Page 70 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

He braced his hands on either side of the doorway, steeling himself for the effort it would take to step down. Snow drifted in, settling on the seat he’d just vacated, and on the blankets covering Edward. Outside voices were muffled by the density of the fall.

‘He’s trying to protect you, you know.’ Edward spoke quietly but managed to be heard above the weather. ‘From the weight you carry. I know you feel made small, but he has done this for your own good–’

Pitch tensed, barely feeling the twinge at his ankle as he shifted his weight. ‘Edward, you are a decent man who has been dealt a terrible hand.’ He paused. ‘I’ll not forgive myself or the angel for that. I see now I was like you once…so enraptured, so desirous of his attention that we fail to realise that those soaring above us rarely look down. And when they do, it is not for our own good, or our protection, or anything of us at all. It is to serve their purpose. To meettheirdesires. To right their mistakes and create new ones.’ Wind finally snuffed out the last stalwart candle still fluttering in the interior. Fixed above the vacated seat, its flame had lasted through impossible odds until then. ‘Please tell your Holy One, if he’s not already listening, that if it turns out I did not succeed in killing him that day upon the cliff, and should I survive what is demanded of me now, then it shall bemypurpose to find him, the true monster, and seek vengeance for what he’s stolen from us, you and I.’

The door on the far side of the carriage opened, Sybilla appearing through the flurry of snowfall.

‘Silas has Hastings ready for you, Tobias. Go on quickly.’ She clambered into the carriage, stripping the blankets from Edward, who had not yet let his eyes wander from Pitch. He nodded when Pitch met his gaze, mouthing something which looked an awful lot likethank you.

Pitch pulled up his hood and stepped from the carriage. He hoped to do so with dignity, with grace even, after such a dramatic speech, but his ruined ankle had another plan. The moment he had his foot on the carriage step, Pitch saw stars.

‘Sweet fucking blazes,’ he cried, and lurched forward to escape the pain.

‘Steady.’ The ankou loomed out of the white haze like one of the damned storm clouds that chased them. ‘I have you.’

Which, of course, he did. With the snow pelting down, Silas grabbed him by the waist, holding him so only the tips of Pitch’s booted toes could touch the whitened mud.

‘I’m fine. I just lost my balance is all.’

The ankou grunted. ‘Very well. Do you wish to ride behind me or in front?’

Because even though the world was caving in and their enemies were chasing them down, the ankou found time to offer Pitch what he so rarely had. A choice.

But there was no decision to be made, not really.

‘In front.’ With a great mass of ankou at his back.

‘Right then,’ the ankou said. ‘I will do most of the work to get you up, but perhaps you can grab hold of Hastings’s mane and pull yourself–’

‘I know how to mount a horse, you dolt. Get on with it.’ He gave Silas’s arm a quick squeeze, to dull the sharpness of his words.

The mounting was not too unpleasant. Silas did indeed do most of the work, his height convenient alongside the tall mare, his strength hugely arousing, despite the fact that it was actually cold enough to freeze one’s balls off. There were a few seconds of discomfort, Pitch would not deny, as he swung his injured leg over the horse’s broad back, but he convinced himself he was not seeing stars this time, only snowflakes catching the light. Silas used the carriage wheel as a mounting block, making sure he did not lay his weight heavily when he brought himself down on Hastings’s back.

He slipped his arms around Pitch and took up the reins. ‘All right?’

‘Fine, yes.’

The ankou served as a windbreak of sorts, but there was no avoiding the fine churn of the snow, which settled on Pitch’s eyelashes and insisted on finding its way up his nostrils. It was as he lowered his head to shake tiny icicles clear that it struck him: Hastings could be a snowflake herself. She was entirely white, the grey dapples no more.

‘Do you see that?’ Or maybe Pitch had suffered a head injury after all.

‘Her coat?’ Silas returned. ‘Yes, beautiful, isn’t she?’

There was no denying it. The white was so pristine, almost glowing against the snowfall. There was a sense of utter purity about the animal. Of not a single dark stain of the world being able to cling to her.

Silas turned the mare about, or more likely the horse turned itself about. The snowfall was all-consuming; there was barely a speck of the landscape to be seen. If the ankou had a clue which direction to take, it would be a marvel.

‘Try to stay alive until I can return for you, won’t you, gentlemen?’ Sybilla called.

Pitch peered into the alabastrine surrounds. There was a shadow of sorts some few feet away, which might have been the dark angel.

‘Take care,’ Silas called. ‘Charlie, do not let go, do you hear me?’

‘Yes, Father.’ Pitch smiled at the lad’s dry reply and Silas’s irritated harrumph. ‘The same to you. We shall all be perfectly…oh…oh my god…those are wings…you have wings…real ones…Silas, you should see this!’

But neither he nor Pitch could see much of anything at all.

Sybilla called on Charlie to focus…and hold tight. Through the haphazard to and fro of the snow came a strong, purposeful gust of air. Another swiftly followed. The snow blasted back at them, and Pitch closed his eyes, turning his head from the onslaught.