‘A tad stronger, I think you’ll find. My sister is rather proud of her dust of the graves. She says it will have you sleeping like the dead. Isn’t she a riot? Good night, Mr Astaroth.’
Badh pushed the stopper from the bottle with his thumb, whilst his free hand swept at the glass near Pitch’s shoulder, opening a narrow slot. The dust darted through the opening, hurtling at Pitch’s face. He barely felt it bury itself in his nostrils before he sank into a grave slumber.
CHAPTER FIVE
SILAS RACEDup the hallway, desperate to leave the fetid stench of the interrogation room behind. He was not entirely sure where he was going until he found himself at Sybilla’s door. With his mood so violently unsettled, he did not even bother to knock.
‘Sybilla, I’m sorry to disturb you but–’
The bed was empty, the covers tossed back, revealing smudges much like soot against the cream sheets. The pillows, in their lace covers, were bunched up, dents in their centres suggesting being punched at. The window was wide open. December sat outside, dank and heavy and listless, breathing her icy breath into the room.
A small startled sound came from behind him.
‘Mr Mercer, sir.’ A housemaid stood with an armful of fresh sheets. She bobbed her head. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘You can start by ceasing to address me as sir. I am no such thing.’ He startled himself with how angrily he spoke. ‘Where is Sybilla?’
The maid took a tiny step back. ‘Miss Vale has gone to the stables.’
‘The stables? Are you certain? She can barely stand.’
He’d last looked in on the angel a couple of hours ago. She’d been exhausted by the effort it took to use the water closet, and was barely awake as he spoke with her.
‘Where are they, Sybilla?’ he had asked. ‘Charlie and Edward, are they safe?’
The Valkyrie had winced, the movement pulling at the welts of her burned skin, the folds glistening with whatever healing balms were being used to bring her comfort. It had taken Silas great effort to keep himself from looking away, the guilt he felt at her condition constantly with him, like a hungry cat brushing at his heels.
‘I don’t recall.’
‘What?’ Silas had leaned in, despite his trepidation. Despite the way the warmth radiated off her body.
‘I don’t recall.’ She spoke in the slurred way of one in a dream. ‘Can’t remember. He won’t…let me…’
Silas had not thought highly of himself for what he’d done next. He’d nudged the bed to stir her. The Valkyrie had groaned and rolled her head against the pillow, leaving behind those sooty marks. No matter how many times she was bathed, she could not be rid of them.
‘What do you mean, Sybilla? Who won’t let you what?’
‘Remember…Edward won’t…not safe to know…’
Tyvain had arrived then, telling him in no uncertain terms that it was time to leave and let her rest. Silas had blushed at her admonishment, knowing it rightfully earned.
‘I believe Madam Tyvain has assisted her.’ Silas returned to the here and now as the housemaid answered his almost-forgotten questions. ‘They used a wheelchair to go from the house to the stables. Miss Vale was most insistent she be taken there.’
The housemaid took another step away from him, backing into the hallway, shrinking in on herself. No bloody wonder. Silas was a big man, shoulders near to touching either side of the door frame. He towered over her by a good foot.
Silas stepped back, giving her space. This lack of knowing Pitch’s fate was driving him mad.
‘Thank you.’ He bobbed his head. ‘If you’d excuse me.’
The housemaid hugged her bundle of sheets tight, giving him a shallow curtsy.
Silas headed downstairs, thumping about, Tyvain would have said, and he did not care a whit about it. He took a side door that saw him out into the courtyard that housed the stables. The area was, thankfully, devoid of any more servants. Silas glanced overhead at the dreary morning. Grey and mottled-white mist hung from the denser cloud, like reaching fingers seeking to touch at the plethora of chimneys jutting from the surrounding buildings. The house was framed by three high brick walls at its front, with the backside opening directly onto the quay where there was access to the delivery bays and storage holds. Silas was not sure if the clouds were to blame for the muffled sounds beyond the walls, but the rattle of passing traffic was distant.
The welcome aroma of the stables found him. Mixed with it, the pungent waft of a cinnamon-based concoction Benedict had made for Lalassu. Benedict’s skills had been unexpected but very welcome. The spindly djinn that Silas had met on his first foray into The Atlas, the chap at the bar who’d smirked at his cluelessness, and chastised Tyvain for upsetting the barkeep Kaneko, was a remarkable veterinarian…of the natural kind.
Silas followed the murmur of voices towards the far end of the considerable stables, built in an L-shape that concealed the stables where Lalassu was being tended. There was only one other horse here. Silas passed by Chollima, the Dullahan’s unusual mount. The blue roan stood with its head to the wall of the stable, nose pressed against the dark beam of wood that ran across the middle of the wall. Silas had spent most of the night with Lalassu, and Chollima had not moved from that position. Nor eaten a lick of oats, nor so much as sniffed at the water on offer.
He was not sure yet what to make of the Dullahan’s apparent devotion to his welfare. Byleist was being confined in one of the rooms for now, but his horse at least was causing no trouble at all. Silas murmured soft words to the animal as he moved on. Being in the stables brought Hastings to mind, the valiant White Horse that had tried to outwit the Wild Hunt so they might be safe.
