فصل 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE REMAINDER OF the night passed in a blur. First there was the disorienting brightness of the palace, followed by the startled faces of the guests Elisabeth encountered in the halls. After that she recalled shouting, a flurry of action. A physician was summoned. Someone inquired after the wound on Elisabeth’s hand, but she claimed that the blood was Nathaniel’s, which got everyone outside in a hurry. The next thing she knew, she stood in the rose garden as two men carried Nathaniel’s limp body into a carriage.

His condition was serious. She could tell that much by the physician’s urgency, the cries that rang out for help. She tried to go to him, but hands held her back. They needed to know what had happened. The Chancellor, she said, and no one believed her. Not until a man called from the top of the pavilion and held up Ashcroft’s sword, the gryphon on its pommel unmistakable in the moonlight.

Pandemonium. Lord Kicklighter’s booming voice cut through the din. A guest helped her toward the carriage—and how strange everyone’s finery looked, marked here and there with smears of Nathaniel’s blood. Her own gown had been ruined beyond repair. Silas would not be pleased about that; they had spent an entire day together shopping, and he had patiently sat through several fittings, during which Elisabeth had had to stand very still, so that the seamstress did not stick her with pins. She could clearly picture his look of disapproval.

Then she remembered that Silas had been run through with a sword, and was gone.

She rode inside the carriage with Nathaniel and the physician. The wheels jostled over uneven ground, and once, Nathaniel groaned. Sweat beaded his forehead, but his hand felt freezing cold. She didn’t remember taking hold of it. The physician was busy applying pressure to Nathaniel’s chest. He glanced once at her injured palm, then at her face, and said nothing.

They pulled up outside Nathaniel’s house, where a crowd had gathered. Half of the ballroom appeared to have followed them to Hemlock Park, now mixed with reporters and sorcerers wearing their nightclothes. Lights blazed in the homes all the way down the street, their windows flung open, people leaning out. Elisabeth barely noticed the commotion, because none of it was a fraction as strange as what was happening to Nathaniel’s house.

All of the gargoyles had come to life. They prowled along the roofline and coiled themselves, snarling, around the corbels. The thorn bushes that grew in the unkempt gardens surrounding the house had stretched to tall, impenetrable hedges, rattling menacingly at anyone who drew near the iron fence. Dark clouds boiled overhead.

“The wards have activated,” the physician told her. “The house recognizes that its heir is in danger, and will do anything to protect him from further harm. The difficulty is, there’s no one else of his bloodline who can safely let us through. Miss Scrivener, does Nathaniel trust you?” She watched the men lift Nathaniel from the carriage. In order to reach his wounds, the physician had removed his shirt. His skin, where it wasn’t covered in blood, was as white as paper. His head lolled, and one of his arms dangled loose. His black hair fell like a spill of ink around his ashen face—black, without a hint of silver. The wrongness of it left her dazed.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Yes. I think so.”

“It’s unconventional, but we haven’t much time. Try approaching the house. If anything threatens you, retreat quickly. I’d rather not end up with two patients tonight.” The hubbub quieted as Elisabeth stepped forward. Faces watched anxiously from the crowd. She recognized one of them as one of the girls who had gossiped about her in Ashcroft’s conservatory, who looked stricken now, clutching a friend’s hand.

During the carriage ride, Elisabeth hadn’t let go of Demonslayer. It shone at her side as she crossed the threshold of the open gate, toward the thorn bushes, their crooked boughs looming above her. Instantly, their rattling ceased. A whisper ran through the hedge. Then the branches retreated, creating a path to the front door. One gargoyle sank down, and then another, lowering their heads like retainers welcoming the return of their queen.

Silence prevailed. She walked up the path and ascended the steps. When she reached for the doorknob, the bolt clicked on its own, and the door swung open without a touch.

Stunned, she stood aside to let the physician pass. He hurried up the path, giving instructions to the men carrying Nathaniel, his fingers on Nathaniel’s pulse. A bespectacled young woman hurried alongside them, laden with bags and cases. Behind them, the branches closed back in, weaving together like threads on a loom, blocking out the crowd. The last thing Elisabeth saw before the thorns knit shut was a reporter gazing back at her. Wonder transformed his features, and his pencil had fallen to the ground, forgotten.

She followed the procession upstairs, unable to take her eyes from Nathaniel’s unconscious face. There wasn’t room for her in his bedroom, so she stood outside, flattening herself against the wall every time the physician’s assistant passed with an ewer of water or an armful of blood-soaked linens.

