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CHAPTER EIGHT
CHANUTE
Along the road to Schwanstein, the workers were already crowding the gates of the weaving mill. Sirens were calling the morning shift to work, and as their wailing battled with the sound of church bells in the early morning, Jacob could barely calm the old horse Alma had lent him. The mare pricked her ears as though the Dragons had returned, but she was hearing only the modern times. The howling of sirens. The ticking of clocks. Machines wanted to run, and they ran fast.
Many of the men shivering in front of the gate looked up at Jacob as he rode past. The treasure hunter who always had some gold in his pocket, who came and went and did as he pleased, and who knew neither the toil nor the tedium that galled their lives. On any other day he would have understood the envy on their tired faces, yet on this morning Jacob would have gladly swapped with any one of them, even if that meant fourteen hours of hard labour for two copper coins an hour. Any life was better than death, wasn’t it?
It was a ridiculously beautiful morning. The flushing trees, the fresh green . . . even the old mare’s hide seemed to smell of spring. Pity. Dying in winter might have been a little less hard, but Jacob doubted he had that much time left.
pushed his hand under his shirt. He could barely feel the imprint. ‘The Red first saved my life with it.’
Alma’s smile was full of bitterness. ‘She saved you only so she could give you the death she had planned for you. Fairies love playing with life and death . . . and I’m sure her revenge will be all the sweeter for having made her mighty sister her unwitting accomplice.’ Alma offered Jacob the pouch with the powder. ‘Here. This is all I can do. Take a pinch of this whenever the pain comes. And it will come.’
She filled a bowl with the cold water from the well behind her house so Jacob could wash off the Djinn’s blood before it burnt into his skin. The water soon turned as grey as the spirit.
On Jacob’s last birthday, he’d filled a sheet of paper with a list of the treasures he still wanted to find. He’d turned Twenty-five. You’ll never get any older, Jacob.
Twenty-five.
The towel Alma handed him smelled of mint. He didn’t want to die. He loved his life. He didn’t want a different one, just more of this.
‘Can you tell me how it will happen?’
Alma pushed open the window to pour out the water. It was getting light. ‘The Dark One will use her sister’s seal to reclaim her name. The moth on your heart will come alive. It won’t be pleasant. Once it tears free from your skin and flies off, you will be dead. You may have a few more minutes, maybe an hour . . . but there can be no salvation.’ She quickly turned away. Alma hated for others to see her cry. ‘Jacob, I wish there was something I could do,’ she added quietly, ‘but the Fairies are more powerful than I. It comes with their immortality.’
The cat looked at him. Jacob stroked her black fur. Nine lives. He always believed he’d have at least that many.
CHAPTER SIX
WHAT NOW?
Many of the graves in the cemetery behind Alma’s house dated from when large numbers of Trolls had migrated to Austry to escape the cold winters of their homeland. Their magical woodworking skills had earned most of them large fortunes, and a number of their grave markers were covered with gold. Jacob had no idea how long he’d been standing there, staring at a masterfully carved frieze depicting the deeds of a long-dead Troll. Around him, men, women, and children were going to work. Carts rumbled over the rough cobblestones in front of the cemetery gate. A dog barked at a junk man who was doing his rounds among the simple cottages. And Jacob just stood there and stared at the graves, unable to think.
He’d been so sure he would find a way to save himself. After all, there was nothing he couldn’t find. He’d firmly believed that, ever since he became Chanute’s apprentice. Since his thirteenth birthday, his only ambition had been to become the best treasure hunter of all time – it was the only name he’d wanted to make for himself. But now it seemed that the only things he could find were the ones other people desired. What were they to him? The glass slipper that brought never-ending love; the cudgel that slew every foe; the goose that laid golden eggs; or the conch that let you listen to your enemies. He’d wanted to be the man who found them, nothing else. And he had found all of them. Yet as soon as he sought something for himself, he searched in vain. That’s how it had been with his father, and that’s how it was now with the magic that might save his life.
Rotten luck, Jacob.
He turned away from the grave markers and their gilded carvings. Most of them depicted tavern brawls or drinking games – the deeds that Trolls were proudest of were not always the honourable ones – yet some also showed the things the dead had crafted from wood: living puppets, singing tables, ladles you could leave to stir on their own. What will your gravestone say about you, Jacob? Jacob Reckless, born of another world, killed by the curse of a Fairy. He leant down and propped up the tiny gravestone of a Heinzel.
Enough self-pity.
His brother had his skin back.
Suddenly, the wish that Will had never come through the mirror became so overwhelming that it made him sick. Find yourself an hourglass, Jacob. Turn back time; do not ride to the Fairy. Or just smash the mirror before Will can follow you.
A woman opened the rusty gate in the cemetery wall. She placed a few flowering branches on a grave. Maybe it was the sight of her that made him think of Fox, for that was what she would do. Though it was more likely she’d put a bunch of wild flowers on his grave. Violets or primroses. Those were her favourites.
He turned around and walked towards the gate.
No. He would not search for an hourglass. Even if he turned back time, everything would just happen again, exactly the same way. And things had turned out well, at least for his brother.
Jacob opened the gate and looked up at the hill where the tower stood out against the morning sky. Should he go back and tell Will how things were standing with him?
No. Not yet.
First he had to find Fox.
It was to her he owed the truth, more than to anyone else.
