‘This is a cockaigne we are in? Not the UnSeelie Court?’
‘That is what Old Bess told me, yes. Does that mean anything to you?’
Pitch shrugged. ‘Only that it was a very clever way to conceal the sorcerers all these years. Small and unobtrusive, and the cockaigne can be moved around to where it suits. The fae version of the gypsy caravan, if you like.’
‘Movable?’ Silas frowned, tracing his finger over the soft crepe material of the cloak. ‘Then best we find our way out quickly.’
‘Well it’s not that mobile, nor easy to shift. It’s not a tent.’ Pitch studied the ankou who in turn was much too fixated on the uninteresting threads of the cloak. ‘Silas…I feel as though–’
‘Yes, yes. We should go. I’d say best you hop on my back again. These boots are fast, I’ll warn you. I do hope you won’t get motion sickness. But rest assured, we’ll be back in Holly Village before you know it, and we can wipe all the blood and muck from you. I’ll see to it myself.’
He lifted his head, giving Pitch a coy smile. But desire had been vastly overridden by worry.
‘Silas, I can’t leave.’
The ankou’s response was fast and hard and totally unexpected.
‘Yes, you bloody well can.’ He stepped in and snatched up Pitch’s hand. ‘And we will do so now. There is no one about, not a soul, quite figuratively. Now is the perfect time.’
‘I am no use to anyone if I leave now. You understand that, don’t you?’ Pitch resisted the tug at his hand. ‘I am not enough alone.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Silas’s eyes flared with bright indignation. ‘Never say that again.’
‘The simurgh is gone, Silas.’ Wildness did not suit it now, captive as it was. ‘I lost the Cultivation that everything hinges upon. I cannot destroy the Blight, I cannot help you save your souls. The halo cannot be destroyed as Seraphiel hoped.’
‘Then so be it. The angel was mad, was he not? This whole idea was fool’s gold from the start. ’ Silas gave up trying to move him. ‘The Blight has plagued this world for thousands of years and we’ve managed well enough. Please, Pitch. Leave with me.’
A chill touched at the back of his neck. ‘Silas, what are you not telling me?’
‘I’m telling you the most important thing– we must leave. I would have thought that very obvious.’
Pitch blinked, wondering if perhaps this ankou were an illusion after all. ‘This is not like you, this disregard. Are you not beholden to the souls? You are death–’
‘I am yours.’ Silas was spectacular in his fury, the sense of enormity about the man quite sublime. Pitch was not afraid of him, but nor did he understand what had his ankou so unravelled. ‘And I want you safe. You have given your all, we both have, to this cause. Now it is over. We owe Arcadia nothing, and believe me, Arcadia does not think itself in your debt, though it bloody well should.’
He snapped his mouth closed, his shoulders heaving as he fought to steady himself. Pitch moved in close, the grass at his bare feet soft as featherdown. He stepped up onto the toes of Silas’s garish boots, brought himself close, tucking his fingers beneath Silas’s chin, applying enough pressure to make it clear he wished to be seen. The ankou’s lashes fluttered, his gaze sliding everywhere but Pitch’s face.
‘My dearest, Mr Mercer, you are…’ The hesitancy was born of an unfamiliar shyness. ‘You are my truest friend, are you not?’
Silas’s gaze found him. ‘Of course. Always.’
‘But you are keeping something from me.’
Gentle pain stirred in his brown eyes. ‘I am friend and guardian both. I want to protect you. Iwillprotect you. And I can’t do that here. Please, let me take you from here.’
‘We need to find the simurgh.’
‘No. Enough of this.’ Silas planted a firm hand beneath Pitch’s elbow, far more bullish about it than Pitch had ever known him.
‘Unhand me, now.’ Pitch snatched his arm away, suddenly furious. Not at Silas, but at whatever it was that had him so frightened. ‘What is going on, Silas? I need your honesty, not your protection.’
He stepped backwards and his heel caught at the moss covered rock-shell Silas had moved.
‘Shit.’
He was going down, arms flailing. And the ankou was there, moving with him. Silas caught at him, one hand about his shoulders, the other circling his waist, and they tumbled to the ground.
Pitch landed gently on his arse, with Silas on his knees alongside. They were close again, the place Pitch felt safest. He pressed a hand to Silas’s bearded chin.
