Page 129

Chapter 28

Then, all at once, I stopped hard, as if I’d been flung into a wall. I swayed, my head ringing, and groped through the thick darkness for something to grab on to. I felt the heat first, then heard the roar of the flames. For a moment I just stood there, knees wobbling, trying to understand how what I saw was possible.

It was a place I would’ve known anywhere—my old music room on the second floor of Ivyhill. And underneath the piano, curled up in a pile of quilts, was a sleeping girl. She was eleven years old, with golden-brown hair like her father’s and a black kitten on the pillow beside her. The air was hot and the windows glowed orange. Fingers of smoke crawled under the door.

I watched Osmund wake up and start hissing, the hair on his spine standing up in fear. My blood roared in my ears. I felt as if I were floating, a particle of dust caught on the wind and watching the world from a great distance.

“What in the name of the gods?” Father whispered. His face was slack with horror. “What is this? Farrin, is this the night…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. He started to go to her, to the child—tome—but I clutched his arm and held him back. I sangquietly, a wordless melody.Calm, I thought, though I felt anything but calm. My tears blurred the room. I had to keep breathing, I told myself. Without breath, there would be no song, and with no song, I would surely lose my mind, or else lose my father to whatever trick was unfolding before us.

My song soothed Father enough to keep him where he stood beside me, though he was desperate, practically pawing at the floor. “Farrin!” he called out over and over, his voice cracking. But the girl didn’t wake, not until it was time for her to. I saw her shift and open her eyes, saw her fingers press against her thigh one at a time:Farrin. Mara. Gemma. Gideon. Philippa.

No, I wanted to tell her. No, it’s not a nightmare. You’re awake. Run.Run.I stopped singing and tried to scream at her. But my voice caught in my throat, and a pressure clamped over my mouth, silencing me.

Anger roiled in me, steadying me. I resumed my song, and the pressure yielded. So, I could sing—Kilraith, it seemed, couldn’t tamp down my power—but I couldn’t otherwise interfere. I would have to stand back and watch.

Fine, I thought.Fine.I gritted my teeth and watched myself choke and cough, then scramble for the door with Osmund clinging to my chest. My heart broke to see her, this girl—nightgown sweeping the floor, hair in a messy braid. She threw a desperately sad look at her towering shelves of music before bursting out into the hallway. I ached for her, and I envied her. What a terrible night, but at least she didn’t know how many more terrible nights were to come, how eventually she would look back at even the days just after the fire with perverse nostalgia.

I followed her through the house in a daze, remembering every step as she took them. There, the long corridor that led to the art gallery. No, that way was fire. There, the collapsing stairs, the smokyhallway. The girl staggered, clutching the kitten she’d tucked under her nightgown.

“Farrin!” Father roared. He clawed futilely at the air between us. “Farrin, over here! I’m here, darling!”

But he hadn’t been there that night, and he wasn’t now. He was already safely outside with the others—Gemma, Mara, Mother, the staff. The thought came to me, for the first time in my life, that perhaps that had been the point. The fire had been engineered to burn down the house, yes, but maybe also to take me with it. A sick feeling rose inside me as I watched my younger self crawl desperately toward the parlor wall and its window. Yes, I could see things clearly. Alaster Bask would have noticed Ryder’s fascination with me and seen the danger in it. He would not have been satisfied with simply destroying our house and our things; he would also have wanted to kill the Ashbourne girl who’d somehow ensnared his son and planted ideas of peace in his head.

Suddenly Ryder appeared—his younger self, the shining boy—as if I’d summoned him with my thoughts. Masked and gangly, bony elbows and knees, dark hair slick on his neck. Around him hummed a dazzling aura—Lady Enid’s work, I now knew. A spell to persuade me to trust him. My heart leaped.

“Who is that?” Father looked at me in astonishment, then back at Ryder. “The shining boy? He’s real?”

“It was Ryder,” I said thickly, watching him pull the girl up from the floor and press a damp cloth over her nose and mouth. “He saved me.”

They ran through the house hand in hand, dodging flames and falling debris, and I glided after them in amazement, unable to tear my eyes from them even to ensure that Father was still with me, though every now and then I heard his hoarse cries of dismay, the choke of furious sobs. Being here, I realized, was more of a torment for himthan it was for me. A savage gladness swept through me. It was his war, after all, that had nearly killed me; his and Alaster’s, and all their foolish fathers’. None of them, even with all their Anointed might and power, had been strong enough in heart or mind to resist Kilraith’s machinations. It was only right that Father should be forced to watch.

Then I nearly fell.Shenearly fell, the child Farrin, her skin glistening with soot and sweat. But Ryder caught her, caughtme, and lifted me into his arms and ran with me. My heart twisted; I knew so well, now, how it felt to be held by him, and my body ached with yearning for the Ryder I knew, the man I hoped with all my might was still alive. I watched our child selves, tears in my eyes. I was small, but he was only a boy. He labored a bit under my weight and let out a terrible hacking cough. I knew what happened next. Eagerly I followed them outside, waiting for the fresh air, the damp cool grass, the waxing moon. Ryder’s hand on my cheek.Star of my life.

He ran with me into one of the receiving rooms on the house’s northern side and reached for the door. I held my breath, and he flung it open. But on the other side was not the veranda that should have been there, nor the moonlit grounds beyond. Instead a wall of pale brick blocked the exit.

Ryder froze, blinking, then turned back and looked at me. He ripped off his mask, and I wanted to cry. There he was—a beardless boy with messy dark hair and fierce blue eyes.

“How do we get out?” he shouted at me. He staggered over, my unconscious child self still in his arms. “What’s happened to the doors?”

I flushed hot-cold with dread. Again there was the feeling of being outside of myself, watching the world below from a great distance.

“But that didn’t happen,” Father said dully, his expression blank with shock. He pointed at the brick wall. “The night of the fire, you escaped. You both escaped.”

My growing panic made me livid. I wanted to kick him. “Take her,” I told him, gesturing at my younger self. “Give him a rest.”

But Ryder backed away from us, turning away slightly as if to protect his burden. His scowl was fearsome, furious. He looked at me with new suspicion.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

I bent down to look him in the eyes. “We’re friends. You can trust us. We want to help you get out.” An idea came to me. “We’re a new sort of ward magic, spelled to activate in times of disaster and keep the family safe. You want to get out, don’t you?” I glanced at my younger self’s soot-stained face; I heard her labored breathing. “You want to save her?”

Ryder looked closely at me. I thought I saw recognition flash in his eyes. “Yes. All right.” He shifted my body into Father’s arms. I couldn’t look at my father, couldn’t bear the devastation on his face. He cradled the girl’s body to him as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

I grappled for what was left of my courage. “Quickly, now. We’ll try the other doors.” But I knew even as I ran for them what we would find, and indeed, past each door stood a solid brick wall. At every window, I tore away the burning drapes, but that only revealed more walls of brick. We were trapped.

I stood before the last of them on the first floor, clenched my fists, planted my feet firmly, and started to sing.Fall, I commanded. I imagined a tower of children’s blocks collapsing, a felled tree crashing to the ground with a groan. I thought of my own bed, how marvelous it felt to plop down on it at the end of a long day. Surrender. Capitulation. Relief.