In the vastness of my travels, in Syria, in Jerusalem, in Venice, Rome, and the catacombs of Paris, I have come across an unnamed sect that perturbs me more than murderous banshees or hounds from hell. I say unnamed, but I know that to be untrue—they have a name, and indeed it must be of great import, because at each site of their worship, the name of their order has been scrubbed. If it is not burned or painted over it is laboriously chipped out of the stone, leaving behind just the stray glimpse of a letter here and there. This strikes one as a senseless waste of time and effort, to chisel the name and spells of your order into a wall or floor, only to deface it immediately upon completion.
So wrote the bard, “What’s in a name?”
Beyond erasing the name itself, they take no pains to erase the evidence of their being there—misshapen skulls used for ritual purposes, withered corpses of red-and-white-striped serpents knotted up and mutilated. Even fragments of their incantations are left behind, almost brazenly, as if to taunt. They praise Mixcoatl, Gurzil, Maahes, Laran . . . Gods of destruction and war, but to what end?
Other demonologists have suggested that these cultists are nothing more than random amateurs, unorganized rabble playing at spell work and magicks, that they have no larger purpose in the study of the strange. I must disagree. There is order to their madness, and order signifies purpose. Purpose signifies a goal.
Rare Myths and Legends: The Collected Findings of H. I. Morningside, page 98
They finished loading the wagons as the sun dipped below the horizon. Lanterns glowed on the lawn of Coldthistle, the grim-streaked glass dousing their lights until they were nothing but weak puddles in the coming darkness.
I took advantage of the shadows, volunteering to help Mary and Chijioke with filling holes until the wagons looked ready to depart. Then I offered to take the shovels back to the barn, a kindness which they accepted happily. Chijioke would be going with the men to Derridon, and Mary was needed in the kitchen. I might have simply strode off to the wagons with Lee, but I had tried a brazen approach once and had a flock of crows after me, sent by Mr. Morningside or whoever else, either as warning or punishment. This time a quiet, subtle approach suited better.
I needed to escape Coldthistle, but not before knowing Lee was safe. Even if I managed to get to America, an ocean of separation would not save me from the guilt of his death.
In the barn, I decided to stash the shovels and sneak back into the hayloft to retrieve Mr. Morningside’s book. I had considered leaving it, but Mr. Morningside was right about one thing—I was still curious. Curious to know if there was any truth to what he said of the larger world and Unworld, curious to read more of his ridiculous tales even if I only half believed them. And without finishing the thing completely, I had no idea whether it might instruct me, directly or otherwise, on how to undo the book in the attic’s binding power. It seemed foolish to rely forever on a mere pin.
I pulled down the stairwell to the loft and scurried up into the cozy little hideaway, stopping dead when I found it occupied.
Mr. Morningside. He flipped through his own book casually, his back to me, then slowly he turned, lifting one black brow as he regarded me over the tattered cover.
“Do you know, it’s extremely rude that Spicer didn’t bother even to take this with him. Cad. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from an Upworlder.” He snapped the book shut and held it out to me, the picture of casual benignity.
I didn’t reach for it. This felt, like everything else, like one of his traps.
“How was your little jaunt across the countryside? Do anything interesting? Bird watching, perhaps?”
“You sent those crows,” I said, feeling the seconds tick by at an alarming rate. The wagons would leave without me if I didn’t make haste. “They attacked me. I thought you said I could leave.”
“Of course you can. I gave you the pin, didn’t I? Anyway, how do you know the birds were after you, mm? Maybe they were meant for that old fool in the shed.”
“You know about the shepherd?” I asked, eyeing the small loft window. It was fully dark now. I needed to hurry.
“Our dear, dear neighbor. One of his stupid sheep will wander onto the property every once in a great while. So, yes, I’ve dealt with him. Looks rather like an undercooked pudding, don’t you think?”
“He was kind to me,” I said, lifting my chin defiantly. “And he isn’t harboring a house full of murderers.”
“Then perhaps you should go live in that dirt hovel with him. I’m sure you would find it incredibly stimulating. Sheep! What a thrill. I hope your little heart can take the excitement.” He took a step toward me, grinning his white, toothy grin, extending the book until it grazed my arm. “Take it. I have a hundred of these cluttering up my closet.”
“Nobody wanted to buy a collection of fairy tales for children?” It was a gamble, but perhaps I could anger him enough to make him leave. If he stayed, there would be no getting to Lee and seeing him safely away. Yet the jab only made him snort. I snatched the book out of his grasp and crossed my arms over it.
“Gotten to the chapter on Changelings yet, Louisa?” he asked, squinting.
“No. It sounds insipid.”
“Appropriate, then.” He chuckled at my blank expression and bent almost in half, checking the loft window and clucking his tongue. “It appears your ride to Derridon is about to leave. You should scurry along now.”
My ride? I couldn’t help it; I gawped at him, the book nearly sliding out of my grasp. “Why should I go to Derridon?” I asked, even as my heart leapt with the possibilities.
“There’s something not aboveboard about that George Bremerton person,” Mr. Morningside said, straightening. He cocked his head to the side, golden eyes roaming the ceiling. “He came with his nephew to investigate some boring claim of inheritance, but he has done nothing but flirt with the dearly departed Mrs. Eames and poke about the house. If he’s so eager to rob that boy of his money, then why not try harder to get it in Brimble’s hands in the first place? No, something does not smell right, if you take my meaning. There’s no good reason for Bremerton to go to Derridon this evening, and I want to know why he’s suddenly so keen to go. You can help me with that.”
He was moving too quickly. Of course it was a possibility, and yes, the house did seem to attract villains, but this seemed like an extraordinary effort just to swindle his nephew. And yet I hadn’t liked him from the first, had I? My head began to hurt. No, no, no, I simply disliked him because he was exactly the sort of rich bastard I could steal from easily. This had to be a ploy of some kind. . . . A distraction. A way to pit me and Lee against one another.