No one said anything, but it was clear that Elisabeth was getting in the way. Numbly, she drifted back downstairs. She took off Nathaniel’s coat and hung it on the coatrack. She noticed a few droplets of blood on the foyer’s floor and used her gown to wipe them up, since its ivory silk was already ruined. Afterward she sat on the bottom step, her head buzzing with white noise. Dimly, from upstairs, she heard the scuffle of feet accompanied by a tense exchange of voices. The grandfather clock ticked in time with the beating of her heart.

As of this moment, Ashcroft was ruined. Everything would come out in the morning papers. The entire world would know him for who he truly was. But this didn’t feel like a victory. Not with Silas lost, and Nathaniel bleeding upstairs. Not with Ashcroft still at large.

No—the fight wasn’t over yet. It would be foolish to imagine otherwise. She sat for a moment longer, considering this, and then she rose and walked with purpose into Nathaniel’s study, where she seized the magnifying device from his desk, flung it to the ground, and smashed it beneath her heel. She proceeded to the next room, where she found another mirror and tore it from the wall. She didn’t stop there. A path of destruction marked her progress around the house. Glass cracked, shattered, exploded across carpets, bounced in glinting fragments down the furniture. No mirror was safe. She took Demonslayer’s hilt to the one in the parlor, where she had spent so many hours studying grimoires, and watched her reflection splinter, then go tumbling to the floor. When she was finished downstairs, she made her way upward, leaving a trail of shards along the hallways.

It seemed as though she should feel something, but she did not. Her injured hand didn’t hurt, even as blood ran freely down Demonslayer’s pommel. The mirrors in their cumbersome frames yielded to her without effort. It was as though she were made of light and air, barely tethered to the physical world, at once unstoppable and in danger of coming apart, burning up, floating away.

At last, she reached her bedroom. She picked up the scrying mirror. She tried to explain what had happened to Katrien, who asked her a number of questions she couldn’t answer, because at some point, words had stopped making sense. When they were finished talking, Elisabeth wrapped the mirror in a pillowcase and dropped it down the laundry chute. Ashcroft wouldn’t be able to spy on her from there. Then she set about making the rest of the room safe, in the only way she knew how.

An incalculable amount of time later, she came back to herself, Demonslayer clenched in her good hand, surrounded by broken wood and glass. She thought, Silas isn’t going to like this. Then she thought, I will help him clean it up.

The grief, when it came, struck her like a punch to the gut. She doubled over and sank to the floor, her breath coming in strangled gasps. She was not made of air or light. She was weakly, devastatingly human, and she did feel pain, more than she could bear. Silas was gone. She didn’t know what Nathaniel was going to do, or how she was going to tell him, or whether she could endure the look on his face when she did. She didn’t know if Nathaniel would wake again at all.

She wept until the world softened and blurred around her, and at last she knew nothing more.

• • •

When she next opened her swollen eyes, it was to the sight of an unfamiliar woman sitting on a chair in the corner. Afternoon light shone through the curtains. Elisabeth looked down at herself in bed, easily managed because she had been propped up on the pillows. A bandage swathed her injured hand. Demonslayer lay atop the covers on her other side, her fingers still clenched around the grip.

“Dr. Godfrey and I couldn’t pry it from you, even after you fell asleep.”

Elisabeth looked back at the woman. She wasn’t unfamiliar, after all. She was the physician’s assistant, thin and bespectacled, wearing a starched white pinafore. Dried blood streaked the front, but its presence didn’t seem to bother her.

“My name is Beatrice,” she said. “I’m the one who’s been tending to you.”

Elisabeth’s heart skipped. She couldn’t take her gaze from the stained pinafore. “Is Nathaniel—?”

“He’s doing well. At least, as well as can be expected. Drink this.” She brought a glass of water to Elisabeth’s lips and watched her swallow some of it before she went on, speaking calmly, as if for her this was a perfectly ordinary morning, no different than a conversation over breakfast. “Magister Thorn lost a great deal of blood, but Dr. Godfrey is confident he will recover. Sorcerers can survive remarkable injuries with the help of their household wards. Even so, he shouldn’t get out of bed until his chest has begun to heal.” Relief crashed over Elisabeth. She shoved herself upright, then froze, biting back a groan. Every inch of her body hurt. Even her bones ached. “There’s a mirror in his room,” she said. “I must—” Beatrice laid a hand on her shoulder. “Dr. Godfrey and I have already seen to it.” She added, more gently, “You told us what you had been doing last night, when we found you here on the floor. You don’t remember that?” Elisabeth didn’t, and she preferred not to imagine the state in which they’d discovered her, but she was grateful they had taken her seriously. She looked down, gritting her teeth against her body’s protests. “May I see Nathaniel?” she asked.

