved her. Maybe she’d missed something when she first explored the island. She went over every inch of ground again, followed by the curious seagull, looking for something that might help her. Halfway through the morning, she crawled down to the lower part of the island, where the waves flung themselves onto the rocks and then sucked back in a foaming rush. All along the edge of the sea was seaweed and, clinging to the rocks, clusters of sleek, black mussels. As a wave washed out, Fer edged down, ripped up a handful of the mussels, and retreated to the higher rocks. The mussels felt cold and heavy, and were covered with seaweed that looked like moss. She set them down on a patch of warm rock.
The seagull hopped up beside her.
Fer licked her lips. She was so thirsty, and so hungry. If she smashed the shells open, the mussels might be juicy and delicious. But . . .
Mussels didn’t have eyes or brains, and they weren’t like cows or pigs or chickens, but they were meat. She knew what Grand-Jane would have to say about that—and at the thought of her grandmother she felt a sudden, fierce pang of lonesomeness that made a sob catch at her throat. No tears, though; her eyes were too dry.
The seagull reached down with its long, yellow beak and tapped at one of the mussels.
Fer sighed. “You’re right,” she croaked. “I’m not going to eat these.” Anyway, it was water she needed most, not food. She gathered them up in her hands and tossed them back onto the rocks at the edge of the island.
By afternoon, her stomach had stopped growling. Her mouth felt like it was full of sand. “I’d better stay out of the sun,” she whispered. And out of the wind, which blew and blew without stopping. The seagull hunched and turned its beak into that wind, looking like an old man wearing a gray raincoat.
Fer huddled in the shadow of the tower. As the sun marched across the sky, the shadow moved, and she moved with it.
Nobody was coming. The bubbles of laughter were all gone. Her eyes felt gritty and her mouth felt as dry as paper. Her words were drying up too.