“Maybe they just got their personal chronology a bit mixed up.” William was staring at him now, his square shoulders still. “But I can tell you that Maremount is real, and magic is real, and I’m sitting here talking to you. And you’ll have to get used to the idea.”
Thomas nodded. He’d never be able to make up the amount of sleep he’d lost in the past few weeks. He swigged the warm dregs of his beer. If the first option were true—if this wasn’t a delusion, he might as well work on getting himself home and to some semblance of normality. “I’m sure you’re right. But now that Rawhed has been driven out of Maremount, things can go back to normal, yeah? You can heal the wounded, rebuild your homes, get your bakery going again.” He leaned back in his chair, having devoured the last crumb of bread. “And when we find the right spell, I can get back to Boston.”
William rose, taking the plates to a basin of water by the hearth. “It won’t be that simple. The good news is that we’ve been granted amnesty from the magic we used to defeat Rawhed. Thanks to you and Tobias, the bone wardens have been defeated and can no longer detect an aura. But the bad news is that we still have no access to spell books. Only one spell book existed outside the Throcknells’ control. And Rawhed burned it.”
Thomas shook his head to clear his mind. “You can’t be telling me that I’m stuck here forever. I won’t exactly blend in.”
William turned, drying the dishes with a cloth. “I wouldn’t say forever. But we don’t know how to get you out yet.”
There must be a solution. “Aren’t there people you can pay for spells?” Not that he had any money.
“There are the Theurgeons.” He crossed to the table, picking up the pitcher of beer to pour another for Thomas before sitting again. The Tatters seemed to drink nothing but beer—not that he was complaining. “But, they’re not trustworthy. They work for the Throcknells. Celia’s family.” Another pour into his own cup. “I’m certain the Theurgeons could have saved my wife and daughter, but instead they kept them alive just long enough to bleed us for what little money we had. The Throcknells and their ilk will sooner watch Tatters die in the streets than give up a simple spell.”
“Is that what made you join the underground coven?”
William nodded solemnly. “It’s what got me reading, speaking properly in this fancy dialect, learning spells… I wanted Tobias to have everything a Throcknell would have. At least, the education. I didn’t want him helplessly watching his children die someday.”
“You’re a good father.”
The lump in William’s throat bobbed, and he waved a hand. “If you want to try speaking to the Theurgeons, I won’t stop you. They’ll take that silver of yours.” He nodded at Thomas’s watch. “But you won’t want to spend long in the city gates. The Black Death is spreading.”
Thomas nearly choked on his beer. “The plague?”
William nodded.
This news only intensified Thomas’s determination to hightail it back to his own world.
William rubbed his eyes. “I have to go into the Tuckomuck Forest and round up what remains of the Ragmen. Oswald can take you into town tomorrow. He’ll help keep you from getting clanked up in the Iron Tower.”
“The iron what?”
“The prison tower. If you break any of the Throcknell laws, you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of the bars. Easy to get in, but impossible to get out. No one has made it out of there alive. Not since Eirenaeus, anyway.”
The name sounded familiar. “Who was he?”
“Not more than a boy, but clever as a raven. He discovered the philosopher’s stone. He wouldn’t give it willingly to the Throcknells, wouldn’t bow to them. The Throcknells stole it anyway, and locked him in the Iron Tower. But he used Angelic to escape.”
Thomas ran a finger around the rim of his murky glass. “Well, I’ll be grateful to Oswald to keep me out of there. He’s a friend of yours?”
“Eden’s brother,” William said quietly. “He’s been with me a lot lately. He might be a little… upset. He doesn’t understand why Tobias saved a pennywort instead of his sister.”
“A pennywort.” Apparently, echolalia was Thomas’s only conversational skill at the moment.
“An outsider. It’s from the old language, I think.”
And if Thomas remembered correctly, it was a weed. An invasive species, at that.
As if on cue, a lanky figure shoved the door open, and milky sunlight streamed into the room, igniting blond hair from behind. “Whore’s kitling. Thou art ’ere, pennywort.” He strode into the room, pulling up an empty chair. Pale eyes bored into Thomas. Tangled, curly hair hung to his chin, and his skin looked like it had been bronzed in the sun. A yellow-breasted lark fluttered onto his shoulder—his familiar.
William sighed. “Oswald. I’ve taught you how to speak in his dialect. And you should be thanking him for saving us all in the battle.”
Oswald folded lean, muscular arms in front of his chest. “Not all of us, though, was it?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thomas