“If you’d like, though he won’t wake for hours yet. When he does, he may not be quite himself. He’s been given laudanum for the pain.” She helped Elisabeth into a dressing gown and walked her down the hall. Elisabeth wasn’t sure she could have managed the journey on her own. While she tottered along like an old woman, Beatrice told her how lucky she was not to have broken anything. “Most people would have, after taking such hard blows.” And then she looked askance at Demonslayer, still clutched in Elisabeth’s hand.

When they reached Nathaniel’s doorway, she could only stare. Nathaniel looked marooned in the broad expanse of his four-poster bed, with its carved pillars and dark brocade hangings. His face was turned to the side, and the angle of the sunlight cut across his sharp cheekbone, making a sculpture of his features. Beneath the open collar of his nightshirt, bandages wrapped his chest.

Somehow, it didn’t feel right to see him this way. His breathing was so shallow that his chest barely rose and fell. His face was still: his brow smooth, his mouth slack. Blue shadows tinted the skin beneath his eyes. It seemed as though he would break if she touched him, as though he had transformed into a substance other than flesh and blood, as fragile as porcelain.

Beatrice assisted her into the armchair pulled up near him and turned to go. She paused at the doorway, her bedside manner parting slightly, like a curtain, to reveal a hint of wariness underneath. “Is it true Magister Thorn has no human servants?” she asked. “Only a demon?” “Yes, but there’s no need to be afraid. Silas—that’s his name—he isn’t here any longer. Even if he were, he wouldn’t—” Elisabeth fought for words, gripped by an overpowering need to explain, to make Beatrice understand. It felt unacceptable that no one else knew who Silas was and what he had done. She finished with difficulty, “He sacrificed himself to save Nathaniel’s life.” Beatrice frowned, gave a slight nod, and left, unmoved by the revelation. She thinks he acted under Nathaniel’s orders. And as simply as that, Elisabeth realized no one would ever appreciate Silas’s final act. It was not a story that anyone would believe. He had vanished from the world like mist, leaving nothing behind except rumors: the dreadful creature that had served House Thorn.

The injustice of it overwhelmed her, stung her eyes like needles. For a long time she sat in silence, her head bowed, blinking back tears.

Fabric rustled. Beside her, Nathaniel had stirred. She held her breath as his eyelashes fluttered, even though his movements appeared less a conscious effort to wake than a reaction to a dream. Impulsively, she reached over to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. The strands slid through her fingers, softer than silk. She had so little to give him, but at least she could let him know that he wasn’t alone.

Nathaniel’s eyes cracked open, bright and unfocused.

“Silas?” he whispered.

Elisabeth’s heart crumpled. She finished tucking his hair behind his ear, and then she took his hand. She watched him slip, reassured, back to sleep.

The loss of his demonic mark told her that he’d gained back the two decades of life he had bargained to Silas. Yet it was impossible to be glad for him. She knew that given the choice, he would trade the years away again in a heartbeat to have Silas back.

Hours passed. Beatrice came and went, bringing a cold lunch scavenged from the kitchen. Afterward, Dr. Godfrey changed Nathaniel’s bandages. Elisabeth sat gripping the chair’s armrests as the stained cloth peeled away to reveal four jagged lines carved diagonally across Nathaniel’s chest. They stretched from the bottom of his ribs on one side to his collarbone on the other, clamped together with sutures. She forced herself not to look away, remembering the sweep of Ashcroft’s claws, the blank look on Nathaniel’s face as he stumbled backward. She could tell that the wounds would leave fierce and permanent scars.

When Dr. Godfrey finished reapplying the bandages, he placed his palm on Nathaniel’s forehead and frowned.

“What’s wrong?” she blurted out.

“He’s developing a fever. That’s common with injuries of this nature. Wound fevers can be dangerous, but in his case, the wards should protect him from any serious harm.” He paused. “Magister Thorn? Can you hear us?” Weakly, from the bed, Nathaniel had coughed. Elisabeth balanced on the edge of her seat, every muscle tensed. Soon Nathaniel’s eyes drifted open, the pale clear gray of quartz. He regarded her in silence, studying her face as though he had never seen it before, or as though he feared he had forgotten it while he slept. Finally he said, “You stayed with me.” His voice was barely a sigh, a breath.

