“Well, thank you. We will take care of him,” he said. He took his spectacles off to clean them with a handkerchief he pulled from the little bag of papers. I felt my gaze drawn to it again. Therehadto be a way to get the name and address of whoever was repairing hearts out of there. “When are you going?” I asked.
“As I said—tonight is not just any night. We have sourced some good-quality hearts on the black market, and confirmed their authenticity,” he said. “A select few of us are leaving in the morning. We will be the first. Once we are healed, we will return for the others. They’ll be looking for more genuine hearts in the meantime.”
“I need to come with you,” I said.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Basil. “We chose by drawing lots.”
“I have a heart,” I said. I held the little thing out, and when he reached for it with greedy fingers, I closed my fist about it.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve run away, and the magic-workers might be looking for me. I need to come with you.”
“Lookingfor you?” he hissed. “And you came here?”
I blinked. “Well, of course. Where else would I go?”
“You risk bringing them down upon us,” he scolded me. “This is our last night of preparation before we leave. Are they looking for this other one, too?”
“I suppose so,” I replied truthfully this time, taken aback.
“We can’t risk anything interfering with our plan,” he said. “You have to leave.”
“But ...” I began, but he was already walking away.
There was enough commotion with all the cleaning and clattering about the rest of the Snagged were doing that I felt able to talk to Cornelius without being overheard. I turned so that no one could see my mouth moving, and whispered to Cornelius. “He has the paper in the pouch at his waist. I have to see it.”
“I can get it,” hissed Cornelius.
“What? How?” I mouthed.
“Just let me out somewhere where he can’t see me.”
I sidled behind one of the old pub tables. Cornelius poured himself out of the pocket, slick and quick as ink, and disappeared into the cobwebby shadows.
I stood watching the others, trying not to look too awkward or expectant, my heart thudding in my chest. I saw Basil ordering a couple of them about as they packed bags, and then I saw a darting shadow under his feet. Basil cursed and tripped, and would have gone sprawling if it weren’t for the bar stool behind him that he was able to grab.
The other Snagged scrambled to get Basil to his feet and brush him off, and in the commotion, no one noticed a small cat neatly grabbing Basil’s leather pouch with its teeth and negotiating the forest of legs to carry it to me.
I snatched the fistful of papers from the pouch Cornelius dropped at my feet, turned my back, and shuffled through them as quickly as I could.
Basil seemed like the sort of fussy little man who would immediately notice anything amiss with his person, so I couldn’t risk taking too long.
Most were notes in Basil’s tiny, spidery hand, with footnotes and reference numbers, but one looked different—a map, drawn in green ink on thin parchment paper, like the kind used for wrapping meats, and a name:Weftwitch.
Underneath it were several copies of the same map, made in blue ink, and marked with Basil’s handwriting, so I didn’t feel too guilty about taking the original.
“Oh, these fell out of your pocket,” I turned around and said, stooping as if I were just then picking them up off the floor, and hoping that the crinkling of paper in my skirts didn’t give me away.
“Thank you,” Basil said, distracted, wiping his face with his handkerchief. He tucked the bundle away without looking at it. I felt a weight as Cornelius poured himself back into my pocket, quick and silent as a whisper.
Just then, the door disintegrated—not as if blown away by wind or fire, but as if the wood were rotting at a thousand times the usual speed, turning dark and damp as leaf mulch, and puddling on the threshold. It happened silently, as silently as decay, and a musty, forgotten smell like a long-closed room filled the tavern.
Perhaps that is why no one turned until the first sorceress entered, radiant as a second moon, and the room seemed to fill with light and fragrance. Following her came others—all the others.
It happened so quickly that all the Snagged seemed frozen for a moment—or perhaps they really were frozen, captivated despite themselves by the beauty of the women who strode in, bracelets jangling, and skirts and capes sweeping like great wings about their bodies. I was dazzled, truth be told, at that first glance.
It could have been a painting, “Avenging Angels,” or some such. They looked that regal and that fierce. And then movement returned, as the Snagged gathered themselves and started to run, pathetic as a scatter of cockroaches fleeing from a struck match.
Clarissa was the last to enter. She smiled upon us as if imparting a blessing and then raised her arms.
