The man in the cardigan made them the bitter, north Calléan tea. None of them drank it.
‘I put him on the bed,’ said Theodora, voice hollow. ‘In my old room. I put a charm on him, to slow the – to stop the body—’
Theodora stopped speaking. She watched the fire with no expression at all.
‘Tessa,’ said the man.
Theodora did not look at him.
‘Tell me now,’ he said, stepping before her. She was taller than him. ‘Why is there a dead boy in my guest room?’
‘Mr Blythe?’ said Belchamber, weakly.
‘Stephen will do.’
‘Mr Stephen,’ said Belchamber. ‘We are terribly sorry to intrude on your home, but the boy in the next room – he was something of a little brother to Tessa.’
Stephen made to scoff. Belchamber spoke faster.
‘He was killed by a witch from the same coven that abducted your daughter. We’ve nowhere safe to go, and we must collect ourselves. Might you oblige us for just a night or two? We will reimburse you, of course.’
‘Compensation?’ asked Stephen Blythe, glancing at Theodora’s drawn face and then at Dot’s bloodied hands. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Just don’t track mud on the carpet.’
Soup was placed before them, but no one ate. Blankets and old clothes were lent to all. Belchamber slept. Lio left – out the door and off, he had muttered, to wander the willows. Theodora tended to Dot’s finger; the witch had been the one to cauterise it up on the roof as the Ancient Spirit’s magic had ripped through Dot. Now, Theodora smeared the burned skin with antiseptic ointment. She fed Dot a potion for the pain and to quicken the healing. Most of the ambergris had been lost with the tea shop, but Archie dug out two tiny packets of it from his coat pockets, and the witch went down to the village market and brought back chantarelle and cockles and pinched the remaining ingredients from the neighbour’s herb garden to brew the tonic. The affliction reached over Dot’s shoulder now, stretching along her collarbone and to the top of her rib cage. Dot dozed, and when she woke, the sky through the cottage windows was inky and the ancient magic surged again.
‘Ah!’ Dot cried, feeling the wash of terrible cold.
‘What, love?’ Archie’s hand was on hers. Theodora and Lio were nowhere; Belchamber’s eyes peeped open.
‘Opal,’ said Dot, reaching for the warmth within. She rocked left and right, writhing with the cold lances, balancing them with the warm human magic. ‘She’s drawing on the magic. It’s the same as when she flooded the city. I think – I think the rain is falling again in Alliaster, but not quite as strong.’
‘We are far from the capital,’ said Belchamber. ‘Her link with you is weakened. Whatever Opal is doing, she must be doing it slower now.’
Dot closed her eyes. At some point, the magic died down and she fell again to sleep; at some point, it kicked back up and she balanced again. For hours, Dot existed in this limbo, rocking back and forth, sleeping, waking, balancing. She did not dare check the growth of the scales across her chest. The moon was rising. Archie was asleep and so was Belchamber. Deeper within the cottage, Stephen slept; deeper still, was the body of the red-haired boy who liked chamomile tea.
‘What is the point?’ Dot whispered, still balancing the magic.
No one answered.
Theodora was sat at the kitchen table when Stephen entered. Through the windows, the moon was high against the stark willows. The rest of the broken cohort were elsewhere, dozing or staring at the walls or quietly crying.
He crossed to the cupboard and took down a speckled mug. The long-forgotten familiarity of the sight stung her.
Here was her dad at last, his hands around that same old mug, a half-remembered relic from a childhood long mourned. Stephen looked so old. His jaw was soft. His eyebrows were grey. He looked just like her grandfather, and Theodora thought, with a rush of anxiety: What had happened to her grandad? What about her aunties and cousins?
‘Where’s Mum?’ asked Theodora at last.
‘Gone,’ said Stephen. ‘Diphtheria took her three years ago.’
Theodora closed her eyes.
She had thought that she could not feel any worse. She had been wrong.
‘Didn’t think you cared.’
‘Of course I cared,’ said Theodora in a hush, opening her eyes again.
‘If you did, you would have been here,’ said Stephen, spooning sugar into his cup. ‘She’s buried by the lilacs.’