She nodded. Tears filled her eyes. She swallowed, but the words came out anyway, unstoppable. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault. It was my idea to confront Ashcroft at the ball. Without me, none of this would have happened.” A wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. At first she thought he was having trouble remembering. Then he said, “No. The scrying mirror . . . you couldn’t have known.” He paused, collecting his strength. Even breathing seemed to hurt. “Ashcroft. Did you catch him?” Tearfully, she shook her head. She didn’t want to tell him the rest, but she had to. “Silas—” Her voice sounded high, odd, unlike itself. Her throat closed up. She couldn’t finish.

The wrinkle deepened in confusion. She saw the moment he began to understand. His gaze didn’t leave her face, but he went very still.

Silverware chimed in the hallway. Beatrice. She had gone downstairs to make tea.

Nathaniel went alert. Before Elisabeth could stop him, he heaved himself upright. He instantly went gray with pain and listed to one side, catching himself on his elbow, but he didn’t make a sound. He stared at the door with such intensity, waiting, that when Beatrice came into view and saw him, she froze.

“If you’d like to sit up,” Dr. Godfrey said, “we’ll arrange the pillows for you. You mustn’t strain yourself so soon.”

Nathaniel didn’t seem to hear him. A sense of impending doom hollowed Elisabeth’s stomach. Beatrice was holding the same silver tray that Silas always used. Nathaniel’s eyes were stark, wild, almost unseeing.

“Get out,” he said quietly.

Beatrice and Dr. Godfrey traded a look.

“Both of you. Get out.”

Beatrice came forward and set the tray on the nightstand, then stepped back, her hands folded against her pinafore. She had the manner of someone accustomed to dealing with difficult patients. But she didn’t know that to Nathaniel, what she had done was unforgivable.

Her crime was simple. She had brought tea. She wasn’t Silas.

Calmly, she began, “The laudanum may make you feel—”

Nathaniel surged out of bed, grabbed the tray, and flung it against the wall. Everyone flinched as the porcelain shattered, leaving a splash of tea dribbling down the wallpaper.

“OUT!” Nathaniel roared. “Get out of my house!”

His voice echoed from every direction, magnified. The walls shook and groaned ominously; a trickle of plaster dust fell from the ceiling onto the bed. He stood panting in his nightshirt and pajama trousers, his eyes ablaze with feverish light.

“Come along, Beatrice,” Dr. Godfrey said, closing his leather case with a snap. He shot Nathaniel one last look as he ushered his assistant from the room. Footsteps creaked on the stairs. A moment later, the front door clicked shut.

Elisabeth glanced out the window. The sun hung low in the sky, winking redly through the thorn bushes. Their tangled branches unwound to let Dr. Godfrey and Beatrice pass, then laced back together again.

She turned back to Nathaniel, her mouth hanging open.

His rage had vanished, though not the febrile glitter in his eyes. “Come on, Scrivener,” he said brightly. “We must go at once. Do you mind if I lean on you?” “Wait,” she protested. “You aren’t supposed to be out of bed.”

“Ah. That explains why my legs have stopped working.” He gave Demonslayer an approving glance. “Good, you’ve come prepared.” “But—” As he slumped, she rushed to catch him before he struck the floor. He had gone so droopy that it required some effort to arrange his arm over her shoulders. “Where are we going?” He laughed as though she had asked a completely nonsensical question. “We’re summoning Silas, of course. We’re getting him back.” Her eyes widened. She hadn’t known bringing Silas back was possible. But just like that, she knew where to take them without Nathaniel having to say it out loud. The forbidden room. The one behind the locked door.

It took them an eternity to make their way down the hall, pausing every time he sagged against her, blinking his way back to consciousness. Surely this wasn’t a good idea. If she had any sense, she would turn around and put him back to bed. He couldn’t frighten her off like Beatrice and Dr. Godfrey; even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to make it down the hallway by himself. But as soon as the thought occurred to her, her conscience revolted.

He would never forgive her for the betrayal. And she could not leave him alone, as he had been as a boy of twelve, with no one else in the world to depend on. Right now, she was the only person he had left.

When they reached the door, Nathaniel muttered an Enochian phrase under his breath and snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. He blinked, stared uncomprehendingly at the doorknob, and then swore. “Silas is the one who keeps track of all the keys. Ordinarily I just . . .” He snapped his fingers again, to no avail. His magic was gone. She saw in his face how much its absence shook him, as though he had put out his hand to steady himself and found nothing, only empty air. Now he didn’t know what to do.

“Hold on.” She raised Demonslayer and slammed its hilt against the doorknob. The first blow dented the knob. The second sent it clattering to the floor.

