“I hate this place,” Grosbeak complained.
“So do I,” I gasped and then I turned around and vomited, barely missing Bluebeard’s boots.
“See?” Grosbeak said triumphantly. “It even makes mortals ill to have to be here.”
“It’s over,” I said piteously. “It’s done. There’s no hope for any of it now!”
Sparrow stared at me with a line between her eyes. “Is she always like this or has the way through broken her?”
“I like this pitiful Izolda,” Grosbeak said, not seeming overly concerned. “I have heard rumors that mad mortals are almost as clever as the Wittenbrand. It might be an improvement.”
“Or, she might give up and then I’ll never get my body back,” Sparrow said grimly. “Your attention, Izolda Savataz,” she demanded. “Look at me and end this piteous moaning.”
I snapped my mouth shut and looked at her.
“That’s a beginning,” she said firmly. “All is not lost.”
“There’s no way we can get to the coronation in time now,” I gasped. “Too much time passes here! It could be years that we’ve been gone already.”
“Get back where?” Sparrow asked curiously.
“Or …” Grosbeak let the word hang in the air.
“Or only a few days,” I admitted, “But I do not have a few days. I do not have even a few hours! And all this for the most cryptic and useless of answers.”
“Well,” Sparrow said. “Not entirely cryptic.”
“I hopped once from the mortal world and when I returned to the Wittenhame, I was two days in the past,” Grosbeak said easily. “I bought myself drinks in theHop and Tarry.Talked for hours.”
“How is that possible?” I gasped.
“I’m an excellent conversationalist.”
“We’re not in the mortal world, Izolda Savataz,” Sparrow said grimly as my eyes adjusted to the light. “Tell me, what do you see in those alcoves?”
I took a step forward, and then another, and then I was walking toward the vaults cut into the wall with horror in my belly. On the shelf nearest me, was a collection of tiny bones stacked in tidy rows right up to the top of the shelf.
“Phalanges” was engraved on a bronze plate under them.
Someone had labeled the shelf beneath it “Prussian Blue” on another bronze plate, and that shelf was entirely full of paint chips that looked as if they had been meticulously removed from something.
The next bore the engraving “Poisons” and had a collection of bottles and jars of various shapes and sizes, arranged by size and place on the spectrum of colors.
I shivered. I was already afraid to meet whoever had made this vault. What kind of mind would take the world apart like this?
The next shelf was labeled “Hearts of my Enemies” and here there were, indeed, dried and preserved hearts ranging from one smaller than the last knuckle on my pinky to one the size of my head. They were arranged, again, by size and someone had neatly pinned a note with an inked date to each one.
I swallowed.
Another shelf was labeled “Small Ceremonial Daggers.” The blades were no larger than my hand and as small as my fingernail. Small indeed. I did not bother availing myself of any of them. With both my hands occupied, a weapon would be of little use to me.
“What are you doing here?” a voice asked menacingly.
I jumped with a barely cut-off squeal, as a hand clamped on my shoulder and spun me around.
“As I was saying,” Sparrow said dryly. “This is not the mortal world. This is Coppertomb’s home.”
And it was the master of the house I was facing eye-to-eye.
