“Do you really think it’s a good idea to go off with a boy you barely know on some fool’s errand?”
“I didn’t know you when I first met you,” I replied, aware of the silliness of the sentence and the petulance in my tone. “And I can take care of myself.”
“In my experience,” said Matthew through his teeth, as if I had not said a thing, “it is not a good idea for a young girl to run off with a strange man.”
I bristled at whatever he appeared to be implying, determined not to let him humiliate me. “I thought you’d said he was a boy.”
“What?”
“Man or boy, which is he?”
“Does it matter? Regardless, you shouldn’t go with him. This whole thing is highly suspicious. Sure, he has letters from Peter, but he just told us they’d had a falling-out. Something feels wrong here. I’d say that if you thought it over, you’d agree.”
I opened my mouth, but was not sure how to respond. To me, very little ever felt right—I’d built a life around denying gut reactions, curbing my instincts. How was the nagging feeling that I had regarding Rafe any different from the urges I had always been told to suppress?
“Be smart,” Matthew continued. “A wild-goose chase across the country? Unlocking ancient invisible doors? Come on, Maisie. I know you’ve spent years locked away, but you’re in the real world now. Be reasonable.”
“I am being reasonable—”
“Use your head.”
“It’s a giant lead. Our only lead. You don’t know Peter—this is just like him. And he would want me to come—”
“Really? You really think that’s what he’d want? After holing up for years, keeping you quiet, he’d want you to run off on this ridiculous quest? I’ve been lenient, so far we’ve followed all your whims, but as your current guardian I—”
“You are not my guardian.”
“Well, if I were in any official capacity, you can be sure that I’d—”
“Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. I’d go then, and I’m going now. I don’t care what you say.”
There was a long pause while we looked at each other. Finally, Matthew sighed.
“So you’re set on this?”
IN HINDSIGHT, RAFE’S involvement in my tale is all too simple, too serendipitous. How could he so easily tell I was related to the Blakelys? Why was he so quick to share the theory of the wood? And of course he had just told us that a multitude of scholars had made criticisms of the very theory I was eager to believe.
What I did not know then was the history of the ley line: a collection of purportedly meaningful points—burial mounds, churches, mountain peaks, lakes—that when charted on a map can be connected with a single stroke of the pen. The amateur archaeologist who’d coined the term was thrilled at his discovery. Surely when the old antiquarian looked up to see a chain of fairy lights, monuments, and megaliths in geometric pattern, he’d uncovered ancient wisdom, found some key. Surely these patterns meant something! But give each individual monument and megalith its own symbol, mark them on the map, and count their abundance: his atlas becomes the night sky, a dense collection of such wonders. His ley line becomes a constellation, a pattern imposed to make sense of the world. Not the word passed from the prophetess on high, but a tale he, himself, has written.
Still, I was looking for a prophesy—I saw my curse as proof that there was more to Peter’s maps than met the eye. I had been flailing about, seeking a guide, afraid to be the sole check on my body and its powers, afraid of my new feelings toward the forest. Afraid that some terrible harm had befallen my father, that he was gone forever, that I’d always be alone. Rafe’s theory suited my own desperation, and as so many do, I found it easier to believe, to cling to its inherently flawed structure, than to admit I was adrift in an indifferent world, alone.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be set on it,” I said. “What else am I to do? Sit home and wait?”
Matthew gave me another long look. I was about to leave, go and get Rafe to begin planning, when he finally spoke.
“You’re being swayed because he’s handsome.” His voice was very matter-of-fact. “And because you’re angry with me. I wish you’d reconsider.”
In this moment there was nothing patronizing about Matthew, just a sort of weariness. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the ceiling, then opened them and looked at me again.
“All right.” He sighed. “I’m coming with you.”
“Ha,” I said. “I don’t need you to come with me.”
“I know you don’t. But humor me.”
“No thanks, I’d rather not.”
“I don’t care what you’d rather,” said Matthew. “I’m coming.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine.” Matthew used the heels of his palms to push the hair from his face. “Just promise me this: that you’ll be careful. That you’ll try hard not to give yourself away.”
“I don’t see why it’s me you’re frightened for,” I said. “I’ve got an excellent defense.”
The Brooch of Hammered Iron
Alys, 605
Alys was nine when she first saw the soldiers. The year was 600 AD.
She’d followed her little cousin Madenn to the stream, ostensibly racing, but letting the younger girl gain ground. Spring had fully displaced winter, which meant the ice that crusted the water had finally melted, the rains restored their favorite swimming spot, which in the weak afternoon light would be frigid, but flowing. Madenn’s flaxen hair streamed loose behind her, a beacon leading Alys through the trees. Every so often Madenn looked back and laughed, the sound waxing and waning with the turn of her head.
Alys fell farther behind Madenn, but she knew what lay ahead: Madenn would untie her belt and slip out of her smock while still running, would leave the garments on the ground and make her way into the water, singing, splashing, spitting fountains through her teeth. Celebration done, Madenn would lie on her back, yellow hair spread like sea reeds, dancing while the rest of her was still, and wait for Alys’s approach, hoping to frighten her. As it had been the year before, as it would be the year after, and on and on until the time came to be wed.
But rather than immersed and naked, Alys found her cousin clothed, and pressed against the wide trunk of an oak tree. Madenn held a finger to her mouth, and cocked her chin to signal to Alys what had stopped her.
Two creatures knelt before the water, armored like locusts, protected by hard metal shells that they peeled slowly from their bodies, the pieces clanging together, the creatures voicing sounds that Alys did not understand. Once stripped, they revealed themselves to be men, broad-shouldered and bulging, with hair cropped close across their foreheads, pronouncing their ears. They entered the stream, yelping when struck by the cold, sitting to cover themselves fully.
Two metal shields the size of Madenn sat abandoned on the rocky plane beside them, as did a longsword, a thick dagger, and a spear.
Alys crouched down, retrieved a dart from her boot. As she did, Madenn placed a small hand over her cousin’s and shook her head. “Fire,” Madenn whispered, seeing, as her own mother could, beyond the present to a future that had, in the brief measure of a moment, shifted into something dangerous and uncharted. “Bloody death.” Alys laced her fingers through Madenn’s and squeezed. The two slipped quietly away, back to their home, to warn the others.