Nathaniel began shaking. She looked at him in concern, only to discover he was laughing. “Scrivener,” he said.

She frowned. “What?”

“It’s just—you’re so—” He was laughing too hard to finish, gasping helplessly from the pain. He made a motion with his hand that suggested a hammer striking a nail.

“I think you’ve had too much laudanum,” she said. She pushed open the unresisting door and drew him inside.

The stink of aetherial combustion almost choked her. As she looked around, the back of her neck prickled. The curtains were drawn, letting in only enough light for her to make out that the room appeared empty. A few small objects that she couldn’t identify lay scattered across the center of the room, as though children had once lived there and left a few of their toys behind. For the first time in weeks, she felt the imaginary presence of the house’s ghosts, of Nathaniel’s dead. Moving carefully, she lowered him to the floor and crossed the room to yank open the curtains.

Dust swirled amid the sunlight that flooded in. Looking down, she jumped aside. An elaborate pentagram was carved into the floorboards beneath her feet, the grooves burnt black and caked with grime. Stains darkened the wood within and around it—bloodstains, some of them so large she wondered whether they marked places where people had died. The objects she had glimpsed turned out to be half-melted candles, anchored in pools of their own wax at each of the pentagram’s five points. Two other items waited on the floor beside the circle. A matchbox and a dagger, the metal dulled by a patina of dust.

She remembered what Silas had said to her all those weeks ago. You would not wish to see. This was where he had been brought into the mortal realm, not once in the distant past, but time and time again.

Nathaniel fumbled with the matchbox, his fingers trembling too violently to withdraw a match. Elisabeth tucked Demonslayer under her arm and took it from him. “I want to help,” she said. “How is this done?” He looked up at her, so pale, the steeply angled light shining translucently through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, revealing the outline of his body beneath. He looked like a ghost himself. “Are you certain?” This was worse than using the scrying mirror. Worse even than stealing from the Royal Library. On the first day of her apprenticeship, Elisabeth had vowed to protect the kingdom from demonic influences. If she participated in a summoning, and a rumor somehow got out, even a whisper of speculation, every Great Library would be closed to her. No warden would speak to her. She would become an outcast from the only world in which she had ever belonged.

But her oaths meant nothing if they asked her to forsake people she cared about in their greatest moment of need. If that was what being a warden required of her, then she wasn’t meant to become one. She would have to decide for herself what was right and what was wrong.

Though she didn’t speak, Nathaniel saw the answer written on her face. His hand curled into a fist against the floor. She thought that he might attempt to dissuade her, but then he said, “Light them in order, counterclockwise. Make sure you stay outside the circle. Don’t cross the lines. That’s important.” Elisabeth clumsily struck a match with her bandaged hand and moved around the pentagram. As each candle flared to life, it seemed to mark the immolation of something past and the beginning of something new. So many of her memories were characterized by flame. The gleam of candlelight on Demonslayer’s garnets. Warden Finch, the ruddy glow of a torch playing across his face, asking her if she was consorting with demons. The Book of Eyes reduced to ashes on the wind.

As she shook out the final match, she looked up to find the dagger in Nathaniel’s hand. Before she could react, he drew it along his bared wrist, beside the scar that twisted up his forearm. Only a shallow cut, but the sight of blood beading on his skin still made her heart skip with a fluttering anxiety she had never felt before on anyone else’s behalf. When he was finished, the dagger fell from his weakened grip.

“Stand back,” he said. He pressed his wrist to the edge of the circle, leaving a red smear on the floorboards. When he spoke again, his voice echoed with ancient power. “By the blood of House Thorn, I summon you, Silariathas.” Silariathas. Silas’s true name. It did not slither from her mind like the other Enochian words she had heard Nathaniel speak, but stuck fast, smoldering, as if branded by fire onto the surface of her thoughts.

Outside, the sun sank behind the rooftops, plunging the room into shadow. A breeze disturbed the stagnant air, snuffing out all five of the candles simultaneously. The curtain rings chimed as the drapes stirred. And a figure appeared at the center of the pentagram.

He wore nothing but a white cloth draped loosely around his waist. In his nakedness he appeared not just slender, as she had thought of him before, but thin, almost gaunt. Shadows traced his ribs, the bones of his wrist, the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, a form elegant in its spareness, as if everything unnecessary had been pared away. His unbound hair hung in a straight and silvery cascade that fell past his shoulders, hiding his downcast face. Where the sword had entered him, his chest was smooth. He looked different like this—more beautiful, more frightening. Less human than ever before.

He lifted his head and smiled. “Hello, Nathaniel.”